“We need to find Elizabeth, too, not just the key to killing her.” Risa’s eyes bored into the screen, and she adopted a steely set to her jaw. Wally scooted her chair close as they began searching for something. What, exactly, I wasn’t sure. “Two birds, one stone, all that shit. You go talk to Boon and Angel. We’ll tell Liz specifics as we find them,” Risa ordered, her voice firm with certainty. She was in her element, hunting for ghosts that would lead us to Elizabeth, and Wally could temper her determination with a softer brand of cunning. “Go, tell them. We will be here.” Her tone grew milder, and I left, knowing that she would never want me to see her cry from anger, let alone sadness. I left to tell our family that we were leaving to do something stupid, and I felt my eyes grow hot with rage, but I told myself it was only the sun.
61
From Risa’s Files
Saint Petersburg, Russian Empire, January 1905
Daughter,
I write you knowing that it may be difficult for us to remain in contact over the coming years. War is coming, child, or perhaps wars, but violence of an unheard-of scale since the Roman Empire will cover this continent, and soon. From my window, I see a street that will be running with blood when the peasants find their mettle, but they will not do so without paying a ghastly price. There are old, sedentary empires here on this continent, stale with rot and afflicted with boredom that makes warfare seem like a distant pursuit. Unlike the dominion of that wily little Corsican, this war will not be fought with swords, but the fruits of factories that even now choke the air and rivers with their filth.
Like an expectant mother, I both await and welcome this era. The harvest of souls will be without limit, and if I were to stack the bodies upon one another, my head would soon rise to where I could brush the shadows from the moon itself. I know this all to be true because I have worked to create such an atmosphere of class hatred and aristocratic cruelty. Together, they ferment into a noxious hatred that will gut this land for decades to come. My only hope is that you are alive to see it because this dedication to slaughter is a masterwork. The poor turn to a tin-eared God, who ignores them like the filth they truly are, leaving them crushed under the inexorable might of the aristocracy’s limitless greed. Even now the emboldened Nipponese wage war in the east. I can happily report that their lust for killing is robust and creative. They will prove most useful in the coming years as their racial xenophobia is wielded against their subordinates without limitation. What an exciting time to be alive!
I expect the first shots ringing in the streets at any time now. I have a series of identities that position me to both dominate and coordinate local affairs for either side. Remember, dearest, that limiting oneself to a single possible victor is a fool’s errand. Death knows no politics, and only the delicious heat of a dying soul can convince me that, yes, that peasant did not die in vain, since feeding me should be their last act of service to this cadaverous continent of emperors. In that vein, you should know that I will never let you die in this life or any other because your service to me is rendered only through your pain. Take that as an assurance and know that I would see you buried alive before I’ll allow you the escape of death.
I understand you’ve met a charming British officer just returned from a pleasant stay with the Boers. Trust me, the creation of scorched earth in the Transvaal will pale in comparison to what is coming. On a happier note, how many times will he roll on top of you, grunting like a hog, before he realizes you are infertile, like the dusty battlegrounds he left behind? Not many, I think, and then you can kill him and tell yourself it was an accident, just like all the others.
And there will be many more for you to bury. I think your tastes are more wanton than you wish to admit, but once a camp whore, always a camp whore. Only the firelight is different—you will be illuminated by the flames of this continent as it burns, but you remain the same queen who reigns only while on her muddy knees.
Your Loving Mother,
Elizabeth
62
The Archangels Karen and Khalil
“Why am I here?” Khalil asked, and his voice set Karen’s teeth on edge, transporting her back through time to the years with Roland. She knew bad when she heard it, and this guest that Elizabeth sent to her was poisonous. After a decade of black eyes and broken promises, she was an expert in bullshit, and he had the stink of it all over him. He sat on the bench at the edge of her studio floor, his back rigid and a general air of resistance permeating the space he occupied, but Joseph and Elizabeth had appealed to her directly, so she was determined to obey their request, but doubt still burbled within her mind, unwanted and unwelcome, and then Elizabeth walked silently into the room and smiled genially.
Khalil leapt angrily to his feet and demanded, “You! I have stewed in that house for a month, and yet no one has come to see me.” Remembering Karen’s presence, he cut his eyes at her and flushed as if she could infer his meaning, but Karen was taken aback at the outburst. Khalil sputtered and went on for a moment until Elizabeth placed a finger over his lips and shushed him gently. Her smile never faded, but her eyes were bright with something baleful.
“All will be answered, Khalil. I have something for both of you,” Elizabeth said patiently as she removed her phone and tapped a key. The disturbing, drunken notes of Kyle’s guitar drifted up from where she placed the phone on the bench as tinny discordance began to fill the air where Khalil’s indignation had floated seconds before.
“Can you dance to this, Karen? You said you were a dancer, remember?” There was a note of steel under her words now, and Karen, too stunned to respond, began to sway experimentally to the broken song from a broken soul, but gave up almost immediately.
“It’s just too—I’m sorry, Elizabeth, it’s not even music, just noise.” Karen was apologetic, but Elizabeth’s face only hardened further.
“I see,” was the frosty response. An awkward pause lengthened like an afternoon shadow, finally broken when heat and sullen light wavered over Elizabeth, who vanished, only to be replaced by a slender girl.
“Perhaps Khalil will respond better to me?” She turned her pert nose to him and smiled, revealing perfect teeth beneath the eyes of a deadly predator. “See, Karen? You just need to be prettier and lots younger, like me. Right, Khalil?” She leaned up and slid her tongue in his ear, then ran both hands down the length of his torso and let them rest for a single, scorching moment on the near instant erection that announced his secret sin with the subtlety of a foghorn. “You just needed someone like me, young and fresh, not all dried out like that old hag. She couldn’t even keep that asshole Roland from fucking her own baby sister, right, Karen?” She asked in a cheerful teenaged voice, so far from Elizabeth’s worldly pitch. With another wash of heat, Elizabeth was back, and she moved quickly to catch Karen as she wobbled, overwhelmed with the enormity of such an assault on her memory.
Looking into Karen’s eyes, her face was the picture of care and concern, “This,” she exhaled sadly, “is all my fault, I’m afraid. I’ve given you too much, things that a drunken husk like you couldn’t possibly use.” Elizabeth turned to Khalil and winked conspiratorially, “It’s really one of my greatest faults. I always spend so much of my time giving, that I often neglect my own needs. I really must take some time for myself one of these days.” With her courage returning, Karen tried to twist away from Elizabeth’s grasp, but found her arms purpling under the iron fingers that crushed her and took her back in time to the black years of being a sobbing punching bag. “No, no, no,” Elizabeth drawled as if to a child, softly, but convinced of her rightness. Karen winced and began crying freely, but Elizabeth’s only response was to tsk twice and double the pressure. Tendons began to part under her inhuman hands, and before Karen could black out from the horrific pain, their mouths met as Elizabeth whispered, “I’ll need my gift returned now.”
Just as she had taken corruption from Joseph, she gave it to Karen, who began withering in seconds, hair going lank, eyes cloudin
g murkily, and lines deepening a face that had been youthful and pink only moments earlier. With a muffled cry, the wasting disease of Elizabeth’s gift ravaged Karen, who was held in front of the floor-length mirror as she dissolved into a ghoul before her eyes. “Watch and see. Your pain, it is . . .” she searched for a moment, and then chuckled in admission of her inability to describe the sensation, “I wish you could feel the satisfaction, the glut, but you cannot, can you? That is only for me to savor.” Elizabeth’s whisper was triumphantly demonic as Karen emitted one whispering, pain-wracked sigh and died. She let the cadaverous remains of what had been Karen fall to the polished wood floor with a careless thump, regarding her handiwork with obvious pleasure. With a gleefully vicious downward kick, Elizabeth brought her heel to bear on the bridge of Karen’s now-mummified face, and the skull collapsed with a series of crunching snaps. With her chest heaving from the infusion of power at Karen’s death, Elizabeth turned her eyes to Khalil, who stood rooted to the spot, awash in fear and feeling impossibly small. A single step brought her to him, and one of her arms roped around his neck as she pulled him to her in a last embrace.
“You should consider yourself blessed, I think.” Her free hand dug into his groin through his pants and began to tighten like a vice. “Yes, blessed. I think that your departure will be swift, but painful. Of course, I could not allow you to leave without feeding me properly, but the speed of this is the reward. You understand, don’t you?” She was matter-of-factly ripping his genitals from his body as she planted a light kiss on his cheek, while a soundless shriek tore from him as air rushed out of his lungs, hasty to flee the dying man. Before his eyes went dark, he implored her with his gaze, but she threw her head back and laughed, long and hard, the noise echoing hideously from wall to wall of the studio. She swung her bloody prize in front of him like a dangling taunt, and then tossed the ruination of his manhood to the floor with a ripe splat as he was allowed to fall. Glowering over him in a pose of complete triumph, she felt his spirit begin to weaken even as her body grew stronger. Her heels clicked with finality on the wooden floor as she left him without another thought, but he only heard the lonely sound of his demise for a second. Then came the darkness, and he, too, was gone.
63
Florida
My discussions with our friends had been grueling and more than a little sad. Angel had taken the announcement with quiet contemplation and then crushed me in a bear hug with his stovepipe arms as he slapped my back with enough force to make me cringe. Liz, upon hearing the news, had been conflicted. She was too intelligent to ignore reality, but our history and her imagined debt to us made her discomfort palpable. When I walked slowly into The Butterfly, Boon regarded me with enormous eyes brimming with tears.
She sobbed into my shoulder as Pan, quietly resolute, put one work-hardened hand on my arm and said softly, “We will be waiting.”
With each step from the Hardigan Center, I felt myself imbued with a strange lightness as the reality that my leaving might secure their future. I can live with that, I mused, and it dawned on me that I was being truthful. By the time I pulled into my own driveway, the wispy beginnings of confidence bloomed within me. We were right, and this decision was right. I felt it, I knew it, and we were going to win. How we would find Elizabeth and her victims was another issue entirely, but I opened the door fully expectant of nothing less than a miracle.
I tossed my keys on the table and viewed a scene of complete luxury before me. Risa lay next to Gyro on the tile, rubbing his belly as deep, cavernous groans of thanks drifted from the beast. He was a full yard longer than her, but gazed into her face with such adoration as only one thought could be seen in his expressive face. Thank you, Mother, please continue. Wally was perched on the couch folded nearly double, applying nail polish to one of her long toes with an artful flourish. She leaned even further and blew delicately, trying to dry her artwork before some mishap forced her to begin the process anew. At this moment and many others, I am thankful to be a man, as I cannot fathom the effort needed to paint, buff, polish, and groom my body to be considered, at best, a mediocre example of the female gender.
Without stopping her ministrations to Gyro’s groaning bulk, Risa said, “I found an interesting real estate purchase in New Orleans, something that sounds quite promising, in fact.”
That grabbed my attention, even with Wally splayed like a boneless chicken next to me on the couch. It was a lot more appealing than it sounded, with her knees up and a mile of leg in either direction. I waved an invitation to explain. I was still adjusting to the delicious chill of the air conditioning, so for the moment, my chatter was at a minimum.
“In a two-week period, the same Swiss corporation purchased not one but six very pricey, very private homes in the Garden district of New Orleans. They’re all quite close together, have high fences and limited street view, and all suddenly became available after stable owners vanished or decided to sell, for reasons unknown. I haven’t found anyone willing to discuss the sales with me, not even the agents, whom you would think might be eager to prove their selling prowess in this soft market.” Risa stopped scratching Gyro, who let loose one long, mournful sigh and closed his eyes. He knew when not to be greedy, an admirable trait. Six houses in a small area, under odd circumstances, and with cloudy details. That seemed rather pat for the lucky buyers. I was with Risa and Wally on this one; it looked off. Then Risa delivered the clincher.
“Remember the letter from Elizabeth where she intimated that she had walked to a new place and then had to wait for a ship to carry her back? Well, the corporation that bought the houses in New Orleans certainly doesn’t have a very Cajun-sounding name. It’s the well-funded Bering Strait Holdings, based out of Bern, Switzerland, with the very Cajun-sounding Herr Kreiger listed as the managing partner, although the actual owner is somewhat less, let’s say, available? Visible? Regardless, it seems that Herr Kreiger is the face man for Elizabeth, and maybe he himself is an immortal as well, although I can’t imagine that bitch allowing anyone of power within her circle. If she even has a circle, it’s probably more like a pentagram.”
“Bering Strait? So, the land bridge from the last Ice Age? Maybe she did walk here after all,” I whistled appreciatively. Elizabeth was really old, not just from an era where saddles were unheard of, but maybe from a time that domesticated horses were unknown. No wonder she was so cavalier about violence. She’d probably seen every form of butchery that has ever existed, and a few she had no doubt invented, just to satisfy her artistic side. Risa’s fishing trip yielded some excellent news. On one hand, we had to go to New Orleans to hopefully lay waste to a paragon of evil within her own walls. On the other hand, I was fairly certain it was something that had already happened in those wild streets once, twice, or maybe a dozen times. New Orleans is a city that knows how to party. A little dustup with the devil wasn’t even a reason to close the bars, let alone clear the streets.
Risa stood and patted her stomach. “I need a shower to wash the remains of this day down the drain. And before you ask, yes, I’ll go with you to get that bitch.”
I looked at Wally, who was smiling with the confidence that she was about to negotiate with me and win. I know enough to respect that smile.
“So, slim,” I pleaded. “Fly with us, kill the mistress of the underworld or whatever, have some dinner, and come home?”
She made show of thinking, tapping her jaw pensively. Then she pulled her shorts off in one motion and let her knees fall apart again, a soft, golden triangle of tightly trimmed hair bared for me in an irresistible invitation.
“I could be persuaded,” she allowed, her voice loaded with promise, “and mind my fresh polish, love.”
I knelt to my work. Sometimes, it is good to be a man.
64
The Archangel Enoch
Joseph was beaming again. “The luster is without equal. Look at what a scholar’s hand has wrought here in this simple workshop, albeit with the help of a true craftsman su
ch as Davis, but still, it is a point of honor for you, Doctor Mpemba.” Enoch could not help the slight flush of pride at Joseph’s compliment, despite inwardly retaining a simmering distaste for everything he had tolerated these past weeks.
“Thank you.” Enoch’s response was short but mannerly. He inclined his head politely, unwilling to foment any further camaraderie with a man who was still most likely his enemy, although he was uncertain as to precisely how he was a threat. That became clear with the ominous click of the door, followed by the sound of Elizabeth’s shoes percussing the scarred concrete floor of the shop. Enoch felt his balls involuntarily retract at the cloud of danger that prefaced her appearance, but he steeled himself and leaned casually against the bench, the Negwenya momentarily forgotten.
“Enoch, what a delight.” Elizabeth stopped and cocked a hip in a pose that verged on playfulness; it was a facet to her personality that had remained fully obscured until that second. His animal brain went instantly alert at the silky tone of her greeting. This is danger, his body raged at him with an internal shout. A single bead of sweat pearled down his nose, a drop of liquid betrayal that he refused to wipe away as he let his stubbornness reign for the moment. She wore a vintage suit of deep red fabric that seemed like a frame out of time, and her hands were gloved, a true oddity given their location and the temperature. “Davis is out seeing an old friend. I’ve arranged for so many meetings and private events this week; I confess that I feel rather like a socialite.” Her convivial grin was nearly disarming. She truly seemed to be in high spirits, but Enoch remembered the taste of his own blood, and the recollection gave him pause. “Do you,” she began, thoughtfully, “recall an interlude with a woman named Victoria? Tall girl, sparkling eyes?”
Box Set: The Fearless 1-3 Page 46