Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  “Things like houses in New Orleans?” I asked, remembering all of those two story tombs she purchased to house the victims she called Archangels.

  “Exactly. But there’s more to it, really. You see, if someone powerful enough could subvert her underlings, or at least control them long enough to wring every last bit of information out of them, then that immortal would gain enormous power of a different sort. Elizabeth styled herself as a queen in the making, but what was she, at her center?” he asked, patiently.

  I held my chin in one hand, reclining in the boat chair, while I weighed his question. “Other than petty and arrogant? I think she was a thief. A glorified, silky thief.”

  He chuckled and said, “Elaborate, please. What did she steal?”

  “Life.” I spat over the railing after answering. She’d been gutter scum and I cursed even her memory.

  Achilles twitched his fingers at me, and said, “Yes, life, but how?”

  “Well, she . . .” but I stopped. I wasn’t certain I knew. “I never knew her to do anything except kill. I didn’t see her feed on flesh, or anything mundane like that.”

  He bobbed his head repeatedly as I formed my assessment. “So, she was hoping to move past being a common feeder, a ghoul, vampire, succubus—what have you. That means she was something else. She wasn’t a witch, and she wasn’t a druid or anything remotely related to the earth. She was definitely corporeal, so that rules out spirits. Would you say that she was toxic?”

  “Well, sure.” I enthused. Toxic was the first word that came to mind when I thought of Elizabeth, although lately, I’d worked very hard to forget her entirely.

  He pointed at me, asking “What is toxic?”

  I could think of hundreds of examples, but something clicked in my memory and I recalled how Elizabeth was so coldly beautiful. “A snake.”

  Achilles smiled. “Close. A serpent. And believe me, there’s a huge difference. Take it from a demi-god, serpents are much more complicated than a belly crawler who wants to bite a leg and ruin your day.”

  “Serpents have nests.” I stated.

  “They do, but they also tend to be solitary, and there is one kind of serpent that is always found alone. When I ask you what Elizabeth left behind, I don’t want you to think that war is coming, despite what I said earlier. Ring”—he leaned in to me, earnestly—“there is no resting among the truly evil. War has never left us. You know this, because you’ve seen it firsthand. For all I know, you may have already seen the usurper who has come to prize her power, her goods, all of her things from the dust of her existence, but the fight this time will be very different.”

  “Why? I’m not really any faster, and if anything, Risa and Wally and hell, even me, we’re all a bit gun shy.” It wasn’t exactly breaking news to state our current disposition. Then, I wondered aloud, “You’ve seen one of these things before?”

  “Yes.” Then he temporized. “At least, I think so. Much of my opinion is based on—well, it’s built upon a very basic system of which Patroclus is a fan. Me? I’m a fighter. He’s a thinker.”

  My thoughts drifted to Risa, and I nodded. I could relate. “What is the system for, other than keeping immortals straight in your memory?”

  “It’s important to you because soon enough, you and your partners will have to make a decision. Man or beast?” He lifted a brow at me and settled, awaiting my answer.

  “Excuse me?” I shot back. I don’t like guessing games.

  “Soon, you’ll have a choice, or at least a partial choice. You’re becoming less human, but that isn’t a mystery as to why or how. What is unclear, at least to everyone except you, is what direction you’ll choose when the tipping point is reached. So I repeat, man?” He waited. “Or beast?”

  Choices. It appeared that even in the world of the Undying, free will still existed in some form. I took solace in that, because it seemed that underlying character determined how much you could choose to be a human, or descend into the grip of a beast. I knew which way we would all break, since Risa and Wally were, above all else, good souls. Even by associating with women of their quality, I increased the likelihood that whatever happened to us all in the future, I would make the moral decision that best reflected a better heart. I hoped.

  “Did Patroclus face this same decision? Did you, for that matter, since you aren’t like . . . well, like him?” I asked, choosing my words carefully. It was a rather small boat for incendiary comments, but Achilles grinned and defused my concern.

  “He did, but the result was never in question. Even when we were children, he was better than me. He still is.” The respect in his voice was tangible, and I basked in the knowledge that I called Patroclus and Achilles my friends. “But, there are bloody days ahead, Ring. And the unwary soldier—”

  “—is a dead soldier.” I finished for him, and he smiled. But this time, it was feral.

  22

  Chicago

  “What’s wrong?” He asked her gently. If he had learned anything of her emergence, it was that frustration was an unfortunate side effect. There were entire days of lucidity, and then there were moments, sometimes hours, of confusion and animalism. There were guttural noises, sweat, and the stench of fear as her eyes rolled and she fought a silent internal war for command of her own body. The intermittent spikes of intense violence had left them both battered on occasion. She’d even broken his ribs once, and raked his shoulder so deep it required stitches. Her apology had been a mottled song of sobs and words smeared with genuine regret, and then they moved on.

  She looked around them at the city. “I do not know anyone.”

  “Well, of course not. We just got here, and—” He was cut off by her exasperated sigh. It was a very human sound, which boded well for the remainder of the day.

  She shook her head, slowly and with the type of regret he had come to associate with a deep, bitter recollection. “I mean, I do not know anyone at all. Other than you.”

  That brought him up short, because it was essentially true. In fact, the reality was even grimmer. The last soul of a true human that had known her, loved her, or been related to her, had died before the Egyptians began crafting the art of empire. It was a vast gulf of time to be on the wrong side of, if you were looking for family, and he knew it, so he merely nodded and held her hand. She stroked the back of his ordinary arm with a tenderness that belied her strength. For someone who had killed thousands, she was disarmingly petite and kind, now that she was rediscovering her humanity. It was almost enough to let him forget how they had been a year earlier, when he was her Helper and she was . . . something else.

  “How can I help?” he asked, simply. Despite his earlier tendencies, he liked to think of himself as a nice boy, even if he did enjoy the type of carnage that made lions blush. How a year could change appetites.

  For the second time in as many days, the hint of tears brimmed on her face. She wiped one away and looked at it on her fingertip with the curiosity of a child staring at an insect. While the tear was natural, she was not, or at least, had not been for the better part of ten millennia. To see something so normal issue from her body was a physical sign of her newness, and she was both pleased and frightened by the possibilities it signified. She tasted the tear with the flick of her tongue, her eyes closing slowly. They snapped open and she stared at him. Shadows danced behind eyes that had seen an eternity, and then she smiled so slightly that he wasn’t even sure it was real.

  “I want to go back to Florida, Ethan. I want to be around people who know what I was. I want to be near someone who can help me remember, so that I do not fail. I am very lonely, and I am sad. Take me there?” Esther asked plaintively. There was nothing of her former self in that question, another testament to her ongoing rebirth. She is a tiny phoenix who retains her fangs. I must not forget that, he mused.

  “We leave now,” he agreed, taking her hand in his and standing. They would go south. There was nothing here for them, and the prairie was even worse. Bones still
lay undiscovered from Ether’s years of roaming, and if she was serious about her future, then so was he.

  After all, being helpful was his purpose.

  23

  From Risa’s Files

  To:RRW@HardiganCenter.net

  Sender: Chanticleers@REDACTED

  We cannot find who sent us the emails and we don’t have the ability to find them. They’ve effectively vanished, so it places the information we received in a different light. If you find another angle on what we’ve told you, pursue it. We have no need for internal disputes. As far as we’re concerned, we both want the same thing.

  He is still on the move, but tracking him has become a bit more challenging. He’s staying away from the beaten path, or at least places that have security cameras and CCTV as a regular part of the landscape. That means he’s doing two things: island hopping, and exclusively using boats. That doesn’t mean his trail is cold, we’re just following the blood trail, and it’s getting longer each day.

  There was another pair of murders of the Sicilian coast. It feels like his style, if what our source told us is true. Obviously, that’s up in the air. Neither one of us thinks that he’ll stop killing, but the way he’s doing it is different. Since you’ll know all the details soon enough, I can tell you that my brother and I agree that he is changing very quickly. We don’t agree on much, but we’ve seen this target leave corpses mostly eaten, then drained of blood, and now, with these last two, partially eaten. His needs are different. I’d start looking for him around Gibraltar or Mallorca next. Maybe some of the smaller islands around those big rocks, since he’s still a bit shy?

  Either way, I’m left to wonder why we were told about this beast. We both think you were being masked by someone or something, and that you really don’t give a shit who knows about you. We’re okay with that if you are, but it’s risky. When you want to share more information, let me know. We’ll meet you here, or there, or wherever is safe, but it has to be in person. Assume that these emails will be read by something bad. We always do, and we’re minor players. For high profile scalps like yours, I wouldn’t even use a credit card to order pizza. These immortals are too smart, too damned determined. And they never, ever forget.

  24

  Florida

  “Are you going running with me?” I asked Wally, who was in the middle of absolutely nothing. She cocked her head, thought a moment, and then very delicately extended her middle finger; all while watching soccer on television. It was the second time in as many days that I’d been greeted with such rudeness. Ordinarily, such a gesture would be met with my swift brand of justice in the form of an ass-kicking, except when Wally did it, I actually got more than a little turned on. The other recent occurrence had been at the hand, or finger, rather, of Achilles, and I would rather wrestle a speeding truck than brawl with Achilles. Wally was another story entirely, so I calmly walked over to the couch and sat on her. Her reaction was to feign sleep, which she did with ease, much like an enormous opossum that had model quality hair and legs.

  “I can take a hint,” she said, smiling distractedly and pulled me down for a kiss, then shooed me away without taking her eyes from the screen. The sting of my rejection lessened, so I made for the door and stepped out into the early morning humidity. Lush smells greeted me, and there was still a hint of the overnight rain that had vanished from the pavement, but not the air. I got in the Wagoneer and drove off. As an American, I’m compelled to drive to a location where I will then, and only then, begin my exercise. To do otherwise offends my sensibility, and also makes it difficult to get coffee on the way. I’ve tried running and swigging hot coffee, and to no one’s surprise it didn’t work.

  I headed east on Sheridan street after making a command decision. West would mean going to TY Park, also known to people who have too much time on their hands as Topeekeegee Yugnee Park. While I have a healthy respect for Native American culture, I think that abbreviations are in order for certain terms. TY Park was one of them. Today, I headed east, which meant saltwater, not fresh, as I would run around the mangroves in West Lake Park. It was a quiet place that was simply named, close by, and offered a steady track with a lack of cars. I found both of those elements conducive to a good run, as they invariably lessened my risk of being run over. While I technically work in a high risk occupation, that doesn’t mean my daily life has to verge on suicidal hobbies like running in traffic. The entire point of my routine might have been flawed, in any case. Maybe I don’t need to exercise, but I cannot shake the echo in my bones that tells me I need running or swimming; something physical to satisfy an undefinable itch.

  I parked near the nature center in West Lake and, without further ado, settled into a brisk trot that most serious runners would consider laughable. For me, I enjoy the sun, the scenery, and generally convince myself that anything faster than a walk is truly running. With the ongoing changes in my body, I’m not certain that I actually want to know how much exertion it takes to really become fatigued. The water was its usual inscrutable self, being inland and protected from the chaos of the ocean or Intracoastal chop. Foot traffic was light, but I wasn’t alone. A solitary jogger approached from the north, and I immediately felt myself switch from curious to aware, a pair of mental states that I’ve learned to trust.

  She was just over five feet tall, with milky, luminous skin and copious freckles. She had a single wrist-thick braid of blazing red hair that whipped left and right as she took short, fluid steps towards me. Her enormous brown eyes were narrowed in concentration over a small nose, and she wore blood red lipstick on a mouth that, when she breathed in, parted to show small, white teeth. Some runners keep their arms loose; others look like they’re fleeing an oncoming tiger, but this woman, who seemed to be in her twenties, held her elbows tight to her ribs in an oddly protective pose. She smiled quickly as we met, and I caught the slightest intensification of salt air in her passage, as if a moist sea fog trailed her even though the sun was now high enough to be punishing. I discreetly watched her progress and ran on, reaching the cul-de-sac and switching gears into something a bit more respectable.

  She was gone. Somehow I expected it, and I slowed as my eyes began to seek details where there seemed to be nothing of note. The parking lot had the same vehicles, and I doubted she could run out of the area on foot without me seeing her, so I stopped, looking for motion at my periphery and allowing my natural curiosity to heighten my senses.

  There. Discarded sneakers, the ones she had been wearing, resting in casual disarray at the water’s edge. I squatted nearby without touching them, noting that the laces had been broken, not untied. That meant either a big hurry or powerful hands—or both. I took both of the shoes in my hands, turning them over, but they were unremarkable. So with the stolen footwear swinging from one hand, I headed to my vehicle with more questions than I had started the day with. If nothing else, they would make excellent toys for Gyro, so I resolved to place them in the backyard where they would be given a proper burial, after a ruinous chewing. I closed my eyes, imprinting the scent from when when she ran by, since it wasn’t unpleasant and I knew it from somewhere. Pushing to identify the memory drove it further into the recesses of my mind, so I drew a deep breath and turned for home, looking hopefully at the shoes sitting on the seat next to me, as if they could speak.

  25

  Ariana

  A simple glare sufficed to dissuade the hotel manager from further questions, particularly since it was accompanied by a generous tip. He was salty, unwashed, ill-tempered, and of no mood to deal with a sanctimonious pissant during daylight hours when he could not simply disembowel the offender. Something dark washed over his already sour features, and the point was driven home.

  “I’ll see to it immediately.” Was all the man said, with a polite inclination of his chin. The French presence in Tunisia had never truly vanished, but to find a vestige of continental manners was an unexpected pleasure after his days at sea, even if it had taken a waking dream of eating
the man’s heart to engender such a simple commitment to hospitality. Customer service is a dying animal, he thought, forlorn for the moment, but then brightening at the realization that he was much closer to his goals. He arranged for a week in the room; he’d need it. His shift was well upon him now, and in between feeding and sleeping, he could be vulnerable. Not to humans, but an unlucky encounter with a rival could lead to complications. Even the minimal ecdysis of his bodily emergence was enough to render him vulnerable to attack. He’d learned that even a master of his stature must be careful. Cavalier attitudes led to the unwarranted demise of many immortals around him, and the observant nature of his being noted their deaths carefully. He would not share their fates.

  A quick glance in the mirror revealed that his eyes were reddening from the irritation of fever. Soon. Perhaps even tonight, it begins. I will wait until moonset before my evening hunt, he decided, and looked out over the painfully bright streets. The Tunisian sun was so much like that of his homelands, but the tongues spoken along the street made him long for something that could never be again. Such was the burden of life everlasting, a choice that weighed heavily on the shoulders of those who would choose it. Not all were capable of burying their wives, their children, even their grandchildren. He had done all of that and more, watching his people rise and fall beneath the crushing boots of invaders again and again. He had buried an empire, then a nation, and finally, his own hopes of returning his native sands to their former glory. Now, there was only voyaging and pain. Along this path, he endured growth and machinations that wrenched him ever closer to godhood. He hoisted himself by sheer viciousness to the heat of a metamorphosis that would bear the power of blinding fury. And I welcome it, he thought, his wintry smile creasing a face darkened by the valiant sun from the Land of the Gods.