Diamond in the Rough

by Isobella Crowley

  And yet, Alex had also heard and read that Melbourne was recently ranked fifth on a list of the world’s safest major cities. By contrast with his hometown, the Big Apple still seemed seedier and more dangerous than anything he was used to.

  The fact that he was forced to huddle in this squalid place was merely one of many things feeding the vendetta that slowly swelled within him.

  “Oh,” he breathed, “I’m a loyal, loyal servant, make no mistake.” He thought of the mark on his chest. “I would never dream of resenting the tasks imposed upon me by my glorious mistress. In her great wisdom, she knows exactly what I should be doing with myself at any given moment of the day. Or night.”

  But he knew things, too.

  In the course of his service to the vampire Moswen Neith, he had learned that she was not one of a kind. There were other creatures like her in the world, other entities whose existence was not even acknowledged by modern science or mainstream society.

  Some of those might even be her equals in power. Some of them might be curious to know about her revival—and might even be willing to cut the leash she’d placed on Alex in exchange for that information.

  Suddenly, his chest exploded in pain. His eyes bulged and the breath thrust from his lungs. It was as though someone had pressed a heated clothes-iron over his heart.

  “Fuck!” He gasped, doubled over, and noted the faint golden glow that now emanated from the brand of ownership placed upon him. His teeth gritted, he sweated in agony and tried to purify his mind of any semblance of treason. This had happened before.

  The phone rang—the landline phone that came with the room, specifically. It was so strange to hear its rambling, mechanical, slightly echoing racket in this day and age of digitized musical ringtones.

  Alex’s gaze snapped toward the archaic device. The pain in his chest faded to nothing as quickly as it had begun, but his tension hadn’t diminished at all and fear had taken the place of pain. His mouth was dry and the palms of his hands wet. Since the beginning of this nightmare, he’d stopped believing in coincidences.

  He extended a hand, picked up the receiver, and raised it to his ear. “Yes?”

  “Alex,” a female voice said. Somehow, it was both dusty and raspy on the one hand but rich and smooth on the other. She enunciated both syllables of his name with great care.

  “Yes, mistress?” He swallowed the growing lump in his throat.

  “I wish to hear your report upon your progress,” Moswen instructed.

  She had rapidly been learning English since her awakening and was mostly fluent by now, although she’d never be able to pass for a native speaker by the standards of any of the Anglophone countries.

  “It seems,” she went on, “that in all this time, your thoughts may have…wandered. I wish to return your focus to your servitude to me. Your mind should not wander into foolish places.”

  Alex’s head slumped. Instead of a burning sensation in his chest, he now felt something like ice-cold acid pooling in his stomach. Thanks to the mark, he was reasonably sure the bitch could read his mind.

  “Yes, mistress, I remain loyal and devoted to your cause.” He sighed. “As for my progress, that task is done.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds before she spoke again. “Tell me more.”

  He hoped no one was listening in on this line, although he wouldn’t be shocked if Moswen had some way to protect her communications from prying ears.

  “I killed the dwarves,” he explained. “They’re all dead, with no survivors. And I made it good and messy, as you requested. The sheer brutality ought to send a clear message, I’d say. The Americans are used to people being shot left and right, but as soon as someone is ripped to shreds, they lose their minds.”

  “Good,” she acknowledged, and there was a cruel satisfaction in her voice now that chilled him to the bone and beyond.

  “Yeah. So…” He took a deep breath. “With that done, can I come home now? You never specifically said I had anything else to do here or that I had to stay after—”

  “No.” She cut him off. “You are to remain where you are. Your pledge of loyalty is unconditional. If I tell you to return to Israel and change my mind while you are flying back, you must leap from the plane and swim back to New York, if that is my will. Do you understand?”

  Alex clenched his jaw but tried to empty his head of seditious ideas. “Perfectly, mistress.”

  “Good. This New York seems to be one of the present world’s greatest cities—a center of tremendous wealth and influence. That means it is also a place of great power.”

  He nodded out of habit. “True enough. Not as nice as Melbourne, though. Then again, most cities aren’t.”

  “Be quiet,” Moswen snapped and he flinched. She went on. “I wish for you to spend time in this city and learn who are the most influential among the…what is the word they use?”

  “Preternaturals,” he replied. “They seem to think that supernatural would be bad for public relations.”

  Moswen paused, probably to inscribe the word in her brain for future usage. “Once you have identified the most important preternaturals among the community there,” she continued, “you are to deal with them on my behalf.”

  Alex did not like the sound of that. “Mistress,” he retorted, “I am devoted to carrying out your will, but is there any chance you could clarify that statement? Are you asking me to literally make deals with them, or euphemistically ordering me to kill them? It would be helpful to know.”

  “If,” she countered, “you determine that they would be willing to accept me as their rightful superior, you may negotiate terms. I will accept tribute and pledges of loyalty. If they are not willing, destroy them. Either way, I will have this city. The great centers of wealth and power are the birthright of the powerful, and none who exist in our world today can match me. Those who fail to acknowledge this shall be punished. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Absolutely—definitely. You’ll be pleased to know I already have a few leads, you might say. Names have been dropped. I can tell who the big players seem to be, the ones whom the little spackers serving as their underlings regard with fear and awe. The easiest way to get to them is probably through their human intermediaries.” He almost clammed up momentarily as the brutal irony of this statement struck him. “That seems to be the way of things, doesn’t it?”

  He could almost hear her smirk through the phone. “It is well for you,” she intoned, “that you do understand. Now, go. I will contact you again soon to hear how you have done. And remember your vow.”

  The phone clicked and went dead, the sound somehow as heavy and pitiless as the closing of a coffin’s lid.

  Alex hung up the receiver and stared at the phone. “Oh, I remember. It’s fucking difficult not to, isn’t it?”

  For a moment or two, his thoughts slipped beyond the control of his conscious will.

  They turned themselves over within his brain and drifted to that awful day at the temple in the Negev and how happy and excited he’d been to participate in the excavation. How he’d leapt, oh so quickly, at that opportunity instead of doing something smart—like waiting another year until he could have gone, instead, to Peru or Ethiopia or Xinjiang. Anywhere but that accursed ruin in Israel.

  He’d been lucky to be the only survivor of the massacre but he did not feel particularly fortunate. The only good thing about still being alive was that there was still the chance, however slim, that he might be able to escape.

  All this internal dialogue emanated from his mind over the course of only a second or two, but that was enough to inflame the mark upon his chest.

  “Shit!” He grimaced and clamped his hand on his torso when suddenly, it felt again like someone had stabbed him in the ribs with a hot poker.

  In the next moment, it faded and was gone.

  Alex collapsed on the bed and covered his face with one of the spare pillows to muffle the sounds of the
potheads in the next room. They blathered and thumped around and he half-hoped that he might accidentally smother himself in his sleep.

  He forced his thoughts to turn, instead, to the tasks at hand. They would not be easy.

  “Yes, mistress,” he muttered into the pillow. “I obey.”

  Por’s Bar, Lower Manhattan, New York

  The bartender climbed the wooden beam he’d installed to give himself access to his customers. With his small hands, he carefully set a cocktail glass filled with a wet martini down on the wooden surface before the man who called himself Remington Davis.

  “There ya go, buddy,” he grunted and hopped down to the floor to begin work on a lemon shandy for another patron.

  Remy took the glass by its stem. “Thanks, Por. This is my third, isn’t it? In any event, we’ll say it’s my last for tonight. I have a big day tomorrow and all.” He raised it to his lips and downed about a third of the beverage in one swig.

  “Whatever you say, pal,” Porrillage called over his shoulder. “But keep an eye on your tab.”

  He paid no heed to this comment and sipped the remainder of the vodka and vermouth. His gaze lingered on the bartender as he drank.

  On the off chance that an uninitiated normal person found this bar and wandered into it, they’d likely assume that Por was simply a little person. One had to look closely and have an open mind to the preternatural to discern that he was a gnome. It seemed to have something to do with the shape of his ears and the texture of his skin. His attitude was quite ordinary.

  “Well, Por,” Remy said, “I thought things were going better at the agency lately, but of course, I was wrong. Once again, things are headed back into the proverbial shitter.” He swished the liquid in his glass.

  The gnome raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at him. He climbed onto the beam and pushed a shandy across to the morose-looking elven women who’d entered. “Is that a fact, Mr Remington?”

  “Yes,” the young man responded instantly. “Taylor still doesn’t have much faith in me except as a kind of patsy or something. Even after everything I did for her during the business with the coffin thieves breaking into her house and shit.”

  Por had a brief, inaudible conversation with the bar’s waitress, who was tending to the patrons out on the floor. Once they were done and the woman hurried off, the gnome turned back to him.

  “Didn’t you say before that she wasn’t actually in real danger there, and your heroics ended up mainly tying off some loose ends or something?” He had planted his fists on his squat hips and now looked at the human with a skeptical squint.

  Remy swiped a hand through the air. “That’s not the point. The point is, I demonstrated tremendous amounts of courage, daring, determination, skill, and so forth, and all of it because it seemed like she was in danger. And how do you suppose she thanked me? Well, uh…she did say thanks. But what do you suppose she told me about what her next big purpose for me is?”

  “I dunno,” Por threw back as he turned to rearrange some of his materials. “Gigolo work, maybe?”

  Oh, I wish, he thought but did not say it out loud.

  Instead, he explained, “No, she wants to use me as bait. Apparently, that’s the main reason she brought me into the company, to begin with. That’s even worse than hiring a female graduate with a PhD because she has nice boobs. It’s a complete and utter waste of my talents.”

  “Huh.” The gnome quipped, “I always assumed Taylor as a good judge of people’s character and abilities. I guess even she can make mistakes though.” He coughed.

  He sipped his drink. “Absolutely. Over the course of however many centuries she’s been around, she’s been able to accumulate considerable skills and she’s a smart lady, I’ll grant her that. But no one’s perfect. I’m in the process of trying to grow our business, so I’ve already demonstrated that my capabilities go beyond simply being her fishing lure.”

  Porrillage peeked out beyond the bar itself to scan the floor for anything that might require his attention. Business tonight was moderate and the crowd didn’t seem too rowdy.

  The gnome turned his attention to Remy again when he returned to his workstation. “I dunno there, Rem. It sounds like maybe you have too much on your plate at once. If Taylor wants you to draw out some enemy of hers, she has a good reason for it. It sounds dangerous, though. Are you sure you should be worried about expanding the business when you have something like that to focus on? If I were you, I’d take it one thing at a time.” He grimaced.

  So what he’s saying is that the only way to impress Taylor enough that she’ll let me focus on growing the business is if I go balls-to-the-wall with the conspicuous consumption and asshole playboy routine. Yes, it makes perfect sense.

  “Por,” he proclaimed and slapped a hand on the bar, “you’re right. What I need to do is further prove that I can expand the agency’s reach—and more importantly, demonstrate that I can kick ass with the best of them even when she has me on some dangerous, important duty I’m barely qualified for. But one thing at a time. Now, I merely need to remember which I ought to do first.”

  Remy barely noticed as he completed his final sentence that the door had opened and another customer walked in. Now, the individual took a seat on the stool to Remy’s right.

  He glanced over. The newcomer was a tall, rangy, older man, although his posture was somewhat stooped, which made him appear shorter. He wore faded trousers and a brown trench coat that he’d probably purchased around the beginning of the Iraq War. Gray streaks were marbled all through his medium-length, unkempt hair and bristly beard stubble. His face was long and haggard.

  “Evening,” the man stated to no one in particular. He creaked and gasped as he attempted to make himself comfortable on the wooden stool.

  Por glanced at him. “Hi, stranger. What’ll it be?”

  The crusty man made a low, ragged sound in his throat as he seemed to think about it. “Single whiskey, on the rocks, if you would, please.”

  “No problem.” The gnome turned to his glasses and rapidly assembled the simple drink.

  Remy had almost finished his own. The newcomer smelled a little ripe, so he was thankful for the excuse to leave post-haste. He drained the last of his martini and set the glass on the counter.

  When he pivoted to climb down from his stool, the old man turned to him and spoke. “David Remington. I thought I might find you here. I’ve looked forward to the opportunity to finally meet you.”

  He paused and frowned at the fellow. “Do I know you or something?” Dimly, it occurred to him that this might be one of the suspicious characters whom Taylor had told him to keep an eye out for.

  “Not yet,” the man said with a pinched smile. He started to reach into his coat.

  Remy slid off his stool and onto his feet and backed away slowly, his body tense and his hands raised to protect his chest and face.

  “No, no.” The man sighed. “It’s only my business card. Relax, my friend.”

  Now that he could see the man’s coat more clearly—courtesy of a shaft of light from above the bar—and there were no suspicious, weapon-like bulges. The man put two fingers and a thumb into an interior pocket and produced a laminated card, as promised.

  He took it cautiously and examined it.

  “Don Gannon.” The newcomer introduced himself.

  Remy could have read that himself. He also read, below the name, the fascinating information that the man was a reporter for The New England Inquirer.

  A groan of exasperation worked its way out of his mouth even before his somewhat buzzed mind could contemplate how diplomatic he ought to be. “Oh, for God’s sake. You people again.”

  “Don’t worry,” Don reassured him and took the card. “I’m not here to harass you with questions about your recent exploits. Not exactly. Rather, I have an offer of sorts that you might find interesting. Have a seat again and listen, Mr Remington.”

  The young man had to admit he was curious now. He repositioned himse
lf on the stool as Por cast a sidelong glance at both men. The elven woman two seats to the left ignored them and sipped her barely alcoholic shandy. Remy wondered if this Gannon guy could even tell that she was an elf.

  “So,” Don began, “yes, I’m with the Inquirer, and I can understand why you’d be less than happy with us. But hear me out. Things were not always as they are now.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you wanted to reminisce about the good old days.”

  His companion shrugged. “In a way. You see, I used to be the paper’s star reporter. I delved into things that received more extensive coverage by the so-called respectable press, not to mention a few things that the mainstream papers refused to cover. But the people ought to know regardless, even if only from a small publication like ours.”

  Porrillage placed the man’s whiskey in front of him. He raised it, drank a good-sized mouthful, and crunched one of the ice cubes before he set the glass down.

  “But,” Gannon went on and returned his focus to the younger man, “I’m old now. I don’t have the energy I used to, and my goddamn joints hurt too much to go literally chasing after leads. I can’t keep ahead of the game these days and have the best stories scooped out from under me by the young upstarts like Jenny Ocren.”

  At the mere mention of her name, he pivoted toward the bartender.

  “Por!” he shouted. “Another martini. And please hurry. This is an emergency.” His teeth ground together as the gnome grumbled and reached for the vodka.

  Don took another swig of his own refreshment before he continued. “So, then, Remington. What I’d like to propose is a deal. An exchange of information, to be precise. We can help each other. If you, in the course of whatever strange business it is you seem to be involved in, come across anything…interesting…that might make a good Inquirer story, you tip me off as soon as possible.”

  Por set the martini on the bar. Remy snatched it immediately and gulped. “Yeah,” he muttered, “and what would I get in return as part of this hypothetical deal? Which, by the way, I haven’t actually agreed to yet.”