Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  A narrow wooden bridge, rickety and warped, linked the muddy bank to a small island enveloped by the murky, cold water that flooded the entire era. Wisps of fog rolled along the small refuge—a tiny stilted shack atop short green-brown vegetation and surrounded by a variety of angular trees that ranged from bare to budding to evergreen. As Wage cautiously traversed the bridge, he could hear a rasping, grinding sound. He circled around to the front of the small home, where he could finally smell the smoke that rose from a bent stovepipe on the roof. It was the smell of sage and cedar.

  Madame Sweetooth hunched over her altar, a once-thriving a cypress tree struck by lightning so long ago and in such a way that it split and part of it grew at a 90-degree angle before plunging back down to the boggy soil. The old woman worked a round grinding stone, crushing tiny roots and grains atop a smoothed river stone plate. She wore a long, light-blue cotton dress, a dirty white apron, and a faded red head wrap. Her russet brown feet and hands were tough and seemingly efficient despite being as old and gnarled as the trees that surrounded her.

  She stopped grinding and smelled the air. “Who is that come to my swamp?” she said in Creole French. Her voice was as raspy as the sound the grinding stone made. She smelled the air again, her nostrils flaring like an animal on the hunt. How she could smell anything but the sage and cedar in the air was beyond him. “Why, if it isn’t Wage Pascal …”

  “And here I thought sage was supposed to ward off evil spirits,” Wage joked in English as he tipped his slouch hat.

  “You not evil spirit, Wage Pascal. Never have been. You just a lost one.” She cackled to herself as she brushed off her hands and turned around. Both of her eyes were cataract and cloudy, and a lifetime of eating sweets had left her with one tooth, jutting up sideways from her bottom gums. “Welcome back.” She cackled again.

  Wage dug in his leather jacket and withdrew a handful of soft candies wrapped in wax paper. “You look good,” Wage said, giving her the handful of saltwater taffy. She snatched them and put all but one into her apron. She quickly unwrapped it and placed the soft candy in her mouth. “A woman like mahogany. The older the better,” she replied before swirling the sweet about her mouth and finally tucking it away in the side of her cheek like a chipmunk. “Mmmmmmm,” she moaned subtly in enjoyment. “Now, what can I do for my little lost soul?” she asked.

  Wage bit his bottom lip. “There are things I need to know.”

  “Is that right? And you think ol’ Madame Sweetooth has the answers, do you?” she finally spoke in her accented English.

  Wage nodded his head. “Yes.”

  “Think a little twine and some chicken bone gonna tell you the future?”

  “At this point, I ain’t got nothin’ else to trust.”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand with one of her rough ones. She smelled the air around him, then placed the other hand on his cheek. The calluses on her palm scratched against the stubble on his face. “I can feel … great loss.” She clicked her tongue a few times. “I can smell your remedy, too, Wage Pascal. Bourbon and women.” The small woman bent an ear toward his chest. “I can hear … a longing. A distant drum that beats for someone who don’t want to dance to it.” She lifted her ear away and gazed upon his face with milky eyes. “She dance to another’s drum. Even someone blind as me can see. Poor old Wage Pascal. Got nowhere else to run. So he come see me.”

  “I lost my best friend. I’m losing the woman I love.” Wage sniffed but tried not to let his tears fall. “Hell, I even lost my job. I failed.” He lowered his head, and a solitary tear escaped. “I failed everyone. Everyone. And I ain’t got nowhere to go because I don’t where I’m going …” Wage finally looked up. “Aside from hell, that is.”

  Madame Sweetooth cackled again. She gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Come with me, boy.” She led him by the hand to her cypress tree altar, where she withdrew a pouch that hung from around her neck. She poured the pouch’s contents onto the altar aside from the grinding wheel and stone. Small chicken bones spilled out. Then Madame Sweetooth reached a hand into Wage’s jacket. Wage was nervous as she padded its innards until she found a silver flask and a book of matches. She freed the flask, unscrewed it and poured some of the bourbon over the splayed chicken bones. She inspected the matchbook. It was full, picked up recently by Wage at The House of Black Curtains in New Orleans. A place where he had found the remedies Madame Sweetooth could now smell on him. If she could see clearer, she would probably recognize the lone black cat sitting in a window adorned with black curtains—the famous brothel’s insignia.

  She lit a match, swallowed what was left of the taffy in her mouth, and took a swig of bourbon. Then she spit the bourbon in a sweeping spray over the lit match, igniting a much larger flame that engulfed the bones. One of the small bones caught fire briefly but went out as the old voodoo priestess cupped all the bones in her hand now, shook them, and rolled them like dice back onto the altar. The pattern the bones created seemed random to Wage, but to her squinting eyes and probing fingers, they were omens. Prophecies and portents.

  “What do you see?” Wage asked.

  “Holy men. Masked men.” She pointed to a set of bones loosely forming a cross, one of them blackened. “Money.” She pointed to other bones. “Lots of money where these men are. Mountains of money.” Another configuration of bones looked like a dilapidated square with a half triangle on top. “A wedding.” She moved her hands over another set of bones. “I see you … in the air. Over the water.” She snarled, “In the grave!” She brought her fist down hard on the altar, scattering the bones. It took a moment for Madame Sweetooth to compose herself. “Best watch yourself, Wage Pascal.”

  “Watch out? For what?” he asked.

  “A leaky roof can fool the sun, but it can’t fool no rain,” the old woman said. “And the rain is coming. The rain is coming.”

  Wage stared strangely at the old woman for a moment, but his attention went to the altar, where he picked up the charred chicken bone. He rolled it between his fingers. “Holy men. Masked men. Lots of money.” He tossed the bone back to the altar and looked at the black soot it left on his fingers. He picked up his flask, tucked it away in his jacket, and then grabbed the matchbook, smearing it with the soot from his fingers. And then something came to him. “Black. Book?” His eyes grew as large as the full moon that would soon be out. “Black Book … Holy men … Masked men … Lots of money … Lots of money! Holy ...” he grabbed the old voodoo priestess. “I got it! I got it! I can fix this! I can fix it!” He bent over and placed a sloppy kiss on Madam Sweetooth’s smoky face. “I can fix it!” he yelled as he turned and ran from the island.

  As he disappeared into the swamp, Madame Sweetooth calmly returned to grinding her roots and grains. “Rain is coming, Wage Pascal. Rain is coming …”

  Simon Hum

  March 26, 1915

  Apartment of Simon Hum

  Manhattan, New York

  Simon Hum’s eighth-story studio was scarcely furnished. It had a flimsy nightstand, a solitary wicker chair, a poorly stained armoire, and a full-size bed that, on most days, was meticulously made. Today, however, it was a disheveled mess as he and Amber Rose lay naked and sprawled out under a thin sheet. It was midmorning, and normally, Simon would have already been up for hours reading the paper, reviewing and updating case files, or combing through Roosevelt’s Black Book. This morning, however, there was nowhere to be and little to do. In addition, Amber Rose insisted they sleep in, and Amber Rose could be very, very persuasive.

  Amber Rose moaned, rolled to her stomach, and placed a lithe arm across Simon’s bare chest. Simon noticed how much more defined her arm looked since her return from England. He also noticed the tattooed script across her fingers. One read Lust. The other, Love. It had surprised him. Tattoos were for sailors and savages, certainly not a woman as beautiful as her. He hadn’t asked about the tattoos until last night when she was atop him. The Lust hand struck him across the face, leaving a stingi
ng mark. That was her only reply, and Simon understood his query to be ill-timed and simply demanded another slap.

  After a lifetime of self-flagellation taught to him by his mother, his back was grotesquely streaked with a lattice of pink and red scars. His self-flagellation was a penance and an important reminder to lead a life of intense restraint. A life also taught to him by his mother. Simon found it to be a travesty that the only memories that came back to him after his accident were the ones involving his mother. None of which were particularly pleasant.

  His life of restraint, however, was broken by Amber Rose just one year ago. And when it broke, he experienced a sensation he didn’t think was possible. One so deep and unbelievably freeing. It was during that impossible moment that he also wanted pain. Intense pain. Amber Rose indulged him. She indulged him because that’s want he wanted, and because it felt good to finally dominate instead of submit. It felt good to inflict abuse rather than be the victim of it.

  “Morning darlin’,” she purred, moving her Love hand up his chest to play with his sandy blonde hair.

  He grabbed her Love hand using his natural arm and squeezed. His left arm lay uncovered and unaided, limp and withered next to her. The wonderarm Tesla had built sat inside the armoire. “Good morning, my love.”

  “Did I tell you how much I missed you when I was gone?” she asked.

  “Profusely.”

  “Hmm. OK,” she replied, moving her hand from his hair slowly down his stomach, underneath the sheet, and down further still.

  Simon moaned.

  She moved closed to his ear and whispered, “Because I really, really missed you.” Amber Rose squeezed her Love hand tightly, causing Simon to wince momentarily, then moan again. She moved her lips to his, and stroked him until the sheet that covered him lifted. When she was ready, she slithered closer to him, then atop him. Simon moaned louder as she guided him into her. Amber Rose gripped his shoulders and moved her hips, and only her hips, slowly in an unpredictable yet pleasurable rhythm. Simon reached for her backside, squeezed, and used his new found leverage to grind his own hips upward, thrusting in a very predictable and focused manner.

  Soon their bodies and their breathing found a matching rhythm that crescendoed as she dug her nails into his chest. Their song became indescribable, violent, and loud. They were both reaching their limits, soaring toward inevitable climax before slowly fluttering down into wonderful calmness. But just before they both reached that climax, their summit, something brought Simon crashing to earth.

  “Peacemakers! I repeat, Peacemakers, goddamit! Is anyone reading this? Answer immediately!” The sound emanated from Simon’s comglobe that sat on his flimsy nightstand. Moments later, purple vapors swirled and pulsed with every Cajun syllable. “Don’t everyone read me at once. Shit! Come on! Answer!”

  Simon threw Amber Rose off him. She crashed to earth before reaching her own peak, and landed on her side of the bed. Simon leaned over and snagged the comglobe.

  “Major? Is that you? Over.” Simon yelled as he keyed the comglobe.

  “It’s captain now. Get it right,” came Wage’s reply.

  Simon sighed impatiently. “Captain. This is Simon. What’s the matter? Over.”

  “Simon! Good to hear ya! Listen, I got a plan! Do you read me? I got a plan!”

  “Doesn’t he always,” Amber Rose added sharply, unhappily crawling back to the bed.

  “Yes, yes, we read you. Where are you? Over,” Simon said.

  “I’m on a westbound train outside of Shreveport.”

  “And where exactly are you headed? Over.”

  “Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

  “Major?”

  “It’s captain …”

  “Yes, yes. Sorry. Why are you headed to Santa Fe? Over.”

  “Do you remember those Templar fellas?”

  Mr. Steel, Mr. Vault, & Mr. Black

  March 31, 1915

  Unmarked Pier

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Mortimer let the car idle as he exited. “One moment,” he called to his passengers. In the front seat, Mr. Vault readied his golden lion’s head mask and drew over his black hood. Mr. Steel, sitting in the back seat, followed suit. Next to Mr. Steel, Mr. Black slept with his head against the window, snoring loudly.

  Mortimer strolled over to the large covered pier lit up by the headlights of the car, a Crane-Simplex touring car that was top-of-the-line luxury, coveted by every elite and socialite on the eastern seaboard. Mortimer advised against taking such an ostentatious car, but the Triumvirate unanimously insisted, all of them scoffing at riding in anything less.

  Corrugated metal doors towered over Mortimer. He checked his pocket watch. 7:12 p.m. Instinctively, he rechecked his surroundings. Spotting no threats, he rapped at the door. Three short knocks, three long knocks, followed again by three short knocks. Then he waited.

  Mortimer smoked almost an entire cigarette in the time it took someone to unlatch and open the door. Mortimer flicked his remaining cigarette into the night air as the door slid open. A woman emerged from one side. She wore a frilled dress the color of cherry blossoms. A distinctly Western dress for an Asian woman who also wore her jet-black hair in a bun supported by what looked like two sterling silver throwing knives. She said nothing and bowed politely.

  Mortimer nodded. “Where is he?”

  The Asian beauty pointed with her metal-tipped finger behind her to the moored paddle steamer inside the massive warehouse.

  Mortimer tipped his bowler hat. “Much obliged.”

  “Well, is he there?” Mr. Vault snapped, now outfitted in his full regalia.

  Mortimer closed the driver-side door. “Oh, he’s there,” he replied, placing the car in gear and pulling forward. The Asian woman eyed them as they passed through the entrance. The car rattled through the brightly lit warehouse as concrete changed to plank wood. Mortimer pulled alongside the wooden gangway and hurried around the car, opening the doors for his three employers.

  “So, this is what he’s done to my ship?” Mr. Steel belted with a laugh as he navigated

  the gangway. Mr. Vault scampered up behind him, and Mr. Black took slow and steadying steps until he reached the quarterdeck of the newly remodeled paddle steamer. Mortimer stepped onto the freshly tarred and painted deck. The whole thing was a fresh gunmetal gray. A distant voice called and echoed in the cavernous warehouse. “I’m on the bow, gentlemen!” Mortimer led his employers forward slowly. That’s when he heard the distinct voice call again. “That means the front of the boat!”

  Eric Jerome Delacroix, former member of The Hand and now disgraced federal judge, stood overlooking a gaping rectangular opening in the forward deck. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Charon’s Wake,” he announced as Mortimer and the Triumvirate formed a circle around him.

  “Not exactly what I had in mind,” Mr. Steel said. “But, I have to confess, the ol’ lass has never looked better.”

  “She’s been scrubbed and sealed head to toe,” Delacroix said matter-of-factly. “Painted a formidable but inconspicuous gray.” Delacroix pointed aft. “Specially designed fins were mounted onto the paddle to make us faster and quieter in the water. Although, given out cargo, we won’t be especially expedient.” Delacroix nodded down. All three masked men gazed down through their masks into the opening in the bow where perfectly formed rows of Edison’s machines stood in a silent vigilance. “The excess weight required me to have the boiler decks reinforced. But I believe we will make New Orleans in three and a half days. A full day and a half ahead of the transfer to the merchant ship Astra and subsequent rendezvous with the German U-boats.”

  “Magnificent,” Mr. Black exclaimed, staring at the war machines.

  “I assure you, everything is in order for tomorrow’s launch,” Delacroix said.

  “Not everything,” Mr. Vault said.

  Delacroix arched an eyebrow.

  “What countermeasures will you employ should you encounter any resistance, hmm?” Mr. Vault as
ked.

  “There are two concealed gunports fore and two more aft should any craft on land or sea give us trouble.”

  “What is your plan should you be boarded?” Mr. Black spat. “You do realize the importance of this shipment.”

  “A valid point,” Mr. Vault added. “You didn’t expect any company on your train, either.”

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” Delacroix said. “I don’t believe I’ve formally introduced you to my insurance policy. My little Asian flower. Oh, darling!” Delacroix called.

  She appeared on the bow with hair and gown still perfect. Mortimer looked perplexed. How could she have covered the distance between the gate and the bow in such a short amount of time and not even be out of breath? Delacroix continued. “She may look like a delicate blossom, but I assure you, she is quite deadly.”

  Mr. Black chimed in, “This is the one Mortimer told us about, eh? And she’s supposed to protect our shipment with that sewing needle?”

  The Asian flower sauntered toward Mr. Black, startling him as she flourished her fingers and plunged them down into her blouse. She withdrew a metal case and tapped it with her so-called sewing needle. The case sprung open. Smoothly, she pulled a cigarette from its confines. She twirled it deftly in her hands before handing it to Delacroix. Mortimer pulled another cigarette of his own from the pack tucked within his coat. The Asian flower then removed the small brass lighter, ignited both men’s cigarettes, and joined the circle of men, standing uncomfortably close to Mortimer.