Jebediah's Crime: A Heroic Supernatural Thriller (The Hinge Series Book 1)

by Vincent Phan Tran

  Riley opened his mouth to comment but decided against it. He followed Jebediah's line of sight to Mei and Magda, still holding each other in front of the house.

  "You think this is over?" Riley asked.

  Jebediah thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know. I've heard stories about House Rakash, and especially Dipak. If even half that stuff is true …" He shook his head again. "They call him 'Mad Dog'. Be damned if it's not what he is."

  "They call you stuff too, man. Like 'Gundeath' and 'Widowmaker," Riley laughed under his breath. "Be damned if that's not true, too. No way any one or even two of my team goes in there and does what you do. You're death on wheels."

  "I got lucky," said Jebediah. Plus, I cheated, he thought, thinking of the Rain. "No idea if that luck's going to hold. I want this to be over for all of us. But I'm worried. I'm scared this will be war."

  Jebediah straightened up when Mei came over, still holding Magda by the hand. She seemed determined to never let go of the girl again. Not that he could blame her. But then, Mei did let go, and before he could react, he found himself hugged by the woman, her face pressed against his belly. He looked down at her, smiled, then gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder.

  "Thank you," she said, stepping away and wiping her eyes. "You give me child back. I never …" she struggled with the words. "I never repay. But maybe, I able give you son."

  "I don't understand," he responded in confusion.

  "I tell hospital do whatever help your boy," she said. "You give me my baby. Maybe I give you yours."

  Jebediah stared back at her speechless. The amount of money she was speaking about was a small fortune, and she'd just given it to him. No, he corrected himself. She'd given it to his son.

  "Thank you," he said in a voice choked with emotion, his heart filled with wild joy. "I … thank you."

  She shook her head. "No. Thank you." She pulled Magda to her and they both walked back to the house.

  Ray, also recovered, walked up with Lee to stand next to Jebediah and Riley. No one said anything.

  The group stood together and watched the sun begin to rise over the horizon, signaling the end of the long night.

  And the sunrise painted the sky red, like the world was on fire.

  Chapter 19

  Sita let her fingers slip along the back of the books in the library. Raja's mother drummed her fingers against their spines and stopped to trace the patterns of color and vibrant images that decorated their face.

  She knew she wasn't supposed to like book covers as much as she liked the words inside. But she still loved to look at the remarkable art. The covers were like the wrapping paper and meticulously tied bow of a present, the unwrapping of which turned something into a special occasion.

  She stood back and stared at the rows and rows of books, piled neatly in shelves almost to the ceiling. She tried to remember the last time she'd set foot in the library. Regardless of Dipak installing it just because he wanted to show off to visitors, it was still an impressive collection.

  Sita had made sure all her favorite books were gathered there. She especially loved the stories with heroes. The idea of good men and women, flawed perhaps, but still fighting to do the right thing, spoke to her. Because bad things happened when good people did nothing.

  She wished some of the people in those books were real. Because everyone around her now, the flesh and blood people, were all bullies and liars and crazies.

  And worst of all, there were the scared ones. People like her, who were stupid and weak. Because people like her did worse than beat on others. They stood around and let others abuse those they cared about the most.

  They let a father hit and hit a boy, until he could barely walk the next day. They let a child's spirit be ground into almost nothing, then get buried under years of hate and bitterness.

  She looked around at the walls of books and wondered when she'd stopped believing in heroes.

  She wondered when she'd become so feeble.

  She reached out and flipped a book off the shelf at random. It turned out to be one of her childhood favorites, about an assistant pig keeper of all things. She sighed and breathed in its odor of binding and paper. She closed her eyes and remembered reading it when she'd been small and hopeful.

  The click of her lighter spouted a small flame. She waved it over and lit one of the book's corners. The flames licked and guttered and the pages blackened and started to curl. She stared at the fire for a moment as if mesmerized by its dance. Then she slid the book back loosely into its place and watched the flame catch to its neighbors.

  The fire spread and swept across the bookshelf, burning away works of valor and smart heroines and children who fought monsters, leaving in its wake charred embers and ash. And after staring for a few more moments, she turned away from the smoke and walked toward her husband's bedroom.

  Dipak slouched in his deep armchair and grunted in comfort. The ice cubes keeping his single malt whiskey company clinked against the side of the expensive glass tumbler. Beads of sweat dripped down its side. He wiped them away before taking a deep sip, letting the whiskey burn comfortably against the back of his throat.

  He settled deeper into the thick chair cushion, closed his eyes, and thought about himself and House Rakash. In that order.

  In the years before, when he'd just been a member of the guardsmen, he used to walk patrol in this same part of the mansion. Sita's father and the previous lord of the house had been up late one evening, sitting and thinking in the same chair he now sat upon. He'd called Dipak over, partly, he supposed, because he was alone after his wife's passing and wanted someone to speak to.

  "There was an encounter with a minor house a few days ago?" he'd asked.

  "Yes, my lord Klaan," Dipak responded. "The assault was fast and very brutal. We entered with a gun team under cover of night and with surprise at our side. But the resistance we encountered was unexpected. We lost more men than we thought we would."

  Klaan laughed without mirth. "By unexpected, you mean your field leader didn't count on the presence of non-human combatants?"

  Dipak stood silent, uncertain how to answer.

  "I asked you a question. Speak," he ordered.

  "They were using demons as inside guards. No one ever saw them outside and there were no indications—"

  "Oh, for god's sake boy," Klaan cut him off. "No indications? Really?"

  "Perhaps—" Dipak faltered. "—there were some mistakes made."

  "Mistakes aren't what you call things that cost lives. Those are called tragedies. The people in this House will not be victims to poor planning and careless thinking. To leaders that lack the force of will to succeed."

  Klaan shook his head before continuing.

  "Force of will," he repeated. "That's what lets us hurt them, the 'non-human combatants'. It's why swords and fist work and guns fail. It takes nothing to stand at a distance and fire a gun. But to take a blade in your hand and stand close enough to be harmed takes a soldier of honed skills—a man of will."

  "Yes, my lord," said Dipak.

  "Would you have done something different?" Klaan asked.

  Dipak considered his next words carefully. If it got out he criticized the actions of the field leader, the rest of the guard members would view him as a traitor. Was this a test of his loyalty to the rest of the group? Or perhaps some other type of test?

  He swallowed, then said, "Yes, I would have been successful."

  Klaan turned and looked at him full on for the first time. "Really now?" he asked. "And what exactly would you have done?"

  "Food."

  "Excuse me?" Klaan prompted.

  "The demons eat different food. I would have checked the deliveries and bribed staff to look at kitchen manifests. We would've seen the odd food orders, and it would've warned us they were in there. The field leader was careless and didn't think it through."

  Klaan nodded slowly and settled further into his chair as if in thought. After a mom
ent he spoke. "My daughter Sita mentioned you to me. Finds you quite dashing, like one of those made up stories she's always reading. Has her nose in books too damn much."

  Klaan turned again to look at Dipak, and this time his gaze lingered, dark and probing, and the guardsman grew uncomfortable.

  "You're smart. That's obvious. And you're a capable tactician."

  Dipak smiled at the praise.

  "But you're arrogant," Klaan continued. "Some of that is fine. But too much makes you think you can't make mistakes, and you start seeing people as things to be used. Watch that, boy. I'm harder to impress than my daughter. Now get out."

  Dipak walked away stiff-legged and embarrassed.

  A month later, Lord Klaan of the House of Rakash was dead.

  Klaan choked on a bit of poisoned food in the great dining hall. A server was found guilty, though he would go to his grave proclaiming his innocence. Sita, overcome with grief from her father's death, sought solace in the arms of the dashing Dipak, and soon after they were wed. And thanks to Dipak's brilliance the House of Rakash rose to prominence in the Caliber.

  Dipak still remembered the look on the poisoned man's face when he was choking to death. Klaan's eyes had sought out his own, and in his dark dying stare, stabbed blame at the young guardsman. That look continued to haunt him to this day. Raja's face, with its odious stare and dark eyes, were almost identical to the old man's.

  Dipak took a deep swig of his whiskey and swung towards the sound of approaching footsteps. Sita had entered the room and was looking at him strangely.

  "I didn't call for you, woman," he barked. "I've no need of you tonight. Get out. And what the hell is that smell? For god's sake, you reek."

  "Smoke and fire," she answered. "It should keep everyone busy while we speak."

  Dipak looked at her in disbelief for a moment and started to stand up from his chair. "You've gone mad, woman—"

  He stopped when she brought up a small gun. She pointed it with an unsteady hand, but her face was set with determination. Dipak settled back into his chair and stared at her.

  "What is this, my wife?" he asked in a gentle, placating tone.

  "It is the end, Dipak, because it is enough. You've taken everything from me. My pride and my heart. You will not take my son."

  "Our son, Sita," he corrected.

  "He has never been your son!" she yelled. "You have done nothing but belittle him and make him feel stupid and small. And I am to blame, because I did nothing. Well, I am doing something now."

  She caught her breath, then continued. "How could you? What kind of monster treats their child like that? Like garbage or, at best, a tool?"

  "He needed to grow up," Dipak replied. "You weren't helping, always coddling him like a baby, he needed to be a man--“

  Sita's gun went off. A smoking hole appeared in the chair mere inches from Dipak's head.

  "He is more a man than you will ever be," she warned. "It is too late for me to save Shira. That girl was born yours. But I will help Raja. You will not hurt him anymore."

  She brought the gun up with both hands.

  "Did you ever love me, Dipak?" she sobbed.

  Dipak stared at her gun and thought before speaking.

  "No," he finally answered. "But you were useful to me. Just like your father's death was useful to me. I saved House Rakash. I built it with my blood and my mind into one of the most powerful houses of the Caliber. And you? You lived like a queen because of my work."

  "You weep for your boy," he continued, mocking. "But you know nothing of what it takes to live like we do. You think you are some savior out of a fairy tale, woman?"

  Dipak laughed. "I am the hero here. You are just a stupid, stupid, little girl."

  Sita's finger pressed down on the trigger. A gunshot rang out, and she looked forward with wide-eyed wonder. Then, she collapsed.

  Dipak glanced down toward the armrest of his chair. A smoking barrel protruded from its leather covering. His other hand was still pressing down on the hidden trigger in his seat.

  He stood and walked over to Sita. She'd crumpled to the floor. She coughed and a bit of blood sprayed out.

  "Please, leave him alone," she pleaded.

  "Even now, you don't understand, Sita." He took the gun from her hand and raised it up. "I will have no children in this house."

  Sita closed her eyes. Before her last breath, she thought of her father and her son. She thought of heroes and her family.

  Chapter 20

  Raja stood in his bedroom and thought it was about time he walked to the door, opened it, and walked down the hallway. He was just having a little trouble getting moving.

  He hung his head and wiped his palms. He wasn't really sure what he'd say to his mother, but he knew he had to do something. Nervousness mixed with the burn of shame from the memory of striking her. What he'd done was unforgivable, but he'd find a way to make it right. There's only so much wrong one person can do. Eventually, just because of odds, you ended up doing something right. Today was his day.

  He'd arrived in the morning, though, and now it was close to noon and here he was, still in his room.

  He shook his head. To top it all off, somehow that old bastard Jebediah had beaten him. How the hell had he done it? If he could move like that, why hadn't he just gone in and taken the girl from the beginning? Why let himself get beat all to hell?

  The story of Raja's defeat had spread like fire through the House, growing in scope and becoming exaggerated beyond recognition. The last he'd heard, the girl had beaten him over the head with a table leg and the bounty hunter had broken both his hands while he lay senseless. He wasn't sure how they believed that since he was resting his obviously unhurt hands on the knives at his belt. People were idiots.

  He guessed he'd have to kill someone soon. His reputation had to be maintained, and he had to stave off any challenges from the men in the house. Maybe that loud mouthed braggart, Fiero. Any man that walked around with his shirt off as much as him deserved to get cut.

  He quirked a small smile. Like it or not, he had to give the older man credit. He'd put Raja down, something no one else had ever done. But next time, he wouldn't be surprised, and the fight would end very differently.

  He looked back to the door and realized he was delaying again. He brushed errant locks of hair out of his eyes, squared his shoulders and forced himself to walk forward. He stopped short when the door opened.

  His sister entered and a group of soldiers crowded behind her into his room. Raja stepped back and turned sideways, dropping his hands to his knives but not drawing them. Not yet.

  "What is this?" Raja asked.

  "We need to speak, brother."

  "Since when do you bring them to speak to me?" he asked, pointing to the soldiers nervously fingering guns at their side.

  "I wanted to make sure you thought before you did anything stupid," she answered. "Something happened last night. Mother went crazy. She burned down part of the house, then tried to kill Father."

  Raja stared at her.

  One of the soldiers cursed and whispered to another man, "I thought you said his hands were broken."

  "There … no … I mean … it's a mistake. Obviously, it wasn't her," Raja finally managed to stutter.

  "If it wasn't for Father she would've killed the lot of us. She was a mad woman."

  "It was because of me," he blurted. "She was upset because of something I did. I just need to talk to her. I'll go talk to her and fix all this. Let's go right now—"

  He took a step toward the group and the door behind them. The soldiers stepped back and in one motion swung their guns and swords up. He stared into a crowd of weapons held by nervous men. His sister stood in the middle and cocked her head. She reached out a hand and pushed one of the guns slightly away from her.

  "Best you don't move, brother. There are some who think you might do something less than smart." She looked at him in the eyes. "I'm one of them."

  "There's no reason for t
his, Shira! I can fix this. Just let me go talk to mother. Where is she, Shira?" he asked.

  His sister hesitated. When she finally spoke, her words were careful and measured and delivered with a tint of something. Satisfaction?

  "She was crazy," his sister repeated. "She threatened Father. He had to defend himself. The family will move on from this. We're all going to be stronger—"

  "Is she hurt?" he yelled. "What hap—"

  "She's dead, Raja!"

  Horror crept over Raja's face. He couldn't breathe. He'd never be able to tell her how terribly, deeply sorry he was. He'd never tell her anything ever again.

  He stumbled back on numb legs. Random memories floated across his mind: Walking with his child's hand held by his mother, the two of them feeding a stray cat they'd found on the street….

  He triggered the charm and the usual golden glow enveloped him. But before he disappeared, Shira yelled out to him.

  "I told you before, Raja. It's time to grow up."

  Dipak and Shira, both wearing red robes, huddled around the center of the room. A scarlet symbol had been painted on the ground under their feet. It was pointed and obscene.

  Incense burners around them put out an acrid stench. It filled the air and added to the dank, uncomfortable feel of the darkened room. The Sisters of Smoke circled around them in deep hoods and cloaks. They chanted in an ancient language that sounded guttural and alien.

  Guards had withdrawn to the edges of the room after drawing the symbol on the ground, moving quickly as if scared to linger for too long. One of the guardsmen flinched when one of the Sisters passed too close. She'd turned her hooded face to him, and whatever the hardened soldier saw within its depths made him run screaming for the exit.

  The Sisters stopped their movement and, as a group, turned inward to the center of the circle and looked at Dipak and Shira.

  Father and daughter peered down at the symbol on the ground and what lay on top of it.