Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3)

by Reed, Grant T.

  “I’m glad you waited.” He felt uncomfortable under her intense stare. “I mean I’m glad you waited for me, not waited to eat.” His face grew red and he stopped talking.

  “I am paid for my time,” said Coral. “You have never been late before, Garrett. I wanted to give you ample opportunity to get here.”

  “Thank you. Something came up at the docks and I almost forgot you asked to see me.”

  “Oh?” she inquired, reaching for her glasses and pencil. “What happened at the docks?”

  “You know,” said Garrett nonchalantly, “work.” He had hoped Coral wanted to meet him for reasons unrelated to his application to become a private investigator. Now he knew this was not the case.

  “Were you forced to take on work as a fish monger?” she asked.

  “Why would you think that?” he asked sharply and pushed himself into a sitting position. His annoyance was unmistakeable.

  Coral watched him from over her glasses. “Because you smell like fish,” she said simply.

  “No,” he argued, a little louder than he had intended, “It’s because you don’t think I can get work doing anything else.”

  “I did not say that, Garrett. I was only asking.”

  “You know damn well it’s because of you that I had to wait so long to get my papers. I could have been official a month ago if you had written your consent.”

  “I do not create the policies, Garrett,” said Coral evenly. “It is my job to assess you fairly. You are correct that I held up your paperwork, but I feel you have some issues you need to work on.”

  “I have no issues!” he shot back. “And who in Hell gives you the right to interfere in my life? You don’t know me at all. I find it ironic that I have served my king and country for twenty years, yet I need your say so before I can go into business for myself.”

  “I have given my consent,” said Coral patiently. “I know you have expenses to cover Garrett, and it is not my intention to make this process last any longer than it has to, but I have to be sure you are sound for this position of authority.”

  “Position of authority?” snorted Garrett. “People think I’m an insurance man.”

  “People will trust you with their secrets and in some cases, their lives, Garrett. We cannot accept everyone who applies. The exams are only part of the process. You must be mentally able to cope with the stresses of the job. ”

  “Nor would I want you to accept every Tom, Dick, or Harry that applies,” returned Garrett. He was hot under the collar and he knew he should lower his tone. He forced himself to breathe. “It’s just that…” he shook his head and stopped speaking, still trying to get a hold of himself.

  “Go on,” encouraged Coral, “I am listening.”

  “I think my service record should speak for itself.”

  “And it does. Your service record is not in question Garrett.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Your state of mind.”

  Garrett felt the blood pounding in his temples now, and his jaw clenched as he denied himself the outburst he so wanted to deliver. He glared at her, but dared not speak. She watched him for a few seconds and then wrote something in her book. He thought he might break a blood vessel in at least one eye if this meeting went on much longer. A knock at the door somewhat alleviated his mood, and he nearly flew from the bed to answer it.

  One of the innkeeper’s young sons waited outside with their supper. Garrett thanked the boy and took the tray inside. Setting the food on the table, he pulled out the second chair and sat across from the woman. He left her plate on the tray and made no attempt to offer it to her. He knew she wouldn’t accept it, even if she was hungry.

  He felt her eyes on him as he ate his chicken and gravy. He was thankful she was quiet, but more thankful her damn pencil had been set aside. The minutes trickled by and still neither of them spoke. Poking at his potatoes, he was upset that their meeting had gotten off to such a bad start. It had been an extremely long day and he was irritable to begin with. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, pushing his plate back. “I didn’t want to come here and argue with you. It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s okay,” she assured him. “I don’t take it personally.”

  He bit into a piece of buttered bread before he could say something he would regret. Finishing the roll, he wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked across the table at her. She was watching him intently. “Why did you ask me here again?” he queried. “You said yourself you have given your consent.”

  “Your papers are conditional, Garrett.”

  “On what?”

  “I need more time to make my final decision. I want you to be happy and I want you to succeed, but I also need to know you are capable of doing this work.”

  “I figured as much,” he admitted. “How long must this charade go on?”

  “I will meet with you once a week, until I deem you fit to be released from probation.”

  “And if I decide I don’t want to cooperate with you?”

  “Then I guess there is always dock duty.”

  “Are you a hard ass with everyone who applies?”

  “Do you really think I’m a hard ass, Garrett?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him without blinking. Flipping through the pages of her notes she stopped and read a passage to him.

  “Sometimes I don’t want to go on. It’s the same thing day after day. One menial job after another in a bid to pay off the monies you owe on a place you can’t even call your own. Sometimes I think killing for a living was easier than this.”

  She stopped reading and stared at him. He shifted uncomfortably, but remained silent. Flipping the page, she read again.

  “Nobody here respects anyone else. Everyone is out for themselves. Sometimes I wonder what they would think of me if they knew the man I am and the things I have done. I’ve never been one for politics, and mind games don’t impress me. I am a man of action.”

  “Do you think I’m going to go on some kind of rampage and kill the next shop owner who overcharges me?” asked Garrett. His voice was iron, and his eyes never wavered as he stared her down.

  “I don’t know, are you Garrett?”

  “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I am… was a soldier. I have killed many men. Some have deserved it, some have not. Why do you think I came to Deep Cove?”

  “Tell me.”

  “To get away from it.”

  “You can’t run from the things you’ve done Garrett and it’s not healthy to bury them inside you.”

  “I’m not running anymore, sister.” Garrett slammed his fist on the table and stood. Stomping to the bed, he pulled on his jacket and turned to face her. “I was running for a long time. I came here to start a new life for me and Merle.” He pointed a finger at her, his features livid. “Yes, I was trained by my masters to be a warrior and to kill when necessary. I was more than adequate at it.” His voice shuddered and he went to the door. “Every time I cut a man down or slipped a knife between an opponent’s ribs, it felt like a small part of me was dying with them. I pray to God every day that I never have to kill again, but if you ask me if I would kill to protect Merle or someone else close to me, then the answer is a resounding yes. So go ahead and write that in your notebook and present it to the king. If that makes me a danger to society, so be it.”

  He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. He managed two steps and then stopped. Hating himself for it, he found himself shouting through the wall. “I’ll see you next week.” Stomping down the corridor, he shook with tension. As bad as meeting with her was, dock duty was worse.

  7

  Good Golly Mr. Molly

  Club Coliseum was pounding to the tribal beat exploding from the large crystal amplifiers along the inner wall. The dance floor was overflowing with sweaty young bodies, heaving to the music. Individual dance moves intertwined to produce a waving ebb and flow of humanity that threatened to spill over onto the nearby tables
. Strutting across one of the tabletops, Merle suggestively ran a paw down his thigh and thrust out his hip at his lady friend. “I got moves, baby,” he assured the seated woman. The brunette giggled and motioned for Merle to come to her. Merle shook his head playfully and held out his hand, waggling a finger at her. Tilting his head back, he raised his pitcher of beer and poured a foaming cascade into his mouth. Adjusting his orange tinted spectacles, he belched. “It’s dry in here,” he said over the music.

  “I want some,” pouted the girl, thrusting her shoulders against her chair and tossing her dark curls aside. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head and opened her mouth. Merle was at her side instantly. He ran a claw over her cheek and she leaned toward him, her eyes still closed. Carefully he trickled the beer onto her lips and watched as her tongue appeared. Increasing the beer flow, he filled her mouth. Before she could swallow, he raised the pitcher higher, letting the beer spill over her chin, down her neck, and across her breasts. The girl swallowed what she could, laughing at Merle’s antics. Pulling the little dragon in close, she nibbled at his ear. “You naughty boy,” she chastised playfully. “You’ve spilled it all over my shirt. Mama should spank your bottom.”

  “Maybe I should clean up the mess first?” asked Merle.

  “Oh you’d better!” she said, grabbing Merle by the cheeks and pulling his snout between her breasts.

  She shook playfully and Merle released his hold on the empty tankard. It bounced onto the table with a metallic clang. “Did I ever tell you I was raised in the mountains?” came Merle’s muffled response.

  Before the woman could answer, a figure appeared beside them. “You… clumsy… idiot,” snapped P.C. Smashing a heavy metal arm into the dragon, he sent him tumbling from the tabletop. “You’re… always… spilling… something. …Let… me… get… it... mam!”

  “Hey,” squealed the girl, trying to pull away from P.C’s groping fingers. Relentlessly he tugged and pulled on her shirt, trying to wring the beer from the garment. Freeing herself, she pushed back from the table, tipping herself and the chair backward. P.C’s telescopic arm shot out, latching onto her shirt in an effort to save her. The garment gave way with a loud tearing noise and the girl hit the floor hard, her breasts bared to the world.

  “P.C!” squawked Merle, clawing his way back onto the table. “You’ve done it again, you worthless piece of iron!”

  P.C. wrung the garment out over the empty pitcher. Reaching into the compartment on his chest, he came out with a spray bottle and lightly dusted the shirt with a sweet smelling scent. “Not… very… clean,” he admitted. “Analysing… embarrassment… factor… in… comparison… with… sanitation… requirements. Protruding… nipples… indicate… imminent… need… for… warm… clothing.” A soft click was followed by a loud steady rumble as P.C. held the garment up to his mouth and began to dry it.

  The girl righted herself, still dazed from her fall. Keeping one arm over her breasts, she grabbed onto the chair with her free arm and pulled herself up.

  P.C’s dryer stopped and he flung the shirt at the girl. It hit her in the forehead and fell to the floor. Ignoring it, the girl snarled in rage and stepped toward the table. Her free hand flashed through the air and caught Merle on the cheek, nearly spinning him from his feet. “That’s for not helping me up,” she said angrily. Lashing out again she sent him flying from the table. “And that’s for allowing your retarded golem to touch me.”

  P.C’s eyes flashed red. “Mam,” he said in a warning tone. “I… am… not… a… golem. You… should… be… thankful… my… programming… does… not… allow… me… to… hit… a… woman.” The girl growled at P.C. and stomped off into the crowd.

  “My glasses,” whined Merle from under the table. “She broke my sunset specs!”

  * * * *

  “Where is he?” hissed Merle. The little dragon watched the front of the club with an unwavering eye. Beside him, P.C. faced the corner of the building, his extendable arm working furiously above him to remove the dust from the overhead crossbeams. “I’m not going to hold your hand all night,” mumbled the little dragon with an angry scowl at the robot.

  “I… didn’t… ask… you… to,” corrected P.C. in a metallic tone. “I… simply… asked… if… you… could… tie… up… my… apron… at… the… back… and… maybe…, if… you… had… the… time…, hang… onto… this… duster… for… one… minute. …Nobody… said… you… had… to… supervise… me.”

  Merle coughed and covered his snout as a cloud of dust and debris floated down from the rafters. “Will you stop that? You’re embarrassing me!” he snorted.

  “Stop… what? This… is… my… job… as… you’re… so… quick… to… point… out… when… we’re… at… home. P.C,.… pick… up… those… dirty… clothes. P.C,.… wash… those… dirty… dishes. P.C,.… remove… the… hair… from… this… drain. P.C.… does… this… thing … have… a… head… on… it?”

  “When you go out, you’re supposed to relax. Carouse with the ladies, let it all hang out. You don’t get all up in someone’s house and start cleaning!”

  “House?” asked P.C, his head rotating around until his eyes locked onto Merle. “This… is… a… club. The… owner… should… be… ashamed… of… himself… for… letting… it… get… so… dirty. He’s… probably… going… to… thank… me… for… doing… the… job… that… no… one… else… obviously… has… the… stomach… for.”

  “Forget it P.C.” sighed Merle. “If a good looking lady walked by and made eyes at you, you still wouldn’t know where to blow your detergent.”

  “That’s… uncalled… for,” snapped P.C. His arm retracted and he swung on his heels to face the dragon. A small compartment on his left thigh clicked open and a bar of soap appeared in a metal holster. Spinning the soap free, P.C. twirled it expertly. “I… know… where… this… goes…, potty… mouth. Didn’t… your… mother… warn… you… about… belittling… other… men?”

  “I’m not a man and neither are you, pee brain,” retorted Merle, ignoring P.C’s threat. “Now put that thing away before you hurt yourself.”

  “Contrary… to… your… belief… my… scaled… friend,… soap… is… good… for… you.”

  “Soap may be, but when you’re a lightening drake, water isn’t all that fun. So, if you think you’re going to squirt me again, you’d better reassess those plans.”

  “Lightening… is… defined… as… the… explosive… discharge… of… atmospheric… electricity. If… that… little… display… of… sparks… you… give… off… qualifies… you… as… a… lightening… drake…, I’ll… format… my… core… programming.”

  “Don’t I wish that were true…” Merle sighed and once more glanced at the entrance. His view was blocked by two figures. One was massive and made of granite. Its seven foot frame bulged with stone muscles and its ember eyes burned with an inner life. The golem’s companion was stick-thin and human. He was dressed in a yellow and red chequered shirt with a stiff white collar. The man’s pants were an off white and covered in more pockets than Merle had ever seen in a pair of trousers. Thick glasses rested on the newcomer’s nose.

  At first, the dragon mistook the man for a child, but when he spoke, the man’s arrogant tone remedied that notion. “Look, my granite pet. It’s molly maidservant from the hotel. Shouldn’t you be making my bed?” High pitched laughter peeled from the scrawny man and he struggled to catch his breath for several seconds. Finally, the stone golem thumped its master on the back and the thin fellow adjusted his glasses.

  “Uh, excuse me, sir,” said Merle pleasantly, “would you mind moving your friend here, so I can see to the entrance?”

  “I knew it!” squealed the man. “You and your iron friend are gutless. I guess it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how tough a fella is when he’s wearin’ a pink apron.”

  “Hey,” snapped P.C. “this… is… my… uniform…, I… don’t… work… without… i
t.”

  “Look, Miss Molly, if I was talking to you I’d have asked you to dust something.”

  “It’s Mr. Molly,” corrected Merle, clearing his throat. “And we’re not here for any trouble. We just came in for a couple beers.”

  “I ain’t no dummy,” said the smaller man, coming right up into Merle’s face. “It’s amateur night, and you’re here to steal my title. If you think this scrawny apron wearin’ piece of junk is going to break my record, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

  “Record?” asked merle, watching the dark golem flex its biceps threateningly.

  “Don’t play stupid with me, you dirty little reptile. You must have heard of Johnny I.Q. and his Abominable Stoneman.”

  “Dirty, why I ought to…” Merle’s fists balled unintentionally and his wings buzzed with displeasure. A blue film of electricity crackled over him for a split second.

  “Of… course,” replied P.C., his core storage device humming as he retrieved the information. “Johnny… I.Q. Winner… of… three… international… Golem… Wars… and… current… title… holder… of… the… heavyweight… golem… division. The… Cassadian… Chronicle… last… reported… on… Wednesday… March… eighteenth… that… I.Q.’s… unbeaten… record… of… eighty-two… bouts… was… a… testament… not… only… to… Vellian… granite…, but… to… I.Q.’s… supreme… command… of… his… artificial… construct.”

  “It’s eighty-four sanctioned bouts now,” corrected Johnny. “And if these stupid amateur fights counted, we’d have way more wins on record. Of course, the unofficial ranking still has us as number one with one hundred and fourteen wins.”

  “Look, I’m just waiting for a friend,” said Merle, backing down. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Oh, well you found trouble, mister. You can’t waltz into my castle with your pansy little pal and expect to strut around here like you own the place.”

  “We’re actually on our way out,” admitted Merle. He forced a smile and grabbed P.C. by the apron.