Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us

by Doty, J. L.

  The strange, shadowed woman threw her head back, looked to the heavens and shrieked out the sharp, piercing cry of a hunting hawk. Then she raised the bow, drew the string and fired.

  Paul expected to see the arrow streak away from her in an arc, hoping he could watch it carefully and dodge to one side as it descended. But at the snap of the bow string the arrow shot forth only a few paces, then slowed and hovered just a few feet off the ground, moving toward them at a pace no faster than a walk.

  “We’re not doing this,” Katherine shouted. She turned on the two leprechauns. “Get us out of here—now.”

  Both little men stood transfixed by the sight of the arrow. Jim’Jiminie said, “That shaft will seek its prey in any Realm, in all Realms. It has a primitive life of its own, and Sabreatha has given it the scent of his heart, so it will not stop until it has tasted his blood.”

  “No!” Katherine screamed. “We’re not playing this game anymore.”

  “You’ve no choice, lass,” Boo’Diddle shouted.

  While Katherine and the little fellows had a shouting match, Paul watched the arrow carefully. It slowly drifted to within about fifty paces, then turned aside and circled them, stalking them.

  Paul resolved that neither he nor Katherine would die this day without one hell of a fight. He’d come to understand it would take years to master this magic stuff. But while he didn’t understand all the rules and requirements and formulas, he at least had the ability to pull a lot of power. So if he couldn’t cast some carefully crafted spell, he’d try throwing a whole shit-load of power at it.

  Paul pulled on all the power around him, and in Faerie there was apparently plenty to pull. It permeated everything and filled his soul. He felt little motes of it dancing up and down his arms, tickling the hairs there. He’d been warned he could burn himself out if he drew too much, go up like a roman candle, but at that moment he had nothing to lose. He sensed the ley line not too far away and he pulled on that too, and it almost overwhelmed him.

  “Paul,” Katherine said, her voice almost a whisper. “What are you doing?”

  The arrow had circled around behind them and continued to circle. He didn’t take his eyes off it as he said, “If I have to go out, it’s going to be with a bang.”

  Jim’Jiminie said, “You’re a scary one, boy-oh.”

  The arrow continued to circle, but closer now, and he saw the pattern. With each circle it came just a few paces closer, as if waiting for a chance to dart in without warning and punch its way through his chest. It was only about ten paces distant when he said, “Katherine, Boo’Diddle, Jim’Jiminie, get down low and hug the ground.”

  He didn’t look away from the arrow to see if they obeyed. It was close enough to see the details of its blood-red fletching and coal-black shaft, and he thought he could distinguish something written on the shaft, some sort of runes.

  It didn’t dart in toward him, but turned slowly, and deliberately advanced toward his chest, slowing as it approached him, slowing to an agonizing crawl. It had advanced to within a few feet of his chest, coming for him an inch at a time, when he reached out and put his right hand around the shaft.

  He tried to push is aside, but it wouldn’t budge, and it advanced another inch. He tried to step aside and hold it to its path, but it turned with him. It was only about a hand’s width from his chest when Katherine jumped to her feet and wrapped her hands about it. She screamed wildly, “No you don’t, you fucking bitch.”

  She tried to push it to the side; they both did, she screaming maniacally while he grunted with the effort. They ended up slowly dancing in a small circle as the arrow inched toward his chest. At the last instant, just as it cut into the skin of his chest, Katherine screamed and released a flood of power. He took that as his queue and released his into the shaft of the arrow, and it nudged to one side slightly, only an inch. He turned, angled his chest to one side while Katherine angled the arrow the other way. Then the arrow punched its way slowly into his chest, inch by agonizing inch.

  He screamed. Katherine screamed with him. The leprechauns screamed with them.

  ~~~

  “Paul, Paul, please don’t die.” That was Katherine.

  Paul opened his eyes. He lay on his back on the grass in a small clearing, most of his shirt ripped away, and what remained was soaked in blood. It hurt to move, hurt even to breathe. Katherine tore away more of his shirt, working frantically and mumbling to herself. “I haven’t done any internal medicine since I was an intern.”

  Paul asked, “Am I still alive?”

  Katherine snarled at him. “Of course you’re alive. You’re talking to me aren’t you?”

  Jim’Jiminie leaned into his field of view. “You survived a heart arrow, boy-oh.” There was awe in his voice.

  Boo’Diddle added, “He ain’t survived it yet.”

  Katherine growled, “Help me roll him. I need to check the exit wound.”

  The two leprechauns helped her roll Paul onto his side. Katherine tore away more of his shirt, probed at his back. “Owe,” he hissed. “That hurts.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Katherine said, her voice calmer. She eased him onto his back and held the black arrow up to examine it. “We got it angled enough I don’t think it got any vital organs, just meat and bone. And the wounds aren’t pulsing, so probably no major arteries.”

  Every breath sent a white hot lance of pain through Paul’s chest. “You mean . . . it’s not . . . bad?”

  Her eyes flashed angrily. “You’ve got a fucking whole in your chest. Of course it’s bad.” She calmed a little. “But not that bad. We need to get you to a hospital right away.”

  She and the two leprechauns got him to his feet, helped him stagger to a level spot where the leprechauns had made a bed of leaves. He was too weak to even sit, so Katherine helped him lay down on his side, and when he started to shiver she lay down next to him to keep him warm. “Jim’Jiminie’s going for help,” she said. “He thinks we’re close enough to the ley line he might be able to twist it and get us back.”

  She pressed herself tightly against him. “You’re going into shock. I need to keep you warm.”

  “Excuses, excuses!” he said weakly. “You just want to get close to me.” He had the oddest thoughts lying there with her breasts pressed tightly against him. Her blouse had been torn badly, and he had a solid view of a sexy, lacy, black bra.

  She giggled. “You’re looking at my boobs again, Conklin.”

  He looked away. “Ah, sorry.”

  She asked, “Was Jim’Jiminie telling the truth?”

  “What?”

  “That you were checking out my ass.”

  “I’m not telling.”

  She giggled again, and they just lay there. Paul drifted off into a place half way between consciousness and unconsciousness. Exhaustion weighed on him heavily, but the pain drummed at him constantly and he found breathing difficult. At some point Katherine drifted off to sleep, their arms still wrapped about each other. What the hell, he thought, and focused on her cleavage and the black, lacy bra.

  Then a tall, distinguished, black man walked casually into the copse of trees, and his skin was truly black, charcoal black. The fellow wore an expensive looking business suit like one might see on the streets of any large city, which was clearly out of place in Faerie. He squatted down in front of Paul. “You don’t look well, Paul.”

  The man’s voice sounded oddly familiar. It was a struggle to speak. “Have we . . . met before? Dayandalous, right? You like to play games.”

  “Very good, Paul. You may be able to get out of this after all. I’ll give you a hint. Think about how you got here. Think with your magical senses about how it felt.”

  Paul wanted to tell the fellow he didn’t have the strength to think any coherent thoughts. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather the energy to tell him, but when he opened them the man had gone, though something large passed overhead and he thought he heard the hiss of massive wings slicing through the a
ir. Definitely a hallucination!

  For some reason Paul began thinking about the strange twisting of space that had brought them there, the way it had followed a kind of spiral path through reality. It was a unique feeling and he remembered it well, thought he might even repeat it if he wanted to, perhaps even reverse it. He just needed to remember it. It didn’t even require the summoning or use of power, no more than recognizing which door to open and walk through. Yes, if he hadn’t been half-delirious he was almost certain he could repeat it, reverse it. Almost certain . . . Almost certain . . .

  ~~~

  Walter McGowan poured a couple fingers of whiskey, sat down in his favorite chair in his office. It was an old wing-back chair, a bit worn here and there, but still infinitely comfortable. It had been a long day.

  He was in mid sip when Paul and Katherine, both a muddy, bloody mess, materialized near the ceiling about five feet above his desk, crashed into it with a horrible thud and a scattering of papers and books. “Holy shit,” McGowan shouted as he jumped to his feet, his heart threatening to pound its way out of his chest.

  Katherine groaned, rolled over and fell to the floor in front of his desk. Paul groaned and rolled the other way, fell out of sight behind his desk and crashed into his chair with a grunt and a muffled curse.

  McGowan rushed to Katherine, helped her stagger to her feet. She was a complete mess, clothes torn, blood and mud all over her. “Are you hurt?” he asked desperately.

  “No, no, it’s Paul’s blood. He’s badly hurt.”

  “Colleen,” McGowan shouted at the top of his lungs, pushed power into the word, knew she’d hear him no matter where she was in the house

  Katherine frantically pulled McGowan around the desk to Paul, who lay there only partly conscious. “We need a doctor,” Katherine pleaded.

  Colleen burst into the room. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Look at you, child.”

  Katherine grimaced. “I’m okay, a few scratches and bruises, but nothing serious. Paul’s been shot in the chest by an arrow.” She held up a black shafted arrow with red fletching. “Some sort of black fey thing.” She looked around, her eyes wide with surprise. “Jim’Jiminie must have come back with help.”

  Colleen growled, “Let me at the lad.” She elbowed the old man aside, pushed the toppled chair to one side and bent over Paul, examining him carefully.

  He groaned, and his eyes cleared. He tried to reach something behind his back, gasped in pain and couldn’t do it. Colleen demanded “What is it?” She reached behind him, tugged at something, lifted up a pair of muddy and torn high-heel shoes.

  Paul looked at Katherine. “I didn’t forget them.”

  Katherine threw her head back and laughed, and the old man wondered if she’d gone hysterical. Instead she took the shoes from Colleen, leaned down over Paul and kissed the boy, practically shoved her tongue down his throat, the kind of lip-lock fathers didn’t like to see daughters doing, the little slut. And there was no doubt the kid enjoyed it too, the little shit.

  Chapter 13: A Bargain Fulfilled

  Cadilus opened the door to Magreth’s private sitting room, approached her and bowed deeply, touching one knee to the floor.

  “Please rise. You have news of this mortal mage?” Magreth demanded.

  Cadilus stood. “Yes, Your Majesty. Apparently, Sabreatha pierced his soul with les flèche du coeur.”

  She started and the flames appeared in her eyes. “It is done then. He is dead.”

  “I assume so, but I have yet to confirm it.”

  “Of course he’s dead. No one survives les flèche du coeur.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. No one survives that.”

  She frowned with uncertainty. “Get it confirmed. Immediately.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Cadilus bowed deeply and backed out of the room.

  ~~~

  Anogh dropped to one knee before the Winter King.

  “Rise,” Ag said, “and tell me of your success in capturing the young, mortal mage.”

  “I did not capture him, Your Majesty. I was intercepted.”

  Frost settled on Anogh’s shoulders and in his hair. “You were intercepted?”

  Simuth grinned, anticipating Ag’s anger, hoping to see Anogh punished in Ag’s typical brutal fashion.

  “Sabreatha,” Anogh said, and both Ag and Simuth started. “She claimed right of contract, and delivered les flèche du coeur.”

  Ag stood stunned for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Finally, someone delivers on a promise. Come, Simuth. Let us celebrate.”

  ~~~

  McGowan hauled Paul off to a private clinic down the peninsula run by a friend of his. The friend apparently practiced more than just surgery, and he had a few special colleagues and nurses to help him. Colleen assisted, apparently used some sort of druid healing shtick to shorten his convalescence. He was weak as a kitten for several days, but Katherine had been correct: no vital organs, no serious arteries. And with Colleen treating him on a daily basis with her druid mumbo-jumbo, in one short week he felt reasonably well, though still a bit sore. He’d feel a lot worse if not for the practitioners.

  Paul had returned to his apartment after only a few days in the clinic. He was there, about ready to go to bed when a knock on the door startled him. It was late, a little too late for a casual visitor.

  Paul peered through the peephole before opening the door, saw three men dressed in dark business suits, but couldn’t make out their faces. He took a brief inventory of his personal wards and those protecting his apartment, then opened the door carefully.

  Karpov stood there in his stock attire: coat and tie, dark wool overcoat, wearing a hat that looked like it belonged in a Sam Spade private-eye movie. Behind him, and to either side, stood Boris and Joe Stalin in their horse-blanket, heavy, wool business suits. Both were large, physically imposing men; the word thugs always came to mind. Boris—Paul reminded himself the fellow’s name was really Vladimir—had high, Slavic cheekbones pitted with acne scars, and long, stringy, greasy-blonde hair. And Paul could never put aside how much Joe—Alexei—looked like a young Joseph Stalin: bushy mustache, bristly, short hair.

  “Mister Conklin.” Karpov said. He pronounced mister more like meester, and he rolled his r’s heavily in a thick Russian accent.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Karpov?”

  Karpov spoke in a slow, fatherly way. “May ve come in, Paul? I may call you Paul, yes?”

  Karpov’s accent reminded Paul of Natasha, of Boris and Natasha and Rocky and Bullwinkle fame, actually more a mix of Natasha and Marlon Brando playing Don Corleone. Paul would much rather conduct this meeting with McGowan present, or even not at all. “It’s a bit late, Mr. Karpov, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “Ve won’t keep you long.”

  Paul’s mistake had been to hold the door wide open. If he’d only opened it slightly, then Joe Stalin would have had to push him rudely aside to get in. As it was, old Joe just kind of stepped past him, brushing Paul’s arm out of the way, not really crossing the line into outright physical contact. Before Paul could say or do anything, all three of them stood in his small living room. Paul carefully avoided looking at the little end-table next to his couch where he kept the Sig in a drawer, what Devoe called his home piece.

  “Well,” Paul said. “Now that you’re here, please sit down.” Paul indicated the end of the couch farthest from the end-table, while he purposefully chose the other end and sat down closest to it.

  “That’s very kind of you, Paul,” Karpov said, sitting down carefully like an old man. Paul knew darn well he was not as infirm as he pretended. Boris and Joe Stalin remained standing at either end of the couch, looming over them ominously.

  Keep it polite, Paul thought. “Again, what can I do for you, Mr. Karpov?”

  Karpov smiled at him in a fatherly way. “I think we have all underestimated your capabilities a bit. And Valter has certainly been . . . unforthcoming.�
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  “I think Mr. McGowan feels kind of fatherly toward me.”

  “Yes,” Karpov said as if swallowing some sort of bitter medicine. “Fatherly. That is a good way to put it. You are in an unusual position, Paul.”

  Ok, Paul thought. Here comes the pitch. He decided to play dumb. “I’ll say. A few months ago I was a pretty ordinary guy. And now all this practitioner stuff. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

  “Yes, Paul, it is. But that’s not what I meant. You are more powerful than most apprentices. Think of it like graduate school. Professors are always looking for the genius to be one of their pupils. And when one comes along, the professors compete for him. You are like the genius, Paul.”

  Paul shrugged. “No one’s competing over me, not that I know of. But, to continue your analogy, I only know one professor.”

  “No, Paul.” Karpov shook his head like a patient mentor. “You know me as well.”

  Paul nodded and spoke carefully. “Is that an offer?”

  “No, no, Paul. For me to make such an offer to you at this time would be inappropriate. But you should keep in mind there is a new order coming, and Valter may not be the best man to guide you through the coming changes.”

  “And you would be?”

  Karpov shrugged sympathetically. “Perhaps. Valter is old, not as vital as he once was. It is sad to see him so, and you could do better.”

  Paul had trouble keeping it polite. “Because you’re the one who’s setting up this new order?”

  “I and some colleagues have been—”

  Paul interrupted him. “With you at the top of this new order?”

  Joe Stalin, standing behind Karpov, stepped forward aggressively. Paul heard Boris, behind him, also move. Karpov raised a hand and both men froze.

  “Valter is set in his ways, and it is a time of change, Paul. And those who are not flexible enough to accept change . . .” He shrugged, no longer fatherly, his meaning clear. But he said it anyway. “Well, they may not survive these changes.”