Who would pay the price for defeating Elizabeth? Who would not be with us, a mere statistic in this quiet, vicious war? Would there be a lost soul left behind because of the sickness and greed of a demon that savored pain over pleasure, and preferred loss over joy? I shook myself from the reverie and began to plan for what would happen if the one who did not make it back was me, and then changed my mind permanently. Risa and Wally had endured unimaginable losses already, like friends and family. What cut deepest, though, were the less measurable costs like children or marriage or even the satisfaction of a life lived free from knowing the horrid truth about what really roamed the night.
34
Stacia
She’d hunted in too many public houses to recall, but as she looked around, it seemed to her this particular place was pleasantly favored and clean enough that she sipped her whiskey without first wiping her glass. There he is, she thought, as her prey walked toward the door. He’d finished two pints, read the evening newspaper, and been friendly but reserved to the general chorus of activity around him. Stacia timed their collision perfectly, bumping into him as he passed behind her, resulting in his profuse apologies.
“My fault entirely” he said, mannerly to a fault. The easy ones always are.
Stacia’s face lit up with a carefree laugh as she patted his chest in apology, stepping closer to him. “So sorry! I was just leaving myself.”
He smiled and offered his arm, the pints giving him confidence that a woman of her appearance would accept his company, which she did, rewarding him with a winning smile.
“Walk me to my car? It’s up the way a fair bit.” Stacia pushed her lip out, but her eyes were still merry.
He didn’t hesitate to nod as the first light of hope dawned on his long, mobile face. “And if it’s not too much of a bother, could you carry my bag? It’s been a long day,” she asked, handing her bulky leather purse to him. It was incongruous with the rest of her polished exterior, and he laughed at the heft of it as he swung it up onto his shoulder.
Well, this is a rather nice development, his face read as they turned a corner. “What’s in it? Rather heavy for such a small lady as yourself.”
She cast her eyes downward. “Just a few things I need for my job.”
“Oh really? What do you fancy for a career? Are you a brick mason?”
“Actually I do many things, but right now, I mostly work with plants,” she said.
“Smashing, that. My brother does the very same thing in the States. He’s quite the magician with plants, trees, and all sorts of blooming things.”
Stacia stopped in her tracks, but still held his arm in a firm grip. “Working with plants is the most important thing to me right now, or I should say, making things grow obediently. Things tend to be quite wild unless properly supervised.” She grinned.
He was enchanted—besotted really, and all in a matter of seconds. “Could we—” She cut herself off, cheeks reddened at her suddenly forward thoughts which were plain on her face. “Would you like to come to my hotel?” Her eyes flickered away as she set the hook, and her prey nearly shouted with joy at his imagined luck.
“That—that would be lovely. Yes, I’d like that very much,” he stuttered, then recollected his manners and added, “I’m Gabriel, Gabriel Ferloch.”
“Stacia.” Her voice had gotten husky, and they both experienced a chill, but for very different reasons.
“I must say, Stacia, this is so—well, I feel very lucky, and I hope you’ll find me up to the task, long day and all.”
She kissed him, a darting, quick motion, tasting his lips and then retreating as if satisfied with his flavor.
Gabriel flushed beet red, but then pulled her to him , kissed her soundly, and said in a low voice, “I think you’ll have me erect until dawn, love.”
A hand fluttered to her mouth as she tried in vain to stifle a laugh, then she returned his kiss playfully and confessed, “How right you are, Gabriel. When the cock crows, you’ll still be standing. I promise.”
35
The Archangel Kyle
“I trust you’ll be comfortable here, Kyle. Elizabeth wants you to recover from your loss in a place of healing, a place where you might even feel the urge to write again, if only for the purposes of cleansing your mind. She has great hopes for your life after what you’ve endured these past years. And frankly, I hope for the very same.” Joseph put a companionable hand on Kyle’s bony shoulder, watching as the boy looked about the tastefully stylish home. He was the Archangel with the guitar. He would make music. For a while.
Kyle sighed. He had been stone drunk for the days it took to arrange for this house to be stocked with the things Elizabeth deemed indispensable for guiding the one-time songwriter into a properly receptive state.
“You’ll find everything you need here, Kyle,” Joseph went on, ignoring the pallor of the boy who wobbled before him. “The bar is complete, as is the pantry, and in the event you feel unwell, we’ve taken care to provide you with medication that will overcome headaches, sleeplessness, anything of that nature.”
Even in his stupor, Kyle’s eyes rounded slightly at that revelation, and he mumbled, “Headache, yes, yes, thanks. Joseph, right? Thanks, man. Where did you say those medicines were at, in case of a headache, you know?” He was slurring his speech, but Joseph pretended not to notice as he led Kyle by the arm to the stairs.
“We’ll go up to your room, Kyle. You’ll find relief for your headache, of course, and there’s even a guitar up there. Elizabeth simply insists that you be given the chance to write another song, something new. She even has an audience picked out for you to showcase your work. Isn’t that thoughtful?”
Kyle agreed in blurry, vague assurances even as he slouched into the bathroom where he pawed through the medicine cabinet, peering closely at the pill bottles before selecting one and downing two tablets. He drank from the faucet, swaying the whole while at the unusual angle, then stood, wiped his mouth, and asked, “So, where’s this fucking guitar I’m supposed to play?”
Joseph pointed out the cheap instrument leaning on the bed and said, “Right here you are, Kyle. And I speak for Elizabeth as well when I say we’re positively aquiver at hearing your next song.”
Kyle plucked at a sour-sounding string hesitantly. “I said I’d never pick this thing up again, and look at me.” He belched and spat on the hardwood floor, before his eyes, dulling from the powerful narcotics, returned to the guitar, which he strummed listlessly.
“Yes, look at you,” Joseph beamed, “an artist to the very end.” And with that, he bid Kyle goodbye and left.
36
Florida: Ring
I pulled up to the Hardigan Center with the intent of raiding whatever Pan was making for lunch, but not before I invited Liz. I envisioned me eating and her doing the talking, but my plans were short-circuited when I saw none other than Achilles in front of the Center with Glen, examining another of the trees that had been espaliered. Glen waved with vigor as I pulled to a stop, and Achilles, the demigod warrior of song and story, tossed me a jaunty salute. It was all a bit surreal, but I regained my composure for the sake of Glen’s innocence and hailed them in return.
“Glen, Anxo. I didn’t realize this was your customer out west causing you to torment these innocent trees.”
Glen guffawed, and Achilles glanced at the small citrus tree, rigidly held in place on a bamboo frame.
Achilles, speaking as Anxo, said, “Glen’s reputation is excellent, and he’s delivering on schedule, and on budget, which I can say about Angel’s stonework, too.” He smiled with genuine pleasure at the rarity of two contractors both exceeding his expectations. I sensed that the other workmen building Strata must have been a bit more laconic in their pacing. If anyone had known the real identities of the restaurant’s owners, the project would have been complete six weeks early, but I inferred that Achilles and Patroclus were willing to spend a bit more to protect their unusual personal histories.
Glen hefted the tree and said, “See you down there! Ring, care to join us?” He cut his eyes to the left, indicating the front door of The Butterfly.
I looked into Liz Brenneman’s office and saw she was absent, spinning in place to note that her car was, in fact, gone, and said, “Love to. I was on my way with Liz, but she’s not here. Shall we?”
Glen waved us on with the assurance he’d be along directly. In the years I’d known him he’d existed in a state of perpetual hunger and never missed a meal. Achilles opened his arm, indicating I should proceed, and we paced each other for ten steps, opening the door where Achilles paused and inhaled, deeply, in the manner of a man who knows good food can be found with one’s nose.
“Incredible. It’s like being in Thailand; the authenticity is remarkable,” Achilles said.
I had to agree; stepping into the domain where Panit worked his magic was like instant travel. I waved Achilles forward to a table and we sat, welcome indeed as I heard Boon’s approach before I spied her. Bangles jingling, she was prescient as ever, setting a pitcher of iced jasmine tea and two glasses packed with crushed ice on the table. She turned her megawatt smile to Achilles, who responded like all men did to Boon, with a brilliant, face-cracking grin of his own.
“I’m Boon, and hello,” she said, extending a long hand and arm glittering with bracelets.
Taking her proffered hand, Achilles, Anxo, I corrected myself, kissed it with positively continental charm and intoned in his best voice, “I am Anxo Saavedra, and I am most pleased to be here. Will we have the pleasure of meeting the chef?” He raised brow at both Boon and me.
Boon awarded him a searching look, then smiled again and said, “I am sure of it. Ring has the most interesting friends.” Turning her cryptic smile to me, she asked, “Do you and your guest have any requests, or shall I have Pan send whatever is best today?” During our byplay, Achilles—Anxo, dammit— allowed his gaze to wander the other tables as he sized up the savory dishes that graced other patrons’ plates.
“Boon, I see you have quail eggs? May I ask for those in the manner the chef sees fit?” Anxo smiled with satisfaction as Boon nodded once and was called away to the front for a moment. “I trust Glen got held up. I’ll be sure to take him something. I wouldn’t want him to miss a meal,” he deadpanned, and I laughed at his observance of Glen’s hyperactive metabolic rate.
His eyes drifted back to Boon. “She is rather . . . magnetic. What a unique beauty. Her spirit settles and cheers this room all at once. Yes, a rare woman, I think.” He tapped his fingers together as he considered Boon’s presence. He was right, of course. “And her husband, the chef?” he asked.
“Wryly funny, dedicated, loves his family, implacable under pressure.” I summed Panit’s essence up as best I could.
“Implacable, yes,” Anxo began. “He would be in the presence of a woman like her.” He delivered this in the sage tone of a man who has three millennia of human psychology to draw upon.
“What made you seek our friends as hired help, other than their considerable skills?” I asked, in reference to both Angel and Glen having a hand in Patroclus’ and Anxo’s new life here in South Florida.
“Truly? At first, Delphine recommended Angel, and we trusted her at her word. Then, when some of Patroclus’ more—well, there’s no delicate way to say it—he’s obsessed with houses, since moving about to chase wars has been a sort of hobby since the fall of Troy. Our Troy, I should add, since it fell and was rebuilt a dozen times or more.” Anxo admitted this in a way that made it seem like pride in one’s house was something to be hidden. I raised a brow in question since the pursuit of finer living seemed reasonable to me. “You don’t know the extent of Patroclus’, ah, passions, as they pertain to a home. Colors must match. Fabrics must match. Shoes must be taken off, and there are entire rooms no one is allowed to use.” He finished with a shrug of his massive shoulders, clearly befuddled by these behaviors.
In my mind, he wasn’t describing an immortal but an Italian grandmother. I kept that to myself, and just then, Boon jangled her way to the table with two plates. Heaped on each was a cold noodle salad, strewn with thinly sliced vegetables and pork, and resting on top, three perfectly cooked quail eggs nestled back into their shells. The bite of chilies greeted my eyes, and a fat wedge of lime sat on the edge of each plate, ready to contribute to the brilliant meal if needed. Anxo smiled up at Boon, who stood for a moment, hands on hips, awaiting our first bite. It was stunningly good, cold to the mouth but fiery with spices, and when I saw Anxo lift an egg to his lips and grin, she knew her work for the moment was done.
“There will be no check today,” she quipped, and before I could protest, she told us both, “not that Ring should ever really pay since he is family. And frankly, I’m rather pleased to meet another friend of his, so your money is no good here either, Achilles.” With a knowing wink, she left us to eat. Clearly Suma or Wally or Risa had spilled the beans, but Achilles merely tipped his tea in salute, taking the entire exchange in stride. Then, with stillness on his face, I saw him get lost while sifting memories, and he said, “Do you know, I once survived a long month on nothing but eggs stolen from the nests of sea birds?”
“You were alone?” I asked, voicing half the question. “Wait, you can starve?” This fact was new to me as I thought immortals were above mundane threats like starvation.
He answered, “Patroclus was elsewhere. We frequently go entire decades without seeing one another, but we always drift back together, usually prior to large-scale warfare. Also, I still need to eat. Not that I would have realistically starved, but being weak from hunger can blunt my edge, so to speak. I was penned up, hiding, really, from an entire battalion who had been dispatched to find me and return me to Caria where I was to face the queen’s justice.”
“Caria? Where and when was this?” I asked, unsure of what time period we were discussing. “And how do you anger the queen, may I ask?”
“I was in an area you now call the coast of Turkey, and this would have been . . .” he drifted, thinking, “perhaps three and half centuries before the birth of Christ.”
I knew it was real, but just hearing of such events in the first person gave me pause. More and more, our lives were becoming unnatural, and I felt detached from what I had known as reality only a year earlier, strange as that concept had been.
“The queen, Ada, targeted me due to a simple misunderstanding.”
I took measure of his physical presence, added what I knew from legend, and asked in my blandest tone, “Does this misunderstanding have a name?”
He crinkled his eyes. “She does. My tastes ran to young women of means during that era. I am ashamed to admit that I was a bit of a gold digger. Regardless, the royal presence, Ada, had a younger sister, a girl of, oh, let’s declare it modest beauty, but she had—”
“A large estate?” I interjected helpfully.
His grin expanded. “Quite. The lands were extensive, and I do love rolling hills. Naturally, I deflowered her after fighting several oafs who saw the same qualities I had recognized, but after taking her to bed, I was seen stumbling from her private chambers quite naked, and still gloriously drunk. I ran off, weaponless, and stole a horse, which provided me swift but uncomfortable passage to safety, or so I thought.” He winced at the memory of the horse ride.
That is one tough soldier, I thought reflexively, covering my own groin with a free hand.
“I alternated between hiding and outrunning the hunting party until they lost interest, but I’ve never stopped appreciating the simplicity of an egg,” he said.
“And here I thought you only had eyes for Patroclus. You’re quite the libertine, you know,” I said, pointing at him with my chopsticks.
He shook his head in agreement and shrugged, then his eyes clouded with a hint of heat as he became serious again.
Around a mouthful of egg, Achilles said, “It will be soon, very soon, that Elizabeth will move against you. And the truth of her plans will reveal wea
knesses you have not considered.”
“Something at our periphery?” I asked.
“Correct. Remember, Ring, that underneath it all, Elizabeth, like all tin pot dictators, well, she’s a coward. She would do anything to assume power and then begin to use the lash for sheer sport, but engaging in a standup battle with you and yours, and if I may say so, me in particular? Not her style.” He shook his head at what he saw as Elizabeth’s cowardice. “And if I’m not mistaken, here comes the bad news. It’s started,” he said as he looked over my shoulder at the door.
I turned to see a police officer making his way to our table with the distinct gait of a man delivering something unsavory.
“Ring? I’m Detective Francis.” He was a middle-aged fireplug of a guy, bulging with muscles, and his brown eyes were a bit sad and tired. “We just informed your friend Glen that his brother was found murdered, and he asked that you come over to close up his place for him. He left immediately to begin packing for his flight.”
“Gabriel? Murdered?” I asked, shocked, but then cooling instantly as I felt ghostly, manicured fingers began to tighten around my neck. “When?”
“Yesterday. He was found in a hotel room in Portsmouth, England. He was—well, I’ll tell you because Glen said you were like family, but he’d been tortured.”
“Jesus. Tortured?” I felt my gut curdle. “How? Do I even want to know?”
Detective Francis wrung his hands for a second, and I knew it was going to be bad. “He was crucified. In the hotel room. And he had some sort of hard fruit jammed in his mouth far enough that it tore his jaw open. He was wearing a, well, a crown of some sort. Whole fucking thing is sick if you ask me.”
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