Mid-Arc

by David Gosnell

  With it just being us, I hadn’t even considered Shey as faltering. But with Znuul, it could be a possibility.

  “Arthur, my plan is simple,” Znuul says, breaking my introspection. “I will hold him in place, and you take his head with your hungry, glowing sword. Of course, I can’t hold him if the dragon whisks him away. Or if it bakes me in silver fire.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say. Shey can shoot the wings off a fly. I even used her for the same purpose in my solo attack. Znuul is right. She is a sharpshooter, and her target is the silver dragon.

  Znuul touches the walls and the blue glyphs fire again, only this time I feel that the pressure releases from the room. “Brother, that’s all I have.”

  That’s enough.

  Chapter 33

  Shey wakes Kitten after a few hours, and thankfully there is no gunfire, shouting, or bodies being flung through walls or doors. The girls, sans Vets, all go shopping, and Pffif goes along too, more out of needing a change in scenery than anything else.

  I pass on the shopping. After all, my wardrobe is pretty simple—some khakis and button-down shirts. Both Shey and Sil have my measurements memorized, so it’s easy. Besides, I know Hjuul will want to tromp around the woods surrounding the bunker, and I haven’t taken a great deal of time with my furry friend.

  He tears off when the sliding door to the back porch is opened for him. Just as happy as can be—so many trees to mark. This gets noticed by Znuul, who joins me outside, now back in his human form. “I should go mark my territory and teach that hound a lesson.”

  We both get a laugh out of that.

  Eventually, Znuul goes back to finding our quarry and Hjuul takes off deep into the woods. The porch area is nicely set up with furniture and a massive grill. I’m thinking to just sit for a spell enjoying the quiet and contemplating our present situation. I hear the sliding door open and lean my head back to see who’s joining me. It’s Vets.

  “May I join you, my Wielder?”

  She takes a seat and pulls it around so she can face me. “I must know something.” There is a moment of hesitation and collection of thought, which is not like my burly warrior.

  Great, she’s been listening to Sil’s crap about how she should be sharing my bed. I take a deep breath and prepare myself.

  “Have I done something to displease you? You no longer join in the training. We spend little time together other than feeding anymore.”

  And that is true. My time with Vets has been spent mostly during our training sessions. These used to be mostly one-on-one. Now Sil has joined in. And Sil has picked up this stuff scary fast. Arix explained to me that the Cubati are natural mimics. All the same, she learned in weeks what took me almost a year.

  “I fear I have displeased you by training the succubus. Do you shun me because of your dislike for her? I do not wish to displease you. I would die for you, my Wielder.”

  Her face is earnest, her concerns sincere, and I feel like a major schmuck. So I suck it up.

  “Vets, you have not displeased me in any way. You’re just great. As for Sil, she and I are actually getting along pretty well—better than ever. I think she’s starting to think of me as less of something to be conquered, and I’m thinking of her as less of a pain in my ass and more of a person. Truth is, I haven’t been training because I think maybe I’m a little intimidated. It took me a year to get where Sil is after just weeks.”

  This confession brings a smile out of my warrior, which is no small thing.

  “Yes, the Cubati are of the higher Dzemond. They are superior to us. It took me time to master the first four sword forms also.”

  The superior comment rankles me. I realize that her race, the Vetisghar, have this concept beaten into them from a young age, but still—it’s bullshit. All the same, I bite my tongue for her sake.

  “Well, Vets, I probably need to keep up with my training. I’ll make sure to join you two soon.”

  “The weather is good, and we can move these seats. Can you teach me? There was the dance from the art you called Shotokan that you taught me. Show me the next one.”

  Great. It’s been years since I’ve formally been to a dojo. Probably even longer since I’ve graced a Shotokan one. Luckily, these are basic forms. So I make my apologies in advance for not being ready, get up, and begin moving the furniture. This is, after all, her way of bonding and taking time.

  Lucky for me, all I ever showed her was the beginning form. We review that, go through some minor corrections of her stance, and move on to the second.

  I can tell I have a happy Vets. There’s no purring or smiling, but I can tell just in the way she is engaged in the moment. That makes me happy too. The system of fighting Vets was trained in revolves around weapons, armor, and aggression. In all honesty, it’s probably quite effective on the battlefield—especially when fully armored. What I am showing her is a bit different, though still a very direct martial form—quite linear. I wonder how she’d feel about some of the more circular systems that rely more on redirection of energy or joint locking, such as Aikido or Hapkido.

  I figure I can introduce her to those later. It’ll probably blow her mind.

  We’ve worked up a good honest sweat when the porch door opens and my brother- in-revenge joins us. He claps his hands, then points them at me.

  “Guess who we found? Follow. Learn more.”

  He turns and heads back in. Vets bows her head and I follow him to his office.

  I sit down in one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. “Show me where we’re going.”

  He obliges by telling me that our quarry appears to be currently in Yemen in a town called Tarim. I find out Znuul has another bunker being constructed in Dubai, but he hopes to rent a building near Tarim for immediate interrogation.

  Znuul looks at me seriously.”We're going to have to change your appearance. Mine too. The Techno-Mage Guild is scanning for a seven-foot-plus man.”

  Crap. He’s right. Edgar and his group would be tied into everything—using facial recognition and widgets I can’t fathom.

  Znuul assures me he’ll get us past the prying eyes of security cameras, but it’s going to take some work. The added wink makes me feel so much better.

  Then we hear the doors fling open. The girls have returned. Kitten bounds into the room and goes to Znuul with eager eyes. “We shopped and everyone has new stuff. But I slept through morning pleasures. I’m sorry, master.” She shuffles behind his desk with her hands behind her back.

  Znuul gives her a light hug. “I think our evening turned into morning. Nothing was missed. Now, Arthur and I are talking serious business.” He turns her around and pushes her away with a little pat on the butt.

  She pouts, mumbles “Okay,” with a pouty face and leaves us.

  There is a moment of silence, which is broken by Znuul’s eyes rolling.

  “I am so self-absorbed. Please excuse me. I have to tend to Kitten.”

  I nod, and he reassures me he’ll only be a moment.

  So, we’re off to the Middle East. This jet-setting lifestyle bears such a stark difference from the way things were in the 1940s. I look at the map on the TV screen and try to figure out where our destination will be. After a few moments Znuul returns, smiling. “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “You know, these human women are crazy. They just don’t talk straightforwardly. She wasn’t asking about morning pleasures for me. She wanted hers. I must be too focused on our task to have missed that. Anyway. . . she’s better now.” He sits down behind his desk.

  What the heck? He was only gone about a minute.

  Znuul flashes the car-dealer smile.

  “Hey, it’s not all about my happiness—it’s about her feelings and needs too. Just had to let her know I understood and to. . . apologize for being otherwise detained.”

  I could tell the word was sticking in his throat. He who does not apologize. Bah. He just did, twice.

  We get back on track after the distraction, and Z ticks off
his to-do list: weapons, identities, credentials, and transportation. There’s little for me to do except brief my team and get ready to move.

  Znuul says he hopes we can head out in twenty-four hours for Seiyun Airport. We’ll have a vehicle ready for us.

  I’m ready now.

  Chapter 34

  Our travel disguises are me as a balding African caretaker, Znuul as an African wheelchair-bound disabled person, and Kitten as herself because she isn’t on any radar. I hate having my appearance altered magically; it just does not feel right.

  Znuul has us custom chartered to our location, and we slip through security with no issues whatsoever. The van he has for us is even equipped with a wheelchair lift. We get him in it and, thanks to GPS, head to the property he rented in the city near our quarry. I’d be freaking lost otherwise.

  Upon arriving at a small warehouse, we both doff our magical guises, and I begin summoning my crew one by one—except for Arix. Figure I’ll spare him another skull splat.

  Znuul has crates of weapons and body armor pre-delivered along with some lumber. Good stuff, too. All weapons are silenced—custom jobs. Znuul’s weapons are a pair of .50 caliber Desert Eagles. There are 9mms for the rest of us along with an ample supply of clips. The motif is basic black, including matching ski masks. All except for Kitten, who gets the burqa.

  We all strip down, armor up, and get our holsters on. There is no innuendo. There are no comments about how cute someone is in their underwear. I am proud of my team. We are focused. I feel ready.

  Pffif is somewhat to the outside of all this activity, as there isn’t anything his size and his role would be reconnaissance. “So, what be the plan?” he asks.

  “Attack suddenly, kill everyone except our target, and drag his limp body out,” is Znuul’s response.

  Pffif looks at me, obviously questioning this directive.

  That’s not lost on my brother-in-revenge. “What? Speak up.”

  “Just be a-seemin’ like a maybe a bit unnecessary if’n we can get him alone. We gots us a succubus. Sure’n she could be gettin’ him to a proper place fer the grabbin’? Just sayin’ that a house o’ dead folk gets more attention thana one missin’ guy.”

  Znuul exhales deeply and closes his eyes. For a moment I’m not sure if we are going to see fabled demon rage or what. “My Grey used to tell me I thought too often like a blunt instrument. Now you do too.” A low, unintelligible grumble comes from deep inside him, and then he looks over at me.

  “Find a burqa for Silithes. She’s going to bring that bastard to us.”

  Znuul nods at Pffif, who just beams back at him.

  Sil, on the other hand, isn’t as happy. “How am I supposed to seduce anyone from underneath a freaking burqa?”

  I laugh.

  Znuul tells her she’ll figure it out.

  Kitten offers to go find a burqa. Instead, we send Sil out to find her own. After all, if Sil gets killed, I can resummon her. If Kitten bites it or worse, we just mourn.

  Easy decision. Besides, I’m pretty sure Sil can speak better Farsi. Or so I hope.

  While we’re waiting for Sil to come back with her new wardrobe, we continue to prepare for the mission. Communications are checked, weapons double-checked, and body armor adjusted. Basically, we’re fidgeting. Except for Znuul and Pffif, who work to remove the wheelchair lift from the van, Pffif using the tools and Znuul doing the heavy lifting.

  Sil finally returns, not very excited at her new wardrobe but presenting it all the same. She strips down and Znuul tapes a mini-microphone to her belly. After that the burqa comes on and she takes the form of a pleasing Middle Eastern woman.

  “We can hear you, if you get in trouble or need an assist. I don’t see them frisking you extensively on the belly. If they do, we’ll be there,” says Znuul.

  Znuul continues to share what he knows of where our target is and what can be expected as resistance.

  Sil says, “There’s no resisting Silithes, darling. He’ll follow me out like a puppy dog. Even despite this tent...burqa...thing. Where do you want me to bring him?”

  Znuul draws a map showing where the house is that Jalal is holed up in, the streets around it, and where Sil needs to take him—a nice dark alleyway behind the house. Kitten will have the van parked at the corner ready to roll. Znuul will go to the alley and administer a strong animal tranquilizer when the time is right.

  Us, we’ll just wait patiently for the package to arrive, unless things go wrong.

  Then we go back to Plan A—kill ‘em all...except Jalal.

  It’s time to roll. We pile into the van. After about half an hour, we arrive at Tarim. We case the area in our standard way, with Shey tinying up and flitting out the window to scan the area. After her report of all clear, Znuul goes over directions with Silithes again.

  “I’m not stupid, you know. I think I get it,” she says with a tinge of venom.

  Znuul holds out his hand to the van door. “Your prey awaits, mistress.”

  Chapter 35

  Silithes steps out of the van and onto the dark street. She stops for a second and mutters fiercely to herself, “Fetch the terrorist, Sil.” She takes a deep breath. Well, who better, really? That thought consoles her a bit. Her talent in manipulation has been recognized.

  That makes her smile.

  Silithes muses about the persona she wishes to project. Nothing too strong. After all, it appears that females seem relegated to a servile role here. Victim? Yes, appearing weak would appeal to males with a more predatory streak. That could get her in. Once in, all she’d need to do is lay hands on her target and juice him up with the right neuromancy to get him thinking the way she wanted him to.

  The door to the van creaks open and Pffif sticks his head out. “You canna be lost already, can ye?”

  Silithes gives him a quiet hiss and her patented sneer, which is met by a full-on toothy grin. “Sooner ye be goin’, sooner we be goin’. Get on with ye.”

  The little man closes the door.

  “Little shit,” she whispers, and turns to make her way around the block. She adjusts her posture, hunching over slightly and holding her arms close to her body, making herself look smaller, more afraid, less self-assured. By the time she gets to the door, she appears quite unsettled. She looks in all directions, takes a steadying breath, and knocks on the door.

  There is no answer, so she knocks again, still clutching herself. A portal on the door slides open and a man with dark eyes regards her.

  “What do you want?” His tone is not friendly.

  She jumps a bit, but deliberately. She is smiling on the inside, but looking timid on the outside.

  “I wish to see The Lion.”

  “Not here. Go away.” He slams the portal shut.

  “Great,” she thinks. Then she pounds on the door—time to be a desperate woman ready to be victimized.

  The slider opens again quickly. “Leave, or I will beat you.”

  Sil makes eye contact with him and reaches out telepathically. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, and she quickly decides to send a very simple message, one that will not be perceived as a sending, but more like a feeling. Just a simple thought: “trustworthy.”

  He blinks for a moment at her and she knows her sending made its way through.

  “I have information for the Lion. I wish to serve the Holy Crusade. It is important.”

  “How do you know The Lion is here?”

  She smiles sheepishly. “The whole town knows.”

  She tries to read his face through the small portal. The portal slams shut again. She holds herself still, listening. “Come on, idiot,” she thinks.

  Then she hears the lock click and the door open. Doorman steps out. He’s of average height and complexion for the region, but a little bit on the muscular side. She notes his posture: intended to show his dominance. He steps over to her and takes her gruffly by the arm, pulling her into the house.

  Once inside, he closes the door an
d pats her down. Well, gropes her is more like it. Znuul was right. His hands spend more time on her breasts and everywhere else they aren’t welcome.

  Sil lets out little gasps of protest at his rough treatment. She hears voices from behind her encouraging him and asking what he has there. “Animals,” she thinks, and tries to push out the feelings that are welling up inside for such lowly creatures treating her in such a manner.

  Doorman spins her around brusquely and tries to loom over her. “What is this message you have for The Lion?” Sil’s eyes go to the living room where three other men lounge with a cocky assuredness.

  “Well, well, well. These are the dogs that cheer for the groping of a woman.” The three wells are a code that was worked out to relay numbers to the team. One of the men tells her to mind her place and be happy that they all don’t check her. She turns to doorman and puts her hand on his arm. She feels her connection to him and wills a small current of neuromantic energy into his nervous system, in a frequency that energizes the centers of the brain that make one feel trust and security.

  He looks at her hand on his arm. She smiles sweetly and catches his eye.

  “My message is for the Lion only, please.”

  “Follow me.”

  They walk through the living room and through a door to the kitchen, where three men sit around a small table.

  “Well, well,” she says, again giving numbers to the team in the van. “And The Lion. I am honored.” She bows her head to him.

  Jalal is not pleased with the doorman. “Why do you bring this woman here before me! Who is she? How does she know me?”

  Doorman stammers for a moment, now realizing he doesn’t even know the woman’s name. He looks at Silithes confused, then becomes agitated. Sil can tell he wants to ask her name, but doesn’t want Jalal to know he’s clueless.

  She lets him off the hook by turning to look Jalal deeply in the eyes and saying, “I am Saleel, and I have a very important message for you.”