The Dragons of Styx

by John E. Siers

  With a groan, he levered himself up to a kneeling position and looked around in confusion. He found Artemis Rousseau kneeling at the edge of the mattress clutching a pillow in front of her to cover the sheer negligee she was wearing. Her outstretched right hand held a wand, leveled directly at his head.

  “Webley!” she shrieked, recognizing him at last. “What are you trying to do, you bastard? How dare you invade my bedroom!”

  With a shock he realized that his hasty setup of the spell hadn’t teleported him to his intended destination. Instead, it had taken him to a place where he really wanted to be, a place he had often visited in his fantasies.

  He looked around nervously. He was in Rousseau’s bed, all right, but he wanted to be sure nobody else was there with her. Finding no one, he relaxed a bit.

  “Artemis…it’s not what it seems,” he protested. “I was on a mission, and things went bad. I had to make a hasty exit and…well, I botched the teleport. Believe me, I have no desire to be here.”

  “Bullshit!” she snarled, dropping her eyes a bit. With a shock, he realized that he was naked, and a part of his anatomy was telling her otherwise.

  “Well, well…all dressed up tonight, Squirrel. Going to a fancy party, are you?”

  “Officer Goldstein!” Jake ‘Squirrel’ Potter emerged from the shadowed alley wearing a look of surprised innocence. “Why, I’m just out for a stroll. ‘Tis a fine evening for it, don’t you think?”

  “You can drop the phony accent, Squirrel—you’re about as Irish as my grandmother’s gefilte fish. That’s an expensive-looking leather coat—not to mention the rest of the outfit. Mind telling me how you came by those nice threads?”

  “Well…I know you’re not going to believe this, officer, but—God’s honest truth—they fell out of the sky. I was just looking for a little snack in the dumpster back in the alley, and one of these fancy boots bonked me right on the head.” He pulled up a pant leg to display the footwear.

  “Imagine my surprise when they turned out to be just my size—and the socks were in ‘em, too. Figure the Almighty must be lookin’ out for me, sent an angel to drop me a gift. The rest of the outfit was pretty good, too—maybe a bit too big, but close enough. I had to toss the undershorts because they were a bit soggy and smelly. Pants were wet, too, but they were too good to pass up. They’ll dry soon enough, and they’re black, so it don’t hardly show.”

  He opened the coat to display the wetness on the front of the pants. Goldstein gave him a skeptical look.

  “Fell out of the sky, you say? Didn’t by any chance come off a mannequin in some fancy shop window down on the boulevard? Am I going to get a call about a broken window and some missing merchandise?”

  “Nope! Just fell out of the sky,” Squirrel insisted. There had been a wallet as well, but he’d pulled out $40 in cash and tossed the rest in the dumpster. Now he was glad he had, since he would have had a bit of trouble explaining ID and credit cards not his own—even if they had fallen from heaven.

  “I’ve heard some crazy stories, but this one takes the cake. I think we’ll just take a little trip downtown—give you a nice orange jumpsuit to wear while we figure out where this outfit came from.”

  “Well, OK…if you must,” Squirrel said with a sigh. He presented his hands for the cuffs. “Getting a bit chilly tonight, and I wouldn’t mind a soft bunk in a warm cell. Besides, they serve a pretty good breakfast down at County. But if you can’t find an owner, I want these clothes back.”

  “It’s OK, Sparkle—you’re safe now.”

  After tossing the intruder, Lisa had first put her head back into the bedroom to check on Waters. Seeing the tangle of vines, she’d given it a look of dragon disapproval, and the conjured vegetation had promptly withered and turned to dust—leaving a mess on Sparkling’s bed.

  Then Lisa had pulled back and popped into the bedroom in human form. Now she cradled the trembling young woman in her arms, trying to radiate motherly warmth and assurance.

  All clear, she sent to Mark. You can stand down. Intruder has been dealt with.

  Dealt with? She heard the humor in his voice. I sensed an airborne departure, headed south.

  Yeah…don’t think I tossed him hard enough to reach the Mexican border, but for sure he would have landed a mile or so down the road. Hope he didn’t hit anyone. Should have thought of that before I threw him. Could have just dropped him, but then we’d have had to clean up the mess in the parking lot.

  A sniff followed by a deep breath drew her attention back to Waters.

  “I’m OK…Mom…the bastard’s gone. Did you kill him?”

  “Don’t think so—I just threw him out. Think he managed to teleport before he hit the ground. Pretty sure I scared the crap out of him, though. Did you recognize him?”

  “Oh, yeah…Simon Webley, big-shot wizard at SAD. He’s the guy who revoked my library privileges when I was trying to research dragons. Also said it was a waste of time—dragons don’t exist.”

  “Hah!” Lisa said. “Bet we changed his mind on that subject tonight.”

  “Well, your midnight adventures have once again drawn the wrath of the British Bitch.”

  Rousseau glared at Webley, who had been sitting at his desk looking with distaste at the new wand he’d just gotten from the supplier in London. It was nowhere near the quality of the one he’d lost, but it was the best available at the moment.

  “Yes, I got the memo.” He looked up at her with gloomy expression. “We’re to have no contact with Sparkling Waters, Charon’s Ferry, or anyone associated therewith. Nor are we to discuss the events of that night with anyone, living or dead, inside or outside LEI. I presume since we both got the memo, we’re allowed to discuss it with each other.”

  “I wouldn’t presume anything,” she snarled. “You’ve really fucked this one up, Simon. I almost wish you’d spent that night in bed with me instead—and don’t give me that lustful look, because I find your attentions disgusting. I only use that example as the lesser of two evils. Frankly, I’d rather sleep with a chimpanzee.”

  She was silent for a moment, leaving him to ponder what she’d said—hopefully to take the lesson to heart.

  “Tell me one thing,” she said at last. “Are you absolutely certain of what you saw?”

  “Oh…I certainly am.” He shuddered. “And hope I never see it again. What bothers me most is that SAD knows what’s there—the memo proves it—but they’ve cut us out of the loop completely.”

  “So what are you going to do? You’re on your own…I want no part of it, but…”

  “Nothing,” he said with finality. “Pissing off the British Bitch is bad enough, but believe me, you don’t ever want to piss off a dragon.”

  Chapter Thirteen: Loki Redux

  Magnini was quiet for a moment, staring out the window of his office. It was a beautiful day in Rome, but his mood was one of gloom and doom—a far cry from his cheerful confidence before their first attempt on Loki.

  He turned back to the two men who occupied the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. One was his friend and associate Pierre LaLonde, the other a newcomer he had just met.

  “Are you comfortable with the assignment?” he asked the newcomer.

  Heinrich Sturm sat back in the chair but continued to stroke the black cat nestled in his lap.

  “Comfortable? This is not a word I would use to describe any assignment. It hints at complacency. I do, however, have confidence I can carry it out.”

  Sturm spoke in English—not the native language for any of them, but the only one they had in common. He had flown in from Vienna that morning, in response to Magnini’s call for help. He was—according to Witherbot—an exceptionally talented Shooter, though perhaps not quite at the level of the legendary Trashmen (whom nobody at SAD talked about, despite evidence of their existence in a recent clash with the Red Nail).

  In any case, he was a magic-user at least several levels above Magnini and LaLonde. Both of them knew their limits, and
Loki was clearly out of their league.

  “You’ve seen the security camera video.” LaLonde spoke for the first time. “What did you think?”

  “He’s beyond the level of simple training.” Sturm shrugged. “He obviously has some natural talent. I would suspect he has the ability to sense threats—to simply read a person on sight and determine whether he is looking at friend or foe. It’s not a common talent, but it has been known to occur. I’ve heard rumors that SAD has at least one Shooter who has it.”

  “I agree,” Magnini said. “Our young Shooter’s approach was textbook perfect. If I had encountered him on the street, I would have thought nothing of it. At night on a deserted street, I would have been alert, but once he gave me a nod and passed me, I would have relaxed.”

  “And you would be dead,” LaLonde said with a smirk.

  “Yes…but that’s my point. The kid was good, and he should have succeeded. He didn’t because Loki had the ability to—as you say—read him. So how will you deal with that?”

  “As I understand it, this talent is primarily visual,” Sturm replied. “He has to actually see the person who threatens him. Otherwise, he may get some vague, general feeling of danger, but nothing specific.

  “That means I will need to take him by surprise—and for that, I may rely on my furry friend here.” He smiled as he continued to stroke the cat.

  “Ah!” LaLonde glanced sharply at the animal. “How…?”

  “Deimos is a special animal. He’s still a cat, but he has a natural talent for communication with humans—in visual imagery, not words. The talent is based on kaval, which means he can only communicate with those humans who also have some skills in the use of kaval. And being a cat, of course, he chooses who he will communicate with and ignores all others.”

  LaLonde was shocked as an image popped into his head—a view of himself, as seen through the cat’s viewpoint. He stared at the animal, which stared back at him with unblinking yellow eyes. He thought he detected a hint of feline amusement in its gaze.

  Then it turned to Magnini, who also sat back suddenly as he, too, was given a sample of the cat’s talent.

  “In medieval times, he would have been called a familiar—with demonic connotations,” Sturm said, “since he would only have been associated with witches and wizards. To me, however, he is simply my partner. I would liken him to a police canine, except that he would probably find that insulting.

  “In any case—as you have noted—he has very sharp eyes. If Loki cannot see me, that means I cannot see him. But Deimos can go where I cannot and keep me advised of the target’s every move. With that, I should be able to take him by surprise—hopefully the last surprise he will ever experience.”

  Late night on a deserted street in Rome—the setting was remarkably similar to that of the last attempt, an irony that was not lost on Sturm.

  This time, however, he won’t see me until it’s too late…

  The target was approaching, once again on his way back to his current residence, but this time a small, black shadow kept pace with him on the other side of the street. Like his feline brethren everywhere, Deimos was highly skilled at stalking his prey. Loki had never once so much as glanced in the cat’s direction.

  Sturm slid his hand inside his jacket to grip the Sig P320 holstered there. The first Shooter’s choice of weapon had been a good one, he decided. A conventional weapon was often the most effective way to take out a skilled magic-user—if one used it before the wizard could gather his power from the continuum. And that was exactly what he planned to do.

  Loki was less than ten meters from the mouth of the alley when Sturm stepped out in front of him, the pistol already deployed. A touch of his finger put the green laser dot in the middle of the target’s chest, and he fired three times in quick succession.

  Loki staggered backward, but then he straightened up, and the look of shock on his face changed to one of anger. Sturm’s finger tightened on the trigger for a follow-up, but the rogue wizard thrust out his hand and stopped him with the same paralysis that had afflicted the last Shooter.

  Unlike Khoury, Sturm was a magic-user in his own right. He focused quickly, gathered kaval, and forced his arms to respond. His finger was just tightening on the trigger again when Loki made another gesture—one that released the paralysis but flung the pistol out of his now-relaxed hand. He heard it clatter on the pavement behind him—too far for easy retrieval.

  Muttering under his breath, Loki stood his ground, brandishing the stiletto he’d used to dispatch Khoury. Sturm drew his own knife—a Scottish Dirk—from the sheath at the small of his back. He stepped forward to engage his target…

  …and collapsed to his knees as Loki’s other hand produced a greenish beam—not unlike the Sig’s laser—that struck him in the chest. The crushing pain made him think he had been shot, but as it spread from his chest and out to his arms, he realized the truth of it: he was having a heart attack. Dropping the knife, he clutched his chest. His vision dimmed, and the last thing he saw—through the eyes of Diablo across the street—was Loki grabbing him by the hair and plunging the stiletto into his throat.

  Again Loki left the body behind without concern as he continued toward home—deciding that he would have to move once again to confound his enemies.

  This Shooter was obviously better than the last one they’d sent. He had, at least, some skill with kaval, and had managed to take him by surprise. It was too bad—for the Shooter—he hadn’t known Loki’s stylish leather vest was backed with Kevlar and steel plate. He’d have to be more careful in the future, though. The next Shooter might try for a head shot.

  He would probably have to deal with at least one more of them before he built sufficient credibility with the Red Nail to convince them to meet his price. He hoped LifeEnders wouldn’t keep him waiting for long.

  As he walked, he got the vague impression of a nearby threat. He spun around and scanned the area, but found it deserted…except for a black cat prowling the other side of the street. He shrugged it off and continued on his way.

  “He’s gone…we’ve failed again.” Magnini’s voice was tinged with bitterness.

  “I know. I saw it all,” LaLonde said, quietly.

  “The cat! He’s still following Loki!” Magnini was shocked to find he was still getting images from Deimos.

  “Yes…I see that.” LaLonde was equally amazed. “And there’s something else…a feeling I’m getting.”

  “Hatred…anger…fury…vendetta!” Magnini caught a flash of feline claws tearing at Loki’s eyes—unfortunately not an actual event, just an indication of what the animal wanted to do but could not.

  “It appears,” LaLonde observed, “that Herr Sturm’s familiar was truly attached to him. The cat is telling us he will not rest until his death is avenged.”

  “We will try, little cat,” Magnini shook his head sadly. “I don’t know how we will do it, but we will try.”

  Chapter Fourteen: Jennifer

  “I’ll need you to imprint this one more time, Jennifer.” Lisa presented the contract to the woman seated in front of her desk. “Last chance if you want to change your mind.”

  Sparkling Waters sat on the sofa in Lisa’s office, feeling a nervous flutter in her stomach. It had been almost three weeks since the incident with the intruding wizard—an event that was all but forgotten and had nothing to do with her agitation today. For her, this was a milestone, and perhaps a test as well: the first time she would participate in the actual execution of a contract.

  She’d been in on this one from the beginning. She had read the initial application and the NorthStar investigation file, and she’d been there when Lisa interviewed the woman and finalized the contract three days ago. She hadn’t said a word then but had listened intently and learned a lot.

  Jennifer Strickland was an athlete, a world-class swimmer. In her teen years, the slender, attractive blond could have been a prom queen but had put aside a promising social life in favor of a g
rueling program of training under a top swimming coach. With her demonstrated ability, she was assured of a spot on the U.S. Olympic team and was predicted to bring home several gold medals.

  Then had come the traffic stop, the arrest for DUI, and the search of her vehicle that had yielded significant quantities of cocaine—old-school white powder coke, which was regaining popularity after being eclipsed for a while by methamphetamines, crack, and designer drugs.

  Jennifer was the daughter of a not-quite-A-list Hollywood actress whose amorous adventures and multiple short-term marriages had gained more attention than her screen performances. As a result, Jennifer’s trial got lots of media attention.

  The trial itself was anticlimactic. The judge let her off with a fine and community service, without even insisting on a rehab program. But her swimming coach dropped her, and her Olympic dreams vanished. She discovered that her once-numerous fans on social media had become sharks eager to tear her apart.

  To satisfy her community service requirement, she signed up as a volunteer swimming instructor and lifeguard at an inner-city community pool. Surprisingly, that seemed to somewhat restore her social-media image—or at least cause most of the sharks to quit attacking—so she stayed with it even after the community service sentence was satisfied.

  The pool was a typical city-sponsored operation, barely surviving on crumbs from the city budget. It had only one paid employee, a manager who was more interested in keeping her job than in begging for the money necessary to properly maintain and run the facility. In theory, the pool was open—and free to local residents—seven days a week, but on weekends, it depended on a volunteer such as Jennifer to show up and open the gate.