Karen stepped into the cavernous shower and turned on stinging spray, languidly washing the effects of the dancing from her pink skin. He would fuck her insensate, and she would give as good as she got. As she soaped herself in long, languorous motions, she began to think of the coming morning, after Joseph would leave. Her lips curled up, cognizant of the fact that when the sun broke new across the slick floors, Karen could again dance, all day long. A thought, unbidden, came to her, piquant and demanding. She felt her lip extend in a sensual pout, something she had not done in decades. I want to dance. But I also want to perform.
55
Florida
Gabriel was buried in Portsmouth, near the crumbling, mossy southeast wall of a churchyard that dated from the time of the Roman Empire. His headstone was simple, even playfully decorated with the twining trees that had been such a part of his life, and in a grotesque parody, the images echoed the violation of his death. Glen called us after the service to share such details in a voice that was still mute with shock. The decision had been made; Glen was to be protected from the ugliness of what we knew. Kept ignorant, Risa had argued. Safe, Wally pressed, and I threw in with them, even more confident after Achilles and Patroclus gave us their personal guarantee that they would watch over Glen. How they planned on achieving this, I had no idea, but they both reeked of honorable intent, so I took it at face value, rolled the dice, and assumed that when Achilles planned to keep someone alive, he made good on those words. It had been a small, quiet ceremony as there wasn’t much family. Gabriel had been divorced, with no children, but several older neighbors who regarded him as a son had lingered after the service, huddling close to Glen in a defensive ring despite their average age being well over seventy.
Dark thoughts of vengeance made the room tilt until I regained control. I could feel unfiltered hatred evanesce in my mind, and I nearly shook with the effort not to punch something. It was these moments of revulsion and anger that alloyed my resolve, and I felt myself renew the promise I made to see justice brought to Elizabeth. And her daughters, for that matter, as I inventoried the progeny who aided Elizabeth in her pursuit of greater influence, but I reeled myself back, knowing that dealing with Elizabeth would be task enough for all of us. It didn’t benefit anyone to get overconfident when dealing with Undying, especially those among the elite ranks of evil. Still, in my bones I felt the prickle of hate that transformed me from sadness to grim purpose, and I began to realize that the life I enjoyed would either flourish or fail based on the next encounter with our enemy. She was our reason and our fears. I felt myself drifting through the day in a fugue state that fluttered from anger to frustration, and the odd moment of numbness.
Wally passed through the living room after showering and put her hand on my shoulder with a soft touch. “Suma will be here soon. We’re going to discuss some security precautions with Boon. We will handle that; you find something to do, something fun.” I opened my mouth in a retort, but it died on the vine. She was just thinking of me and my mental state as the war, or whatever it was, came one inexorable step closer to us.
“I could talk tactics and drink beer with Achilles. That could be an all-nighter,” I said reasonably.
Wally leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, pushing my hair back and then kissing me again. “Yes. You should. I will call Delphine and tell her to meet us at the Butterfly. I want her to know what is happening.” I agreed. Help in any form was a good thing. Help in the form of someone seasoned and tough was even better.
“I’ll drop by their restaurant and see if Achilles wants to grab a beer after closing. Maybe picking his brain will bolster my confidence.” She let her hand trail across my cheek and went to her room, trailing a towel, gloriously naked, and filled with ideas that always fit perfectly. Her worldview was less complicated than Risa’s, but she knew when to punch, when to duck, and when to run the target over with a car. Taking her idea to heart, I unlimbered from the couch and went to find a clean shirt.
“Nice shirt,” Achilles said as we crossed the parking lot of Strata four hours later. Looking down, I realized it was at least clean, so I had to assume it was indeed a superior shirt, but then recalled that Wally had selected it, assuring me that the compliment was legitimate.
“Thanks. Wally’s pick.” I indicated the shirt with a glance, and Achilles shrugged in understanding. Patroclus hit the alarm on his car, an unpretentious sedan, and we climbed in, just three immortal killers on their way to grab a beer. Two and a half, actually, but their credibility made up for any lack within my own particular license to call myself an immortal.
Achilles rubbed his face with a meaty hand and announced, “I want pub food. British pub food.” He sat in the front driving while Patroclus rode shotgun. I stretched out in the voluminous back seat. It was plain but big and rather comfortable for my height.
“Up the street from Blue’s place?” Patroclus sounded interested as he asked. “Where they have the eggs?”
“What is it with you and quail eggs, anyway? How many can you eat in one week?” I laughed until he held up a menacing finger.
Patroclus nodded gravely at my breach of social decorum regarding eggs. “Oh, you uneducated rube,” Achilles began, smiling at me in the rearview mirror, “We’re not going for quail eggs. We are going to dine on one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity. A dish of such unequaled masculine pleasure, it causes an almost instantaneous growth of chest hair and a desire to wrestle bears. It is—”
“Okay, I get it, manly. Rargh. Lumberjack food,” I interjected, and they both laughed.
Patroclus said in the tone of a patient teacher, “These particular eggs are rolled in sausage and bread crumbs and deep-fried. Then, they are served with HB sauce, which, to you Americans, is a combination of barbecue and Worcestershire flavors, but better. Finally, in order to make the dish truly worthy of the title, the diner is insulted by the addition of poor-quality tomato wedges. It is, in my estimation, a fine way to enjoy the wonders of the fair British Isles without actually going there.” He finished this with a flourish, and I discovered my stomach rumbling at the thought of eating.
“I’m sold. Let’s go,” I enthused just as we passed the Corral with its bright neon cacti standing guard by the door, and then turned into an unobtrusive strip mall a hundred yards past the strip club owned by our friend Blue. “Well, I never knew this was here. I’ve never passed the Corral.”
“And that, young man, is why you are a lecherous addition to the male species and not to be trusted.” Patroclus issued this proclamation with a sincerity that only deep voices could grant. I felt a bit guilty until I realized that I am rather lecherous by most standards, so I took the compliment in stride. We parked and began walking through the crowded lot towards the left side, where a series of beer signs and a single wooden plank with the name The Proud Cock had been artfully cut into the shape of a rooster. Subtle but effective. I couldn’t wait to experience their hospitality.
The lot was packed, and we began to funnel through a space between two cars as I asked Achilles, “These Scotch eggs better have angel wings and gold dust on them to live up to that description.” I admit to being slightly dubious now that the magic of Patroclus’ enthusiasm had worn off. The door burst open, and a stumbling gang of enormously drunk patrons spilled out into the light of the parking lot.
They were big guys with close-shaved heads, rowdy as hell, and I realized that we were standing between their cars because the closest one pointed at me and just yelled, “Fookin’ tosser’s on my rental!” He punctuated his assessment of the situation by hurling a glass tumbler he’d stolen from the bar, which, unfortunately for him, struck Achilles in the shoulder, hard. The entire group of seven or eight angry drunks moved as one towards us, their intent clear as they all began to fan out in an arc. I made my decision instantly and surged forward to clear the way for my partners, who had a combined six millennia of victories between them, give or take, depending on how many times Patroclus foug
ht rather than healed the wounded. I reached for my knife, hidden against my back, made a snap decision that a pointless bar brawl wasn’t the place for it, and then enacted the single best piece of advice my uncle ever bestowed upon me: hit the biggest guy first. In a flash, I rushed an enormous redhead with a skull like a bucket and bunched hams where his neck muscles should have been, delivering a hard, straight right hand that caught him in the nose with a wet splat. Contrary to movie mythology, a shattered nose hurts like hell and generally acts as a deterrent to doing anything else except grabbing your face and howling, which he obliged me by doing as I kicked him in the balls hard enough that he shrieked like a wounded rabbit. It wasn’t pretty. The entire affair had taken seconds, which was plenty of time for Achilles to rush into the group like a mad bull. With a single sweeping hook, he clubbed another attacker who dropped to the ground like a sack of wet grain. It seemed my preconceptions about how Achilles fought weren’t just wrong, they were astoundingly inept. Achilles whirled and swung punches that would kill a horse, twice hitting a man’s ribs with such force that I heard bones break from ten feet away. Patroclus, on the other hand, was just plain dirty. He slid to flank the group and selected a pair of victims, two squat, muscular guys who put their hands up in tandem as he approached. They needn’t have bothered, since Patroclus leapt to the right, planted his heel on the left knee of his opponent, and crunched the poor bastard’s leg backwards at an angle that was totally unnatural. In the same motion, he spun a half turn and launched a vicious elbow downward at the bridge of the second fighter’s nose, but missed and connected with the jaw instead. It was a short, grotesque cracking noise, and both men were down, unconscious, before Patroclus’ feet hit the ground again. That was fast, I thought, before taking a wild, looping punch to the side of my neck. I rotated back to the source and saw a skinny guy with enormous ears bellowing at me as he swung again, this time with his left hand. I closed the gap with him and stepped inside his punch, which landed harmlessly on my arm as his inertia brought him right where I wanted him. With a swift scissor motion, I brought my elbow down on his shoulder, and then followed with a quick, short punch to the liver. He folded up with a wheeze and hit the pavement, done for this engagement. I turned quickly to see Achilles bludgeon the last standing rowdy with a merciless uppercut. He connected and teeth sprayed up and out in a red spume, and with that, every one of the so-called assailants was on the ground, unconscious or wishing they were. I reconsidered my earlier assessment of Achilles as a fighter, and Patroclus, too. They weren’t just tough, they were artists. In the short display I’d just seen them treat a common brawl like a lesson in motion. Achilles was also gifted with strength like I’d never seen. Each one of his punches appeared to end fights rather than continue them, and he had a ruthless tactical skill that made him waste less energy than a hibernating bear.
Stepping over a groaning body, Patroclus said, “Soak your shirts in cold water first, lads. You don’t want them to stain.” And with that, we went to sample the eggs that he deemed worth fighting for.
The pub was dark wood and a long bar with high tables along the walls. There was a refreshing lack of fake decoration; early rock ’n’ roll posters mingled with beer signs from the past century, some made of tin and embossed with their respective logos. I didn’t see a single American beer on tap, and a chalkboard proclaimed that the daily special was shepherd’s pie. Under the pervasive aroma of ale, appealing smells drifted from the galley-style kitchen which ran concurrent behind the bar for fifteen feet. A single female cook in a black chef’s jacket worked smoothly as she delivered steaming plates to the stainless steel pass-through table. She met my eyes as the three of us took seats at the bar and smiled. Pretty and friendly, she had enormous brown eyes and ash blonde hair cut short and piled under a kerchief decorated with the Union Jack. It was a nice touch and looked completely at home on her. I decided I would enjoy the food regardless of what I ordered since the chef projected such confidence from her domain, a quality I could appreciate. Patroclus and Achilles didn’t even look at the proffered menus; they sat patiently in an eerie calm despite our recent brawl. They were old hands at slugging it out, so it wasn’t surprising that they should be so blasé about popping a few drunken rowdies, not after the elite soldiers they had dispatched through the centuries. Our barkeep appeared in front of us, a tall, willowy Goth with amazing ink all over her arms, and a brilliant smile. It seemed that the aura of the staff was infectious because we all found ourselves smiling back at the woman, whose brilliant blue eyes twinkled as she leaned forward on the bar, listening intently to Patroclus as he placed our order.
“Twelve Scotch eggs. Three black & tans. You have barley wine tonight, I see?” He indicated a hand-drawn sign as she nodded. “We’ll take a nip bottle after our meal. Thanks, Dina.” She ogled Patroclus for a moment and then, grinning, turned to the touch-screen register and began tapping furiously. We watched her pour the pints, a fascinating bit of mixology as the lighter ale sat obligingly over a plume of dark, rich Guinness. Dina set the expertly poured glasses in front of us and whirled away to other customers. In unison, we all took our first gratifying sip of the India Pale ale that lingered on top, golden and mellow even in the dim light of the pub. Achilles merely grunted, I smacked my lips, and Patroclus saluted Dina who waved from the other end of the bar. It was just good policy to thank your barkeep; they had the power over your next drink, and in our case, a late dinner. Without a word, Achilles then gestured impatiently at me with his open palm, twitching fingers indicating I should give him something.
“Hand it over, Ring.” Patroclus spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, and rather than play dumb, I reached carefully under my shirt and pulled out my knife. He took it gently and began to examine the blade carefully, testing the balance in his hand and, with a noise of satisfaction, passed it to Achilles. While I watched the second, more thorough inspection take place, Patroclus asked, “How old do you think it is?”
“Maybe fifty years, give or take?” I wasn’t really sure. It had always been in my family. I assumed it was a commercially made, albeit high-quality knife that my uncle Hring had purchased at some point. The resulting laughs told me I wasn’t just wrong, I was seriously mistaken.
Achilles held the knife to me, handle first. “It’s Scandinavian. The hilt is a replacement, for certain, but the blade is at least . . .” he closed his eyes in thought, “I’d say third century B.C., maybe a little later.”
I sputtered, “Wh-what? Seriously? I thought it was, well, no one ever said anything was special about the knife. It was just a gift, a birthday gift. Actually, it wasn’t even wrapped.” I looked at the blade with renewed respect. I’d killed over a hundred Undying with the knife, and have always assumed I was just using a simple tool, not a museum piece. “What kind is it then, if it’s that old?”
Achilles said, “Damascene. Water steel. The best ever, in my opinion, and as you may guess, I have very specific beliefs about weapons.” He smiled at that as I mentally tallied the number of weapons he had used through the centuries. If he said it was the best, I would take it as gospel.
“Is it from Damascus, or Syria?” I wondered aloud.
Taking a long pull from his pint, Achilles shook his head, and Patroclus interjected, “India. Damned fine sword makers from there, and many of the blades they crafted are still around. It’s a rare blade, and you can tell it was made for war, not show, because there isn’t any decoration except for those runes, which are most likely a simple family motto or a declaration of devotion to God.”
“So, it’s not some sort of magic, or, I don’t know, enchantment?” I asked, curious.
“Nah. “Achilles dismissed that notion out of hand. “I’m not saying those things don’t exist. I’m just saying that knife is made for killing, and it does so by being wielded by someone who knows which end has the point on it. That’s you.” They both laughed at my discomfiture. I wasn’t used to being assessed as a fighter, but he wasn’t done
. “You handle yourself well, Ring. I always went for the big guy, too. It’s just common sense to take the biggest bull out of the fight, so you can get to the ones who aren’t sure they want in on the fun.” I felt a mild surge of pride at the compliment from a demigod like Achilles, but stowed any pride in favor of a simple nod. “I owe you—hell, we owe you one. They could have ruined my evening.”
I waved scornfully. “They were amateurs. If I spent a second worrying about clowns like that, I’d be in the wrong vocation. But,” I said, as an idea formed, “I accept your offer and would like to collect on the favor tomorrow morning. Specifically, I need to borrow Patroclus’ unique qualities for a few minutes. Nothing dangerous, just a bit of business. Do you mind?”
Box Set: The Fearless 1-3 Page 43