by Scott Eder
“We have to go,” Dev said.
She held up one finger. “Um, yes, hi. There has been an accident and we need an ambulance outside the Daegon Gray building in Tampa.” Without further explanation, she hung up and helped Dev back into the car. Poised, as always, she walked around the back of the car and got in.
People started to notice that something was happening and ambled over. As they got a look at the man on the ground, they shot frightened glances at Wren and Dev then quickly uncorked their cell phones.
Wren eased the car through the building crowd. Once clear, she hit the gas, but jammed on the brakes to avoid a man in a dark suit who walked out in front of them. He spun on the offending vehicle, fists braced on the hood of the car, face carved with deep lines of hatred. Mouth open to shout, his eyes grew wide when he locked stares with Dev.
I knew it.
“Run him over.” Dev shouted. “That’s Alexander Gray. It was him at the club. I’m sure of it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“He killed all those people at the club! Take him out.”
“No.”
Wren punched it, tried to steer around Gray, but still knocked him off his feet. From his side-view mirror, Dev watched people run to the fallen man’s aid. If they only knew they were helping a murderer…
Wren barreled through multiple intersections without regard to the color of the stop lights. Tires screeched. Cars swerved or stopped. When they were safely out of the downtown area, she slowed to a more legal speed.
“Nice driving.” She should have run him over. Ended this before it got too out of hand. “The cops are probably after us already. They tend to frown on the whole running over corporate executives thing.”
“It’s over, Dev.”
“I know.” Dev checked the mirror, intentionally misinterpreting her meaning. “We got out of there quickly. Good job.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah. I do. Maybe Stillman is right. Maybe I am a problem. I could have killed that little guy. He slammed his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.
Chapter 17
ALEXANDER STORMED THROUGH THE WAITING ROOM outside his office. The Knight of Flame was here. I could have had him. A sizzling glare locked the new secretary in her seat before she had a chance to move. He slammed the door behind him, threw his jacket on the lounge chair in the corner and smacked both palms into the thick glass of the window. Head lowered, heart pounding, breath hissing in and out, Alexander raged.
The audacity, coming here.
He spun back to the room and blasted the chair with a stream of black shadows that stripped the varnish and ate the wood, reducing it to a pile of dust and splinters.
Gothrodul’s laughter intruded upon his mind. You are behaving like a child. Get a hold of yourself, Lord of Shadow.
Lord of Shadow. The title calmed him slightly, but the rage burned inside. He lowered his arm, took a deep breath and willed his body to relax.
There. Isn’t that better?
Do not mock me, lizard. Alexander said, in no mood for Gothrodul’s sarcasm or condescending wit. Where are you?
Elsewhere, but I heard your mental screams.
Blast. He hated to show weakness in front of anyone—his father, brothers and especially his underlings. He must be strong, flawless, and, above all, powerful.
The Knight of Flame still lives.
Silence.
Alexander shielded his thoughts. Either Gothrodul was mastering his own twisted emotions, or he already knew about the Knight.
Gothrodul?
A loud knock interrupted his chain of doubt.
“Be gone.” Alexander shouted.
“But, sir, the men from Deep Services are here.” The muffled voice of his temporary secretary seeped under the door.
“Right. Send them in.” Alexander unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a twelve-by-twelve wooden box. Parts of the slender walls had burned away, revealing the play of lightning streaks against the dark, curved surface of a shadow orb.
The doorknob jangled.
“Sir, the door is locked.”
“Use your key!” Alexander blasted back and tucked the box under his arm. Humans—what a monumental waste.
The door opened and the temp guided the brothers in.
Alexander handed the box to the grubby-handed elder brother. From the sight of them—slumped shoulders, red, puffy eyes, mysterious dark smudges on their arms, cheeks and brown coveralls—and their offensive odor, the boys had spent the night doing their homework.
At least somebody takes me seriously.
“You was right, suh.” The elder brother’s voice sounded tired, weak. “There’s all kinds a things crawlin’ ‘round down there.” He rubbed a greasy hand across his bald pate. “We dropped more bait, but they ate it up like corn bread.”
The younger brother nodded.
“We ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”
Thargen delivered as promised. Alexander read the elder brother’s name tag.
“Randall, my friend, that box I just gave you contains the future. A vermin free future.”
The brothers blinked at him.
“That box contains the new pesticide I mentioned. It contains one treatment only, and I need you to set it up in the sewer junction below St. Matthew’s hospital. Tonight. The mayor requested this himself.” He paused to let the lie sink in. “He said St. Matthew’s is having a huge problem and wants it taken care of it before the ceremony tomorrow.”
The brothers nodded. Killing small creatures in the sewers was something they could understand.
“I knew I could count on you two.”
“Uh, suh?” Randall spoke up. “The answer is forty eight hours. It will take us a straight forty eight hours to bait the sewers.”
Two days.
“Very good. I will collect the supplies. Be ready for my call.”
A red-faced, older man in a tight brown suit and power tie charged through the doorway with Alexander’s apologetic assistant in tow. Nudging his way between the brothers, he brandished a finger at his quarry as he brushed down his sparse white hair.
“Gray!”
“Mr. Tomasin. What can I do for the ex-CEO of Seagren Chemical?” The promise of death to come had lightened Alexander’s mood, so instead of filleting this cretin on the spot, he viewed his hostility as comical.
Security guards emerged from the stairwell and flanked the blustering executive, but Alexander waved them off. He didn’t need their muscle to deal with this situation.
“Why have you changed all my shipping orders, Gray?”
“Your shipping orders?”
The executive pushed into Alexander’s personal space, met him nose to chin.
“Don’t play coy with me, Gray. You’ve ground my business to a halt.”
“You mean my business, Mr. Tomasin?”
Tomasin sputtered. A drop of spit struck Alexander on the cheek.
While his mood may have changed, he had his limits.
“The only reason I bought your excrement-producing company was for its global transportation system.” Alexander poked the man in the chest hard enough to back him up. “I rerouted everything in support of another project.”
“We are losing money.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Tomasin. Your problems will be solved by tomorrow.” Alexander laid a companionable hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the elevators. “Guaranteed.” A gentle nudge in the right direction and he stumbled out the door.
There’s a new entrée on the menu. Alexander thought to his ever-present companion.
Let me guess, Gothrodul replied, fat executive.
Take him and his family. Destroy the house. Leave nothing.
Mmmm. Sounds like fun.
Chapter 18
THE HEADACHE TO END ALL HEADACHES had ceased killing Cassidy an hour earlier. She’d taken a cab home from the coffee shop, too embarrassed to take Mr. Gray up on the offer to
have his driver take her home. She would have driven herself, but the sun hit her eyes like shards of glass. When she got home, she popped a couple of the special yellow pills she scored after her root canal, and slunk into bed with a cold rag over her eyes. The epic-fail interview with Alexander Gray replayed in her mind and kept her awake.
Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. One minute she opened her mouth to ask a question and the next, her head exploded. Gray must have thought her an idiot. He seemed nice though. Handsome. Deep, silken voice. Smooth, gentle hands. The medication took hold and she drifted to sleep.
Cassidy awoke pain free, but with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when she snuck out of the house to go skinny-dipping with her boyfriend and thought her dad found out. She also felt grimy, unclean. A shower wouldn’t cut it, not this time. She needed a good long soak to wash the weird ick from her mind and body. The pool called to her.
Cassidy pulled on her favorite suit, grabbed a towel and dove into the deep end.
Swimming, wading, floating, diving, it didn’t matter so long as she became one with the water. As a kid, her parents teased her about being a mermaid, descended from a long line of Irish mermaids on her mother’s side of the family. During the summer, she even took her meals at the pool’s edge while her parents sat on the patio.
The water was the answer to all her problems. Whenever she struggled with one of life’s challenges, she found somewhere to dive in. Weightless and graceful, the realm of water seemed like a world away from the gravitational pull of a young woman’s mundane problems.
Its lilting movement fascinated her, fueled her imagination. As a child, she pretended each drop was a separate little entity, and imbued it with emotions and dreams and goals until she wasn’t swimming alone, but with a pool full of watery friends. She’d tried explaining her thoughts to Amy several times while they swam together, but it never panned out. Her daughter simply giggled and looked at Cassidy as if she had tried to sing Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head in dolphin.
Oh, Amy, I miss you.
It took a while, but the odd taint washed off. Relaxed, she closed her eyes, arms straight out at her sides, and floated.
He invited me to the ceremony. The thought disrupted her quiet time and she sank like a stone. That’s tomorrow morning. While dealing with the pain, she had buried the fact away, but now it floated to the surface.
Mr. Gray had asked her to accompany him to the dedication of the new hospital wing. Excitement rippled through her.
The press passes had all been distributed weeks ago. No one from my Podunk newspaper has been invited and now here I am, not only invited, but accompanying the guest of honor himself.
Wait until she told her editor. She’d leave this last bit of news for when she dropped the bomb on not getting the other stories. It would more than make up for it.
Cassidy walked up the pool steps and grabbed her towel. Drying off was a melancholy event. It signaled the end of her sanctuary and return to the real world. This time she had something to look forward to.
On the patio, she bent over and dried her hair with the towel. As the ends of the towel swished and swayed, she looked at the scorch marks on the tile from the recent fire. An image of the Knight of Flame flashed across her thoughts and sparked a warm prickling sensation that percolated inside her.
I wonder how he’s doing.
Chapter 19
THE MAN BEHIND THE UNCLUTTERED OAK desk crossed his arms and stared at Wren, brown eyes weary. Along with the positive ID of Alexander Gray, she reported the incident outside the coffee house. After giving her unbiased account, Stillman’s crestfallen expression told her that while he knew what she came to say, he had still held out hope.
“One more chance, sir, please. He can control it.” She wanted him to believe her, to give Dev yet another chance. But for what? So he can kill an innocent next time?
Stillman shook his head.
She’d made the only decision she could have. While not an elemental knight, she was still a member of the Order and, as such, had a duty to perform. Dev had stepped over the line…again. If she hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed that man outside the coffee shop. And the worst part…he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
I failed him.
Tears filled her eyes. The figures in the tapestry behind Stillman blurred. The normally distinct figures of Merlin, Arthur and his mounted knights smeared together in a riot of brilliant colors against the stark white fortress backdrop.
Dev’s going to hate me.
Wren swallowed the sobs that threatened to topple her composure. Quiet tears were okay, maybe even expected, but losing herself to a full-blown emotional meltdown in front of her superior officer was not acceptable.
“Child.” Stillman’s deep, gentle voice filled her ears. “This violence has been building in the Knight of Flame for a long time.” He stood and walked around to the front of his desk.
What will Dev think of me?
He clasped her shoulders. “Your courage and honor in doing what is best for the Order is commendable.”
Is this really the best thing for the Order?
Wren remained at attention—head back, shoulders straight, arms locked at her side.
“What happens now, sir?”
Stillman sighed and for the first time that she had witnessed, for all she knew the first time ever, he let his shoulders slump, allowed the years to bow his resolve.
“What indeed.” Stillman smiled wistfully and leaned back on the desk.
Footsteps sounded outside the doorway. Stillman stood, squared himself, and once again assumed the too-heavy mantle of leadership.
“Come.”
Magnus nodded to Wren and snapped to attention in front of the Precept.
“You wished to see me, sir?”
Stillman moved back behind his desk, inserting a layer of formality between them. “Did the sample from the club yield anything useful?”
“Cyndralla detected the resonance of exceptionally strong shadow magic. Unfortunately, without the source, she could not determine its purpose,” Magnus reported.
“I expected as much. Obviously, we need more to go on. At least we can put a name to our enemy.”
“Alexander Gray,” Wren said. The name jarred loose a memory. “Cassidy mentioned something about a hospital dedication that he would be attending in the morning. Maybe we can learn something there.”
Stillman shifted his weight, his expression thoughtful. “I want the two of you to check it out in the morn—”
“Check what out?” Dev hobbled through the open door. “I want in.” He came to rest beside Magnus and straightened up with a wince.
Oh, my dear Knight, I’m so sorry.
“Not this time,” Stillman said.
Dev glared at his commanding officer. “But I ca—”
Stillman met Dev’s glare with compassion until the Knight of Flame looked away. “You all have your orders. Dismissed.” He turned, walked to the other side of the long room and made a big production of inspecting the state of the blades on the wall next to the entrance to his personal library.
“What’s going on?” Dev asked. He glanced at Wren, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. Head down for fear he would see the tracks down her cheeks, she walked from the room. She wanted to bolt, almost gave in to her selfish desire to get away, but held to her dignity. Two steps beyond the doorway, free from prying eyes, she ran.
Stillman’s voice carried down the hall. “Magnus, a minute if you please.”
She knew what that was about. Magnus would fight for his brother, try to talk Stillman into giving Dev another chance, but it was futile. Dev was screwed and it was her fault. She had betrayed him.
A fresh torrent of tears flowed as she ran.
Dev called out to her, but she ignored him.
What have I done?
Her flight took her deeper into the Cradle, to her favorite room in the place. Alone and miserable in
the front row of the theater, she curled into tight ball and let her emotions run free. In her grief and self-loathing, she returned to the same question.
What will happen to Dev?
* * *
Head low, elbows resting on his knees, Dev sat on the edge of his stone bench in a gloom tinted by the reddish glow from the lava trough next to the forge. Stillman ordered him to stay put. Magnus couldn’t be found. He’d lost a fight to some wack-job in a bad suit. Oh, and he almost killed a man earlier because the guy recognized him. All in all, things could be better.
Magnus warned him the other night, but he blew it off and acted like everything was normal.
Okay, maybe I was a bit overzealous with the caterer, but I wouldn’t have killed him.
He wanted to believe that he would have stopped, but feared that if Wren hadn’t shown up when she did, he would have smashed the guy’s head into road pizza.
Ordered to await the summons in my room. What am I, ten?
He scrubbed his hands over the stubble growing across his skull, blew out an anxious breath and got to his feet.
What are they going to do? Make me scrub the floor, do the laundry, write on the wall of the Womb ‘I will not kick ass for no reason’ like a million times? What?
He roamed the twenty steps from wall to wall, repeatedly. The healing process was almost complete. His upper body felt stiff, but strong. His legs still ached, though, and he walked with a heavy limp favoring his left side. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, snapping a few vertebrae back into alignment. Twist right. Crackle. Twist left. Pop. Ugh. I’m getting old.
Standing in front of the forge, he traced the precise edges of the anvil’s face and the curve of its horn. The massive structure huddled on top of a flat shelf Magnus coaxed out of the stone floor. A large square trough made out of the same ultra-hard material as the anvil merged with the wall on its left. Heat and orange light rose from the circular well in its base.
Blacksmith’s tools lay on benches, in bins, and in specific holders along the walls. Tongs, clamps and hammers of all sizes predominant among them. He brushed his fingers over them, recalling the different weapons and armor he’d created over his many years of crafting.