by Phil Morgan
****
My intentions had been to slip in the through the manager’s entrance and avoid the much-more crowded kitchen entrance. As soon as the door swung shut behind me with a click like a coffin lid closing, I realized my mistake.
All around the room stood gangsters in ill-fitting business suits. Bruisers, the lot of them, with hair on the hair on their knuckles; all of them staring at me with a dull, dumb, hunger. This was the downside to being a knockout, redhead, secret monster-fighting agent. You always had to put up with the sexist henchmen.
“What do we have here? Did somebody order delivery?” a particularly ugly goon growled and his counterparts laughed nastily. “Come here, sweetheart. I have a tip for you.”
“Just a tip?” I smiled with a sweetness I didn’t feel. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Oh, I’ll surprise you?” snarled the goon, reaching for me. This was the part I loved about being a secret agent.
I pulled my trusty lighter out and thumbed it alight with a practiced motion. Flames leapt up at my mental command to encircle the goon. They blazed brightly for a moment and he shrank back. I gave a slight nod of my head and the flames sped around the room, singeing eyebrows and blackening cheap jackets. I winked and the flames sped back to my lighter. I snapped the lighter shut in their faces.
“I may be too hot for you to handle.” My smile never wavered. “I’m here for Arthur.”
“Of course you are.” A voice sounded from across the room. “I am irresistible, you know.”
I walked toward the voice and the goons parted to let me pass. My fireworks show had been enough to give them second thoughts about copping a free feel or puffing up with bravado. I finally reached the source of the voice.
He was lounging in a wooden chair, the front legs off the ground as he leaned against the wall. He wore the standard, cheap, gorilla suit La Ghostsa Nostra goons were known for. His face was craggy, marked with acne scars and sin. He feed himself constantly from a bucket that originally held fast food. I looked closer and saw he was eating decomposing fingers and toes.
“Would you like some? Nothing like a little bit of finger food.” He smiled and it sent shivers down my spine. I could see bits of rotting flesh stuck between his yellow, blocky teeth. Arthur was a ghoul, an eater of the dead, and he reveled in it. He feasted on corpses and worse and couldn’t have been happier about it.
“Thanks, but I have to maintain my figure.” I said, because a secret monster-fighting agent has to always have a snappy comeback.
“Got no idea what you’re missing.” He grunted and set the bucket aside. “So, why don’t you tell me who you are and what you want? If for no other reason than to have something interesting for us to put on your tombstone.”
“The name’s Cassidy Blaze. I work for Cerberus. I’m here to ask you a few questions about your ability to track.” I explained in an authoritative voice. At least, I felt it was authoritative. I had practiced it in front of my bathroom mirror more than a little bit.
“Do you hear that, boys? She is with Cerberus.” He said, stretching out the name mockingly. “Look, red, I don’t care about Cerberus and I don’t care why you are here. You made one Hell of a mistake barging in here like you owned the place. Me and my boys are going to enjoy teaching you some manners.”
“You made the first mistake, Boston.” I said hotly. “Never call me red.”
I reached out. I had sent my flames around the room for a reason. I had lit a candle on a table unnoticed by anybody. I felt that flame, felt it burning bright and I bent it to my will. It leapt up and danced around the room. It would zip close to a goon and light his hair on fire, or his clothes, or his hands if he was holding a weapon.
The goons reacted predictably, running around madly trying to swat themselves instead of just doing what they taught us in school: stop, drop, and roll. Of course, if goons listened in school, they would have never ended up goons in the first place.
Satisfied they were occupied, I turned back to face the Stomach. He was still sitting in the chair, all four legs on the floor but instead of insolently staring at me, he couldn’t take his eyes off my flame burning the Hell out of his friends. He looked up at me and gulped in fear. I leaned forward to demand he answer my questions and that was when it all went wrong.
One of the goons blindly stumbled into me and normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me much but I was in the process of leaning over. All it took was one little push and I flipped head over heels to find myself at Arthur’s feet. Trust me, there were few places worse to be.
He grinned his nasty grin and reached for me. My concentration slipped and my flame winked out of existence. His grimy fingers closed around my throat and clamped down horribly. He lifted me up, my feet kicking, my nails tearing his skin desperately. He was going to choke the life out of me.
My fingers scrabbled at my belt, finally drawing the taser. I jammed it against his chest and thumbed the switch. Nothing happened. I had forgotten to charge the batteries. I began to panic.
There was a sudden crash and his grasp blissfully lessened. My training took over and I rammed stiff fingers into his adam’s apple. He dropped me, grabbing his throat and gasping for air. Turnabout was always fair play, in my book.
I kicked out hard, my shin making contact with his testicles (remind me to wash my shin) and his eyes bulged. He started to stumble forward and I grabbed his shoulders and pulled. He ended up face down on the ground, moaning in pain as I twisted his arm up viciously. Then and only then, did I look up to see what was making all the noise.
Clara Voyanich was standing in the doorway of the room, the door she had just kicked open swinging on its hinges. The assorted goons worked past their shock and moved at her.
They were huge and angry. She was young, and tiny, and inexperienced. They would tear her to shreds. I started to shout a warning, to reach out for any flame I could find while she just stood there. She wasn’t even trying to defend herself!
The goon closest to her reached out for her far faster than something his size should ever be moving. At the very last second, at the opportune time, she moved just the slightest bit and his hand flashed past her. She made a small movement and the goon was suddenly flying across the room.
The other goons rushed her and she mopped the floor with them. She was never where she should have been when they were trying to hurt her and everywhere they didn’t want her to be when she was returning the favor. She danced about the room with a lean economy of motion, always one step ahead of them, always in just the right spot to hurt them the most.
In less than a minute, the only person standing was the Temporal Woman. She looked around the room, pantomimed dusting her hands like a bad action movie and sought me out with her eyes. Finding me, she crossed the room to join me, occasionally stepping on a goon just as he was about to rise. She crashed to a stop right in front of me and struck a jaunty pose. I just knew we weren’t going to get along.
“Some secret agent you turned out to be, manhandled by the Low IQ Boys.” She said smartly.
“I had it all under control.”
“Mr. Head Goon was choking you out while the Goon Squad cheered him on!” She said incredulously.
“All part of my mysterious, secret agent plan but what’s done is done.” I said, feinting a shrug. “I am not going to be the one to clean up this mess.”
“Neither am I. Sorry, I don’t do domestic work.” She said and I rolled my eyes.
“Now, Artie, where were we?” I asked, twisting his arm higher for emphasis. “Oh, yeah! You were going to tell me about your tracking ability.”
“Okay! I’ll talk! Just stop breaking my arm!” I let up just the tiniest bit. “What do you want to know about my tracking ability? I’m a ghoul! I have a very sensitive nose. I can smell carrion at twenty miles.”
“Just dead things? That’s all you can smell?”
“Why would a ghoul need to smell something alive? That shit is disgusting.”
He grumbled and I twisted his arm a little more. He howled satisfyingly.
“And nobody has contacted you about a job? Nothing about being something called a hound?” I demanded.
“No! Nothing like that! I wouldn’t work for them if they did. I am part of the Family. Now, please let me go!” he cried and I finally released him. He wasn’t what I was looking for. My business here was finished.
“I don’t want to ever have to come back here and I don’t think any of you want me to either. Consider this visit a warning. The next time? I’m going to take things much more seriously.” I said and started to walk out. I looked back at Clara as I reached the door. “Coming?”
“I was hoping you would ask me that.” She said and hurried after me.
She caught up to me halfway to my car. I could hear her breathing harder from the jog and I grinned to myself. I was the same way when I started out. I was a computer expert and resident fire hazard. I saw no need for any sort of cardio training. At least, until my first mission when the Triad ended up running for our lives from a rampaging poltergeist. That was the moment I realized how important endurance was for anybody in my line of work.
“You’re gonna have to spend some time on the treadmill if you want to earn that adventurer title you are claiming.” I said out of the corner of my mouth as she drew up beside me.
“I’m beginning to figure that out. Is there such a thing as a desk job for adventurers? All this running is not doing wonders for my new boots.” She forced the words out between sucking down a deep lungful of air.
“My boss would say there was, I would say there wasn’t.” I answered truthfully. “You did okay in there kid. You handled yourself well. Why did you come back?”
“I would like to say it was out of the goodness of my bottomless and loving heart but it was nothing like that. The moment I walked away, my time visions kicked in and trust me, you don’t want to know what I saw.” She shivered slightly. “For whatever reason, I tag along with you or everybody dies.”
“And your visions are that accurate? I thought you were only a short term precog.” I asked.
“My father predicted his own death.” She answered matter-of-factly.
“That’s nothing, Mark Twain did too.”
“The day, hour, and minute.” She shot back. “35 years before it happened.”
“Okay. So, they are accurate. Guess you come along after all.” I said, giving up. Who was I to argue with the future. The kid came along or the world died? Easy choice to make. “Get in.”
“A red mustang?” she said incredulously. “Do you have any idea how bad this is for the environment? Have you ever considered a fuel efficient car? The new Prius is nice.”
“Do me a favor and don’t talk.” I growled as I slipped behind the wheel.
