by J A Stone
“A strange girl with blue hair helped me. She killed everyone, said she belongs to the dead, an Arenthian blood sucker, HA HA HA!”
Paradise shot a sharp eye to June—yeah right. “At least your brain is still working,” she related to Doc. “Sit, relax, are you hungry?”
“Where’s Angles?” Doc was starving, but this was always more important than something as stupid as eating.
“Right here old friend. They mistreated you,” a voice from the darkness followed by the shape of a tall man. Viggo came into the argon light and sat next to his lifelong friend and comrade. Volgrom smiled, grabbed an apple from the table, and held it to his eyes.
“Do you have an angle?” he asked, slowly moving his sight from the apple to Viggo’s big brown eyes.
“I do my wizard—the Blood of God,” Viggo Frantz bade his teammates find a seat. Volgrom nodded and examined the surface of the apple. He spoke as though to the fruit.
“Your ex-girlfriend was at the asylum,” when Doc said the words Dicey leaped to a stand, suddenly screaming at a cowering Volgrom.
“GIRLFRIEND? What girlfriend?”
British Fey sauntered her beautiful eyes across the weapons wall. “Okay, I need six of the riot guns, no, those with the perforated barrel-shrouds, yes!”
“Anything else?” the black-market proprietor was now a wealthy man, a happy man.
“Yeah, I’m likin’ that pistol-grip shotgun, may I?”
He handed Fey a very short-barreled shotgun the size of a long barreled pistol.
“It’s a late model Chesterborne. Takes a twelve round cartridge. Rapid fire, but she gets hot fast, watch out for that. Also, ware that kick man—she’ll break your wrist if you’re not thinking about it. She was a full length rifle; I had her barrel cut off special and the rubberized pistol-grip customized for behind the counter here, you know point-blank situations.”
“Love point-blank—I’ll take it,” she said and then, “ooooh,” chirped like a pretty bird when he threw in a dozen loaded clips free.
“If you get pinned down, that cannon will get you out, I promise, just use both hands,” said with a knowing wink as the proprietor waived farewell to the cute little elf-girl and her two friends.
Outside, British walked aside Warfell and Tawnee, awkwardly hoisting duffle bags filled with weaponry—three hours into the equi-fade. The streets of Oceanport teemed with citizens shopping and leaving work for home.
“Boss?” Tawnee asked out of nowhere.
“Yeah?” British’s casual reply.
“Now?”
“Yes—be careful,” British handed Shadoweye one of the canvas bags and the Assassin broke to the right, jogging down an alleyway into the darkness.
On the steps of the Archives, a tall, blond woman was standing silently, dark cloak pulled tight about her, eyes bristling with youthful awareness, holding a single red rose.
It was Captain Emili Swift. She passed the rose to British as the girls walked by without a nod, taking the steps two-by-two for the wide doors. They entered the building and Swift walked away, down the marble and onto the open street, disappearing in the crowd.
“Robert,” British held a palm aloft at the threshold.
“Missus British. Where’s Tawnee?”
“Gone to ground my friend, we stay here and rest. Is my Father about?”
“Yes Ma’am, he’s flying through the building and the walls, lookin for bad guys.”
“Sweet, rest up big guy, grab your axe and this,” she handed the behemoth one of the riot shotguns, “Pull the trigger until it’s clicking empty and throw the gun at your target, savvy?”
“Empty the clip and toss—got it boss lady,” Bigfoot accepted the weapon with reverence and reclined on a padded couch.
Danica and British found a dark corner, closing eyes with backs against the walls, feet touching, across from one another as they so often do in the field—eight full hours until the deep night.
An almost imperceptible difference, British’s foot breaking contact—Warfell’s bright blues shot wide, her focal awareness sharpening to the vaulted chambers.
Fey was nearby crouching, scanning the walls for movement, finger to her lips. Bigfoot still slept soundly on a sofa, the Ghost of Caelum Fey hovered silently near the glass display in meditative pose. British signaled ‘follow me’ and Danica rose without a sound.
They walked the lobby, searching for creaks, squeaks, movements, anything unusual—nothing. Warfell was about to speak up when her partner beat her there, whispering.
“When he comes, it will be from out of nowhere, unexpected. The only way to beat Frantz at his own game is to be just as unpredictable and come at him from the side.”
“But how do you out-guess someone like that?” now Warfell was getting a little paranoid herself.
“Well, how would you rob this place?” British asked. Danica thought for a brief second.
“Brute force. There are only three people in this building right now. I’d blow the doors down, come, and take the treasure before anyone has a chance to…”
A knock came on the front doors and both girls jumped like spooked kids. Another knock and Bigfoot rose to join them. They approached the front entrance cautiously, the girls taking position on both sides and Robert addressing the knocker.
“The museum’s closed buddy!” he said in his deep voice.
“Message for British Fey—from her ex-boyfriend,” the responding voice was even deeper. A brief moment of silence and the doors opened wide revealing Bigfoot Bob in all his eight-foot glory, shotgun trained on…
Arjuna Konovo was a frightening man—Robert did a double take.
“Damn,” he said, “I thought I was the biggest guy I know—what do you eat?” Bigfoot was completely taken aback by the shirtless beast who seemed to be more muscles than actual man standing in the archway.
“Flabby people like you,” June answered and Bigfoot jerked his head back in disgust, riled by the insult. Arjuna continued. “Angles will meet Miss Fey at Fountain Park in thirty minutes—come alone,” spoken to British beyond the doors. The man turned to leave and then shot his head back to Bigfoot.
“Quit answering to little girls. Be a big man like me, not the sissy you clearly are,” Arjuna walked again, ten more paces, when a rifle harmlessly struck his shoulder and clanged to the marble. The big man closed his eyes and turned around, opening them to the sight of Robert John Stone extending his middle finger. He laughed and walked away into the fading light.
“Sorry boss, I forgot, shoot and then throw it,” Robert whispered to the side.
“I’m proud of you,” she replied.
Fountain Gardens
British Fey found a bench and sat patiently—waiting for a man she had not seen in a decade, a man she once loved more than life itself, a man she still kisses in her dreams…
“You have not changed a bit, so beautiful, my gods you are gorgeous!” he spoke from behind and British closed her eyes, remembering his gentle voice, warm wonderful smile and long, beautiful hair. She smiled, lost in paradise, then she turned around.
“What-the—happened-to,” she blurted out involuntarily. Viggo was bald, very bald. Not normal bald either, what growth was no longer abiding the scalp seemed to be attacking everywhere else! Fey’s sharp calculating eyes examined the scraggly hairs on his neck, face, beside the eyes, on the ears, from inside the ears! between the eyes! His skull looked like a dirt mound surrounded by thorns, nettles and rotten branches.
And there they were, twisted, long black hairs like glistening roots leaving the nostrils, meeting and joining the mustache…
British choked back a hot taste of bile, burning her throat with the bitter realization that her ex-boyfriend was about as ugly as Warthog scat—smearing some on his face may have helped a bit actually.
“Oh the hair?” Frantz ran fingers through invisible locks and patted the side as though something where really there to straighten. “I’ve lost a little bit,” he sta
red into Fey’s eyes hard for a second. “Please don’t stand between me and my family’s heirlooms.” On to business—asking very nice.
“They make hats,” British whispered to herself, eyes still skating back and forth over the smooth surface.
“You cannot stop me.”
“Or you could, um, dammit-man I got nothing,” her brain simply would not move forward.
“My people are already involved,” he tried to reengage.
“I will buy you a hat Viggo.”
He raised a hand in frustration and British snatched the wrist, spinning, twisting. Viggo broke the hold, flipping backwards and landing with a pistol trained on British’s pretty face—simultaneously staring down the flared barrel of the Oakley Blunderbuss.
They both smiled wide at the point-blank standoff. Okay, so there was that, some things never change.
“I don’t like this at all Missus Danica, what if they are cheaters?” Bigfoot paced nervously back and forth under a streetlamp, one block away.
“Oh, they cheat all right. Don’t worry, we got eyes everywhere and her Father still has an hour until he has to go—she’s good.”
Just then, a lone caped figure rounded the corner. British walked into the light.
“He’s bald,” Fey looked utterly lost. “My childhood sweetheart is bald—the love of my life looks like a shiny meat marble with ears.”
“Okaaaaaay,” Warfell acknowledged as the three made way back to the Archives.
“He’s gonna try—we’re gonna stop him,” British’s cold addition.
Half a block away they saw the double doors to the Archives blown from the hinges, smoke still emanating from the splintered shards. Crap! They bolted for the marble steps…
“DAD—DAD!”
Nothing, the Spirit was simply gone—same with the sapphires, the ruby and the ancient weapons. Shattered glass covered the floor, crunching under foot as they examined the scene.
“I can’t believe we fell for that,” Warfell searched about with her eyes, the rifles were of course gone, all they had was what they carried. “We should have engaged when we had the chance.”
“We’re not dead yet,” British encouraged, “follow me.”
Once alone, Doc stepped into the open, holding a metal box with two antenna twisting away from it. He pushed a toggle forward and the Spirit of Caelum Fey materialized before the insane mechanical genius. ”Hold still right there Mister Ghost Man. I am not done with you. Not by a long shot buddy-roe.”
“Move it!” Arjuna scolded Nico to spurn the wagon team faster. He looked back to Dicey, crouched atop the payload with one of the riot guns conveniently left behind for them at the scene.
“That was way too easy, something’s not right June,” she said, furtively scanning the road for the opposition. The muscleman knew she was correct. He nodded and joined her eyes in the search for what must be waiting for them out there.
Six blocks clear, the wagon turned, careening down a tight alleyway and disappearing in the dark—Safehouse attained. Arjuna leaped down, sliding the bay doors open. Nico shot the team of Drafthorses safely inside.
Above on the rooftops, a shadowed figure leaped across the alley, landing with a roll atop the warehouse and then sliding down a pipe mounted on the exterior wall. Tawnee checked her weapons and found a crevice in which to hide.
It began to sprinkle, then rain and then pour as though the sea itself were falling on the sprawling city of Oceanport. Shadoweye settled in, careening her sight down to the poorly lit streets. There, in the alley across from her she saw a dark form move. Above, on the fire scaffolding for the building across the street, she could just barely discern another image, blending in with the metal, stone and mortar.
“The Dead rise,” she whispered to the rain…
Thunder cracked the sky wide open, forcing Warfell, Fey and Bigfoot to recoil involuntarily. The pink sky above came to life with flashes as bright as the Sun, followed by the split second static flux and the roar, the ear-splitting CRACK! as the ruptured atmosphere closed in on itself.
“Wonderful!” Danica was not fond of thunderstorms—still, she’d take it over a dungeon any fade. They reached the stables and found their noble mounts, girls vaulting atop with ease. Robert shot the bay doors wide and smiled to the deluge, he liked the rain.
“Rob!” British unsheathed the Westbury Scimitar and pranced Snowflake sideways, next to a pair of Black Racers, hitched to a small delivery cart. She slashed the frame for the roof. “Tear the rest off and ride it.” Bigfoot smiled as he ripped the roof away and straddled the entire wagon like a wooden horse. “Good idea boss lady.”
The three took off at full gallop into the already waterlogged streets, sidewalks coming to life as tiny rivers, making way for Oceanport’s extensive sewer system.
“SHE’S FOUR FOOT TALL! Angles, how could you lay with something like that?”
“Who said LAY? Gods woman, I was eleven years old!”
“She’s ugly,” Dicey was pissed.
“No she’s not,” Nico whispered offhanded with a smile.
Paradise fired her weapon—Nico jerked his head and face sideways to see the sudden hole in the wall larger than his little Dwarven head. He moved his eyes back to Dicey, looking straight down the smoking barrel with the death-gaze of the cold Assassin she was. Nico should have keep that mouth shut.
“I say—she’s ugly,” her reply.
“Knock it off—where’s Doc?” Viggo ordered as he and June moved the payload to a secondary wagon hitched to a fast team of Sand Ponies.
“Still at the Archives. His thing works, he has the Spirit trapped,” Nico nervously explained as Dicey holstered her pistol.
“Well, we are not leaving without him, not again. June? Will you go fetch our Wizard?”
“On it Angles.”
BOOM! the bay doors screamed as two large hoof-prints appeared side-by-side, bashing the metal inwards. Again, the crash and the doors came free of the sliding grooves, falling into the warehouse. A huge flash of white mountain and the opening was wide to the rain. Lightning illuminated the skyline and empty streets.
Angles, Dicey and Nico kept rifles trained on the threshold. Arjuna walked casually through an interior door to work his way around to the front of the building.
A long tension-filled moment pushed through time, the sound of the water taking a life of its own, amplifying, echoing, and commanding over the silence of deep night.
Viggo saw a lone caped figure walking in from across the street, arms to the side, spinning in a circle to show all she was completely unarmed. He knew better than that, magic tricks and sleight of hand were Fey’s specialty, the first things she learned. His cunning mind drifted back…he remembered seeing British teaching one of the Druid Monks how to hand-pocket a dagger—she was just a kid, he a master martial artist, learning simple misdirection like a wide-eyed schoolboy himself. Her voice brought Viggo back.
“Viggo, this does not have to happen,” she spoke, now inside the warehouse, standing in front of him. “You can still get a hat.”
“British, your attempts to rile me…”
“Could you move two steps over? The light is refracting off that lunar eclipse.”
“ARE WORKING!”
He pulled, she pulled, thunder pealed and gunfire screamed as both simultaneously leaped to the side, firing their weapons. No hesitation, the warehouse came alive with orange flames, deafening sound. The alleyway and rooftops responded as Nico, and Dicey leaped for cover, a muffled grunt coming from Paradise.
British and Viggo landed one pace apart, guns in each other’s faces, firefight crackling around them.
Outside on the rain-soaked cobble, a huge mass of meat and muscle rolled and pitched. Arjuna and Bigfoot were wrestling, tumbling over one another. They rose and began exchanging incredible blows repeatedly.
“RAAA!” Rob grabbed an iron fist attempting to hold it still, but the beast twisted, rotated and sent the white knuckles back into Bi
gfoot’s bloody face again and again. Robert took two hits for every contact of his and it didn’t take long. Arjuna saw his opportunity and jabbed three times like a hammer on Rob’s huge chest, popping his big eyes wide.
Arjuna clamped both vice-hands around Robert John Stone’s thick neck.
“It’s over Becky.”
Bobby couldn’t breathe—Becky? It was the first time in his life, humbled beneath a much stronger opponent. His eyes cross-blurred for a second and then snapped back to clarity. Through the rain he saw British face to face with the bad man inside the building. She is so small, yet she always finds the strength, the strength!
British also learned early to sharpen the focal awareness in her peripheral vision, now displaying Robert’s final moments. No! She had to end the standoff now! Without breaking the eye-lock on Viggo, she moved her head to the right, exposing the lightning bolt on her neck.
“The tattoo fits you well,” he said.
“It’s a cattle-brand,” she said it coldly and Frantz moved his eyes to her neck, the small shock of the pain it must have caused and the curiosity as to why—he had to look!
British spun about and kicked Frantz in the face full force, sprawling him down to the granite flooring—out cold.
She ran, with everything she had into the tempest-drenched street, bounding three times and leaping to Arjuna’s back.
She fired the pistol-grip shotgun into the beast’s shoulder and the weapon’s kick cast it from her hand, clattering to the pavement. She held on to the wet bare skin as best she could and stabbed three times with the short Buck Skinner before the massive man finally released his hold on Bigfoot Bob, sending the eight footer to the ground, gasping, desperately pulling in air…
Arjuna Konovo was a frightening man. He shrugged the pixie away, facing her and growling like a mountain bear, muscles bursting on his arms, fists gripping the air, squeezing over and over.