Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  I, Ring Hardigan, immortal hunter, picture hanger, and general ne’er-do-well, live with two partners, one of which is a slothful beast, and an enormous dog. Gyro, despite his animal instincts, is a good citizen and a general boon to my psychological health. Risa, my other partner, is a small, olive-skinned Israeli woman with dark eyes and soft, black curled hair that she tugs at when she’s nervous. Risa is compact, shapely, intense, and exotically challenging to my mind and body. Her full lips are nearly always pulled to one side as she thinks, which is to say constantly, and Waleska, or Wally, the aforementioned mannerless lout, is as physically and mentally opposite to Risa as possible, without actually changing species. Nearly a full foot taller than Risa, Wally is an Argentine of German descent, with green eyes, freckles, and a smile of blinding perfection. She eats like a drunken sailor, curses like one, too, and has a body that was sculpted by the Gods themselves. She’s stunning, but then, so is Risa, albeit in very different ways. We thrive together, and have done so for fifteen years, living in a home on a salt water canal in Hollywood, Florida. I am fortunate to be four inches taller than Wally and have black hair and blue eyes, so that when we’re in public together, we don’t look like family who gropes one another. In actuality, we’re more than family given our history together. There’s love, and respect, and then the life we have, forged from experiences dealing with immortal beings that are the epitome of evil. Oh, and we kill them, of course, unless they’re our friends, of which we have several. It’s all rather complex, but we make it work, all while existing in a state of emotional and physical matrimony that we all hope will never end.

  But back to the damned painting. In addition to being tall enough to hold it aloft, Wally thinks I’m strong enough to hold it up for all eternity while attempting to position it just so before Risa arrives home. She also assumes that I have nothing better to do, which is incredibly wrong as I am well aware of the fact that I possess cold beer in the fridge, a boat, two lovers, one of whom is present and presumably could be talked into a nude matinee, and a mind creative enough to weave all of those blessings into the makings of one hell of an afternoon. Stretching upward to find a stud in the wall, it’s one of the only times I’ve cursed my height. Being tall means that I am assigned any and all jobs that occur at a height of over six feet.I know that in order to maintain domestic harmony, the frame must hang. And so, I tap the wall expectantly, listening, then look at Wally, who frowns and smirks, tap the wall again, listen to Wally snicker, and then just grumble, pick an arbitrary spot, and drive a nail without further consultation.The lack of a reaction from Wally indicates my aim must be fairly close to optimal, since she shrugs and begins playing with Gyro’s ears.

  “There. Voila.” I stand back in admiration of my task.

  “Ring, honey.” Wally began, and then closed her mouth with a click. She covered her mouth with one hand and emitted a tiny snort.

  “Yes?” I snap, but more for show. She really does look incredible stretched out there, and I’m playing my angles for later, so I smile tolerantly at her interruption.

  “Have you noticed how fucking ugly that painting is?” Now she laughs outright, and I do too, because it really is one ugly-ass creation, regardless of the artist and age. I only knew that Risa asked me to hang it, but hadn’t given it a great deal of thought. Art is not my milieu, so I peered closely at the signature.

  “Oh, shit.” It’s been signed, all right. Achilles. I whirl in time to see Wally dissolving into spasms of laughter. Two of the immortals we’re friendly with are no other than Achilles and Patroclus, who currently own a brilliant restaurant, along with our human friend, Blue. Achilles has apparently taken up painting only very recently, because the rendering is—well, it’s enthusiastic, I’ll give him that, but it isn’t very good. It was no doubt a gift to us from the demigod himself, who naturally will expect to see it hanging in our home upon his next visit, which thus closes the logical circle of why I’ve been pissing away my afternoon hanging something that looks like a cat rolled in paint and then had a seizure. On a canvas.

  Far be it from me to criticize the artistic ability of a demigod, who could, despite my skill as a fighter, break me in three without a great deal of effort. Even Patroclus was a lethal fighter, despite having been a healer by trade, or at least until he became a chef, a skill he also achieves greatness at on a daily basis. Being an immortal let you hang around long enough to acquire disparate skills, it seems, and Patroclus’ adept nature with both blade and scalpel illustrated this perfectly. I looked once more at the supposed art, wincing, and the die was cast. In short, the painting would stay until we could arrange to burn the house down for insurance money, but I detest moving, so it looked like we were in it for the long haul.

  “Oh, that’s a bit more . . . vivid, than I remember when I saw it at the restaurant.” Risa said, putting her keys on the table and approaching the artwork like it was a coiled rattlesnake. Wally and I were putting the finishing touches on our newest home improvement.

  “He certainly does like the color yellow.” She giggled a bit at the awesome incompetence hanging on our wall.

  “And orange and green and I think purple, too. Is that a shrimp? Or a cloud, maybe? There in the corner?” Wally pointed from her perch.

  “I . . . don’t . . . know.” Risa uttered, taking it all in. She whistled air through her teeth and tsked. “But he’s a good friend, so, I guess we’re stuck with it.”

  It was a fair trade. When we had gone to do battle with our longtime adversary Elizabeth, Achilles and Patroclus had offered, unbidden, to watch over the renters in our strip mall, the Hardigan Center. My namesake uncle, Hring Hardigan, left the modest rental property to me, along with our home, in a generous gesture when he passed on years earlier. The renters aren’t really renters at all, they’re family. Attorney Liz Brenneman, in the middle, manages our charity, with which we quietly give money to victims and their families who have been harmed by the Undying. Next to her is Glenn Ferloch, a tree transplantation expert whose brother was murdered in England. That heinous act by an immortal was simply to get our attention, a clear indication of just how depraved their kind can be. Where Liz was aware of all the things we did, and what we hunted, Glenn was kept in the dark, by design. His loss was great enough that we protected him, and would continue to do so at all costs. Next, in the Center, was Angel, a mason with slabs for hands that could deftly work stone like magic. He’d done all of the stellar masonry and inlay work at Achilles’, Patroclus’ and Blue’s restaurant, named Strata. Angel is a squat bulldozer of a guy with a kind smile, who was all too aware of the way things really were in our unusual world. In the last slot on the left was The Butterfly, a Thai kitchen run by Boonsri, she of the beautiful smile, an ebony curtain of hair and ever-present bangles on her wrists, and her husband Panit, a wiry chef of quiet happiness due in part to a beautiful wife, great kids, and a full house at his restaurant every day. Boon’s sister Suma, an internist from Orlando, had nursed me back to health more than once after run-ins with particularly vicious immortals, and she was like a sister to Wally and Risa as well.

  To the far right was my uncle’s television repair shop, which I keep in its original state. The narrow space remained complete with faded signs and an ancient Formica counter as a sort of homage to his generosity. The smell of the space—sun roasted carpeting, a hint of electric grease, and dust-- make for a powerful set of memories. I like knowing where I came from. All in all, the Center, our friends, and our loves made for such interesting living, but it still didn’t change the fact that, for the foreseeable future, I would be greeted by an artistic affront upon walking in my own door.

  Sighing, I put the hammer away and wandered outside with Gyro to enjoy the sun. Sacrifice. It’s what makes relationships work.

  5

  Cyprus

  The violence of the sun was beginning to return. A week, perhaps two. No more than that, and I will be . . . limited, he thought, easing along the promenade. The pres
s of sunburnt British tourists was considerable, but he smiled patiently at them, one and all, with their red faces and squealing children’s piping voices adding to the modest chaos. It was a vibrant place upon his first visit, some four thousand years earlier, and it remained so, although the accents and clothing had shifted dramatically. Pleasant enough, he mused, looking at the appealing palms and thinking of the upcoming night. He would feed again, perhaps twice, and select a hotel of good quality for his rest. After two, or perhaps three days of that, he would begin the process of finding a very specific type of boater to carry him east. With his stout build and dark looks he was striking, but not so exotic that he stood out among the throngs of tourists and Greeks who flowed around him as he kept his leisurely pace. Only the occasional twitch of his hands as a particularly plush specimen brushed past indicated he had a care in the world, but his sunglasses hid the flare of hungry lust.

  It was good to walk, especially here. His recently acquired clothing was comfortable, and he knew that for now, living on a modest budget was an unpleasant reality of his current situation. It was always uncomfortable when he awoke, or at least until he could reach one of his strategically placed caches that dotted the known lands. He smiled at that. Sometimes, he rather enjoyed the cat and mouse of hiding wealth in plain sight, simply to see if the herds would stop to look long enough to recognize his little amusements. A few gems here, some gold or currency there, even the use of apartments, purchased quietly and left in disuse for his inevitable arrival. As a traveler, he never knew where he might end up, and he preferred his options to be numerous, convenient, and accessible. Discretion was his better angel, and a secluded location had so many interesting uses to a creature of his habits. Privacy being at the top of the list.

  The boat season was at its usual brisk pace, so leaving would not be an issue. Getting to the next correct location might prove somewhat more challenging, but he was confident in his abilities. He felt the first pangs of hunger begin to waken, and moistened his lips. He always listened to his body, honed to perfection after these centuries, and he knew that it was time to seek shade somewhere other than under a tall palm and begin planning his night.

  Ah, and here we are, a boutique hotel with separate entrances. Perfection itself. He peered up into the sky and noted that the second floor window looked out over an area crowded with cafés. An alleyway to his left was cramped and, he was certain, quite dark when the sun went down. No doubt a reveler or two, confused by alcohol, might seek to use it. Perhaps even a pair of newly minted lovers. He rubbed his hands together in good cheer, and began a purposeful walk to the hotel office.

  He simply had to freshen up before dinner.

  6

  New Orleans

  Somehow, the house seemed even more lifeless than it ever had been, even during the days when she tried, to disastrous results, to stop feeding altogether. Those had been days filled with gray, days of hunger and shame, an endless arc of self-hatred and loathing as she finally gave in to her needs, the damnable thirst of a succubus who had spent centuries learning to hate herself. Now, with no staff and no distractions, she found the black, impenetrable loneliness always lurking one quiet moment away. Delphine stood, bare feet on the smooth wood of her bedroom floor, dragging one foot absently over the stones that peeped upward through the wood at random angles like witnesses to her life of sin. The floor was imbued with a dark magic that caused men who trod upon the planks to revisit their greatest fears and shame, a torrent of memory and sadness so intense that it had resulted in death. Ring survived the trauma of entering her room and staggered, bloody but alive, to the bed perched in the middle, a place she had considered her safe harbor for more than two centuries. But even there she could not escape her own past, a column of ghosts that sprawled across the millennia, their accusatory voices finding her anywhere, anywhen. She was a killer, and the piercing sense of abandonment crashed against her without mercy.

  I thought I was strong enough to forget the time in that hole in the ground, but I am not. I still smell the water and rot and I cannot breathe, I swear it. I cannot forget, nor forgive myself. I am alone, as I was when the sea raiders came ashore three millennia ago, only now, I am the killer. I am the sinner. I must have peace. I must have redemption.

  Delphine, the petite, blonde woman of incredible beauty and resilience, yet condemned with the needs of a succubus, sank to her knees on the ghostly, cursed floor of her empty mansion and sobbed. Her head touched the floor, and she folded in complete supplication in her own grief, lifting her dark blue eyes skyward to see if anyone, or anything, could ever pull her from the grip of a torment that she knew would never end. She thought of Ring, and even Risa and Wally, and their sincere offer of kindness, and her own stubborn pride that drove her from their home, back to here, after they saved her from an imprisonment in an abandoned well half a world away. She thought of Father Kevin, a man of such rare quality that he not only heard her confession, but studied furiously to find the words that would assuage her doubts as to whether there was a path to her redemption. Yet here she slumped, awash and wallowing in her own despair, and she knew that the time of her pride’s death was at hand.

  I cannot be alone, not now. I --and it hurt her to even muse the words, but she winced and continued her thoughts-- I need them. All of them. I need purpose, and salvation, and I want to know what it feels like to be a human, and to be loved. They have offered it, and I must cease degrading my own need of an actual life worth living. Why did I walk away from Ring’s hand? From Kevin? Am I that sick with residual pride that I cannot surmount this one flaw and reach out?

  She stood. Delphine was a survivor, far tougher than her exterior would indicate, and she was not going to rattle about, lost in this house built on memories of a life she had grown to hate. It was time for her to take action, whatever that might be, but she would trust in someone other than herself for once, and she would begin immediately.

  She picked up her phone, clearing her throat as she wiped her eyes and schooled her features.

  “Yes, I need a car. To the airport. Right away.” She would live on her yacht, alone, if need be, but she would live. With each word, she began to feel—not stronger, but less disjointed. Ring will listen, he will help. She knew, even as she thought such simple things that therein rested the key to her future. She took a long look at the room where she had siphoned away so much life from men, all for her own survival, and she steeled herself against another bout of tears. Somehow, I will find a way to be more human. I swear it.

  Her sojourn was at an end. It was time to go south.

  7

  Virginia

  “They cannot be new; they are simply new to us.” Her tone brooked no argument, and he had to admit the logic was solid. They were too observant, peering into an enormous variety of digital sources for their conclusions. To find one hunter might be explainable, but to find a trio working in a major metropolitan area? Impossible.

  “Agreed,” he said, simply. “Why did we not see them before now?”

  “It’s troubling, I admit.” Anger tinged her voice; she did not appreciate puzzles that seemed to generate from thin air. “I cannot think of how they were hidden. There’s no way that they could have remained apart from the most general network searches.”

  He belched and set his energy drink down with a tink on the desk. “What if they weren’t hiding?”

  She shook her head dismissively. “We would have seen them. A kill, something in the local news, a police report. No, it isn’t humanly possible.”

  “That’s my point,” he began, leaning back in his chair. “What if they weren’t the ones doing the screening?”

  Realization dawned on her face. “A patron? An immortal protector?”

  Nodding, he straightened. “An immortal could afford the resources it takes to disappear.”

  She grudgingly admitted he could be right. “That would change the nature of just what they are. Are we looking at three Helpers, or something
else?”

  “That’s the easy part. We research them, top to bottom, and compile everything that we can pull.” That was a task he warmed to instantly, so he scratched a hasty note on a piece of scrap paper. “We can do it in two or three days, tops. Until then, what about our mystery killer?”

  She began pacing in the small room, a short, frustrating loop, but he let her go since she often thought well while in motion. “I haven’t read anything this morning; do we know he’s a murderer?”

  “Six bodies say so,” he stated flatly. She needed to get out of bed sooner. It irked him that she presumed to be his superior, yet she couldn’t govern herself.

  “How many? Six?” Her voice burst with incredulity at that number. Six victims in two days. On an island. Granted, Cyprus was a big island, but it was still a rather finite amount of land for that type of a bloodletting, and that fact led to several relatively obvious assumptions.

  “He’s strong, and he’s on the move. It won’t do any good to look for him on Cyprus; he wouldn’t kill like that without having his next step planned out. We need to look elsewhere. We need to get ahead of him.” He typed as he talked, with her watching over his shoulder as a map scrolled past on the screen. Cyprus. Then”—A finger dragged across the screen, east to west—“Another island?”

  She tapped a pensive finger against her teeth, nodding. “The next sighting will confirm, but I say we alert west, not east. We’ll also learn more about how he plans on traveling, I think. I wonder . . .”