by Steve Vera
His brethren watched him, waiting to see what he would do.
Gavin switched to the tongue of their homeland. “It was my decision to leave Asmodeous entombed, my insistence that we remain here to enforce his imprisonment, to make certain…that he never escaped. I was wrong, and because of my counsel, the Lord of the Underworld now flies free. The fates of two worlds now hang in the balance. I must be held accountable.”
Gavin offered the Quaranai, the traditional weapon of their order, to Cirena. This would be the last time they had this conversation. Even if it killed him.
Jack rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Stav, no. No.”
Tarsidion remained still and quiet; he knew the rules, understood the depth of what was transpiring.
“This is Lucian’s weapon.” Cirena’s brow lowered, her lips softening in speculation.
“It will serve the same purpose. You know well enough I cannot use my own.”
After a heartbeat of hesitation, Cirena accepted the weapon in the traditional manner—right hand around the hilt, knuckles up, thumb extended, the flat of the blade atop her open left palm.
Upon her acceptance Gavin stepped back into the center of the wooden floor and began to unclothe, folding each article in measured, punctilious movements. He placed them neatly at the base of the pedestal of his swords behind him.
On instinct, the three of them assumed their ritual positions: Cirena in the center, Jack by her right shoulder and slightly back, Tarsidion on her left. Gavin stood before his three friends and brethren completely naked. Now that the ritual had commenced, each wore a mask of inscrutability, even Jack.
Gavin kneeled. Cirena looked down at him. Her thick black hair tumbled over one eye. The visible eye, the one judging him, smoldered with enigmatic turbulence.
“Release your weapon to me,” she said in a ceremonial monotone.
“Erom dolututh varak.”
Back home the blade would have flashed with a hiss, but here there was nothing. He only imagined he saw a ripple of light across the black metal, but that’s all it was. His imagination.
“Efil,” she commanded. At her words the weapon sprung to life, shooting up like a giant stiletto, tripling in length in an ominous, steely ring. It was just the nerves of a corpse though, as no blue light manifested. No breath emanated. It would serve.
Cirena lowered the blade and rested the tip on the base of his throat. Her breaths came long and deep through parted lips.
“What is your judgment?” he asked her.
Her violet eyes crackled beneath heavy lids. For half an eon she stared down at him, and though he was staring at the space she’d left between Jack and Tarsidion, he could still see her through his peripheral vision, could feel the tempest of conflicting emotions raging within her, the tension in her muscles, her looming. He found it more than a little disturbing that part of her truly thought he should die.
Her arm rose.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Cirena,” Tarsidion barked.
Jack said nothing.
A hot purple blaze beat down on his shoulders.
Know what? Take it. I’m done. Gavin straightened his back and craned his neck to accommodate the blade. He closed his eyes. Do it.
Of course, then, a tiny little voice in the back of his head whispered, Perhaps flagrant defiance isn’t the best strategy to implement when dealing with Cirena.
On cue, she stepped behind him, dragging the point of the blade across his skin to the middle of the center of his neck. Normally, only criminals were struck down from behind; a warrior’s death always came from the front. What the hell was she doing?
His skin prickled when the blade left his skin. The heating to his central air kicked in. He could feel her poised above him, sword raised, a shadow overhead. Movement, slow and then…her lips at his ear.
“Is this the only way I can get you to take your clothes off for me?” The wind of her breath sent squadrons of gooseflesh down his neck, through his shoulders to the tips of his toes. She stood before he could answer. “There is no judgment passed, Sur Stavengre. It was understood there was only one key.”
Cirena stepped away and took her place between Jack and Tarsidion. Gavin looked at Tarsidion. The giant exotic waved his hand. Jack followed suit with a snicker and a grin.
The second he got Jack’s wave, Gavin stood, still quite naked, and looked each of them in the eyes. “I don’t ever want to have this conversation again.” His heart was pounding.
“And I don’t ever want to have to look at your butt-ass naked self again, either,” Jack said.
Cirena’s gaze flitted from his body to his face and then, a long, slow smile blossomed on her scarlet lips. The sun itself wasn’t as glorious. “When did you become so dramatic, Stavengre?” she asked.
Jack was the first one to laugh, Tarsidion a heartbeat after. Gavin and Cirena locked eyes and slowly grinned, blushing. Suddenly they were all kids again, Apprentices at the academy, learning the same lessons, fighting the same battles and running in terror from the same Seneschal. There were no bonds deeper.
Who of them would have dreamed that they would once again find themselves standing between life and winged death on the inverted side of reality?
Gavin set his jaw. He hadn’t. But he would meet it.
Chapter Fifteen
When Skip got home he was hurting. His dismay deepened as the black Charger waiting in his driveway opened, and out loomed Ahanatou.
His scowl was impressive.
Not now.
Ahanatou didn’t wait for Skip to get out but walked up to his window and tapped it hard with his gloved finger. “Find anything?” he asked with laser-cannon eyes, his voice carrying through the glass.
Skip popped the handle and lowered his aching frame slowly from the vehicle. He took the pain like a shot of moonshine, determined not to make a face. “Nothing worth mentioning,” he grunted. Damn. Too much ouch in his voice.
“Nice of you to show up for my visit, Walkins.”
“Well, it’s not like you gave me a time.” Skip hobbled up the driveway.
“I told you to stay put.” Ahanatou followed.
“That’s what you have your tails for. I know I was followed.”
“Think of it as ‘looking out.’”
Skip rounded on him. “You have any kids?”
Ahanatou blinked. “No. I do not.”
Skip nodded and resumed limping up the driveway. “Good for them.”
“Invite me into your home, Ever—Skip. I want to talk to you.”
With a sigh, Skip climbed the five steps up his porch to his front door. He opened it. “Well, come on, then. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker I can go to sleep.”
Ahanatou walked up his steps with a level stare.
Once inside, the federal agent seemed bigger in the confines of Skip’s living room, like a Civil War fortress—thick, squat and bristling with weapons. He was holding a briefcase.
“Can I get you a glass of tap water with no ice?” Skip asked.
Ahanatou regarded him for a long moment. “I should arrest you.” His voice was serious.
&nbs
p; “For what?”
Ahanatou leaned in. “How about for assaulting a federal agent?”
“With what? Who?”
“Me.” His eyes were razors. “By being such a pain in my ass.”
Skip stared. Ahanatou actually smiled.
“That almost sounded like a joke,” Skip said, dismissing himself for that glass of tap water with no ice and a Percocet. That would be the extent of his cooking today.
He turned on the faucet.
Ahanatou materialized in the doorway. “Oh, dammit, at least make some coffee.” Ahanatou brushed past him. “Freezer?”
Skip nodded. “I’m gonna go take a whiz. Make it strong.” Skip excused himself with a purpose. All he needed was for Ahanatou to see that picture of Donovan on his bed. Once he’d stashed it, he slipped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet and even left the seat up. When he returned to his living room, Ahanatou was studying the books on his bookshelf.
“You’re a renaissance man after all,” Ahanatou remarked. “Did you actually read any of these?”
“Nope. Just for show.”
“Hmm. Suddenly modest? I’ve seen your test scores.”
“How many times did you read my file?” Skip asked, easing himself down into his La-Z-Boy recliner.
“Twice,” Ahanatou admitted, making his way back to the kitchen as the coffee pot sputtered. “Mugs?” he called over his shoulder.
“Top cupboard to the left of the sink, second shelf.” Please, hurry up and get the hell out of my house. Skip listened to Ahanatou rummage and heard the always-welcome splash of coffee in a cup. The aroma filled his living room.
“You know, every man should have one of those.” Ahanatou emerged with two steaming mugs of coffee. And the milk. And the sugar bowl. Everything except the French Vanilla sitting in his truck. “That is an impressive coffee machine.”
“Why are you here, Ahanatou?” Skip asked wearily, accepting his mug.
“That’s a stupid question,” Ahanatou replied, lifting his mug in salute. The FBI agent had strong eyes—aggressive and unflinching. Skip was being dissected.
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
“I don’t know you.” Ahanatou took a sip of his coffee, set down his mug on the coffee table and stood. “I’m going to fix that.” He then began to unbuckle his belt.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Skip asked, alarmed. “Please don’t do that.”
Ahanatou ignored him, unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down, along with the boxers beneath, just low enough to reveal green footprints tattooed on his ample ass-cheeks. Shocked at first, Skip didn’t just laugh, he guffawed. Which hurt.
“That is just ridiculous,” he said, wheezing in mirth and pain once he caught his breath. What were the chances? “Save, right?”
“Save,” Ahanatou agreed with a nod, his hard face softened by the smile he allowed. “They hauled us out of the Kush during an ambush just south of the Khyber Pass. We should have died at least, I don’t know, seven, eight times. Probably more.” His smile faded. “The PJ team that rescued us lost one of their own doing it.” He gave the footprints on his cheeks one last stare before pulling up his pants. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Ahanatou had just gone up ten notches in Skip’s cool book. Normally, the green footprints (a Pararescue tradition in honor of the Vietnam-era CH-3E helicopter nicknamed the “Jolly Green Giant” that was most commonly used for rescues back then) were worn only by Pararescuemen who’d successfully completed a live “save.” It was a symbol of valor and pride and taken very seriously. It could also be worn, though much more rarely, by those whose “asses had been saved” by a PJ. Ahanatou owed his life to Skip’s brothers, and yeah, unless it was a fake, that was something. A big something. Still didn’t mean he liked him, though.
“Your file also says that you were awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in Afghanistan,” Ahanatou continued once he was rebuckled.
Skip sobered and answered with a nod. That was a story he shared only with the closest of friends.
“And your record as a detective in the Philadelphia police department is as impressive as well. Captain Harrison only had good things to say about you.”
“Cut to the chase, please.” Skip’s patience had lessened considerably with pain, tattoos or no tattoos.
“Simply put, Walkins…I’ve changed my mind. I want you back on my team.”
Skip blinked. Now, that was a surprise, but clever. If you can’t control them…
“It’s conditional,” Ahanatou added.
“Naturally,” Skip replied. He scratched at his chest and winced as his injury reannounced itself.
“You’re bleeding,” Ahanatou said.
Skip looked down. “Yeah, popped a couple of stitches.”
“Doing what? Never mind, I don’t even want to know.” Ahanatou bent over and opened his briefcase, retrieving a file labeled Rolling Creek. He laid it out on the coffee table and drew out a silver flask. He offered.
Skip raised his eyebrows and unscrewed the cap with a sniff. “Bourbon?”
“Indeed.”
Skip sighed regretfully. Percocet. “Can’t.”
Ahanatou shrugged and reclaimed his flask, pouring a generous amount in his mug.
“Clever of you to leave room,” Skip remarked.
Ahanatou’s lips twitched. “I am very clever.” He opened the Rolling Creek folder and handed Skip a document. All business now. “Do you know what this is?”
Skip glanced at the printout. “DNA double helix. Part of one at least.” He’d seen hundreds.
Ahanatou nodded. “How about this one?”
“More pyrimidines and purines,” Skip said with another glance. “Am I supposed to be looking for something?”
“What you see are two previously unknown strands of DNA.” He didn’t need to finish; his eyes did all the talking. “It means that whatever harpooned you in that cemetery was not from anything in the documented natural world.” He put his mug down and leaned closer. “And so is whatever that emerged from that grave.”
Skip’s breath rationed his oxygen in a sigh.
“It means,” Ahanatou continued intensely, “that I’m up against something beyond my abilities here. I have ten bodies now, men, women and children butchered and devoured by some…thing. Skip, please. Help me.”
Skip made no answer. He remembered the ka-billion pixels of carnage, the unclean feeling of evil on is fingertips. He rubbed the pads together absently.
Sir, Airman Percocet reports as ordered.
“You’re the only one who was there,” Ahanatou was saying.
“Me and the kid.” Had he said that out loud?
“Help me solve this case.” Ahanatou squeezed his massive hand into a fist. “Walkins…What. Did. You. See?”
Skip looked up from his fingertips. “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
Ahanatou gripped his coffee mug and emptied half of it in a single swallow, thunking it down on Skip’s coffee table. “Off the record, we’ve lifted saliva samples from six different crime scenes—thigh bones, clavicles, skulls, you name it.” Ahanatou wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I believe we’re dealing with a new race here.”
Chapter Sixteen
His fingers plucked the strings of his Benson in no particular order, a random, listless chord progression without purpose or destination.
“That sounded terrible,” Cirena said, stepping onto his dojo, which doubled as his stage. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there, which was bad, considering who was coming for them. Her boot
heels clicked on the bamboo as she walked toward him.
“You’re just full of nice things to say today, huh?” Gavin retorted, looking up.
“I let you live, didn’t I?” she said with a trace of a smile.
“Good point,” Gavin said with a matching smile he didn’t feel. Even after all this time there was still a little of part of him that would always hate her, would remember what she once was. Even as he would die for her.
“How are you?” she asked softly. It was an unguarded tone few people on either world had ever heard.
“About the same as my playing,” he said and emphasized by strumming chaotically. “You?”
Here it comes…
Cirena didn’t answer at first; instead she looked around at the little paradise he’d concocted for himself down here. The room was bathed in soft light emanating from the delicately papered light fixtures that graced the simplicity of his walls.
“Aside from my fear of what approaches…” she said. “Relief.”
Gavin raised his left eyebrow.
“I am tired of skulking in a world that has no knowledge of what truly is,” she said to his unasked question, “of languishing without purpose or reason. In a matter of days we will either be home…or dead. And that is fine with me.” She breathed in and spoke in their native tongue. “I am tired of this place.”
Gavin played a slow, perfect D minor. It was supposed to be a joke but it came out haunting.
“How are you happy here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I know it’s not home, and I miss magic as much as any of you, but—”
“It’s like losing one of your senses,” she interrupted.
“Yeah.” He guessed it was. He chose his words carefully. “I think to you, losing magic is as bad as losing your vision.”
“And hearing,” she added.
“Exactly. To me, it’s more like losing my taste—I wish I had it, I love me some apple pie, but I’m fine without it. Truth be told, I kinda like not waking up to the screams of the dying and the charging of horses, you know? Call me crazy.”