SMOKE AND BLADES

by D Elias Jenkins

  “Don’t pay him no mind he’s a dead man walking. It’s just you and me. What do ya say? Fifty fifty? You won’t need to live down in these tunnels no more like some kinda vagrant.”

  The stranger nodded again and slowly lowered its gun. Sanny was so tempted to shoot but fear held him in check. Always better to barter with the devil.

  Sanny slowly unslung the satchel from his shoulder and held it out.

  “You can look inside if you want. Must be twenty grand in there.”

  Kray was desperately tugging on Sanny’s sodden trouser leg.

  Sanny looked down irritated.

  “What you want old man?”

  Kray was looking up past Sanny’s shoulder. He was trying to catch his breath to speak.

  “Be…be...”

  “Be what you old bastard?”

  Blood trickled down Kray’s chin.

  “…Behind you…”

  Sanny was suddenly aware of cold breath on his neck.

  Very slowly he turned his head and stared into the face of something that had death written all over it, a she-devil that was as real as steel and as insubstantial as gossamer.

  “No-”

  The blades slithered in and out of his body so fast that he barely felt the pain. Just a nip and a feeling of cold. In between each of his ribs on both sides, his liver, triceps, groin and inner thighs and then on to his cheeks and neck. All in less than three shocked blinks.

  His shotgun fell into the water with barely a ripple and he fell back into the sinewy arms of the creature. He tried to cry out but his voice was a quiet shiver that spread throughout his body. He knew he was dying and he tried to arrange his last thoughts into some kind of order, but it was all so confusing.

  Then, like paper cuts that don’t hurt at first, the pain began. Sanny started to scream but the creature was already forcing his head under the water. His arms batted at her legs but they were as inconsistent as smoke. Soon it was just bubbles and pink water.

  Kray watched in horror as the dark stranger holstered its gun and began walking towards him through the sludge. The spectral thing drifted across and loomed over the stranger’s shoulder like a grasping shadow.

  Kray wiped the blood from his lips and with a struggle sat up against the wall. He glanced down at the satchel of golden coins, slowly sinking into the muddy water. A part of him almost laughed. Easy come easy go…

  When the figure stood before him, Kray looked up with defiant eyes.

  “What are you?”

  The figure crouched down in front of him. Over its shoulder the spectral being twitched and clawed, desperate to feed. The figure leaned in until its beaked mask almost touched Kray’s face. In a dry croak it spoke.

  “Medicine.”

  Kray coughed and furrowed his sweaty brow.

  “...Medicine? Medicine against what?”

  The figure reached out and with a gloved hand raised Kray’s chin to meet its green eyes. Kray felt his heart start to falter.

  He knew it was all over for him, down here in the dark.

  The figure squeezed a little tighter. In its corpse voice it spoke.

  “You.”

  2.

  Inspector Maeve Scurlock stood at the front door with her hand raised but could not quite bring herself to ring the bell.

  She had a strong stomach and a formal professional demeanor that intimidated many of her colleagues yet she had never become used to giving death notices.

  Perhaps because it brought back too many memories of her childhood when that knock had sounded at her father’s door.

  She could see movement through the frosted glass panel. A vague male figure shuffled past the hallway. She could hear the familiar clatter of kitchenware being stacked. Her mouth felt cotton dry as she rehearsed the formal announcement.

  She was at the southern end of Sparkside. It was a respectable area populated by middle class families of a variety of species.

  It bordered the northern tip of Greensickle Park, a vast crescent of carefully cultured woodland maintained for hundreds of years by conjured earth elementals. In the depths off the park was the Myriad, a freshwater lake with a great protuberance of rock at its center. Hewn within this rock was a series of glittering blue caves that drew essence up from the deep pools beneath Free Reign. It was regarded by the population as somewhere between health giving spa and a holy shrine that encompassed all deities. Priests, monks and those seeking inspiration were often found sitting cross legged on rocks in the turquoise caves as luminescent, thaumaturgically infused water lapped at their feet.

  That was where the girl’s body had been found.

  A terrible insult of water-bloated flesh spewed up on the crystalline beach within the vault of the biggest cavern.

  Maeve clenched and unclenched her fist and then pulled the chain. A jubilant tinkle sounded from within the house.

  Through the frosted glass Maeve could see a silhouette move slowly towards the door. It opened and a man stood there in his dressing gown. He looked mid-sixties and like he had not slept for weeks. He just stared at her with bloodshot eyes. Maeve cleared her throat and straightened her warden uniform.

  “Mr. Meckel?”

  The old man blinked as if waking from a trance. His hair stuck out at all angles and stubble peppered his chin.

  “Yes.”

  Maeve gave him a small sympathetic smile.

  “If you recall we met last week. It’s Inspector Scurlock of the Watch.”

  Mr. Meckel frowned for a moment and then nodded.

  “Yes I remember you Inspector. We had tea.”

  “Yes we did Mr. Meckel.”

  The old man gave Maeve the most imploring look she had ever seen, willing her to tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “Did you find her?”

  Maeve swallowed and kept her voice level.

  “I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry to say that I’m not here with good news.”

  The old man stood there in the doorway, his bony shoulders sagging, and gave a deep sigh. Behind him down the hallway a kettle began to whistle. The noise grew louder and more insistent but he gave no indication of moving.

  Finally Maeve reached out a hand and gently squeezed the arm of his dressing gown.

  “Mr. Meckel. May I come in? The kettle’s boiled. I’ll get that tea brewing and we can talk. Would you be alright with that?”

  The old man nodded and Maeve followed him in to the house.

  The old man sat in his armchair. With shaky hand he put down his teacup and leaned forward. He picked up a flickering framed image from the table and showed it to Maeve.

  “This is a simulacrum of her first term at All Souls College. She won a scholarship to study applied hydratic elementalism.”

  Maeve looked at the girl in the picture. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail and her college scarf wrapped around her neck. She stood between two friends, her face caught in the midst of a joke.

  “She must have been very gifted. I’m afraid I didn’t get past my first term of applied thaumaturgy. You must have been very proud.”

  Mr. Meckel looked down at the simulacrum and ran a finger across it. He seemed to suddenly realize that it was not living flesh and his eyes reddened again.

  “I was. When her mother died I fell apart, could barely drag myself out of bed to work. She kept the house running, cooked, cleaned and still never missed her lectures. She took her mother’s death hard, I knew she was looking for something to belong to, but I never thought…”

  “You never thought she would become involved in any kind of cult or fringe group. She seemed too grounded.”

  He put his head in his hands and scrunched his grey hair. Maeve took a sip of tea and allowed the realization to slowly dawn that his daughter might have had a life unknown to him, as all teenage girls do. In the corner the standing clock ticked the moments away. A few small birds landed at the open windowsill and began to peck at the seed he had left there for them. Mr. Meckel looked up and shook
his head in disbelief.

  “Yes. When she started coming home later and becoming moodier, I put it down to stress of her studies and her age. You really think that she was involved in something more?”

  Maeve sighed and placed her saucer gently on the table. She found it so hard to remain detached during this process. She understood loss and the terrible river it drags the soul through before dry land. She glanced around the living room at the curtains and cushions. A woman’s touch was evident in the décor. Suddenly absent. A skinny cat wound its way around the table leg, purring contentedly.

  “I’m afraid I do. There was evidence at the scene and on your daughter’s body that suggested some involvement in outlawed thaumaturgy practices. I fear she may have been a victim in one of their rituals.”

  “She was a good person.”

  Maeve placed a hand on his arm.

  “I can tell from talking with you that was the case. These underground groups, they are systematic and they are clever, Mr. Meckel. They will have preyed on her grief and her youth and warped her mind until she thought she was doing good. They are callous and they are cruel. Your daughter was not a bad person, she was merely controlled by bad people.”

  A look of disgust slowly spread across the old man’s face. He hissed and gritted his teeth. The skinny cat startled and scurried away to the kitchen.

  “They didn’t even bother to properly dispose of her remains or hide the evidence of their crimes? It’s like they don’t care who knows.”

  Maeve thought of the terrible state the remains were found in. She had been naked and mutilated, raped and marked with forbidden symbols. Maeve had not described the details to her father, had deliberately kept it vague.

  “Yes. It appears that this group wants people to know of their existence. They want to cause maximum terror to the wider population. The most I can ask of you, and all Reigners, is to be brave, and not let it change you any more than it has to.”

  Mr. Meckel raised his eyebrows. His breathing was stressed.

  “Until when, Inspector?”

  “Until I find whomever is responsible, Mr. Meckel. However many there are. And bring them to justice.”

  The grieving father was veering between emotions like a travelling player changing masks. It was all too fresh and too raw.

  “Justice. Prison. They will still be alive, able to taste food and drink water and feel the sun on their face, even for an hour a day. My little girl feels only cold earth upon hers. With good legal representation they may be walking the streets again within a few years. Or never imprisoned at all! Where is the justice there?”

  Maeve felt his pain. So many times she had arrested repeat offenders, only for them to be released to commit another crime. Or she had seen the rich weigh the law down with gold and influence until it snapped.

  But her job was her job.

  “That will be a matter for the courts. My job for now is to hunt down those responsible. No one is above the law, Mr. Meckel. The system is not perfect, but it the best we have to work with. I will not let these people go unpunished.”

  To Maeve’s surprise, the old man was looking at her with something akin to sympathy.

  “How it must pain you, Inspector Scurlock, to have to sell the public something you do not truly believe yourself. A life for a life, I say.”

  Maeve gave him a small smile and stood up. She straightened her uniform and bowed her head slightly. She was desperately craving a rillo and a strong coffee. An hour’s solitude away from delivering death notices to shattered fathers.

  “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Meckel. I will keep you informed at every turn, and you may contact me directly at my office at any time.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. He looked directly into his teacup as he spoke. His voice was thick with emotion.

  “If you find them, Inspector, and no one is watching, do me one kindness and kill them all.”

  Maeve moved towards the door. The cat jumped up on the shoe rack next to it and she tickled its head. The yellow feline eyes peered up at her. Maeve gave the old man a kind smile.

  “I’m afraid that someone is always watching.”

  The old man returned a bitter smile and his bloodshot eyes filled with tears.

  “Then I hope the Vigilante catches them, before you do. “

  3.

  Oarlock’s Divination was a pub that most in Murkside walked past.

  Close to the docks, its people were some of the oldest inhabitants of the city, with a distinctly human majority. They had their own dialect and slang, their own music and a simple but distinctive cuisine. Many of the honest folk that lived in the crooked and looming tenements worked as stevedores and laborers. Others made their living by less honorable means.

  Robyn Albright took a sip of his beer and wiped his mouth. He leaned in conspiratorially.

  “It’s a Wraith I tell you.”

  The fatter of his companions leaned back in his chair with hands clasped behind his head.

  “Balls, Robyn. There hasn’t been a Wraith in Free Reign for a hundred years.”

  Robyn jerked a thumb at his drinking companions and rolled his eyes.

  “Oh listen to the local historian here? You do know where you live don’t you? The free world’s epicenter for weirdness. Why would you be surprised at anything in a city lit by raw thaumaturgy? You weren’t born here, that’s where this comes from. Weird is normal here and normal’s weird. A Reigner would know that.”

  Wrenton gave a knowing smile as he nodded his head.

  “I was wondering when you’d throw that one. Go on, tell me how you can trace your family back to Old Reign. Regale me with your tales of how your family was the first shaman to dig a well to the thaumaturgy springs.”

  “My folks have been here since the Great Blaze.”

  “They didn’t start it did they?”

  “Prick.”

  Terman raised his hands to calm his friends.

  “He’s right though. Everyone who’s seen it says it was a Wraith.”

  Wrenton snorted and dribbled beer down his beard.

  “I thought no one who sees it lives? Who are these eye witnesses? Any names?”

  Robyn clunked his pint glass down and pointed a dirty finger at his companion.

  “The Frant family matriarch. You know Old Stanalla Frant. She seem like the sort to tell tall tales? Saw both of her boys gutted in front of her. No mother should have to see that. She saw the Vigilante and she saw his fucking Wraith, fingers like great hooks!”

  Terman blew out his cheeks and nervously played with his dice.

  “The Frant Brothers? No one messed with those bastards. The younger one was off his rocker. Half of Blindside was terrified of them. They were untouchable.”

  Robyn shrugged.

  “Not anymore, apparently. Vigilante don’t respect no agreements between the families.”

  Terman blinked a couple of times and nodded slowly.

  “Well the way I see it there’s a whole lot of us and only one of him. We stick together and we’ll be fine. There ain’t no regular citizens in this pub, cos they’re all too fucking scared to come in. That’s cos we’re the ones that do the scaring.”

  The candles on each table flickered in an unfelt breeze as the door opened and swung shut. At first no one noticed the figure standing in the doorway until one by one each patron felt the hairs prickle on their necks and shivers run up their backs. Then the cries and whispers rippled around the pub. Disbelief followed by slow simmering rage.

  “It’s him!”

  “Heads up boys you won’t believe what just showed up.”

  “He wouldn’t come here! Not to our place.”

  Sharp hisses sounded as blades were drawn under tables. Pistol hammers were discreetly cocked.

  The thick rillo smoke hung in the air as dense and acrid as the moment. Few of the regulars in the Oarlock’s Divination could believe that the very man they had been hunting for weeks, the most hated and feared figure
in the criminal underworld would walk right in to their most sacred inn and stand before them. It was worse than disrespectful. It meant he did not fear them at all. Or that he wished to die.

  The figure stood there, tall and lean. Over his decaying finery was slung a long overcoat of black lizard skin, the tiny scales iridescent in the lantern light. Beneath a battered dark hat his face was obscured by a mask of metal and leather. The eyes shone a faint green above a short beak that pointed sharply towards the floor. Not an inch of skin was on display and even his species was in question to the tense and sweating patrons. He stood absolutely still in the doorway, the lifeless eyes of his mask seeming to fix on everyone at once.

  With a desert-dry voice he spoke.

  “I hear this is a haven for dangerous men.”

  A brawny bald man with naval tattoos slowly stood up. His jaw was tight under his curled moustache and his knuckles were white from clenching two rusty daggers.

  “It is. Most dangerous in Free Reign. You made a mistake showing up here. Not a man in here doesn’t want your blood.”

  At another table a swarthy squat man stood up and glared balefully at the figure in the doorway.

  “We all been looking for you, boy. You got some nerve showing up here. Offering yourself on a plate to us, such as you have.”

  The Vigilante turned his head this way and that. He seemed to be rolling out his neck muscles. The dry whisper came again.

  “You men would all be on the payroll of one Jonas Reach.”

  The bald sailor stepped forward.

  “Aye, most of us are, and that ought to give you pause. They don’t call him The Reach on account of his surname. It’s cos there’s nowhere a man can run where he can’t get you. You can skulk down in them tunnels all you want, you’re a dead man already.”

  The Vigilante cocked his bird head at the sailor and parroted his speech in his own arid croak.

  “I am a dead man already.”

  The swarthy man across the room locked the hammer back on the flintlock pistol he carried.

  “We’re protected. Reach pays the best in the business too, ain’t one man in here going to cross him. Unless you think you can pay us more, of course?”