Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  Nightlord

  VOID

  by

  Garon Whited

  Copyright © 2018 by Garon Whited.

  Cover Art: “Void” by R. Beaconsfield (rbeaconsfield@hotmail.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books by Garon Whited:

  Dragonhunters

  LUNA

  Nightlord, Book One: Sunset

  Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows

  Nightlord, Book Three: Orb

  Nightlord, Book Four: Knightfall

  Short Stories:

  An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream

  Clockwork

  Dragonhunt

  Ship’s Log: Vacuum Cleaver

  The Power

  The Ways of Cats

  Some things, when lost, take more with them than just themselves. The hole they leave behind means never being whole.

  Preamble

  What is the measure of a broken heart?

  Can one gauge sorrow by the cracks in the heart? Can we number them, plumb their depths, mark their length, record their width? Is there some temperature to the heart to mark its distress? When a heart grows cold with loneliness and grief, with longing and desolation, is there a scale against which the chill of torment may be marked?

  How does one measure heartbreak?

  What of a heart divided? One not merely cracked and frozen, but fully sundered, split in twain, and half of it gone forever? With what remains, can we reconstruct the image, like some archaeologist with a piece of pottery, and make it whole? Can a heart, once shattered, ever be restored?

  Or is the heart more like a song? When the song ends without warning, chopped off in the middle, all that is left is silence.

  When I was young and foolish, I poured the better part of myself into that which I created. Now I am older and perhaps less foolish, but broken. The whisper of the wind holds no voices, nor the murmurs of the trees in the breeze. There is something gone out from the worlds of men and all are made poorer for its passing.

  No, I realize I am wrong. All about me is unchanged, for the worlds of men are uncaring of their tenants. It is I who has changed, and not for the better. I see all things differently. The something I once knew has gone out of me, like an old song but half-remembered. It is gone, and the beauties of the world are dimmed in my sight. There is neither joy nor hate, only a bland callousness. I have only this faded memory, a strange sense there should be something more, something to the world around me, but I no longer understand it, feel it. I know I should. I know I once could, and I did, but even the memory of times past is washed out, colorless, dull.

  What is the measure of a broken heart?

  Flintridge, Sunday, September 7th, 1969

  I woke up to a terrible throbbing in the back of my head and a sharp, stinging sensation across my face. I jerked my head upright—a blindingly painful mistake—and my eyes watered.

  “Where are the diamonds?”

  I didn’t know who was asking or why. Memory, the fickle thing, was out to lunch.

  “Ow,” I groaned, while a number of bright points flashed inside my eyes. Whoever was keeping time to my heartbeat by beating the back of my skull, his rhythm was perfect. My inquisitor persisted.

  “We want the diamonds. Focus, mac. We know you got an arrangement with the Castiglione family to move them. Talk!”

  I tried to hold my head, but my hands were tied to the arms of a chair. A little shifting around told me I wasn’t restrained too well—ankles and wrists only. My first impulse was to rip free and flee for my life. I’m a hell of a lot stronger than I look and the chair was only wood. I also have an acquired distaste for being tied up and hurt. It’s not an experience I choose to dwell on.

  I wasn’t at my best, which probably influenced my traumatic flashback to Johann’s party. I also remembered the aftermath of undirected savagery, which curbed my enthusiasm for it. I tried and succeeded at controlling my breathing—daytime—and sorting out my situation. If occasion warranted a bit of brutality, I might still go with my original plan, but perhaps it would be better to gauge my situation more thoroughly. Besides, I had a nasty headache.

  Pretty good thinking for someone recovering from a bash on the noggin. Thick skull.

  Through the fading spots in my eyes, I was pretty sure there were three men in the room. I noted one of them held a baseball bat. I squinted painfully at him, memorizing his face for later. If there was a later.

  “Okay,” I groaned. “You want diamonds? You got ’em. You want one big pile or a steady supply?”

  This killed the conversation for several seconds while they processed. It also let me blink a few times and not shake my head. I wondered if I had a concussion. Day or night, my skull is awfully hard to crack. Sometimes even bad ideas can have a hard time penetrating. I think a wooden baseball bat might break before my skull did. Still, my brain can be rattled around inside the box. That’s how a blow to the head knocks people out, usually. The damage caused by the brain thumping back and forth, that’s the concussion part. It’s kind of like someone without a seat belt rattling around in a tumbling car.

  As I continued to recover, I took stock of my situation.

  Diogenes told me we had a note from a world we codenamed “Flintridge.” Mary scouted the place, since it was a fairly typical Earth-analogue. We like those. They generally have resources Diogenes can use in his expansion and reclamation work. So she did the legwork with a Salvatore Castiglione, of the Castiglione family, then had me show up to shake hands and agree to the arrangements—many places and organizations prefer to do business with a man.

  The arrangement to move “smuggled” diamonds was a simple one. I put a shift-box in a cheap apartment. It’s an enchantment on a drawer of a bedside table—two, really, since the other one is in Apocalyptica. Once a month, someone from the Castiglione organization replaced the diamonds in the drawer with cash. After a while, he contents of the drawers switched places, replacing the cash with diamonds. It was a simple, easy, almost foolproof variation on the typical drop-box. They got diamonds at discount prices, we had startup cash for our investments and, later, an ongoing source of additional capital. It was a good setup. We’ve used variations on it in other worlds.

  After several local years of smooth operation, we found a note with the money. It asked for a meeting to discuss a problem with the last shipment. Okay, so Mary and I get dressed for Flintridge. That meant a two-piece suit for me, a vintage sun dress with a pleated skirt for her. We have a setup similar to the shift-box in our building down near the harbor, but it’s a walk-in closet suitable for moving people. It’s cheaper than a gate, since it doesn’t stay open, just switches two spaces and anything in them. It’s our people-sized inter-universal transport point between Apocalyptica and Flintridge.

  Technically, it’s in Long Beach, California. We nicknamed the world “Flintridge” because that’s where our initial arrival gate opened. But that’s another story.

  A short drive later, she drops me off outside the drop-box apartment building, gives me a quick kiss, and heads off to check on other arrangements in this world. I go up to the apartment to wait for Salvatore Castiglione or his designated negotiator. Salvatore
is a decent sort, as organized crime goes. Mary tells me his reputation is impeccable. I don’t keep track of this sort of thing; Mary’s the businesswoman. I’m just the front guy and occasionally her thug. She does things with subtlety and finesse, like a scalpel. I’m a wrecking ball. It works for us.

  My memory fuzzed out somewhere after leaving the car. I’m sure I kissed Mary before she drove off, and I’m sure I went up the stairs rather than risk the rickety elevator. Beyond that, my short-term memory seems to have suffered. I silently blamed the gorilla in a suit on my left, as well as his baseball bat, the city of Louisville, and the whole state of Kentucky—but mostly the gorilla.

  “All right, smart guy. If you’re so willing to fork over, where’s the loot?”

  Funny. I didn’t recognize the apparent leader’s accent. He wasn’t Italian, certainly, but he was dark-haired. The third of their group had more than a trace of ginger in his hair. Scottish? Irish? It can be hard to differentiate after being slipped a Mickey—a Mickey Mantle, that is. Maybe it should be “slipped a Louie,” as in “Louisville Slugger.”

  “I got a note saying to come and talk about a problem, not make a delivery,” I pointed out. “I’m guessing you guys added the note. Doesn’t matter. If you want diamonds, we can do that. My boss won’t care who we do business with. Do you want to do this once, or do you want to get regular shipments? Or once to see if it goes smoothly, first?”

  I watched the talker to see if he was the one in charge. He didn’t consult the other two, even by eye. He scratched at a long, faint scar, just in front of his right sideburn. Wheels turned inside his head.

  “You get clocked in the head and you’re willing to do business?”

  “My boss tells me to move diamonds. I move them. I’ll move them to the Castiglione family or to you. He won’t care and neither do I. Money only comes in one color.”

  “I was expecting to beat it out of you.”

  “I don’t want to get beaten. I want money. That’s it. If you want to do business, all you had to do was ask. The Castiglione family doesn’t have anything exclusive. The boss doesn’t like exclusive deals.”

  He half-sat, half-leaned on the little desk-table against the wall. He scratched his head, rubbed the back of his neck.

  “This ain’t going how I planned.”

  “Too easy?” I asked. He nodded. “And because it’s too easy, you think there’s a catch?”

  “Yeah. Seems to me you’re telling me what I want to hear so I’ll let you go, then we’re covered in fuzz or pine.”

  “That’s a problem. I know you don’t work for the Castiglione family, but they had the same problem. The boss okayed giving them a free sample to start things, then let them decide how much merchandise they could handle every month. They eased into it.”

  “I didn’t know that. Smarter than I’d give them wops credit for.”

  “I don’t know how we’d do it here. I didn’t bring anything with me, sadly, to give you as goodwill—although I feel I’m owed some goodwill for the knock I took. Still, it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me in bringing a new partner on board. How can we make you feel safe while still getting merchandise moved?”

  “He’s good, Frank,” commented one of the others—the ginger-haired, not-holding-a-bat one.

  “Yeah, and you just used my name. Real smooth, Shakespeare. Take your mouth outside.” Shakespeare hung his head sheepishly and went to stand in the hall. Frank turned his attention back to me. “You don’t care? You’ll quit doing business with the Castigliones and do business with a stranger?”

  “I’d be happy to do business with both, but if you’re here, the Castigliones have some problems—you, I’d guess. Figuring out the operation and intercepting the goods is kind of an introduction, and it looks good on your resume.”

  “I can see that,” he agreed, nodding.

  “How did you figure it out, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Simple. We just watched. Castiglione’s guys make a drop-off every month, clockwork-like. Never saw you guys, though. Got a secret entrance or something?”

  “Different people,” I lied. “It’s hard to finger a courier if you don’t use the same one.”

  “Good thinking,” he agreed, nodding. “For a man who nearly had his egg scrambled, you’ve got some brains on you.”

  “Thanks. Want to work more diamonds for us?”

  “Thing is, you can’t do both. Both organizations, that is. Too much ice on the market cools it.”

  “So you do have some connections for moving it,” I noted. “Good. You’re in touch with things. That’s another good sign. But if you can move diamonds, can you move other gems? Sapphires? Rubies? If the Castiglione family handles the diamonds, that leaves the other gemstones for you. I could sell that to the boss—it would mean more product and more profit. I know he’d go for it; it solves the problem of how to move the others.”

  “This is weird.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re negotiating this kind of deal and you’re tied to a chair, talking like it don’t matter. What’s your deal, man? Are you cold as a fish or what?”

  “I’m not scared, if that’s what you mean. You haven’t killed me out of hand and I’m trying to talk you into making a lot of money. My chances of surviving this are fantastic, because keeping me alive means you get rich. Even better, I’m still wearing my watch and both rings.”

  “Your watch? Your rings?”

  “You didn’t take them. Plus, you’re wearing ties.”

  “What do ties have to do with it?”

  “You’re not wearing jeans, boots, and leather jackets. You’re not some lowlife street hood out for a fast buck. You’ve got class and you think bigger than wallets and watches. You think in terms of investment portfolios and accountants and dodging taxes.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “So let me make you an offer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You have a hard time trusting me enough to let me walk. Fine. My boss isn’t in the country, so meeting him isn’t going to happen, either. How about this? Take me home. You drive. I give you some sapphires and rubies. You don’t kill me. Maybe we work out a drop spot and a schedule, maybe you take the gems and I never hear from you again. Up to you. Either way, you come out ahead. Although, if you have the organization to move sapphires and rubies, the boss will love you for it—and that means a lot of money over the course of years. This is the kind of thing for putting kids through college and still getting the vacation home up by Lake Tahoe.”

  Frank thought long and hard about it. I wasn’t too worried. There was nothing in the third-floor walkup worth anything, so I was the only source of money in the room. I’m sure his original plan was to get out the rubber hose and beat information out of me. Like I told him, though, I don’t care to be beaten. Maybe I should have been more resistant and reluctant, but having my brains rattled around in my skull doesn’t do them any good. I still think I did a good job on the thinking front, all things considered.

  Besides, even during the day I could rip the chair apart and take the bat away from Gorilla. Unless Frank not only got a gun out in a hurry but managed to shoot me in the head, it wasn’t going to be a problem. I wear enchanted underwear made of ballistic materials and my suit coat is a quasi-divine artifact trying to blend in.

  I’m not paranoid, although I sometimes joke about it. I’m reasonably cautious, given the preponderance of things wanting to kill me. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Don’t disillusion me.

  “All right,” he decided. “We’re going to your place. You sit in back with my partners. Don’t try anything or you’ll get what the golden goose got. Dig me?”

  “I assure you, the last thing I want is trouble. I want to get this business deal concluded and get some aspirin. That’s my mission in life right now.”

  “Let’s truck.”

  After a tense minute and a creaking, groaning, cable-twanging ri
de in the elevator, we walked out, me in the middle, and the four of us climbed into their car. Big car, too. 1965 Ford Galaxie, four-door sedan, metallic grey. I sat in back between Gorilla, Shakespeare, and their pistols. Frank drove and I gave directions. Before long, we were at the converted warehouse Mary and I use for local living and as a cargo point for Diogenes.

  “You live in a warehouse?” Gorilla asked, startling me. He had a voice like Radar O’Reilly. It was completely wrong for something built like a Knight of the Crown.

  “The offices are converted into living space,” I assured him. “I’m going to reach for my keys. Okay?” They let me get into a pocket and hand them a ring of keys. “Here. This one. Now, before we all troop out, one of you go in and confirm it’s not full of guns and bodyguards and similar sorts. This isn’t a trap. We really are here to do business.”

  Frank looked startled at that, but nodded to Shakespeare to take the key.

  “The people-door leads to the offices, but they’ve been converted to an apartment. The door across from the entry leads into the warehouse proper.”

  Shakespeare nodded and went inside. He came back out in less than two minutes, confirmed the place was empty, and we all went inside. I encouraged them to point guns at me while I fished out the local wealth.

  “Here you go,” I told them, and dumped sapphires, rubies, diamonds, gold, and cash on the kitchen table. “Now, do you want to take gemstones and do business? Or take all of it and walk? It’s up to you. Take it all. I won’t stop you. But you can make this much in profit in the first year, if you have the resources to move the product. What’s it to be?”

  Sometimes I feel a little like the devil in all the stories about selling one’s soul. “Go on. Go on! Take as much as you like! Do whatever you want! Enjoy it! —just sign here.” That sort of thing. Maybe I am. At least I try to make sure people understand the consequences.