by J A Stone
Boomers was big, packed with people dancing, drinking, and having fun. The platinum-haired wraith and pony-tailed pixie moved through the crowd, searching for a table—good luck with that.
Warfell found an occupied two-top and pushed the young couple aside, glaring at them both with murderous eyes. They stumbled away casting shitty looks of their own and mumbling curses—unaware how lucky they were for the moment, oblivious to the fact that now was the time to leave and get that room, maybe make a kid and never come back.
Hindsight and Oblivion: the evil twin children of Blind Faith—nasty little cretins with zero conception of time, cradling their broken sandglasses as pandemonium ensues about them.
At the bar, Bigfoot saw the spark of recognition in the Bartender’s eyes—she’d just made British and Danica. Sure enough, she spoke again to the brute on the stool. This time, the man turned to look at the girls, facing the Barkeep again and nodding.
“Hey—HEY!” Bigfoot shouted for their attention. “Hairy forgies? Can I get one to go please, I’m in a hurry to get back to work.”
“And what kind of work does big-boy do?” she asked, approaching with a know-it-all grin.
“Work like this,” he grabbed her by the neck, raising her high with a squeak, dashing the girl into the wall mirrors and then pulling her face to face. “Where are the bloodsuckers hiding? Sorry but I’m not gonna ask two times.” Bigfoot carefully studied her eyes. A reflection in the iris moved and Robert thrust a fist backwards, catching the Bouncer’s skull and thrusting the head over the shoulders backwards—where it bounced limp like a cannonball in a sack, hoisting the torso to the tiles. People screamed like children, shrill and mind-shattering.
“Back room! Down…down…stairs,” his captured Bartender pointed desperately and Robby squeezed that skinny neck til it crunched, dropping her dead to the sticky floor as well—she knew who, what and where the bloodsuckers were—guilty by—proxy?
“Sorry, but you were a bad lady,” Bigfoot surmised as best he could to the body, lifting his eyes to Warfell and Fey afterwards.
“Subtle,” said British.
“Smooth as silk,” Danica confirmed, “shall we my Commander?”
“Yes we shall my Captain,” Fey extended a hand to the club.
“SALT KNIGHTS!” Warfell howled over the clamor of the crowd. Her comrades positioned throughout the barroom drew weapons and tossed back robes.
Boomers went utterly silent…and then erupted into chaos.
The crowd was wild with mixed excitement and terror—more than half of them believing the disruptions to be contained brawls beyond sight of the dancing bodies. Only those closest could actually witness the Seven Devils as individually they battled the hired underlings of Nigel, strategically positioned throughout the club as well.
Each of the Salt Knights entered Boomers wearing long capes and robes now thrown back to reveal new, shiny white armor sets commissioned by British: scaled sleeves for the weapon arms, shoulder caps, chest and ab-plating proportionate to each, light thigh carapaces and knee-high plated boots.
The new armor was highly refined ceramic micro-tiles molded through fine steel mesh netting—virtually unbreakable. Blood would not stick to the polished white surfaces, and the plating was incredibly light for the wearer—half that of metal.
“Now I feel like a real Snowman!” Tommy laughed, quickly finding a position within earshot of Danica. Damned if either was going to lose track of the other.
“Get ‘em Tommy!” Warfell countered. “Bring me a head and I’ll let-cha break me!”
Tom’s mind chuckled to that physical impossibility, but his heart (and other areas) promised otherwise, thrusting the adrenaline-packed blood through his well-muscled body. His right arm gathered its own mind’s-eye and brought the Epee Foil through the air like a sonic whip, snapping loud when the direction changed—the Blue-Diamond tip performing precise incisions and mortal stabs with each motion taken.
Through the center of the crowd, Tawnee came running, dodging between fighters and confused patrons, coursing directly for the long wooden bar on the back wall where Bigfoot was already pulling on the thick chain lock to a set of double steel doors.
Up front, Dobra and Howie closed the outside doors, together bending the locking bar back against itself and turning to face two hundred confused drunks, seventy hysterical drunks, fifty pissed off tough-guy drunks, and just as many agents of the Arenthian dropping fast before the Salt Knights.
“Ready?” asked Dobra.
“Sure man, uh—where on the Moon do we—jump in?” Howie replied, scanning the miasma of screaming, flailing bodies, genuinely uncertain how to proceed.
“How ‘bout that pile over there?”
“Naw, what about—?”
Three swordsmen answered Howie, hefting Assassin’s Scimitars and thrusting shouts into the air at the boys—closing the distance fast.
“This here looks good YAAA!” Dobra flourished his Claymore and met two opponents at once as his friend engaged the third.
On the back wall, Tawnee set her hands aside Robert’s and pulled with everything she had.
“It’s no use Missus Tawnee—DAMN YE!” he let go of the chain and looked at his iron kettle hands. “What’s wrong with you guys?”
Tawnee tapped his hip, pointing to Daphne, his big-game shotgun turned pistol.
“Oh yeah!” Bigfoot snapped the clip and pulled Daphne free for the first time in weeks, placing her aside the relaxed chain and pulling the trigger, the tight BOOM! overriding the clamor of the fighting—if but for a second.
Bigfoot kicked the double steel doors wide to an empty room with stairs leading down. He turned to face the bar—eerie silence.
Tawnee and Robert raised their brows to the sight of dozens of people crushing themselves against the walls to keep back from British, Danica, Tom, Eventine, Iris, Dobra and Howie—all of them in the middle, standing tall over their fallen adversaries.
“Okay guys—we’re in,” Bigfoot spoke to the Knights with his business eyes scanning the poorly lit chamber before him. Tawnee was already inside feeling the walls, poking around, searching for hidden doors and traps.
“Good job Salts,” Warfell spoke to the team, tossing her blues about to the terrified citizens huddled against the edges of the bar, trembling. “WHAT! –ya’ll act like you’ve never seen a stage three bar-fight before,” she addressed them en masse. “Listen, if you can get the front doors open, I would. Cuuuuuuz if something other than us comes back out—well good luck with that, really. Are any of you afraid of dogs, big ones? No? Good.”
They moved swiftly, jumping over the bodies, and bounding over the long wooden bar to fill the threshold of the back room. One quick final gaze to the terrified customers of Boomers and Danica pushed the steel doors shut behind her.
Four levels—ground level one—three substrata under-decks.
The Salt Knights followed Tawnee fifty feet down to level two, an argon-lit massive rectangular chamber with apartments, offices and two bathhouses. The flooring was lavishly carpeted—bright red and plush. Level two was devoid of life.
“Nice,” said the Snowman, “Stroke should be seeing this place.”
“He’ll see it soon enough. Keep it down Tommy,” British admonished, carefully examining the walls and granite columns as Tawnee did the same on the opposing end of the chamber. “This place was carved into the solid stone—definitely Dwarven,” she added at barely a whisper, rounding the corner to see the grand staircase, again leading down. She motioned her Knights close, touching heads in a tight circle.
“Okay boys and girls, by now the dogs are in the club. Master Po is topside waiting. They are watching the back door—we are selling cookies at the front. Stay close and hug the walls, keep quiet, with me,” British smiled warmly at her friends, something Tom Snow always thought special.
She loves us like Danica loved the Wasp, he thought as they descended the wide set of polished steps.
Anoth
er fifty feet and level three opened up wide to an expansive columned hexagonal chamber. In the center there was a pool of turbulent water surrounded by suede covered beds.
“I guess this would be the orgy room?” asked British to Danica.
“YEP this is the place alright, you see them partner?”
“I do—okay, wow.”
Oceanport Arenthian Safehouse, negative altitude 250’
“This does not have to end with your demise Good Knights of Mons Salis Cor,” the beautiful woman spoke as she stepped into the open followed by Nigel and another. The third High Arenthian left no guesswork—half-animal—Sapien and Lupine combined in the most horrid of ways. He—it stood tall at seven feet and rotated the hairless canine head to the side, displaying his ample fangs.
The three Renths moved together.
British held an arm out to the team—hold.
“Beast-boy solves Case Number Forty-Five. Robert, you and Iris had the wrong mark,” Warfell glanced to Iris and Bigfoot, standing side-by-side.
“I seh—good catch Cap,” the Lesser Grey Renth touched her partner’s huge arm and Bigfoot nodded, still keeping an intent watch on the three bad guys only fifty feet away. The pretty woman spoke again.
“My name is Aurora, you already know Nigel, and this is Gustav,” she held a palm towards the muscled man who looked like a Demon with a hairless wolven head. “We have no quarrel with you. I welcome you all to my home of two hundred years,” she smiled and began walking alone towards the Salt Knights, now fanned out in a tight combat line. British stepped forward to intercept. If contact were now, she wanted first strike.
Each side came within five paces and stopped. British began the discourse.
“We did not knock on the door. We have issue with the dog-man and pretty-boy. Aurora do you know who I am?”
“I do,” answered fearlessly, “you are the infamous British Fey, the tiny fighting wonder with a real Spirit at her beck and call. This needs to end here. Tell me how we can make peace, recompense. Tell me your grievance with my Brothers.”
“Gustav killed a dozen citizens on the west-side of Oceanport. We are charged with justice for those lives taken. And Nigel? He attacked one of my Brothers in my living room, nearly killed Danica, and well, lots of bad shit,” British seemed at a sudden loss for words, staring into the perfect emerald eyes of Aurora. “You sure are a pretty one.”
“Boss look away,” Iris warned, stepping forward and flushing her hair crimson-blue.
“And how did you get her to join you guys?” Aurora pointed, genuinely curious. “I mean, she’s only a Lesser Grey but still—how?”
“We uh, captured her,” said British, ashamed.
“How? Oh you impaled her, you did, didn’t you,” The curly-blond locks were nodding yes, followed by the brown ponytail. “How many human lives did she take before you finally stopped her?”
“Dozen,” Fey whispered, dropping her browns to the fine marble.
“Thirty six, seven if yeh include Miss Jaimeh,” Iris confirmed her kills and the words stabbed British hard. The young Renth did indeed escape justice as marked.
“See?” now Aurora was close enough to kiss, looking down on the pixie like a horny stepmother up to no good. “I’ll need something better than a handful of dead Sapiens honey, come with me,” the beauty turned so fast British completely missed it.
Suddenly, she was ten feet away, casually walking back to the atrium. Nigel and Gustav reclined on padded sofas in the background. At twenty paces, Aurora stopped and turned around ever so slowly, emphasizing the decided speed she clearly possessed.
“Well, are you coming?” that I dare you gaze was simply too much. British snapped-to from the mild hypnosis of the beautiful creature named Aurora.
“Stand down Salts,” Fey spoke with her eyes still locked on the green-eyed goddess who says things.
“British?” Warfell issued an unnecessary warning.
“They’re bad ass—so are we—stay frosty,” Fey followed the Arenthian and her eight Knights stayed with her, all with minds racing, calculating, taking everything in.
The atrium was lush, opulent. Once the hexagon had been carved and columned, the architects lined the walls, floors and ceiling with fine polished marble. Fountains flowed, green vines crept over the many sculpted effigies, the trickling sounds quite hypnotic on their own.
“Nice,” Tom said again as they entered the central area.
“Eyes sharp,” Danica whispered to her love and Tommy nodded as they approached the three Renths, all reclined in the soft leather.
“Nigel will apologize now,” Aurora said softly. “Nigel?” she raised the volume a touch.
“My beautiful dove,” Nigel sat up and closed his eyes. “Mine heart did swell in rage over this man and I allowed that tempus fugue to consume me. I shall never again,” he sat there with his head low, long black hair in his face. It almost seemed like he was grinning behind the raven strands.
“That is not an apology,” said Danica, aggressively pulling Tung-Vohra forward and pointing the glistening Katana at Nigel. She threw her words like icy knives.
“How about you and I—over there in the open—show of talent—gentleman’s duel—display of skill—fucker,” she added the last to assuage her bursting rage inside. It didn’t help much—maybe.
Nigel rose, pulled the hair from his eyes, tossing those black orbs fast towards Aurora and there it was: The blond was in charge here. She smiled, and nodded.
“Captain Warfell, your reputation precedes you, but be warned, my Brother is fast,” the beauty admonished. Danica shrugged it off. Nothing mattered at this stage, aside from the duel only moments away.
“You feeling skippy partner?” asked British, quite confident in her Captain’s incredible skills.
“What if I kill him?” Danica did not answer British, didn’t need to.
“Gustav and I will do nothing,” said Aurora. “What if he kills you?”
Danica stopped, facing British—looking for her confirmation. British answered solemnly.
“Truthfully, I will not allow such to happen. If he commands the melee, I will call for a cease. Both parties must stop at that time, or I am jumping in, savvy?”
Aurora nodded with a grin.
“Fair enough, we will judge the match and call in favor of the aggressor,” she agreed and Warfell snorted loud.
“Partner, I’m here to kill this man—not spank his tender bottom,” she said the words and Nigel scoffed, yanking his Rapier free incredibly fast, and then whishing the cruel implement about before assuming a formal ready stance.
“Blind thyn eyes to the others—I shall violate you deep—this time with steel,” Nigel taunted her with the crystal-clear message.
“Son of a bitch!” Tom lunged forward and Bigfoot Bob held him back.
“Let her do it Snowman,” the huge Knight watched on with confidence and Tommy suppressed those urges to charge and kill all three bloodsuckers.
Boomers, Topside Ground Level
“Good luck boys,” Master Po pushed the last Dane through the window of the men’s bathroom.
Stroke, Torpa, Antigua and Landreth filtered through the hallway, each following the scents of their Masters Tom, Danica, British and Tawnee.
“Now where are you hiding,” the bald man in robes spoke to the air, setting his sight to the large barren property behind the bar, vacant yet fenced-off. He strolled forward some fifty feet and sat down, curling his legs into meditative pose. Po was no architect—certainly not a hound dog either, but he knew all good basements had an escape hatch.
Arenthian Safehouse, Level Three, the Atrium
They sat and stood on the edge of the leather-cushioned beds, Aurora separate and holding fast to Gustav, the Lupine disaster of biology.
Within leaping distance Danica and Nigel faced one another moving through pre-attack poses, eyes riveted, thrusting weapons about, whipping the air. They began slow, testing, getting a feel for the opposing
style, more for the benefit of the ‘judges.’
It did not take long.
“Give it to me,” Nigel whispered, accelerating the strokes, bringing his sweeps in harder. Warfell matched the thinner, more agile Rapier and the contact rings doubled in tempo. Now they were moving—two steps forward, one back, circling one another with steady torsos and spinning weapons.
British was impressed—Danica had mastered the Katana’s forms, stances and holds to perfection. She was the epitome of grace and style. After several moments, it seemed as though Nigel was beginning to tire, even falter. Aurora sat forward as did Gustav. They were ready to move.
The Knights took note and Bigfoot pointed a thick finger to Aurora—Queen of this little den.
“Try sumthin’ and I’ll rip your pretty head off, ye green-eyed witch,” he growled and Aurora raised her eyebrows high—she believed him. Three bell-tone clashes and all eyes thrust back to the exchange.
“YOU LIE!” Warfell struck the Rapier full arc, giving the thin stabber a taste of what a Katana does best—cut. The unexpected ‘TANG!’ disrupted the graceful flow of the combat sending nerve-shocking vibrations through Nigel’s right fist and forearm. He spun, flourishing his blade through the air as if to replenish its strength. Warfell let him back away one pace to regather.
“I nona deceived thee—tis wot in my heart,” Nigel spoke truth and Danica knew it. She was swayed at first, but remained of her own free will. She stayed with Nigel for the sex and… okay mostly for the sex.
Suddenly she stopped, lowering Tung-Vohra to the stark white marble, turning her back on Nigel to face British and Aurora.
“He’s right. I have no true quarrel with this man He’s an asshole, but…” Nigel came to her side and Tommy was steaming with rage at the sight.
“I DO AND HE KNOWS IT,” Snow shouted, leaping to a stand and stepping forward. “Danica, I am first your Knight and not your friend, please step down Captain.”