Exile

by Peter M. Ball

  THE SECOND HIT

  People screamed. Thirteen was sprawled across a car bonnet, bleeding from the stomach. Crawling to the safety of the Gloom. My SIG gone, tucked into some place in the shadows of his jacket. Nora Otto lay on the ground, eyes closed, her .32 dropped amid the chaos. My arms and legs protested as I crawled after the sorcerer.

  My ears rang, unable to focus on anything but the screaming and the echo of the explosion’s roar. Thirteen reached into the darkness, pulled out something tangible and dark. It wrapped around him, tendrils lashing onto his arm and drawing him in.

  I dove for Thirteen as the shadows dragged him in, came up with a handful of air. Someone called my name. It sounded dim and far away, lost among the cacophony of screams and oncoming sirens.

  “Murphy, come on.” This time Langford’s voice cut through the din, calling me to the van. She’d parked on the edge of the lot, swung the door open with practiced ease. The engine still rumbled, ready to pull off at speed, and there weren’t any good reasons to stay. I grabbed Nora and got my shoulder beneath her weight, forced my aching body to haul us both towards the vehicle.

  It wasn’t an elegant dive into the van—more a lurching stumble that ended with Nora and I tangled together as my ribs hit steel. Langford didn’t bother waiting for the door to shut, pulling out the moment she realized we were in. There were sirens nearby, too close for comfort, and Langford floored the accelerator to put distance between us.

  “Thought I told you to pull out.”

  “I owed you,” Langford said. “Didn’t spot the ravens in time. I don’t enjoy being wrong.”

  “Cheers,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” She took a hard corner, swung us onto the highway. Eased back to the speed limit, so we attracted less attention, checking the rear-view for a tail. “What in fuck happened?”

  “Someone was luring me out of hiding,” I said. “He got inventive when Nora interrupted our discussion.”

  “Nora, as in, the target?”

  “That’d be the one,” I said. “We’ll need a safe place to stay. Somewhere a little more secure than the safe house. They jabbed me with a Gloom pin to keep me paralyzed. Purging will take it out of me, and Nora’s unconscious, probably hurt—”

  “It’s okay,” Langford said. “I’ve got a spot in mind.”

  “Weapons,” I said. “Asshole took my gun. I’ve set up a stash years ago, but—”

  “I’m on it,” Langford said.

  * * *

  Langford drove us out to the Valley, up close to the national park where they used to log cedar in the days before the Coast was a city. There were remnants of colonial logging camps hidden in the bush, but the bulk of the Valley was given over to small farms and forest getaways. Langford’s place sat right up the back, high on the slopes of the mountains. Her veranda overlooked a good kilometer of the winding road, plus a herd of disinterested cows in the paddocks on the far side.

  We got Nora into Langford’s spare room, then I crashed out on her threadbare couch with one arm thrown across my face. I slept fitfully, woke a little after dawn. A gentle rain tapped the corrugated roof of Langford’s home. An ancient, analog clock said it was five-eleven in the AM, and the old familiar instincts told me trouble was coming. Langford padded out from the bedroom as I put on my shoes. She carried a worn, well-cared for .303, handed me the rifle without a word. I checked the lever action, joined her at the sliding door that led out to the balcony. A black sedan parked at the edge of her property, just outside the boundary line where her wards began.

  We eyed the car for a couple of minutes. Finally, I asked: “Thirteen or Sabbath?”

  “Sabbath,” Langford said. She picked up a dreadlock and toyed with the end. “It feels like demons.”

  “Your wards are that good?”

  “Better.”

  It might have been bravado, but it was a comforting thought. “How long they been there?”

  “I felt them arrive before sunrise,” Langford said. “Figured the wait wouldn’t hurt them any, since you were still sleeping.”

  “Right. I’ll go take care of it.” I shouldered her rifle, headed for the back door.

  “They can’t get in,” Langford said. “Not without making the kind of noise Sabbath tries to avoid.”

  “What’s in the gun?”

  “Bullets,” Langford said. “Nothing fancy about them, trigger. I don’t go picking fights with the local demon tribes.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Hope you aren’t thinking about messing that up for me.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how well-informed they are.”

  * * *

  I let myself out and trudged down the steep driveway, struggling to keep my feet. There was two hundred meters between Langford’s place and the main road, all of it downhill. A hard trek, especially in the wet, with slippery mud beneath your boots. Rainwater dripped into my eyes and the flannel shirt clung to my chest. I focused on keeping a good grip on the rifle, carried it under one arm like a hunter out for a stroll. No point in leveling it right off the bat, leaving them no choice but to go defensive.

  Wesna and Randall stood beside the low-set Holden, giving themselves six feet before they’d hit the fence. Randall held an umbrella in place, every inch of him tall and prissy. Wesna just put faith in her jacket, let the rain slick her dark hair against her forehead.

  “So I hear Nora’s bar went boom last night,” she said.

  “Righto.”

  “Sabbath asked us to track you down, find out what you know.”

  “Sensible.” I adjusted the grip on the .303, made sure I could get it up in a hurry.

  “Don’t give us shit.” Randall took an angry step forward, but Wesna caught his arm and hauled him into line.

  “This isn’t a pleasant kind of morning,” she said. “Any chance we can come in, talk things out over coffee and warm biscuits? All nice and reasonable.” She smiled pleasantly, like it wasn’t raining out. Like she wouldn’t be putting a fist through my face if the wards on Langford’s property kept her from approaching.

  “I don’t mind the rain,” I said. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

  Randall produced a knife, surging forward on a wave of anger. “You fucking cu—”

  I got the .303 up, leveled at his head. Wesna gripped his shoulder again, fingers cinching tight. “Don’t.” Her voice stayed low and controlled. “Mister Murphy here is a professional. You will treat him like one.”

  Randall glowered at me, lowered the knife to his side. I kept the rifle up.

  “Apologize,” Wesna said.

  Randall mumbled something that could have been an apology, or a promise to cut out my damn tongue. The rain made it hard to tell, but either way, Wesna removed her hand. She offered me a pleasant smile. “So the first thing we should check: is Nora Otto dead?”

  “That’s what you hired me to do,” I said.

  “You honestly expect me to accept that answer?”

  “Depends,” I said. “You really want to start this conversation by telling me I’m unprofessional?”

  Wesna stared. Randall fumed beneath his umbrella. The rain kept falling on all of us. “Okay,” Wesna said. “We’ll come back to that one. Let’s move on to the explosion.”

  “Not my idea.”

  Randall barked out a short laugh. “No shit it wasn’t your idea.”

  I tapped an irritated finger against the stock of the .303. “You wanted these done quiet, so the blame could be portioned off to others. I still had another week before Otto should have been dead, I was figuring a way to do it smooth and easy.”

  “And?”

  “And a third party got involved. I ended up improvising.”

  “I figured,” Wesna said. “You’ll have to forgive Randall. Friends of his frequented the bar. They were present when what happened, happened.”

  “So, what, you hoped you’d threaten me a little? Se
e if I could bring ‘em back?”

  “We’re not here to make threats.” Wesna pushed wet hair away from her face, her smile showing teeth for the first time since the conversation started. “There doesn’t seem much point. You’ve retreated to a place of moderate safety, acquired an ally of considerable power in the form of Miss Langford. Not that breaking in there is beyond our capabilities, but we’re reasonable people, Murphy.” She glanced at Randall. “Most of us, at least.”

  She paused, hoping I’d comment. I let the rain fill the silence for me, adjusted my stance in the muddy soil. It takes effort to train a gun on someone for a prolonged conversation. The Enfield .303 weights about four kilograms. No one wants to hold that weight at their shoulder for five straight minutes.

  “Here is the question that’s bothering me,” Wesna said. “You’re not responsible for the explosion. This corroborates many of the details we’ve heard, looking into the incident and getting copies of the police report. Miss Otto isn’t listed among the dead, which means you’re either misleading us about her death or very good at your job.”

  “I’m not lying,” I said.

  “I said we’d come back to that.” Wesna brushed water out of her eyes, sighed into the rain. “You performed well on that first appointment, Murphy. We gave you the target, and the target disappeared. No sign of their deaths to upset with the mortal cops. No ghosts hanging ‘round in the Gloom ‘causing trouble for the rest of us. I can appreciate that kind of work. I know how hard it is. Sabbath appreciates that approach, but he isn’t happy. There’s no confirmation of Otto’s death, and an unexpected variable is creative waves. Explosions aren’t how we do business.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “A third party stepped in.”

  “You really want me to tell Sabbath you brought a new player into his city?” Wesna shook her head. “Thirteen’s a disciple of Michael Wotan, and we know what happened in Adelaide when you and your partner fucked up. I protected you when he first showed up, shared none of my suspicions when he jumped you at the Hard Rock. Sabbath won’t be pleased to learn about that. He’s already willing to expend resources on Miss Langford’s wards, getting a team of his less savory employees in to make a mess of things. Neither of us wants that.”

  “I do,” Randall said. He’d retreated to the car, leaned his weight against it. The finger I had resting against the rifle trigger itched to apply pressure, to nail the prick from under ten feet. One shot wouldn’t hurt him, but six of them would do some damage. That would give me a chance to take him down for good.

  Instead, I lowered the .303. Stood there in the rain, looking from demon to demon.

  “You can both get fucked,” I told them. “Pass it on to Sabbath. Next time I see you, I’ll put a bullet in your brain. Get your asses back to the Gloom and stay there.”

  Wesna cocked her head. “You’re in a bad mood.”

  “‘Cause Sabbath promised me no one who’d offend my sensibilities.”

  “Could be he stuck by that,” Wesna said. “Maybe your old friend Nora wasn’t so nice as you’d like to think.”

  “Hasn’t lost his fondness for twisting words.”

  “Words are the foundation of an agreement.” Wesna showed off rows of neat, white teeth. “Words kept you alive, Mister Murphy, the first time you left this city. They’re what’s keeping you breathing right now, ‘cause we’ve got no evidence you’ve reneged, despite my personal theories about the way this job went down.”

  Wesna’s smile didn’t waver, but the humor drained out of her features. “If we uncover proof that confirms my suspicions, this conversation will take a very different course.”

  “You’re not going to find shit,” I said. “Nora Otto’s—”

  Wesna’s long, handsome face transformed into something garish and horrible. She stepped forward and raised her right hand. Slowly, very deliberately, she pressed her fingertips against the wards, testing their limits. Darkness pooled around her palm, thin wisps gathering at the point of contact, circling each finger like a tiny hurricane. No way it wasn’t hurting her, given the strength of Langford’s defenses.

  Wesna showed no signs of pain, that hideous, empty smile plastered across her face. She glared through the film of magic forming between us. “The next time you see me, Keith, I’ll have your third target. You and I will pretend this conversation never happened and behave like professionals.”

  She retracted the hand, worked feeling back into her fingers. The unrelenting rain forced me to blink away the water as she retreated.

  “Or we’ll know for sure you’re lying. That won’t end well.”

  She climbed into the car, waited patiently for Randall to close his umbrella and take the driver’s side.

  The storm swallowed the taillights as they drove away.

  PLANS AND REMINISCENCES

  I spent the rest of the day seated on Langford’s veranda, watching the road. The rain came down in a torrent, relentless and constant. Round sunset Langford emerged with a pot of coffee. She put a mug on the table.

  “Drink,” she said. The warm, bitter scent of espresso overwhelmed all other senses. Whatever Langford brewed in her kitchen was far better than any takeaway cup she’d brought into the field.

  Langford settled into the other chair and propped a foot on the balcony rail. No shoes—she preferred to be barefoot at home, and wore jeans and a long-sleeved peasant blouse to cover her ink. The dreadlocks tied back and the sharp lines of her brow and cheeks were a stark reminder of the skull beneath.

  I poured a cup of coffee and nursed it, drawing comfort from its warmth. The muggy heat gave way to a chill bite, now the rain was falling.

  “You see anything out there?”

  I shook my head. “You?”

  “Nope, but they’re there. I can feel them out there, watching the place. Sabbath wants his pound of flesh.”

  “Sabbath doesn’t worry me.”

  Langford ran her fingers over her jeans. “He worries me.”

  “Sabbath, we know. Sabbath’s predictable.”

  “That assumption’s part of the reason I worry.”

  “They’ll let me roll out of here. They won’t start a fight on your doorstep.”

  Langford nodded. Her eyes fixed on the horizon. “You need me to dig into Thirteen,” she said. “Find out where he came from, how he fits in with Wotan and your bullet.”

  “I want that, but I can’t ask for it. I think we’ve used up whatever favors you owed Roark.”

  “That you have,” Langford said, “but I’ll do it, anyway.”

  “The way shit’s going, my capacity to repay any debts will be curtailed something vicious.”

  “Then let’s keep it simple.” Langford stood up, stretched. Thin, tattooed wrists poked free of her sleeves. “You survive this, Murphy, you owe me a favor. Seems to me you’re the kind of son-of-a-bitch who remembers what he owes people.”

  “I just lied to a demon who used to be my best friend.” I finished my coffee, put the mug on the table. “The odds of me surviving are damn low.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances,” Langford said. “Tell me what you already know about Wotan’s organization.”

  I drew a deep breath and laid out all the details about the hit, all the ways Roark and I assumed we’d done it neat and clean. I told her about the soul, trapped and taken. Langford listened. Nodded. Took the occasional notes.

  At the end, I asked her for one last favor. “I’ll take Nora with me,” I said. “She needs to disappear for this to work.”

  “She’ll go for that?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Awful big risk, then.”

  “I owe her, and she’s my responsibility. I’ve got a few days to talk her into going along with the plan. But that means there’s something back at the safe house that doest have my full attention.”

  Langford raised an eyebrow, and I told her what I wanted. Laid out all the necessary steps to keep the soul cage secure. Langford mad
e notes, nodding. “If you’re sure,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  She cast her eyes down the list. “Best I get started then.”

  She left me standing vigil on the veranda, only emerging a few hours later to tell me Nora Otto was awake.

  * * *

  The sunflower print on the bedroom curtains were faded with years of use. Nora sat on the edge of an overstuffed double bed, sipping a cup of tea. I settled into a wicker chair. My arms still ached and my legs burned with the effort, but as bad as I felt, Nora looked worse. She’d caught the explosion, got tossed around, but it wasn’t the physical injuries that took the real toll. She’d lost her bar. Lost employees, regulars, and customers. Me perched in the corner, watching her sip her drink, wouldn’t be doing her any favors given our goddamn history.

  Nora spent a long time looking at the window, studying the seam of light from the veranda peeking beneath the curtains. She turned to me; her face set and steady, determined to cope. “You should have some.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “It’s fantastic tea,” Nora said. “Whatever else your friend’s good at, she’s got a knack for beverages.”

  “I’ve been awake for hours. I know what I’m missing at this point.”

  “Ah.” Nora looked towards the open door, the living room beyond. Langford had retreated to the kitchen, giving us plenty of space. “So, you’re back.” She said. “When did that happen?”

  “Weeks ago,” I said.

  “How many?”

  “My return wasn’t planned,” I said. “Things got fucked up. I needed to lie low.”

  She nodded, put the tea down on the bedside table. “I get that,” she said. “I remember how it was, before you bailed on me and all.”

  “I didn’t bail. I had to leave.”

  Nora glared at me. Blue eyes under dark curls, burning with anger. Her jaw pulled tight as fencing wire. “You bailed,” she repeated. “It took me a long time to forgive you for that, Murphy. Don’t fuck it up by pretending it wasn’t running away.”