Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Darren Stapleton

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No signs of life,’ said Mckeever.

  ‘Or death?’ said Croel.

  Mckeever shook his head, 'Not out here anyway.'

  ‘Well then, after you,’ said Croel pointing at the open door.

  Mckeever knew he was being tested and rather than make an issue of it, instead, sat into the challenge like he would a well-used armchair. He approached the entrance, folded his black wings tightly into his back and pushed the door further ajar so the midday light invaded the narrow corridor beyond. He knew his eye would take a while to become accustomed to the gloom, so squinting, he ducked inside, squatting low, not wanting to make a target silhouette for any waiting crossbow or thrown dagger from an unseen assailant. He had done too much underestimating lately.

  He did not want to proceed too far along the corridor’s dark course that he would not be able to detect danger, so he rested on his haunches, allowing his eye to adjust fully before declaring the coast clear for Croel to join him.

  Croel leaned Newton’s wings up in the doorway. He slowly ambled in rubbing his shoulder and signalled that he would watch the door whilst Mckeever checked the concrete holding cells.

  Mckeever shouted what he was finding as he proceeded;

  ‘Surveillance room monitors smashed, discs destroyed, keys and goggles gone, it’s a mess.’ His voice sounded tinny as it reverberated along the runnels of the concrete box.

  He moved to the next room.

  ‘First cell’s empty, though it smells like the woman was in here.’

  He moved to the opposite cell door.

  ‘Empty. Never been used.’

  As he moved further inside he noticed the next cell door was open on its corner axes. And though light struggled to penetrate fully into the furthest reaches of the gloom, Mckeever could see in the doorway, the dark unmistakeable swathe of blood staining the concrete floor.

  He stepped inside to survey the scene.

  ‘I think you better come and see this, Croel.’

  Croel peered into the dimly lit room. Light struggled into the corners.

  Mckeever stepped over a guard who had had his throat cut. ‘Looks like our guy did not stay put.’

  ‘Rage has been here, indeed,’ said Croel looking at two severed fingers on the cell floor. He was intrigued and excited by the carnage he found.

  And though he knew the credits would not be as easily earned for rounding up Drake and Pan as he had first thought, he admired their work just the same.

  Erode your enemy incessantly, a drip of time onto their rock.

  Crawl beneath flesh and freeze, contract, fracture their edifice.

  Crash tidal pound after tidal pound and flatten, blast and shock.

  Flood them with speed and volume over the hanging precipice.

  For all ways to water, all ways to man;

  Rise up like clouds for those oppressed.

  And like all water, and like all men

  Storm,

  Find a level

  Then rest.

  Folk Song for the Embattled

  Ezra Duncan

  CHAPTER 28

  Pan left with me.

  I tucked the credits into a ‘Souvenir’ children’s rucksack that Sal had given me on the way out of the Arena. Fans had now gathered outside the Arena, taking the protestors place, and all looking much more focused on their reason for being there than their protesting predecessors had. I saw one of the Angelbrawlers that bedecked my rucksack making an elaborate landing on the causeway near the road. He arrived with a kind of faux-alacrity, a flourish of feathers and fuss and raucous approval of Angelbrawl fans accompanied him as he strode, chin and chest out, towards the front doors. The expensive heels of his boots clacked noisily on the concrete as he approached.

  Fans chanted his name.

  It was Jackdaw. His hair had not moved despite the wind on his flight in. His skin was flawless and only broken by stubble that looked drawn on. He had on a dark leather body sleeve. His wings protruded from the back like a fashion accessory. The edges where his wings emerged were gilded in some sequin flash or other. I noticed he had used a make-up pencil on his eyes.

  I fucking hate ‘Brawlers.

  ‘You,’ he said, stopping to address me. 'The hired help.'

  I said nothing.

  He continued, ‘You did a royal job of fucking up my fight last night. Talk about sending in the clowns. I felt like I should have bought a ticket.’ He brushed at some lint that was not on his sleeve.

  My fight.

  I was tired and the last thing I wanted was a showdown with a publicity hungry self-proclaimed demigod prodding my reclining corpse.

  ‘You are just another numb nut dinosaur soldier for hire with nothing better to do than to try and play mercenary in the real world, and not even succeeding at that. You are defunct. A relic. A fossilised dog turd on the heel of mankind. Now do me the favour of getting the fuck out of my way. Some of us have got real jobs to go to.’

  Real jobs.

  ‘Didn’t look much like work to me,’ I said.

  He stepped closer, his wings towered at his back. His teeth were on show, they were too even; they looked like bathroom tiles, improbably white and invisibly grouted. I could smell his aftershave.

  ‘I ought to push your fucking face in, where you stand,’ he hissed.

  ‘Easy there,’ said Pan, ‘your fans are watching.’

  ‘Do you seriously think there is any other reason I am not pushing his face in right now?’

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to smudge your eyeliner,’ I said.

  He did not react.

  Humour could usually be relied on, not just as a mechanism for defence or diffusion but also as the button to press to start the war-machinery rolling. I have started more fights in my life with sarcasm, wit, jibes and gestures than I have ever started with a serious challenge or earnest call to arms. A glove across the jowl works for some people. Wit lands a much cleaner blow. A cutting line can put people off guard or on the back foot, makes them realise you are not fazed by the possibility of confrontation, verbal or otherwise.

  No.

  It is more than that. It is intimidation itself and it is infuriating in the face of someone else’s own perceived superiority or threat of aggression. I do it because it gives me back the advantage.

  Jackdaw’s breathing was a note heavier, his huge chest heaved inside his designer suit. I noticed his fists were curled, knuckles white.

  ‘Your ill-gotten credits in there are they?’ He mocked, nodding towards my bag. ‘Has-been.’

  I started to laugh. ‘Not only do you act inside your toy fighting cage, little bird, you now sound like some pantomime cartoon. You…’

  He grabbed me around the throat.

  An ‘ooh’ sound ushered from the nearby crowd and their cheers were replaced with the mumbled chatter that announced the mood had changed. It said something was going down.

  Or someone.

  Jackdaw pulled me towards him and hissed through gritted tiles.

  The muscles in his arms were like chords of swamplands grass, strong, flexible and sinuous; strands knitted and bunched to hold me there, inches from his face.

  I heard a child start to cry.

  I smiled at the Angelbrawler.

  It took effort, I will say, but I held back and kept smiling. Raised my hands, questioning.

  I felt his hold on me loosen.

  I knew he would not hit me.

  Could not, on his tightrope of celebrity.

  His career would be over. The papers, and fans would eviscerate him.

  Lacroix bustled out of the front doors like it was his full time job to deal with disturbances and protesters and egos on a twice daily basis.

  ‘Jack. Inside.’

  Jackdaw sneered, sniffed at me like I was a bad smell, turned, waved to the crowd and was inside before his teeth had even unclenched properly. Lacroix shot me a baleful stare that soon fell away when I returned it.
>
  We made our way to the road’s edge.

  The crowd were still staring, open mouthed as I sauntered up to and then through them.

  Pan straightened my shirt.

  ‘Mind if I come back to yours?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No double entendre?’

  ‘Why, do you want me to give you one?’

  ‘No.’

  Then I got her joke but, after a short rummage, could not find a laugh or return anywhere in me. It could have been the tiredness and adrenalin still coursing through my body, a hangover from the last couple of days and Jackdaw. Or maybe I was just being obtuse.

  Tiredness rarely brings out the best in anyone.

  We walked to the taxi rank, still warily watched by a few of the fans. I knew Lacroix would be watching too, on one of his scratchy, monochrome security monitors, blowing with exasperation and trying to appease one of his star turns. I waved at the pole-mounted camera, its red light blinked back acknowledgement.

  I was tired, exhausted. Filthy. Jackdaw had been right, I was a bad smell.

  We waited for a taxi.

  ‘Why do you do that? With Jackdaw? With the protesters?’ She paused and looked away. ‘With me?’

  ‘Do what?’

  She looked at me with a chiding expression, acknowledging it was the best response she would be getting.

  ‘Forget it,’ she said.

  I shrugged like I did not understand.

  She shook her head knowing I did.

  The rest of the wait for the taxi was in silence.

  Never slam a swing door.

  The Old King Said; Book of Lowland Proverbs

  Authour Unknown

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘Yes?’ said Vedett.

  ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They're gone.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes. All of them.’ Pause. ‘One way or another.’

  'Dead or disappeared? Stop talking in riddles.'

  'The guards are dead, all over the place. Messy. Drake and the girl disappeared.'

  The line was quiet for a few seconds.

  ‘The wings?’

  ‘We’re going to drop them now.’

  ‘Wait on those. My morning plan had to be altered, drop them at the agreed place, but do it later. Midnight. Will give me time to sort.’

  ‘Ok. What about Drake and the girl?’

  ‘Well if you don’t know where they are it looks like you are going to have to find them now doesn’t it?’

  Croel sighed, his temper visible to Mckeever.

  ‘Find them then call me. I will send help.’

  ‘We do not need help.’

  ‘It is not up for discussion.’

  Croel shook his head.

  The line went quiet again.

  ‘Oh and Croel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘...I don't like mess, clean it up.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Croel.

  If a stranger has no use to you, a stranger they shall stay.

  The User and the Used.

  W. Scott

  CHAPTER 30

  Coyle was a muscling, hulk of a man. He shoehorned himself out of the Mudhead Police car and approached Vedett’s warehouse. His clean booted feet splashed grey ripples across the puddles of the Lowlands alley. He would have preferred the coffee shop, as was arranged, but Vedett had cancelled. He had heard on the Mudhead Police radio that there had been some trouble there this morning.

  He looked up, Vedett’s warehouse ominous in it’s industrial starkness, even in the afternoon light. The roof of slatted metal and rivets looked like an insect’s carapace, the dark glassless windows, like a thousand watching eyes. Though Coyle was a Mudhead Sergeant and used to visiting all the worse places that the Lowlands had to offer, coming here, to Vedett’s, always made him more nervous than most. He walked up to a heavy side door and barged his way inside. He never knocked.

  'Please tell me you did not park your Mudhead car outside.' said Vedett.

  'I park anywhere. I am the police, remember. And less of the Mudhead.'

  'I will call you what I want, Coyle. You are mine. Or do I have to remind you about debts unsettled?'

  Vedett smiled and though he was smaller than Coyle, as most people were, Coyle looked away first, disturbed by what he saw in Vedett's eyes. Or what he didn't.

  'What did you want me for?'

  'It is a two part job. Important people want something stowing. Evidence.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Wings, from that murder case.’

  ‘What, the four soldiers?’

  ‘Yes. The evidence will be with you at midnight.’

  ‘Who? Who is bringing it?’

  ‘Believe me, you will know them when they arrive.’

  ‘Ok. Where?’

  ‘On the roof.’

  ‘Which roof?’

  ‘Any. They will find you.’

  Coyle paused, deep in thought, ‘Ok. I am interested.’

  ‘I do not give a flying fuck if you are interested or not. You are doing this.’

  Coyle flexed his huge biceps, the seams of his uniform’s sleeves strained under duress. His hands balled making his knuckles crack and his forearms bunch. He was not used to being told what to do. It seemed his anger was directly correlated to Vedett’s amusement.

  Vedett turned his back on him and walked over to a table by the entrance to his personal quarters, picked up a small bag and came back over to where Coyle was seething.

  ‘Is that part two?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That thing in your hands? You said it was a two part job.’

  ‘No. I need someone locating.’

  'Who?'

  'Ex slayer.'

  'Why?'

  Coyle watched as Vedett turned his back ignoring the question.

  'I said w....'

  'I heard what you said,' hissed Vedett, who grabbed the clear plastic bag filled with something substantial and held it up to Coyle. A young man’s face could be seen peering through the murk of coagulating fluids. He walked across the dusty factory floor, opened a metal hatch and tossed it into the incinerator. It made a loud clanging bong as it hit the metallic grill inside.

  'Dont worry,' said Vedett, 'his body is already in there.’

  Coyle's top lip curled into the familiar set of revulsion. Coyle knew what the gesture was saying. It said I can do what I want. It said your position and title mean nothing. It said stop asking fucking questions. Coyle stopped asking. He watched as Vedett lit the pilot light, ignited the incinerator and closed the door.

  'Bake at gas mark 800 for 2 hours or until crispy black.' Vedett chuckled.

  Coyle shifted uncomfortably, anxious to leave. Vedett waited before speaking again.

  Vedett carried on the conversation as if nothing else had been said. 'The why is simple: so I don't blab about your animalistic tendencies or the people who have had to disappear because of them. Like I said, unsettled debts.’

  Coyle sneered again. The revulsion overlapped fury. Exactly how Vedett had got the drop on him was unclear, though Vedett had made very clear the exact activity and animal he had witnessed, even given him copies of the photographs. Copies.

  'You Mudheads are the same as any other police force from Earth’s chequered history. Your loathing for the government you serve only exceeded by the hatred for the people you are supposed to protect. And soldiers fit into both brackets don't they?'

  'Vedett, can you get to the point? What else do you want me to do? I have police business to attend.'

  'Like what? Some horse need cuffing or dog need fucking?'

  Coyle’s mood darkened. He felt himself flinch as if to go for Vedett but just kept it in check. Just.

  Vedett recognised how Coyle was behaving and stepped closer. He had to look up to leer into Coyle's face. He moved quickly, like a striking snake and they were nose to n
ose before Coyle had even known Vedett was going to move.

  ‘Locate Drake, the same man you were paid to turn your back on at the Angelbrawl last night, if you can remember that far back. Need his address and the whore’s too. Make sure you are on the arresting detail if it all goes sour. That promotion you are after might not be long in the offering either, if this goes the way it's supposed to.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘It better.’

  Coyle was pleased, he could find anyone in the Lowlands using the Mudhead Police database. Easy money.

  Vedett wiped his hands, some fluid had leaked from the bag.

  ‘Send three or four men to find them after your midnight meeting, not Mudheads, just the usual incidental Lowlands cannon fodder scum, my men will follow. Get him and the whore, lock them up then let me know.’

  ‘Got it. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘The usual and you will get the credit as it is part of a murder case.’

  Coyle nodded.

  ‘I will call you. Meet you soon, but not the usual Lowlands coffee shop.'

  ‘I do not like it there anyway, too many witnesses. Were you there this morning? I heard...’

  Vedett ignored him. ‘Excuse me now. I have a call to make.’ He turned and walked to the stairs that led to his apartment. Coyle watched him go, sure he heard a chuckle from Vedett as the door swung closed behind him .

  The incinerator roared into life as Coyle walked past it to leave. It was like the sound of on rushing wind filling his ears in free-fall. He hurried his pace as he heard something cloying and moist pop inside.

  Plans exist, they are not made,

  Discovered even as they're played.

  And who is man to ruminate,

  That he'd control a rhyme or fate.

  Our courses plotted,

  As all stars burn.

  Corpses, rotted.