by James Hunter
Levi took another sip of coffee. Sometimes, like the coffee, the truth could be bitter in the mouth. Silence stretched between them for a time, a comfortable quiet that spoke of deep thought and contemplation.
“Anger and vengeance are like a fire, Levi,” Steve said eventually, “and like fire, they burn indiscriminately. You might get your vengeance on your old man, only to find yourself consumed and destroyed in the process. At the end of the day, you, like Dirk, need to make the choice you can live with—and sometimes the choice you can live with isn’t the one that makes any sense at all from a worldly perspective.”
Levi drained the rest of his cup and set it back on the table with a clink and stood. “Sorry to run, but I have some business to be about tonight. You’ve given me a lot to think on, though, and I appreciate it.”
Steve stood, the sad smile returning as if he could see whatever terrible future lay in store. “Anytime, Levi. I’ll hope you get what you need. I’ll be praying for you.”
“Thank you for that,” Levi replied. With a final nod, he left the church, started the van, and pulled back onto the street, bound for his own icy moat.
TWENTY-EIGHT:
Reinforcements
Levi waited in a pool of inky shadow, shoulder blades pressed against the side of a dimly-lit two-story warehouse situated in an industrial park over in Spring Valley, just outside of Las Vegas proper. He flipped the doctor’s business card over and over again in his fingers, stopping every few seconds to check and double-check the address: 6446 Arville Street, Las Vegas, Nevada. Then he would glance up and scan the building across the way, which bore the same address. Nothing extraordinary about it, nor the type of place you’d expect an ancient, pre-Babylonian god to be resurrected.
Apparently, Doctor Hogg wasn’t one to advertise his whereabouts.
Read. Flip. Double-check. Repeat.
6446 Arville Street.
The building was a simple two-story structure of gray stucco, nearly twin to the one he leaned against now, with windows running along the upper level and a glass-fronted door with a company name embossed in frosted lettering: Atlantic Biotech Solutions. A fitting name. Large boulders and splashes of green shrubbery edged the building’s walkway and framed the entryway, giving the place a friendly air. Of course Levi and his personal army—wherever they happened to be—wouldn’t enter that way.
If Levi had to guess, he would assume the offices in the front of the building would be quite ordinary: rolling chairs and work desks, telephones and copy machines, coffee pots and company brochures. A ruse. The kind of stuff that would fool any bumbling Rube who came in asking questions about Atlantic Biotech Solutions. Hogg’s real operation would either be in the warehouse at the rear or situated on the second floor. The back of the building sported a large rolling door, with more boulders and shrubbery marching off to either side: a loading dock, hidden from the main thoroughfare, and perfect for Levi’s purposes.
Read. Flip. Double-check. Repeat.
This time Levi glanced at the deserted stretch of road running between him and Hogg’s hideout. Wasn’t a pair of headlights in sight and hadn’t been for the past half hour. Other than the industrial buildings littering the area, there wasn’t much reason to be out here, and given the hour—coming up on 1:00 AM—Levi didn’t expect much traffic. Still, his nerves were starting to get the better of him. He couldn’t wait for Chuck much longer; he was already cutting it awfully close. Maybe he’d been wrong about Chuck. Maybe the shiesty leprechaun had realized what a fool’s errand this whole operation was.
Another two minutes and then he would go in with or without backup. He ran a hand over a duffle bag hanging on his shoulder. It held the lead-lined box with his nuclear deterrent. Never be without a backup plan. He patted the bag.
Chuck arrived with reinforcements a minute and a half later. They punched through the fabric of Inworld with a rush of power and the scrape of feet on pavement—the vibration working its way up into Levi’s legs.
The Mudman let out a tremendous sigh of relief.
Chuck had come through … His relief faded as he eyeballed his army.
Chuck had come through. Sort of.
Levi watched with arms folded and a frown on his mug as Chuck led a ragtag group of miscreants toward him. A wide grin split Chuck’s face—the man looked pleased as a slick-furred street rat lounging on a pile of stolen cheese.
Levi only felt the dull edge of annoyance scraping at his nerves. This is what he got for a million and a half? More likely, Chuck had scraped the absolute bottom of the barrel, scrounging up an army that would work for the change you could find under a couch.
Walking to either side of Chuck were a cadre of trolls: hulking, green, wart-covered beasts with gangly arms stretching to the ground and wispy hair sprouting from lumpy heads. Normally trolls would be a fine addition to any fight—notoriously foul-tempered creatures with the strength of a pickup truck—but these already had one foot in the bone yard. Wobbly kneed, hands riddled and distorted with arthritis, and what little hair they did have was silvered with age. Ten of them, and each one could’ve come from an Outworld nursing home.
Trailing behind them were six halfies—a varied lot—but who all, uniformly, looked high as kites on one drug or another. Jittery, bloodshot eyes, most of them covered in either open sores, filthy rags, or both. Those Chuck could’ve picked up at an Outworld opium den or a downtown methadone clinic. A few of them might’ve been scrappers, but they were a far cry short of professional mercenaries.
The last group looked like the liveliest of the lot and they were quite numerous—twenty or so of the fellows milling around behind the geriatric trolls and the stoned halfies.
Unfortunately, not a one of them stood over three and a half feet or weighed in at more than ninety pounds. Wiry, narrow-shouldered men. The lot of ’em had broad, lantern-jawed faces, split down the middle by honking, bird-beak schnozzles all framed by wiry beards or goatees of coarse red hair. They stared at Levi from beady, deep-set eyes of green that were almost hidden beneath comically pronounced eyebrows, which were, in turn, parked beneath old-fashioned cabbie caps.
Leprechauns. Of course, Chuck would get leprechauns.
Admittedly though, Levi had never seen a more formidable-looking group of pipsqueaks. No smiling, chipper faces to be seen amongst their number. These were no wee merry-folk, ready for a dance or a bit of trickery. Most of them scowled, their yellowed teeth gritted in crooked snarls while they puffed at drooping pipes. Most wore stained wifebeaters or too tight T-shirts with suspenders, high-water slacks, and bulky, drab Irish cardigans.
Despite being tiny, they had the look of hard-working men about them—seasoned fishermen, maybe—and the knobby, blackthorn shillelaghs they carried certainly reinforced the image. At a glance, Levi could plainly see each of these had committed murder of the premeditated variety; their auras were riddled with swirls of black.
Levi watched them draw close with hungry eyes, the brand itching more and more with each step they took. On a different night, under different circumstances, Levi would be chasing them down, ready to mete out justice for their sins. Tonight, though, Levi felt blessed to have them along. The trolls and halfie tweakers wouldn’t do much good, but the Lep crew might hold their own. Probably couldn’t take a Thursr, but they’d be able to handle a slew of Kobocks. The Mudman shook his head at the strange thought and the stranger turn of events.
He’d always been a creature of black and whites, but tonight he found himself walking down a road painted with a thousand shades of gray.
“So?” Chuck said, flashing a grin and waving toward the motley crew, which came to a halt a few feet back. “Looking good, am I right? This dude, Hogg, don’t stand a chance against this all-star team.”
“All-star team,” Levi replied. “Why don’t we step over here and have a little chat, Chuck.” He turned his back and lumbered a safe distance away from the group, Chuck following on his heels. Then Levi moved like a mud
slide, pivoting and shifting as he turned, his bulk flowing out as his fat fingers wrapped around Chuck’s throat and lifted the man from his feet. Levi slammed him into the wall with a whomp and held him there, Chuck’s toes brushing against the ground.
“Remember what I said, back in the Lonely Mountain?” Levi asked. “I said you better not pull any leprechaun nonsense on me. I said bad things would happen if you did that. Bad things involving legs and fingers and toes. This”—he pointed with his free hand toward the crew—“seems to fit the bill. I’m going to give you one minute to explain.” Levi kept his hand wrapped around Chuck’s throat, but lowered him to the ground and eased up enough to let him speak his piece.
Chuck wheezed and coughed as he sucked in a double lungful of air. “Damn, dude, you gotta stop pulling this bullshit, Levi. I know what you’re thinkin’—but this was the best I could do with the time I had. Professional mercs are jumpy, man. Most of those guys aren’t down with working a job like this on such short notice with limited intel, you feel me? Mercs like money, Levi, but they like not dyin’ more. These guys can help us get the job done, though. I’m tellin’ you God’s own truth.”
“Still not convinced,” Levi replied, tightening his grip a hair. “You’ve got thirty seconds left.”
“Chill, Boss-man,” he said, his fingers digging into Levi’s grip, trying to pry the Mudman’s hand loose.
Levi didn’t relent.
“Those cats in the cardigans,” he croaked, “they don’t look like much, but they’re the Black Shillelaghs. I know your crazy ass musta heard about them.”
Levi loosened his grip a little more.
He had heard of the Black Shillelaghs. Most folks in Outworld knew about them. Freelance thugs with ties to the Court of the Unfettered Fae and the Real IRA—the Real Irish Republic Army. Not killers so much as finger-breakers and knee-cappers, but a vicious lot by all accounts. No one had ever mentioned they were wee folk. Though, it did make a certain sense, he supposed.
“And the others?” Levi asked, suspicious. “You going to try and convince me those decrepit trolls are really enforcers for the East-end Legion? And maybe those tweakers are the brains behind the 6th Street Grims?”
“How you gonna be like that, Levi? I ain’t trying to scam you, alright. Those turds are bullet catchers. And they weren’t my idea, man, the Shillelaghs brought those gems on board. Look, I’m not sure if you noticed, but those dudes”—he dropped to a whisper—“are tiny. Sons a bitches are mean like honey badgers, but they’re better at stealth. They send these brain-dead dudes in first, kinda a big dumb smoke screen, then they sneak in under veils and beat the shit outta anything that even thinks about lookin’ at ’em funny. I’ve seen these dudes work, Levi. Like piranhas—straight up savage.”
Levi frowned, ran his free hand over his blocky chin, then released Chuck’s windpipe and patted the man on the chest. “Okay, you did alright. I’ve got one other thing before we head in.” He removed the duffle bag from his shoulder and gently placed it on the ground. He bent over, unzipped the main compartment, and removed the hefty silver-lined box covered with containment sigils.
“That the egg from the temple?” Chuck asked, eyeing the box askew.
Levi nodded once. “You know the deal. If things go sideways, and they might, I’m going to need you to do what needs to be done. Here’s your part …”
Levi spent a few minutes spelling out the plan and Chuck’s role, then headed over to his army.
The leprechauns, for the most part, leaned against the building’s wall, smoking their pipes in stoic silence, while the others shifted on nervous feet. Bullet catchers, Chuck had called them. Levi took a moment to examine each of these. Despite their fearsome or ragged appearances, none of those were killers. Levi could read a great deal in their auras—brokenness, pain, addiction, sin, heartbreak. Not good folks, but not worthy of death. Not so different from him, really. Yet many of them, even most of them, would likely die inside that warehouse tonight.
Guilt and irony hit him like a one-two combination: here he was, a failed Anabaptist preparing to go to war, preparing to offer up innocent lives for his cause. These creatures were willing volunteers, and paid for their work, but that changed nothing. Not in the grand scheme of things. How had he come to this road? How had he fallen so far? Just a few scant days ago the thought of taking an innocent life had been unfathomable, and now he was going to send these men to their deaths for the sake of his own private war.
For a moment he considered turning around and going home—forgetting this whole thing had ever happened. But no, it was too late for that. He didn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself when this was all over, but maybe that, not the gold, was the real price he would have to pay. Besides, walking away and abandoning Ryder to a terrible end would haunt him just as much. No good choices here, and no matter which path he took, regret and remorse were waiting like a lion in the high-grass ready to pounce.
He cleared his throat, the sound of grating boulders, then spoke. “You all ready for this?” he asked.
The trolls and halfies said nothing.
An especially gruff and weathered leprechaun with a ragged scar running over one eye stepped forward and nodded his square head. “Aye, boy. No need to pep talk us. We know our business well enough and we know what we’re about, thanks to our boy there.” He nodded toward Chuck. “Now let’s stop pissing ’round and killing time. You lead the way and leave us to do our work.”
The leprechaun was right, they’d already wasted time they didn’t have to spare.
Levi turned and gestured toward the rolling door at the rear of Atlantic Biotech Solutions. “I’ll let us in.”
The Mudman stomped his way across the deserted street and angled toward the building’s loading dock. Without losing a step, he hefted one of the boulders—a huge thing that weighed three or four hundred pounds, easy—flanking the rolling door. He waited only a handful of seconds for his shabby army to assemble behind him.
“On three,” he said, raising the stone in a huge mitt, which had swelled and lengthened to accommodate the stone’s weight and size.
“One …” Muscles tightened in anticipation.
“Two …” The sound of shuffling feet and cracking knuckles followed.
“Three …” Levi hurled the stone before the word fully left his mouth.
The door squealed in protest as metal buckled inward and rollers ripped from their track. The door, once moored to a metal frame, flopped to the floor in a clatter. The rock had done its work well, punching in like a cannonball breaching a ship’s hull. Instead of water pouring in, however, trolls, halfies, and hard-nosed leprechauns flooded past Levi in a wave, swarming into the opening.
TWENTY-NINE:
Royal Rumble
Levi waited for a heartbeat, then glanced back, eyes searching for Chuck. He was gone, just as Levi had instructed. The Mudman gave a shake of his head. What had he been thinking putting so much responsibility on a man he wouldn’t trust to feed his cat? Levi wouldn’t even let the incompetent huckster water his plants, yet now the leprechaun halfie had his finger on the supernatural equivalent of an atomic bomb? War could make strange bedfellows and even stranger choices. Done was done, though, so Levi put the man from his mind, grabbed the other boulder flanking the smashed-to-hell rolling door, and headed into the fray.
The interior was all gray concrete and steel, illuminated with sodium lights hanging from rafters overhead—the standard affair. Nothing else about the scene, however, came even close to standard. The warehouse had been divvied up and transformed from a storage facility to something out of a science-fiction movie. On the right, a substantial space had been walled off with dense Plexiglas and repurposed into some sort of research area. Huge incubation tubes lined the wall behind the glass; each container housed various specimens—some human looking, others not.
A slew of machinery crowded the area, making the space look as though it did indeed belong in a geneti
cs laboratory. A bank of computers and monitoring equipment here, some sort of tubular machine—an MRI, Levi thought—cordoned off by more Plexiglas lurked in one corner. There were medical tables, stainless steel contraptions with leather straps, framed by a wide array of medical tools decorating the walls:
Spotless surgical sheers. Razor-edged scalpels, in a variety of shapes and sizes. Circular electric bone saws. A huge assortment of fluid-filled jars and a shelf laden with syringes and amber-glass medical vials. There were blunt-faced mallets, thick metal rasps, calipers, tissue forceps, and a slew of curved needles for suturing wounds shut. If Levi was still standing when this business was all over and done with, he fully intended to come back and melt this whole building down to slag. Leave nothing behind.
He shifted his gaze away from the Frankenstein laboratory, only to be hit by a wave of déjà vu as his eyes swept over what appeared to be the Kobock temple from the Deep Downs. The same temple Levi had raided, what felt like a lifetime ago, except this one butted up against the backside of the offices at the front of the building. Not everything was the same, obviously, but the grotesque pillars were present, as was the ruby-eyed altar featuring the wyrm god, and the stone table. The table that he’d found Ryder chained to.
The table Ryder was chained to once more, which completed the eerie sense that this whole thing had come full circle.
Out of place was a human woman in blue scrubs—it had to be Jamie, Ryder’s sister—who cowered next to the wizened old Kobock shaman Levi had tangled with the first time around. The woman in the scrubs looked terrified and way out of her depth; her gaze constantly shifted between her sister and the commotion unfolding in the warehouse proper. The shaman, however, didn’t even bother to look up from his work; instead he eyeballed a crusted old tome—bound in skin—while he brewed some potion in a large cauldron resting over a green flame.