FOUR
“We’re playing cards,” Quen explained. “You want in?”
The young man blinked, hesitating. The answer was apparently not what he expected to his challenge.
Callis glared at his knives. “Andras, put those silly things away before you hurt yourself. You’re only a hero in training, remember? You don’t yet have your melee license. You’ll get fined acting this way, and father will have you mucking out stables...again.”
The young man returned the blades to boot sheaths, twitching down his baggy pants legs to conceal the weapons.
Randol eyed his cards with disinterest, sighing softly in disappointment.
Quen wasn’t fooled. The man probably had a strong hand.
Randol studied the youth. “So, you’re bound for Hero’s College, eh? I thought of going that direction once, but my Father the Chancellor persuaded me towards the regular military.” Randol deepened his voice in mimicry, “Sure, the successful hero-for-hire gets all the glory, facing down impossible odds, winning kingdoms and wenches left and right, hand over fist. But most champions wind up dead and forgotten after a few years, taking one chance too many in the name of some impossible quest.” Randol tossed a few coins center table, barely counting them. His voice became normal, “I often wish I hadn’t listened, taking the safe bet.”
It will be different with me!” Andras declared. “I am destined to be the immortal hero of the people, righting wrongs, a sword of justice for the weak and oppressed!”
“The lords and barons aren’t going to like that,” Kyra said. “Oppressing folks is what they do for a living.” Her hand flicked. Coins clinked into the growing pile. She leaned sideways and stared at Quen’s hand.
“Hey!” he protested. “That’s not fair.”
She gave him a look of utter innocence. “I thought you wanted me to help you learn the game.”
“Well…” She had him there.
“Toss out your opening bid,” Kyra urged. “No, the big shiny ones.”
“Ah, what the Hell...” He felt the ghost of impending poverty breathing down his neck, but did as she suggested. A short time later, his fears were realized: he lost his cash and learned little more about the game. Sighing, he left the table and joined Greco across the car.
Andras pounced, claiming the vacant chair, ready to try his luck.
Greco broke from his blatant ogling of Callis to flash Quen a pleased grin. “Good to know there’s something you’re not good at.”
Quen settled into a thickly upholstered seat. Callis was a pleasant distraction, but he didn’t dare stare, not with Kyra’s measuring gaze stabbing his way at irregular intervals. She was being a bit too possessive of him, but there was no reason to stir up a fuss when Callis...and Andras...would doubtless get off in a few hours.
Greco interrupted his thoughts, “Kyra tells me you’re going to be training her in warrior ways.”
“Not as you know them.” Quen bared the inked images on his forearms. “I’ll be teaching her the way of the tiger and dragon.”
“Tyger and dragon? Dragon I know, but not this other one. It looks like a mountain cat, ‘cept bigger.”
“It’s a beast known in distant realms for fierceness and strength.”
“Would it trouble you if I sat in on this training? I could serve the Captain better with moves such as yours.”
“Suit yourself.” Quen shifted to look out the window at the passing landscape. The train was gradually climbing through dusty blue hills with shadowed forests at their bases. None of the mountains were high enough to have a timberline capped with naked stone. He considered the possibility that he might be stranded. Just because a dragon brought him here didn’t guarantee it would to take him back.
Maybe I should think about opening up a chain of martial arts schools on this world, start an annual tournament, sell tee-shirts and sports drinks... Thoughts of competition reminded him of Lin’s. He’d missed her big night. If I ever get back to Earth, I’ll have to make it up to her. Of course, if I never get back, she’ll keep my bone sword as consolation. He sighed, and cleared away distracting thoughts. One day at a time...one step at a time...
As the mountains blurred past, he experienced double-vision. Two terrains fought for his attention. He closed his eyes. The action left him with a fuzzy-edged movie playing across his eyelids—like when he’d made the shadow bird and set it free. He suddenly understood. He was seeing through its eyes once more.
The flyer faced a desert sky, approaching onyx cliffs, like the jagged teeth of a dragon. In that black range, on a great silver-grassed plateau, surrounded by orchards, lay a city of black marble with red-orange gates. The city rose until its last layer of buildings merged with a sheer rock. The dark labyrinth of structures was brightened by the silver terrace of gardens with jewel-leafed saplings blazing in the sun. There were people in sight wearing bright, bold colors, but they did not move. It was as if the life of the place had stopped between seconds and never picked up again.
The shadow bird dropped into the city and Quen’s contact was severed. The images were lost. He shook his head, feeling a headache coming on, and opened his eyes.
Callis stood, watching him carefully. “Are you all right?”
He forced a smile. “Sure.”
“You weren’t here a moment ago, were you?”
“My mind wandered,” he said. “Fortunately, it came back.”
“You are the real thing,” she said. “At first, I wasn’t sure, so I played along, hoping…”
“How about playing cards,” Kyra called, “it’s your turn, you know?”
“Hoping what?” Quen asked.
Callis leaned in toward him, her hand on the back of his seat. “Hoping—”
“A lot of money’s at stake,” Kyra added. “You really ought to come back.”
Callis smiled warmly at Greco, causing him to abruptly shift his gaze from her posterior to her face. “Would you be a dear, and play my hand for me,” she asked. “I’d like to speak to the mage, privately.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Kyra’s voice had a cutting edge. “My Lord isn’t feeling well. You should leave him alone.”
“I think you speak more for yourself than your master,” Callis’ eyes returned to Quen. “Let’s step outside for some air, shall we?”
He nodded, rising. He’d wanted to talk to her about magic. It made sense to learn what he could, and now might be the best time. Besides, Kyra needed to remember who was calling the shots.
Andras yelped as if he’d been kicked under the table.
“It’s hardly proper,” Kyra grumbled. “Whatever will people say?”
Andras peered at his sister, his brow furrowing. “Kid’s got a point,
Staring at her brother, Callis backed to the door and opened it. “Then it’s best if you never tell her.”
Quen followed, stepping out between the cars, onto the first of two overlapping landings, connected by a foot high metal cap. Probably an encased lynch pin in there. Skirting the “stumps”, other cars could be accessed—which accounted for Callis and Andras. Left and right, side railings had been swung in place to close off stairs unneeded until the next station. The wind tugged at Quen. The train’s chugging was louder, more vital.
He turned, smiling, waiting for her to close the door. He’d bet money, if he had any left, that as soon as the door was shut, most of those inside would scoot over to see what they could overhear. Kyra would probably lead the charge. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t the type to keep many secrets. Besides, this meeting was important; it just might give him a grip on the abilities the shadow dragon had blessed him with.
“Where have you been since the
He trusted his instincts and they told him to come clean with her. “The truth is—I was walking another world when a shadow dragon appeared. Next thing I knew, it brought me here, giving me this staff and powers I’m still figuring out.”
Callis gasped with fear. “The Shadow Dragon has been freed! The Elihi should not have pushed Queen Tachin to such an extremity. In the end, The Dark One may be even more of a threat that those of the
“You seem to know an awful lot about things.”
Callis smiled brightly, shedding her fears—a mercurial display that left Quen off balance. “I am first in my class. I pay attention, and I have an odd turn of mind: I can’t seem to forget anything.”
Quen nodded. He’d heard about eidetic memory before. The girl was a treasure, a walking encyclopedia of everything she’d ever heard, read, or seen.
She took his hands in her own. “How valiant of you! Not even of our world, yet you have come to save us all against the greatest of odds, laughing in the ghastly face of death.”
“Not laughing,” he said. “Well, grinning maybe.”
“You have the power of a shadow mage, so there’s still hope. It’s too bad you don’t have time to grow into your gifts.”
“I don’t?”
She made another of those sudden shifts, eyes growing big and luminous with concern. “The Elihi are sure to be hunting you already. Your party should be traveling alone. Because you are here, it isn’t safe for the rest of the people on the train.”
“What am I supposed to do? Jump off?”
“At the next stop, you should takeover the lead car and detach it from the others. The stranded travelers will curse you fluently, but they’ll be safe.”
He thought of Kyra, and how her presence had stopped the Elihi. “I don’t think the Elihi will lash out blindly, not after our last encounter.”
“You’ve met some of them already, and you‘re still alive?” Her concern transmuted to incredulous awe.
He nodded.
“Hmmmm. Apparently, the Shadow Dragon chose wisely. All right, count me in!”
“In? In what?”
“I will travel with you and teach you what I can about the principles of magic.”
The door was wrenched open. Kyra’s glaring face poked through. “Thanks, but we can manage quite well without you.”
Leaning over Kyra, Andras added his opinion, “Quests are for heroes, not schoolgirls.”
Callis glowered at her brother. “Well, I don’t see you volunteering, mighty hero.” Her gaze slid over to Kyra. “And as for you, little girl, don’t you have dolls to play with while the adults talk?”
Kyra sputtered in fury.
Andras bristled and shouted, “You doubt my courage! Count me in.”
Quen thought Kyra might be close to an aneurism. He hurried to step in before weapons were drawn. “C’mon, people. Can’t we all just get along?”
Kyra and Callis glowered at each other, and answered in unison, “No!”
“Come, brother,” Callis ordered. “We must gather our things, and arrange for a message to be sent to our schools, explaining that we will be late in arriving. If we are lucky, Mother and Father won’t know of this venture until it’s over.”
“You don’t have to put yourselves out on my account,” Quen said.
Callis smiled bravely. “It is our duty—the burden of noble blood.”
Kyra made a brief sound deep in her throat like someone choking on a chicken bone.
Despairing of ever controlling his own quest, Quen rolled his eyes and went back into the car.
At the next stop, the conductor announced they had an hour to secure dinner and be back on the train, ready to go. The cars unloaded. Some of the passengers took their baggage, indicating this was their destination.
Quen was glad to get off and stretch his legs, even though Kyra clutched his left arm in a death grip, her body wedged against him. Callis followed, gleefully playing chaperone since it annoyed Kyra to no end. Andras, idly flipping a dagger as he walked, shadowed Captain Randol and Greco as they marched off in search of a tavern. As the men receded, Quen heard Andras pumping the captain for tales of the battlefield. Callis’ brother was networking to advance his career; knowing the son of a chancellor wouldn’t hurt once
Lacking money, Quen had asked Randol to bring provisions back. Those brought from the last inn had not long survived the addition of more mouths to feed—neither Callis nor Andras had been shy in helping themselves to snackage. Quen considered it lucky that Randol had deep pockets and a charitable nature. Of course, the captain would one day call in the debt—Quen was certain of that.
Lanterns hung around the station platform, lit against the encroachment of night. The ticket office was closed and unmanned. The town beyond was small and sleepy. Businesses were dark, windows shuttered. Only the houses were well lit, spilling light out across brick streets. Soon, Quen was alone with Kyra and Callis.
“My Lord...?” Kyra said.
“Yeah?”
“We were supposed to start my training today.”
“I know, but traveling by train...” He trailed off, shrugging.
“We seem to have the time now, and the privacy,” Kyra glared at Callis, “for the most part.”
Quen nodded. They’d have to start sometime, and she was wearing man’s clothing instead of skirts so she didn’t need to change. “All right, first thing you do before practice starts—every time—is to stretch your muscles. If not properly warmed up, you could hurt yourself. Do everything I do.” He disentangled himself from Kyra, leaned his staff against the ticket office, and tossed his cloak to Callis to give her something to do. She sat, declining the opportunity to perspire, but absorbing everything with absolute stillness of concentration.
He spent a good chunk of time doing stretches, push ups, inverted push-ups, rolling his joints, doing trunk twists, working up a sweat and an appetite. Kyra matched him move for move, puffing, groaning, working hard with only a little awkwardness. Afterwards, panting, she stood in front of him, face flushed.
“Let’s start with some gate theory.” He used his fingers to draw a line in the air that cut her down the middle, head to toe. “This is the center line. The line hits the ground, and moves to me, becoming the floor line. From my feet, the line moves up to my head, cutting me in half. We both have a center line, and a floor line that connects us. When fighting someone, always imagine these lines.”
Kyra nodded, as if he were detailing the secrets of the universe to her.
He went on, “Right now, our center lines are lined up as we face off. Any attack by you or me must travel over the floor line, through the space between us.” He drew two horizontal lines across her center line, one chest high, one across her upper thighs. “These cross lines divide the space between us. No longer is there just a left and right of the center line, but upper, middle, and lower gates as well. Can you see the six squares in your mind?”
Kyra nodded. “Like the message boxes at a telegraph office.”
His eyebrows shot up. This world had telegraphs? Why didn’t someone tell him these things?
He drew himself back to the task at hand. “Imagine this pattern over your opponent. When he punches, kicks, or stabs, don’t try to figure out what technique he’s using. Just get a sense of which gate his attack is moving through. A lot of people think it’s speed, power, agility, or flexibility that’s the most important. Those things aren’t bad, but softness and sensitivity will take you a lot farther.”
Callis made a muffled sound, as though she’d like to argue the point.
Quen glanced at her.
She sat motionless, lips firmly pressed against each other.
Quen shifted his attention back to Kyra.
He pointed at each of her gates as she saw them. “This is your upper right, upper left, middle right, middle left, lower right, and lower left. We won’t worry about other gates until we work up to fighting more than one person at a time.”
Asking her which gate he was attacking through, he threw punches and kicks, stopping them short of contact.
Trusting him, she didn’t even flinch. Answering with increasing confidence, she absorbing the lesson thirstily.
“Good, now I’ll show you a guard position.” He put her hands on her center line, drawing the left forward of her face, moving the other hand lower so the fingertips were three inches from her right elbow. He showed her how to stand with angled feet in a modified cat stance, with the weight on her back leg so her front foot could snap out in a quick kick. “If someone goes for one of your bottom gates, kick into their attack to close the gates. If they attack through the middle or an upper gate...”
He spent a good ten minutes drilling her on slapping blocks to deflect attacks, closing the gate with one hand while striking with the other. As she started getting the blocks down, he refined her motion, showing her how to shift her hips just a little to keep her movements small, so they didn’t have to be fast. They drilled over and over through the same small, precise motions. Quen didn’t even have to remind her to keep her body relaxed. The girl was a natural.
“Why, this is easy!” Kyra said. “I thought it would difficult.”
He shot her a wicked grin. “Oh, trust me, it will be. The little elements of this aren’t hard by themselves, but there are more and more things that have to all be coordinated at the same time. We’ve barely started. I haven’t even shown you how to diagonally advance into attacks to break the floor line.” Doing that consistently is ninety-five percent of winning every fight you’re in.”
“Percent?” Kyra’s hands dropped a little from where they were supposed to be.
“Think of a whole pie as a hundred percent,” Callis interrupted. “If you cut it in half and give half away to some pitiful beggar, you’ve only got fifty percent left. Cut half of that off and feed it to your dog, and you have twenty-five percent left.”
Kyra nodded, brow crinkling. “Oh, I see. So breaking this floor line means I get most of the pie, and keeping most of the pie means I win.”
A new voice broke in. “What’s all this about pies? Where’s mine?”
Quen turned his head and saw Andras approaching with several baskets. Greco and Randol followed.
Quen turned back to Kyra, bowing to her to signal the end of the lesson. “That’s a good start. We’ll do more tomorrow if we can.”
“I missed a lesson?” Greco looked disappointed.
“Ask Callis for the highlights,” Quen suggested. “She doesn’t forget a thing. I’m sure she can fill you in. And don’t skimp on the stretches.”
Quen grabbed his staff and a basket, and headed back for the last car. The others tramped up the stairs behind him. The car was dark until Greco finished a circuit of the space, lighting lanterns attached to the walls in strategic places. With darkness outside, the lanterns’ glow turned the windows into mirrors, and brought a honey-gold quality out of the wood paneling. The car’s interior became softer and cozier, like a familiar friend that had dressed up for an occasion.
Settling down, Quen rummaged for food. Kyra and Callis wound up with the other basket, beginning a noisy but amicable division of what it contained. Strangely, they were getting along a lot better. He didn’t try to understand it, simply being grateful. Andras plopped across a seat, letting his feet jut into the aisle. Quen crossed his arms across his chest with every intention of going straight to sleep. Greco hovered near Callis, while Randol claimed the card table, digging out documents, making notes, his quill making little scratching noises on sheets of paper. He seemed to be preparing an large number of letters for posting, affixing each with a sealing glob of red wax into which, he inserted the round face of his ring, leaving some sort of design.
Quen finished slices of some pickled vegetable he couldn’t quite identify, and a chicken pot pie with snow peas and carrots. By then, the train lurched into motion, on the way once more. He put the basket and what was left in it on an empty seat. Then it was his turn to get what sleep he could. He stretched out, noticing that the train seemed to have peaked and was now heading at a downward angle. He tried to ignore the voices in the car, but wasn’t completely successful.
“I really must apologize for my earlier rudeness,” Callis said. “I had thought you merely a servant girl that needed further beating. I had not realized that you were his student, and that I was threatening something sacred.”
“A natural mistake,” Kyra said. “We’ll dwell on it no more.”
Awful forgiving of her, Quen thought.
Kyra went on, “But you should also know that we are betrothed, and will be wed...after this quest is over.”
Quen’s eyes opened wide, then closed again. I better be careful, or it could happen. Kyra is relentless. He yawned, and soon the voices blurred and lost meaning. Darkness captured him, and he dreamed of a black, frozen city with orange gates and jewel-leafed trees.
Loressa retreated to her royal bed chamber with Rallah at her heels. She drifted behind a three paneled, silk screen of midnight blue. Ochre blossoms were painted on it as well as scarlet dragons dancing upon the wind against a backdrop of pale blue stars. She stripped off her evening robes, hung them on the screen, and heard the soft whump of the mountain cat pouncing upon the massive four-poster bed before it could escape.
She smiled, sheathing herself in gossamer as soft as the caress of a cloud. This was for her own delight, since she had no lover sharing her nights, needing enticement. Had that been the case, the cat would be elsewhere, where he couldn’t comment or make suggestions. Even those who were spirit-bonded occasionally needed a break from each other.
She shivered behind the screen, as though she were not truly alone with the great cat. , She felt a touch of unease, as if unseen eyes were on her, and some alien heart called. She shook her head, dislodging the strange fancy, and came out from behind the screen. With only a moon lamp glowing on the nightstand, the far reaches of the chamber were thick with shadow in which anything could lurk. In her thoughts, she laughed at her imagination. The suspended state of all she loved was a barrier none could pierce. It was not possible that there was an intruder in the palace. The Elihi had seen to that.
Besides, the cat’s senses were keener than her own. Were there trace of an intruder, he would know it and would...
He was up, standing on the bed, facing the open doors to the balcony. A low growl hung in his throat.
She heard a flutter. Loressa’s hand went across her heart as it skipped a beat. Hope and fear struggled to exist in the same moment. Hope won out as a small black shape burst into the room.
Rallah was bunched to spring.
“No!” she stopped him with a trembling tone, recognizing a working of shadow. “It is a message...from outside.” She held out her hand to provide a perch, and trilled the soft, entreating call of a nightflier.
The shadow fluttered to her hand. Folding back wings, the bird cocked its head, studying her with an eye like an obsidian chip.
Gently, she stroked its tiny head, and fuzzy-edged images wafted through her mind—images that caught her breath a moment. She saw a man holding the bird. He wore the dark cloak of a shadow mage. His eyes and hair were the rich black of deep shadow, and his face was young, though his small goatee was as silver as the dragon coiled around his staff. The man stood in a courtyard, surrounded by people of the western slopes, beyond the burning sands. The shadow mage threw the bird into the air. There was a rush as the world blurred. Then she was high in a morning sky, staring down as the mage and a small party. They piled into a carriage and headed away from an inn.
The images broke off, as the shadow shape thinned away, its purpose achieved. Her heart leaped in her chest, and her vision blurred with joyful tears. She clasped her hands together, turning toward the cat. “Help is coming at last, Rallah. Help is coming”
She felt the great cat creeping through her thoughts, careful, as if fearing an ambush. He pawed through the images she’d seen. “Someone’s coming all right, but it’s a little early to say how helpful he will be.” Like all cats, he was only impressed with himself.
“The soul of the city has traveled the worlds and brought us a hero. We must have faith, Rallah. Surely, that is better than the cold of despair.”
But the mountain cat only said, “We shall have to see.”
Elandrea walked briskly and alone, her footfalls ringing on the steel deck. She approached the audience hall of the Elders. It was late to be summoned to give a report, but the news she carried was grave. A shadow mage had arisen, one who carried himself with the blatant confidence of the insane...or stupid. She remembered how his staff had moved with blinding speed, turning her own guards’ attack against her like child’s play. No, this mage was no fool. He’d come to size them up, and had found them dulled by arrogance.
She could only blame herself if she was not respected. Imagine, sparing the man because of the love of the girl. But Elandrea had seen herself in the girl. When she stood there, expecting to die, giving her whole world for the love of a man. Elandrea sighed, her heart still wounded. She too had once loved that way. She could not do to another what had been done to her. But now, that lapse would have to be explained to the Elders. She considered what lie to give them as she entered the chamber.
She stopped in surprise. The full council was absent. Only the Prime was present, and... Lord Valcyn. Rage seethed silently in her heart, seeing him. His smile of welcome held a taunt she dared not answer. He was too strong in council, and a deadly fighter. Her beloved was only one of many destroyed by Lord Valcyn’s climb to power. She had told her beloved to ignore the jibes, the insinuations, but his honor could not. Now he was gone, buried with his honor, and she had nothing but a life of emptiness ahead of her. All that warmed her at night was the vengeance she carefully, secretly plotted.
Valcyn’s smug smile became a wider grin, as if he could read her thoughts and was amused by her scheming. No, that was just his way: pretending to knowledge that made others uneasy.
Schooling her features to give nothing away, Elandrea stopped before the crescent table. She bowed to the Prime.
He wore faded robes well out of current fashion, and they were stained by food. His wispy beard fluttered as he spoke, and the old man’s tone wavered, a frail, nearly broken thing, “We are ready to hear your report.”
She cast a sidelong glance at Valcyn. “Does...he...have to be here?” she asked.
The Prime’s sleepy look was replaced by stern reprimand. “Lord Valcyn is a member of the Council and therefore deserving of respect.”
She put steel into her own gaze. “I respect only those worthy of it. A seat at a table does not achieve that.” Her unfailing stare let the Prime him know he too might soon slip from esteem in her estimation.
His face flushed with rage, but he bit down on his words.
That was as expected. Elandrea knew it had been decades since the Prime had defended his council seat in open duel. She saw fear hiding behind his anger, and smiled with contempt. If she angered the Prime well enough, he’d dismiss her quickly, with little picking at the story she had to tell.
Lord Valcyn interrupted. “Can we hear the details of your report or not? The night isn’t standing as still as the dragon city.”
She told the story with little deviation from the truth, until she reached the part where she spared the mage for the sake of a maiden’s love. “Seeing that the man used warrior skills, and not the shadow science of his kind, I decided not to destroy him. There is a good chance he is simply an imposter playing a role. It also occurred to me that we need to see what he’s up to, and whom he associates with. It does no good to lop off only a small piece of a larger threat. I have set my guards to keeping an eye on the so-called shadow mage, and learning what they could.”
“Oddly prudent,” the Prime said, “for someone with your temper.”
She glowered at the old fool, “I like to think that recent events have taught me a small measure of caution.”
“Leave her be,” Lord Valcyn said. “Her reasoning, surprising or not, is quite sound. I, too, would like to know what larger threat hides in the shadows.”
She bowed less deeply than was customary, turned on her heel, and marched out.
Oh, you’ll find out, Valcyn, you diseased piece of filth. My teeth and claws are waiting. When the time is right, you will find you are not as untouchable as you believe. More than a shadow mage can walk the shadows.
SHADOW MAN
Lee Garrett
A nurse—with D-cup breasts—strained a crisp white uniform. She lovingly cradled his testacies in one hand. Another nurse held a ruler along side his engorged manhood. This was all for posterity. They were documenting his manly package for the Book of World Records.
A third nurse entered the room and stopped in shock, eyes wide. “My Gawd, it’s so big!”
Chiming dragging him out of sleep, breaking his dream. He rolled over, and blindly groped the nightstand for his phone. Eyes barely open, he mumbled into the receiver. “This better be good: I was making history.”
“I want to see you—now!” a female voice snapped at him.
“Iris? Is that you?”
“That's Detective Wright. We’re no longer on a first name basis. There's a Starbucks down the street from you. It should be open by the time you get there. Order me a black coffee and a bear claw. And don’t make me wait. I carry a gun, remember?”
The phone connection broke. Cain smiled. She’s so into me.
He dressed quickly. There was a purr and a rub against his ankle. He looked down to see a black cat with white toes. She’d dragged a slightly damaged cigarette over to him to help him jump start his day. He reached down and scratched her head in appreciation before picking up the smoke. He didn't know the longhaired cat's breed, but her legs were way too short for her body. It was amusing to see her waddle about toward the door, trying to hurry him along.
“Give me a minute,
She sat patiently at the door, until he finished the cigarette and headed her way. As he took the stairs down toward the kitchen, the animal weaved underfoot, nearly causing him to fall and break his neck several times.
“I wish you would stop doing that,” he complained, reaching the lower landing. A short hallway led him into the kitchen. He went to the cabinets and found a can salmon flavored cat food. After pulling the ring top, he raked the mush into the cat's bowl with a fork, licked it clean, and tossed it across the room, into the sink. The fork landed with a clatter. The empty can was rebounded off a wall, into the trashcan. Cain petted
Outside, he greeted his car with a loving smile and a friendly pat on the fender. The black mustang sported ice-blue flames on the sides and a tribal style scorpion on the hood. He climbed in and roared away. Houses and business flashed by as the radio spewed a sonic hash that passed for music. He pulling up to the coffee house, parked, and went inside. The line inside was long. Fortunately, the manager knew him. He waved and she came over.
“Cain! You're looking rather … tasty. Good to see you again.”
“Hi, beautiful. Got any Brazilian ultra roast?”
“Sure. Anything else I can get for you?”
“A regular coffee, black, and a bear claw.”
“You're meeting a lady?” the barista’s tone soured slightly.
“She's no lady.” Cain explained. “She's a cop.”
“What did you do this time?”
He smiled with cherubic innocence. “Now, you know I'm a law-abiding citizen.”
“It's a small universe Cain; I've heard rumors.”
“Don't believe anything you hear, “he warned, “and only half of what you see.”
A few minutes later, his order was ready. The manager waved his money away. “It's on me. Call me sometime, if you're not in jail.”
“Cain gave her a look of confidant conviction. “That's not going to happen. Thanks for the coffee.”
He turned and left. Outside, he saw Iris leaving her car. Her partner--a bald man with a hard stare--stayed in the vehicle. Cain acted as though he hadn’t noticed them, choosing a table, seating himself. He sat down as Detective Wright approached. He waved her toward an opposing chair. “Sit if you like.”
She raised an eyebrow, sitting down. “How generous.”
“I can't help being cursed with virtue,” he said. “Why call me up after all these months?” he asked. “I thought you were done with me.”
“This is business not pleasure.”
“I'm crushed.”
“Never mind that,” the detective said. “I want to ask you something.”
“Go ahead, but I should warn you; truth and I are not on the best of terms.”
“Kill anyone lately?”
Cain’s fingers messaged his chin. He rolled his eyes skyward, as if in deep thought. “Well, there was this cockroach on the wall this morning, nailed it with a shoe--”
“Killed any people?”
“If this were anything more than a fishing expedition, I'd be in a police interrogation room, having a detailed confession beat out of me.”
“Not likely; when we looked at you in connection to the Head-Hunter Murders, you had an army of lawyers spring you from custody in record time. When I bring you in, it will be for good, wrapped up in a case tight enough to permanently wipe that annoying little smirk off your face.”
“Someone lose their head last night?” Cain inquired.
“Not exactly. This time the victim was pinned to a gallery wall with a sword through her mouth. Someone was making a statement.”
“And you suspect me? Were my fingerprints on the blade?”
“No. But your name was in the gallery’s receipt register as having bought a painting the night of the murder. Eyewitnesses place you at the center of a violent disturbance before leaving with your purchase. You can understand why we might glance at you with a gleam of speculation in our eyes.”
Cain smiled. “Such pretty eyes … the ugliness they must have seen!” He shuddered with pleasure. “I can only envy you.”
“You are seriously twisted.”
“That's news to you?”
“Tell me where you went last night after leaving the gallery.”
“Well, I took a lady to dinner. We hung out for a while, then I went home.”
“This lady will corroborate your whereabouts for around midnight?”
Cain took a sip of coffee, sighed with pleasure, and offered the detective a lopsided grin. “Iris, half the ladies in town will vouch for me if I ask them. Is any of this getting you anywhere?”
She stood, grabbed her bear claw and coffee, and withdrew. As she stalked away, Cain admired her assets, and indulged in a rather unlikely fantasy. He figured that she owed him a dream having broken up his last one.
He noticed another man watching her. The stranger was tall and thin, with broad shoulders, and dead black eyes. His head was shaved and a tattoo of a dragon biting its tale formed a circle on his arm—a symbol for cannibalism to those who knew about such things. The symbol stirred up the shadow of an old memory. He knew this guy from somewhere, but the information slipped from his mental grasp. Cain shrugged. What were the chances it was important?
The man climbed into a black van, as Detective Wright entered her own car. She pulled away, and the van followed.
Cain flipped a mental coin to see if he was going to get involved in this or not. Not yet, he decided. She's a big girl with a big gun, and a partner at her side; she can deal with Shadow-Man on her own.
He finished his coffee, and tossed the empty cup into a trash can on the way to his mustang. Once behind the wheel, he started the engine and backed out. A few minutes later, he was roaring down the road, weaving past the slower drivers.
He went to a local fitness center, where he had a year's membership paid up, signing in at the front desk. He strolled past high tech weight machines and exercise mats. Most of those present were woman wearing bright two-tone leotards that could have been spray painted on. That was the main reason he used this place.
Cain carried a long canvas bag from his car trunk. He kept workout sweats, a change of street clothes, a towel, a travel kit with personal items, and a sheathed sword inside. The rest of his body armor was still in his vehicle. After a brief change in the dressing room, he continued on to a back room that he knew was not in use. I should have a good hour before the Jazzercise class needs this space. That's more than enough time for a practice session.
He removed his shirt and dropped it on the carpet, revealing a heavily tattooed torso. A great European-style dragon slithered up his belly to his chest, fanning great ribbed wings. A scorpion with a tao symbol inside its curved tail occupied the forward section on one shoulder. The other shoulder had a pair of yellow-eyed skulls on it, with drops of blood falling from one fang. The opposite arm had a flame wreathed cross on it. Tribal markings on his upper back completed his collection.
Cain drew a katana out of the bag at his feet. Sword in hand, he glided to the center of the room. He drew a deep breath and began to move with agonizing slowness. His blade swept around him as he danced. Must clear every thought away; free myself from static patterns of response. Every movement must be freshly improvised, spontaneous. If I refuse to chain my techniques together, they cannot be broken, or interrupted.
He entered a dream state; thought became alien and time, an inconsistent bitch. Muscles played against each other as he moved languidly through countless combat postures. Once warmed up, he increased his speed, making his sword blur. Stay fluid, relax—that's the key to power.
Imagined opponents were at all quarters. They attacked high, low, and mid-level with their own weapons. He took them out, one by one, two at a time, and occasionally three at once.
He leaped, rolled, and added kicks and elbow strikes into his sword routine, remembering that he was the weapon, not the steel in his fist.
Finally, with a last flourish, he was done. His face streaked with sweat, Cain wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. He noticed that the door to the room was open. There were numerous observers peering in. As he headed their way, the crowd dispersed, sensing they'd trespassed upon a sacred, deeply personal ritual.
He returned the sword to his bag, and picking it up along with his shirt, he hit the shower room. The water sluiced the sweat off him. After cleaning up, he toweled and dressed, then headed back to the front desk, bag in hand. A young girl in black shorts and sports bra was on duty, having replaced the previous attendant. Cain knew her from previous visits. “Hi, Sherri, how's the body building going?”
Bending forward, she assumed a classic hunched over pose, flexing arms, crunching abs. “You tell me,” she said.
“Looking fierce,” he said, signing out at the counter. “I bet you could bench press a Buick.”
“Just about,” she said. “I've a state wide competition coming up next month. Why don't you come out and cheer me on?”
“Love to,” he said, “if I'm still in town.”
She smiled brightly. Her glance was sexually charged, her interest obvious. “I'll keep my fingers crossed.”
“You do that,” he said, heading for the front double doors. Outside, he strolled to his car. It started with a soft rumble. He backed out of parking and cruised toward the street. Finding a gap in traffic, he headed home, enduring the presence of sub-standard drivers in his lane with surprising good humor. His muttered curses lacked heat and sting as he weaved around the motor-skill-challenged.
He reached home without yielding to criminal impulses, and parked outside his house. He went in, locked the door, and returned to his bedroom. It took only a moment for him to shed his clothes and drop onto the bed. Darkness closed in.
The looming figure wore white marble robes. Blindfolded, she carried a balance. Her free hand pointed at Cain, a silent accusation. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.
Justice chanted, “mene tekel upharsin…Mene tekel upharsin…”
“We speak English in this country,” Cain reminded her.
“You are tried in the balance and found wanting … found wanting … found wanting…” The voice trailed away into a vast space choked with shadows.
Cain knew this for a dream and was frankly tired of it. He raised his hand, made a gun of it with his thumb cocked. He pointed at a spot between the eyes of the monolithic figure. “I've got some justice for you,” he smiled as his thumb fell forward. His hand jerked—as if in recoil. “Bang!”
As if caught in some gelatinous medium, Lady Justice dropped her scales, falling slowly backwards. A neat hole appeared in her forehead as the back of her head came off in a frothy red spray. She hit the ground languidly, in total silence, shattering. Cain noticed with interest that Lady Justice was hollow; a shell had shattered, not a solid mass. He knew that was psychologically significant somehow, but didn't have any interest in figuring out why. Turning his back, he walked into deeper darkness, in search of a better dream.
An insistent pounding accompanied by muffled voices shattered his sleep. He opened his eyes, sat up in bed, and reached for his clothes. He was dressed by the time the front door was kicked in. Now what? He wondered. He left his room and strolled into a swarm of police. He allowed them to spin him around and slam him into a wall. Cuffed, gun muzzles were set to each temple. They informed him he was under arrest for murder, read him his rights, and dragged him downstairs toward the front door.
The officers were highly agitated. Cain went along quietly, knowing the wisdom of picking battles that can be won. As he passed his mustang, he noticed that someone had planted a bloody sword in the back seat, very much in plain sight. A police photographer was taking pictures. The police had his trunk forced open and were ogling the armor, first aid kit, spare swords, and repelling gear inside.
He was hustled into the back of a police car and locked in. The bloody sword told him most of what he needed to know. Being framed for murder made him pause for reflection; I wondered who’s behind this set-up: the cops, or someone else? I doubt it’s an old enemy. I’m not stupid enough to leave them lying around. Oh, well, I’ll figure it out eventually—I always do.
Despite the discomfort, he stretched out as best he could and willed himself to sleep. One way or another he was going to catch up on his rest. He needed it to stay sharp, and it demonstrated both his iron control and his untroubled spirit. The concept of a troubled conscious was amorphous to him. He grasped it intellectually, but not with any real conviction. In his youth, a psychologist once labeled him as a borderline sociopath. He suspected that he no longer straddled that line. Thinking such thoughts, he drifted into sleep.
The next thing he knew, irritated cops were dragging him out of the patrol car, shaking him violently.
“Wake your scrawny ass up,” he was told. Cain understood the psychological tactic of making a victim feel vulnerable and helpless with verbal intimidation. This kind of police response was reserved for those they felt threatened by. Cain appreciated the implied compliment, glad of the effect he inspired.
He gathered his feet under him, standing under his own power. If he wanted to escape, this would have been the perfect moment, while the cops had him near the heart of their comfort zone, but before he was actually inside the building. He had no doubt that that he could over power the police guarding him, but that would only complicate things. It was to his benefit to see just what the cops had on him, and find out how they'd been herded his way. He'd play along for now.
He was hustled into the police station and soon found himself deposited several flights up, in an untraditional interrogation room. It was less austere and sterile than those he'd seen before, more like a business office than anything else though isolated from disturbances. There was actually a fish tank in the room, pictures on the walls, lamps, and other homey touches. Cain suspected that all this was calculated to relax suspects.
He was placed in a chair that was comfortably padded. Another one just like it kept him company. The chair across the table from him was much larger, implying that a more important person would soon be talking to him. Cuffed to a table leg that was bolted to the floor, he was left to his own devices. Cain let his eyes rove to a huge mirror on the wall. He grinned at the people he assumed where watching him through the one-way glass. He wondered what they'd say if he were to swallow one of their goldfish.
The door opened. Detective Wright entered with her partner in tow. Cain smiled. “Hello, Iris. You needn't have gone to all this trouble just to see me again.”
Detective Wright's partner lunged against the table, jarring it. Leaning across the table, he rammed a stubby finger into Cain's chest. “Shut up, you bottom-feedin' freak o’ nature! Wait 'til we ask you a question, then answer promptly. Got it?”
Detective Wright laid an appreciative hand on the cop's arm. “Let me handle this. I'm a big girl, you know?”
How cliché, Cain thought, a rather bad rendition of good cop-bad cop. These guys need new material. He caught Iris' eye and jerked a thumb at her partner. “The hairless ape got a name,” he inquired, “or should I just call him a son of a—?”
“Detective Coleman will do,” Wright answered hastily, not wanting Cain to get too inventive. “As long as you're being helpful—how about giving us a confession?”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “Like that's going to happen. Tell ya what; I'll give you an answer for every one you give me. Deal?”
“Save your questions for your analyst,” Coleman said. That's not how this works.”
“Where did you go after I talked with you earlier?” Wright asked.
Cain's first impulse was to lie. He suppressed it, deciding that the truth would serve him better. He outlined his movements without embellishment. Coleman jotted the information down in a small spiral-bound notebook. When Cain finished, the detective gave Wright a look packed with meaning and hurried out of the room.
He knew there would be a lull in the interrogation with the detective absent; they weren't going to risk a suspect saying anything that couldn't be corroborated in court with at least two witnesses. Detective Wright smiled at him, taking the chair beside him. He knew the psychology behind that. By not taking the bigger, official chair, she was trying to suggest to him that she was sympathetic and if he'd only confess, she'd do all she could to help him. He wasn't falling for it.
“Can I get you something while we check out your story, coffee, soda?”
Yeah, so my bladder will get full and I’ll be uncomfortable, at your mercy for a restroom break, giving you a little more psychological power...
He smiled. “No, thanks, but I am puzzled about a couple things. Perhaps you could tell me about the new murder. Seeing the bloody sword planted in my car, I assume someone’s just turned up dead.”
“We’re homicide cops. What do you think?” Wright asked.
“I think you're sexy when you try to be sneaky,” he said.
“Let's not go there,” she suggested.
He sighed with disappointment. “Your loss. All right, maybe you can tell me what brought the uniforms to me so quickly, without a detective leading the charge. An anonymous tip from a pay phone maybe?”
Cain noticed Wright's eyes narrow as her gaze went into infinity. Her abstracted air was a sign that the gears in her mind were whirling at high velocity. He suspected she was actually considering the remote possibility that he was innocent.
“You're telling me this was a copy-cat crime?” she asked.
He shrugged. “All I know is the guy you want is still out there and he's going to kill again.”
“How's your one-armed man supposed to know about you in connection with the murders, in order to set you up?” Wright asked. Your name was never released to the press or the media as a person of interest. The killer would need access to official records to plant the sword on you.”
Cain thought about the bald tattooed man he'd seen following Detective Wright from the coffee house earlier. “Either that,” Cain said, “or you've been careless, letting yourself be tailed by the killer as you investigated me of all people.”
Wright's eyes flashed with anger. She growled low in her throat. Cain thought for a second she was going to punch him in the face for suggesting she was anything less than perfect in the performance of her duty. Her face relaxed as the urge passed. “Maybe,” she grudgingly conceded.
Incredible, Cain thought, a completely honest response. I so did not expect that.
The door opened and a uniformed officer appeared. He looked at Iris. “Detective Wright, there’s a lady here who says she’s his lawyer. She’s demanding to see him.”
Mention of a female lawyer triggered Cain’s memory. His brain disgorged a vision of a woman with pinned back, dark red hair, and reading glasses that failed to obscure eyes of dazzling emerald. She had a busty figure and pinched waist that revealed an addiction to strenuous work-outs. He’d often fantasized about taking
“Let her in,” Wright said.
The officer withdrew. Moments later, the legal Amazon appeared. She wore an evening gown that clung in faithful adoration to every dangerous curve. Cain had all he could do not to drool on the desk. Apparently, she’d been out on the town when word reached her that he was here. Just how word reached her so fast was a minor mystery.
“That’s your lawyer?” Wright asked. “Why am I surprised? I know you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Cain said. “I didn’t do it, and that’s all I’ve told them, except for my movements which they’re checking on now.”
The door opened. Detective Coleman entered, his face abandoned to glowering disappointment until he noticed
“Small-fry’s lawyer,” Wright said. “What have you got?”
Colema