"All right, Rellik." Rhianna butted out her cigarette
against the bus stop sign, then ground it under the flat of her pumps.
"You got something for me?"
"You know I do." An honest prostitute, or as close to one if there were such a creature. She played things as straight as could be expected, kind of like the tide: regular, expected, the occasional terror, but mostly scrolled in her relentless sort of way. Also, she was a bit of a romantic, still clinging to the hope of her prince. Such was the fairy tale she wrote for herself, but every story had a monster in it.
The Meadows, now Phoenix, Apartments held all manner of hustlers: pimps, car thieves, shoe/shirt sellers, prostitutes, squeegee men, food sellers, clothing makers, baby-sitting, candy sellers. People sold license plates, Social Security cards and small appliances out of their vans. They pirated gas, electricity, or cable. Everyone had their own hustle, part of the shadow economy of the streets. Rellik collected a tax on all action occurring in his territory, even taxing pimps for use of stairwells, alleys, or empty apartments. He'd control the flow of things as long as they abided by his rules. They couldn't hustle out in the open. It drew police along with other unwanted scrutiny and he wasn't interested in any additional attention. Nor could they hustle during family events. Neither could the homeless nor strangers. BBQs, block parties, family reunions, after-church picnics. Nothing. They couldn't hustle by playgrounds. They had to respect the kids. And none of them could loiter there either.
"You know you need to move someplace else," Rellik said.
"Damn, nigga. You hard." Rhianna ran her hand along her locklets as if primping them into place, then turned on her heel.
"Relentless."
Everyone needed a place to put their head up. He could've stayed at the Phoenix Apartments, move into Night's old spot, but he left that to Garlan. No point in punking the boy out of his own place. Besides, he was a potential earner needing room to come into his own. Rellik respected that and in his own way, nurtured it. He chose to hold up in an abandoned home down on 24th and Pennsylvania, a bright lime-colored house from the Arts and Crafts era with brown doors and trim, clay-tiled roof and a wrap-around porch made of stones. Some fiends had got to wilding there not too long ago and the property stood abandoned, even by fiends and other squatters. Its windows were boarded up, sealed outside and fortified inside. The first-floor interior was gutted out. At one point it had been carved up into four apartments; now only the original walls were in place, much of the lathing exposed, brittle ribs on an emaciated retiree. Much of the recessed cabinets and shelves had been pulled out. The basement door nailed shut. Mildew rotted the stairs through, discouraging anyone from mounting them.
Upstairs was little different. With much of the plumbing exposed, a cracked toilet bled thick urine, its base coated in a grimy yellow paste where urine had dried. Two of the bedrooms were left bare, rotted mattresses piled in the corners. A locked door cordoned off the master bedroom. A fresh coat of white paint on the walls. A walk-in closet converted into a bathroom. The wood floor had been refinished and polished. Boards protected the windows, more to keep prying eyes out; twin windows led to a deck outside above the porch, an emergency exit should he need one. A large flatscreen television hung on the wall adjacent to the one which backed the long leather couch on which a woman perched, reading a book.
"I heard you were out." She curled on the couch, legs drawn under her, allowing her skirt to reveal enough of her perfectly shaped legs to draw his eyes along them. "I see you've done something to the place."
"Morgana," he said, the feigned disinterest in his voice meant to disguise his hunger.
"How you doing, baby? Aren't you happy to see me?" she cooed, her voice thick like warm honey, which she intended to lick from his body.
Her face cold and composed, not betraying any emotion other than her cruel smile. A fierce intention rode her eyes. Morgana was an agenda within a scheme. Her presence signaled trouble at the very least. Still, she was one of the best lays he'd ever had. A woman who knew her trade – fleshcraft and necromancy – and he suspected that she was not above murder. And she knew how to please and use men. She patted the empty spot next to her, inviting him over.
"Dred know where you are?" Rellik asked.
"You care? Isn't having me with his full knowledge part of the thrill?" She trailed a lone finger along his arm. A high yella, stone-cold beauty whose large breasts pushed her shirt straight out, exposing her flat belly over her tight jeans. Her Asian eyes and long black hair framed an intoxicating face. Using men against men, teasing out vulnerabilities, to exploit their weaknesses, her flaw was that she discounted their strengths. Her own brand of enchantment left his will slacked, honor drugged, and canceled his conscience with lust. Hers was a deadly game; even knowing how she operated made her no less effective, or him any less prey to her advances.
"Same old Morgana. Still using the same tricks. You play a dangerous game."
"Most risky gambits can be successful, if undertaken boldly and without hesitation."
Rellik had his own agenda. And orders. The officers, even the Ngbe who ran the bulk of the traffic in Indianapolis, served at the pleasure of the Board of Directors. The Hierarchy brought him in because things were in disarray. Not content for lieutenants and captains to report to him, Dred vied to get to the Board. And now he was nowhere to be found.
Rellik pulled her close to him. For his part, he used women like some people used drugs: to numb himself from the pain of his world. She feigned protest until a mischievous smile snaked across her face. It was her nature. She couldn't help herself. She knew him and accepted him as he was and as much as she was capable. In her own twisted way, she loved him.
The idea of love, its sheer tenacity, scared the shit out of him. Love stayed right there with him during the ugly and dark times. All love did. Love clung right to the person he was meant to be and helped move him along toward becoming that. Love didn't let him off the hook, nor did it want him to define himself by his sin or failures. He couldn't outrun love. So he knew he'd one day have to kill her.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" She plunged her tongue deep into his mouth. His hands explored her back, before scooping her up and setting her on the edge of his couch. She fumbled at his shirt, their tongues never breaking from their mutual explorations, while he hiked up her skirt.
She really wasn't wearing any panties.
The depth of his entry caused her to break their kiss. In a well-practiced move, she winced through closed eyes, and threw her head back. Her arms locked around the back of his head, then she moaned long and deep. There was making love and there was a hot fucking that burned bright and brief, threatening to break them both in its intensity. He rode her in slow strokes. The sex was as true and vital as the first time he smashed her.
Morgana wasn't one for cuddling afterward. The night called and she had much to do before dawn. She left him to his empty room, his thoughts and his life. Unlike many of the squares who went to their cubicle worlds and went through the motions of life, pushing papers, accepting berating bosses, and underperforming and back-stabbing colleagues, he could say he put in a good day's work. True, he couldn't say "I built that." He couldn't say "I taught them." The devil whispered in his ear. That dark voice that came to him in the still times. When he stopped moving, stopped playing the game, when he didn't distract himself with the pretense that he wasn't alone and unloved. He wasn't fooling anyone. His dreams tormented him. Sometimes flashes of what life would have been like with his brothers, with anything approximating a real family. Other times, his nights were filled with water, dragged under, his breath fleeing in a desperate gasp. He paced the floor, an unsettled cat, then drew his Taurus 92 from beneath his pillow. Plopping on the edge of his bed, he aimed his gun at his heart. It'd be easy to end the pain which haunted him, without name, without reservation, without relent. One day he'd find the strength to squeeze the trigger.
"I miss my bro
thers." The sound of his own voice startled him.
In the end he knew how empty his life was. All he knew was that life was accidental.
Only death was deliberate.
Behind the Phoenix Apartments, a grove of trees lined a path, its banks formed a natural green space that had become popular as a walkway. During early morning hours, many a citizen walked its path for exercise, each armed with a stick or bat in case of emergency. On occasion, people held dog fights back there. Cars crowded the rear of the Phoenix Apartments parking lot, sealing it off into its own little world. Folks knew they were entering designated Switzerland, a "no beefs allowed" zone. It was its own, lost world.
The sounds of cars traveling along 38th Street drifted in from the outside world. Cigarette butts and beer bottles littered the ground. Overgrown masonry protruded from the earth, large cement slabs which were the foundation from a previous building. The trees grew at odd angles in this fairly isolated thin trickle of a creek. The older ones half-uprooted as if a great upheaval had once taken place there.
This was where Omarosa agreed to meet Colvin. Not neutral territory, but they weren't here to parlay. She knew the lay of the land and it was enough into Rellik's tightening control for Colvin to have to step lightly. Omarosa moved swiftly and without sound. Her light footfalls slipping through the foliage without displacing a leaf. She was prepared to take out a guard, Mulysa, or at least a young buck which passed for security. But there was no one. Colvin stood alone and vulnerable in the center of the field.
A faint light illuminated his features. Despite his evident beauty, his heroic jaw, and his angular setting, his face contorted in pain and concentration.
"It's been a long time," Omarosa interrupted.
"I'm trying to decide if it's been too long or not long enough."
"Didn't expect to see you handle this personally."
"And trust this to Mulysa?" Colvin asked.
"He's your boy and all."
"Would he still be standing here if he had a bag full of money? Easy pickings."
"I let your courier scurry along home."
"To let me know you were responsible."
"Still, you, me. Out here. Alone. You getting bold in your old age. We gonna do this now or what?"
"You unarmed?"
"You alone?"
Twins shared a special knowing. There was no psychic connection, no special power given them. There was just a simple knowing. They understood their doppelganger because they shared a womb with them, knew them in the most intimate and close of settings. So both Colvin and Omarosa appreciated the little dance of cordiality they both endured and inflicted on one another. No need to voice their history of quiet resentments and litany of perceived slights. Her mother always favored Colvin. There was always something fragile about him, despite his bravado and narcissism. A palace built atop rotted timbers. Not that Omarosa consciously picked up on it. She tried to love him, but there was no room for her in his world. That was what she told herself.
Their estrangement had nothing to do with how many times she tried to kill him over the years.
"So we gonna do this?"
"Yeah, but let me ask you something," Colvin said.
"Go ahead."
"Do you keep up much with the old ways?"
"The old ways are not for us. Let King and his dog, Merle, truck in those parlor tricks. I got better things to do. Like finish this up, crash at my crib, and count my ends, you feel me?"
"Yeah, about that… I'm afraid there's been a change in plans. You see, I didn't come alone." A jade spark burned just above him. It trickled down like slowmoving lava, leaving a suspended trail in its wake.
Omarosa recognized the glamour of hidden doors. A half-dozen men tumbled from the nexus. They stood about to her waist, with bulbous bellies and faces like old men. Nude save for their spiked iron boots and caps faded to a deep carnation.
"Red Caps? Seriously?" Omarosa pulled out her sawed-off shotgun from the bag. "I didn't exactly come unarmed."
Their weapons sprung to their hands, slings firing shots like iron thorns. Omarosa fell backwards, dodging the first volley while getting off a shot. The first creature fell back, blood erupting from the wound of the shotgun blast. It slowly rose, the attack not lethal. Hardy bastards. She dove for cover behind one of the jutting concrete slabs. Her side burned as if lanced with a hot poker.
The men scattered, converged on her spot from a variety of angles, each serving as a distraction for the others. Their teeth ripped into her flesh as they swarmed at her, a host of maggots writhing on a stilltwitching carcass. The full weight of one of their bodies slammed into her back from above. The iron spikes of its boots, like nails hammered into her back. It drove the breath from her lungs. Others wrestled her, attempting to subdue her. With a curse, she kicked free, then thrust her elbow into the groin of the one behind her. It slackened its grasp enough for her to twist loose. Her arm was wrenched from underneath her, nearly toppling her.
"Damn it," she muttered.
"Getting slow in your old age." Colvin tramped toward her dropped package. He was stunned: she really did bring the product. Though, he should have been: he had really brought the money. They were fey after all. Straddling the line between what they called honor and the necessity of betrayal were what they did best. He turned to leave, deciding whether to watch the rest of the show or go ahead and depart.
The Red Caps jabbered amongst themselves with titters and croaks not meant for human throats. Not even half-human ones. They drove her back by their sheer weight of numbers, all talons and teeth gnashing and swiping towards her: a pack of hyenas tearing into a wounded lioness. Strength ebbed from her limbs. She bled from innumerable scratches and tears. But she was fey. And you neither took a gift from her kind, nor made them angry.
A scarlet fugue state burned in Omarosa's emerald eyes as the fierceness of battle overtook her. The rage which so often fueled her when her back was pressed against the wall and the desperation of survival was all she had left. She rushed headlong through them to break their purchase. Lashing right and left, she struck with tepid punches more designed to throw them off than inflict any real damage to their tough hides. She swung her leg in a high arc and caught one in mid-air; the back blade of her boot heel slit its throat and it was dead before it hit the ground. Her spiked heel crunched down on a skull, a spike driven through it. Its opened throat spilled blood over her new boots. They'd never come clean again.
She barely dodged the taloned hand. Its nails would have opened up a scarlet trail along her chest. The better course of valor brought no shame to the fey. She would live to see the blood of her enemies spilled. Through the stark stretch of open ground, she bolted for the tree line with speed which easily outpaced her pursuers. The occasional elf arrow whizzed past her. She turned, nearly invisible in its shadows, to see Colvin salute her. A bag in either hand.
He was sloppy and brutal, no finesse or style to his game. But he was fey.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun rose a violet and orange backdrop to his lakeside perch. Lott slept soundly beneath an apple tree, bone-weary, with the gentle laps of the lake providing all the lullaby he needed. He'd always found comfort at lakes. The heavy footfalls of an approaching brigade stirred him from slumber. A staggered caravan of four figures on horseback coalesced into view. Though quite a distance away, it became readily apparent that the parade consisted solely of women. Each wore a red cap, a beret of sorts, and slowed as she neared as if beckoning him to follow her. Few women crossed him. Fewer still drew his attention.
The first had a familiar bearing as if she'd always been around the way, a presence in the neighborhood he'd taken for granted. She drew back her long black hair from her Asian-looking eyes. Her horse, black as death and hate. Eyes reflecting ambition and power. Glaring at him, she found him wanting. The horse snorted in disapproval, and she rode on.
A commanding dark-skinned beauty if one could see past the layers of clothes w
ith which she wrapped herself, Lady G rode second. Her horse a wild-eyed, wildfire-red stallion, untamed and unfettered yet she rode him with a practiced, graceful aplomb. An inviting flutter of her eyelashes framed the sidelong glances of her slow-moving eyes. Her lips curled with understanding. Romantic and ridiculous, she took peace from him, her vicinity smashed right into his nature. His eyes couldn't help but to follow her. Despite other horses coming into view, he always went back to her.
The third horsewoman was Omarosa astride an ashen horse with a grey, mottled mane. She carried a great sword. Drawing up, she paused at the far side of the lake. She dismounted from her horse and let it drink while she crouched beside it to scoop water into her mouth. Her vanity held out for conquest.
Lott wondered where Lady G had ridden off to.
The fourth rider was unknown to him. Atop a white horse, a bow slung around her and a crown atop her head. She rode with the confidence of a conqueror. His heart leapt at her approach, yet he allowed her to pass by also, too preoccupied with tracking the movements of Lady G.
King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Page 12
