The Crimes of Orphans

by Obie Williams

  Grateful to turn away from the gaping maw of that decaying street, she went to the door of The Spade and slipped inside.

  As Lita had told Rain, she’d been in here twice before, but the place had changed in the last six years. The bar remained where it had been, but everything else was different, right down to the shoddy paintjob—a bad shade of brown covering what had been a bad shade of yellow adorning the patched, pitted walls. There were six tables, all round but otherwise dissimilar, arranged in two rough triangles pointing at one another with an aisle up the middle to the bar.

  Things seemed nearly as dead in here as on the street outside. At the table nearest Lita’s left sat three men in coveralls with rolled-up sleeves, their grimy hands gripping ale-filled steins. All three looked her way when she walked in, but just as quickly disregarded her in the space of the disapproving glance she gave them. It was a look she had mastered in her years as a tender, an automatic “no” that kept her unbothered under most circumstances.

  At the center table to her right was a young couple, no older than she. They were huddled together over a book, reading by the light of a small candle that floated in a jar half-filled with water—a common centerpiece made with safety in mind, fire departments being little more than fairytales in most parts of Ayenee. As Lita passed the couple, they burst into simultaneous hushed giggles, never once looking up at her. They were completely enraptured in whatever hilarity it was they were sharing. Normally such a sight would have Lita rolling her eyes, but tonight it made her smile in spite of herself.

  Up ahead, the wraparound bar held two occupants. At the far end to Lita’s right, a withered old man was perched on one of the mismatching barstools, looming over a whiskey double. To her left, where the bar ended near a hallway leading to the service door, Jonas sat hunched slightly, his elbows resting on the bar top.

  Lita approached without bothering to feign stealth. He had known she was there from the moment she stepped inside. She figured the odds to be about even between him bolting straight away or staying in his seat. When she didn’t hear the clamor of an overturned barstool and fleeing boots, she was no more surprised than she would have been if he had taken off. A good plan meant being flexible to all possible outcomes.

  As she took up the second stool to Jonas’ right—leaving a buffer between them—Lita drew her firearm and placed it to her right on the bar. It was a mark of trust between her and Jonas, but it also served to put tenders at ease. Better for them to know where your weapon is than to be surprised by it should you get rowdy. To Jonas’ left rested his large-caliber revolver. Lita crinkled her nose at the sight of it, as she had many times before. It was a clunky thing, and only worsened Jonas’ already terrible aim. Though he was a crack shot with a rifle, small arms were not his forte.

  “Didn’t figure you to be in for an early round,” Jonas said coolly. Lita noticed two things immediately: he was fidgeting with something in his hands and he was drinking water.

  After a job, Jonas could go on a bender that almost put Lita to shame. Even back at her apartment, sharing a drink, he had been trying his hand at management, not gunning for anyone himself. But when he was assigned a mark, whether the job lasted a day or a month, he was sober as a judge. And he was drinking water.

  Then there was the fidgeting. Jonas never fidgeted. He had a placid, collected manner about him that had complemented her short fuse, something Cleric no doubt liked in their partnership. She was a loose cannon that needed proper aiming, and Jonas had had a way of keeping her steady. But he hadn’t even looked at her. His eyes were locked on his hands, hovering just above the bar, flipping something over and over in his fingers.

  It was a business card, the sort only hospitals and high-end entrepreneurships used anymore. While various military still used radio technology, telephones were a thing of the past, so there wasn’t much use in the cards. Hospitals used them for appointment reminders, and a few morbidly successful enterprises used them as flashy ways to give out their addresses. But the card Jonas was fiddling with was different than either. One side held a single symbol: a dark green circle, the inside filled with an interweaving tangle of black lines. On the other side, two sentences had been scrawled in black ink, but Lita was unable to make them out before Jonas held up the card in his thumb and forefinger and it burst into flames. He dropped it into a nearby ashtray and looked to her at last, his hands returning to the bar, fingers interlaced.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do,” Lita said. The tender approached, looking for a drink order. “Vodka double,” she said, reaching for her pocket without looking his way. Jonas beat her to it, setting two goldpieces on the bar.

  “At least you’re getting something other than water,” the man said. When neither of them responded, he served Lita’s drink and departed to the far end of the bar. Tenders who wanted to live through their career choice learned quickly when to leave well enough alone.

  “You were saying?” Jonas asked and took a sip of his water.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Lita warned, then snatched up her drink and quaffed a quarter of it.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, final yes or no: is Cleric running this job? And don’t waste my t—”

  “Yes, he is,” Jonas interrupted.

  “I thought so, you shit. Now why in hell would he contract me for a job that I had already botched once before?”

  “He didn’t. I did. Cleric assigned me to set up the contract. I came to you. I didn’t know that Amelie was the same girl from your last job.”

  “That’s bullshit. Cleric hates middlemen and he doesn’t subcontract.”

  Jonas shrugged. “He did this time. He needed the job to be double-blind. He said he couldn’t risk anything being traced back to him and Michael, so he sent me to hire someone outside of the usual roster. Said it was my big break.”

  Lita’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense. Cleric’s not that paranoid.”

  “Things have changed. He doesn’t know that I know, but he’s getting desperate. Running scared.”

  “What the hell would Cleric have to be scared of?”

  Jonas took another sip of his water, returned it to the bar, and said quietly, “IASOFT. They’re gunning for him.”

  Lita tensed and goosebumps appeared on her arms. “They’re supposed to be a myth.”

  “Cleric probably wishes they were.”

  Lita shook her head in disbelief. “Holy fuck.” She took up her drink, then said over the top of it, “Michael must be clueless if he’s working with someone who’s got that kind of mark on his head.” Jonas nodded. Lita pondered on this for a moment, then tipped back more of her drink. “Okay,” she sighed, breathing the fire out of her lungs, “say I believe you. Why in hell would you contract me?”

  Jonas reached out to a candle in front of him and began waving his fingertip side to side through its flame, watching the fire lick up around his knuckle with each pass. “Maybe I thought if you picked up where you left off it would put you back in Cleric’s good graces.”

  Lita’s eyes narrowed. “Even if I’d gone through with it, I told you this was a one-time shot.”

  He shrugged. “Guess I hoped a fresh taste would change your mind. And even if it didn’t, the payout would have set you up good. I was doing you a favor.” He folded his hands once more, looking to Lita calmly. His gaze infuriated her.

  “A favor? How is marching me into a setup a fucking favor?” It was becoming increasingly difficult to control the volume of her voice.

  “I didn’t know it was a setup,” Jonas replied, “and I figured even if it was, you’d be able to handle yourself. Which you did just fine, except for taking the girl. I never thought there’d be a chance in hell you’d offer a mark sanctuary.”

  Lita’s eyes wavered and dropped to her glass. “I owed it to her.”

  “And what did it get you?” Jonas asked. “They left you and the vampire for dead and went after the gi
rl anyway. You’re damned lucky I put my ass on the line by not finishing the job like Cleric wanted me to.” He paused long enough to quickly survey the tavern. “Where is your bloodrat friend anyway?”

  Lita regained her focus in a flash and leaned in closer to him. “Never you fucking mind about him, Jonas. I’m right here in front of you and you’re going to tell me everything you know, even if I have to dangle you from the Winter River Bridge to get it. Because I swear to fucking Christ, if you—” she broke off her threat mid-sentence and shot her gaze to the end of the bar where the old man had stumbled trying to get off his stool, dropping his drink in the process.

  “Goddammit, Emory, I told you that’s the last time!” the tender hollered as he stomped off in that direction.

  When Lita looked back, Jonas and his revolver were gone. The service entrance door was already swinging closed.

  Smirking as she picked up her glass, Lita said calmly, “You’re on,” and put away the rest of her drink.

  III

  Out in the alley, Jonas found himself unexpectedly thrust into darkness as the metal door—which did not open from the outside without a key—slammed shut behind him. He had frequented this place enough to know that the tender always kept a torch burning in this alley and if it wasn’t lit, something was amiss. The full moon was still low in the sky, casting thick shadows that enveloped the entirety of this dead-end strip of road.

  Taking slow, cautious steps, he held his revolver out with one hand while he used the other to grope around blindly for something, anything, to set ablaze. Having spent over half his life able to create light out of nearly nothing, he was very uncomfortable in any darkness he could not readily dispel.

  He moved three more steps and then, behind him, he thought he heard something shift in the darkness. Whipping around, he aimed his weapon blindly. The thought occurred to him to set the wooden butt of his gun on fire, but he worried the heat might set off the ammunition inside.

  Of course, he had immediately surmised who was stalking him in this darkness. Lita had accused him of planning her setup, and here she had marched him right into one. “Show yourself, you fucking corpse!” he hollered. “Fight me like the man you wish you were! I’ll light up this whole town with your body!”

  “Jonas.” The whisper was quiet, but seemed so near his ear that he thought he felt the cold breath on which it was delivered. Uttering a thin cry, he spun around and squeezed off a single shot, the muzzle flash briefly splashing the alley walls with white light cut at odd angles by stark black shadows. There was no one to be seen. He heard the bullet splinter a wooden fence at the back of the alley, and then nothing but silence.

  His hands began shaking as he moved in a slow circle, trying to listen for any sound, any change in the atmosphere around him. But all he could hear was his own breathing and the booming of his heart in his chest. Thud thud thud; in; thud thud thud; out; thud thud thud; in; thud thud thud…

  “Jonas,” the voice whispered again from somewhere to his right. This time, he did not scream—he pivoted on his heel and fired three quick, booming rounds. In the successive bursts of light, he saw events unfold in clips, each distinct but altogether still too fast to give him time to react.

  In the first flash, there was an outline of a figure against the far alley wall, left of where he was aiming.

  In the second flash, that figure had halved the distance between them, its pale hands outstretched towards him.

  In the final flash, the figure was on him, its furious blue eyes inches from his own.

  In the darkness that followed, Jonas felt a frigid hand at his throat, a dull thud on the back of his head, and then those shadows washed over him in a cold wave, dousing the lights of his consciousness.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lita slapped Jonas across the face. Hard.

  Groaning, he opened first one eye, then the other. “Ow. Seriously? A hot cup of black would have worked just as well.”

  “Sorry,” Lita said, “It looks like you’re fresh out.”

  Jonas blinked a couple of times and looked around to find himself in the middle of his own inn room. “How did you…” Lita tapped herself just above her right breast. Jonas scoffed. “Of course.” After his terrible handgun marksmanship, Jonas’ memory was his worst quality as an assassin. He wasn’t forgetful, per se, but he constantly questioned what he remembered. As often as he was set up in different inns for jobs, he couldn’t get past the worry that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back on foot. Thus, despite the fact that Cleric would maim him if he knew, he always kept the name of his current accommodations written on a card in the breast pocket of his coat.

  Lita couldn’t blame him for the fear any more than she could blame herself for avoiding fire or physical contact. Getting lost as a boy had put him on the path to becoming the man he now was.

  “So…to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, dear Lita?” Jonas asked with a self-confident smile. She knew full well that he was feeling out his bonds.

  “Well, you were always trying to get me back to your room with you.”

  “True. Never thought you’d want to tie me up though. Seems like a scrubber trick. That’s not how you’re making ends meet these days, is it?” He had known immediately that he was sitting in the wooden chair from the room’s corner desk. His palms were pressed together behind his back, each finger secured to its counterpart with what felt like medical tape. More tape encircled his hands and wrists, and he thought there might even be fabric tied about them as well. The same bed linen, perhaps, that had been torn into strips and was holding his legs to the chair’s just below his knees and was also wrapped tightly around his chest below the sternum.

  Lita smirked, but also pointed a warning finger at him. She didn’t take kindly to being called a whore. “Even if I was, you couldn’t pay me enough. Anyway, I’m not particularly in the mood, darling. Just came to talk.”

  “Seems like a bit of overkill for a conversation. I could just promise not to run off again,” Jonas replied.

  “I said I’m not in the mood. I didn’t say he’s not.” Lita nodded towards Rain as he approached from behind Jonas carrying the room’s small bedside table. The lamp was still atop, its sickly glow giving Rain’s features a deathly appearance. He set the table down on Jonas’ right, the lamp’s curiously long cord still offering plenty of slack to the wall outlet.

  Lita had to admit, when Cleric put them up, he did so in decent style. It wasn’t that the room was extravagant or even large, but it had electricity and heated running water. That was a pretty big deal. Furthermore, he always threw in a bit extra to ensure that the innkeeper didn’t ask any questions. It came in handy when you waltzed in armed to the teeth, spattered with blood, or just dragging an unconscious man and asking which room was his. The portly man at the desk had simply glanced up from his book, muttered “217,” and gone back to reading. Keepers and tenders went to the same tight-lipped finishing school.

  “So I take it he plans to torture me?” Jonas asked coolly, looking over his shoulder. He watched as Rain walked to the bed and picked up his collapsed staff and a roll of medical tape from where they were lying next to his neatly folded coat. He returned and set the items on the table, then began rolling up his sleeves.

  Lita shrugged. “I guess so. He hasn’t really said much.”

  “Did you tell him Cleric trained us to resist torture?”

  “Sure did, but he seems pretty determined. Plus, a few centuries of practice? I’d bet he knows some stuff Cleric didn’t teach us. I’m actually a little excited to see what he’s got in mind,” Lita said with a wry smile.

  “I thought you weren’t in the mood,” Jonas replied. His feigned good temper was fading.

  “Maybe he’s just better at getting me there than you are.”

  Jonas’ smile disappeared completely. “Partners for eight years and you end up getting juiced over a bloodrat. Figures.”

  “I’d be careful saying things like that.
He doesn’t really like it.”

  As if to confirm Lita’s warning, Rain picked up his staff and moved it close to Jonas’ chest. With a twist of his hand, its blade ejected, locking into place less than an inch from Jonas’ throat. Jonas, unflinching, just glanced down and then back up again.

  Not uttering a sound, Rain took hold of Jonas’ shirt collar and carefully sliced the knife in a straight downward motion, slitting the fabric until he reached the bonds encircling Jonas’ chest. Lita was astonished at how sharp the blade must be. He didn’t saw at the shirt, and the fabric made little more than a whisper as it parted.

  “Hey!” Jonas said. “I liked this shirt!”

  Rain ignored him and continued, making two more incisions perpendicular from the bottom of his first, creating an upside-down T. He then laid open the two sections of shirt, putting Jonas’ chest on display, completely bare save for a small pendant necklace. It looked like a triangular shard of junk metal attached to a short silver chain. When Rain stepped away, Lita tilted her head curiously. Jonas wasn’t the type to wear jewelry.

  Catching her gaze, Jonas put back on the smirking mask that he seemed to think would get him through this intact. “Like what you see? I’ve been lifting a lot in my spare time.”

  “His is better,” she said, turning her eyes to follow Rain as he headed across the room. Jonas’ mask fell again.