The mad half-fey gestured furiously, his hand danced about. The occasional green gleam sparked, but dissipated as if shorted out. King strode toward him with furious intent. Colvin locked eyes on him, so focused he did not hear the click of a blade springing to life behind him.
Baylon fought for his throat, but Colvin twisted out of the way at the last instant. Not to be denied his opportunity, Baylon arced the blade again and buried the knife up to its hilt into the fey's belly. He turned the blade then drove it up, spilling his insides. Eyes splayed open in shock, his mouth agape as if pain was an entirely new sensation which caught him short, Colvin dropped to his knees.
"No!" King said.
Merle stumbled toward them, his coat wrapped around him. Bloodied and battered, Rellik approached but remained off to the side. Dred sidled alongside him. King knelt next to Colvin. A trickle of blood curled on his lips.
"It didn't have to be this way," King said.
The rays of the rising sun spread like a bloodstain of a crime scene photo across the sky. The melody came to her heart like an ancient memory. A mournful dirge of the fallen, the loss of family, the breaking of the circle, the song rooted almost all of them to their spot. At her approach, Baylon slinked off. He didn't escape her notice, but her anger could wait. It would have been one thing to die at the hands of the Pendragon, but at the hands of an ignoble knight? It was an insult to the memory of the fey. The men parted as she neared. Dred moved toward her, but Rellik put out an arm to stop him. She joined King, kneeling alongside him before cradling the body of her brother. She stroked his beautiful face, lifted him with ease, and stalked off into the morning.
It was said that when the angels fell, the ones who fell on land became faeries and the ones who fell into the sea became selkies. She returned to the lake.
Rellik surveyed the damage. Rok's still form rent to shreds, barely recognizable as human. The bodies of the Red Caps turned to ash without Colvin's vitality to sustain them, leaving no evidence of their time on this plane.
"I'm not going back, King," Rellik said.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm out. I'm done."
King returned his Caliburn to his waistband. "What does that mean?"
"The game done changed. This here's for you young bloods. I'm tired. I just want to go home."
"To Wayne?"
"To family, yeah. Tell Wayne…" The words didn't come off his lips.
King nodded. Rellik wandered off in the general direction of Omarosa. All that remained of their group were Merle, Dred, and King. King remained kneeling, not sure if he mourned the loss of life or the death of the dream he once had.
"You must be beloved among men," Dred whispered. "All these people rush to protect you. Speak to your defense. Put their lives at risk for you. Lay down their lives for you."
"I never-" King began, but words failed him also. They rang false to his ear before he finished. Who but he could have issued the call? Who but he would they have answered for? For what? More violence. More blood. More death.
"And now what? They all gone. Went down protecting you. Loving you. All the people who love you? Gone. They all fucked and you fucked them. It's just you now. All alone."
"This ain't over," King said.
"I know. We've got plenty of story left to write, you and me." Dred turned his back and walked away.
"It's not true, you know," Merle said, but in the end this battle was between him and Dred. The last temptation of the Pendragon.
"What's not?"
"About you being alone. You'll always have me. Well, sorta."
King searched about. "Where is he?"
"I, too, have wondered about Sir Rupert. Always underfoot when not wanted. Not a brown hair to be found once bullets start flying."
"Baylon." King's voice was without patience, joy, or strength.
"He's gone. I fear he thinks he has disappointed the crown he sought to serve. He stays under the bridge by the Mexican joints by your house. But… perhaps it'd be best to let things lie. To let some truths, some realities, go unknown."
A quizzical stare etched on King's face. He hated the moments when it felt as if Merle read from a script only he was privy to. A script he could only hint at rather than say anything directly about. King made a circle with his finger and Merle nodded that he'd clean up the mess. An anonymous call to the authorities, from a homeless man who had stumbled across a body in the woods. He'd be held for questioning, no doubt. But it meant a free meal. Maybe two.
Better than the days ahead for King.
EPILOGUE
Every few years some politician or preacher would whip the City-County Council or the media into a frenzy, usually set off by some act of violence against a child or some other innocent — and there'd be talk about tearing down the Phoenix Apartments. There'd be discussions about the failure of projects, the entrenchedness and intractability of poverty and the need for radical new approaches to the problem. Remarkably, most of the "holistic approaches" involved razing the lot and building an upscale town-house development, with a few hundred units of public housing.
All of the talk would crash against the inertia of reality: the projects were forever. The islands of poverty weren't going to be demolished, no one was going to relocate thousands of black folks. Well-intentioned neighbors (read: scared white folks) would block construction of housing for black folks in their neighborhoods. Any sprucing-up of the existing projects failed to grapple with the reality of what it meant to be poor: they had little resources to maintain buildings and property. So now the previous hope for urban renewal was ready for demolition again. Such was the way of all such buildings.
On the penthouse floor of the Phoenix Apartments, a group of men gathered. Dred poured Cristal into a series of tall stemmed glasses eager to bear the mantle of king of the streets. He would christen his own knights.
"What King has joined together, let no man tear asunder," Dred toasted. "Where do we stand?"
Naptown Red chimed in, first raising his glass in salute. "Shit done fell off. Word is Rellik is out the game entirely, leaves open all of Night's operations."
"He packaged it up nicely for us. Got it running efficiently. You and the young un ready to step up?"
Garlan nodded. He played with the ring, sliding it up and down his finger though it no longer slipped past his first joint. The Cristal stung his lips, too dry for his tastes, but didn't wince or complain. It was time to step up his game.
"Colvin's out the way now, too," Broyn said. "And Mulysa's in lock-up."
"Then it's done. This here piece is ours," Dred said.
"What about King?" Naptown Red asked.
"He's out of play. The bigger worry is Merle. He's the loose cog in our machine. If we can take out that crazy-ass motherfucker…"
A knock pounded at the door. Not quite a cop knock, but one which demanded attention. Dred nodded toward Broyn.
"It's for you," he said from the foyer. A woman trailed behind him.
Her winter coat slimmed at the waist and drew attention to her too-tight jeans. Fur-lined white boots ended with a stiletto heel. Her skin the color of scorched oak, her handsome face both passionate and cruel. A comely form steeped in ambition. And eyes the same as Morgana's. "I hear you have a problem I might be able to help you with. Where can a girl go to get put on?"
"What's your name?" Dred asked.
"Nine," she said. "Think of me as an answer to prayer."
The circle is now complete, Dred thought. It's just you now, King. You are all alone and I'm out here, waiting for you.
Lott gave Lady G his hand to help her down the embankment. A scree of pebbles shifted underfoot as she slid down. The path had been worn down to the tan ground, but plenty of growth covered the entrance to the bridge squat. She slipped into the shade of the overpass with unequaled elegance. Piles of discarded fast-food bags and bottles of soda lay around the site, a couple bottles filled with a murky yellow liquid.
"Someone sta
y here?" Lott asked.
"Yeah. Rotates though. You know how it go. No one here now. I come here to think sometimes. It's kinda nice back here around summer time. Everything grown up and stuff. Like a jungle." She leaned against the embankment, her arms folded behind her back. "You lucky."
"What you mean?"
"You get to go out, run the streets. Do your do. Make your secret plans. You boys and your big plans."
"Wonder what they're up to?"
"Something more important than us." Her hightoned voice curdled into mild scorn. She pierced him with her midnight eyes.
They both knew the weight of loneliness, its ache and the wounds it left behind. Her hard look softened around the edges, as did the coldness in her voice. Frightened and bold at the same time, while she boasted of having no interest in boys, her sole encounter having been violent. Yet she had a way of drawing them to her and making them protect her.
There was a lot to admire about Lott. Things others didn't always appreciate. His bravery, he had heart for days. His lack of cleverness, because he didn't play games. He wasn't always stuck in his own head, lost in his thoughts. And she wanted him to think only of her.
"He loves you," Lott admitted.
"He doesn't love me. He thinks he loves me." The words stopped in her throat. "I don't know if he can love. Not really. I don't know if he even feels."
"And you?"
"I love him. But not the way I…"
"Don't…" His yearning for her paralyzed him, like the Biblical Lot's wife, a pillar of salted lust. She stood close beside him. Her face kept him guarded and stirred up.
Suddenly hot and shy, his was more than a brotherly affection and flirtation. A charged moment. As long as his eyes were fixed on the running water of the slowflowing creek, on the sounds of traffic rumbling overhead, he was safe. If he trembled, if he turned around to see the reality of his potential mistake, he was undone. The desire to want to hold her, to feel the press of her lips, or her breasts against him as they embraced, he would certainly be drawn. His legs quavered as if unable to support his weight, the thought of his friendship with King pushed deep within. The thought of his personal integrity ignored. He could no longer hear the spirit of his own conscience. Lady G filled his soul and he was lost. Her scent filled him. His immobile face ever ready to smile for her.
With the face of an alert doll, Lady G took his hand and caressed it. She moved closer. They hugged again. The press of her far-too-womanly breasts intoxicated him. Her heat blinded him.
Their bodies locked together, their lips soon met. He searched out her form, probed with his tongue as he returned her light kisses. Lady G wanted to hear him call her name. Breathy. They threatened to devour one another, their hearts pounded to shatter ribs to find one another. They weren't fully aware of their hands clambering over one another, pulling at pants, and he had plunged himself into her.
He thrust wildly, his legs with quickly fading strength, threatening to give out beneath him. He convulsed violently, years of pent-up lust finding release suddenly. It was over before it began, their clothes were still halfon. Their eyes awash with apology, half resenting one another. With no words left between them.
Neither realized that they had been observed until a nearby thud drew their attention. Something heavy landed nearby. Lott pulled up his pants, holding up an arm to shield her as he investigated.
"Oh no," he said.
"What?" A reedy thinness entered her voice. Her heart feared what her soul already knew. "What is it?"
Lott held a mud-covered object in his hands. He wiped the hunk of metal.
King's Caliburn.
King slumped against his condo door, leaned back and, very quietly, allowed himself to let go.
Mulysa waited in his cell, in the old wing of Marion County lock-up. What it lacked in electronic amenities it made up for with cold bricks and solid bars. Not like the transparent cubes that housed the other inmates like valued collectibles in the newer wing of the lockup. His cell hadn't even been washed down from its previous tenant, who experimented with finger-painting with his own feces. Mulysa cupped his head in his hands, a big man not quite weeping. His public defender, not worth the stains along his cell walls, probably wouldn't be able to get him a bail hearing. The first words out of his mouth advised him to be quiet and consider a deal. Distracted, Mulysa did not hear the footfalls of approaching visitors. The unlatching of his door drew his attention.
"Remember me, Rondell?" Lee said merrily. "We got some unfinished business."
"Who?"
"Don't remember me? That hurts. Not as much as my jaw. Maybe I should let your fellow inmates know that you're into kids."
"Hey, slow your roll. I ain't got no short eyes."
"You broke the big one: never hit a cop. You can run. You can lie. We expect that. That's part of the game. But you hit one of us — or worse, throw shots — well, things change. Messages have to be sent. We can't have you and your boys thinking that it's open season on cops."
"Guard!"
"Who you calling for? Another cop? You think they gonna help you? I'd say you got more than you can handle right now. A fellow inmate?" Lee raised his voice. "Hell, I want them to hear what happens to someone who hits a cop."
The spill of light hid the back-handed slap that caught Mulysa off guard, still sick from his abrupt, stuck-in-jail detox. He tumbled onto the floor and Lee pounced on him. A spray of blood dashed against the walls. Wet sounds and grunts filled the cell, followed by a sickening crunch of teeth on metal and then a tinkle of pebbles. Plumes of silence echoed, interrupted only by Lee's heavy breathing. And the low moans.
"On the gate." Wide accusative eyes averted their gaze as Lee walked by.
The abandoned Camlann Apartment building on Oriental Avenue, three stories of what was once a showcase place. Many organizations had put in bids to rehab the building, but the owner refused to sell and refused to do anything with it except allow it to wither. So the city declared eminent domain and it was due to be razed. The lawsuits and counter-lawsuits had delayed the process, allowing it to further fall into dangerous dilapidation. Left to politicians, it would stand for years, a testimony to pain and suffering and lost hope. Tristan struck a match. "Deuces, motherfuckers."
The only thing Gavain, no longer Rellik, had left was his memories. The road slowly snaked its way through the thick glade of trees. The roads, like growing capillaries, branched in new directions. Gavain found it hard to believe that he was still in the city. That was one of the reasons why Gavain loved Indianapolis: it was a city that knew its place with nature and rarely resisted its intrusions.
His turbulent thoughts were a drunken whirlpool of half-images. Unable to attend his mother's funeral because he'd been locked up, he could only imagine it from the reports of the members of his crew he'd sent to organize and pay for it. The poster-sized photo of his mother's face was his idea, but it seemed so tacky in the light of sobriety. The funeral parlor smelled of mothballs and roses. A broken old woman, not embittered, who'd grown distant due to the ache of loss. She had wanted a large family, so had his father, but after that summer, his father had decided he could have a large family with someone else. Sometimes she'd even managed to peer at Gavain without any trace of blame in her eyes. When she did, he knew it still lurked beneath the surface. The cold place of haunted memories — things long left unsaid — festered in the hollow graves of their lives. His long face had grown tired, overgrown with stubble and unkempt hair, pummeled by time. A prophet wandering into the wilderness. A lost preacher. Gavain stopped at an intersection that branched into six directions. He studied the signs and searched for any familiar name.
Boat launch.
The road crept down a long hill and sneaked around the defensive posture of the trees before ending near a ranger's station. The maudlin yellow building reminiscent more of a pre-fab home than anything rustic. His heart fluttered for a moment until he remembered how disused this part of the park was; the park po
sted ranger stations every few miles, but most rangers patrolled the picnic areas and beach, not unused boat launches. The new link fence at the end of the path barred further progress. The fence grinned like new braces over yellowed teeth, protecting the dark maw of the walkway. "No Swimming." The sign hung from its links.
A grassed-over gravel pathway led through the secluded grove. Trees crowded in, guardians of the one thousand five hundred-acre reservoir. It was a warm day with cool air; warm only in direct sunlight, the cool air chilled his nostrils. He kicked a stone and listened to the crunch of dead leaves when it skittered into the brush of the forest.
"You sure it's all right to be here?" someone said, a long time ago.
"'For You had cast me into the deep, Into the heart of the seas, And the Current engulfed me. All Your breakers and billows passed over me.'" The passage sprang to mind as clearly as the day he first memorized it.
The water stank of dead fish. He couldn't see any, but the entire alcove reeked of it. Praying to see those hands, he continued to wade into the waves' slow embrace, pulled along by the gravity of guilt. He longed to be a kid again. To crawl into…
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