by J A Stone
Welcome home, all of you.
*
THE RAGE
I came through the morning quietly
To find her here among the ruins, of
A day lost, waiting patiently
Waiting for life, for breath, for love
Lost are the hopes of yesterday
Left pining for helpless unforgiving Sun
Left longing for dreams to come and stay
Waiting for life! For songs unsung
And though I am here, do the eyes deceive?
Does one find two, there within the midst
Of misunderstanding? Should I believe
In forgotten dreams I cannot resist?
And still, she waits, in melancholy pose
Unknowing my rage of helpless dreams
The solitary, solemn rose
Untouched by love, my silence screams
British Fey
The Woman with Crimson-Black Eyes
DANICA WARFELL AND British Fey cantered Rarity and Snowflake across the grasslands two clicks outside of Moor’s north gate. They found the road and urged both steeds to a full gallop—three hours into the equifade.
Danton, a friend, sent word for them to come, said the Justice Commissioner of Moor asked for his reinstatement as Detective. Seems they found bodies, desiccated, dehydrated bodies—dozens of them.
The first fade on the road, the Ghost of Caelum Fey appeared to his Daughter and Warfell, urging them on towards Moor. He could not mark a target by name, but he knew it was a woman, a beautiful woman with black-red eyes and long black hair. This meant the victims did not know their attacker—a serial killer.
Danton was there at the north gate with a grim look on his handsome face. Though his heart leaped at the sight of Danica’s white hair, he knew they were there on business, bad business. He held a hand aloft.
“Well met girls, are you hungry?”
“Damn skippy,” British replied.
“You didn’t bring any of the Dead?” Fey’s adoptive family was becoming known as simply, the Dead, mostly because they all considered themselves dead to the world or rather, the world was dead to them.
“Alorica is coming with Jaime—Tom is one day behind,” British replied.
“Tom huh?” Danton did not like Tom Snow. Snow served under Danica and was there at the White Mountain Massacre. There’s nothing like a near-death experience to stir feelings. Besides, Snow was too slick and too good looking. Danton shot Warfell a childlike glance—shameful. He cleared his throat and tried to cover his jealously over.
“I brought Goblet dogs,” he tossed each road-worn girl a bag. British tore into hers like a little pocket-dog, Warfell thought she heard the pixie growl through her teeth during the first mouthful.
“That’s the stuff,” British smiled an awkward moment later with house sauce dripping down the sides of her mouth. Danton leaped atop a Black Racer mare and brought her about.
“On the west side in a warehouse some kids found fifty-two bodies. At first, we thought they were old and dried out, but tissue samples revealed they were only a few months dead, some younger. Then last week, two more bodies, drained completely of fluids. These were found in an alleyway between two pubs just outside the warehouse district.”
“The killer was interrupted or for some reason unable to transport the victims,” Warfell mused.
“Very likely, witnesses saw a woman running down the alley just minutes before they discovered the corpses.”
The three cantered down the cobble, turning south towards the elegant hotel Alorica insisted they check into, a lavish building named the Vanguard.
“And the victims?” British asked.
“A businessman and a prostitute, possibly together for the night. The dried husks in the warehouse have not been identified yet.”
“Alright,” British stopped her massive Snowhorse in sight of the Vanguard Hotel. “We wait for the rest of the Dead. Danton, my Father has identified a mark, a beauty with long black hair and dark red or black eyes.”
“What can I do?” Danton was respectful, knowing the girls were no longer there as just a favor. Forget Moorian law enforcement—this was now their case.
“Bring the witnesses here to us tomorrow—start with recent events and work backward. We will set up shop on the Hotel’s rooftop suite. We also need to see every cop involved from day one. They need to be brought up to the hotel’s top floor conference room as well,” Warfell relayed for the tall handsome man, her on-again off-again lover. “It’s good to see you Danton. Let’s wrap this one up quick and do nasty things—I gotta killer room and Alorica on her way as we speak, so this might be your one big shot fella,” Warfell winked.
British raised brows.
“You would throw this perfectly good stick at Alorica?” she had to ask.
“Give it to her and she won’t try to take it,” Danica was nodding.
“Five feet away from you,” Danton added uselessly.
“She’ll break him Danica—then you gotta trade him in for a new one.”
“Oh, he’s got stamina and remember?” Warfell smiled, “my lengthy descriptive?”
“Never forget partner, I’m four foot—he’s one.”
“OKAY! WOO! We got my dimensions covered, welcome to the marvelous city of Moor, my name is Detective Danton Derulio, and I wish you both a fair rest until the morrow!” Danton bolted away on the Black Racer, not just embarrassed and humiliated, but wrestling with the carnal images flooding his mind—Danica did that on purpose!
He knew Alorica only as a beautiful, high-end prostitute, and that was all—no clue as to how she became a member of the Dead, he just didn’t ask. British kept her identity as the former wife to the Deputy Governor of Moor a tight secret, only Warfell knew, by Alorica’s own volition.
Academy of Fine Arts, Moor University
“The legend tells of a tribe from the Sunken City of Arenthia, a different species of human capable of surviving on hot blood alone and altering its appearance to blend in with human tribes. They were hunted to extinction thousands of years ago,” Professor Aldridge nodded to a student with a hand raised. “Go, Simon?”
“Yes Sir, my Father says some still exist, and Moor knows about it,” the young man said amid murmurs and movement among the student assembly. Aldridge tapped his stick on the podium for quiet.
He noticed Warfell, Fey and Danton in the back, quietly entering the lecture hall. Danton waived.
“That will be all everyone,” the split second he said the words every single student leaped from their seats and headed for the doors. He shouted out the homework. “Read the first chapter of Arenthian Blood!” The lecture hall emptied, leaving just the four. Warfell came forward with an extended hand.
“Professor Aldridge, my name is Chief Inspector Samantha Spade, my colleague, Miss Edge Maverick, and you have already know Detective Derulio, thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
“My office is this way, please come,” he motioned—the girls did not move.
“Just one quick question, we still have to go see the victims. Professor, is there any living creature you are aware of that could make the incisions and drain a human body so completely like what you saw downtown two days ago?” British asked.
“A gigantic cavern spider could do it, huge bat, but it wouldn’t be able to fly afterwards. There are several species of carnivorous plant capable of draining two people quickly, cave pond leeches, and a human could do it with a fluid siphon pump or simply hang them upside down for a while like curing beef, keeping the blood from thickening somehow—that’s about it ladies,” Aldridge seemed disappointed he could not give more.
“Will you help us again if we need it?” British smiled and the old Professor smiled back like a freshman himself. “Absolutely Miss Maverick, Miss Spade.”
“May I?” Warfell lifted a leather-bound book titled Arenthian Blood.
“Sure! It’s classic mythology,” the old man smiled again, excited
to see someone interested in myths and legends for a change.
After they left, he found several uncut green emeralds where the book was.
Hours later, the girls returned to the top floor suite of the Vanguard. Alorica and Jaime were there with warm smiles and tight hugs for each, the deep night was setting in, bringing a celestial sky to life.
“Where’s the Detective?” Alorica asked as though she were hungry.
“Waiting to meet us at a bar on the eastside. We need a connection to the, escort services operating near the last crime scene,” Warfell added sternly, hoping to keep control of the whole man situation. She added. “Where’s Tom Snow?” her cunning blue eyes conveying to the beauty a simple message—That’s right, I’ve had both of them. Childish? Immature? Yeah. Did it make Danica feel better? No.
Alorica tried to tone her pheromones down, relaxing her hyper-sexuality to attend this business. “Snowman took Bigfoot on mission to a small village east of Tibor to educate some rebels who think they own the town—we sent him there to buy the town back and spank some ass. They will be here tomorrow, maybe sooner.”
“Cool breeze,” Danica reclined in a chair and raised the leather mythology tome to her eyes.
“How are you in bars Soulless?” British wondered aloud.
“Good, most people suspect I am Shadoweye. They don’t ask and I don’t tell. I don’t drink alcohol anyway,” Jaime Weathers shrugged. British rose and addressed both girls.
“We got two pubs side by side, same owner, the Sleeping Mushroom and a dance hall called the Reggata Ale House. We are looking for any information regarding a beautiful woman with super dark black hair and dark-dark black or maybe crimson eyes. We think she might be targeting escorts and their clients as well. We need to recon both places and then begin questioning.”
“Questioning huh? This I gotta see,” Jaime related with genuine interest.
“You won’t have time to see anything, just grab that dick and squeeze the truth from it,” Warfell realized what she said. “Target, target, target,” she threw out the repair patch and it plopped to the ground. “You guys know what I mean.”
Jaime, British and Alorica stared at Warfell.
“No we don’t partner, no we don’t,” as British toyed with Danica, a hotel maid came in with fresh towels. The girl had grey hair, and a tattoo on her neck of a snake. British called her over.
“I love your hair, is it naturally grey?” she asked, admiring the pretty girl—her eyes were a soft grey as well.
“Aye Mum if you find you need anything ‘tall call for meh, Iris.”
Warfell whispered in her ear and Iris smiled. “Aye Mum, I can.” she spoke in an old world dialect.
“And beers, lots of Lagers, on ice, right here,” Warfell pointed to the balcony.
The young maid scurried off, pocketing several diamonds from Danica.
“She’ll be back and then we are off to the eastside,” Warfell raised the book once more and reclined on her soft bed to rest.
Less than an hour later, the grey haired girl returned with a smile and a small package for Danica. Behind her, stewards brought carts of ice, bottled lagers and stouts.
“Over yon,” Iris pointed to the balcony with a quick bow to the women. Once alone, Warfell gave a tall lager to British and Alorica.
“Sure?” she hefted a bottle for Jaime, already shaking her short brown hair no. “Suit yourself,” Danica raised her own and primed the motor.
At the Sleeping Mushroom, the girls found a large table and ordered three tanks—tea for Jaime. More of a restaurant than a bar, the Mushroom was quiet and peaceful. The waiter brought appetizers they did not order and British raised eyebrows.
“Fancy,” she said to the waiter.
“Hans,” he replied quietly.
“Hans, where can we bring our dates to show them a good time?” Alorica smiled a wicked grin and gazed at the lovely British. “I paid enough for them—we want to have fun,” she squeezed the thigh and Fey jerked her leg up out of reflex—striking the table and jostling the beers. The Daughter of Caelum Fey squeaked like a mouse, realizing Alorica’s intent—good cover but yikes!
“Next door is a dance hall. The atmosphere is a little more relaxed over there ladies, girls,” Hans left them.
“We should really act this up, make it convincing. You two make out,” Danica shot her blues wide and pointed a finger to British and her ‘client’. Fey stared a murder-hole through Warfell—Hans was coming back.
“I’m gonna get you for this Danica.” British kept eye contact with Warfell, grabbed Alorica’s blond hair, and kissed her with an open mouth and a flailing tongue. Hans approached the table, spun about on a heel, and walked casually away.
The two broke mouth contact with a loud ‘smack!’ British sneering at her partner and Alorica lost in a daydream somewhere on a silk bed. The beautiful housewife turned prostitute turned warrior shook her head and looked back to British with a newfound respect and an incredible desire. British never did ‘pay’ her for helping take the Platinum Palace. Hans returned, again.
“Ladies, from the handsome man at the bar,” he set three flaming shot glasses down. Behind him, through the crowd, a man raised his stein to the girls—it was Danton. Danica’s heart pumped faster when she saw him smiling, but she frowned and shook her head to Hans.
“No thank you, take this shit back, pour it out in front of him and brings us fresh, different ones on our tab,” Warfell slid several rubies across the table.
“Well done,” Alorica gave Warfell a nod as Jaime extended her middle finger across the bar to Danton, knocking the smile from his face like a slap from an angry ex-wife. He got up and left—the signal that he found nothing and was moving into position next door.
They ate and waited an appropriate amount of time, scanning the crowd, searching for women with long flowing black hair and red or possibly black eyes—nothing.
Leagues away, Tom Snow cantered a Chestnut Draftorse alongside the huge payload wagon pulled by a four-horse team of Broncos that Robert John Stone rode upon. It took a month to find steel springs that would hold seven hundred pounds of muscle and bone under duress, another month to design and build the reinforced carriage around those springs. Bigfoot loved it, a way to see Aleutha without having to walk—his favorite thing in the world next to Danica Warfell and British Fey.
Just as they were leaving, a woman came to the palace. She was a refugee from a small village named Southcreek, half a day northwest of Moor. She had been beaten, having barely escaped with her life from a band of outlaws who were harassing her town and its people. Tom and Bigfoot agreed to take a look and then catch up with the girls in Moor. The woman said it was thirteen or fourteen men and two women—should not be a problem, even if it was a problem.
“Mister Tom,” Bigfoot asked as they rode.
“Yeah buddy?”
“What was Missus Danica like in the war?”
Tom paused and smiled to himself. “She was a strong Captain, none better, we all loved her. The Battle of White Mountain was actually an ambush Robert. At the foot of the Mount they flooded us with ten times our numbers while we slept.”
“You had to do it ten times?”
“No Robert, for each one of us there were at least ten men and women, it was a slaughter. I lost my entire Company, the Winter Wasp, I was Warfell’s Second Lieutenant. Anyway, when the smoke settled only the two of us were left standing. I’ll never forget the look on her face.”
“Is that when you guys killed all the presidents and generals inside the mountain?” Bigfoot heard what they did. He felt sorry the second he asked when he saw the distant look on his good friend’s face.
“Yeah Rob, we sure did, but you know what? I do not regret it—those were the men who just tried to have us killed. Sometimes the orders of a fat man behind a wall are just unforgivable. They started it, we finished it all the way.”
“How was she in the fight?” Bigfoot pressed as smoke from the village
came into view.
“Nothing less than amazing Rob. Back then, she was an animal on the field and I am not exaggerating! Hold on, we are here…what the Seven?”
They rounded the corner to see the buildings of Southcreek burned to the ground, citizens, picking up the pieces, cleaning up what they could. A man and his boy were passing the other way and Snow held a palm aloft.
“What happened here Sir?”
The man grabbed his Son and hustled the boy away, refusing to respond.
“Nothing good,” Bigfoot said to his friend. Tom moved his sight to three mounted men, watching the people casually from the side of the road near the edge of town.
“Follow me partner,” he directed the Chestnut to the men, noticing each was armed with swords and pistols. “Ho hey there!” they reined up next to them. “You boys don’t seem too concerned about your homes, because you don’t live here, do ya?”
“Move along assholes, this town is finished,” one of them spoke bravely, “twelve folks died here, don’t make it fourteen, savvy?”
“Robbie?” Tom looked up to his eight-foot tall friend who was already cracking his iron knuckles.
Ten minutes later, Robert John Stone held that very same man upside down by one foot, hoisting him to eye level and punching him once more in the face to make sure he would not squirm. Bigfoot eyeballed Tom with a stupid looking, enthusiastic grin.
“This one’s ready to talk…are you ready there fella?” Robert drew back five knuckles on a fist like an iron cauldron.
“I’M READY-I’M READY-I’M READY!” the poor sod pleaded.
Regatta Ale House
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Warfell gazed on at a scene from any Priest’s nightmare, a real house of sin, the Regatta teemed with scantily clad bodies, dancing, twisting, and writhing in ecstasy to the loud music. Chemical smoke permeated the air and Danica scrunched her nose in distaste.