GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  I tried to keep myself from reacting. I locked out my knees so they wouldn’t buckle. I kept my hands in my pockets so they wouldn’t shake noticeably. I even widened my eyes to keep from blinking. But my body still betrayed me. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Ahhhh,” Forneus said, a very deep rattling in his voice. “I will accept your compliment. I am pleased to find that you know of me.”

  Know of him? Forneus the Felriven…Forneus the Despoiler…Forneus the Spirit Prince—pick a name. All of them were bad news and far above my pay grade.

  “You realize now, your mistake?” Forneus asked.

  I nodded. Inwardly, I felt the rage building up. But this time, it was rage towards myself. I’d been utterly careless, and now it was going to cost me this mission. More than that, it would cost other young women their lives at Smiling Jack’s blade.

  Forneus stood up. With each step, the chamber literally shook. I saw a long black sword at his side.

  I saw my end…and cursed myself for a fool.

  Forneus towered over me, his chin three feet above the top of my head. His wings rose even higher, spreading behind him like a vast shadow. He drew the sword and held it for me to see.

  “Do you recognize this sword?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard. The hilt, haft, and pommel were made of an otherworldly metal that was somehow both iron gray and bloody crimson at the same time. But it was the blade that held my eye and sent an icy chill skittering down my spine. The blade was made of pure sabelin, a misbegotten miasma molded from the pool of the world’s transgressions. The blade was a Soulcleaver.

  If Forneus struck me down with this blade, he would end me, and the mission would be lost.

  “You are at my mercy,” Forneus said, his voice oddly matter-of-fact. “And given your affront to me by coming to this place and rather rudely dispatching so many of my lesser colleagues, I should cleave you from this world.”

  I thought about trying something with the Edge but, in this case, I thought discretion might be the better part of valor.

  “But, Guardian,” Forneus went on, “I have not risen to this position without occasionally granting a mercy.” He laughed as if this were some grand joke that all the world should know. The Shades all around me joined in the laughter.

  Forneus said, “I am going to spare you, Guardian.”

  That’s when it finally hit me. He’d been calling me Guardian all this time, and I’d been so terrified that it hadn’t sunk in until now. Forneus thought I was a Guardian. And I wasn’t about to correct him.

  Forneus let the tip of the Soulcleaver fall to the floor. “I will withhold this consequence, for now. But I require of you a service. You will deliver for me a message.”

  I swallowed again. “Who should get the message?” I asked, sick to my stomach over the quiver in my voice.

  “One of your superiors,” Forneus replied. “Anthriel is his name.”

  I knew the name. Anthriel wasn’t my immediate superior because I belong to a completely different area, but he was a superior, and far superior to me in every way I could think of.

  “You must deliver the message promptly,” Forneus said. “Can you do this?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “What is the message?”

  “It is not for you,” Forneus said, his yellow eyes narrowing to reptilian slits. He held up his hand and black tendrils began to grow out from the flesh of his fingers. They intertwined again and again until a shape in black ash appeared. He blew into his hand, and the ash dispersed in a dark cloud. A scroll rested in the palm of his hand.

  “This is the message for Anthriel,” he said, handing it to me. “Deliver it soon, Guardian, or I will need to come and find you. And then, nothing will hinder my blade. Have we an understanding?”

  “Yes,” I said evenly, doing my best to make eye contact.

  Forneus scanned me shrewdly, and I feared he might somehow recognize me. But no, he had something else in mind. Something that would all but cripple me.

  “You seem awfully fond of that silver case of yours,” the Senior Knightshade said, a glimmer in his sickly yellow eyes.

  Instantly, I became very nervous.

  “A kind of toolkit,” Forneus went on. “Place your weapons within the case.”

  He said it so casually, and yet, I could literally feel the force of his ancient will bearing down on me. Every syllable of his command was weighted with Soulcleaver venom. To resist in even the most minute fraction would result in unyielding agony…and the end of my mission. I lowered the case to the ground. And while the Shades nickered and snickered all around me, I put the Edge and a few Slammer grenades inside the silver case and closed it. I stood, knowing what would come next.

  Forneus reached down—a long way down for him—and half-crushed my fingers as he wrapped his massive hand around the case’s handle. He took it from me as if I were a disobedient child and said, “I will hold on to this for now…as collateral. Return to me once you have delivered my message, and I might return it…that is, I might consider sparing you.”

  He gestured for me to leave, and believe-you-me, I took the hint and started walking. But just before I reached the iron door, Forneus’ voice rumbled out of the darkness once more.

  “Guardian,” he called. “Give the message to Anthriel only. If you give it to any other of your order, they will end you instantly.”

  Chapter 23

  There’s something about being threatened with annihilation that can really rattle a guy.

  I’d driven away from the abortion clinic/Shade stronghold and spent the first fifteen minutes in an absolute thoughtless haze. I don’t know which roads I took or what places I passed. I’m reasonably certain I followed the traffic laws, but beyond that, I didn’t know much else. After all, I’d just narrowly survived a run-in with a legendary Senior Knightshade, keeping my existence only in exchange for running an errand that would almost certainly turn out to be epic-level evil.

  When I finally snapped out of my fog bank, I came to the realization that I’d rarely been to the end of my rope like this. Not only was I #1 on Forneus the Felriven’s hit list, but I still hadn’t come close to completing my mission. Smiling Jack and his accomplice were still out there. Innocent young women were still in danger. The FBI was back in and, as far as they were concerned, I needed to be out. Even Agent Rezvani, with whom I’d shared a kind of tacit partnership, had been browbeaten into disowning me. Did that mean I really was out? It was somewhat standard protocol for me to be involved only when no one else could be…or more often, would be. And yet, I did not get called to a mission by mistake.

  Ever.

  And yet, here I was at a virtual dead end. I had a lot to think about. I needed wisdom. I needed direction. But, at least for the moment, I needed coffee.

  I’d driven aimlessly past a dozen strip malls. Why I stopped at Miracle Strip Shopping Center, as opposed to any of the others, I have no idea. But, it seemed like in this area, you could drive five minutes in any direction and you’d be sure to run into a marvelous coffee shop.

  I sat down at a place called Nightgrounds. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the interior was a sight to behold. In one corner stood an honest-to-goodness iron maiden. Shackles and chains hung from the left hand wall. A flickering candelabra rode a barely visible wire back-and-forth between jagged, black chandeliers overhead. A leering stone gargoyle sat on the front counter. Dungeon Feng Shui. The tables even had little coffin-shaped containers to hold the sugar and sweetener packets. Groovy.

  The waitress who came to my table was, of course, as Goth as she could be. Seriously, she made Morticia look like Snow White.

  “Welcome to Nightgrounds,” she said amiably. Though it was hard to read friendly from lips and eyes so darkened by makeup.

  She started to hand me a menu, but I held up a hand. “I’m not eating,” I said.

  “This isn’t for food,” she replied.

  “Then, what is it for?”

 
“Coffee,” she said. “Duh.”

  “I already know what I want.”

  “But you’re not a regular.”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “We have 177 blends.”

  “I just want coffee. Black.”

  “Black we got,” she said and spun on a platform heel.

  She came back with a mug. It wasn’t a mug really. More like a stein or a tankard—ten inches tall at least. And the thing was decorated like Dracula’s castle.

  I gave the waitress a look like, Really?

  She sneered and stalked away.

  But at least the coffee was good. It was the darkest black I’d ever seen. Crude oil black. Tar black.

  It was bitter, sharp, strong, and…delicious.

  I sat, sipping my coffee, and thinking. A stream of pedestrian traffic moved by.

  Downtown Panama City Beach isn’t like downtown New York City or downtown Chicago…or even downtown Albuquerque. It’s not skyscrapers and taxicabs. It’s not designer suits and briefcases. It’s casual. Even at night when the party crowd comes out, the place is low key and smooth.

  So when a certain man turned the corner and sauntered to my table, I actually raised an eyebrow. He wore a black, three-piece zoot suit. I kid you not—a zoot suit.

  The long coat was buttoned at his chest only, draped back behind his arm, and a hoop of gold chain dangled from his pocket down to his knee. He tipped a black fedora with a red feather sticking up out of its satin band. He straightened a jaunty yellow tie and flashed a blinding white smile.

  “Mr. Spector,” he said, words rolling off his tongue like jazz. “I believe I have come at just the right time…as usual.”

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  He smiled and took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “One would think, with all the oh-so-timely assistance I have provided, that I might just merit remembering.”

  I shook my head.

  “Apparently not,” he said.

  He stared at me. His face was perfectly tan, but his skin had a waxy look as if he was one of Madame Tussaud’s figures come to life. He had eyes darker than my coffee and a sharkish nose. That knowing, chalk-white grin never left his face. And I still wondered how he knew my name.

  Then he actually removed a gold pocket watch from his billowing slacks’ pocket. With a smooth flick of the wrist, he flipped open its lid, glanced, and pressed it closed again. “I really must impress upon you,” he said. “My time is not unlimited, you know. I have other appointments to keep.”

  I sipped my coffee. Then I laughed and said, “Don’t let me keep you. I’d just as soon be alone anyway. Lots of thinking to do.”

  The pocket watch disappeared with his hand into the deep pocket. “A shame really,” he said. He spun with a flourish of his pinstripe coat. As he walked away, I heard him say, “Too bad though. I do believe Smiling Jack is about to get busy again. A shame.”

  The wrought iron chair scraped loudly on the stone floor as I thrust myself up to my feet. “Wait!” I called.

  He stopped and spun back. “Yes? May I be of service…after all?”

  I gestured to the second chair at my table and cleared my throat. “Sit,” I said. “Please.”

  The way he moved, weaving his way between the other tables, and coming to rest lightly in the chair—it was New Orleans cool. Liquid velvet.

  “I am so glad you reconsidered,” he said. “But still…you really don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Look, cut to the chase. How do you know me? What do you know about Smiling Jack?”

  The Goth waitress decided to appear at that moment. She handed my new guest a menu. And I’ll be boiled in pudding if he didn’t take his sweet time. I watched his eyes travel the coffee menu, line by line.

  “Hmmm, mmmhmmm,” he mumbled with a languid drawl. “Mephisto. I am most reasonably certain this blend will satisfy my discerning palate.”

  “Whatever,” the waitress replied. She whisked the menu out of his hands and left abruptly.

  “Insufferable youth,” he said. The easy smile disappeared for a moment. Only a moment. Replaced for a blink by something close to violent hatred. But it was gone so fast I had to wonder if I’d really seen anything at all.

  “Who are you—”

  “I do know you, John Spector,” he said. “I know you very, very well. I know how you work, how you play, how you op-er-ate. And, as always, I am here to help you. Why, yes I am.”

  Another casualty of my most recent memory wash, I thought. If I did force-forget him, I’m pretty sure I knew why. I don’t like folks beating around the bush.

  He sighed. “Well, though it seems to me a travesty to be required to remind you, I suppose you should know my name. Scratch is the name. Mr. Scratch. Say my name and strike a match and I’ll come calling.”

  “I didn’t say your name. I don’t carry matches.”

  He waved his long fingers. “A triviality,” he said. “I am not without a heart, my dear Ghost. I saw that you were in grave need.”

  I slammed my fist on the table.

  “Should I come back?” the waitress asked, holding another castle-tankard.

  I waved an apology and shook my head.

  Scratch accepted the coffee, breathed in its scent, and closed his eyes. Then, he exhaled deeply. “I do believe I made a most excellent choice.” He drank from the mug. He drank for a long time. I saw the steam rising and wondered how he didn’t scald his throat. When he put down the coffee, it was more than half gone.

  Just before he spoke, he adjusted the cuff of his dress shirt, sliding it out of his coat sleeve to cover his wrist. But I caught a glimpse of wounded flesh, the white marbling of a burn scar. I frowned, thinking that maybe I had a faint memory of something similar.

  “About your friend, Smiling Jack,” he said. “You are most certainly barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “You’ve most certainly resolved a few issues. But lately, you’ve been most willingly blind. You dig?”

  I shook my head.

  “You sure that memory trick you do doesn’t take a few of your most clever thoughts away too?”

  I thought about taking something out my silver case, something that would alter Scratch’s sense of humor. That’s when a lightning bolt hit me: I no longer had my silver case. No wonder I’d been in a mindless haze after leaving the clinic. Being without my silver case was like losing an arm. Maybe I should have just given myself over to the rage and taken a crack at Forneus. Right. I might have managed to put a dent in his ancient, armored hide before he hacked me asunder with a thunderous flourish. I squeezed my fists so tightly that my knuckles cracked.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Scratch asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m feeling a little unsettled right now.”

  “Interesting,” Scratch replied, taking another gulp of his coffee. “Well, now see how splendid it is for you that I am here. I’ve come with such timely advice, and I’ve even brought you a little gift.”

  I watched, flinching involuntarily as Scratch reached beneath the table at his side. When his hand came up, I fully expected to see a big black handgun…but he had a silvery baton instead. He slid it across the table to me.

  The Edge.

  “How…?” I stammered. I usually make it a point not to stammer, but here it was more than appropriate. “How could you get…I mean, my case won’t open for anyone but—”

  “And now, for the advice,” Scratch said, cutting me off and standing. As he waltzed away, he said over his zoot-suited shoulder, “Sometimes the way forward is the way back.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “’Sometimes the way forward is the way back.’ Great,” I muttered, driving the assassin-mobile toward Grayton Beach. “I’ll just put that on a bumper sticker. Super.”

  And who was this Scratch cat anyway? See what I did there? I called him a “cat.” That’s hipster talk…I think. An
yway, I had no clue what to make of him. Apparently, he knew me quite well. He even knew about the memory wash that I had apparently used to wipe him from my memory. If he had helped me before, why did I erase him?

  What really cooked my noodle was the Edge. Number one: no one could open that case except for me. Forneus could have batted it around like a piñata with his black blade and not left a scratch. And yet, Mr. Scratch had gotten it open. Number two: how on earth had Mr. Scratch gotten past Forneus to get to the case in the first place? My mind went wild with possible scenarios: was Scratch in league with Forneus? Was this all a ploy? Was Scratch a kind of spy for the Enemy?

  And how, out of all the coffee joints in Panama City Beach, did Scratch happen to walk into mine? I realized absently how close I had just come to quoting Rick Blaine in Casablanca. This is how disheveled I get without my silver case.

  Then my cell phone rang, belting out I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…

  Rez.

  I answered quickly. “I wondered if I’d hear from you. I—”

  “What in blazes is the matter with you?” Rez growled.

  “With me?” I pondered aloud.

  “Don’t play dumb, Spector,” she said. “I was expecting a little help here.”

  “O…kay,” I said slowly, keeping my voice even. Anything to avoid ratcheting up the tension. “Maybe you could refresh my memory. Last I heard from you, you were reading me the FBI’s official get-lost speech.”

  “That was all Deputy Director Barnes, and you know it. He’s always by the book, always firm, but I’ve never seen him like this. He’s putting clamps on every loose end—including you—suddenly and with extreme zeal. The veins on his neck and forehead are sticking out. He’s gone maniacal on this, and I don’t dare cross him.”

  “I still don’t understand how I could help you with that.”

  I heard a muted snarl from the phone and, when Rez spoke again, her words were clipped with seething frustration. “You told me that you work for powers-that-be, powers well beyond the FBI. Higher than the Executive Branch, for cryin’ out loud. Why didn’t you put in a call to your superiors? Why didn’t you pull rank and tell the Deputy Director to back off?”