Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3)

by Reed, Grant T.

  Now, passing the alter, the assassin leapt to the landing and the door leading to the Chapter House. The polished stones underfoot hardly surrendered a whisper as Pacorro bounded toward the southern exit and the Tower of Sorrow. Pounding up the stairs, he could hear the abbot labouring above him. A surge of adrenaline raced through him as he thought of the kill. “You may run your Holiness, but your god will not save you,” he called out.

  There was no answer from above. Wary now, Pacorro scanned the landing before him. It wouldn’t be the first time the prey turned to fight. There was no sign of the abbot however, until he cleared the last step and entered the top of the bell tower. As expected, the ‘Bells of Sorrow’ remained silent. Twenty feet in front of Pacorro, the abbot had stopped, the man’s frail body shuddering with each laboured breath.

  “Let him go,” Pacorro heard the abbot say, but the man’s words were not for him. In the shadows beside the bell ropes, two other figures stood silent. “Release the prior,” continued the abbot with authority. “You have no power over us. Death holds no secrets for men of the cloth.”

  “Is that right?” came the whispered response from the man standing behind the prior. “The prior was just telling me how his views differ from your own.” Pacorro almost laughed at his brother’s response, but he forced himself to remain quiet.

  “Father Raoul?” asked the abbot in disbelief. “You would bow to these monsters?”

  “I’m sorry, Selig. I am not ready to meet our maker.”

  The abbot shrieked and ran at the two men.

  Pacorro’s instincts took over and he discovered a throwing knife clenched in his fist. He did not throw the weapon, however. The abbot’s death must look like an accident. Sheathing the blade he watched as Father Raul and his brother separated upon the abbot’s assault. Pacorro’s brother smoothly sidestepped the man’s wild swing and launched the abbot into the well of the tower. The man’s scream was brief and silenced abruptly.

  Pacorro glided to where his brother and the prior waited. “You understand our policy on disobedience, Father Raoul?” he asked.

  “Yes,” agreed the man with a shudder. “Tell your master, the abbey is willing to make the required donations.”

  “A wise decision,” returned Pacorro. “It seems you will get to enjoy your promotion – for a little while, at least.” Turning for the stairwell, he motioned for his brother to join him. “Come Oved. This evening has turned out to be quite anticlimactic.”

  “Maybe for you brother, but my foot on his ass, brings me one kill closer to your tally.”

  Pacorro snorted. “One kill and you’re proud of yourself? At this rate you’ll never catch up.”

  * * * *

  The morning sun crested the far ridge of pines as Pacorro and Oved led their horses to the gatehouse. In the near distance, the brother’s manse sprawled across the middle of a considerable field. The modern lines of the structure still pleased Pacorro even now, five years after its completion. The assassin dismounted stiffly and stretched.

  Oved grinned at his brother’s discomfort. “Is it so hard for you to stay up all night, Paco?” he asked innocently.

  “You didn’t spend the evening crouched in a pantry,” retorted Pacorro.

  A man emerged from the gatehouse and took the reins from Pacorro. Nodding to Oved, the newcomer passed a sealed envelope to the first assassin. “Don Kaxaun has summoned you, my Lords.”

  Pacorro’s look hardened and he tossed the envelope to his brother. “We are tired,” he said curtly. “The dons will wait.”

  3

  A Second Chance

  Situated on the coastline of north western Vellia, Deep Cove was a thriving community reaching from the high sea cliffs of the fiefdom and sprawling eastwards into the lower forested lands. The main road ran from the harbour, almost due east, to Cassadia and was shadowed by an ancient stone wall cutting across the lands. No one was certain why the people had built the eight foot wall or what purpose it had served – cutting directly through the heart of the province as it did, but now, centuries after its construction, the moss covered boulders remained one of Vellia’s mysterious charms.

  Garrett had lived in Deep Cove since his return from the orient, three years ago. He was never quite sure why his boots – and Merle’s wings – had led them to Deep Cove, but the moment he saw the towering sea cliffs, the beautiful harbour with its booming commerce, and the architectural wonders the town had to offer, he’d proposed a stop to their aimless wandering. It came as no shock when P.C. agreed they’d traveled far enough, but it was something of a surprise when Merle had opted to stay with them.

  “A dragon needs company too, you know?” he’d told Garrett atop the sun drenched cliffs, with the ocean hammering the shoreline a hundred feet below them. “It’s not all about a treasure hoard and a fine lair. We can get settled and start building toward those things. In the meantime, it looks like this beach will be crawling with honeys, come morning.”

  “Three years of menial labour and the only treasures I have are some dusty old books and an automaton who thinks he’s the boss,” sighed Garrett. “Even our lair is only a tilted office on the outskirts of the slums. Will I ever amount to anything?”

  “You say sometin?” asked Vic, stopping mid-stride and peering back at Garrett.

  “Just talking to myself,” admitted Garrett.

  “Oh,” said Vic resuming his march down the cobbled street. “Sometimes I talk to myself. Nobody eber answers doh.” He shrugged. Hawking and spitting, he waved Garrett forward with his arm. “We should hurry. Mr. Kline not like waiting.”

  The street they were on was not much wider than a carriage. Stone buildings rose up on either side of the men, and above them clotheslines crisscrossed the open space between the buildings. Ahead on the road, three children played a game with stones.

  Turning left on a small side street, Vic led Garrett into one of two main markets. The shops were open and everything from fresh vegetables to new boots was for sale. One young fellow with golden hair and long sideburns waved Vic over. Vic hesitated and then seemed to forget his earlier warning about keeping his boss waiting. Changing directions mid-step, he almost tripped, but he righted himself and angled for the young man and his collection of wooden furniture and carvings.

  “Victor,” greeted the man, with a charming smile. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Dis guy?” asked Vic with a frown and a thumb jerk at Garrett. “He owe Mr. Kline money. I don’t hang wid dis guy.”

  “Oh,” said the blonde man, nodding. “Sorry to hear about your luck friend. Guess we all have our ups and downs. Don’t know about the wisdom of borrowing from Mr. Kline though. Shrewd negotiator, that fellow.” He stopped rambling and thrust out a hand for Garrett to shake. “By the way, I’m Percy. Percy Willows. Carpenter.”

  “Garrett,” returned Garrett coolly. “Garrett Willigins. P.I.”

  “Ah,” said Percy, “the insurance business, eh? Can’t say as I need any of that stuff. And like you, I find myself a little short of coin these days.”

  “We should go,” said Vic suddenly remembering he was on a mission.

  “Hold on there, Victor. “I called you over to ask how that rocking donkey you purchased is doing.”

  “Broken!” shouted Vic. “I should punch your nose in for making such junk.”

  “Easy there,” Percy took a step back and raised his hands in defense. “You know I’m not out to screw anyone. As a matter of fact, I’m hurt you think that about me.”

  Vic appraised the man’s pouting features and sighed. “Sorry Percy. I won’t punch you. Dis time.”

  “Thanks,” replied the carpenter, assessing Vic’s giant fist. “You know what? I’m gonna offer you a deal.” Leaning in close he lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone Vic, only my real close pals you know?”

  “Okay,” said Vic, a smile beaming across his broad features.

  “You see that rocking donkey there?” Percy pointed at a
two foot tall wooden donkey on the table behind him. “That one’s even stronger than the first one I sold you. Might even be a few inches higher too, if I recall. I’ll let you have it for half price!”

  “Half price?” breathed Vic, unable to control the excitement in his voice.

  “Yup.”

  “And it won’t break dis time?” Vic scowled at the carpenter and formed another fist.

  “Nope. Made of oak.”

  Vic walked over to the table and gave the donkey a downward nudge on the nose. He giggled when the contraption rocked back and forth. “How much is half price?” he asked suspiciously.

  Percy rounded the wooden toy and pulled off the sticker marked ‘1sg’. “For you, my friend, only ten silver gons.”

  “What about de fifteen silvers I paid for de last one?”

  “That’s why this one is half price, Vic,” returned Percy with a hint of frustration. “Hey, if you don’t want it, that’s fine. Some kid was here not half an hour ago and said he was going home to get his money, and that was at full price.”

  “If you don’t want it, then you don’t have to buy it,” interrupted Garrett. “It seems a little expensive to me.”

  “Stay out of this insurance man,” piped up Percy. “I’m trying to put food on my table. You think a guy with no money would understand that.”

  “Dat’s right insurance man,” snapped Vic. “I gots lots of money working for Mr. Kline. I buy what I want and it none of your business.” Garrett exhaled and nodded his surrender.

  “You buy the donkey and I’ll even throw in this business card holder,” said Percy.

  “Why I want dat?” asked Vic with a scowl.

  “It makes you look important,” replied Percy in exasperation. “You put it on your desk, fill it with your business cards, and then people can take one when they come over to see you. That way they don’t forget who you are.”

  “I gots no biness cards. I don’t have no desk eider.”

  “Ain’t this your lucky day,” mumbled Garrett, unable to contain himself and knowing where the conversation was headed.

  “Yes it is,” cackled Percy. “I just happen to have this desk on for half price too!”

  “Wow,” replied Vic, impressed at his good fortune. “And what about my biness cards?”

  “Ooh, there we have a slight problem friend. I don’t do business cards.” Percy waited until he was sure Vic was going to cry before slapping the muscled man on the arm. “Don’t worry though; I have a ton of extras you can use to fill that right up.” Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a stack of his own calling cards and shuffled them into the wooden box.

  “Yay!” said Vic brightening up. “How much for desk, biness card holder and donkey? Remember, I only pay half for donkey and desk.”

  “You bet,” replied Percy. Looking as if he was calculating the sum in his head he counted across his fingers several times. Vic looked worried, but then Percy stopped and smiled. “What a deal! Only eighty silvers for the whole lot.”

  Vic exhaled in relief and removed a heavy bag from his belt. Fumbling with the drawstring, his thick fingers tried to work the knot loose. “Dis ting always tied in knot,” he complained. Finally he got it open and peered inside. Sticking a pudgy finger in, he stirred up the coins and frowned. Holding the bag up to the morning sun, he again peered inside. “Um, dat’s right, I forget. I no carry dose silver ones, only gold ones. How about I give you eighty of dese?”

  Garrett cleared his throat meaningfully and stared hard at Percy.

  “Gold ones are good. You think you can remember that?” asked Percy.

  “Of course I can, dummy,” replied the larger man, rolling his eyes. “Why you tink I keep dem in here?”

  “Well Vic, it really is your lucky day,” sighed Percy. “I’ll take one of those gold ones and we’ll call it even.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Vic. Suddenly, he reached out and pulled the carpenter into a bear hug. “You a good man Percy.”

  A strangled gasp escaped Percy and he struggled to free himself. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting your change?” he prompted, adding, “it’s silver,” before Vic could reply.

  “No, you keep change,” said Vic. Tossing the man a golden coin, he proceeded to tie a large knot in the top of his purse and attach it to his belt again. Walking up to the heavy desk, he hoisted it into the air and settled it atop his head. Turning to Garrett, he motioned at the rocking donkey with an elbow. “You grab my donkey, okay?”

  “Not on your life,” replied Garrett.

  Vic reassessed the situation, shifting his eyes up to the table above him and then to the wooden donkey. After several seconds, he shrugged. “I only gots two hands. I pay you.”

  Garrett was about to refuse, but recalled the man’s preferred tender. Obediently he fetched the donkey.

  “Don’t forget my biness cards,” warned Vic.

  * * * *

  The road leading up to Mr. Kline’s land was paved, and the grass along either side of the roadway was trimmed and cleared of all but a few choice trees. Surrounding the compound’s main grounds, a heavy iron fence encircled several acres of the cliff top property. The main complex was massive and housed well over fifty rooms. Indeed, Mr. Kline’s estate was something to behold. Situated atop the flat of one of the coastal cliffs, it boasted several outbuildings and pastures where Mr. Kline’s prized bulls could be seen grazing.

  ‘Dactylis glomerata,’ Garrett recalled, remembering one of Professor Lacie’s lessons. ‘Orchard grass, cock’s foot, or just good old pasture grass.’ Thinking of his long time mentor and friend made Garrett melancholy. He had received a letter from James not six months ago, inviting him to come visit. ‘Little Orton would love to meet P.C,’ the Professor had written. The sad truth was that Garrett hadn’t the funds to travel to Cassadia.

  Garrett’s eyes scanned the fields of Kline’s property and were drawn to two very distinct buildings. Over a hundred feet long and painted red, each building was surrounded with wire fence. He could see a large sign attached to the barrier outside each of the barns, but could not read them from here. “What’s in those?” he asked Vic.

  “None oh you biness,” said Vic. “Only furries and me get to go in dere. I’m special.”

  ‘Yes you are,” agreed Garrett, giving the distant barns a final fleeting look.

  “Hold up there, Vic,” said a thick voice jarring Garrett from his thoughts. “Who’s that with you?” A large minotaur rounded the side of the gatehouse and stood expectantly in front of the barred gates.

  Breathing heavily, Vic set his desk down and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Hey, Frank. Dis de guy I sent to bring up, Gary Willies.”

  “That’s Garrett Willigins,” corrected Garrett.

  Frank unlocked the gate and stepped onto the roadway. “Are you carrying any weapons?” The minotaur’s eight foot frame was further exaggerated by the curved three foot horns sprouting from the top of his bovine head.

  “Not unless you count this donkey,” replied Garrett.

  “Hmmm,” mused Frank, not impressed, “a funny guy, eh?” Grabbing Garrett with one hairy arm, he pressed the man into the iron gate. Removing the donkey from him, he tossed the wooden toy to Vic. “That could be used as a weapon,” he admitted. “Best leave it here. As for you, I’m going to have to frisk you.”

  “Frisk away,” replied Garrett, trying to sound confident.

  Finished his search, Frank turned back to Vic. “Okay, this guy’s clean. I’ll take it from here.”

  “How am I going to get my donkey home?” whined Vic.

  “We’ll leave it in the guardhouse. Nobody will touch it. You can come back for it later.”

  Opening the bars again, Frank maintained his grip on Garrett’s shoulder as he pushed him through. Garrett halted suddenly and turned back to Vic. “My coin,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Hah, you tink Vic stupid?” replied Vic. He lifted the desk up to his head again. “You no get pa
id for half a job.” Turning his back on Garrett, he ignored the smaller man.

  “Let’s go buddy,” rumbled Frank pushing Garrett forward again. He turned to Vic. “Did you remember to feed your squirrels?” he asked.

  “Oh ya I forget again!” said Vic excitedly. “I would have membered if I didin have to bring him.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Garrett’s back.

  “You run along, Vic. Those little critters will be starving by now.” Vic nodded, the table wobbling atop his head. Frank pushed Garrett forward.

  Once inside the main building, Garrett was lead through a maze of corridors lined with fine art and sculptures. The floor was tiled marble, and the stone walls were polished to a shine and hung with beautiful rugs and tapestries. Coming at last to Mr. Kline’s study, Frank knocked on the door. “Mr. Willies, to see you,” he said loudly.

  “Willigins,” corrected Garrett under his breath.

  “You’re late,” came the angry shout from inside. Frank opened the door, shoved Garrett into the room, bowed, and then closed the door swiftly.

  Mr. Kline’s study was decorated much the same as the outer hallway. The furniture was expensive, the rug plush, and the walls hung with fine art. Behind a sturdy antique desk and a stack of opened newspapers, the businessman sat with his hands steepled before him, a frown darkening his fat face. Mr. Kline was almost bald, and the few grey hairs he had left were draped across his forehead in an effort to cover as much skin as possible. “Garrett,” he acknowledged. “You owe me some money, don’t you kid?” Beside the desk, a muscled ogre occupied a leather chair. The creature leaned forward, waiting for Garrett’s response.

  “Yes,” agreed Garrett uncomfortably. “And I aim to pay you straight away.” Garrett caught himself staring at the man’s left hand and the stump of his pinkie finger before averting his eyes.

  “Let me guess,” continued the older man, “Mrs. Wichuster lost her cat again.”

  Garrett swallowed, his eyes narrowing as he took in the pleased look on Kline’s face. “Yes,” he said slowly.