Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  Inviting me.

  Epilogue I

  One Month Later

  We healed. We stayed close, fighting the urge to slash at shadows; we learned to sleep again, to live, to find solace in the comfort of one another. We became more of a family and emerged, like a ship fighting through a rogue wave, battered but whole, cleared to go forward.

  I was hot, and that meant that the girls were scorched, so I found myself walking to get the car after a recuperative day at the zoo, where we had walked, and eaten, and circled about while pretending that we had chased every spirit and echo from the corners of our minds. The parking lot blazed like an airport tarmac, nearly empty during the peak heat of the day. A lone grandmother braved the heat, fruitlessly waving a brochure at her florid face; sweat beading on every inch of her skin. She smiled at me in commiseration, the unspoken scorcher, ain’t it? unsaid between us, but understood.

  It was a small hole in the concrete, not more than a tennis ball, but it caught her birdlike, ancient ankle perfectly, snapping the bone in a sickening crack that sent her chin first into a graceless arc. The impact made her breath leave in a surprised oof as she rolled over, laughing, before I could get to her.

  She spit two teeth at my feet, connected with a stringy gobbet of flesh that sent them into a bolo spin to land on my shoe. I moved quickly to her, reaching for her to help. She slapped my hand, hard, and pulled herself to her feet, leaning on her ruined ankle without notice.

  “That will be enough touching from you, Ring. You save those hands for your whores.” She smiled, gap toothed and bleeding. I knew. This was no grandmother, not at that second. “My mistress wants to tell you to stop being so fucking jumpy, you’re going to ruin the surprise!” She put her hands on her hips, chastising me. “She will call on you soon enough. It’s just that she’s been so busy with you and your common law sluts being laid up and all. Can’t have you out and about when she had business to attend to, right, lover?” She cackled once and spat again, spotting my sock with her bloody saliva. With a series of grotesque cracklings, she walked away, each step making her lean more pronounced until her shoe ran red from the bone shearing through the remaining papery skin.

  I turned to the gates where the girls would be waiting. I felt the heat of the macadam, the glare on my face. I thought of the blackness. The laughter.

  I thought of revenge.

  Epilogue II

  Two Months Later

  Herr Kreiger was thrilled to have the collection back in its rightful place, although his professionalism was such that he betrayed nothing to the client. Lovingly, each piece was placed on the velveteen lining of the deposit box, tucked in a specific order according to usefulness, size, gem quality, oh, so many variables in the three hundred tiny works of art. Occasionally he would be required to polish an item before returning it to the box, even removing the odd spatter of blood which hinted at a less than forthright retrieval. The owner was not known as forgiving, and who was he to question the gathering of something so…unique? So valuable, in so many ways?

  There, the last one. I have always loved that horse, even when I was a boy. How it prances in the silver, its eye daring you to look away!

  He cleared his throat in an unobtrusive manner, gesturing respectfully at the heavy lid.

  “May I close the box at this time?” His voice was laden with respect, fear. Even awe and love.

  A single nod from the client, who picked up gloves made of buttery leather, pulling them on and gathering her things. She was close enough to kiss him, and she did, chastely, on the cheek.

  “’You have served me very well through both wars, Dieter. I am not ungrateful. You should be proud of this, so few have met my exacting standards through the years.” She patted his cheek, once, the leather faintly touching him and trailing to his neck with an intimacy few people knew he was capable of.

  “It is my honor, and my pleasure to serve you in any way that I may, Mother. You need only call and I am at your service instantly.” He radiated pride at her compliment and the opportunity to serve at her feet. It was his mission, his instinct, becoming reality, here and now.

  “Such a good boy. Yes, I think you shall be rewarded with a position in my next little endeavor. It will require some preparation on your part….you have, I think, until the summer to be fluent in Creole. Be ready for a move, and have all the resources necessary for the acquisition of property and quiet spaces. If you are not properly ready, I shall be- how did I tell your father after the first war, vexed? Yes, vexed.”

  Herr Kreiger paled. His father had died screaming in a rocky room beneath a café, his dying voice saturating the walls even as his blood ran rivulets into a stone trough. It had not been a brief death, either. Dieter tried, every day, to forget what disappointing his mother could bring to his doorstep. “I shall be ready, Mother. I promise.” He was earnest, and riddled with horror.

  “There’s a good lad. Until we visit New Orleans, then”. Elizabeth walked from the vault, her heels on the carpet leaving no trace of her save a whisper of her perfume.

  Mask of the Swan

  1

  Easy, Trick. Slow and easy, this ain’t your first time. He pulled himself over onto the deck without a sound. Technically, it was his first time on a boat, but it was just like any other job. He took a deep breath and moved forward on the polished wooden planks at a steady pace, neither hurried nor lazy, following his memory of the map. In moments he was two decks down, turning left, then a long, silent hallway where Jimmy had been delivering the thousand dollar bottles of brandy, where all of them sat, untouched, in the stateroom, practically begging for someone like Trick to put them to a better use than catching dust on some yacht. Jimmy had been piss drunk when he slipped and told Trick about the setup; it was like an honesty test. The liquor store owner, a nasty tightass, would send Jimmy over with a bottle of hundred-year-old French brandy that no one in their right mind could afford. Jimmy would walk on board, go to the stateroom, and pick up the envelope, all cash, leave the booze, and return to the store — a neat, tidy way to make a fifty. He never saw a soul, except once in a while some cleaning staff or a mechanic. Talk about tempting. Trick had lit out the first night he could get away from Jimmy without tipping him off. He wasn’t in the mood to share.

  Trick heard that three other locals had tried to make it on board, but no one had seen any of the proof, which meant that anyone who said they had made the lift was full of shit.

  And the loot was still sitting there, waiting.

  Door to the left, a big sumbitch, and the bar is in the back of the room. Ear pressed to the burled wood, Trick listened. Nothing, dead silent, just like Jimmy said. The handle was metal and cool to his touch, or maybe it was because he was soaking wet. It swung down, smooth and easy, the damned thing even felt expensive. He kept the door in both hands and slid through the opening, keeping motion to an absolute minimum, then stood quietly, waiting and letting his sight adjust a bit further to the near-perfect dark of the space. A faint glistening directly ahead was a beacon to his greedy gaze as the trickle of light from the large window spangled the delicate crystalline bottles with motes of moonlight. The carpet was thick and wicked away any noise from his feet, even though Trick was too much of a pro to make so much as a squeak. Moving forward to the prize, Trick sensed a hand move from a chair in the corner, followed by the sickening noise of the door swinging shut with a pronounced click. It was locked, and he was not alone. He froze in place.

  “You’re dripping on my carpet. Quite rude.” Her voice came from the corner, measured, cultured. She sounded mannerly given the situation. Certainly not alarmed, and that didn’t sit well with Trick. A light snapped on to reveal a woman clad in a white silk dressing gown, curled up in a chair with one hand still grasping the chain of a cobalt ceramic lamp. An open bottle of brandy sat on the table as well, with a crystal tumbler and ice.

  “Please, Trick, come in. You’ve come this far. Why not join me for a drink? That was your goal, y
es? The brandy?” Warning claxons roared in Trick’s ears. Something was very wrong. She wasn’t scared, not even concerned, and she knew his name. And she was—waiting, for something. In a casual motion, she stood, revealing her small stature and long blonde hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes never left him as she crossed the space between them and held the glass out in offering.

  “Try the brandy. A singular experience, Trick, and well worth your time.”

  He drank, out of fear and confusion. The brandy floated up and out of his nose, warm fumes of caramel and fruit, heady with age.

  Finding his voice, he stammered, “It’s very good. I was—Jimmy told me that you weren’t drinking it. He was the delivery guy, so I—he said there was no one here.” Trick finished his attempted excuse lamely, suddenly aware of how close and calm the woman was, standing inches from him. Her eyes were dark blue in the weak light. She was smiling as she took the glass from his loose hand and opened her robe.

  “You’re shivering. Let me help.” She placed his hands on her breasts, full and perfect.

  This cannot be happening. Wait till Jimmy hears this shit— and then she was kissing him, her mouth open and covering his as her tongue probed him, sending the last taste of the brandy to merge with her aromas of perfume and powder. Her hair dragged, electrifying, against his chest. How did she get my shirt open? Trick thought, and then he was pushing against her as she urged him on, and he felt a tickle, like a pinprick at his back, subtly inquisitive. Her mouth bore down on him as she filled his senses to overload with her presence, and in the soft light Trick could not see the serpentine tendril of darkness emerge from her hand, wrapping around his naked chest, searching, only to pause over his heart and plunge in soundlessly, without resistance, then begin pulsing with sparkling motes of blackness as she siphoned away his will, his memory, and his life, one delicious second at a time. Her feeding messenger gradually went dark as Trick’s reserve of life was consumed, whisked away while he remained locked in her embrace, her mouth cooing lovingly into his—thank you, Trick, there’s a good lad—as his heart finally thumped one last staccato complaint and went still. Delphine let his body slump to the carpet. Fully sated, she stretched and rubbed her flat stomach lazily. Walking to the bar, she poured another brandy into the cut crystal glass, frankly admiring of the color that a century of patience could bring to the humble liquid. Without moving, she spoke to the shadows, where her valet awaited instruction.

  “Joseph, overboard with this, if you please.” She indicated Trick’s remains. “And do dry this carpet. Saltwater simply cannot be good for a Persian of this age.”

  “At once, Mistress.” Joseph emerged, clad in a black suit, and lifted the body without effort. His voice carried an undertone of lust. “May I see if there is anything of merit left over?” He was the model of subservience.

  “Of course, how rude of me. Please your appetite but rid me of his presence. You have one minute. Time for a quick bite, as it were.” She did not look up as she reached for a silver cigarette case.

  “As you wish, Mistress,” Joseph spoke quickly, leaving the room with the body in his ropy arms as he sunk his teeth into the meat of Trick’s chest, biting deeply and with near sexual satisfaction. A moment later, Delphine heard a muffled splash as the last evidence of her most recent burglar began to sink, where it would feed the crabs and fish, just as it fed her succubus needs, and Joseph’s less delicate palate. Thank you for coming, Trick. Criminals were so useful, and so ambitious. Picking up her phone, she resettled in the chair. It was time to order more brandy. And her next dinner.

  2

  Florida

  I felt a gentle pressure in the small of my back, bringing me from the depths of a sound, dreamless sleep. It was too soft to be Waleska, and too early. Her physical appetite was anything but subtle, and the day she rose before me would be the day they buried my body. That left Risa, a more considerate partner, intense, sensuous, and more caring in her approach to our sexual needs. Although both women in my life were distinctly different lovers, neither had the cold nose and whiskers that I now felt, insistently demanding and followed by a single, questioning wuff directed at my back. I rolled over, face to face with Gyro, our Great Dane, who raised his ears in question at me as I struggled to a sitting position. His tail told the story, I want out in the yard, you bum, and since neither mother has let me out, you’re up. So, no early morning loving at the hands of my partners, just a potty break for a dog the size of a pony. I sighed and clambered to my feet, struggling into shorts and heading for the door to the yard. Gyro’s nails ticked across the tile alongside.

  The day had begun, albeit not in the way I had hoped. The giant dog loped through the door into the yard, and I turned to the kitchen. He was on his own, as our yard is hemmed by a hedge, fence, and a saltwater canal. If he can escape that gauntlet, good on the beast, I’ll be the first to applaud his cleverness. Since I was up, I was going to have coffee, but the scene that greeted me chilled me to the marrow. Seated primly at the kitchen table were my two partners, Waleska to the left, Risa to the right, both fully awake, dressed, and reasonably groomed, which in Wally’s case meant that she had brushed her teeth and put on a t-shirt. This did not bode well for me. Risa smiled broadly and Wally blew me a kiss. A cheerful “Good morning” emitted from them in unison. Now I knew something was really wrong. Wally is nearly six feet of classic blonde beauty, at home in a surfing poster, but Argentinian rather than Californian. Green-eyed, tanned, with perfect teeth and freckles that make men suddenly develop a desire to count every one of them, up close, she gets her way with everyone, which means that we get our way thanks to her flawless genetics. Risa is her near-opposite physically, but still beautiful, just over five feet tall, olive-skinned, with short black curls, full lips, and immense dark eyes that I find both fascinating and a little intimidating. We’re partners, friends, lovers; more than a family and less than a corporation, and when we aren’t busy drinking beer or feeling each other up, we kill immortals. Or at least we did, until we ran into who may or may not have been Satan, got slapped around fairly seriously, and decided to recover the good old-fashioned way: sunshine and sex. Usually I was present for both, which vaults me in the Lucky Fucker Club, where I am firmly ensconced, unapologetic, and happy to reside for the remainder of what I hope will be a long, uneventful life. But at this moment, I know I am in danger because Wally is awake, Risa is smiling, and they look wholly untrustworthy. Their unsavory intentions were revealed with one simple question that struck fear into my heart.

  Risa leaned forward on her elbows, a plain envelope on the table. “Tell me, handsome, do you know what today is?”

  I thought for a second, and then the details all clicked into place with one ghastly purpose. The broad, sunny smiles. The unity before eight in the morning. The damned, cursed envelope, filled with what could only be checks from our tenants in the Hardigan Center. We own our home and a small strip mall, which is, unfortunately, populated with renters who are like family in all but one respect: they insist on paying their rent on time. The far left space in the center is occupied by the Butterfly, a Thai restaurant owned by Boon and Pan, who, along with their sister Suma, are as close to us as anyone. Angel, a mason with a deft touch and arms like tree trunks, is in the next space, followed by attorney Liz Brenneman, who pays no rent because she manages our charity. Glen Ferloch, the lanky tree transplantation expert, is next in the lineup and, of course, unfailingly early with his rent. Risa waved the envelope at me, a slow, taunting motion intended to ratchet my fear to new levels as the enormity of the day set in. It was the third of the month. All the checks were ready for deposit. And that could mean only one thing. I had to go to the bank, where I would once again face my nemesis, Annalise Wimple.

  My uncle was a lifelong customer of West Broward Savings. My parents were as well. Of course, I transferred my account there in a move that until recently had proven to be a sage decision on my part as the service was pleasant, the fees were low, a
nd most important to me, there was a minimum of hassle. Until six months ago. Annalise Wimple brought her particular vision of customer service along with her considerable presence, which demanded, under pain of her withering interrogation, that every deposit slip be filled completely, without mistakes, and preferably in blue ink. She also went on to inform me, in our first meeting, that she would not tolerate slipshod penmanship on the infrequent checks that I cashed, nor would she allow me and my “cheesy good looks” to sway her tellers into allowing me to disregard the rules— which are here for a purpose, Mister Hardigan— and in order to personally assure that such procedures were followed, Annalise would take care of my deposits and all other banking matters from this point forward, thank you very much.

  Now, I am an adult who is fully capable of following rules, as witnessed by my years in the army and my daily life with, not one, but two women who have strong personalities and are a part of both the romantic and business interests of my existence. I know rules. I also selectively do battle against rules if disregarding them allows me to have a free afternoon, another beer, or some other small reward. Annalise, however, will tolerate none of this and is invariably awaiting my arrival at the bank, it seems, where she proceeds to turn a thirty-second transaction into a general accusation about my wanton malfeasance as a customer, man, and human being. This behavior stretches my patience to the limit, especially given that Annalise is nearly my height of 6’3”, hair included, which she keeps parted severely in the middle and clipped at the back in a single loathsome scrunchy that has no decoration, ever. Her eyebrows are pencil-thin and raised in an eternally questioning position designed to impart her shock that I would have the audacity to attempt handing over such a sloppily organized business deposit. Her mud brown eyes are narrowed in a constant squint over her long, mobile face that is remarkably pale for a living human, and her pursed mouth is outlined in a light brown lip liner that makes her seem wholly synthetic. I cannot tell if she has upper teeth, as I have not seen her smile. I have seriously considered keeping a flask of whiskey at hand, knowing that I must do battle with Annalise, but changing social mores have invalidated that possibility, so I face the beast, so to speak, stone cold sober, barely caffeinated, and in her lair, each and every time.