Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  “Oh my God! How did you know?” Delphine cried utterly joyfully.

  “Psshht. You’re a woman. You were in a well. It was dirty. End of story.” Risa seemed embarrassed but accepted the hug from a woman who had, up until recently, been considered someone to fear. “Let’s get you into your tourist outfit and get the hell out of here.”

  On that, we could all agree, and the walk back up the hill didn’t seem quite so bad that time. I looked back at the castle once, and then, after a while, even the tower was gone.

  Epilogue

  I was still breathing heavily from my run when I sat down at the table overlooking the water and sand. Hollywood Beach was my home turf, and I people watched while I ran up and down the boardwalk. The stretch of beach was covered with tourist traps, bars, and cafés. Like any other run, I simply went until I was tired, picked a spot, and sat down to have a beer and savor the scenery. The waitress hadn’t made her way over when I sensed someone nearby.

  And then my guest joined me.

  She was young, maybe eighteen, of medium height, thin, and very beautiful with an exotic quality that was oddly natural. With long, coal black hair and pale skin, she seemed out of her element at the beach. There was a hint of something Asiatic in her eyes, but the color was green and when she smiled it was a sunny but awkward expression, like she was trying it on her face for the first time.

  “Hello, Ring.” Her voice was musical but disjointed, and an accent lingered underneath it, but from where, I couldn’t tell.

  “Hello? And you are…?” I smiled back, noticing how stiffly she sat in the chair, looking down at her shoes and then back at me and in general drinking everything in at once. Esther. It hit me like a wave. She was nothing more than a child, but she must have been older than anything on the continent save the mountains themselves. “Esther,” I said, smiling, “You clean up nicely.”

  She laughed brightly, unpracticed but genuine. It was incredibly disarming until I reminded myself of what she really was. Or had been.

  Her gaze settled on me as the waitress approached, and Esther said distinctly, “I would like . . . a Coca-Cola, in a glass with some ice.” I ordered iced tea, and we sat for a long moment sizing each other up. “I like the bubbles. And so sweet! I never really knew what sweet tasted like.” She really did seem rather girlish, but with a mechanical quality to her movements. It was like watching an accident victim relearning the basics of life.

  “What brings you here? Is Ethan still alive?” My eyes were hard.

  “Yes, he is good. We are good. I am learning so many things about this place. This time, I mean.” The waitress sat her drink down, and she took a small sip and squealed at the carbonation. It was bizarre, given her age and lethality, but I felt myself relax at the humanizing gesture, if only slightly.

  “I came to warn you.” She drank again.

  “Warn me? Of what? Please tell me it isn’t you.”

  She ignored my open threat. “No. When I killed that daughter, I took her memory. Not all of her Arc-cane-gels,” She tripped over the word, “were killed. One of them is hunting now.” She sipped her Coke again and looked around in curiosity at the throngs on the beach. It must have seemed like another planet to her after ten thousand years on the prairie. “He thinks he is a knight, or a Pala . . . Pala”— she trailed off, frustrated by the word.

  “Paladin?” I asked.

  “Yes! That word! Like a knight, Ethan said, but a red one.” She was inordinately pleased with herself at remembering that fact. “I think red is bad.”

  I nodded, deep in thought. Before I could speak, she stood in a blinding flash and kissed my cheek. Her lips were warm and she smelled of soap and youth. I looked up into her green eyes, and she grinned, then her gaze went stony, and she said, “I will not hunt here. But someday, maybe we will see each other again.”

  “I’d like that.” I saluted her with my glass, and she walked stiffly away, swinging her arms occasionally to explore her newfound motion and body. The tattoo of antlers and moon stood proudly on the creamy skin of her shoulder, and I said to no one in particular, “I’d like that very much indeed.”

  The Waking Serpent

  1

  Ethiopia

  It started with the blood. It always began with blood, and this time was no different. The unlucky old priest that stumbled upon him had slaked his thirst for the time being, a momentary reprieve from the yawning pit of hunger that left him weak, even though he could not have been asleep for long. A year at most, perhaps two, he intoned, stretching upwards in a full body, crackling release of tension and stagnation. Instantly, he felt better as the vibrancy of feeding began to take root. Pulling the victim’s robe over his head, he left the remnants of the defiled corpse lying at an unnatural angle in the dusty grotto. Cave, he corrected himself. It was too deep to be a mere grotto, and he had only subjected himself to such a crude bed chamber due to pressing need. Run to ground like prey, the party of six acolytes had followed his trail with the relentless energy of hounds. Or zealots. Both, he decided, remembering how he had picked them off, one by one, until he found himself wounded, weak, and in sore need of a place to rest. Their weapons had found the mark too often for his liking, and the caustic memory of the attack percolated to the surface of his mind. Spears, long steel points on old boxwood shafts. They were highly skilled, trained somewhere, by someone who understood all too well what a unique threat he posed. The remembrance of them piercing him was disturbing, but he had killed them all, just as he always would. The strong always survive, and he was the strongest of all, but in that moment, he was also the hungriest, and that he must rectify with all due haste. The priest had been a good beginning, and nothing more. He licked his lips delicately in remembrance. Piety made for a more quenching drink, a fact that he learned through the centuries.

  Taking a long, searching gaze around, another tumbler clicked in the lock of his memories as the location revealed itself to him. Ethiopia. Ancient, just as I am. And, I think—he lifted his head and sniffed the hot, dry wind in a primal gesture-- this desert is far from empty. He stood unnaturally still, letting the air sift through his senses while he damned his temporary weakness. Memory was always sluggish after a sleep and a healing, and he would need another deep, merciless feeding in order to return to a more respectable state, one that gifted his faculties to him without limitations. Picking his way down the incline of shattered rock, awash with moonlight, first he heard, and then smelled a woman walking along the path, heard the tentative steps of her feet as she minced along without a light, using only the brilliance of the moon to guide her. He raised his nose and inhaled again, tracking her. Young, fearful. No, ashamed. She smells of sex. He ran a plump tongue over his lips as he considered her predicament. She was returning from a rendezvous of some sort, which meant no one knew where she was, and thus, no one would know where to look for her. With three leaping steps, he crossed into her path and stood very still. It would not do to frighten her into fleeing, as his reserves were thin this soon after the awakening.

  With a start, she became aware of him as she raised a delicate foot to step over a shard of stone that his landing had tumbled into her way. Eyes rounded with surprise, she quickly calmed when she realized he was not a family member present to chasten her for such unsavory activities as a liaison with a boy. She was willowy, with coppery skin and a mass of black hair, full lips, and owlish, black eyes that radiated the kind of curious charm only the young possess. He raised a hand to her, but she spoke first, quickly regaining her wits. Even alone in the desert, the girl exuded a quiet confidence that fairly shone even in such an unsettling situation.

  “Are you hurt, Abo?” Her musical voice was laden with earnest concern, and she used the Tigrinya honorific for a father, confirming it had indeed been a priest’s blood he had taken upon waking. How did she know? Confused, he followed her eyes. She was staring openly at the robe, which was spattered in blood and gore, glistening wetly under the moonlight. It was a mist
ake he would not have made had his wits been fully present, but his imaginary station as a man of God gave him the time he needed to close the gap between them. Tigrinya was a tricky language for him, far from his native tongue, and he had not spoken it in decades, if at all. In his moment of hesitation, the seed of fear appeared in her eyes, flickering brightly in the brilliance of the moon. He stepped to her, hands up in supplication, and fell to his knees with a crest of pain washing over his hawkish features. Blood went to work in his tortured body, as he began to throw of the lethargy of his unwanted rest, but healing was not without pain.

  The girl’s expression softened further when he stated, weakly, “May tsemie.Wancha?” It was as close as he could approximate given his degraded condition, but she shook her head in answer to his questions, no, she did not have a cup, and no, she did not have any water. Leaning to him, she extended a strong hand and the smell of her almost overpowered him, it was sodden with lust and he could sense her blood, rich and hot, mere inches from his face. Both hands gripped her shoulders as he rose to his feet, shakily, as a timorous smile burst forth from her at the thought that she may have saved a priest from dehydration.

  “Oh, but you do have a cup, child,” he said, his teeth gleaming in the night, “and I find your vintage to my liking.” The voice that spilled from him now was arrogant, aristocratic, and laden with evil. Before she could pull away, he drove his mouth forward as a pair of needle fangs burst forth and pierced her neck in a violent collision. Her scream rang thinly off the rocks as guttural, wet noises emanated from their cruel embrace. She shook. She fought. She pummeled him, at first, but his hunger was so grand, so vicious that he drained her in less than a minute as her bold, youthful heart began to slow and then stopped completely with a final, erratic beat. He was taller than the girl, and his powerful build let him hold her effortlessly as her feet swayed well off the ground, like dried stalks in a hot wind. Her feet pointed straight down, and then began to draw upward as her body collapsed in on itself, the gravity of his abuse leaving nothing of the girl behind save a moist husk, which he dropped to the ground, desiccated and spent. His mind surged wildly from the gluttonous feeding and he began to swell as a fever hot rush overtook him. Like an insane acolyte, he fell once more to his knees, baying at the moon in the shrieks of a maddened hound.

  It was hours later when he rose from the dust, fully restored and sniffing the air again, but this time, he searched for water. A boat, I think. His eyes snapped to the north, and he began to walk with loping, muscular strides over the rugged textures of the ancient land, but carefully. Her blood rested on his tongue like a frail copper key, and he wanted to savor the taste for as long as he could. His mouth fairly glowed with the heat of her purity, and he smiled again, leaping over another rut in the path. Such flavors were rare, and he was a connoisseur of blood such as hers, careful to keep her spirits on his palate as he pushed his pestilential figure towards the coast. In his newly awakened spirit, the first fingers of cognition began to pull him onward.

  2

  Florida

  “I know it isn’t much, but it’s clean, and if I may say so, I’m a fair cook, so you won’t go hungry. Bathroom’s on that end, and you’re welcome to all the towels.” She was a stick thin woman with a plain, friendly face and ash gray hair pulled back in a bun. Sweat glistened on her face from the effort of showing him around the efficiency apartment, but it was also damnably hot today and she was pushing eighty, easily. Fanning her face with a newspaper, the other hand plugged in an ancient but substantial looking air conditioner, which chugged obediently to life and began pumping cool air almost instantly.

  “Ha! Knew it still worked! We bought it brand spanking new at the Sears back when they used to have a store here . . .” her eyes went blank as she tried to recall a dim memory, then she waved a dismissive hand, “I think you’ll be really comfortable here. We think the world of the people over at the church, and I’d like to say that I’m pleased to have you.” She stuck out her hand with a genuine, warm smile and gave a vigorous shake to the hand of the man standing before her quietly.

  He smiled in spite of himself, “Mrs. Chase, just—thanks.” He really was thankful, and if he was being completely honest, he had to admit that everyone associated with the church had treated him like a human being, not some deadbeat loser, despite his rather grubby appearance. Three months on the road could really fray a man’s edges, and when he looked in the mirror, it showed. He unslung his backpack and dropped it on an overstuffed chair as his new landlord, of sorts, bustled about. “Do you need anything around here, ma’am? Is there anything I can help with?”

  She paused from her fuss and looked at him squarely, thought a moment, and then said, “You get cleaned up, and I’ll feed you some lunch, and then you head over to the church to see if they have anything going on. I’ve got everything I need, but you’re sweet to ask.”

  The young man stood reluctantly for a long minute, and then smiled shyly. Mrs. Chase had seen dozens of people like him, beaten up by life and just needing something, anything, really, to go their way. Since her husband has passed, she’d offered the little apartment as a way of giving something to those in need. And Jesus said, “Feed my lambs”. She smiled again, the wan, tired grin of someone who had seen so many hungry souls, and only had one room to give, but she did what she could, whenever possible. She had to admit; the young man in front of her seemed pleasant and mannerly enough, if a bit intense. At the same time, he radiated a kind of slowness, a patience that you might only find with a more seasoned person. His eyes were older, she thought, worn in by life but not to the point that he was without aim. No, there was purpose to spare within him, so Mrs. Chase made to leave and then stopped, remembering her manners.

  “I didn’t even ask you your name, dear. I’m so sorry. You are?” She nearly blushed at the breach of decorum. It meant something to her, and she prized what culture she could hold onto.

  “Davis Paladino, ma’am.” He stuck out his hand again to formalize their meeting. “But lately, everyone just calls me Red.”

  3

  Virginia

  “You’re certain of the authenticity?” It was a perfectly logical question given the rather delicate nature of the email.

  “As much as can be gleaned from this image, but if I had to wager, I’d say it’s not only real, but very recent. Maybe even within the past week.” He never took his eyes from the computer screen, which displayed the picture of a man, obviously taken at medium range. A lone, powerfully built man with a thick chest, dark hair, and deep eyes occluded by a strong brow. He wore the clothes of a working man, roughly used items of good quality, but some age. In one hand, he carried what looked like a very large duffle with relative ease, the other was empty.

  “Look at his pants. And his sleeves.” Both items of clothing had been cuffed, as if too long for the wearer’s body.

  “Stolen, or taken off a victim, no doubt. Good eye.” The compliment was ignored. They got paid to notice details, not miss them. “That’s definitely a port setting. The cargo containers are just visible in the upper left, and if I clean the image up a bit, I can tell give you sun and shadow positioning for a location.”

  “You’re overthinking it. Look here.” An abrupt gesture at the upper right of the screen indicated an archway lettered in three languages.

  “Mm-hmm. Let me zoom.” The screen drew closer, and the blue arch hove into sight, close enough to read. In the center top, curving across the thin sign, read, Massawa Port in block letters. “Eritrea. It’s the port on the Red Sea, so the location would make sense if it’s really him. He’s going north”

  “North of Ethiopia, true.” More tapping at the keyboard. “How long would it take a boat to get into the Mediterranean from there?”

  A pause. “It depends on what kind of boat. A week, maybe? Three days, at best, if it was leaving that night. The Med’s a big place, very long. A lot of coast and a lot of places to vanish if you want to.”

&nbs
p; Another pause, and then a contemplative grunt. “He doesn’t want to vanish. He doesn’t want to be found just yet, but it’s him. Since the picture’s too old, we know that the Red Sea is long gone, so any attempt at guessing his location right now would burn resources and contacts. This only leaves two questions for now, until we can get in place.”

  “I’d like to know how we got this image, and who thought it would be important to us.” That seemed reasonable enough. “What’s the second question?”

  A much longer pause, and then a gusty exhalation. There was fear within it. “He should have slept for much longer than a year. I can barely tolerate knowing he’s alive if he’s buried in a hole in the middle of a desert. But now . . .” the silence stretched like dead air on a radio, “I’m not sure we really want to know what woke him up.”

  4

  Florida

  “What about there?” I moved an inch to the right while asking my companion and critic. Wally was sprawled across the couch, squinting at me through one open eye. At nearly six feet of blonde beauty, she dominated what part of the couch was unoccupied by our lanky Great Dane, Gyro, who cared little for what was becoming, for me, a domestic debacle.Wally toyed with her hair, smiling coyly, her green eyes dancing in merriment at my increasing frustration. If she wasn’t so damned stunning, I would drop the painting and go sit on the dock in the sun, but her legs were an appetizing sight, just like the rest of her, so I pushed my ire down and tried to concentrate.

  “I am just trying to help you put it perfect,” she said reasonably, adjusting herself again for maximum comfort, as I lifted the heavy, framed oil painting. She made no move to assist me, but redoubled her efforts at achieving a maximum state of comfort by letting her sandals fall to the floor. Apparently, there were no plans for movement or effort in her future.