Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  My eyes found Gyro, who had begun barking at a lizard with enthusiasm. The lizard goggled one eye at him from its perch on one of the boat davits and gave him the unmoving, reptilian equivalent of a middle finger. For a critter who weighed less than an ounce, it didn’t appear that he scared easily. Score one for the lizard.

  “Well, he’s not that kind of dog. In fact, I’m not entirely sure he’s a dog at all. I keep expecting him to ask for an oat bag one morning. Drink?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Yep.”

  I brought her a beer and we sat down at the kitchen table. She drained a third of it in one long swallow and belched. It appeared that Risa’s size clone had Wally’s manners. I liked her even more.

  “Sorry.” She blushed. “What did they find out from the Tolsons? Anything?”

  I didn’t want to reveal the incident with Davis, so I stuck to the other side of the story. “Quite a bit. We got their emails, all of them. They gave them up without any fight, not that we went in there with guns blazing, but still, it was amicable. Wally and Risa can be rather persuasive.”

  She laughed. “I’ll just bet. I read a few of them, just enough to whet my appetite for their sources and such. I think that Boots may have been able to hide some things from me. It wasn’t like I was torturing him, anyway.”

  “Right.” I gave her a bland look.

  She laughed, knowing that what Boots endured with her couldn’t be construed as torture under any circumstances. “You know what I mean. Anyway, I think that someone was giving them reports from a cult or something, some guys who thought they were ‘sacred spears’, whatever that means. I read a bunch of them, let me tell you—those guys were not fucking around. They were—” She faltered for a moment.

  “Zealots?” I offered.

  “Yes! That’s the word! Like a church, but a crazy-ass church where everyone carries spears and recruits old army officers to hunt someone down. Something, I should say, because they clearly knew that they weren’t just chasing some random bad guy.” She pulled at her beer again. “They also killed whatever happened to be handy at the time. Yeah, they were totally focused on this one thing, but if any other creatures meandered by, they were more than willing to take them down, too.”

  “How many of these reports did you see?” I wondered about what kind of timeframe we were looking at. How long had this so-called Bishop been on the run? And didn’t they catch him, not once, but over and over?” That little fact confused me when I read it. What was the point of it all? Who would hunt an Undying of such vile makeup and let it go to kill again?

  She counted on her fingers, and then gave up. “Twenty? Thirty? All from the same email address. These nuts have been chasing this guy since, oh, jeez—I guess since the first time the Muslims invaded Spain.”

  “What? That’s over twelve hundred years! And they didn’t kill this guy? Are you sure that these spear carriers were on our side?” I was amazed. It seemed their target was a rather resilient criminal. He must have had legendary abilities.

  She shook her head, and her braid tossed about, flicking water droplets into the sunbeam through the kitchen window. “Nope. Oh, they caught him, every time he popped up from some hole. It was always the same thing, too. They would get wind of him somehow, send a few people there, usually from this cult, or church, and then they would get on his trail and absolutely run him into the ground. It was like unleashing a pack of dogs on a fox, except this guy managed to kill almost all of the hounds, every time.”

  “He did? Weren’t these hunters highly skilled?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Oh, ya.” Her accent was coming out as she polished off the beer. She didn’t strike me as a lightweight, but I made a note not to let her get too soused. I wanted her to keep talking. “They always hunted with the same weapons, I guess they’re sacred.”

  “What were they?” I queried. We were in my territory now.

  “Spears. Long, really sharp points. The first ones were bronze, maybe, but eventually, they used steel. The hunters were dedicated to using these really old, fire-hardened shafts that were polished and kept . . . I don’t know where, but they were just for these guys to use. I guess it was all part of the ritual, you know. Like Neith or something.” She looked for a trash can; I took the empty bottle and turned to her, curious.

  “Neith? What’s that?” I asked.

  “Not what. Who. Like, oh, Diana. Or Artemis. You know, a goddess of the hunt, all that stuff. Anyway, it seemed like everything those spear hunters did was really . . . structured. They wrote in really stiff language, like it was some kind of legal document. For hunters they sure did seem to like filing reports. It seemed to me like they were on some sort of schedule,” she finished, and I offered her another beer. She accepted and grinned. “I’ll behave. I’ve got an empty stomach.”

  “I can remedy that.” I began pulling snacks out of every place that Wally could stuff them. It was an extensive collection, and Scarlett stared for a minute.

  “Who eats all this crap?” She eyed the spread suspiciously.

  “Wally, of course. She’s like a garbage disposal with a great rack. Okay, so you were saying, structured?” I prompted.

  “Yep. Structured all the way. They wrote really detailed reports, and sometimes there would be a second page, like a—I’m not sure how I would describe it.” She looked at me expectantly.

  I took a shot. “An after-action report?”

  “Right, like that. A sort of a check-up on what happened, did they think that asshole was still tucked away somewhere, were all the bodies of the hunters properly cared for and sent to a special place, things like that.” She tossed a handful of cashews into her mouth, and chewed while grinning.

  “A special place? Like where?” That sounded intriguing.

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Wait—it was a river bank. Yep, a river bank, that’s all I remember. I thought that was kinda weird, but people go really crazy over the dead.”

  That was an understatement. Wars had been fought over a single corpse, and I’m certain that the person who was the source of the conflict would have been disgusted at what was being done in their name. I searched my memory for anything that sounded remotely like this cult of the spear, or however they identified themselves, but it was just too alien. I shelled several pistachios and handed them to her.

  “Oooo, love these.” She tossed one in her mouth and crunched with gusto. “Even better when I don’t have to shell ‘em.”

  I dipped my head in thanks. Customer service was all part of the plan when investigating an immortal murderer who seemed to get roughed up, hibernate, and come back with a vengeance every few years. It was a bizarre way to keep evil in check.

  “Do you think that all of the things you read are true?” I asked her. This was the actual crux of the entire issue. Was this real, or was it fabricated for some purpose that only an Undying would understand? Given our history with these beings, it seemed reasonable that they might create such a story.

  She put her beer down and slowly wiped salt from her fingertips, then deliberately put her hands flat on the table, spreading them out and leaning forward. I noticed how petite she really was, and waited for her to finish her thought. It was as if she ran everything through a filter before speaking when she was giving extra consideration to an idea, a trait that I frankly envied. When her lips moved slightly and with finality, I knew she had come to her conclusion.

  “I didn’t believe it at first, but then I kept reading . . .” She fell silent for a moment of reverie. There was one memory, one fact, which had done the trick and made her a believer; I could see that on her face.

  She touched my arm and stared at me. “They caught him in France, once. He was cornered against a bluff that was cut by a river I can’t pronounce, but it must have been a very old place. The report described it as a bend that was dwarfed by the rocky cliff, and the sluggish river curling along. There was an old mill nearby. It was from the time before the Black Death hi
t Europe, and it still stood. The hunters were all highly trained, men who had seen a great deal of blood and were not afraid to hurl themselves into the teeth of the enemy if need be. Something about that group, I don’t know, it just stuck with me. They chased him up the embankment and he tried to create some sort of diversion, but they saw through it and got him in the ruins of that mill.” She paused and let her fingers go loose. Her knuckles had been pressing white against the table as she spoke.

  “They encircled him and used those spears, just like every time. He fought like a bear, tearing them apart with his hands after they pried his axes away from him. He carried two axes, ghastly things, and yet, those brave men were able to overwhelm him there at a terrible blood price. The butcher’s bill was nearly total that day, except for the man who lived long enough to write it down. Their points bit deeply and they defeated him. He leapt into the river, streaming blood from a dozen wounds, and the last hunter watched him roll across the rocks at a portage some distance below. He wrote something I didn’t understand at first, but I looked it up. He watched the face of the Bishop and said that as he was bleeding, he seemed to lose his focus and purpose for fighting.”

  “That would only seem natural if a man is wounded that badly,” I told her, evenly. I could not imagine the discipline needed to withstand that kind of assault and still stay on mission, whatever that might be, for this elusive Bishop. Or was he really so difficult to find? Maybe he was just tough. He certainly got in enough close-quarters brawls with these hunters, and yet, he managed to rise again.

  “Well, that’s true, but he was found again in a thing called an oubliette. Do you know what that is?” She cocked her head at me and waited.

  “A torture pit. It means ‘a place of forgetting’. I’m well aware of them, unfortunately.” Delphine had spent the better part of a month in one, of a sort, and I found them to be as barbaric as anything I knew about. Loneliness and despair were their own kind of torture, even without rats, filth, and diseased water.

  “Right,” she agreed, pleased that I could place the word. “Well, if he was found in one of those places, I wondered if it wasn’t just when he was wounded, all cut up, you know? Was he trying to forget what his purpose was? Or was his memory being taken away from him somehow? It just didn’t make sense to go sleep and heal, or whatever it is he does, in a place like that. He always wakes up. Wouldn’t it seem harder to clear his head if he chose to spend several years in the bottom of a muck filled hole? Why not just sleep at a deserted beach? I know I would prefer the beach to some terrible, stinking prison.”

  She had a point. “I don’t know. And that’s why I believe it. There’s so much detail and it’s all so pointless to me, to you, too—wouldn’t it make sense that this kind of being behaves in ways we would find mysterious? Or maybe crazy?”

  Crazy was the key. “Like a zealot. But not one of the hunters. The opposite of them, seeking something that he wanted badly enough to keep killing and nearly being killed himself, over and over through time, until he finally gets what it is he’s been looking for all these years,” I said, working it out as I spoke. “He sounds real, and we know he’s on the move, so the next thing I need to consider is why.”

  “Why what? Why kill hundreds of men, or why awaken and begin coming west, to some little city on a coast where there just happens to be three people who snuffed out one of the most aggressive, evil immortals that existed in the last five millennia?” She smiled slyly after her outburst. “Sounds pretty stupid to me, but I don’t think there’s anything random about this Bishop coming here. Just my opinion, but what do I know, I’m just a water girl.” She frowned at her empty bottle. “Make that a beer girl, but you get the picture.”

  “I can take a hint.” I opened the refrigerator door and let the cool air bathe my face. I think I knew, at some level, that there were no more accidents in our lives, not since last year, and it was naïve to expect anonymity. Boots Tolson told us as much with his shock at our failure to remain incognito while we engage in this unusual occupation. Looking back, I saw that we’d made mistakes based on arrogance, inexperience, and more often than not, ignorance. I twisted the cap and handed Scarlett the frosty bottle. I had to let this go for now because I needed Wally and Risa with me to work out the details. The term guided missile came to mind when I thought of the Bishop crossing the oceans and coming, presumably, for us. But if he was on the move, how long would it be before his hounds made their appearance? Scarlett said that these men with sacred spears never failed. I hoped that streak wasn’t about to end.

  She looked contemplative and fell silent for a moment. “The Tolsons have a very substantial list of friends, most of whom they’ve never even met. I would spend as much time as I could—mostly when Ella was out of the building—and their emails go back for years. I couldn’t believe how many immortals were stupid enough to get found out.”

  “Was it pride on their part, or are there just that many people out to get them?” I asked.

  She tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. “It’s not any one thing, it’s a lot of little things, ya know? First, they get too hungry, and then, they get too sloppy. Or they trust the wrong humans. I bet that for every immortal who gets run down, half of them are because they wanted a piece of their old life back, so they take on a human girlfriend, or a human husband, friend, whatever, and someone talks and then three or four emails later . . .” She clapped her hands together loudly. “Pop. Done. One less vamp, or witch, or druid, or things I don’t even know about, but one less.” She shook her head in amazement. “I’ve even seen ‘em fight for little stuff, meaningless things. I read about one argument, I think it’s a family kind of fight, but this banker is hoarding old jewelry, and his rival, I think she’s a Grief Eater, well anyway, she’s putting the screws to this guy Dieter—”

  I grabbed her arm. “Dieter? Dieter who?” I asked, edgy and taut.

  “Hey, leggo—I don’t know, some banker, he has a bunch of houses and things that this family is brawling over, there’s a place down here, too. In Fort Lauderdale, an okay house, I went by it just to check it out.” She stopped when she saw my face. I was rigid with interest. “Ring, you’re kinda scaring me right now.”

  I schooled my features and let out a breath to slow my pulse. “Scarlett, do you remember where this house is located?” I asked her, quietly. I purposely averted my eyes, lest she see them burning with interest.

  “Umm, sure. I can take you there, but I’m kinda buzzed and I thought I might hang out on your dock. Catch some sun, maybe?” She looked hopefully over my shoulder at the fridge. I decided to lighten the mood as I handed her my phone and instructed her to type in the address. She complied as I got her another beer and began sorting snacks for her afternoon of leisure. Once I saw the address, I knew that I had to cool down in order to think critically about how we would approach the property. My first impression was to approach at night; all of Elizabeth’s so-called daughters seemed more active under the cover of darkness. Perhaps a simple stake out was in order, though in a residential neighborhood, such a thing was easier said than done. I quelled my wild thoughts and drew my full attention back to my guest. After I got comfortable at the table, I asked her something I’d wondered since she first told us of her exploits as a Swimmer.

  “You know what I would love to hear about? What else is at the bottom of all those rivers? I’m not going to ask you to reveal your source, but tell me about this civil war ship. I love history, especially if it involves a secret.” I leaned back and relaxed, as if I didn’t have plans for the afternoon, and with the way Scarlett was putting away the beer, neither did she.

  53

  From Risa’s Files

  Action Report: 28 Oct. 1963

  Goddess, this report is written in the midst of a scene which is unfolding precisely as You foretold. We are, at this time, engaging forces in the Tell Atlas Mountains, and as You predicted, the Bishop is at the heart of this conflict. Armies from three nations have
skirmished in force over a border dispute here in the Sahara. There have been significant casualties, but our Faithful have fully compromised both defensive lines of the belligerents, and we are encircling the foul creature in his command position upon the setting of the sun.

  Whereas, he has inspired a local war to consume several thousand men—

  Whereas, as You command, we will root the beast from his temporary command and flush him to the south. The wadi You have suggested is near enough that we, numbering nineteen, will not need anything to achieve Your goals, save our spears and our feet.

  We gratefully thank you for the care You have, in Your mercy and wisdom, promised to our families in the event we do not return. We thank our Goddess, our life-bringer, and assure you that our desire burns as brightly as ever now that we are in range of the offending creature, who You command us to reduce.

  According to the wishes included in Your blessings, we will wound him severely. We will also detach three servants in Your name to carry his message of failure and depravity to the soldiers and tribesmen he caused to fall under his counsel. They will know of his greatest failure, the one that cost him his station and all hope for empire so long ago. We carry this message with joy in our hearts, and beseech You to trust that soon, his foul blood will soak the Moroccan sands, far from the Holy place of Your dwelling.

  54

  Florida

  Time was not my friend that afternoon, and I needed to be relaxed when I investigated the property Scarlett had led us toward. With some effort, I tabled the idea of even a casual drive-by, leaving the nondescript house in a decent but forgettable neighborhood for later. A quick call to Wally led me to Risa, who both agreed that we would approach the property together or not at all. That was the kind of solidarity that would keep us alive, and simply knowing they would be with me let me exhale with relief and proceed with my evening. I demonstrated several key facts for Scarlett, such as where the bathrooms were, how to slice limes without severing a finger, and where Wally kept her best selections of food that had no nutritive value whatsoever. I turned on the outside speakers so she had music to doze to and left her, Gyro at her side, to prepare myself for an evening that verged on the surreal, at least to my prosaic mind. I planned on being a very well-behaved wallflower, and that would begin with proper attire.