Seven Devils

by J A Stone

  “To check on you, she’s probably tracing your path here, or still at the corral,” British replied, stepping closer to her partner, tilting her head slight to the side and meeting the steely-blue eyes…something was wrong, they both sensed it immediately. British chirped twice, her field command for muster. The Knights dropped their gear and circled around.

  “Rob, Tom, Logos, with me,” British ordered. “Danica and Iris double back around and meet us there.”

  Warfell and Iris shot away through the tree trunks and British jogged with the boys back to the huge mansion and the livestock pens…

  Greenstick

  Bitch Fey only

  The bloody words seeped into her heart as a lead weight, pushing her to the ground. She kneeled by the body as Warfell and Iris arrived, quietly stepping in close to see.

  “Greenstick. Where exactly is Greenstick?” British said, picking up a twig and twisting it in her fingers, studying the intricacies in the bark of the wood.

  “It’s a lumber facility. Ten miles due north,” Tom answered faithfully with his face in the map. British snapped the twig, coming awake and facing her friends to meet eyes with each. At length, she spoke.

  “Determine if anyone here has knowledge of Jeff. Danica, take one Knight and follow at a long distance, give me time to get in. The rest—come in wide and fast, giving Warfell time to get in. Before I leave, I need to see what Lord Agabarth knows or has on Greenstick.”

  “Aye boss, on it,” Danica pointed to Logos, and Logos pointed to himself.”

  One thing never ceased to amaze Danica Warfell; British Fey’s eyes. The big brown orbs studied the fat old man’s grey pinpoints as she asked several direct questions. She saw no lies in the frightened man as surprised as she was.

  “I need information about Greenstick Farms?”

  “It’s abandoned, the owner died, willing the property to a distant relative in White Falls. She came out and closed everything down, that was ten years ago,” Agabarth offered. “It’s a shame, the trees are still there getting fat. The Greenstick is the strongest hardwood tree on the planet, coveted, worth several fortunes.”

  “The buildings, grounds?” British pushed further.

  “Derrick worked there as a young fellow, he knows how the facility is set up, Candace? Will you call for all staff?”

  “Thank you Lord Agabarth. When I end this creep, I will get those lands for you, if you agree to open trade with Fort Salvos,” The old man bowed deep; British just made a powerful ally, despite her distant thoughts, praying Tawnee was alive and that she could get to her in time…

  Greenstick Farms

  Captured again? Tawnee thought as she opened her brown eyes. The Saber-toothed Wolfhound began to growl low and deep, moving his massive head closer. She could kiss him if she could get past those incisors.

  “Roth is unlike any canine on the planet,” said Jeff as he stood nearby. “He is possessed I believe.” Roth whined at a high pitch and then resumed his steady, fervent growling—daring Tawnee to move a muscle—like she would if she could.

  “Define, possessed?” she asked meekly, hot dog-breath choking her nostrils.

  “See, that’s why you people are so stupid, you work for a Ghost but cannot fathom the term possessed,” Jeff shook his head and Tawnee tried to move, no way, strapped down tight. “Roth, come here boy,” Jeff spoke and the huge dog with shaggy long hair vaulted to his side.

  Now Tawnee could see the saw, the conveyor belt, and her doom looming overhead.

  “You like that?” Jeff cracked a gruesome grin. “The Greenstick wood is so hard, we use diamond-tipped saws to cut the lumber. This thing here,” he gestured to the massive blade overhead, “is rigged to cut you in two—sagittally. Do you understand that word? So sorry, I forget, STRAIGHT UP THE MIDDLE FROM PUSS TO HOLLOW HEAD!” Jeff screamed and Roth ran in circles with excitement. “Once I set the final sensor, any movement in this room will put the blade in motion. To make it better,” the tiny man approached Shadoweye. “It’s best if you are completely silent, so…” the tiny fist came down hard on her neck, crushing her windpipe.

  Jeff quickly administered a strong sedative with a needle in her thigh as Tawnee violently struggled to bring in air; he then made the cut roughly on her throat to shove in the tube so she could breathe. When Tawnee’s blood spackled the folds and wrinkles of Jeff’s face, the Wolfhound went ballistic, barking, howling and leaping in circles over the pungent smell of the crimson fluid.

  “Okay you just stay here and relax, your precious British is coming for you. I need to prepare.”

  Hours later, the sedative began to wane. Jeff returned.

  “Time for us to talk, Tawnee Shadoweye. My guess is that British is outside. I’ve set up some traps for her—should be an easy catch.”

  Tawnee concentrated on the breathing, the agony of taking air in through the hole in her throat was unbearable. She prayed for strength and closed her eyes as Jeff talked about turbine-rotor systems, advanced motors and his ability to change the world. She found herself drifting, falling backwards into the abyss of dreams and nightmares…

  *

  Tawnee, can you hear me?

  The familiar voice of British’s Father.

  “Yes Sir, where am I?”

  Where do you want to be?

  “Home, safe with British.”

  Take my hand, do you wish to be stronger?

  Tawnee knew damned well what the Spirit was offering her. She also knew she was jealous of Danica and British both. She knew the additions of Souls gave incredible strength, stamina, and amazing knowledge.

  She also remembered Warfell’s written report of her adventures in other dimensions—her doppelganger dies horribly.

  Yes, that is a possibility, you must be brave for me, or I cannot help you. At this moment your mortal form is in danger. To succeed, if we are to save you…

  Shadoweye clasped the long bony hand and nodded yes, yes, yes.

  *

  Earth 2018

  Tawnee kept her eyes shut to absorb her surroundings. She heard music, felt the vibration of the thin mattress her body lay upon. They were in motion, some sort of craft. She heard a voice, a familiar voice and Tawnee sat up.

  “HEY back there sleepy head, still in Texas, damn this is a boring State,” British said from the cockpit of the vessel, holding a wheel much like a boat.

  “Heard that,” a voice came from the co-pilot. A man turned around and Tawnee recognized Viggo Frantz. She kept her cool.

  “You have hair,” she commented to Viggo.

  “Why wouldn’t I,” he replied, running a finger through his long, perfect locks. He was young, maybe twenty, but Tawnee could discern the receding line up top…it was coming, or rather going.

  “Oh, it’s happening dude,” Tawnee smiled, rising and taking a seat behind the drivers of the RV. She saw the paved road, and careened her eyes about the sophisticated vessel, clearly rolling across the ground at incredible speed. She watched the other vessels, some smaller, some huge!

  From the driver’s seat, British held her hand out and Tawnee extended hers, only to see Viggo’s reach the small dainty palm first. She jerked her hand back and scratched her head. Wonderful, she was a third wheel, and these two are a freaking couple!

  Tawnee turned around to face the living area of the van-sized camper. She saw the guns, the gear. Well, at least they were up to no good. She silently prayed to the Aequitas Caelum for them not to be robbers—no answer.

  “Brita?” Viggo asked.

  “Yeah baby?” Brita-British asked back.

  “We need to get a room somewhere.”

  “Not until Arizona Vinnie, if you’re tired, go back there and sleep.”

  “Fine, Tawny? You wanna switch?”

  “Sure,” Tawnee said to Vinnie-Viggo with a smile. At least now she had the names. “How long have you been piloting this craft?” she asked like an idiot as she took the front passenger seat. Brita gave her a weird look.

>   “All day, half the night. I’m good til Arizona,” the pixie replied with a smile and Tawnee wanted to cry.

  “Long time,” Tawnee replied.

  “Not when you are pumped-up on ice,” Brita answered as she pulled yellow vapor from a glass tube attached to a small rectangular metal box. She offered the devise to Tawny and she politely refused, lending her attention to the well-lit road and the many vessels passing them.

  She never saw it coming, the truck veering into their lane, the gruesome contact and screeching of steel as they rolled next to the gasoline tanker.

  Time stood still, the roar of the crash muffled as though it were a distant thunderstorm. Her vision went black and Tawnee began to drift in the dark ethos once again…

  *

  Aleutha, Greenstick Farms

  British climbed quietly through the branches of a Greenstick tree, finding a nook to observe the complex two hundred feet below her and settling in. She pulled open a night scope and surveyed the many buildings—could be any one of them.

  Damn I could use Dad right now, her thoughts. The morning fade sky subtly brightened to the equifade—the daylight was coming, she needed to make her move fast. Where would she hide someone?

  “Inside the lumber mill,” she whispered to a wide leaf.

  “Then fucking go!”

  “I’m going!” British snapped-to from her one sided conversation and began her vertical approach to position herself over the largest structure.

  It didn’t take long.

  Tin sheeting, great, more thoughts while sliding silently down a tether-cord, placing her feet gingerly upon the metal roof to test the weight.

  Tawnee was going insane, her seasoned mind showing signs of the impending collapse. She held an image of British in her thoughts, using the force of love as a shield against the encroaching harbingers of death.

  Four identical women, four of them. Tawnee watched in horror as a living Caelum Fey strangled her Doppelganger on the Moon Occia. Again, on Tibor, he eviscerated a teenage Tawnee as she stood in line to see a concert. Finally, the Spirit brought the Assassin to a nether-world where she and Danica were brutally torn apart by a pack of feral creatures beyond description—it was too much to bear.

  But she was growing stronger.

  Straight from the horrid attack, Tawnee Shadoweye burst her brown eyes wide to the real world. Jeff was gone—Wolfhound as well.

  No hesitation, grasping the excruciatingly slow volumes of air through the windpipe tube, she concentrated on the hands, twisting, expertly working the thin climbing tether, deciphering the knot and snatching a hand free within seconds.

  The pain was intense, Tawnee moved slow and calculated to undo her torso from the straps…

  Before she could untie the feet, she knew what she had to do. Tawnee sat upright, closed her eyes and reached for the tube in her neck carefully pulling the thing out, immediately thrusting her thumb inside the hole, probing her trachea and tugging the cartilage cylinder’s edges until it popped back into place.

  She pulled her thumb back enough to hold the puncture wound closed as she took in a full breath—and then threw up to the side. No time, the left hand tore the right sleeve away from her shirt, she retracted the thumb plug and wrapped the cloth tight about the wound.

  It wasn’t enough, just buying Tawnee the time she needed to tear her silk blouse up, wadding a proper plug and a fresh wrap, and hustling the new field dressing into place.

  There—finally—Jesus H. Christ.

  The strange remote name surfaced from Tawnee’s battered mind. Jesus was a Piscean Sun God who destroyed a massive kingdom—killed some guy named Socrates. She knew the knowledge was not hers and Tawnee cried inside for whichever girl it was, vowing to give them all a voice, eyes to see, some kind of life beyond what was just done to them.

  Seconds for the legs and feet and Tawnee was free. She slid down the side of the conveyor belt, carefully touching boots to sawdust floor and crawling beneath the massive equipment, regressing deep into the shadows.

  Now she needed a weapon.

  Several miles away, Tom Snow, Bigfoot and Iris stopped to rest amid a grove of Summer Oaks, barren of leaves, the branches twisted into grasping sticks by the millions.

  “Okay, we need to hold back, stash the mounts, give Danica and Logo enough time to get into position,” Tom was a very efficient leader.

  “Weh need to hide ‘em quick-like,” Iris offered, gently patting Dare’s wide muscular neck. “You stay close bebe,” she cooed to the highly intelligent Sand Pony.

  “Um, guys, look,” Bigfoot pointed to an approaching rider. The man did not see the three as he navigated his stallion between the tree trunks as quickly as he could.

  They watched him pass in silence. It was Dougal, the Constable of Carthage Down. After a long moment, Tom motioned Rob and Iris close to ear and whispered.

  “No way a po-dunk little town gets a Master Swordsman as a Sherriff, no way.”

  “Heh knows ‘bout Greenstick—where heh’s headin’,” Iris added.

  “Alright move, Rob, sorry buddy,” Tom leaped for his Black Racer as Iris bounced upon her Sand Pony. Robbie was stuck on his big feet.

  “You guys swoop around from different directions and herd him to me right here,” Bigfoot offered what he thought was a stupid idea, but Tom and Iris smiled wide. It was a good idea indeed.

  “Knock his block off buddy, tank that bastard,” Tom grasped the reins and took off through the forest. Iris said nothing, she nodded and Dare bolted away in the opposite direction.

  Just outside the Greenstick compound, Danica kneeled next to Logos who was trying to keep his cool—keep his breathing steady after the arduous jog on foot.

  “Boss? Danica?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Yeah Lo?”

  “Why’d ya pick me, when you know I’m the weakest link?” he lowered his eyes to the brown leaves on deck. Danica gave him her penetrating blues and the Dwarf just wanted to die.

  “Shhh,” she admonished and Logos blushed.

  “Cappy, I don’t want sympa—” he tried but Danica placed a palm over his tiny mouth, pointing to the facility. There was movement.

  Jeff was leaving the mill, a huge, hairy dog at his side. Above, they saw British scampering across the massive roof. Warfell stood immediately, jogging into the open with Logos right behind. She whistled sharp as she and her companion made the front gate.

  The Dwarf and the Wolfhound flashed about to see the six and four-footer just outside the property. The intruders began climbing the wrought-iron bars and Jeff leaped to the Wolfhound’s back, laughing shrill and darting away—deeper into the expansive lumber processing facility.

  Warfell and Logos hit the ground running.

  Above them, British slinked into an exhaust vent.

  Less than sixty seconds in:

  “Okay, this is good, I mean, I’d have never thought of this.”

  “Don’t move Lo-Lo,” said Warfell, her cunning blues racing to find the answer as she studied the situation at a rare, genuine loss. “Damn it all, where does it—”

  When they ran, a set of circular spikes vaulted up like steel springs from either side, catching Logos clean between the two bones of his right leg and completely through his wooden lefty. He was pinned down, dead in the water.

  Warfell was faster—barely—the sharp steel destroying her boots, sending her to the dirt face first.

  She struggled to find the catch on what seemed an unbroken ring of metal when Logos offered his take on the intricate trap.

  “Isa wooold takes and BRAKES it…With a mah toofasis…mah MOUF, ha ha HA HA HA!” he laughed as though sporting his third belly of beer and Danica knew he was sedated—probably for the dog—wonderful. At least he didn’t seem in any pain.

  “Asha least Ima PAIN FREE! WHOO-HO!” the poor Dwarf shouted her thoughts and collapsed backwards. Danica carefully checked the pulse, breathing, yeah, drugged for the hound.

  “I gotta come b
ack for you buddy, and you are not our weakest link,” Warfell leaned over to kiss the weather-worn cheeks and the sleeping Knight smiled like an idiot. She panned her experienced blues over the grounds, stood and whispered to no one. “I am.”

  She left the boots behind, running like a blur for cover of the fading shadows and entering the same building she saw Jeff leave moments earlier.

  The massive saw assembly engaged the second she creeped in against a wall, screaming a high-pitched wail. Danica jerked her repeater free, noticing where someone had been tied, and wincing as the disk of merciless teeth ripped through the ropes and straps left behind. That was Tawnee she was certain of it, of course the crafty escape artist got free—thank the Gods and Devils alike.

  Warfell moved into the open and a figure bolted out of the shadows from the corner of the warehouse-sized building—it was Tawnee! They came together, and hugged tight in silence. Danica quickly gave her a long hip dagger and an automatic pistol. She frowned over the neck wound, but raised her brows over the sight of Shadoweye wearing only a thin suede vest.

  “Like your scarf,” she whispered, “and all that—crazy shit—going on, ahem!” Warfell tossed a finger in the air around her friend’s cleavage and belly. “Sorry, not a lesbian, just an observant, observatory, ah, observeravionalism-istic, you know, shit like that.”

  Tawnee gave a quick thumb’s up with a wink and a warm smile, kneeling down to scratch a tactical in the sawdust on deck, not yet realizing she would never speak another word for the remainder of her days.

  Out of nowhere, British dropped to the ground like a bird. The little pixie rose gracefully, looking at her battered, half-exposed lover, and then at Danica.

  “Am I interrupting something slutty here?” she tried but Warfell just pointed.

  “Are you kidding me? Look at her!” Warfell meant the neck.

  “I know Right?” Fey only saw the boobs, the tight belly and Tawnee punched her, then kissed her, then hugged her, quickly jerking her upper body back and clasping the throat in pain.