The Servant

by B. C. Burgess

  By the third week of December, Alistair’s frustrations had reached a boiling point, and since he couldn’t take it out on the man who deserved it, his temper wreaked havoc on his recruits. His wife once claimed he had a heart as soft as silt, but losing her love and grace had hardened him.

  A week before Christmas, while most of the country geared up for the holidays with tree lightings, shopping sprees and parties, Alistair and his troops set up camp in the Florida Everglades. Instead of spreading the tents out on the wet ground teeming with swamp creatures, the soldiers were instructed to alter the canvas shelters so that they’d stretch between the treetops. They did as they were told, not muttering a single complaint. Then Henrick put his security team on guard duty and sent the new recruits to bed.

  Alistair made sure his soldiers obeyed before flying to his tent, which was much smaller than usual due to the narrow spacing of the branches supporting the canvas. He had plenty of room for his bedroll, but he couldn’t stand up straight, and he had to spread his work out on the floor.

  He had one more hideout to invade, the one belonging to the largest and most active chapter of Vindicators. Then he could put the petty task to bed and perhaps get rid of his father.

  As he was studying the building plans of the Miami nightclub where the vigilantes met, his dad floated into the tent and scanned the blueprints. “What is it with these guys and hexless establishments?”

  Alistair was tempted to ignore him, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. “It seems they deal with the hexless more than magicians. Why they have it in their heads magicians spend their free time screwing with the hexless, I don’t know, but that’s the kind of trouble they look for.” He tapped on the floor plans while taking a swig of whiskey. “This club is open to the public, but it’s owned and operated by a Vindicator. They hold their meetings while the main level is swarming with patrons, and they usually gather at the rooftop bar, which has a swimming pool and is lit up like a runway at night. It’s the first smart bit of planning I’ve seen with these guys. They’ve parked themselves right in the middle of a bustling city for the entire world to see. There are taller buildings in every direction, providing endless views for hexless witnesses, and the open location makes it easy for them to escape. Once they leave that roof, they’re in hexless territory, and we can’t pursue them.”

  Henrick shuffled through the paperwork. “That means they can’t utilize visible magic during their meetings.”

  “And neither can we. That’s the problem.”

  “When is their next meeting?”

  “Tonight.”

  Henrick grinned and turned toward the open flaps of the canvas, thoughtfully gazing at the pre-dawn sky. “Looks like a storm is on the horizon. Put those plans away and get some rest. I’ll be accompanying you on this one.”

  Alistair whipped his head up and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  But his dad had already floated away.

  Alistair tried to sleep, but he spent more time tossing and turning and worrying about the next raid. He wasn’t concerned about the Vindicators, and if this was his future, he’d welcome death, but he didn’t want to do it under his dad’s critical gaze. Why Henrick was suddenly showing an interest in the raids, Alistair didn’t know, but it gave him a sinking feeling in his gut.

  After emerging from his tent, he shoved a bland meal down his throat. Then he readied his soldiers, lining them up by sundown. The roof of the nightclub wouldn’t hold them all, so Alistair selected a hundred of his best recruits to stick with him. The rest were instructed to follow them to Miami, but they were told to keep their distance from the Vindicators unless Alistair or Henrick called for backup.

  Alistair still had no idea how they would manage to trap the Vindicators without exposing themselves to the hexless, but Henrick was smugly confident and refused to form a plan. He and his twenty security guards led the way to Miami, the setting sun behind them and a clear night sky ahead. Stars twinkled on the cobalt horizon, dancing around a waxing moon, and there wasn’t a storm cloud in sight.

  They were twenty miles from Miami when Henrick sent his guards ahead, yet he left Alistair in the dark about his plans.

  The sun was long gone by the time they flew into the city, which blazed with lights as the hot and horny hexless formed lines at the doors of trendy nightclubs. Alistair and his troops soared over a highway crossing Biscayne Bay. Then they followed Henrick to a large, empty roof on the western shores of South Beach.

  In the time it had taken them to bypass Downtown Miami, dark clouds had rolled over the moon, and hexless partyers were casting anxious glances at the sky, hoping the rain wouldn’t ruin their night.

  Henrick released his concealment spell and walked to the ledge of the roof, grinning and rubbing his hands while watching the storm build. “Excellent work, boys.”

  Alistair moved to Henrick’s side and furrowed his eyebrows at the clouds. “Your soldiers summoned the storm?”

  “I told you it was coming. What do you suppose the Vindicators will do when we rain on their meeting?”

  Alistair sighed, pissed he hadn’t caught on sooner. “They’ll raise tents or go inside.”

  “Precisely. As soon as they make their move, we’ll make ours. Grab a soldier and follow me. Tell the rest to stay.”

  Alistair glanced at his troops. “Just one?”

  But Henrick had already concealed his body and flown away.

  “Shit.” Alistair took a deep breath and rubbed his face. Then he picked one of the better soldiers – a wizard named Leon – and ordered the rest to wait.

  Alistair and Leon caught up with Henrick a block away from the nightclub, and the sky started spitting fat raindrops as they made their way to another roof. This one had an aerial view of the Vindicator’s meeting, and Henrick’s guards were already spying on their targets.

  “How many?” Henrick asked, staying out of sight.

  “About 150.”

  Henrick gave a nod and glanced at the growing storm. “Tell me when they start filing inside.”

  Alistair held his tongue and turned his face toward the rain, letting it wash over him as he waited to raid a meeting of 150 vigilantes with only 23 men. Leon stayed huddled in his cloak, his aura full of anxiety, but being the only recruit chosen for the mission had puffed his chest with pride.

  The wind picked up as the rain came down in sheets, and one of Henrick’s guards spoke over the noise. “They’re going in.”

  Henrick floated across the roof to view the Vindicators’ retreat, and Alistair followed, watching the vigilantes file into a room with floor to ceiling windows on three sides. The blinds were shut, but Alistair could see shadows moving behind them.

  As soon as the last Vindicator left the rain, Henrick waved his soldiers forward. “Let’s go.”

  The guild members gathered in flying formation. Then they concealed their bodies and muted their auras before descending to the roof of the nightclub.

  “Shield every exit,” Henrick ordered. “No one in or out.”

  Shimmers cut through the rain as half his soldiers moved to obey, and the rest of them followed Henrick to the only door leading to the roof.

  “What’s your man’s name, Alistair?”

  “Leon,” Alistair answered, finding the recruit’s pale aura.

  Henrick found it, as well. Then he told Leon to come closer. The recruit obeyed, and Henrick slapped his back. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Leon. Unfortunately, your sacrifice will be unsung.”

  Alistair tilted his head, interpreting what that meant. Then Henrick slit Leon’s throat.

  Alistair jolted as arterial spray splashed across the door, and Henrick took a deep breath while watching bloody rivers snake toward the ground. “On the count of ten, bust down the door and follow me in.”

  Leon’s aura faded as Henrick exsanguinated his body, stealing the power in his blood. Then a shimmering guard moved forward and blew the door off its hinges.

  Henrick d
ropped his concealment spells as he entered, using Leon as a shield, and the Vindicators flipped alarmed gazes to the recruit’s dead eyes before scrambling for the exit, but there was no escape. Henrick had used Leon’s life force to cast barriers over all four walls.

  A few spells flew at the guild members, only to be blocked by Henrick’s guards. Then the room grew quiet save for heaving lungs and the patter of rain.

  Henrick smiled while dragging the dead body to a nearby bar, and as he fixed himself a drink, fire alarms cut through the heavy silence. The Vindicators widened their eyes on a flashing red light near the ceiling, and Henrick took a drink while letting them assess their dire situation.

  “Do you know who we are?” he eventually asked, scanning the scared vigilantes.

  Most of them nodded, so Henrick motioned to them with his drink. “Then I suggest you drop to your knees and show some respect.”

  “You’re outnumbered,” one of them argued.

  Henrick narrowed his eyes, and the loudmouth choked, spraying his comrades with blood and saliva. He clutched his chest as he gasped for air. Then he collapsed, his aura quickly dissipating. A few of his friends shouted while throwing more spells across the room, but the assault couldn’t make it past Henrick’s guards.

  Henrick snickered while watching the commotion. Then his expression hardened as he yelled at the Vindicators. “On – your – knees!”

  Some dropped quicker than others, but all of them eventually obeyed.

  Henrick released Leon’s body and brushed off his hand. “You may think you have us outnumbered, but we have hundreds of soldiers less than a mile from here, and you have hundreds of hexless patrons fighting for their lives downstairs.”

  The Vindicators flipped their gazes between the fire alarm and the door that led to the rest of the club.

  “That’s right,” Henrick continued. “The ground level is on fire, and the exits are barred. Right now your customers are screaming and running from the heat. A few of the feeble ones have already been trampled or succumbed to smoke inhalation. I’m guessing five casualties so far. All hexless. Your society favors the weaker breed, do they not?”

  One of the nearest vigilantes frantically replied. “What do you want from us?”

  Henrick leaned on the bar and crossed one ankle over the other, relaxed and detached as he took a drink and made the Vindicators sweat. “I’m here for your lives. Devote them to the Dark Guild or burn with your hexless friends.”

  The Vindicators traded panicked glances, probably trying to find a solution that wouldn’t get them killed or enslaved. Then a stampede of footsteps drummed up the stairwell as screams echoed over the fire alarm and patrons pounded on the door.

  One of the vigilantes hissed to his comrades. “The fire department will come.”

  Henrick chuckled. “By all means, wait for them. I’m sure their axes work great on magical barriers.”

  The Vindicators continued to whisper amongst themselves, and Henrick reveled in their hysteria while walking to the center of the front line. Alistair had been staying out the way, content to let his dad do the dirty work, but then Henrick tapped into his head.

  ‘They’re about to launch an attack. Will you let your old man fend for himself?’

  Alistair was tempted to say yes, but Henrick would survive no matter what, and there would be hell to pay if Alistair didn’t help. He took a step forward, prepared to cast a shield, and Henrick’s guards did the same.

  The vigilantes roared and rushed forward, shooting dozens of spells from their outstretched palms, but neither their magic nor their bodies could get through the colorful barrier reinforced by twenty-two, high-ranking guild members.

  The tumult was deafening – shouts and bangs clashing with fire alarms, hexless screams and incessant door pounding – and through it all Alistair could hear his dad’s maniacal laughter.

  The Vindicators ended up in a bloody pile, wounded by their own spells and smashed by their allies, so Henrick gave them a moment to digest defeat. “You’re right, Alistair. They’re sloppy fighters.”

  Alistair curled his fingers into fists, stifling the urge to toss his hands in the air. “Then why are we messing with them?”

  Henrick ignored him and spoke to the captives. “So what will it be? Life or death?”

  One of the vigilantes crawled from the pile, coughing and spitting blood on the floor. “Life.”

  Most of the others voiced their agreement, and those who stayed quiet were too dejected to speak, so Henrick ordered his soldiers to drop their shields and move forward.

  “On your knees,” Henrick instructed, “head bowed, wrists together behind your back. The faster you let my men bind you, the more hexless lives you’ll save.”

  They obeyed as quickly as possible given their injuries, and the guild members worked on shielding their heads and tying their hands. Henrick dug into his satchel as he approached the captives. Then he walked along the front row while glancing between a piece of paper and the Vindicators’ faces.

  Alistair curiously watched, wondering if his father had profiled the vigilantes and why he would go to so much trouble. Whatever his motivation, the task had his full attention, and the longer he scanned the captives, the more agitated he became.

  He’d briefly glanced over all of them by the time they were bound, and he wore a deadly scowl while searching again.

  “We’ve done what you asked,” one of them blurted. “Extinguish the fire and release the hexless.”

  “He isn’t here,” Henrick simmered. Then he angrily addressed the Vindicators. “Astor Latrell. Where is he?”

  A few of them shook their heads, and all of them looked as confused as Alistair felt.

  “Astor who?” one of them asked.

  “Astor Latrell,” Henrick repeated. Then he started reading his note. “Also known as Jenson Hodges, Dillon Carlisle, Hugh Mathews and… Lil’ Runner. Any of those ring a bell?”

  They didn’t seem to, and Henrick’s nostrils flared as his patience thinned. “He’s not so little anymore. Over six three, no family to speak of, last seen with black hair and a full beard, two-toned eyes of yellow and blue.”

  “Bull,” someone blurted.

  Henrick snapped his gaze around. “What did you just say to me?”

  The young vigilante hunched his shoulders and timidly repeated himself. “Bull. That’s what we call him. Big guy with yellow and blue eyes. We don’t know his birth name. He hardly ever comes to the meetings. He won’t pledge membership; says he needs to be a free man.”

  “Lil’ Runner,” Henrick thoughtfully mumbled. “Where is he?”

  The pounding and screaming got quieter as patrons started giving up or passing out.

  “How should we know?” a Vindicator snapped. “We told you – the guy isn’t a member.”

  “Sometimes he waits for us at the bar,” another offered. “He’s probably burning up with the hexless.”

  “Shit!” Henrick spun toward his guards. “Go look for him. Capture any wizards you come across.”

  They jumped to obey, flying over the captives to the door leading downstairs, and Henrick dropped the shield barring it. The door flew open, and unconscious bodies toppled in, followed by panicked patrons climbing over their friends for a breath of fresh air, but they never got one. The wizards shoved them back, making room for their exit, and Henrick swept bodies aside so he could slam the door behind his men. A shield went up, and the pounding renewed with more vigor, but Henrick was unaffected by the dying pleas of the hexless.

  One of the Vindicators slouched and shook his head. “You said you’d let them go.”

  Henrick ignored him. “Alistair.”

  Alistair unclenched his jaw and cleared his throat. “Sir.”

  “Call in a unit to escort our new recruits to safety.”

  Alistair mind searched his troops, ordering his top 100 soldiers to move in. Then he waited for their arrival while glaring at his dad. Several questions skipped across Alist
air’s tongue, but he couldn’t ask any of them without appearing weak in front of the Vindicators.

  As soon as backup arrived, Henrick dropped the shield on the door leading to the roof, and Alistair helped his soldiers conceal the Vindicators for the flight. Only auras remained as the captives were herded outside, but Alistair and Henrick stayed visible as they watched from the doorway.

  The auras started taking flight in clusters, soaring through smoke toward a sky that was cloudless once more, and Alistair flipped up his hood, preparing to follow his charges. “Are you waiting?”

  “No.” With a wave of his hand, Henrick turned Leon’s body to dust and swept the pile outside. “My men know where to find us.”

  They concealed themselves and followed the soldiers from the roof, and after flying several blocks, they landed among their growing army. No one said a word as they waited for Henrick’s guards. They just stared across the cityscape, watching the glow of firelight as smoke curled toward the stars and sirens wailed into the night.

  When a group of auras soared into view, Henrick quickly counted them. Then he turned away and threw a fit, cursing and kicking and tearing his dossier to pieces. “What a complete waste of time.”

  The guards landed and dropped their concealment spells, out of breath and streaked in soot.

  “No magicians,” one of them huffed. “Dead or alive.”

  Henrick tilted his head back and sighed. “Mark this one down as a failure, boys.”

  “My, my, my,” a feminine voice chastised. “The boys have failed.”

  Everyone whirled around, searching the ledge of the roof. Then a witch and her aura appeared from thin air. She had straight, raven hair with severe bangs that squarely framed the striking features of her face, and she stood on mile-high legs exposed by a black, leather mini dress that cinched her tiny waist and lifted her ample cleavage. Her black cloak fluttered behind her, and one of her gloved hands hovered at her side, her fingers in a tight fist. When she gave it a shake, a bound and gagged wizard appeared on his knees, stuck in her tight grasp. “Good thing you have a woman on your side.”