by J A Stone
“Okaaay, we need to get you topside and safe,” that concerned the pixie. Danica seemed lost in romantic bliss.
“It’s his venom,” Iris stood. “Makes ya wet down thar.”
“Enough of this,” said Tommy, already irked at the whole situation. “Are we gonna kill him or fu—”
“Easy Snowman—she’s been drugged okay? Let it go,” British touched his arm.
“Sorry boss,” he met her eyes and nodded.
“Listen, for now we have a mission at Whiterock. Solstice is in three days. From this point forward, we internalize. All hands up top. Set a rotating watch—three at a time, savvy?” British helped Danica to her feet. “If the male Arenthian is looking to fight or—that, he’s gotta come to us up there.”
That Night in Tibor, King Aaron’s Private Chambers
*
Aaron twisted about violently in bed, trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake up.
“Stay down you sorry sack of shit.”
“Go sod yourself Shadoweye.”
Aaron had battled and slayed the infamous Kotare Assassin, Tawnee Shadoweye countless times before in his dreams, but the rules of engagement were drastically different this time. She’d just kicked him in the middle of the chest, sending him down to the floor. Aaron was cut deep on both legs, left arm and face, drenched in sweat and his own blood—beyond exhaustion.
Shadow was with a teenage girl who looked just like her but without the tattoos. The kid was telling her what to do as she observed the swordfight. He watched from his back in paralyzed wonder as his nemesis sheathed her Scimitar and closed her eyes, concentrating.
“This is for your little Sister,” Shadoweye whispered, clenching her eyes even tighter, straining.
“You’re doing it wrong—watch me,” said Tara.
“Like this?”
“No—no—NOOOOOOOO!” the evil King screamed for mercy as the Somnium Predator found the rotted doors to his sickened mind and splintered them wide with a bloody boot.
*
Whiterock, Moments Later
Tawnee opened her eyes to study the smooth ceiling. She placed a hand on British’s pillow. Looks like I learned something, she sighed, got up and dressed.
Gotta go help British, she thought as she left.
Halfway to the lab, Tawnee jerked the right hand for her Scimitar when argon lighting flickered on in the passageways. Sweet! her mind announced the realization and Tawnee ran as fast as she could to see British.
“You did what?” Fey didn’t know what to say. Tawnee wrote fast and tore the sheet away.
I beat your Dad there—Aaron Blackheart’s brain is now blood pudding
British read the words and moved her eyes to her lover.
“Okay, that’s bad ass. Are you alright sweetie?” Fey turned away from her electromagnet to face Tawnee, clasping her hands as she nodded yes. “Good, help me with this.”
Despite the incredible news that her girlfriend can now psionically kill someone from a great distance, British was absorbed in the final steps of her strange electronic devise. The entire room was now a magnetic compression chamber with all loose metals removed. Rectangular masses of wire adorned the ceiling and walls in key positions—the trap was near ready.
“He’s gonna be pissed on the equifade, probably gonna come here looking for you straightaway girl,” British was getting nervous and it showed. Tawnee moved to the workbench and scribbled a few words…
Right here waiting!!
“Okay you dangerous thing you. Now we have a plan coming together,” British smiled wide in collective thought but Tawnee was frowning hard.
“I had a plan!” British objected. “I did, I had a plan,” she lowered her head. Tawnee held her cheeks and kissed her softly. After the longest moment of peace, she gave her lover another torn piece of paper.
You never had a plan—why I love you so much
Bigfoot stuck his head in the door, clearing his throat to break up the serenity.
“Thirty minutes ladies. Do you think he’ll go kill the King first and then come here to tell us?” he asked and the girls returned evil little grins.
“Oh, he’s gonna come here pretty quick. Is everybody ready?” British replied with her own question.
“Yes Ma’am, all but Missus Danica.”
“Uuuuuh come again big guy?” Consider the serenity broken. Tawnee stood and British turned her head to the side.
“Yeah, she popped out for some fresh air. She looked good boss so’s I let her go, not five…minutes…ago,” Robert saw the look and knew he just screwed up. As they were talking, Iris bounded through the threshold with a look of dread in her obsidian eyes.
“Heh’s here boss!”
“Iris and Rob go after her, we’re right behind you,” British gathered her weapons, immediately on task.
“And the others?” asked Rob.
“Not yet, dammit-man we don’t need this now! GO!”
“On it,” Robert ran with Iris for the exit, praying they weren’t too late.
Outside, Warfell lit a rolled vine, pulled a lungful of the narcotic smoke and set her chin on her palm with an exhaled sigh. Her Dane Torpa approached and leaned against her.
“Hey buddy,” she said softly with a hand scratching beneath the huge animal’s cheek. He whined, jerking his butt side to side. “I know—defeats the purpose of fresh air altogether, doesn’t it?” she flicked the hand rolled cigarette away, turned and re-entered her new home.
Thirty-feet above the lone entrance to Whiterock, hidden in a sharp crevasse, Annaliese Hope listened in silence, noting the ash from the rolled vine as it bounced on the snow. She sank into the shadows and released Tinker—a long-tailed Blue Jay—the bird would fly straight for Angus.
Fifty-feet across from that lone entrance, the male Arenthian was watching as well, carefully buried in the snowbank on the kennel’s roof.
Back inside the tunnel, Warfell nearly collided into Robert and Iris with British and Tawnee hot on their heels.
“Thank the Gods of the Salt you’re all right Missus Danica,” Bigfoot Bob was beyond relieved.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she shot back defensively.
“Forget it—everybody back inside—dogs down below—twenty minutes,” British sent her Knights internal yet continued on to the edge of the tunnel. From the shadows, she watched in utter silence, when a patch of snow moved atop the canine shack.
British walked outside fearlessly, tactical browns canvassing the kennel and surrounding areas.
“Hey bub,” she addressed the snow bank atop the roof. “I see you—dude!”
A handsome head of black hair popped free and British waived a dainty, gloved hand.
“Fallientine, faire snowfall Dane tis I wot,” he spoke and British immediately recognized the archaic dialect. He wanted to see Warfell. She responded in kind.
“Angles faire dove tis fucking busy. Ever hast thou seen Spiritus Enigmatica?”
“Nona, pedialia,” he labeled her a child—clearly a button pusher.
“Ah brava!” she grinned, turning to go back inside. Behind her, the Arenthian shook himself free of the snow as a wolf would, still crouching low.
“Faire Dane tis I wot?” he asked expectant, like a kid himself.
“Nona alto consequentia, brutalis,” she labeled him an animal, moving to the wall of the tunnel, opening a small electrical box. She booted the toggles with a vibrant hum, as the male Arenthian leaped down to the snow-blasted deck outside. He was walking swiftly towards British, but she calmly shook her head no, gathering her tattered suede cape, cutting a small piece of the soft leather with her Buck Skinner.
She threw the animal skin, and the electrical field caught it mid-air, sparking aflame, disintegrating the material in a flash of light and a loud pop!
Little British shook a single finger side to side, as the Arenthian came to the threshold of the tunnel, stopping short in cautious wonder.
“Tempus nocturna, dost mine faire
Dane,” British spoke the ancient words—tonight, you may see her.
To her surprise, he bowed gracefully and then shot away, leaping backwards as if he weighed nothing and gravity held no meaning. The man seemed to appear fifteen feet away, then again atop the kennel-shack, now gone to the flurry of the Salt.
“Shit biscuits that’s fast,” the pixie who thought she was quick whispered to herself, realizing he could have reached her…
Above, a motionless Assassin observed in disbelief as the darting figure disappeared around the mountain crags. Annaliese had seen a great many things as a Kotare Chief—lots of creepy folks with insane talents—but never something like that. If this guy was one of the Seven Devils, they were gonna have a serious problem.
She waited patiently. Angus should already be on the move with Tinker guiding the way to her ascension point on the opposing side of the Mount. Soon it would be time for the second phase—attack!
Inside, Warfell, Fey and Shadoweye entered the newly constructed magnetic chamber.
“Final touch,” British held a tapestry aloft. “I had some made with our family crest; others are forest scenes and Knights.”
“You have a crest? Impressive” said Danica. It was a Throne of Steel Longsword over a Tiborean Shield. She approved of the testament to the Fey service under both mighty kingdoms.
They worked quickly to cover the rows and rows of magnetic coils on the walls.
“I guess the ceiling will have to be au natural,” Fey lamented, checking her timepiece—five minutes.
Tibor, King Aaron’s Sleeping Chamber
He saw the listless body—saw the dried blood having poured forth from both ears—cause of death—rapid internal hemorrhage.
The Aequitas Caelum Vindictus swirled about the corpse with inquisitive analysis, curious deduction.
Contusions behind the optical foramen—no ligatures whatsoever—this man was never touched.
Poison? Negative, the response within the cranium was too violative.
Inhaled pathogen? A dispersal through the olfactory might—negative, even a flesh-eating contagion would need time to proliferate and masticate the tissues…
The Phantom was identifying areas of confusion and pinpointing the sources, now hovering five feet above young Aaron the snotty Prince, turned Boy King, turned victim. He spoke to the dead body.
Somebody did this to you. Master Po would—never—Shadoweye?
The chamber door cracked open and a woman screamed when she saw the Spirit floating above the King’s bed. The Specter turned towards her and spoke as though coming free of a nightmare.
Shadoweye—Shadoweye—Shadoweye!
“PLACE DON KILL MA!” the Chambermaid screamed, collapsing to the stone flooring in utter fear before the enraged Ghost, but it did not save her. He lunged; snatching that fat neck and snapping the bones apart with a fast squeeze—vaulting the anger forward—thrusting the energy of vengeance to the fore…
Whiterock
“Oh, I forgot, you have a date tonight.”
“Really?”
“I gotta say, I caught a good glimpse and uh, yahoo.”
“He was watching me?”
“Yeah,” Fey sniffed the air. “Were you smoking blackweed?”
“It calms my nerves. Red rubies don’t work anymore.”
“Fair nuff. He said he want’s to see you, I said later tonight, what’cha think partner?”
Danica actually didn’t know what to say. Sure, he bit her, but… She shot her blues to Tawnee for help but the return stare was equally without a clue as to how they or she should proceed with that.
“We gotta catch him. He’s technically Rob and Iris’ mark,” British stated the obvious, already calculating in the recesses of her mind. Warfell’s business brain kicked in and she touched her neck, remembering she almost died from her last encounter.
“Yes we do, but boss, that man is fast, I mean—” Danica’s eyes wandered about the room.
“I know—I saw that part—like a squirrel darting so quick the eye only catches the stopping points between the little leaps.”
“EXACTLY!” Danica raised a finger to her friend, happy for another confirmation of what she had seen. Tawnee wrote words and handed them to her.
I kill psychology now
She wasn’t getting it—British leaned in to see.
“Psionically,” the pixie clarified.
She didn’t get that either.
“WAIT!” British held a palm aloft.”He’s comin’, Danica don’t forget!”
Outside, Annaliese was creeping down to the entrance of the lone tunnel that disappeared into the mountain. Tinker had returned and left again, the boys were halfway there, which meant the time was at hand.
Hope did indeed have a wee problem that often changed Angus’ plans, redirecting the tempo, the beat, the feel of the mission—her way.
She really did get off on sneaking in before the rest of the team, squad, or whatever and committing to the target as if working the job alone. This pissed Dago and Bromil off to no end, but Angus always accommodated for his hornet who liked to sting first, deep in the folds.
Most of the guys this go around were nobody to her, only Angus, Bromil and Dago had skills she could verify; the rest were fodder to the experienced former Kotare Chief. She gently touched soft leather wrapped feet to the marble deck and then fused her body to the wall. She heard and felt the humming from within.
“Some sort of device,” she whispered to the stinging cold air, “good thing I got these,” her hand touched the knapsack full of hand grenades, flares and incendiaries.
Inside the mountain, Robert stuck his head in Fey’s lab.
“Missus British, he’s here in the Council Chamber.”
“Thank you Robert, let’s go,” British set her weapons down outside the threshold, gazing back to Warfell and Tawnee. She smiled, bounced and darted away with Bigfoot.
Whiterock, Council Chamber
“Father,” British and Robert took a knee before the Spirit.
Where is Tawnee Shadoweye this equifade?
“In my study. Rob will you get her?” Bigfoot took off without a reply.
It was the hardest thing she ever had to do—stand there with a solemn face and a blank mind. She knew, he knew, the tension was decidedly absent, which meant the Spirit was fully aware of it.
“Dad, please don’t be—”
Suddenly from the depths of the catacombs, Warfell screamed just as Bigfoot ran back to the chamber port.
“BOSS! Something’s happened!”
No hesitation, she ran as fast as she could.
The Aequitas Caelum followed slowly. Outside the portal to British’s laboratory, Robert John Stone’s back was to the wall, hands to his mouth and bulging eyes. The Spirit floated to the threshold and gazed inside.
British and Danica were on the floor over a listless Tawnee. His Daughter looked his way with a face full of tears.
“What did you do to her Father? She’s DEAD—WHY?—YOU TELL ME WHY!”
I, I did nothing, rather tis she…
The Aequitas Caelum entered the room.
Warfell flipped the toggles.
Shadoweye sat up.
The Entity, the Spirit, the Specter of the mind of Caelum Fey said nothing when the powerful waves of magnetic energy bound him tight as if immersed in heavy fluid.
“Everybody out!” British called forth with cold eyes fixated on her Father’s Ghost. He solemnly watched Warfell and Shadoweye leave—noting the girls were unarmed, metal free—should have caught that.
What will you do now Daughter mine, kill me?
“Yes,” Now British could not meet his gaze. She leaned over her small control panel, tapping the dial that increased the intensity to maximum. “Dad, it’s the Soul sucking, the slaying of the innocent doppelgangers. None of those girls asked for that. This is why—just wanted you to know.”
I did it to save your friends out of love for them alone. Yours, I will
not deign to apologize, I simply wanted you stronger as you live a dangerous existence
Cast your duty my Noble Kin—I love you and always shall—there will be no method of reprisal visited upon you or the Good Knights of Mons Salis Cor
British looked her Father in the incorporeal eye, slightly irked by his prophetic proclamation. Then she remembered through the mind of Brey Fovea. He struck her down without a second thought, ripping her consciousness away and thrusting it—
And the others, all screaming within the blackness.
But she truly loved Brittany Faith and Brey Fovea. They were one—they were a legion—a linking of thought and center. British was different and she knew it. Her counterparts bonded to her—became her—she being identical in every layer of existence.
Yes, it is true. You and I share an identity with all of our selves. We are compatible, already linked. Now you understand. We are more than a by-product of Spiritual illumination—we are unique—our collective consciousness being very powerful indeed
She turned away and rounded the dial to max with a face full of tears, when a skeletal hand touched her shoulder, sliding quickly to the nape and clenching impossibly tight.
He had her…
“How long do we wait?” said Warfell as she, Tawnee and Robert were suiting up, assembling gear. Something wasn’t right. Across the stone table, Tawnee hefted a thin iron chain to lash as a whip.
“She should’ve done it by now,” Robert John Stone was scared and it showed. He knew one of the Feys was about to come through that tunnel any second, and if it’s the Ghost, they were all dead men and women. Robert grabbed a section of iron chain, pulled and snapped a link to make a five foot whip. He nervously dashed the metal about to get a feel for it.
The first cracking explosion ripped through Robert’s head like fire. The second pounding shockwave sent everyone to the deck with palms to ears and screams of pain that no one could hear…