Chapter 8

The line of duty draws people to far off lands. I think the Army used something like that in an ad campaign. I had dreams of war journalism once, but to do that calls for war. Did the French freedom fighters think that what they were doing was noble? Surely they must have or else they wouldn’t have been doing it. Could they have seen themselves in a romantic nature? Could they have perceived a society in which violence, oppression, sacrifice, and death would be viewed in that sort of light? I doubt it. But then again, this tiny Texas motel room would be hard-pressed to be viewed as romantic. I’m probably trying too hard to make anything out of this. But who knew it would be this cold in Texas?

Old Sammy

December 5, 2000

Interstate 35

A few miles north of Austin, Texas

It was dusk. The setting sun beyond the Texas horizon cast long shadows and an orange glow. A pair of eyes, crows footed and hard, were focused off into the distance, locked onto the parking lot of a small gas station and convenience store. Bare hands brought up a pair of heavy black binoculars from the shooting blanket and placed them to those small, cold, hard eyes. As the convenience store parking lot came into focus a smile crept across the soon-to-be assassin’s face. An old, battered Ford F-250 hunkered towards the store; the cab was filled with farm hands tired from a day’s work.

Gabriel had been lying there, nestled down into the tall grass on top of a shooting blanket, for quite sometime. Even with a layer of polypropylene, he couldn’t deny the cold that had sunk deep into the Northerner’s bones. The cold aided in the lurking, sluggish feeling from the Inderal he’d taken nearly an hour prior. Gabriel shifted his weight to one elbow and reached back to draw the stock of the .30-06 rifle into his shoulder. Those small cold eyes never left the convenience store parking lot, never left the truck, never left the unknowing. With his eyes locked half a kilometer away, the hunter’s hands worked without thought, chambering the round and removing the covers from the scope.

Through the scrutiny of the rifle’s scope the scene was much brighter. The parking lot lights had come on and made the features of the tired hired hands starker, casting shadows under their chins, in the sockets of their eyes, and under the brims of their hats. The group of workers, five in all, gathered around the tailgate of the old battered Ford. A suitcase of Natural Ice was open and cans had been handed out all around.

The soon-to-be assassin’s shoulders moved ever so slightly as a small breath slid between lips barely parted. Thump. Gabriel’s pulse was soft, his heart beat slow and regular, his body steady, almost sedentary from the chill. The natural pause of bodily movements came and went following his slight inhale, that slight breath finding its way back out. The crosshairs of the riflescope fell down from the head of a worker, fell with his ever so slight exhale, and coming to rest on the hood of a second car. Thump. A second slow, measured, breath hissed between teeth closed, but not clamped, and the rifle sight rose, bearing once again onto a baseball capped head. As Gabriel’s body paused, waiting to exhale, the index finger of his right hand squeezed back towards his palm.

The red mess splattered against the store window, filling in the spider webs of the Plexiglas as quickly as they formed. The round had passed through the worker’s head even before the report had reached his comrades.

Thump. Gabriel’s right hand left the trigger well, and pulled the charging handle to the rear. Thump. The body dropped to the ground, completing a half-spin from where the worker had been leaning against the side of the pickup truck. Thump. The handle found itself forward once again; a new round sat chambered and waiting. The familiar scent of spent powder reached Gabriel while he inhaled and acquired a second target – a man who had just realized his co-worker had been shot. Gabriel could see the panic and surreal state of misunderstanding spread across his face.

The second shot rang out loud against the wide-open Texas field.

December 6, 2000

Austin, Texas

Jules didn’t know what he was doing. Nothing made any sense and for a while now he had stopped trying to even figure life out. A gun. The bloody thing weighed so much more than they seemed to in the movies. And what’s worse, Jules was only vaguely aware of how to use the damn thing. For now it just sat there, a large dead weight on his hip and inside his coat. Coat, who knew Austin would be this cold?

The streets were crowded in downtown Austin. The holiday shopping season was rapidly drawing to a close so it was not difficult to guess the majority of everyone’s motives. But all their bloody bags did make it hard to move. All Jules had to do was find one Golem and one human, both of whom should stick out immensely here, and stop them from stopping an assassination.

Jules was having a hard time with the entire situation. This was not something he ever pictured himself doing. Jules McCleary was a vice president of a major fashion company, not someone who would kill two others because of a situation he was blackmailed into. And yet what other choice did he really have? Better them than him, right? If Ken Morrison was killed the Golems might be exposed. The Golems. The situation would be better than if Ken Morrison isn’t killed. Jules McCleary would certainly be exposed then.

Jules shivered and wanted to vomit and curl up into a little ball all at the same time. A passing head of hair, salt and peppered dark and gray, found Jules about to pull a gun on an old lady. The Siren stopped himself when he found he was mumbling something about needing a drink. The street sign said 17^th and Guadalupe, but it was Arturo’s Bakery and Café that drew Jules. A perfect hand reached out and opened the door and Jules walked into a room filled with a hundred different scents, each screaming warmth and broadcasting comfort.

* * *

“Why does this city have to be so damn big?” Old Sammy was talking to himself and he knew it. But he looked at George who was decked out in his black leather shield of a coat and knit stocking cap. As the human’s eyes found their way up to the Golem’s dark glasses, he noticed the intent stare fixed onto the doorway. “Expecting company?”

“It’d be too easy if he were to just walk in here.” The words, barely a mumble, weren’t exactly intended for human ears.

“Eh?”

“Nothing.”

Sammy shrugged off George’s generic cold demeanor and turned to reach for his coffee. While reaching though, his attention found a Siren in line at the counter.

“Jules?”

* * *

The skin crawled on the back of his neck as Jules swore he just heard his name called out. From his spot in the line, he turned and almost fainted at the sight that beheld him. Seated against the wall were Old Sammy and George Pruent. The Siren stopped his hand, the pistol’s rough grip brushed against a sole fingertip. That sole fingertip instead exuded that Siren cool and raised itself, signaling that Jules was “going to be a minute.”

“What do you suppose he’s doing here?” Sammy slid the question out of the corner of his mouth.

“You’re crippled friend probably sent him.” George yawned out his reply and reached for his coffee. It was very black, very bitter, and very fitting.

Outside he might have been the picture of cool, calm, and collected, but the Siren was barely able to give the server his order. The moments dripped by as coffee percolated and the room about him brimmed with chatter that seemed to buzz into Jules’ mind. They know. They saw my hand move. They saw the gun. My cover is blown. Damn it, don’t lose it now Jules. A cup of coffee was delivered and broke the near-insanity that had seized and surged through Jules like a heavy dosage of electricity. With java in hand, the Siren made his way to the table, his pistol weighing a metric ton on his hip. Not here. He couldn’t kill the two of them in a public place. That would be spelling Jules’ own doom. I must play this smart, must play it safe. With all the cool that he could muster, Jules sat down at the table. Come on now, I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and that damn assassination could be tomorrow. These two have to die soon.

“I’m glad to finally find you two,” Jules quipped as he seated himself.

“Tell me you’ve got good news.” Sammy, despite the false elderly appearance of his greying hair, betrayed actual youth. Were George not such a stone, Jules thought he might have seen him wince at that.

“Tell me you’ve got a place to stay. I just got in this morning.” Jules sipped at his coffee. It might seem cliché, but a hotel slaying would give him plenty of time to dispose of the bodies. Jules McCleary commits double murder in a Texas Motel. The mental headline almost gagged him. It was in such bad taste and so frighteningly close to reality.

“It’s not up to your standards.” Jules and Sammy both seemed taken back that the Golem had even spoken.

“Are you saying I’m not invited?” One of the Perfect One’s eyebrows arched to emphasize the question.

“No, he’s trying to tell you that we are staying at the Motel 6 just out of town.”

“Oh.” A few seconds of uncomfortable silence settled onto the trio. Sammy tinkered with his coffee and Jules was busy picturing the remainder of the newspaper article that would surely haunt him. I’m going to have to flee to Europe. “So I take it you two haven’t gotten very far? Anywhere?”

“It’s a big damn city.”

“Are you sure this guy even showed up?”

“Yes.” Again, two pairs of slightly shocked eyes turned towards the Golem.

“How?”

George didn’t answer. From inside his coat he pulled out a newspaper. Squeezed onto the front page, and into a corner dedicated to news other than the recount in Florida, was a headline that read, “Two Killed in Sniper-style Shootings.”

“That’s him? You’re certain?” Jules didn’t know if the sign of proof was a relief or a bad thing. George didn’t even nod; cool as granite, he sipped his coffee.

December 7, 2000

3:38am CST

Austin, Texas

Sweat covered Jules’ body as he continued to stare into the darkness of the room. It wasn’t large, but due to all the media in the area, the decision had been made that Jules staying with Sammy and George would just be easier. He could see their bodies barely illuminated by thin shafts of light that cut from the hall outside and through the curtains that never seemed to shut all the way. In his hand, the steel of the pistol was heavy and seemed oddly cold. Jules looked down at the black firearm, looked down at the key that would open a gate and send him on his way to safety. All he had to do was turn the key. All he had to do was kill two people. A finger wrapped about the trigger as the pistol was levelled off at a sleeping, unsuspecting shape. Click! Jules’ heart was bashing out a thousand beats per minute. Nothing had happened. He had pulled the trigger and the bloody thing just went click.

Images of a thousand TV shows and movies and what the guy who loaded the thing had done flowed through Jules’ mind. A shaky, trembling hand reached up and pulled back on the slide, but his slick fingers couldn’t mount the force to bring it all the way to the rear. Jules cursed and put the grip of the pistol between his knees and with both hands pried the slide as far back as it would go, a grunt of effort accompanied the click of the slide returning forward. One of the bodies, one of people sleeping moved, just tossing, but Jules wasn’t going to take any chances. A toss found the pistol landing beneath a couch pillow.

In a mental fury Jules got up. His fingers wove into his perfect hair, (tussled as it was), and he began a quick, jerky, pacing about the room. The bodies had long since settled down into silence before Jules noticed. He was simply too shaken to continue. His chest was visibly heaving, those thin shafts of light spilling through the curtain had turned the layer of sweat to a sheen over his skin, skin so perfect that it seemed fake. The Siren reached about in the near darkness and found a black silk shirt. He tossed it on, sans undershirt, and managed to stuff the heavy dark pistol into his pants waistline. Dress shoes were pulled on as well before the Siren disappeared out into the frosty Texas night.

“I thought Texas was supposed to be warm year round.” The door hadn’t yet closed behind him when a passer-by greeted Jules.

“Huh?” He hadn’t noticed the cold, hadn’t noticed that his sweat had rapidly cooled and was torturing his skin. “Yeah…me too.” The conversation was trivial, over even before it started as Jules stared blankly at the back of a man composed of sinew and rawhide and wrapped in a parka and walking down the motel sidewalk with a cup of coffee in hand. His eyes stuck out to Jules, they were small, crow footed almost like a cowboy. But it didn’t matter. Jules shuffled down the sidewalk in the direction that the cowboy had come from; it seemed as good a direction as any in the numbed state of disarray that the Siren’s world had become.

* * *

In order to survive you, I must first survive myself. The words meant more now to Jules McCleary than perhaps any other ever had. The last nine days had taught Jules more about himself than perhaps he ever wanted to know. He learned just how close he could come to killing in cold blood. No, worse than killing in cold blood, killing to save him from something that might possibly happen. He had walked up to that edge, he had taken a good look down that path, he had held the gun, and he had looked down its barrel and saw what was going to become of him. He couldn’t do it. His fear of the Hatters’ Guild, of this Old World society that had the power to make him dance, had given him shears, shears that cut away the strings and left Jules McCleary as no one’s puppet. Instead he did what he knew what he must do deep down all along. He aided in the search. This wasn’t about Jules McCleary any longer. This wasn’t a Siren situation. This wasn’t a Golem fight. Holding that gun had rid Jules of any illusions he had had, and smeared the lines between races to the point where they needn’t even exist any longer. The way of the gun had turned Jules McCleary into a born-again.

Jules turned his drive away from the Hatters’ Guild to the situation at hand in Austin. It was a big city and slowly but surely all aspects were presented before Jules.

“With a needle in a haystack you at least have the advantage of knowing you’re looking for a needle.”

“Right…here we’re banging around blindly and hoping we find someone announcing on a street corner that he is being paid to kill a man.”

“You’ve got a gift for words.” The Golem had a gift for sarcasm. He was almost as dry as any Brit could hope to be.

“That means a lot coming from you George.”

December 12, 2000

The news hit CNN late. The Gore camp had finally conceded and tomorrow victory and concession speeches would be given from respective parties. Four individuals in Austin, Texas were particularly stirred by the announcement. The hour of their action was rapidly drawing near. Seconds now became vital.

December 13, 2000

7:34am CST

Austin, Texas

Old Sammy caught the news report first. He’d made it a habit of keeping CNN on at all times, and it finally paid off.

“Get up! Right now. We don’t have time to lose.”

“Sammy, you’re age is showing.”

“Damn it George, I don’t care. Gore is conceding today. We have to find out where Bush’s speech is going to be and get there.”

“I’m up.”

“Jules!”

“Bloody hell Sammy. I have to make myself up. I can’t go out into public otherwise.”

“I don’t think the ladies’ll care man.”

“It’s not about the ladies, Sammy. It’s about mankind. You forget, if we don’t powder and put in contacts and a great many other tricks that we’ve acquired over the past hundreds of years we stick out. In a crowd, eyes would just be drawn to us. Waldo has it easy. They’ll be cameras there. Heaven forbid one scans the audience and pulls me out.”

“Save your speeches then and put your damn powder on. I’ll start the car.” Sammy tossed his coat on and grabbed the keys to the rental car. Outside it was crisp, cool, but the sun was up. Sammy would always remember that it was a Wednesday. Wrapped in his own condensation he weaved in between parked cars and found theirs. The interior was cold but Sammy was too alive to realize it. He slammed the key into the ignition, starting the motor and gunning the heat out of habit. A quick spin of the radio dial revealed the news during this commercial break and on that morning show. It was really happening.

Sammy waited in the car for the Golem and the Siren; he waited, but not well. His fingers drummed at the steering wheel, glanced at and contemplated sounding the horn, and changed the radio station at least two dozen times before he saw the door open and the Golem and Siren broke into the morning air. The two moved in a huddled collective, apparently not in as much a rush as their human counterpart.

“Where to?” Jules said as he slid into the back seat. It had been established that since George was paying for the car he rode shotgun.

“The Capitol Complex. Bush’ll speak from there.”

“Any time when?”

“My guess is it’ll be before noon.”

“Good, swing by McDonalds. I’d kill for an Egg McMuffin right now.”

* * *

Old Sammy wasn’t the only one who had taken to the habit of sleeping with the 24-hour news stations on. The man who’d taken to calling himself Gabriel had awoken to the news at around five that morning. Since then, he’d taken his time carefully inspecting every aspect of his operation. Maps were poured over again, for an already countless time. Gabriel knew the routes of the security guards about the John H. Regan building by heart. He’d even snuck into it a time or two disguised as a janitor. His rifle was cleaned already, but it was inspected with a cotton swab and then oiled. Each round was looked over with a magnifying glass, any with the slightest dings or dents or cracks were discarded. Gabriel would settle for nothing less than perfection.

The news rolled across the television behind him and announced that Bush would be addressing the nation from the steps of the Capitol building in Austin that morning at ten. Gabriel looked at clock. It was 8:28 am. He was cutting it close. Gabriel consulted his Inderal time sheet, he’d assembled it himself, and he knew the entire thing by heart, but he checked out of habit. Dosage, time to manifest, duration of affects: they were all there, neat and orderly. He’d have to pop his pills in fifteen minutes if he wanted the affect to be right. Until then, Gabriel busily loaded his grey Geo Metro with rifle, change of clothes, his suitcases, and then turned his key in at the drop box. They’d charge him an extra day for that, but he was about to get the remainder of his money. He was about to be a rich man. Gabriel dry-swallowed the pills as he zipped up his janitor jumpsuit. Before the car door was even shut, he was driving off towards the Capital Complex. The clock in the car said it was 9:02 am.

George, Sammy, and Jules arrived on the scene at 9:15 am and already a circus had formed. Media vans from various local affiliates and a couple of the major news services were on hand dotting the landscape with antennas and isolated bubbles of camera, crew, and broadcaster. Milling about were groups of people, some ready to hear what they believed would be history, others were constituents, and still others were there in support of the Republican Party.

“So now what?” Sammy asked the Golem and the Siren as they stood near the trunk of the car.

“He’s using a rifle, so we have to find any place that a rifle could be shot from and…find anyone with a rifle…” George just stopped, as from behind his dark sunglasses white eyes took in the various buildings that seemed to form a ring about the rolling green lawn, which sprawled in front of the Capital Building.

“There’s about a million places he could shoot from. Hell, he could be in that crowd somewhere.”

His janitor jumpsuit gave everyone reason to not pay attention to him. The eyes of the average American, even the eyes of an inquisitive American, just looked over the servant class, but for Gabriel that was the intended reaction. He casually pushed a cart down the halls of the John H. Reagan building as he made his way towards a previously decided upon room. He knew he wanted one from the center, it would make it that much harder for the shot to be zeroed in on. His small, crow footed eyes didn’t drift nervously down to the cart; they didn’t look to where his rifle was hidden. His hands weren’t sweating, and his heart was beating at a racehorse pace. Inderal. It almost wasn’t fair.

Gabriel wasn’t thinking about fair or not as he pried open the door into the office. His sinewy neck strained as he leaned his head through the doors and made sure that the room was unoccupied. A quick check of his digital Timex showed him it was 9:47 am, almost show time. Those lips slipped into a slight smile and the theme song from Gilligan’s Isle could be heard, hummed faintly. With the door closed and locked behind him, the man who called himself Gabriel cleared off the desk next to the window, building himself a platform as clear and stable as possible. All I need is two shots. One, two, buckle my shoe… The world seemed oddly calm, as if this was all so simple, so scripted. Half a kilometer away, a click they call ‘em in the military, half a click away and below, the crowd had fully assembled at the steps of the Capitol building, black dots of suit-clad figures could be seen scurrying about the stage.

“…And the tiny ship was tossed, yes the tiny ship was tossed…” The sound of his own voice shocked him a bit, though he didn’t jump, no, the soon to be assassin was as calm as Death. His rifle and firing blanket were both lain out on the table just before the window. A crude ledge of books had been stacked up to serve as a rest for the rifle, a rest that the long, blackened weapon was set on. 9:58 am.

* * *

“Damn it.” Sammy cursed as he turned about in a small circle just on the fringe of the crowd. “Where the hell could he be?” Jules and George had both split off and were looking about the buildings that rung the lawn about the Capitol and sent Sammy here to scan the crowed, in the event that the assassin had changed that part of the plan. Nothing had changed. Sammy didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Deep down inside he could feel it, feel it draw his eyes to the various windows and rooftops as his futile search wore down in the final minutes before the speech was to start. An announcer stepped up to the microphone on the stage and announced to all that “Ladies and gentlemen, the 43^rd President of the United States.”

* * *

<>Thump.



With the rifle tucked into his shoulder, Gabriel’s pulse sounded that much louder, his breathing amplified. He had the best seat in the house as he lay across the desk and peered through the scope of the rifle. Beyond him, beyond the glass, and looking just as he had in the pictures, stood, beaming like a father, Ken Morrison.

<>Thump.



A slight pivot on his elbows set the remainder of the scene before Gabriel. He’d been hesitant about looking at the sniper teams, he didn’t know how, but people seemed to know when you were looking at them. It was simply too great of a risk.

<>Thump.



Hard and smooth, like wind-cleaved granite, Gabriel returned the rifle to Ken Morrison, pausing momentarily on the newly announced President Elect. Morrison had gotten dressed up today, a nice, very black, very business-like suit, and a tie that was not too festive, but not considerably conservative either. He’d shaved this morning.

<>Thump.



Gabriel had checked twice. His heart rate, that thumping that seemed so loud he could almost hear it, was beating at a steady, and conservative, 45 beats per minute. His breathing was slow and shallow; Gabriel barely noticed the sight picture change as he inhaled.

<>Thump. Crack!



Screams accompanied the spray of red. Sammy spun about in a circle, frantic, his eyes shot to where he thought the sound had come from. It had been so far away.

The race had begun. In a world of fog, Gabriel’s hand reached back, and wrapped about the charging handle.

Thump.

The bolt clicked back and the expended brass flipped end of over end, seemingly in slow motion. It was all too easy. The bolt clicked soundly forward, Gabriel knew by the feel that the round was seated perfectly. His body adjusted about the rifle, finding itself relaxed, and looked into the scope for that second shot.

Thump.

The scene on the other side of the rifle’s scope was a mad house. The Secret Service Men seemed to be moving in slow motion. Each of their rapid strides seemed to be churning water as Gabriel’s hand found the trigger. Killing a man is easy. Killing two men, therein lies the challenge.

Thump. Crack!

Horror rode in the wake of the second bullet. It missed and struck the podium below the President Elect’s feet. The scene had exploded into a mass of fury before Ken Morrison’s body had struck the ground. Secret Service agents were running this way and that, yelling orders and brandishing an assortment of weapons. From several rooftops long-rifle teams turned to hone in on the John H. Reagan building and a shot rang out, shattering a third floor window.

The round grazed the shoulder of the assassin as he had been reaching back to chamber a third shot of his own. It burned like Hell, and gritting his teeth against the pain, he managed the bolt forward. But what he saw through the rifle’s scope proved the shot pointless. Bush was gone, the scene was cleared, and now it was time for Gabriel to escape to a life of riches. He dropped the rifle where it lay and headed for the door. He didn’t even notice his hand clutching at his shoulder, stemming the blood from the long, deep bullet gash.

His head was spinning faster than his body would allow him to move, and it was seriously hampering Gabriel’s progress down the office hall that just seemed to keep getting longer and longer. His heart tried as hard as it could to pump faster, to supply oxygen to all of his muscles, to aid in his escape. It simply couldn’t, the beta-blocker that had allowed the second shot had ruined any thought of escape. Getting shot was not part of the plan.

* * *

“Start the car now.” George didn’t raise his voice as the three of them clamored into the vehicle. They’d agreed to meet here just in case something like this had happened. Sammy slammed the thing in reverse and they all knew that it was time to flee the scene. They all knew that the world had just been changed, and only tomorrow would tell just how much.

Chapter 7

Sometimes in life things are done just to prove a point. Sometimes those points are a noble, higher cause; others the point is one that no one else can see. But regardless, at each occasion a line in the sand is drawn, and some risk all solely for the sake of defending that line. Admirable stands often reflect that, it’s a recurring trend in history and Hollywood alike. The Alamo Complex, the reason to fight outweighing even the value of one’s own life. Very rarely does one actually rise to those levels in reality, but I’ve come to the conclusion that Nathan Wilde has. I’ve come to admire his Alamo Complex and I’m now proud to help him defend his line. We’ve been talking a great deal recently, and his ideas are both on target and infectious. He’s given so much to this fight already that it seems to make all that’s happened to me seem almost inconsequential. And yet he remains so strong.

Old Sammy

November 29, 2000

2:30 AM

Townsquare Shopping Center

It was supposed to be a mutual meeting, two old professionals exchanging information on ground that belonged to neither. That had been the premise anyway but that wasn’t how it felt to George Pruent as breath heated by anger pulled harshly at that Marlboro Red’s filter. The cigarette wasn’t helping the Golem regain his normal composure – the polished, unforgiving, granite that had made him both popular and feared in the ranks of those serving the Golem council. No, the smoke tasted bitter the moment it seeped between his shark-like teeth, not to mention as it left a burning haze marking his passage.

Mentally George put the whole situation on the board: what he knew, what he wanted everyone else to know, what anyone else could possibly know, and then he looked at that from every possible angle. Nathan Wilde was bluffing. It was the only viable conclusion. Nathan had been cut off from his network of informants; he was in a state of exile and that was no secret. George’s own eyes had told him that much. Further more, there were none who could have ratted out George’s plan. No one knew the truth, or anymore of the truth than smallest, most controlled fractions. George’s web of deception only went as far as necessary, which was in essence the Council of Elders, everyone else was left in the dark, blissful in their ignorance. No, Nathan Wilde was pulling at straws and George was certain of it. But on the first try George had jumped, like a puppet to its master.

* * *

“Are you certain that he’ll show?”

“Positive. We picked a winner, that message gave him one hell of a scare.”

“How are you so certain?”

“He responded. Were we wrong he could have brushed us off. He wouldn’t have even bothered to respond. Had he needed more time he would have perhaps led us astray by baiting us with anger and acceptance, gradually mind you, so that he could do whatever behind the scenes work that he’s doing. But he did neither of those, in a sudden lose of composure he contacted me almost immediately.”

“What makes you so certain that he just won’t show up and kill us?”

“Lady, I never walk into a room I don’t know how to get out of,”

“DeNiro, Ronin.” Sammy looked unimpressed as he levelled his gaze off at the wheel chair bound Golem. “Well. Gonna quote another flick or actually start explaining.”

Spinning his wheelchair to face Old Sammy, Nathan returned that level gaze with his own, pure white eyes. “I’m going to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Sammy tossed up his hands, signing surrender. “You’ve got as much knowledge of the situation as I do. Pruent will know that. That makes you just as valuable as I. He’d have to kill both of us.”

“Didn’t I just ask something along those lines a few seconds ago?” The sarcasm and no-nonsense attitude was quite appropriate especially in consideration of the early morning hour. Sammy wasn’t seeing along the same thought line as the crippled Golem.

“You’re leaving. If I don’t call you within the next two hour go to Austin, go to the Feds, do whatever you think you need to do. I’ll use the word Christmas somewhere in the conversation to signal everything’s alright.” Nathan paused, giving weight to the serious of the situation. “Just in case.”

Sammy had opened his mouth to argue only to have a lone, long, nearly clawed Golem finger raised in silent protest.

“You haven’t time to argue Sammy. He’ll be here in mere moments. Killing me without you is pointless.”

“Or a step in the right direction.”

“Well then you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Those are the words of a guilty man.”

“Go.”

* * *

The casual observer wouldn’t have seen the sparks flying from harshly swung swords; wouldn’t have seen the meeting for what it was – a battle between the best in their field. This was a game, not of chess, but of poker, and it was played with chips far more valuable than could ever be put on a table. The two giants squared off in the wall-to-wall concrete room. The room was doted with boxes, crates, and exposed duct and electrical work. Barren white eyes locked upon each other from amidst dreadlock-framed faces. Barely four paces stretched between wheel chair and the hand that George Pruent had placed against the doorway in order to support his casual, intimidating lean.

Both players had been dealt their cards. George Pruent slipped into the room, forcing his icy façade in place as much as possible; fear told him that he was already giving away too much. Fear was right.

“Whose side are you on in all of this George?” The first cast was far above ante. The wheelchair-bound Golem was looking to end this as quickly as possible.

“I take by your question that we’re dispensing with formalities and that this meeting is not officially sanctioned.” George ground the filter of his cigarette into the ground only to light up another with the metallic click of a Zippo lighter opening and shutting in a quick cadence.

“Were you going to issue a complaint otherwise?”

“What are you going to do in Austin, Nathan?”

Silence. Thick, heavy, silence. It settled onto the room like a fire blanket, spreading a wave of suffocating nothingness. George flicked at the filter of his cigarette with his thumb, sending the fine gray ashes to drift down to the floor.

“Whose side are you on George?”

“Sides? Where are you seeing “sides” here Nathan? This isn’t a sports game; it’s not a black or white scenario. There’s a great deal more going on that you know of, my hunted comrade.”

“You’re right.” Nathan conceded with a long few seconds pause, “It’s not a sport. More aptly it’s war leading to genocide. You’ve got an assassin who’s gone rogue out to kill a human wholly removed from our situation.” Nathan paused again, his cards were about to fall onto the table and he wanted to allow the other Golem one last attempt at redemption. George sat silent, still, a long draw from his cigarette the only sign of life. “And I intend to stop him. It won’t go down like this Pruent.”

“You’re not in a position to act Nathan. You’ve been severed from your contacts, cut off from the Golem people and you know that if you go back you’re dead. You’ve absolutely no leverage in this situation.”

“It doesn’t matter what leverage I have. What matters is that you’re too afraid to act. You’re not ready yet, all your bases aren’t covered and the fear of failure is looming over you and it’s making you sick. So, if you’re not going to stop this it’s up to me then.”

“You’ve lost your mind along with the use of your legs-,”

“I’ve lost everything including the same inhibitions that are keeping you from acting right now. George, you must learn to clean up your own messes. And this has the potential to be the biggest mess that any of us have ever seen.”

George’s haunting white eyes squinted shut and the cigarette rose and fell from his lips twice before his words rode out on the escaping smoke. His cards simply weren’t as good as Nathan’s and he knew it. He’d been riding out a bluff only to have it called, only to have to admit to both Nathan and himself that he, George Pruent, had made a mistake, that he was wrong.

“I’ll leave as soon as possible.”

“You’ll need help. Disguises can only get people like you and I so many places.”

A solid glare was leveled off with the eyes of the wheelchair bound Golem. The last few seconds had cleared the air in the room significantly but George Pruent wasn’t about to let himself be walked all over.

“No. Out of the question. You’re insane. I work alone.”

“George, don’t be a fool. He’s helpful. How do you think I came to the conclusion of Austin?”

“Who is he?”

“Just a ‘hack,’ I believe that’s the term. He used to work for the Washington Post.”

“Good lord.”

November 30, 2000/December 1, 2000

New York City

The ornate cup sat next to the Siren with the sharp English features, two thirds of its contents gone and Jules could already feel the affects of the brew. The entire world about the Siren had taken on a hazed, slow, dream-like sense. Jules leaned back further into the sofa, his arms spread out along its top, and allowed his head to lull back in enjoyment.

Glancing from the corner of his eye Jules caught sight of a friend…he knew the guy…his name was just on the tip of his tongue.

“They’ve got one of these in every city man, kinda like post offices.”

Jules shook his head and caused stray locks to brush against his ears and forehead, the subtle touch sent near orgasmic bliss rippling through him. Barely regaining a semblance of composure Jules returned his attention to his friend.

“It’s got to be this drink, ‘cause you’re not making any bloody sense.” Jules was lucky to finish his sentence, for as he was speaking his own tongue brushed against his lips and gave reason for his head to once again lull back in joy.

Glass double doors parted and, in pairs, women of immaculate beauty drifted into the room, the induced mists made them seem to float inside. Each one was a fantasy, filling the room with eyes pleading for pleasure and forms that were clothed only enough to entice nearly to the point of pain.

The perfect eyes of Jules McCleary peered through the fogged, surreal room. The hunger of his eyes was unabashed as they picked their way through the women who dripped with perfection, and landing markedly on a single form that seemed, without moving, to have cut a path through the crowd and the shifting, drifting clouds alike. Jules’ eyes met with those of a dark haired beauty. She lifted forward one lithe, slight, pale, and bare arm, and with the beckoning curl of a finger nearly pulled Jules from his seat.

“Come,” she said, “let me gaze into my eyes.”

Jules found his feet beneath him before he realized that had already stood up. Fingers brushed against his skin and sent bliss abounding that before would have left Jules stranded in pleasure. Instead he parted the women and continued on to the pale one who beckoned so powerfully, yet with such ease.

“Your eyes?” The situation had yet to make sense to Jules, but she – whoever she was – was a spot of clarity amongst a room that seemed removed, murky, and distant. “Who are you?” He tried to smile against the powerful, urgent, animal draw that the woman had over him.

“They say I’m the first ray of darkness that marks the sunset and star-rise. I’m what you wish for, I am called Areiea.”

“You’re who?” The fogged, distant sensation seemed to multiply tenfold, leaving just Jules and the simply, silk smock clad woman. His perfect eyes found themselves suddenly staring into hers, found themselves staring into eyes so crystalline blue that they made even stammering out those two words a significant task.

“I’ll never tell you again.” She paused, a half smirk set upon her face. Her eyes drifted down, Jules attention followed it only to see that at some point their hands had joined. She turned and looked over that lithe, pale, bare shoulder. “Come.”

Jules was led, helpless, into another room occupied by another: a woman, a redhead lounging on a couch.

“Wait here till I come for you.” Her small hand leaving his was a quite sudden shock, the sudden loss of contact nearly unbearable. In withdrawal Jules watched that dark, tight pony tail mix into the shadow of the hall and the glow of pale skin carry on that much further, only to simply disappear from sight in entirety. The fog was heavier than ever in her absence. The sense of removal was both dramatic and quickly lost as a hand reached up from behind, the fingertips brushing across his chest. A second hand traveled around his hip only to slip down the front of his trousers. Suddenly the English Siren found himself very occupied.

The couch was swimming with ecstasy and motion when Jules suddenly felt a looming presence in the doorway. The dark hair, the pale face, those crystal blue eyes, they all swam, reveled with dismay, with hurt.

“Areiea, wait.” Jules called out with a gasp as one hand reached futilely after her. The red haired woman was left to the couch, abandoned to once again become a denizen of the mist. Through the world of fog and timeless reality, Jules chased after the dream-eyed wonder. He longed for her presence; her touch was an instant addiction. Her skin was a drug.

A corner was turned to find the woman, Areiea, standing before a room not filled with couches and sofas but one strung with pale lengths of silken streamers and a canopied bed. The very sight of the room mixed and mingled with the hazy world in a more than surreal manner.

Once again her hands found his and back peddling she drew Jules to the bed, his eyes unable to leave hers. Every moment was utter ecstasy for him, the touch of her fingers and lips; the brush of her hair; warm and smooth; her breath caressing against his skin.

As morning came the fog finally began to clear. She lay there next to him, serene, asleep. One of her pale arms and the lithe pale shoulder that it led to lay atop the creamy white sheets and offered the eye a startling contrast to the dark waves that spilled behind her head and those delicately shaped brows that drew attention to closed eyes. Dream eyes. Wolf eyes.

Jules gathered up his clothes and stumbled to find his friend, Mathew something or another. Mathew: friend, guide, key to the Manhattan Sollale.

“I must thank you for showing me this place. I’ve got to find one back home.”

“You are back home. That drink must have had a damn dramatic affect on you.”

Jules brushed the comment off, still too elated to hear. “I was with the most amazing woman last night. Areiea, the first ray of darkness as the sun sets.”

“There’s something you might want to know about her.”

“What?” Jules laughed as his attention shifted from the ceiling to his friend. “Is she fifteen or something?” Jules was laughing at the obvious absurdity, his friend wasn’t.

“Fourteen actually. I tried to tell you last night but you were too gone.”

December 2, 2000

Austin, Texas

It was with quick, brisk strides that Gabriel moved down the sidewalk to his still inhabited room at the Motel 6 just outside of Austin. He hadn’t intended on staying here nearly this long, now he should have been out of the hotel nearly three weeks ago, but the payment had been large, and was only the first half. Just like in the movies, and with all common sense the way it should be when trust is not included in the bargain, the second half of the payment would be received after the fact, after the act.

That mattered little and it weighed less on the mind of the one who called himself Gabriel. No, what really mattered was the rather plain manila envelope with the bulbous bulge softened by an the interior lining of bubble wrap.

A quick flick from a small Columbia River brand, folding knife sliced the end of the envelope, passing through the Mexican-based address. Inderal. Ah, the Internet did make some things a great deal simpler. The bottle rested in the intended-assassin’s hands, small, crow-footed eyes passed along the plain, just-off-white plastic to the label that seemed to aspire to be average, falling onto the directions there.

The plastic safety shrink-wrap removed from the neck and cap of the bottle, tossed in shreds into the same general vicinity as the haplessly discarded envelope. Cotton wadding was added to the heap as Gabriel let his eyes fall to the tiny 30mg beta-blocker. The pill was dry-swallowed and left the assassin sitting, waiting, performing a rather important test.

December 2, 2000

10:00 AM EST

Alexandria, Virginia

Old Sammy shivered visibly as he left the Amtrak station with a fog of his own condensation wrapping about him. His steps were brisk, if not blatantly hurried, as made his way to the running car and its heated interior.

“Good lord it’s cold out.”

George Pruent simply sat there, cleverly disguised in a leather jacket that sheathed him down to mid thigh and a black watch cap holding in his long, protruding Golem ears and forcing his mass of dread-locks into a pseudo-tail. He didn’t give Sammy the benefit of a response; instead he tapped his fingers along the steering wheel and turned away from the human. Companionship was obviously unwanted.

“Isn’t it risky to travel under your actual name?” George turned to face Sammy, forcing the human’s speech to turn into a broken stammer. “I mean…that is…your name…right?”

His wistful sigh was almost unnoticeable as it slipped between the Golem’s shark-like teeth. But before the slightest of sighs had registered as actually happening George broke his stone façade, exchanging it for an icy tone. “Because that’s what my ID says, and that’s what I’m used to. Deviation from the norm is what gets people caught.” The Golem’s thin, elongated fingers wrapped around his ticket and through dark sun-glassed eyes he once-overed the information.

The pair boarded the train just after eleven in the morning and set off heading mostly north towards their change over at 30^th Street in Philadelphia. From there they would head west to Chicago, and then the final, grueling twenty-six hour stretch to Austin itself. At least on the last leg they had secured themselves a Standard class two-man room. With his gaze drifting out the window George reclined his chair the bit that it would allow him. The were at least riding in Business class, he had insisted on that much, and since the trip was being picked up through Golem funds the human didn’t have much room to argue. George needed his space, he normally could tolerate people, even the occasional human or forbid a Siren, but…it had to be the purpose of the trip, a cruel twist of fate that gave George Pruent two and a half days to sit and realize that he had screwed up, and that now he had to fix it, somehow. It was going to be a very long trip.

December 2, 2000

Time unknown

International Phone call

“How could any of us have seen this coming? How often does an American Presidential Election end in a tie?”

“We just want to make sure that everything is going according to plan.”

“I assure you and all the members of the Guild that it will not fail.”

“Joanna.”

“Yes?”

“For your sake, it had better not, you already know too much.”

As the phone clicked dead the Siren known as Joanna sat silent for a few seconds. Her perfect, tanned fingers tapped along the small, designer desk as the sunlight poured down into the house. Perhaps she had bargained far too much with this deal. No, the assassination would go as planned, she’d sold it far too well.

December 3, 2000

2:00 PM PST

Los Angeles, CA

Jules was doing better now, he’d returned to business as usual and it was taking the strain off that the last few days had placed on him. Assassination attempts, Golems, sollales, drug induced sexual binges; it was a chapter from the life of another, not Jules McCleary, not the refined, English Golem, not the fashion semi-mogul. No, he’d returned and immersed himself in the life that was his work, for when one becomes a vice president of a major fashion house, work becomes life and life becomes work. It was only December and the Spring fashion shows had just recently been completed and the Summer show was quickly approaching, and there was never a day of rest, even God rested for a day. But work now, work was a welcomed escape, work was something to take his mind off of all that he had lost it in during the past few weeks, lord had it been that long? Jules sat down with a sigh and turned to his desk, and to the stack of faxes, memos, packets, letters, and packages that had accumulated there. With one of his expensive imported cigarettes dangling from his lip and trailing a thin, scented smoke behind him he set to the wonderfully tedious task of sorting through all his mail.

The package that caught him off guard was brown, and from the exterior had nothing to it alarm anyone. It was a routine, brown envelope, document size. It bore no return address, and his address was applied on a typed, white label. A sterling silver letter opener slashed the end of the unobtrusive brown package open and Jules turned it upside, shaking the contents from it. But what he saw was a surprise, to say the least, a shock that cause him to choke from a quickly inhaled cigarette was much more apt. The photos drew his attention first, 8x10s, glossy, black and white. The showed him, his body naked and muscular, arching over that of an obvious child, her body smooth, soft. The bed he remembered, the dangling white lengths of silk and lace, but she hadn’t looked that young. Picture after picture passed through hands, each more rapidly than the prior one. By the time he found the note he hadn’t even consciously seen the last picture, no, he was too shocked for that, too shocked at his own acts of depravity, too shocked at first to read the note. But read the note he did.

These photos will do more than damage a career. You are in possession of certain key bits of knowledge about a shooting. If you wish these pictures to never see the light of day, to never find their way to the press than it is in your best interest to see that the shooting goes according to plan.

The Hatter's Guild

Jules couldn’t believe it. He’d been set up. This was all surreal. Suddenly, work was no longer a suitable escape. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. Who was this Hatters’ Guild? Who had set him up? Lord, how’d they know he knew? Jules shook his head and reached into his desk draw, his flask found his lips and that round, full Johnnie Walker Blue parted his lips and spilt down his throat. It wasn’t enough though, now was not the time for such a drink. His hand though, it wouldn’t let go of the flask, the sterling silver felt cool, solid against his hand, it was sure, it was there, as was the scotch, as was the alcohol.

The fingers of his free hand punched out the numbers for Susan’s cell phone out of reflex; he needn’t even think to dial it anymore. It rang once, twice, thrice, and then a short click before a male’s voice echoed ‘Yeah?’ into Jules’ perfect ear.

“Jason?”

“Yes. Jules?”

“Yeah, where’s Susan?”

“She’s in a meeting, her phone transfers to mine after a few rings, she likes it better than email. Everything alright out on the west coast?”

“For the most part. I need to talk to Susan though, tell her that it needs to happen as soon as possible.”

“Will do Jules.”

“Thanks Jason.”

And then Jules was left to the tragic combination of silence and waiting. He couldn’t think of anything better to do, not with a matter as pressing as this, this was his life being dealt with here. Jules had suddenly become both a victim and a pawn. Jules had nothing left to do, he shut the lights off from the remote at his desk, propped his feet up and turned his flask back up to wanting lips.

December 3, 2000

6:00 PM PST

Los Angeles, CA

The phone rang and startled the less than conscious Jules McCleary. His flask tipped over and spilled some of the scotch that priced at just over $200 a bottle onto the table and let it drip down onto the rich designer carpet. Only the slightest bit of his mind was on the flask as hurried fingers wrapped about the phone and brought the handset to ear and mouth.

“Jules McCleary.”

“Jules, it’s Susan. Jason said you messaged, said it was urgent.”

“Susan, I’ve gotten myself into a mighty spot of trouble.”

“Do you need money Jules? I can have your account wired within the hour…”

“No Susan, it’s not that. It’s far worse than that. I, this might take a while to explain…” And that he did, spilling everything, from the assassination attempt, then backtracking to his involvement prior to assassination, then skipping forward to the sollale, then back to dealing with Nathan Wilde, and in completion of his erratic explanation he finished without mentioning the note or the pictures. As he finished a silence descended upon the phone, lasting for nearly a minute before being broken by the party in New York City.

“You’re right Jules, that is a ‘mighty spot of trouble’.”

“So you can see why I need help?” Jules’ words came out rushed, it sounded awkward when compared with his normally collected, almost not caring English tone.

“Jules, I won’t let you burn on this one. But one thing is for certain, you have to get to Austin and stop that assassination. If what you say is true this “Joanna” woman is looking to start a war, and that’s not something that any of us are in a position to deal with at the moment. I’m going to see what I can dig up about all this and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something halfway concrete. Until then hang on. And Jules?”

“Yeah?”

“Sober up. It makes these things easier.”

“Thanks Susan, you’re a life saver.”

“Good night Jules.”

December 3, 2000

9:38 PM EST

New York City

Susan hung up the phone and found her feet beneath her. She too had been through her share of meetings today, those her were all of the mundane variety, well mundane for her. Few could claim that meetings of her type were mundane, and even fewer could complain about it, but the Spring show had been a rather large success and now the industry was already racing towards the Summer shows even though they were a few months away. And now this. Jules had gotten himself into a fix, he was playing in politics without her guiding hand, and that was a step that he really wasn’t prepared for. He was a quick mind, but he still had the flaw of lacking experience.

A sollale. He’d found one, somehow. She knew he was holding back on her. The Hatters’ Guild was involved in this, they always were. Somehow, somewhere, they had hooks dug into this, dug into Jules…and the frightening connection was that if they had hooks dug into Jules, then they had hooks in Susan. And she couldn’t allow that, they had too much pull in the Old World to start having pull in the New World.

Susan’s phone was flicked on but quickly turned off again. It was too late in Europe, any calls, probing for information or otherwise, would set off a series of alarms over there. They all played these kinds of games, and they were good. If Jules was in anyway involved he’d be nothing but a snack, a light bit that wouldn’t even fill the lightest of appetites.

December 4, 2000

1:12 AM CST

Austin, Texas

The affects had worn off nearly two hours ago, he always waited two hours to make truly certain that all of the drug was out of his system. Now in the midst of his cool, dark, calm Motel 6 chamber Gabriel sat and stared at his notebook. Very carefully over the course of the past few days he’d experimented with different dosages of Inderal, marking down his heart rate and breathing and as well as the levels of exertion that he was able to maintain when the drug was in affect. A P.T. test, I must be able to pass a P.T. test. For what use was a second shot, was use was the intense calm if he couldn’t cleanly escape? Was it the thrill of the hunt or the stories afterwards that proved in the long run to be more worthwhile? Gabriel’s eyes fell once again to his small, scratch-like scrawl in his tiny tablet, the numbers showing his heart rate, breathing rate, and amount of push-ups and sit-ups he could do while “under the influence” as well as a control chart. The run didn’t matter, Gabriel wouldn’t run from the scene, not any more than the rest of crowds, no that would draw attention to himself, and that was something stupid, that was what got someone caught. But he was wasting time now; sinewy fingers wrapped about the bottle and pried the child-proof cap loose, spilling three small, round, blue pills of Inderal into a well worn palm. With a toss the 90 mgs of beta-blocker were swallowed along with a sip of water and Gabriel leaned back in his chair, waiting for his gastric acids to dissolve the pills and his stomach lining to absorb. After that it wouldn’t take long for the rather large dosage to work its way through his system, and then, then Gabriel would see if this was indeed the ideal dosage.

The initial change was a subtle one, as they all had been, it had been only forty-five minutes though, a quarter of an hour shy of the normal ingestion period. Gabriel reached for his pen and pad and as his fingers wrapped about the pen to mark the change he could already feel his heart rate slow as the surprising calm worked over him with a force that he hadn’t seen before. His fingers felt as if they were wrapped in cotton and his eyelids felt as if the weight of the world was pulling them down. The assassin’s mind tried to race, fought to maintain consciousness but it was a losing battle, his mental wheels were stuck spinning in the mud that Inderal had transmitted his body into. The thick, slow lack of sensation descended upon the assassin, leaving him comfortably numb.

Freedom. He felt it massage away, as his entire body tingled Gabriel realized that he couldn’t fight it any longer. He simply let go and felt the work leave him surrounded now by a warm blackness.

December 4, 2000

9:45 AM PST

Los Angeles, California

Having friends in the right places was not always as great a thing as people like to believe. But when it comes to the convenience of airline tickets it was something that shouldn’t be traded up. Jules was certain of that, as certain as he was of the rather tight throbbing sensation from all that scotch last night. The trendy Siren had arrived at LAX mere moments before take-off, shades on and drawn tight over eyes that wished so truly to hide from the light and a large bottle of water nursing away the dehydration. His bags were checked without question and a cart drove Jules down to his terminal where with an air of importance and hurried “let’s not make a big deal out of this” comments Jules found his seat on the plane, lounging back and hoping for sleep before he touched down in Austin.

“Oh how’d I get myself into this mess?” Jules mumbled as he reclined his seat and lulled his head to face out the window.

“Woman troubles there fella?” The voice was big, Texas big, and came from the seat right next to him. That was one of the problems with last minute flights, there ability to purchase the seat next to you was all too often simply not available.

Jules bit his tongue before telling his fellow passenger off, and stopped short debating his course of conversation, and his rather strong want for a lack there of. Telling the guy he wouldn’t understand would probably provoke a debate. Jules learned that a good while ago: never tell an American anything, especially that they’re wrong. At least the English kept things bottled up inside like a decent individual. So Jules took the tried and true vague agreement approach.

“Something like that.” The words mumbled out of his perfect lips as he leaned back, deliberately shifting and letting his attention fall out of the window and onto the tarmac praying that the plane would begin its taxi and he could fall out into a slumber remotely close to blissful.

December 4, 2000

2:07 PM CST

Private Room on Amtrak Route 21

The confines of the room had made it impossible for George Pruent to escape the human. Truthfully this is the closest quarters that he’s maintained with one of them, a human, for this amount of time. He’d been trying all of the tricks that he could to avoid him, sleeping as much as possible, taking extended meals, even pretending he was engrossed in a magazine or music or whatever form of entertainment he could get his hands one. But now, now was one of those moments where conversation, however awkward and slow and tedious and trying, seemed imminent. And then it happened; George made the mistake that was eye contact. The sun-glassed gaze of the Golem had been haplessly skimming the small quarters that the two were crammed into on the second floor of the Amtrak car when they locked with the questioning eyes of the human, of Old Sammy.

“So why sunglasses?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I mean, why not contacts. You’d stick out less.”

“Tell me, have you ever seen any of my people with eyelashes? No? Didn’t think you would have, it’s because the white film is just that, a film, a membrane.” Sammy sat back, surprised at this and it was showing. For inexplicable reason George felt the urge to continue. “What? You look surprised. Is it the topic or the existence of the knowledge? Just because my people aren’t surface-dwellers, just because we don’t weave our way into your people like the Sirens doesn’t mean we exist in some Neanderthal world. We’ve got doctors and artists and poets, we’ve got schools and…” George stopped. He’d proven his point, though his doing so was as much a surprise to Sammy as it was to himself.

A few heavy moments of silence drifted into the room. Sammy and George sat there, the clacking of the tracks far below, rhythmic and fast, were the only indications of life.

“So what’s the plan for when we get there? Where we going to find this guy?” Sammy was still at a loss for what to call him. Nathan was right about George, he preferred to keep people in the dark until it suited him.

“I don’t know.”

“Lord, do you know how big of a place Austin is? Austin’s one of the ten fastest growing cities in the nation. We’re talking about a needle in a hay stack here.” George retreated into granite; he certainly didn’t like that tone. “But you can spot this guy right? If we get lucky and catch him in public?” Granite. “Oh dear lord…” Sammy’s voice dropped to a near whisper as the utter hopelessness of the task suddenly made itself perfectly clear. “You don’t know who he is do you?” Granite. “Well, you gave some stipulations for the shooting didn’t you? Something about it having to be done in public?” The stone Golem nodded. Sammy’s brows arched and he looked off to the side. “We’ll we know where to find him at the worse case scenario.”

“Where’s that?”

“If Gore caves and stops demanding recounts Bush’ll give a speech. They always do. I’d put money on it happening there. But that could be a month from now and it could be tomorrow. How long has your ‘man,’ I’m assuming it’s a he, been in Austin? We can check all the hotels and motels. It’s a long shot, but…” Sammy’s own voice dropped off into nothing. The Golem’s silent hurricane of self-contempt was a severe downer on any attempt at conversation and Sammy decided to cut out with the minimal loses that he could.

Inside George Pruent was roiling; mental torment of his own creation was racking him and tearing him in directions that he knew he shouldn’t be feeling. Being paired with a human against his better judgment was one thing. But for some reason he felt below the human, he felt as if he had something to prove, a chip was sitting on his shoulder and it weighed enough to burn with discomfort. But all that had only been proven, yes proven, shoved in the Golem’s all white eyes and proved too tough for his shark-like teeth as within seconds Samuel Banks had unraveled all of his plans. No. More than that, Samuel Banks had gone steps further than even George had taken it. George had been wasting so much time avoiding the human that he had forgotten the plan at hand. He had some planning to do, too much was at risk here, he couldn’t afford to let himself be upstaged by a human, by someone named Old Sammy.

December 4, 2000

4:35 PM CST

Austin, Texas

The maid’s cart squeaked a wicked squeal as she moved from door to door performing the dinnertime cleaning of the room. This was a Motel 6, they don’t get mints on their pillows but as the radio commercials claimed, they did (occasionally) get clean rooms. Hesitantly she stopped outside of the door of a “Mr. Simms” who had been staying at the motel a good while now. The maid’s tired eyes fell down onto the Do Not Disturb sign, it had been there for a while, a regular basis even. But it looked like it had been untouched for quite sometime now, days maybe? Professional ethics kicked in and her hand rose to knock on the door, stopped only by a door opening down the hall and the squeaking of a second cart picking up.

“Shay baby, ain’t it about quittin’ time?”

“Lisa honey, ain’t it always?” The maid left the door as is and pushed her cart on down the walkway, quickly coming in behind Lisa and following her in the direction of the custodial closet.

Inside the room, slumped back in his chair, lay the body of the assassin who called himself Gabriel. On the floor by his feet lay the pen that had graced his fingertips for those few seconds, the tablet still amazingly remained on his lap. Only a medical examination would have revealed the man still alive, his heart beat so faint, his breathing so shallow. That is, until his finger twitched and his eyelid fluttered.

December 4, 2000

7:30 PM EST

New York City

The phone left her perfect ear with a startling sensation. The presence of air at first tingled, and then burned as the blood returned to the device that had been in disbelief all day. Danilo Metucchi. There were Siren’s whose names equated their reputation, and then there were Sirens whose names spoke of only the tip of the iceberg. Danilo Metucchi was perhaps one of the latter’s largest examples. His suave, cool to the point of cold, dark image swirled about the Siren Susan’s mind at the merest hint of his name. He had this way about him, this laugh, this smile that suggested that he was more mildly amused than genuinely humored. And he had this particular way of holding his hand, almost daintily, yet so cock-sure, so strong. It was an assurance that spoke in his stride, in his habit for being the attractor for social butterflies, for the patterns that he moved in all too often than not were the patterns that everyone else was attempting to capture and recreate before he and the few like him moved on to something new. He was everything that the New Worlders despised about the Old World, he was a man that was either loved or held in contempt but he had to be given credit, as all works of art must. And now he had turned his immaculate attention onto the Hatters’ Guild.

Susan could hardly stand to hear this, it was all too much, too perfect, too good. The Hatters’ Guild, with their backing Danilo, had secured himself Dukedom. Sweeping changes were looming on the horizon like the dark clouds and cool winds that suggest the wayward traveller might just want to take cover. Susan was far from a poet, no, for her life was far too analytical, too cut and dry. High fashion was the closest that she got to art, and that wasn’t much any more, all she did now was stamp her name on things and walk down the catwalk at the end of shows. She wouldn’t make the poetic jump that compared her to a wayward traveler, no she wouldn’t, but be damned if she didn’t feel it. Hesitation had landed her in a world of trouble and that was a world that she didn’t like being in. If only I had acted sooner, if only I had kept my eyes open. The thoughts chided her, dug at her from within as she found herself on the verge of tears. The situation seemed so dark, Danilo Metucchi would issue in an era of change and for those in the New World that meant a great deal, a great deal of loss. Susan felt so certain that she could have prevented this. The entire situation replayed over and over again in her head, frame by frame, second by second, she hadn’t acted, and that, that was worse than acting and failing, not acting left the actor not knowing, never knowing, left to burn with their indecision. Witches burn.

December 5, 2000

Austin, Texas

What was he doing here? Jules gritted his too perfect teeth and let those intense eyes burn their way down the street, not allowing themselves to fix on any specific point, choosing instead to burn away a thousand yards into the distance, a thousand yards into the nothing. When you’re searching for a needle in a haystack you at least have the privilege of knowing for what you’re searching. I don’t even know what I’m looking for here. A scowl was fixed on his face, the thin, slightly curved line turning his face from it’s generally sharp, attractive, English demeanor to that of an almost ugly one. Ugly was a stretch though, for he was, after all, a Siren.

This is all that Marques’ fault. Mathew Marques. In some ways Mathew Marques was too blame for Jules’ predicament. He had led him to the sollale, he had introduced him to the world of the forbidden, he had even handed Jules the heavily drugged “evening elixir of choice” for all Jules knew Mathew could have been the one snapping those photos. Despite his English heritage Jules muttered his that American/Siren mainstay, “Never trust an Old Worlder.”

“Excuse me sir?” The man with the thick gray moustache and rapidly thinning hairline asked as he set his paper down and decided to totally devote his attention to the well dressed gentleman who had walked into his store.

Perfect eyes fell onto the glass-cased rows of firearms and the racks displaying wears on the wall behind them. Those perfect eyes swept over the black polymer and nickel platted hardware and finally came to rest on the handlebar mustached fellow.

“I’m looking for a little personal protection actually.” The words rolled out rather astutely, in a crisp English accent.

“Ah think I can help ya there.” The Texan laid his accent on fully, as if he was competing against the English, as if it were 1812 all over again.