by Janene Wood
Wednesday, 14 November, 1979
Picking his way through the still-dark Paris streets on his approach to the Residence, Strider glanced at the digital readout on his watch and was surprised to see he had finished his run in under 40 minutes. He must have pushed himself harder than he had realised. It wasn't altogether unexpected; he had been pushing himself hard in all areas of his life and expecting his team to do the same. They didn't disappoint.
However, his disappointment at their lack of progress in running down the silver-haired Russian was becoming difficult to stomach. The only thing stopping him tearing his hair out was his ability to channel his frustration and anger into the two focal points of his existence: hunting and training. If he pushed himself to near exhaustion, he was at least able to sleep and rest his over-active mind for a while. It wasn't particularly healthy behaviour, but his body could take it, and it was only until the deadline ran out.
They’d had a successful hunt last night, which relieved some of the pressure, though it was a far more difficult fight than they had expected going in. It was actually his toughest fight since joining the Brotherhood, and he still didn't know quite what to make of it.
They had been tipped off by a priest at St Agatha's church in the 18th arrondissement who claimed the parish was being terrorised by a pair of shadowbinders, assaulting and abusing residents, damaging private property and vandalising public infrastructure. As was typical in such cases, witnesses were plentiful, but their statements, which usually included claims of supernatural activity, were given little credence by police. Their allegations were dismissed as either unreliable or delusional, and since there was little physical evidence to go on, the police had no suspects to pursue.
It took Strider and his team an hour to track the binder and his apprentice to the basement of a condemned apartment building near the tracks at Maisons-Alfort. Strider and Jake used bodhi to cloak the team from the tethers guarding the lair, so they were able to enter undetected.
Once inside, however, they were confronted by a much greater force than expected. Half a dozen adepts and their apprentices – a total of twelve binders in all – were gathered in the defunct, candle-lit, boiler-room of the crumbing building. The atmosphere was already tense; by no means was it your typical Friday night drinks party, but neither were the binders at each other's throats. Veiled still, the Alliance team eliminated a third of them before the remainder could mobilise and set loose more tethered demons. From then on, the fighting was protracted. Myrren and Skye dealt with the tethers, of which there was a seemingly endless number, while Strider and Jake gradually dispatched the binders, using their long-bladed qutars and shorter schivs.
One binder in particular proved difficult to deal with, requiring all their combined efforts just to keep him contained. Cutting an imposing figure, he was as tall as Strider with a shaven head and lime-green mohawk. An intricately tattooed spider-web covered his face and a giant tarantula appeared to be climbing his neck and over his jaw. He sizzled with power, emitting streams of blue lightning from each of his fingertips, that crackled and flashed with deadly accuracy. If not for their preternatural speed and agility, Strider's team would have been incinerated ten times over. Eventually, as the number of his tethers dwindled, the binder weakened, his bolts becoming less accurate and less frequent. Just as it seemed they had gained the upper hand, a sudden gust of super-heated air blew out the candles and a brilliant burst of blue lightning split the darkness, illuminating the space for several heartbeats. By the time Strider's retinas had recovered from the flash, the air had cooled and the binder was gone.
While the team didn't escape unscathed, none of their injuries were serious: burns and lacerations for the most part, which would heal in a day or two. What disturbed Strider more than anything, which he expressed in an urgent, early-morning call to the chief in London, was the meeting itself. So many binders gathered peacefully in one place was extremely unusual. Alarming even. And since there were no survivors to interrogate, there was no way to know what prompted such an event.
Any insight the chief might have had into the binders' unusual behaviour he kept to himself.
The adrenaline rush and the unanswered questions made it nearly impossible to sleep afterward, but Strider eventually dozed for a few hours, waking at 5am, sufficiently refreshed to go for his usual run.
Bounding up the front stairs of the residence now, he closed the door behind him and went straight to the kitchen for a long drink of water. The inside temperature was only slightly warmer than out on the street, but he had worked up a decent sweat and had plans to continue training downstairs. When he opened the door to the sound-proofed gymnasium a few minutes later, the lights were on and the electric whine of the treadmill told him he wasn't alone. That, and the music pumping out of the stereo at a thousand decibels.
One way or another I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha
One way or another I'm gonna win ya, I'll getcha, I'll getcha...
It wasn’t the first time he’d come across Myrren working out to Blondie, running on the treadmill as though her life depended on it. Although the focus of her training was generally more mental than physical, she had a very similar work ethic to himself. Mental toughness was imperative for the job she and Skye did, and like anything else, it took constant practice to do well. If she wasn't meditating, studying psychology texts or practicing yoga, she was in the gym, running.
Myrren pressed a button on the console, bringing the treadmill to a gradual halt, and stepped gracefully to the floor. Grabbing her towel, she wiped the perspiration from her face and took a long swig from her water bottle. She was barely out of breath.
Turning the music down to a more moderate level, he remarked, “You're up early.”
“You know how it is,” she said vaguely.
Oddly, he knew exactly what she meant, and not for the first time, felt an affinity with this intense, self-reliant young Alete. They had both lost people they cared for deeply; they were both still grieving and trying to make sense of the world, which had become an alien landscape. But they were also trying to move on as productive members of society. It was an endless struggle, but they were gradually getting back on an even keel. It helped having someone around who understood. Not that they shared every thought that crossed their minds or sought each other out when the dark moods took hold; it was more of a comfortable, detached camaraderie.
Strider was cooling down and needed to start moving again before he stiffened up. He nodded toward the utility wall running the length of the room, holding a startling variety of weapons: axes, epees, kendo sticks, nunchucks, throwing knives and stars, swords, crossbows, and other deadly apparatus. Firearms were kept in a separate, secure vault.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Ladies choice?” Over the last few months, he had been working with Myrren to improve her physical skills and increase her range of abilities, including the use of a number of the displayed weapons.
“Sure; I'm up for a bit of pain. Kendo sticks, I think.”
Strider grinned. “Are you sure about that?”
Myrren flushed slightly. The last time they sparred with the bamboo sticks, it hadn't gone so well for her. “Hey,” she said indignantly, “Jake's been giving me some pointers, so you'd better watch out, buddy, or I'll kick your arse.”
“Ooh, confidence; that's what I like to hear. Bring it on, baby,” he taunted her, still grinning.
While they padded up and selected their weapons, Jake wandered in and began some warm-up stretches. “Grudge match, is it?” he enquired mildly. “My money's on Myrren. Man, that girl's got some moves!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Strider, flexing and stretching to get his blood flowing again. He knew exactly how good she was and knew better than to underestimate her.
The two combatants took their places inside a large circle marked out in the centre of the gym and moved into their opening stances, both hands on the grips o
f their long, bamboo sticks. This wasn’t a game and they weren't playing for points. There were no rules, not here, and not in the real world, not when your survival depended on your ability to put your opponent down. But neither were they out to deliberately hurt each other; that would be self-defeating.
Strider moved fast, taking Myrren by surprise, but she raised her stick reflexively, blocking him before he could make contact with her body. The force of the impact must have jarred her wrist but she retained her grip on the stick, withstanding his relentless attack by focusing her entire being on his whirring staff. A dozen blows followed in rapid succession, including at least one body hit, though Myrren gave no outward sign of the pain it must have caused.
They took a breath and stepped back, circling each other warily, looking for an opening. Again, Strider struck first, but Myrren was ready this time. They traded blows, took a step back and then went at again. She was better than last time they sparred and he wondered idly if his pride could stand being beaten by a girl. She was as strong as most men and easily more agile, though without the benefit of bodhi, she would always be at a disadvantage.
They battled for ten minutes with neither of them gaining the upper hand. Strider's dark mane hung in limp clumps around his face and his beard dripped with sweat. His heart-rate was raised but not unduly elevated. His reflexes were sharper than ever before, honed over the last few years to superhuman acuity. He was stronger too, thanks to bodhi, stronger than was normal, even taking into account his relentless daily training regimen. The fact that Myrren was keeping up with him only proved how hard she had been working on her fitness.
The deafening sound of clacking sticks filled the basement gymnasium. Strider decided it was time to take things up a notch and began pushing Myrren back, little by little. He feinted left and then ducked beneath her guard to give her a stinging hit to the thigh, withdrew and then prepared to deliver a flying kick to the torso. Somehow Myrren saw what he intended and planted her feet, grabbing his leg out of the air, absorbing the force of his momentum, and throwing all 120kg of him to the floor. He almost didn't recover in time, but just as she was about to jam her stick against his larynx, he kicked her legs out from under her, rolled her over and pinned her to the ground.
“Gotcha,” he grinned down at her. Myrren had definitely improved, but the result had never truly been in doubt. Even without bodhi he was stronger and faster; with it, she had no chance.
“You'll do,” said Strider, pulling her to her feet.
“You're not so bad yourself,” she grinned back at him. At nearly six foot, she was tall for a woman, but she still had to look up to meet his eye. She had certainly made him work for it.
Farewell to Paris
Saturday, 24 November, 1979
The chief’s deadline had now come and gone and Strider was resigned to failure, a feeling he was quite unused to. Despite chasing down the few leads his team had dug up, his investigation, if it could be called that, had come to nothing. The silver-haired Russian seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth and Strider had been ordered to report to Leonica House in London first thing on Wednesday morning. He had been given four days off to settle in and re-acclimate.
The police had fared no better, even with their far greater resources. The case was still open, but since there were no new leads to follow, they had shifted their focus to crimes they had an actual chance of solving. The Russian, whoever he was, was free and clear to resume his illegal operations without fear of apprehension. At least for now. Strider had a long memory and planned to keep his eyes open in case their paths crossed again, no matter how tangentially.
Strider was spending this particular afternoon packing up his personal belongings, which consisted mostly of clothes and books, and moving temporarily to one of the smaller guest rooms, just till he departed for London. His replacement was due to arrive in the morning, and this way, wouldn’t be inconvenienced. Strider’s only other possession of note was a Triumph Bonneville T140 motorcycle, which he planned to take for a long, leisurely drive, all the way to London.
Packing didn't require much concentration so he was able to quietly contemplate the future while he worked. Being a Guardian was the same in London as it was in Paris, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, the only variable being the hunters he worked with, and since they were all of a like mind, he didn't foresee any problems on that front. In fact, the only difficulties he foresaw were of a personal nature. In other words, family.
His only sibling and sole surviving parent both lived in London, and while he was looking forward to spending more time with them, he also had a large extended family about whom he felt less sanguine. They considered him to be, if not a black sheep, then a lesson in intemperance. It was inevitable their paths would cross at some point, since they were in the same line of work, but he would avoid them as much as possible.
It wasn't that family wasn't important to Strider. It was. He just didn't feel as connected to them as he once did, not even to his mother and sister. There was a yawning chasm between them, filled with all the trauma and grief of the last few years, events which had shaped him into a man they no longer knew. Worst of all, he felt guilty for not living up to their expectations, and hated seeing the disappointment in their eyes. Which is why, instead of visiting on his rare days off, he made excuses and found other ways to spend his free time.
It all came back to Eritrea. After losing his fiancée, he just wasn't the same person any more. How could he be, after having his heart ripped from his body? What was worse, no one understood how he felt! Everyone who knew him before expected him to have shaken off his grief by now and moved on. They expected him to have settled down to a normal life in the suburbs, with a wife and kids and a boring desk job and become one of them. But after what he’d been through, that was not only impossible, it was unthinkable. Any wife he chose would only be – could only be – a pale imitation of the woman he once loved.
That love was a once-in-a-lifetime miracle and he was under no illusion it would ever be repeated; no man could get that lucky twice. Hell, most people didn't get that lucky once. And the idea of bringing innocent children into the world, with its violence, hatred and godlessness? That didn't make any kind of sense to him.
Yet despite his family's and friends' unrealistic expectations, despite his longing to go back in time and rewrite history, and despite the cold, empty space in his chest where his heart used to beat, he was actually looking forward to the next stage of his life. He was going home to do a job that he knew was important. Yes, it took commitment and sacrifice, but anything worth doing properly always required a price.
Making his way around the stack of boxes and suitcases on the floor, due to be picked up in the next twenty-four hours by courier and delivered directly to the Spire in London, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table mirror and wondered if he was being completely honest with himself. There was nothing noble about his calling, not for him personally; this was survival, straight up. He was simply doing what he had to do, to fill the gaping void at the core of his being, to dispel the grief, guilt and loneliness that would otherwise overwhelm him.
Running his hands through his hair, still damp from the shower, he squared his shoulders and decided that was quite enough self-examination for one day. He slipped on his coat, grabbed his wallet and called out to Myrren and Skye that it was time to go. They ran down the stairs ahead of him, continuing their conversation without pause. He pulled the door closed behind them.
Not only was the taxi on time, but there was very little traffic and every light they encountered was green, all of which conspired to make Strider and the two girls early to the restaurant. They took a seat at the end of the long bar and Strider ordered two Campari and sodas for the girls and a Corona with a twist of lime for himself. He then spent a pleasant 15 minutes’ people-watching, contributing to the girls' conversation only sporadically. Jake arrived shortly thereafter, but before he had time to o
rder a drink, a smiling waitress appeared to take them to their table.
The conversation was comfortable and familiar, the alcohol flowed freely, and they all relaxed and enjoyed themselves. After gorging on a tasty selection of Spanish Tapas, they were entranced by a sensual flamenco dancer accompanied by a pair of talented guitarists and a gravel-voiced vocalist.
They were deciding whether or not to have dessert when movement at a nearby table distracted Strider from the conversation. A party of three had just risen from their seats and were preparing to depart. Two of the trio were women, both with short, boyish hairstyles, dark eye makeup and vivid red lipstick – not unattractive exactly, just a little overdone for Strider’s taste. The blonde wore silky trousers with a gold lamé top and the brunette glittered in a silvery sequined dress. He initially thought they might be sisters, but the intimate way they laughed and whispered together made him rethink their relationship.
It was actually the third member of the group he was interested in. The man was shorter than the women, but strutted along like he was ten feet tall. Wearing a lurid green and silver striped jacket, he plainly enjoyed standing out from the crowd. Even from this distance, Strider could tell it was the silver-haired Russian he had been hunting for more than two weeks. The man responsible for Errol’s death.
Strider calmly made his observations known to the others and they began formulating a plan. The girls weren't trained to deal with mundane criminals, so Strider suggested they return to the residence and inform the chief of this latest development.
The Russian was at the door by this time, in the process of reclaiming his party’s coats and wraps. Strider and Jake waited for them to leave before following at a leisurely pace. The girls would take care of the bill.
Outside, their quarry climbed into a long, white limousine.
“Nice ride,” remarked Strider as he and Jake averted their faces and made their way up the street to Jake's vehicle.