Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  In a matter of seconds, she went into shock. Ol’ Bill struggled to kneel down over her with one hand applying pressure to the bleeding wound on his own belly. He saw her eyes start to glaze over as her breathing sped up and arterial blood pooled all around them. He put a hand on her chest to calm her, and that’s when he felt it. Something round, firm, and rough as stone embedded to her skin beneath her black dress.

  Bill looked back at Wage who nodded, both of their ears still ringing. Bill looked back to Mallory Macy, whose breathing had faded to a near halt. With the last voluntary movement she possessed, she cast her milky eyes to the heavens.

  “Real sorry about that, ma’am,” he said.

  Detective Simon Hum

  August 13, 1914

  Thomason Railways Passenger Train

  North of Baltimore, Maryland

  They sat across from each other in their underclothes, Simon feeling more awkward than his counterpart. The moonlight provided the light in the shadowy and swaying cabin. On the stand between them was a palm-sized stone with a hole in the center, tiny holes along the edges, and alien inscriptions all around it. A large crack ran down the center, dividing the artifact in two. Doctor Mamba’s instructions were to sow the half stones onto their respective chests. Not a standard practice, but one that signifies two Disciple’s fates being tied together.

  “Do you wanna go first?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” Simon replied.

  “Should I just sew it on you?” she asked, leaning over to grab the needle and thicker-gauge thread. “Do you think this thread will hold?”

  “The stone seems rather light. I believe so.”

  She got up and took the seat next to him, her strawberry hair, now auburn in the dark, fell just past her shoulders. Sitting so close, he could smell the sweat and salt from the day’s heat. She scouted his bare chest with fingers that danced like tendrils of silk across him. She could see his scars clearly now. With her other hand, she followed them all along his back as though she were tracing a map. Roads of pain veered into canals of agony that forked into despair and sadness. “How did you get them?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know for sure. Sister Silvia seemed to think I may have done it to myself as sort of a penance. With the right length of whip, I believe she might be right. If what Doctor Mamba said is true, then I have never . . . never been with a woman.” He composed himself. “This may suggest some extreme reverence, which would also reaffirm the idea that I did this to myself.”

  She continued to trace his scars, her fingers occasionally moving to his scalp. “You poor thing. What could drive a man to wanna do such a thing?”

  A voice went off in his head. The voice of a frantic, familiar woman. It is the only way, Simon. The Lord is coming, and we must be free of sin. Stand still, child! A cry echoed deep within him, a cry he also recognized. Let it bleed, Simon. Let it bleed! It’s all right, child. It’s all right. Let the sins flow out of you. His scars burned. Into the closet with you, Simon. Now, child! Now!

  From his own depths, behind a door that he never opened, locked away somewhere no one could see, came something carnal. “Sew it on! Please,” Simon pleaded.

  Amber Rose ran the needle and thread through one of the small holes on the half stone and pierced his skin. She twisted the needle and pulled it out, pulling the thread through his flesh and back into the half stone. Simon leaned back and made a sound that Amber Rose recognized immediately, and it was not one of pain. She thread his flesh again. Simon moaned again. Another thread. Another moan. Soon his erection was visible through his underclothes.

  “Simon, are you OK?” She had seen a number of fetishes, but never one where she got to inflict the pain.

  “Keep going. Jesus Christ. Keep going.”

  She pierced him again. This time he screamed in ecstasy, grabbed her by the hair with his good hand and pulled her in close, ravaging her lips with his own. She opened her lips and used her tongue, while her hand went beneath his clothes. His next moan echoed in her mouth.

  She pushed him down onto his back and stripped off his underwear. The needle was still suspended on his chest by a bridge of flesh. The half stone fell to the floor, leaving only frayed thread behind. She never was very good at sewing. She removed her own clothes. Bra first. Then panties. She mounted him. He slid in easily, combining their salts, their sweat, their scents. Expressing themselves in the most primal of fashions. No perfume. No cologne. No oil. Just the unmistakable aroma of two wild beasts. She screamed as the rocking of the train car amplified the rhythm that somehow both of them knew instinctively.

  “Slap me. Slap me, please,” he pleaded.

  She indulged, feeling the sting of his stubbled cheek.

  He screamed as his strong hand reached around and squeezed her buttocks.

  She continued to ride him, both of them suspended in a world oddly foreign to them.

  She slapped him again.

  The cabin brimmed with musk and sweat. The moonlight diffused through the now-fogged window. She could feel the ride beginning to reach its end, its climax. She grabbed the needle and pulled, bringing the entire length of thread snaking through the holes in his chest.

  And that is when he finished. And she with him.

  They lay together on the floor of the cabin, using the amethyst seat cushions as a makeshift mattress and their rolled-up clothes as pillows. Both of them were naked.

  “I’m not sewing that damn thing on,” Amber Rose announced.

  “I believe they will kill us if we don’t.”

  “After what I’ve seen, I don’t think it matters much. They’re gonna kill us, anyway, I reckon.”

  Simon nodded. “Yes. That seems like a distinct possibility.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I think we should follow our instructions, for now.”

  “Without the stones though, right? I mean, you may like it, but I don’t.” Amber Rose said.

  “Very well, without the stones,” he said. “And when the time is right, we will revoke our employment.”

  “You mean when you get your memories back?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t get it. If you are a detective, why don’t you just go detecting who you used to be? Find people that know you? Ask around, ya know?”

  “Very well. Do you know who I am, Miss?”

  Amber Rose giggled. “When I first met you, I knew you were different.” Her finger traced an unknown alphabet on his chest where the blood had finally dried. “I kinda liked it.”

  “Different? How so?”

  “Yeah. Different, ya know. Hell, you didn’t even want to sleep with me. You just wanted to draw me. You didn’t drink. You didn’t call me names. You were actually pretty goddamn polite. One of the few actual gentlemen I ever came across.”

  “Great. And what is my name?” he asked.

  “Simon,” she replied.

  “Simon what?”

  “I dunno. ‘Hum’ sounds OK to me.”

  “And where do I hail from?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter?”

  “No. You’re nice, well-mannered, a bit odd in the sack, granted . . .”

  Simon laughed. “Can you really determine that after one time?”

  “Oh, you have no idea. Besides, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” She winked and kissed him on the nose.

  “Okay, let’s piece this together, shall we? So far we know my name is Simon. I am different, but polite. I apparently like to inflict great harm on myself. I am a detective. And I am a bit weird in the sack, but still satisfactory by your standards. You’re right. We should send Mamba a telegram this instant and resign.”

  “Simon,” Amber Rose said softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what I wouldn’t give to have your curse? Hell, what you have ain’t even a curse. What you have is a blessing.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Let’s just s
ay my life didn’t exactly go accordin’ to plan,” she replied. “And judgin’ from your back, I’m not sure yours did either. I’m just sayin’.”

  He stroked her cheek. “I understand. Please know that your past means nothing to me. You, on the other hand, are beginning to mean a great deal to me. I could not have done this without you. And quite frankly, I do not wish to go any further without you, either.”

  A tear fell from her eye to the amethyst cushion beneath. “Thank you, Simon.” She put her head on his chest and brushed her silky fingers along his stomach. “Thank you.” He curled his arm around her and played with her hair. They both stared at the moon through the window, hypnotized by the pin points of glowing stars that shone through the receding fog. Welcome sleep came swiftly.

  The Baron

  August 13, 1914

  Brooklyn Marine Port, Pier 3

  New York, New York

  A miscellany of paddle boats, the same gritty white color as the seagulls that circled above them, navigated the narrowing Upper New York Bay. The massive paddle wheels churned the brownish-green waters. Lurching above them and surrounded by tugboats, the RMS Lusitania slowly pulled into Pier 3 amongst the shouts and screams of passengers and stevedores. The foghorn roared through the overcast afternoon, announcing their arrival.

  Off the pier, there was a slew of horse-driven cabs and motor cars, all of them black with hinges rusting from dockside humidity. The Baron stood with Khalid, both of them enjoying cigarettes and blowing smoke into the air like the four monstrous stacks on the moored Lusitania towering above them. Hodges Abernathy, the young married man the Baron had “recruited” during their voyage, stood behind them with his hands in his pockets, staring at his feet like a brooding child. Warwick stood by their overflowing luggage cart, obsessively opening and closing his simple pocket watch.

  “Baron DeLacy,” called a man leading a parade of well-dressed gentlemen. They all had crisp eyelet collars, the newest cut of black suits, and top hats. The lead man was clean shaven and in his late twenties with a frustratingly perfect visage, the kind sculpted by a Classical artist. He extended his hand. The Baron grabbed it and squeezed.

  “Ati Me Peta Babka,” the lead man said.

  “Ana Harrani Sa Alaktasa La Tarat,” the Baron replied.

  “It is an honor to receive you, Baron. My name is Morris—”

  “I know who are,” the Baron interrupted. “Where’s Bannerman? The presence of a Grand Vizier is required for the arrival of an Architect. Do you people know nothing?”

  The parade of gentlemen formed a line to Morris’ right side. “Yes, I am very sorry about that. Bannerman is not well and has become something of a recluse lately. He sees no one now. I have been appointed Grand Vizier in his stead.”

  “By whose authority?”

  “Kasper’s. Before he vanished, that is. I am assuming that is why you are here?”

  “Assume nothing,” the Baron snapped. “Including your temporary title. Who are these cretins?”

  “My inner circle,” Morris said, lifting his hand. “One of my Viziers, Franklin. My Scribes, Gregory and Leo. My personal Medjai, Curtis. And two of my Disciples, Francis and Lucky.”

  The Baron walked past each of them like a drill sergeant. All of them showed some degree of nervousness except for Lucky, a 16-year-old with a hardened and leathery Italian face. “Lucky?” the Baron asked. “What is your given name, boy?”

  “Charles,” he replied gruffly. “Charles Luciano.”

  “Why do they call you Lucky?”

  The young man pulled down his collar, showing a lightning bolt of scar tissue around his neck. “Cutthroat Curtis over there slashed me. Docs said I was lucky to be alive.”

  The Baron looked over at the Medjai. “Well, Charles. I am not sure if we should call you lucky, or instead call Curtis here inept.”

  “Yes, young Charles here picked my pocket one evening. Curtis caught up to him and, well . . .” Morris pulled a thumb across his throat. “The kid, however, persevered. He impressed me. I believe he has great potential.”

  The Baron sucked the last of his cigarette and flicked the last ember at Charles. “We shall see.” The Baron took up position in front of Morris again. “Where is Delacroix? I requested he be here.”

  “Yes, there have also been some complications with E.J.”

  “Define ‘complications.’”

  “He was able to capture an Illuminati agent in New Orleans. One of the men that has been associated with attacks on Disciples as of late. He believes the recent attacks are also connected to the missing Idimmu.”

  “I am failing to see the complications, Morris.”

  “The last we heard from E.J. was that the agent he had in custody, a man by the name of Wage Pascal, had escaped his confinement. He also believes a small-time opium peddler named Mr. Jade is really our missing Idimmu.”

  “The last you heard from him? Where is he now?”

  “He is in Mexico securing opium distribution and shipping lanes. He said he was going to see to it personally after you gave him the reigns.”

  “Shouldn’t we find somewhere more private to talk?” Khalid interrupted.

  “Agreed,” Morris said. “I have scheduled a private lunch for us all this afternoon at the Waldorf.”

  “No,” the Baron said. “Our conversation is not likely overheard on this busy pier. A quiet room is prime for listening ears. Lunch will be tomorrow. I will have Warwick bring it to my suite. You and your inner circle will be there at a quarter to one, not a second later. Khalid will dispose of anyone who decides to be late. And you, Morris, you will not dictate an Architect’s schedule. Do it again, and I will strangle you with my bare hands, you insufferable prick. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Baron. Whatever you say.”

  “Good. Now tell me about this Wage Pascal.”

  Morris cleared his throat and wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “We aren’t quite sure how he escaped, but he popped up briefly outside of New Jersey a few weeks later. Franklin here oversaw an operation to dispose of him. He sent a very capable Disciple and his own Medjai. They caught up with him on a train headed east from Youngstown.”

  “I expect he was taken care of.”

  “Not exactly. He was able to elude us again.” Morris wiped more sweat from his brow.

  “And the agents?”

  “Both dead, I’m afraid.”

  “On a train? It’s a bit public, don’t you think?” the Baron snapped.

  “I did not tell Franklin, but I also had agents on the train. They were able to dispose of their bodies with little incident. Nothing made the papers.”

  “When was this?”

  Morris cleared his throat again. “Yesterday.”

  The Baron turned to Khalid and whispered something. Khalid reached in his jacket pocket and gave him a small knife with a black leather grip. The Baron slowly walked toward Vizier Franklin, a lean man with a long black beard and eyes fixed in a permanent squint. The Baron unbuttoned Franklin’s double-breasted suit, stepped in close for an embrace, and plunged the knife hilt-deep into the man’s stomach. The man doubled over in pain. The Baron said calmly, “Stand up. That’s right, stand up.” He stepped back and began to button the man’s suit back up. He continued, “Listen to me closely, Vizier. You will walk back to the street and hail a cab. Horse-driven. You will tell the cab driver to take you to Midtown Hospital.”

  “Midtown? It will take forever this time of —”

  “Yes. I know,” the Baron interrupted. “If you survive the trip there—and in turn, survive the ensuing infection you are bound to get—then, and only then, you may retain your position.” The Baron patted him on the shoulder. “Run along now.” Franklin stumbled to the cab line two hundred yards down the pier, blood leaking from his pant leg. He disappeared into the cab line.

  Hodges looked as though he might vomit. He lifted a hand from his pocket and nervously scratched his chest. Warwick stepped forward
and offered him a cigarette, which he clumsily took and lit.

  “Is there anything else you would like to tell me, Morris?” the Baron asked.

  “There is one other thing, Baron,” Morris stuttered.

  “Yes?”

  “I am newly engaged. And I would be honored if you and your men would be our guests at the celebration. It should prove to be a grand spectacle. I assure you, my parents have spared no expense.”

  The Baron smiled. “Well, I do love a good party.”

  “Excellent. I will have formal invitations sent to your suite.”

  “Leave them at the front desk.”

  “As you wish.”

  “You are too kind. Gentlemen!” The Baron signaled to his entourage to follow him down the pier. Khalid followed and made a gun with his fingers, pulling the trigger at Curtis, the other Medjai. “Don’t be late,” he said. Hodges hurried to catch up, while Warwick struggled to push the luggage cart along the pier.

  “Gregory!” Morris barked. “Get down to Midtown Hospital immediately and report back on Franklin’s status.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” the Baron yelled back. “I poisoned the blade.”

  Mr. Vault, Mr. Black, & Mr. Steel

  August 14, 1914

  Madison Avenue,

  Manhattan, New York

  The metal hinges of the door screeched open, and three men in dark suits marched through in single file. They all wore top hats with black shrouds the hung from the brim. The quick-moving one took up position in front of the restrained man, the feebler one sat gingerly on a nearby stool, and the portly one stood with crossed arms by the door. Their eyes all peered through small holes in their shrouds.

  “Good evening, Kasper,” the quick-moving one said.

  “Wha . . . What is going on?” the restrained man replied. Kasper Holstrom breathed in the acrid smells of formaldehyde and methanol. He had lain on this metal table for hours now, starring at his right foot and left hand that sat in front of him, ethereally suspended in clear embalming jars. Cauterized tissue replaced his removed limbs, and a multitude of tubes were unnaturally plugged into various blood vessels around his pale body.