A Shot in the Dark

by K. A. Stewart

  Walking down the hallway, I poked my head into Annabelle’s room. It took me a moment to locate her head of red curls, pillowed between a giant pink frog and a worn wolf plushie. Even in the darkness, I could see the faintest pink tint to her cheeks, her face flushed with the heat of sleep like kids’ do. Aside from her coloring, strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, she was the image of her mother, right down to the shape of her mouth and her pert little nose. She was the most beautiful thing in the world.

  “Sleep well, button. Be good for Mommy,” I whispered, then moved on.

  The only other thing I really needed to do would involve waking someone, but considering that someone was living in my house rent free, I figured ten minutes of lost sleep wouldn’t hurt him.

  Our spare bedroom had been converted from Mira’s personal sanctuary into Estéban’s room when he came to live with us. Not that the kid had much, but he’d put up a few posters, and some letters from home were taped to the wall above his bed.

  Unfortunately, Mira’s computer was still set up in there, mostly for the kid to work on his homework. (Mira was a stickler about grades. Who knew?) But it was also how I kept contact with the other champions, like myself. And since Estéban was nominally one too, he was allowed to peep at my conversations. A little.

  Mira’s brand-new, custom-built computer had enough lights and whizzers on it to light up the entire room, so I didn’t bother with flipping the overhead on. I parked myself in front of the green glowing monitor and proceeded to jump through seven kinds of hoops to finally access the Web site I was after in the first place. Our Webmaster was downright paranoid when it came to security.

  Just because I could, I left the volume up when the sentry-bot screamed “BOOBIES!” at supersonic decibels.

  Estéban said something like “Grnf?” and rolled over, yanking his comforter over his head.

  The Webcam window popped up on the screen, and I smirked at Viljo. “Boobies, hmm?”

  “I thought you were Estéban.” The hacker-turned-Web-security-expert rattled around on his keyboards without even looking up at his screen. “I do not want him surfing for porn on my baby, and he is surprisingly easy to embarrass.”

  Due to unexpected motherboard meltdown a few months ago, we’d been forced to replace Mira’s old computer. Viljo had taken great pride and care in building this new monstrosity before us.

  “But enough of that, down to business. Password?” He finally peered at his screen, eyes narrowing suspiciously. The wispy mustache he’d been trying to grow for the better part of a year looked like it might actually have enough hair now to warrant shaving. Or at least a good plucking.

  “Viljo, you’re looking right at me. It’s me.” The new computer came with a shiny new Webcam. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, yet. The improved technology did confirm that Viljo really was as pasty as I’d always thought, though, and that his dyed black hair was even stringier.

  “Do not care, new protocols. Password?”

  “Viljo, I’m going to come through this computer and kick your ass.” Which was, oddly, my password. “And shouldn’t it be pass phrase?”

  “Password accepted. Hold on to your socks.” Viljo hit a few keys, and suddenly my computer screen blossomed into sights and sounds and colors not known to mortal man. Okay, not really, but that’s how he wanted me to feel about it.

  I hunt-and-pecked my sign-in ID into the right fields and finally got logged into Grapevine, flipping to the ITINERARY tab. “I’m gonna be out of town for a few days, Vil, and nowhere near a computer.”

  “Does Ivan know you’re going?”

  “I mentioned it, a long time ago, but I doubt he remembers. That’s why I’m filling out the nice little form, right?” I was almost thirty-three years old. I was fully capable of leaving the house without “daddy’s” permission.

  Don’t get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for Ivan Zelenko and the network of champions he has created out of nothing. Without Ivan’s knowledge and training, most of us would have been dead years ago. But I draw the line at letting him govern my “off hours.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Pleasure, in theory. Camping trip with my buddies.”

  The computer geek paused in his furious typing and blinked at me, owl-eyed. “Like . . . outside?”

  “Yes, with the big glowing ball of death in the sky. Y’know, the sun?”

  He snorted. “Now you are just making words up.”

  I had to chuckle. I highly doubted that Viljo was as blatantly stereotypical as he pretended to be, but he still made me laugh with some of his nerd outrage. “I’m gonna be in your neck of the woods, actually. Just west of Fort Collins.” Viljo was hunkered down somewhere south of my impending vacation, near Pikes Peak last I knew.

  “I will be sure to wave in your general direction, from safely within my tightly closed curtains.”

  I finished updating my expected whereabouts—after last spring, I was damn lucky they didn’t want me to let them know when I went to piss—and hit SEND. “I should be back on Saturday. If I’m not, send in the cavalry.”

  “Will do.” Viljo grumbled to himself. “Not like I am doing anything else at the moment.”

  Work technically done, I settled in the comfy chair for a chat. “Still slow?”

  “Not a single contract since April, across the board. Nothing for me to do but sit here and polish my connectors.”

  That sounded . . . never mind how that sounded. “There have been dead spells before though, right?”

  Viljo shook his head, his matte black hair falling down into his eyes until he pushed it back irritably. “Not like this. And even the two contracts in April were negotiated long before the incident. So really, there have been no new ones since . . .”

  “The incident.” That’s what we were calling it now. He really meant since Miguel and Guy died. Two champions down in the space of a month, and it would have been three if it hadn’t been for major luck, and (I was fully willing to admit) Estéban’s timely arrival. Six months since I banished the thing that stalked them, killed them. Tried to kill me. And not a peep out of a demon in all that time. Axel didn’t count.

  “What’s Ivan got to say about it?” I hadn’t heard from our revered leader-ish person in a couple of months, and even when I did talk to him, he kept things pretty close to the vest. It was just his way.

  The geek shook his head, frowning pensively. “He does not say much, anymore. I think he is worried, but I do not know about what.”

  Yeah, I got the same feeling from the old man, but trying to get him to talk was like hugging a rabid wolverine. You could do it, but you wouldn’t like what came next. “Maybe I’ll try and poke him a little, when I get back.”

  “Would you? I would appreciate that.” There was very real relief in Viljo’s voice, and it occurred to me suddenly just how very devoted the little geek was to our Ivan. “Is Estéban going with you on your vacation?”

  “No, he’s staying here to hold down the fort.” I glanced back at the sleeping lump in the bed, trying to decide if he was really asleep, or just faking. I finally settled on faking. No one really snored that evenly. “Listen, if he tries to log in a contract while I’m gone, send someone to find me, okay? He’s not ready yet.” Yeah, kid, hear that? I’m always watching you. I felt rather pleased with myself at being two steps ahead of the kid.

  “I do not know who I would send, but I will do something.” Windows on my computer screen started shutting down on their own. Viljo was obviously done with our conversation.

  A thought occurred to me, belatedly. “Hey, Vil?” He looked up. “Have the Knights Stuck-up-idus had any contracts?”

  The geek pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have not talked to Father Gregory in some months. I do not know. I will try to find out if you think it is important?”

  “Yeah. Just . . . call it morbid curiosity.” The Order of St. Silvius—holy knights operating in the name of a Catholic saint who did not exist�
�wasn’t what you’d call friendly with us, the more secular champions. Still, if prodded, they’d usually share information. I wondered if they were having the same dry spell as the rest of us.

  “Have a good trip, Jesse.”

  “Thanks.” The Grapevine window shut down, redirecting me to some site with nauseatingly cute kittens and poorly spelled captions. I sat in the semidarkness for a few more moments, scratching at the beard stubble on my chin.

  Estéban’s sheets rustled as he rolled over to look in my direction. “What does it mean, that no one has been asked for a contract?”

  I shrugged my shoulders at the little faker. “Dunno. Maybe nothing. Maybe we scared them all off.” Fat chance.

  Estéban knew that as well as I did. The kid’s family had been fighting demons for more generations than I could even imagine. Between his mom and Ivan, we had at our fingertips an amazing catalogue of demon knowledge, and at no point in history had they all just . . . vanished. I’d asked.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe you should stay here.”

  “Why, you scared?” I had to grin at the instant frown I got from him. He was so easy to mess with.

  “Someone should be here to take care of Miss Mira, and Annabelle.”

  “That’s what you’re for, isn’t it?” I stood up, crossing the few steps to roughly mess up his hair. “You take care of them for me, Estéban. Like the big bad champion I know you’re gonna be someday.” Someday would be never, if I got my way, but the grave duty seemed to appease him. “And since you’re awake, roll out. We’re gonna go do forms.”

  He grumbled and retreated under his pillow again, but while I gathered up the weapons, he clambered out of bed and met me out in the front yard. Something else we’d worked on over the summer, the idea that he could expect lessons at any time of the day or night, rain or shine, sleepy or not.

  Sometimes, I wondered what my neighbors must think of us. There we were at oh-dark-thirty, out in the front yard waving blades around like a couple of lunatics, the kid in just his pajama pants and bare feet despite the early-morning chill.

  Estéban’s weapon of choice was a machete, passed down through his family for . . . Well, I had no idea how long. Suffice to say that he had at least two brothers and a father who had used it before him. He had two younger brothers waiting to take it up when the inevitable happened.

  The metal of his blade was dark with age and use, only the edge gleaming brightly where he kept it honed to a razor-sharp finish. The grip had been wrapped in leather so long that the original layers had rotted away and just been covered over with more, sweat and grime melting it into a hard finish. It was a blade with personality, with life in it. Not unlike mine in its own way.

  She wasn’t anything spectacular. She’d been one of Marty’s earlier works, when he first started his whole weapon-crafting experiment. Just a plain blade of polished steel, with blemishes where we’d had to grind out hard-won nicks. The guard was an octagon of solid brass. The pommel was brass too, and heavy enough to crack a skull if need be. The hilt was wrapped in cord of my favorite blue. This sword and I, we’d been through a lot, and I trusted her with my life.

  Together, Estéban and I moved through various katas, both of us slender to the point of scrawny, but him a taller, darker shadow to myself. The kid had picked up the forms easily, I’ll give him that. His technique wasn’t quite as polished as mine, but I’d been doing it for years compared to his six months. I’d give him a couple more before I started hounding him about it.

  We’d had to adapt a few things for his shorter blade, but if his arms kept growing the way they were, he’d make up for the difference in reach in no time. I watched him from the corner of my eye as we blocked, parried, struck, all in slow motion. His dark brows were drawn in concentration, eyes fixed on his feet. Without breaking stride, I spun and swatted him across the ass with the flat of my sword. “Eyes up! Unless you’re fighting some foot fungus demon I don’t know about.”

  He growled, jerking his head up, but corrected his posture instantly.

  I slid back into the proper place in the kata without really thinking about it. “Tell me the way of the warrior.” This too was part of the kid’s education. If he was going to learn to fight, he’d learn to fight my way. He’d follow the bushido. And this was how I’d been trained back in the day, working my mind and my body at the same time. I often quizzed him while we sparred or ran katas.

  “The way of the warrior is the brave acceptance of death.” His movements faltered for just a moment as he wracked his brain for the correct information. “That’s in The Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi.”

  “Right. It’s also found in the Hagakure.” The next move put his back to me, and I eyed his stance critically. Not too bad. So far. “How many times should you be rōnin, according to the Hagakure?”

  “Seven.” That answer came immediately. “Fall seven times, get up eight.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means . . . it means if you don’t learn to deal with the bad times, you won’t learn how to get back up from them. If you fall, you always get back up.”

  Very good. His brain was working pretty good, considering that I’d rousted him out of bed. Now, how were his reflexes? With a small grin, I slipped up behind him and thrust my scabbard between his feet.

  Instead of tripping, he picked up his right foot and spun on his left, landing in a crouch with his machete pinning the scabbard to the damp grass. He smirked at me. “Gotcha.”

  I smiled, nodding my approval. “This time.” We both stood, bowing from the waist to each other. “Go get a little more sleep—you’ve got school in a couple hours.”

  Estéban hesitated a moment, but finally nodded. “Have a good trip.”

  “Thanks.” He disappeared back inside, leaving me alone on the lawn. With nothing else to do but wait, I went through a few more katas on my own. It felt good, the balanced weight in my hands, the smooth glide across the grass. It centered me. I needed centering.

  Marty was supposed to pick me up around four thirty, but it was nearly five when the ancient Suburban pulled into my driveway. I gave my buddy a questioning look as I went to toss my gear in the back.

  “Two friggin’ tires were flat this morning, man.”

  “You drive through a construction zone or something?”

  “Nah, there was nothing in them. More like someone let the air out. I had to air them back up.” He half hung out the window to talk to me as I walked past. “Then dumbass over here, his alarm didn’t go off.” Will, sitting in the front passenger seat, winced as Marty punched him in the shoulder (I’m guessing not for the first time).

  “Well, maybe we’re getting all the bad luck out of the way at the beginning, hmm?” I swung the back doors open wide and was greeted by a giant muzzle full of slobbering wet tongue. “Gah!”

  Duke, Marty’s behemoth of an English mastiff, slurped up my cheek and wiggled in happiness so hard that the entire truck shook. “Marty! What’s the monster doing here?” It was almost impossible to defend myself with my hands full, so I got drenched again as I was tossing my backpack in with the rest of the gear. “Ugh, off! Sit, Duke!”

  Obediently, the brindle mastiff sat, and the springs on the truck jounced a little.

  Marty turned around to holler over the seats. “Mel was trying to walk him last night, and he accidentally knocked her down. I didn’t think it was safe to leave her alone with him, in her condition.”

  Now, that may sound like Duke is some slavering machine of destruction, but in reality he was the biggest teddy bear I’d ever seen. He let Annabelle ride him, for Pete’s sake. But I could totally see how the big lummox could barrel over someone in his affectionate enthusiasm. He’d be totally devastated if he realized he’d hurt someone. He was just that kinda dog.

  “Why’d he knock her down?” It took some doing, but I got a very enthusiastic Duke shoehorned back inside and managed to shut the doors.

  M
arty fired up the old diesel engine and backed out of my drive. “She said he was after a squirrel.”

  Duke’s breath was hot on the back of my neck as I tried to get settled in the middle seat. “Your dog’s afraid of squirrels, man.” And birds, and mice, and thunder, and his own shadow . . .

  “Maybe he’s growing up on me.”

  “Dude, if he gets any bigger, I’m planting a flag on him and claiming him in the name of Spain.”

  We managed to pick up Cole without incident, and he brought with him a thermos of police-station sludge, otherwise known as his self-brewed coffee. We all politely declined and tried to ignore the distinctive aroma of scorched coffee beans that filled the truck. (I swear, I caught Duke pawing at his nose and whining.)

  Last on the list to fetch was Cam-short-for-Cameron, and while the guys decided to rearrange the packs in the back to make room for one more, I was elected to go up and fetch the ex-priest. Ex-almost-priest? Whatever.

  The apartment building was one of a dozen similar buildings within view, one of those identical little enclaves where I was certain people walked into the wrong apartment all the time by mistake. It was a place for college students, recent newlyweds (I should know, I’d been one once), and itinerate drug dealers. Cheap, easy to get in, easy to abandon.

  Of course, Cameron’s apartment was on the fourth floor, and there was no elevator. I hiked up the four flights of stairs, grumbling under my breath and watching the chipped concrete under my boots warily. If one of those steps gave way, the rusted-out railing wasn’t going to save me. When was the last time this place had even seen a maintenance man?

  There was no door marked 4D, but I took a chance and knocked on the blank door across from 4C. I was ready for anything when the door opened, but thankfully, it was just Cameron.

  His smile looked almost relieved. “I was starting to worry about you guys.”

  “Yeah, Marty had some car trouble.” Cam stepped back and I took that as an invitation to come on inside.