Grave Dealings

by R. R. Virdi

  Considering my position, I empathized with the fruit. I sighed and moved past the table and towards the longest line of guests. I wasn’t in a rush to meet the White Queen, considering she had me by the short hairs. The closest line happened to be the one with the most guests. I joined the end behind a man in a suit the color of slate dust.

  He turned on instinct. Another rule of the Neravene: when someone steps behind you, turn around to look. It’s not smart to let unknowns behind your back.

  The man was an amalgamation of gray. His tie was expensive silk the color of concrete and matched his Italian leather shoes. The pants were the same shade of slate as his sports jacket. That’s not what got my attention.

  He had eyes like morning fog—empty, cold. It would have been a lie to say his boater’s tan complexion offset his eyes’ unsettling look. His hair was the color of ash and iron.

  I’d heard of him before. “Father Grey.” My voice was low enough for only him to hear.

  He inclined his head and opened his mouth to speak. Wisps of smoke unfurled from behind his teeth, rolling through the air before dissipating. It would have been a neat trick had he had a cigar or those fancy electronic things all the kids have nowadays. He was without either.

  I swallowed. From what I knew, and I didn’t know much about Father Grey, he was in charge of the Order of the Gray. Sort of peacekeepers for the mortal and paranormal world, minus the peace part. They were keen on keeping the balance—whatever the cost. If that meant killing monsters, so be it. The order had the same attitude towards killing Joe Normal, the mortal, if they had to. I wasn’t a fan of their methods.

  He regarded me in a silence that seemed to stretch out and mute the surrounding noise. “Vincent Graves.”

  He knew me by name and sight, meaning he had picked me out when Lyshae and I had first entered. I rubbed a hand against my pants and extended. “Uh, hi.”

  He didn’t take it. “I didn’t expect you here.”

  “Neither did I.” I shrugged and offered him a grin.

  Father Grey had problems smiling or being cordial, it seemed. He exhaled through his nose. “I’ve heard of your reputation.”

  I lifted a brow. “Oh?”

  He waved a hand in a dismissive manner. “The good and the bad. I’m not fond of either of them, to be frank.”

  “Who’s Frank?”

  His lips spread, and it was like watching a snake smiling. It sent a tongue of grease down my spine. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

  “That all depends on how funny you think I think I am.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “You cause problems wherever you go. You’re a stain on the natural order—interfering with the balance of things.”

  Cracks sounded from my knuckles, and the muscles in my forearms tightened. I didn’t make a point of hiding my balled fists. “That’s rich coming from the Godfather of Gray Goons.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” Another tendril of smoke slipped out from between his lips.

  “You heard me. You and your band of punks decide what gets to happen to who and that’s that. You all think you have that right.” I leaned close. “You have no right, none. I don’t give a damn about the freaks you gank, but don’t tell me you don’t off normal people now and again.”

  Something flickered in his eyes and they moved a fraction. He wanted to look away but resisted. He knew I was right.

  Father Grey took his tie in one hand, sliding his fingers up to the knot, which he adjusted. “You’re right, of course. We do a grave number of things, things you might find unsettling.”

  “No might about it.” I flooded my voice with stone and hot iron.

  “We do it so people—things like you—can have a nice life.”

  “Funny, that’s what I tell myself about what I do. Last time I checked, I don’t go around sending people to early graves.”

  He flashed me a cruel smile. “Is that what you tell yourself? That you don’t kill people?”

  He may as well have pushed me into an ice bath. People had died over the years on my cases. It was never by intent. Yeah, but the road to hell and all that. I told my inner voice to shut up. “Screw you.”

  Grey rolled his eyes. “Grade school wit, hm?”

  I felt like introducing his smug face to my fist, show him grade school up close. Starting fights in a line full of guests with presents wasn’t a good idea. I took a breath and unclenched my fists. “I’d tell you not to take this personally, but it’s personal. You’re a dick. Oh, tell that other guy he’s a dick too.”

  Father Grey’s face scrunched.

  “Japanese dude. Yay high?” I held a hand around five feet above the air.

  “Toshiro.” Grey spat the name like a curse.

  “Yeah, bumped into him once. Dick.”

  “He won’t bother you anymore.” His eyes seemed to cloud a bit.

  I stared at him, but he said nothing further.

  Father Grey turned and tapped on the shoulder of the guest in front of him. He whispered something. Both of them turned and stepped out of the line. The pattern followed like a ripple through the mass of guests. One by one, they all moved aside, creating a path between them.

  I gulped. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out who that was meant for. I raised both hands into the air. “No, no, it’s cool. Don’t let me get in the way of you all meeting Her Highness.”

  No one stepped back into line.

  One does not keep a queen of the Neravene waiting. I sucked in a breath and marched through the wall of beings on either side. It felt like a prison walk. I didn’t know who was who and where to make eye contact. So, I did the only thing that made sense. I kept my eyes on the queen and ignored the rest.

  Some of the guests shot me stares that felt like desert air brushing against my skin. I shrugged them off, keeping my eyes fixed ahead. Time seemed to slow with every step. I realized, with the next few feet, that time hadn’t crawled to a standstill. I had. It took a series of short breaths to regain my courage, and I made my way over to the living force of nature.

  Her eyes settled on me, forcing me to steal another quick breath. They were the color of frozen violets, a sheet of gray ice over soft purple and just as cold as they sounded. “Well, well.” Her red lips spread into a smile that made the temperature feel like it had plummeted.

  I tried to match her smile and think of something clever to say. “Uh, hi.” Ladies love witty men.

  The White Queen’s eyes warmed a bit.

  Phew.

  She stared at me, waiting.

  “Oh right, a gift.” I reached into a pocket and clenched my fingers around the contents. My hand shook as I extended the fist, hoping my meager gift would appease her. I opened my hand and showed her the crumpled bills and loose change.

  The queen eyed my hand with a look that could’ve frozen it solid. She plucked the bills from my hand. “Money?”

  I shrugged. “For the gal that’s got everything, whaddya give her?”

  “The debt of a man seems fitting.” She gave me a chilling smile that made Lyshae’s look warm and inviting.

  I gulped. “About that...don’t suppose I can ask what you’ll have me do?”

  “Whatever I desire.”

  It was a good answer—honest, and just what I expected from a queen of the Neravene. Saying a lot without saying anything is a skill. Someone of her power didn’t need someone to scrub floors. If she wanted me to do her a solid, it’d be important—and likely bad. The high-up in the paranormal don’t like meddling in the mortal world directly. They have proxies to do the grunt work and to take the blame. Worse, she could have something in mind that involved me going up against another lord or lady. Hell, with her position, it could have something to do with another queen or king.

  My mouth went dry. “And if I say no?”

  One edge of her mouth quirked. “You can try.”

  Good argument.

  “Whatever I decide depends on if you are even wo
rth keeping.” Her voice was like frozen asphalt. Cold and hard.

  “What?”

  “What use have I of you if you’re worthless?”

  I had no idea how to answer that.

  “Perhaps a trial—entertainment before the dancing begins?”

  I didn’t like where this was going. “How about you take the dough”—I made a show of jiggling the cash in my hand—“and stop wasting everyone’s time.” I realized what I’d said a second too late.

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you say?”

  The skin around my tattoo suffered from an imaginary pang like it’d been slapped. Time was slipping at a rate I couldn’t measure while I was here playing Cinderella. The thought galvanized me into pushing the queen further. Not the brightest idea.

  “You heard me.” I jabbed a thumb to my chest. “Look, I’m on a tight deadline. People are dying, and if I’m going to be any use to you, I’ve got to go solve the case I’m working. So you and your trials can—”

  She swiped a hand through the air. “Quiet.”

  My throat seized, and my heart felt like it’d tripled in pace and effort. The muscles in my legs quaked. I fell to my knees. The moisture in my throat felt like it was forcefully evacuated. A plume of winter air left my mouth. The tissue in my throat constricted and froze like I’d swallowed chunks of ice. I tasted salt and iron. Droplets of blood splattered against the floor. Breathing became an effort, and my lungs felt tight.

  The queen bent at the waist and extended a finger. She trailed the digit along my jaw. “Speak to me like that again, and I will completely freeze the air, water, and blood in your throat, understood?”

  Got it. It came out as, “Gahwhee.”

  “Good.” The queen brushed the rest of her fingers against my gullet, pulling them away with a flourish.

  The pain stopped.

  Before I could utter a word of thanks, the tip of her shoe pressed against my collarbone. “Now, let us see about your worth. Tell me, can you fight?” She shoved.

  I tumbled back like I’d been hit by a linebacker across the upper portions of my body. When the world stopped spinning, I saw a wight approaching. It was the one who’d introduced us to the crowd. The sound of scraping metal caused me to focus on what it was dragging along the ground.

  A sword.

  I hate swords.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My heels beat against the floor as I kicked away from the advancing undead. Reasoning with monsters is possible; not easy, but it’s worth a shot. I held out a hand hoping to slow its approach. “Hey, wait. Haven’t you heard violence isn’t the—”

  The blade arced overhead.

  “Holy crap!” I pistoned my legs, pushing off from my heels. I moved back just as the point of the weapon sank into the solid ground inches in front of my feet. My eyes widened. Either the floor was made of foam—unlikely—or that was a seriously sharp sword. I didn’t want to find out how keen an edge it held firsthand. I’m attached to my body parts. Call me clingy.

  The wight pulled both arms towards its chest, wrenching the blade free from the ground. It cast the weapon into a spinning flourish overhead before the inevitable. The sword fell.

  I scrambled to a shaky stand out of the way. The tip sailed by an inch from my shins. It was a small relief. Any closer, and I would’ve been hobbled. There’s little time to size up your adversary in a fight. You have to make do with what little you can gauge of them. Every bit is useful.

  The wight pulled its arms in again and thrust. The point darted towards my gut.

  I sidestepped and let my momentum carry me away further from the weapon. It wasn’t the smartest strategy. Swords have a certain efficacy and that’s dependent upon their length. The weapon was the standard, unadorned fare for a longsword. A cruciform hilt and a double-edged blade that totaled a few inches over three feet. The longer I stayed outside that reach, the longer the wight had room to maneuver the weapon. I had to get inside and fast.

  The creature worked the sword like a horizontal jackhammer, driving the tip towards me in short thrusts.

  It was a good technique. I gave ground while fighting to maintain a hold of my surroundings and balance. I felt the eyes of every guest weighing on me in anticipation, most notably Her Royal Frostiness.

  The queen lingered several feet from her previous position. Guess she wanted a ringside seat.

  I muttered a curse under my breath and took a chance at looking over my shoulder. There was a table a few feet behind me. If the wight continued to push me, my back would be against it in a matter of seconds. That wasn’t a bad thing if I played it right.

  The wight appeared to realize the advantage the table would give it. Flickering lights danced over the length of the blade as the wight cast it from side-to-side.

  I inhaled, forcing my stomach to cave in to avoid the tip of the sword. My sudden movements and exertion forced me to exhale and suck down air. I stumbled, my arms going to my sides to keep me from tumbling. Something clattered, and the lip of the table impacted my lower back. It felt like a row of blunted needles had jabbed into a portion of my spine. I winced and opened my eyes in time to see a flash of metal growing closer.

  Experience won over thought, and I collapsed. The sword cut harmlessly through the air above me as my elbows absorbed the impact from the bench seat. A chorus of grumbles echoed from the nearby seated guests. Most of them were likely beings I didn’t want to piss off. Their discomfort wasn’t high on my list of give-a-shits at the moment.

  My mind buzzed with thoughts on mythology and lore. Wights didn’t feel pain; it’s what made them exceptional thugs and soldiers. They were human at one point and retained their intelligence. Wights are essentially smart zombies lacking the desire to munch on brains.

  The sword flashed.

  I rolled, drawing a grumble from the guest I’d bumped into.

  The seat shattered like cheap particle board and dry wood.

  I didn’t wait for the wight to pull back for another swing. One of my hands beat frantically atop the table in search of something to grab onto. My fingers closed around something cool and smooth. I pulled and snapped my arm, sending a platter hurtling towards the creature.

  The sound of a minute bell rang as metal struck the wight’s noggin. It reeled. The monster’s footing remained stable.

  There were only two ways I could think of to kill the wight and make a good impression on the White Queen: batter the creature into a useless pulp—not as easy as it sounds—or set the freak on fire.

  The frozen corpse let out a sound like dry parchment dragging across rough stone. The sword went overhead again, and I knew what was coming.

  The guests stood, moving away from the table in a leisured manner.

  I clawed at the broken remains of the seat, using it as purchase to haul myself up to the table.

  The wight cast the weapon into a long slash.

  I pressed flat to the table, sending everything atop it to the floor. The back of my head buzzed as the sword brushed by and stirred hairs. My torso panged as I shifted my hips, extending both legs. My heels crashed into the beast’s midsection and sent it toppling. This was the break I needed.

  I got to all fours and sprang from the table, my knees absorbing the impact. I turned and grabbed a piece of shattered wood the length of my forearm.

  Blue firelight strobed several feet away.

  I ran towards it, jabbing the wood into the flames. Nothing happened. The wood refused to ignite. I swore and spat, twisting the former piece of table through the fire. I turned in time to see the wight lumbering towards me.

  What the hell? I hefted the piece of wood like an impromptu club. It wouldn’t do much against a sword, but if I used it right, it could help me beat the wight senseless.

  The creature cut another sideways swath through the air causing me to step back and almost brush against the fire. The wight didn’t relent, using the momentum to bring the sword overhead and send it into a flurry of
strikes.

  I ducked in time to hear metal scraping against stone. The sword flashed again, threatening to bisect me at the waist. I dove under it, wrapping my arms around one of the creature’s legs. The force caused the wight’s leg to angle away, and its knee buckled. We crashed into a tangled heap. My hand never left the wooden shrapnel.

  The wight bucked in protest and snarled.

  “Shut up.” I sent the end of the wooden club crashing home against its head.

  The creature’s eyes looked ready to spin in their sockets. Even so, the wight had the wherewithal to struggle. It lashed out in a frenzy of flailing hands. Its fingers clawed the front of my suit.

  “Fuck off. These threads aren’t mine!” I beat its hands aside and brought the flat side of the club down on its head. Wood cracked, and flecks of shrapnel fell around the creature’s skull. Sadly, it was still conscious.

  The wight closed its fingers around the front of my shirt and hauled.

  I fell forwards, swinging with my forearm and planting it against the creature’s chin. Bracing myself against its face, I pushed back, straining my body to resist its pull.

  The thing was strong. Wights possess the uncanny strength that comes with little regard for your connective tissue, joints, and self-preservation. It yanked on my clothing in a cold, mechanical manner.

  Buttons popped loose in a cascade from top to bottom. They showered the wight, peppering it in the face.

  I heard the fabric straining, ready to give way. I tensed and pulled myself back with all the strength I could. Cloth gave way, and I tumbled backward. The world spun once as I came to rest on my ass.

  Bits of my dress-shirt remained in the wight’s fingers. The creature gave the fabric no notice and moved to rise.

  My fingers tightened around the remaining bit of wood, now little more than a sharp sliver. The ill-fashioned stake retained its length though. Too bad it wasn’t as thick as before. If I struck hard at the wrong angle, it’d shatter.