by Jen Printy
Leah lifts the ring, shifting it back and forth. In the center of a cloverleaf sits a small, clear faceted diamond. Two rows of black lettering run around the delicate golden band. “I wonder what language this is,” she murmurs, running a fingertip over the engraved letters.
Neither French nor Latin, my best guess would be Gaelic, but it would be just that, a guess. “Not sure.”
Otmar leans in between us. “It was his mother’s. The only thing he has left of his family. He almost never takes it off.”
Leah gazes at the ornate script for another moment and then slips the chain over her head. The ring clinks as it rests next to her locket.
Artagan strolls to the front of the room. A young boy joins him, carrying a scythe. The long, curved blade flashes silver in the light as the boy passes the weapon over. Artagan says something to him, ruffling his hair, and smiles. As his grip tightens on the handle, Artagan glares across the expanse of the nave in Muan’s direction. A dark smile curls Artagan’s lips. My eyes widen as I see the tale of the night he killed a whole village to avenge Olluna’s death come to life in front of me.
“Can’t be,” I whisper.
“Told you the story, did he?” Otmar asks, surveying me with a gleaming eye.
“Yes,” I say, my mouth going dry. I clear my throat. “So is it?” I look back to the long-handled farm tool-turned-weapon.
“One and the same,” Otmar confirms. “Now shush, Izel’s about to begin,” he says, gesturing to the bulky Soulless walking out from one of the darker corners, his wide mouth and bulging black eyes making him resemble a demonic frog.
Izel steps to the center of the room, stretching out his arms. The people fall silent. “Ah Puch to the Mayans and Malsumis to the Abenaki, Muan is known by many names and feared among men…”
There’s a low, ominous groan from the crowd.
As Izel continues, undeterred, the dissenting murmurs swell. At first, I don’t understand the reaction. Akio had chastised me for not seeing them as deities. Then I remember who Ah Puch was to the Mayans—their god of death. With this simple analogy, Izel has placed Muan and Death on the same playing field. From the frosty expressions on all their faces, a faux pas none of the children would ever make.
“And so, it is with great honor I present to you my brother, Muan.” Izel ends his speech with a nod of his head in Death’s direction. I catch a glimpse of Death over the rows of gawking heads. He stands unmoving. His mood appears neither amused nor angered, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Izel stares, white lipped, his vexed gaze glaring back at the unreceptive crowd, while Muan appears unbothered by the lack of enthusiasm. Now at the rear of the nave, he paces in silence like a caged lion, his deadpan eyes zeroed in on his rival.
“I’m up.” Otmar flashes a smile before turning to the crowd. “Today I find myself blessed.” His deep voice booms through the cavernous space. “For I have the pleasure—no, the honor to present to you the immortal scion of Brennus himself. This successor, one that many of you deemed unworthy of such a grand title, has lived up to our father’s aspirations, proving himself again and again. In Germany, he saved a damsel, a descendant, mind you, from the trials and tortures of witchcraft. Then this once-lowly Ignorant amazed me when he wiped a city off the coast of Greece, sending the entire island to meet Hel with a single thought.”
Leah’s eyes flash away before turning to me. “An island off Greece? Is he saying Artagan destroyed Atlantis?”
“None of it’s true,” says a voice beside me, and I spin to find Kemisi standing at my shoulder, eyes fixed on the Viking. “And it’s not like we don’t know each other. But they don’t care,” she goes on, motioning toward the enthusiastic crowd. “It’s good theater.”
“So without further ado”—Otmar grins—“I give to you the one, the only, Artagan.”
The room bursts into cheers and ovations. Whatever else he is, Otmar has a definite talent for theatrics, reminding me of one of the snake oil salesmen who wandered through Lidcombe on occasion, pushing their magical tonics.
Artagan steps forward and gives a dramatic bow, making it clear Otmar isn’t the only showman on stage tonight. I notice many of the women—descendants and servers alike who are fully appreciative of Artagan’s physique—whisper and murmur words of admiration. It appears Artagan isn’t only popular among the mortal ladies, but the immortal ones as well. Their attraction doesn’t go unnoticed. His eyes smolder as he meets the gaze of one of his admirers, and he gives her a quick nod of his head.
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Kemisi snaps at Otmar upon his return, a scowl marring her features.
He turns to her and grins in response, seeming quite proud of himself.
Kemisi mutters something and spins on her heels.
“What’s up her ass?” Otmar grumbles, watching her walk away.
I say nothing, merely shrugging, unable to resist the anticipation of what’s coming next.
“Thank you, Otmar, for that spirited introduction.” Thanatos chuckles, taking center stage. He motions for the competitors to join him. Eyes fixed on one another, Muan and Artagan stride forward.
“The first to disarm their opponent or make them concede wins,” Thanatos instructs, the amusement lingering in his voice. He raises a hand over his head. Then, bringing it down with a sharp motion, he shouts, “Begin!”
Sword outstretched, Muan charges, almost taking down Thanatos with his exuberance. Artagan dodges aside, evading the strike. He meets the second with the handle of his scythe.
Powerfully framed with a barreled chest and tree trunks for arms, Muan is a force to be reckoned with, but the battle is by no means one sided. Artagan might be wiry, but he’s firmly muscled and agile on his feet. With a swing of his blade, he slices the fabric of Muan’s shirt along the stomach, sending a wisp of dust drifting from the torn material. A roar of applause meets Artagan’s success. But with no sign of blood, I’m left wondering if Artagan’s blade missed the flesh behind the flimsy layer.
Muan lunges. Air explodes from Artagan as the hilt of the sword strikes him in the ribs. The crowd lets out a unified gasp. Artagan stumbles but only for an instant. Finding his footing, he whips around to face his opponent. He drops into a fighter’s crouch, the blade held up at the ready. Muan matches Artagan’s stance, his black gaze set on the point of Artagan’s blade.
A prickling chill leaks down my spine as the battle carries on, and I’m pulled deeper into the action. Unable to drag my eyes away, I catch myself yelling out suggestions and insults from time to time.
Muan swings and misses, but his next strike finds flesh. Artagan staggers sideways. Blood streams down his arm, pouring from a deep, ragged laceration across his shoulder. Muan seizes the moment and strikes again. Using the wooden side of his sword, he hits Artagan behind the knees, dropping him to the ground.
“Hrafnasueltir! Quit sitting on your ass and get in there!” Otmar shouts.
Artagan ignores the Viking’s commentary. His perceptive gaze stays glued on his opponent as he springs to his feet. Muan, seeing he has lost the advantage, backs away. Artagan charges. Then, veering off course at the last possible second, he leaps into the closest shadow. The crowd grows quiet. Muan’s eyes flit around the room, his expression holding staunchly to its bland, impenetrable facade.
Then steel hums, and the long, curved blade whips out of a shadow at Muan’s rear, striking him across the back. Muan screams out and arches forward. Artagan materializes out of the dark, swinging the blade again and again. Swirling puffs of smoke and ash accompany each slash Artagan lands.
I stare in dumbfounded disbelief. “What the…?”
“Strange, isn’t it? They have no pulse. No blood in their veins,” Otmar says. “Whatever dark magic keeps them alive is locked deep inside them, well protected.”
The match comes to an abrupt e
nd. Muan is on his knees, his shirt nothing but a shredded rag. With one hand, Artagan holds the blade of his scythe to Muan’s jugular, and with the other, he clasps Muan’s wooden sword high over his head, flaunting it.
The crowd bursts into cheers.
Otmar glances over at Mosi. With a bored look on his face, Otmar holds out his hand. Mosi grimaces and smacks a hundred-dollar bill into the outstretched palm.
“And…” Otmar smirks down at him. “The hand’s feeling a little light.”
Mosi glares back with a mixture of contempt and resentment before grumbling a few choice words. He fishes another hundred from his wallet and slaps it on top of the first. “That’s it. That’s all I got.”
Hindered by handshakes and smacks on the back, when Artagan steps in front of us, a broad smile splits his face in two. Otmar gives him a congratulatory thump on the injured shoulder. Artagan laughs, wincing, and then the two make a quick exodus back to the dining hall in search of more mead.
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Leah gestures toward the center ring, where a small crew now cleans up the remnants of the fight, washing away the blood.
“Maybe a bit too much. Didn’t you? Even a little?”
Leah’s face holds a tinge of outrage. “No, not at all.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s teasing. She laughs at my rapidly changing expression and grabs my hand as a new pair of competitors prepare for the next match.
As the games continue, Akio shows off his mastery of the sword, winning handily against Mosi, and one of the Soulless brothers knocks himself unconscious after Otmar goads the brother into trying his hand at a different weapon—a flail.
Once festivities wind down, Artagan and Otmar stay behind, swapping old war stories with Thanatos, while Kemisi, Leah, and I return home. Tired, the ladies soon retire to their rooms. And I head for the coach house, too wired to sleep. The parts to repair Leah’s old VW bug arrived weeks ago. However, between work and Leah’s training, I haven’t had time to fix it.
The coach house is chilly from steady drafts leaking past cracks around the sills and through the gaping space under the doors. Rubbing my arms to warm them, I give Bessy a pining glance. My motorcycle sits along the far wall, covered by a tarp, waiting for spring. Along the opposite wall, stacks of wooden crates and a hodgepodge of forgotten items clutter the edge—several ladder-back chairs, at least two bed frames, and a sofa, its stuffing breaking through the frayed upholstery.
Utilizing one of the abandoned crates, I lay out the tools and parts I’ll need to complete the job, and then, using another as a stool, I reexamine the fan belt. I’ve just removed the pulley nut when a voice speaks from behind me.
“So?”
I jump, nearly whacking my head on the deck lid. “What is it about you and sneaking up on people?”
Artagan leans against the rear fender, smirking. “Always so jumpy. I was just wondering how you thought it went tonight.”
I grimace. “In my defense, Mosi’s an asshole.”
He chuckles. “No argument here. An elitist prick, through and through.”
“And he doesn’t like that Death chose Leah over Serevo, that’s for damn certain,” I say, peering back at the motor.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, but what makes you think so?”
After wiping my greasy hands off on my jeans, I tell him about Mosi’s and my heated exchange.
“Well, at least you didn’t clock him in the jaw,” he says, rubbing his stubbly chin.
“Believe me, I wanted to,” I say then decide to ask the question that’s been gnawing at me ever since I learned the council was on its way. “So now that the gang’s all here, what does that mean for Leah’s training? I know the others will be helping out, but does that mean it’s out of your hands? Will Death be taking over now?”
“No, dear old Dad won’t be staying. I’m still in charge. I’ve already asked Thanatos to take over in the mind-control department. It only makes sense. He is the master of the hocus-pocus crap.” He smiles. “I’m sure I’ll be receiving requests from the others soon enough.”
“I assume Muan will still be involved?”
“I haven’t heard otherwise.”
Uneasiness tightens my throat. Something embedded in those coal-black eyes tells me he’s capable of anything. I purse my lips and nod.
“Don’t worry. I would never leave Leah alone with him,” he assures me. “I’ll insist on accompanying all of them. You have my word.” With that, he stands.
I shove my anxiety down and cling to the only security afforded me—his promise. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m meeting up with Otmar at a place called The Thirsty Pig. He says it’s ladies’ night. Hopefully, brunette ladies’ night.” He grins, showing off his pearly whites. “Would you care to join us? We could make it a guys’ night out. Otmar’s buying.”
I shake my head, snorting. “Thanks for the invite, but I think I’ll pass. You do know there’s more to life than whiskey and women, right?”
Artagan’s lips press into a flat line, and he gives me a long, glassy stare. “Blasphemy—that’s what that is. Besides, I don’t think I’ll take advice from a man who moved heaven and earth to be with a beautiful woman who’s upstairs alone in her bed. And where is he? Here, working on a piece-of-shit car that looks like it would be better suited for the junkyard. That’s not what I call living.”
Warmth flushes my cheeks. “And jumping from bed to bed is?”
“I believe it’s safe to say I have the majority on my side. So yes.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m old school. It’s the way my mother raised me.” I pause, inserting a screwdriver into one of the slots of the alternator pulley to hold it stationary. “Someday, you’ll realize women are more than just a place to rest your John Thomas. Now hand me that 21-mm wrench.”
“Rest?” Artagan laughs and then shakes his head. “Maybe that’s your problem. Don’t know what to do when you get your hands on a woman.”
He pauses a moment to scrutinize me. I keep my gaze on the car’s engine and don’t say a word.
“Nah, you put on a good act, but that’s all it is. You can’t be a virgin. After a hundred-odd years, come on. More to the point, I know the details of your dealings with Hake and can guess the rest. He put you up in one of his brothels. The one on Granby Street. Even a priest wouldn’t have come out of that den of iniquity unscathed.”
The heat spreads from my cheeks, flooding my entire body. I hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. “None of that is any of your business. The wrench,” I demand, holding out my free hand.
“Methinks he doth protest too much. Have I hit a nerve?” With that, Artagan slips out through a shadow. “Enjoy your celibacy,” he calls back, his words ringing in my head with a taunting air.
Damn him! Bloody bastard! I think, glowering at the shadow.
If I’m honest with myself, I don’t know what happened during my stay in the brothel. Hake put all his best fighters up in one of his three houses with the freedom to enjoy whatever taste of London we desired. “Whatever keeps my boys happy,” he said. I remember little if any of my time there. I was too strung out on opiates to recollect even the smallest detail, but I can guess, although I hope otherwise. I murmur a curse or two and return my concentration to the engine.
The job, by mechanic standards, is easy and doesn’t take long enough to divert my mind from the nuggets of truth in Artagan’s words. Back inside the house, tempted by thoughts of Leah, I veer away from the staircase and find myself in Artagan’s study. With him out gallivanting, I decide to take him up on his offer and peruse his vast collection of books, hoping to find answers about Leah’s soul memories or Gladys’s confusing past. I stand in the middle of the room, my gaze shifting from bookshelf to bookshelf, wondering where to start. I pile my arms with books, mostly on obscure folklore, a
nd carry the books to the desk. My pulse quickens as I look over the imposing stack. Are the answers about Leah in there somewhere?
By a little past midnight, I’ve found nothing I deem useful. On the other hand, I’ve learned more than I ever needed to know about creatures like the huldra of Scandinavia and the succubus, tracing back to medieval legend. Much like sirens, both sound like men’s justifications for boorish or adulterous behavior. “Sorry, honey. The succubus made me do it.” It’s not long before the tiny print begins to blur, so I throw in the towel and head to bed.
Once in my room, I undress and crawl under the covers. Moonlight streams through the windows, casting the room in silver light. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind becomes a hive of activity. I lie, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. I grab my iPod and scroll through my playlist. Flipping by The Black Keys, Muse, and John Lee Hooker, I move on to the classics. First, I listen to Beethoven and then Chopin, but not even his Nocturne in E minor can lull me to sleep.
Just before a quarter to six, I give up and get dressed, thankful that this is my weekend off. With Leah’s car fixed, perhaps she and I can escape all this craziness for a while and head out of the city. She may not want to visit her mother, but we could head west, spend the day in the White Mountains. Those plans come to a screeching halt when I find a note slid under my door that reads Gone to train. Be back around noon. Love, L.
I groan and shove the now-crumpled slip of paper deep into my jeans pocket.
I’m up before the sun. A blanket of silence covers the house. I turn on the lights as I go, thinking a hot pot of coffee might put me in a better mood. At the end of the hallway, a light gleams from the kitchen. A rich aroma of spices envelops the hall, bidding me to discover its source. However, what greets me stops me in my tracks.
Kemisi sways in front of the stove, spatula in her hand, wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt—identical to the shirt Artagan was wearing last night.
Before being noticed, I back from the door and retreat down the hall, fuming. What is he thinking? With Artagan’s laissez-faire attitude about women, I see nothing but carnage in the not-so-distant future. This time, Death might not be satisfied with a single scar across the cheek. It would have been far better for Artagan’s well-being if he’d brought home any other brunette from ladies’ night than the scene I just stumbled into. Shaking my head in disbelief, I whirl around the corner and bump into Artagan. His bare chest is further proof that my conclusion is correct.