by Graeme Hurry
The attack came as we reached the foot of the stairs. Despite my heightened state of alertness, it still caught me by surprise. One minute there was just Julia, the next she was twinned, grappling with a figure clothed as blackly as herself. Not even owlsight had enabled me to see her opponent until then, which made me even more wary and undoubtedly saved my life.
A section of shadow on the far side of the hallway detached itself and leapt towards me. I twisted and spun, feeling the gentle kiss of a blade across my ribs, a mere scratch but it was enough to tell me where his knife hand was, enabling me to grip his wrist even as I struck in turn. My blade bit home but that didn’t stop or even slow my opponent, nor did it elicit a sound, which suggested I was fighting a professional despite the carnage in the scullery.
A knee thudded into my thigh, missing more sensitive areas by a fraction. At the same time he wrenched his hand free before I could disarm him, but I had his measure now and struck for the throat. His forearm partially blocked my blow but impetus forced it back. Even so, I feared that the protective arm combined with the thick material of his hood might be enough to thwart my strike. Apparently not. I felt him die.
Julia stood over the body of her own opponent, increasing my respect for her immensely. “Nightblades,” she hissed as I came over. “And there’ll be more of them.”
“You’re sure?” The Nightblades had a grim and fearsome reputation. Our paths had never crossed before and I didn’t relish them doing so now.
“Positive,” she replied. “I used to be one.”
Before I could absorb that, let alone respond, she was off, taking the stairs at a run.
By the time I reached the top Julia was nowhere to be seen.
I hesitated. Before me stretched a gallery of closed doors interspersed with sombre portraits, pretentious sculptures and suits of antiquated armour. To the left was Rosalind’s bedroom and beyond that her daughter, Annette’s, while to my far right were the three empty guestrooms, with Malkait’s own chamber closest. According to Rosaling the pendant would be in the latter. But the Nightblades were notorious for tidying up loose ends. I felt torn. Was the woman whose bed I’d once shared already dead and gutted like the guards downstairs, or could I still rescue her if I chose to? Pendant or former lover?
Hesitation proved my undoing. The suit of armour directly in front of me toppled over, to crash down on top of me.
I dropped to one knee, attempting to ward off the falling steel plate with my left hand while striking with my dagger at the figure I sensed behind it. Gods, that stuff is heavy. How anyone ever managed to walk in a suit of armour, let alone fight in one, is beyond me.
I felt the impact of a blow to my left side, below the ribs, but couldn’t say whether from fist or knife, not at first. I threw aside the last of the armour in time to see a black-clad figure disappear into Malkait’s room.
Surging to my feet I charged in pursuit, only then aware of the pain and the blood. It felt as if… well, as if somebody had stabbed me.
I’d rarely been into Malkait’s room before. It was huge, even larger than Rosalind’s, which I was somewhat more familiar with. In the centre of that expanse my attacker or his twin waited, and in front, shielding him, stood Rosalind. She wore a scanty silk nightgown which provided ample reminder of why I’d risked an affair with the boss’s wife in the first place. The black-clad figure at her back held a knife to her throat.
I came to an abrupt halt, transfixed by that blade, the panic in her eyes, that heaving bosom… Somebody grabbed me from behind, a blade pressed to my own throat in much the same way one was held to hers.
“Drop the sword,” a voice hissed in my ear. I had little choice but to comply.
At which point the Nightblade stepped away from Rosalind, leaving her free.
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled. She held out a pendant – beautiful and delicate, shaped like an oakleaf – making a great show of handing it to her erstwhile captor, who accepted without comment.
“Those buyers I mentioned; well, they weren’t really buyers as such.”
“And I presume Malkait knew nothing about them,” I ventured, which prompted added pressure from the blade at my throat.
“Indeed not. I’ve always felt the gods favoured me, but never more so than when you appeared this morning. It was such perfect timing, and you’ve been so very… useful.”
Beyond my former lover, on a bed of mussed sheets and blood, lay the disembowelled body of her husband.
Suddenly I saw it all: the grieving widow mourning the death of her beloved spouse at the hands of a vengeful former employee, stoically accepting solace from her horrified friends. As for the intruder, well, he was slain in the attack no doubt. The Nightblades would have their pendant, Rosalind her husband’s wealth, not to mention the sympathy of her contemporaries and, of course, her freedom. Everyone would be happy. With one notable exception.
I’m quick, I always have been, but was I quick enough to jerk my head back, smash my captor in the face, squirm from his grasp and draw a knife before he slit my throat? Unlikely, but what choice did I have?
However, before I could act I felt my captor tense and knew that I had delayed too long. This was it. After everything I’d been through my life was destined to end here, with the simple stroke of a knife. But instead of slicing through skin and artery the pressure eased, the blade fell away, as did the man holding it. He collapsed forward, an arrow protruding from between his shoulder blades.
A second arrow sped past to lodge in the chest of the other Nightblade, who fell without a sound.
Julia stood in the doorway, looking magnificent.
I’ve always loved the bow, did I mention that? A fabulous weapon.
I had to admire Rosalind’s speed of thought and her ability to adapt. She was across to me in an instant, tears in her eyes, concern etched on every contour of that beautiful face. “My love, forgive me, they forced me… Thank goodness you’re all right.”
I said nothing, just kissed her, long and deep, crushing her to me, conscious of her warmth, her smell – summer blooms and citrus – the pressure of her chest against mine. I broke off only once I tasted blood. Then I stepped back, gazing without regret into her lifeless eyes and letting her body slide off my blade to the floor.
The room spun and for a moment I thought I was going to join her on the carpet. The wound in my side throbbed.
Julia must have slipped past and into the room during the fatal kiss. She came over to me, the oakleaf pendant clutched in her hand, bow now slung over her shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I lied.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes,” I said, which proved mostly true, though I needed a little help getting down the stairs and again later as we made our way through the maze of side streets and alleys to where Sirus waited.
Somewhere along the way I lost consciousness.
* * *
“Welcome back,” said a blurred shape that resolved into Julia.
Every joint ached and my forehead felt tender, as if the skin there were formed of tightly stretched parchment. At her urging I sipped a little water and then managed to sit up, the pain from my wound no more than a dull throb. Weak, but still alive, which came as something of a surprise, as did the fact that Julia hadn’t abandoned me.
Judging by the surroundings, I was back in that squalid room behind the haberdashers. “How long have I been out?” I asked.
“Three days” she said. “You developed a fever. Sirus treated both that and the wound.”
He would – something else that made him such an asset. “Where is Sirus, anyway?”
“Left this morning, once the fever broke and he could tell you were going to be all right – you are, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Good.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“To take the pendant back home, to where it belongs. It’s a holy object, sacred, you know?”
I didn’t, but it expla
ined a lot, not least the Nightblades’ involvement. They wouldn’t have come cheap and whoever hired them was prepared to stop at nothing to obtain the pendant. Pretty though it was, that oakleaf clearly had a value far greater than its weight in gold and gem stones.
I thought of Rosalind, wondering how she’d come into contact with whoever had sought the pendant; someone in her social circle perhaps, a supposed friend to both her and her husband? Not that it mattered. I wasn’t about to go looking for the bastard. I’d console myself with the thought of his frustration at coming away empty-handed and the expense he must have gone to hiring the Nightblades for no reward.
Julia was still speaking. “While you were dancing on the landing with that suit of armour I slipped into Rosalind’s room and had a quick root around. Helped myself to some of her jewellery. The bitch had good taste, I’ll give her that. There should be more than enough to cover your payment.”
I recalled promising Rosalind I’d take nothing apart from the pendant. Not that it mattered. After all, I’d already taken far more.
“You’ve kept some for yourself?” I said.
“Of course. I’m not doing this because I’ve grown fond of you or anything.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“For Sirus.” All hint of humour disappeared, her expression suddenly serious.
I thought of the helpless girl contemptuously beaten away in the bar when we first met, then of the she-wolf I’d fought beside. “I was targeted.” It wasn’t a question. “You knew from the first that I used to work for Malkait, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“Those two thugs in the tavern…”
“Hired,” she confirmed, “just like me. But then you knew that.”
She was right. Deep down I’d sensed all along that she wasn’t Sirus’ daughter, but I’d chosen to go along with it anyway. I might almost suspect Sirus of putting a glamour on me if I believed in such things, which of course I didn’t. Magic is nothing but illusion and gimmickry – fodder for the gullible.
“What is it with you and the old man, anyway?” I asked.
“He believed in me at a time when I’d stopped believing in myself,” she said. “When I left the Nightblades I was in a very dark place, sickened by what we were doing, by what I’d done. I barely escaped with my life – nobody simply leaves the Nightblades. I had no idea who I was anymore. Sirus found me and…” She shrugged. “He helped me to put myself back together. Without him, I wouldn’t be here now.”
I knew what she meant: same old Sirus, ever the champion of lost causes.
She stood up abruptly, as if embarrassed by her own candidness. “Gratitude and jewellery only buy you so much, though. I’ve been stuck in this pig hole for the past three days listening to you snore and to your fevered babbling. So, if you’re sure you’re on the mend…”
“I’m fine,” I said, and this time meant it.
As she gathered her things together I tentatively got to my feet, feeling fragile but sound. Watching her, I realised the electric attraction she initially inspired in me had gone, but… There was still something about her.
The last things she picked up were her bow and quiver of arrows. She paused and looked at me, as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. “Well, see you around,” she said instead.
“Maybe you will at that,” I agreed. “It’s a small world, after all.”
LIKE A CHARM
by Kit Power
I’d like to blame the shotgun blast that took my second partner’s face, but the truth is, I think the beginning of the end for me was that gun show back in ’96. My rookie year. I was looking for a piece for Janie. Things were getting serious. I wanted something she could carry for protection. She was an army brat. Didn’t take much persuading.
I was browsing a trinket stall near the edge of the hall. Thought I might find something that would wind up my dipshit liberal brother. Bumper sticker, T-Shirt, ‘cold dead hands’, like that. I was looking through a rack, back to the booth, so when the guy said, “Can I help you, officer?”, it made me jump.
I turned around. Took him in. 5’ 7”, short spiked red hair, freckles, clean shaven, ‘cold dead hands’ T (there it is, I thought), combat pants. Dog tags. Novelty ones that read ‘Yeah, I was in the shit’. Slim build. Classic chickenhawk/rooster type. He spread his hands at hip height, but he was smiling, pleased with himself.
“Hey, sorry, no offence meant. But you are a cop, right?”
I considered not answering, or lying. Thought better of it. Had to get used to it sometime. “No. But I’m gonna be. I graduate next week.”
“Hey, congratulations, officer!” His handshake was solid, dry, brief. “Thank you for your service.”
“Sure.”
Post 9/11 that shit got real old, but back then it still felt fresh, a bit odd.
“Hey, we’ve got a twenty percent discount for cops and soldiers. Ambulance workers too, but we don’t get as many of those. What you in the market for?”
“Just browsing.”
I remember how he looked at me then. Like he was trying to make his mind up about something. I didn’t like it.
“How about a good luck charm? I know, I know, sounds hokey. Hell, it is hokey, but still. Who couldn’t use a little luck now and again? Especially in this town. Am I right?” He flashed a big grin. So sincere and goofy I couldn’t help but smile back, against my will.
“Sure.”
“Sure! Great! Okay, here we go then…” There was a drawer underneath the table. As he pulled it out, I saw rows and rows of small plastic boxes piled deep. Hundreds, looked like. He ran his finger across them. Glancing up at my face then back down. Frowning. Concentrating.
It felt odd, uncomfortable, but I figured he was driving at something and I was curious. His eyes flicked up again, three times, four, then “Okay, try this one!”
He held the box up to me. Inviting me to take it. I took it up to eye level. There was a fine silver chain, looped through a small glass or plastic cylinder. Inside that, a single bullet. Looked like a big one, a .44 or .45. Or maybe not – the surface of the case curved, magnifying the contents. Looking close, I could see scratches across the surface of the slug.
“Here.”
He handed me a jeweller’s magnifying glass. Smiling again, but a little nervous. Like a con-man feeling his mark swaying in the breeze. I didn’t like it, but I took it anyway and looked. Somehow I knew what I was going to see. Sure enough, engraved across the surface of the slug was the word “John”.
The feeling of knowing, then seeing, made me start. He laughed, clapping his hands together once. Sharp and loud. “Yes! I guessed right, didn’t I?”
Really pleased with himself. I saw no sense in denying it.
“Neat trick. How’d you do it?”
He shrugged again, all aw shucks.
“Dunno, honestly. I get it wrong as often as right. But, shit, I guess you look like a John.” He shrugged again. Apologetic.
“Well, what do you think? A bullet, with your name on it? Better you have it than someone else, right?”
He smiled again. Again I felt my own face respond.
“How much?”
“Tell you what, just pull a bill out your wallet blind, and I’ll take it.”
I think about it. The biggest bill I have is a sawbuck, and… “Sure? I know I’ve got some singles in there.”
“What can I say? I feel like gambling. Must be in the air. Come on, take it as an apology for spooking you earlier. My bad.”
I pulled out a bill blind and handed it over, not looking. He laughed. “Lincoln, huh?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’ll teach me! Shit, could have been worse. Here you go, sir.”
He handed over the box.
“Now that’s a live round in there, officer. Usual precautions apply.” he said, grin slipping, face turning serious.
“Sure.” I said. My eyes tracked to the box. Back to him.
“Good
luck, officer.” He said, softly, face still serious.
“Thanks. You too.” I turned and walked away.
* * *
I graduated as advertised. Married Janie in the fall. Got started in LVPD. Partnered up. Foot patrol. Car patrol. Drunks and whores and pimps and pushers. Vegas was going for the “family destination” dollar again. We had plenty to keep us busy, trying to keep all that shit off the strip where it liked to be, down back in the ghettos where it belonged. Lots of busts. The odd broken head. Beers with the boys of an evening. Double dates with the other married guys and their wives. Janie on the pill - not in any hurry to start in on the kids thing.
Good times.
The bullet just sat in my pocket, the plastic disk it came in looped onto my keychain. Forgotten.
Most cops are superstitious, at least a little. Not everyone had a good luck charm, but most did. Something about having your ass on the line every day. I saw a few St. Christophers, St. Michaels. Stuff like that. One guy had a poker chip from The Stardust. He claimed it had been in Ace Rothstein’s pocket the day he survived that car bombing. “This thing was in his pocket when his car exploded around him! And he walked away! You believe that shit?”
Andy was my partner. A good kid. Pretty much a straight arrow. I knew that some of the others would sometimes catch a free blowjob from some of the whores. A bribe for not busting them. When things started going bad, I took a few myself. But not Andy. I can’t say that no one deserves what happened to him – I’ve seen too much evil shit to think that – but he sure didn’t.
It was late fall. The overnight shift. Car patrol on the strip. Call comes in.
Officer down.
It’s close, ninety seconds out. We hit the blues. Andy floors it. I call it in.
I don’t know the guy who’s been shot. We’re a big force, I’ve only been on the job eighteen months. Control says the officer was responding to a call. Routine DMV. He’s hit the red button. No voice contact since. No other info except the last known. I feel sick. Scared. Angry. Stomach like lead. My hands are steady enough as I unclip the holster of my sidearm. The street is lined with small, single story houses. Old cars out front. Battered plastic kids’ toys out on the lawns.