Old Sammy
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
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
“Who is he?”
“Just a ‘hack,’ I believe that’s the term. He used to work for the Washington Post.”
“Good lord.”
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.”
It was with quick, brisk strides that Gabriel moved down the sidewalk to his still inhabited room at the Motel 6 just outside of
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
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.
10:00 AM EST
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
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.
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.
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.
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
“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
“Yeah?”
“Sober up. It makes these things easier.”
“Thanks Susan, you’re a life saver.”
“Good night Jules.”
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
Susan’s phone was flicked on but quickly turned off again. It was too late in
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.
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,
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.
Private Room on
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
“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
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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