‘What did this to you?’ Tabby asked as she sat down on the edge of his bed.
Sam wrote – I don’t know, I was drunk.
‘You idiot,’ Tabby said without heat. She reached out and stroked his cheek. Sam felt a tingle where she touched him, and he reached up with his own hand to grip her fingers tenderly. Sam remembered the strange naked man perfectly and was slightly ashamed about keeping it from Tabby; he just couldn’t think of a way to explain it to her without sounding crazy. The last thing he wanted was to be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Movement at the door made Sam look up. A tall, harassed-looking man in his late thirties strode in. He attempted a smile at Sam and Tabby, but the effort seemed a bit flat. Sam could see the tiredness in his eyes. ‘Hi, I’m Doctor Jackman,’ he said. With more vague smiles in their direction, Jackman walked over to Sam’s chart and flicked through it. His eyebrows arched in surprise, and he looked at Sam. ‘You’re swallowing? Already? There must be some mistake …’
Sam wrote – No mistake. His pen strokes were clumsy because Jackman’s fingers were probing at his throat.
‘What’s wrong with him swallowing?’ Tabby asked worriedly.
Jackman looked at her with a slightly confused expression on his face. ‘Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, it’s very, very good news.’ He turned and addressed Sam. ‘I’ve reviewed your notes. When you were brought in last night, Mr. Autumn, they honestly didn’t think you were going to survive.’ Jackman ignored Tabby’s gasp of shock, and for a moment Sam felt like throttling the man for scaring her. ‘The damage was extensive and severe to the arteries and veins, and to the larynx. The carotid artery had been nicked, and the jugular vein was severed. You lost so much blood … well frankly, it was a miracle you lived to get to the ICU. You should have bled out on the street in moments.’
Sam wrote – I put pressure on the wound.
‘Quite,’ Jackman said doubtfully. ‘It’s all by-the-by anyway. You lived. If you don’t believe in God, then now’s a good time to start, because there is no medical explanation for why you’re with us today.’
‘Well he is, so what’s wrong with that?’ Tabby asked defensively. Sam squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Jackman looked at the two of them, his tired eyes perplexed. Then he seemed to understand. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Autumn, you have to forgive me. I’ve been working for almost fourteen hours … I don’t mean to frighten you. This really is genuinely good news. If I am a little blunt, then I apologise.’ He turned to Sam. ‘I don’t mean to scare you or your wife, but your survival really is a one in a million shot.
‘The surgeon assured me that your operation went very well indeed, despite the slight hiccup with the anaesthetic.’ He looked at Tabby. ‘He woke up on the operating table, I’m afraid. Even so, the tissue damage to the muscles of your throat meant that we anticipated swallowing would be a problem for a while. That you are already swallowing on your own is yet another cause for celebration.’
Jackman sighed. ‘Unfortunately, it is not all good news. Your recovery is remarkable, but your larynx was irreparably damaged. I’m afraid that it is very unlikely that you will ever speak again.’
They sat in silence for a while, Jackman in obvious discomfort, Sam and Tabby in shock. Eventually Sam picked up the pad and pencil again.
Sam wrote – Unlikely?
Jackman sighed again. ‘More like impossible.’ He let that sink in. ‘I really am very sorry. If you have any questions, ask one of the nurses to page me and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’ll check on you tomorrow, regardless – if your condition remains the same, then I’ll happily discharge you.’
Tabby was crying. Sam wrote – I want to go home now.
‘I really think that it would be best if you remained here overnight,’ Jackman said. ‘There may be complications we don’t know about yet.’
Sam wrote – I want to discharge myself.
Jackman shrugged, clearly not bothered enough to argue his case. ‘I’ll have a nurse bring you the necessary paperwork to sign. I have an outpatients’ clinic tomorrow and I think I can find you a morning appointment. You can go home on the condition that you make that appointment. Okay?’
Sam wrote – Yes.
Jackman walked to the door and then turned again. ‘I really am very sorry,’ he reiterated before turning and walking out without waiting for a reply.
Mark was in the garage when hidden speakers trilled to indicate that he had an incoming call. He let it ring a few times as he looked around at the vehicles. There was a stripped Harley Davidson lounging in one corner, its exposed chrome pipes gleaming in the bright spotlights.
A glistening blue Corvette ZR1 was parked next to it, and next to the Corvette was a silver Aston Martin DB7. On the other side of the garage squatted a monstrous Lamborghini Reventón, in black. Its angular lines and sleek bonnet promised 650 horsepower, which could get it up to 210 miles per hour; so fast, the makers of the car had thought it prudent to include a G-force metre on the instrument panel.
Incongruously, an old Ford Escort was parked next to the sports car. It looked tiny and out of place amongst the exalted company around it. It was an old model, and its dark blue paintwork was scratched, the bodywork dented in places. Mark reached out a hand and stroked its bonnet. For some reason, he felt more attached to this old piece of junk than any of the other cars. Despite its beat-up appearance, the car was scrupulously maintained. It had never let Mark down, and since he only used the car when he wanted to look inconspicuous, which was most of the time if he was honest, he had grown attached to it.
All his cars had custom satellite navigation systems, run-flat tyres, bullet-proof glass, automatic fire extinguishers, and explosion-resistant fuel tanks. Each of them also had a stainless-steel case containing some basic medical supplies, two Browning Hi-Power 9mm semi-automatic pistols and ammunition, an L85A2 assault rifle and ammunition, a change of clothing, grenades, flares, and night vision equipment. Mark liked to be prepared.
The telephone stopped ringing. Mark waited. A few seconds later it began again. ‘Phone,’ Mark said with a sigh.
‘Mr. Jones?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Jason.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause.
‘What is it, Jason?’
‘Oh, right, yes. The portfolio … it’s changed.’
Mark stayed silent for a moment as he absorbed the information. ‘How?’ he asked eventually.
‘Another target has been introduced.’
‘Describe it.’
‘A large male with a beard. Very powerfully built. He appears to be covered in tattoos.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘I don’t know – he was with Target One this morning, when observations were resumed through the hidden cameras in his flat.’
‘What do we know about it?’
‘Nothing yet. From what we have seen so far, the two of them don’t get along very well. Target One seems to be beholden to Target Two in some way, and Target Two seems contemptuous of Target One.’
‘That does not surprise me – from what I have gathered, Target One is a wretch.’
‘You shouldn’t underestimate them, Sir. We are used to hunting Ifrit: they remain relatively common. But the other three races have disappeared from our world. You said yourself that you haven’t seen anything like Target One for a while, and I think Target Two is different again. For two species we thought pretty much extinct to surface at the same time … and in each other’s company … well, I think it might pay to be prudent, is all.’
Mark did not answer straight away. When he eventually spoke, his voice was resolute. ‘Very well, we’ll put our plans back for a day. Watch them, see what they do. I want to know where they go and who they see. And I want to know about the people they meet as well.’
‘It’ll take a lot of resources – I’ll have to bring in some more people. Specialists. They won’t be
cheap.’
Jason couldn’t see Mark’s smile as he surveyed the garage full of expensive machinery. ‘Money has not been a problem for a very long time. Do it.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘Goodbye, Jason.’
The phone line went dead. Mark patted the bonnet of the Ford Escort thoughtfully. Then he walked back towards the door that led into the house proper.
It was one of the few days in the year that Rowan was likely to have completely to himself, and he intended to take full advantage of it. Returning home late last night for the first time in eight months, Rowan had pumped the heating up to full and cooked himself a spartan dinner of omelette and baked beans before going to bed. He had slept like a log.
Waking up at half eight was a lie-in for him. He stretched beneath the soft sheets and yawned loudly. Then he simply lay there, enjoying the sensation of not having to get up. Eventually, he rolled out of bed and went through some gentle stretching exercises, followed by a gruelling series of callisthenics. Sweating but happy, Rowan examined himself naked in the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe and was pleased with what he saw.
Close-cropped black hair covered the top of his head. When it got longer it gathered an unruly curl, but cut close to the scalp it remained neat and tidy. He had a broad and friendly face bronzed from constant outdoor work. A wide mouth with slightly-too-thick lips stretched across it. Laughter lines creased the corners, and when he grinned, a set of crooked teeth greeted the world. The left incisor and canine had been knocked out in a training exercise and ever the pragmatist, Rowan had replaced them with titanium. They glittered menacingly in the sunlight that came through the bedroom window. Combined with a squat, twice-broken nose, the teeth gave him a villainous appearance. He was an ugly customer, he thought to himself. Except for the eyes – his eyes were the deepest blue.
In stark contrast to his face, he had the body of an Adonis. Flawless, milk-white skin covered a trim frame. He was not tall – only five-feet-eight inches – but his shoulders were wide, and his biceps bulged. His waist was narrow, and above it, a solid six-pack was etched across his belly. Thick thighs and calves, made for running long distances, were complemented by a pair of shins deeply scarred from repeated strikes to a hard punchbag. Looking down at his big tanned hands, Rowan saw the thick scar tissue over the knuckles, which had been generated from years of boxing.
An old tattoo was etched into the flesh above his heart on one meaty pectoral. It said Royal Marine Commando, and Rowan felt a surge of pride when he looked at it. His mum had been so proud when he had gone off to RM Condor with his brand new Green Beret. He felt a moment of melancholy. His mother had died of breast cancer four years ago, when he was twenty-four, and afterwards his father had just given up. He had followed her within the year: lung cancer. Rowan shrugged the thoughts away.
Eight months away with his unit, and finally he had been granted some leave. It was only a week, but he intended to make the most of it by doing absolutely nothing. He would get in touch with his sister and see if she wanted to meet up. He frowned to himself. His leave had come through at short notice, and he hadn’t had chance to let her know he was coming back. In truth, he simply hadn’t thought of it. ‘I’ll do it later,’ Rowan said to himself under his breath.
He decided to go and get some breakfast first. A big, unhealthy holiday breakfast, he thought to himself with a boyish grin. Slipping into a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a thick anorak, Rowan made his way to the front door. A pair of big military boots sat by the door. He pulled them on and let himself out.
The sky was clear and blue. The air was crisp and cold. Rowan inhaled, enjoying the sting at the back of his nose from the chill, but not liking the smell of exhaust fumes that came with it. He looked back at the house. It was where he had grown up, a narrow two up, two down in Stockport. His sister had married and moved out shortly before his dad had died. He was glad the old man had seen her wedding; it had made him happy, and he had even rallied for a week afterwards.
Obviously, his daughter’s happiness had only been a short stay of execution, and he had died a month later. Since then, the house had been empty. Rowan stayed there on a de facto basis. Nobody minded; neither sibling wanted to sell the place.
Turning, Rowan dug his hands into his pockets and walked up to the high street. He went into a greasy spoon that had existed in the same spot for well over a decade, and ordered a full English breakfast. It came with a milky cup of tea into which he poured three sugars. A local paper had been left on the table next to him; he read absently about a burst water main that was causing havoc in the city centre, and of a man who had been found nearby with his throat torn out.
Rowan tutted at the story. He could not comprehend how the country had got itself into a position where thugs could go around tearing people up like that with impunity. His life was simpler, he knew. If he had an enemy, he did his best to kill him. That was his job; after a tour of duty in Afghanistan, it came naturally. Returning to the world like this was always a bit of a wrench.
Though not particularly tall, Rowan was still a big lad and he tended to attract the sort of idiot who liked to test themselves against him. Sometimes he had to remember not to hurt them. It was far more difficult to simply walk away when people got antagonistic with him, especially with his training. He was never tempted though. His philosophy was simple: why ruin my life over some drunken shithead who’ll probably do the job for me within a year or two anyway?
It was an easy division to make. When he was in uniform, he was lethal and uncompromising. When he was in civvies, he was as gentle as a kitten. It worked out.
Besides, after a few days in a city like Manchester, he couldn’t wait to get back to his unit. Military life was so much more … wholesome. He finished his breakfast and read the rest of the paper. The story about the man who had been attacked kept coming back to him, and he shook his head in disgust. They should find people like the one who had done that and put a bullet in their brainpan. No questions, no forgiveness, no rehabilitation. An eye for an eye, a throat for a throat, and if the bleeding-heart liberal bullshit contingent didn’t like it, they could go in a shallow grave with the rapists and murderers.
Still, he thought as he looked up at the clear winter’s sky, it wasn’t his problem and it never would be, unless martial law was enforced. If that happened, the scum would have a real wake-up call. He tried to imagine a bunch of spotty hoodies with knives up against 45 Commando, and the image made him grin. Whistling a little tune, Rowan walked back to his house.
Shoplifting was easy when you were an Elf.
One of the innate talents Cam’s race possessed was the ability to cast a Glamour over people. A hundred years ago, a single Elf could beguile an entire village without much effort. Now, it strained Cam to confuse the five people in the sports shop for the few minutes necessary to go behind the counter, pick up a plastic bag, and then stuff it full of extra-large tracksuits and t-shirts. A member of staff wandered out of the storeroom, and Cam slipped in through the closing door. He grabbed a couple of pairs of black trainers out of some boxes marked size fourteen and shoved them in with the other clothing.
Cam walked out of the shop, ignoring the urgent beeping from the security equipment at the exit, and waited. After a few seconds the alarm stopped, and Cam let the Glamour slip away. An attractive shop assistant blinked a couple of times in confusion and then spotted Cam through the open door. She smiled uncertainly. He smiled back and she blushed furiously.
Grinning to himself, Cam walked away. He was carrying six bags from three different shops. One of them contained a sturdy brown leather jacket and a pair of stylish jeans for Grímnir. Three more contained a vast amount of expensive underwear. He had also quickly nipped into an Internet café to check on something Grímnir had said, and then picked up a bag full of meat from a nearby supermarket – mainly quality steaks and roasts. The last bag held his most recent acquisitions, again for Grímnir.
On the
way back to his flat, Cam stopped in a few pubs he knew well and sold two bags of underwear and the bag of meat. Pocketing two hundred pounds, he whistled as he walked the last few hundred feet to his flat and let himself in. The morning’s thieving had almost cured his hangover, and Cam was feeling almost positive about his situation.
Grímnir was sitting on the sofa, staring at the television in amazement. Cam threw the three bags at him. ‘Put some clothes on,’ he said as he walked into the kitchen and searched for a drink. Finding nothing, he cursed himself for not picking up a bottle of tequila at the supermarket. He came back outside to find Grímnir going through the underwear in confusion.
‘What are these for?’ he asked.
‘Underwear,’ Cam said. He walked over and picked up some items. ‘These are socks. They go over your feet. Then you put the trainers on. No, not yet – put the jeans on first, you dickweasel.’
Eventually Grímnir was showered and dressed. It didn’t surprise Cam that he went for the leather jacket and jeans instead of the tracksuits. He looked like a leather kind of guy. Cam watched as Grímnir conscientiously braided his beard and tied his hair back with a leather thong he had found from somewhere. When he was done, Cam had to admit he didn’t look half bad. His huge physique bulged through the jacket, and his grey eyes were like flint.
‘Now, take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water,’ Grímnir demanded.
‘I told you, I can’t.’ He held up a hand to stop Grímnir’s protests before they started. ‘But I know somebody who might be able to help. Come on.’
The two men walked out of the flat. ‘Where are we going?’ Grímnir asked.
‘Back into town. Into Manchester. It’s not far.’
Immortals' Requiem Page 7