Old Sammy
The SUV with government plates crept to a halt in front of a mundane yellow brick apartment building. The entire neighborhood was asleep. The sound of the SUV’s doors closing shook down the street like thunderclaps, echoing slightly in the cold, still air. Agents Washkowiak and Shaw met at the front of the vehicle. Their long dark coats and misting breath gave them an eerie appearance in the pale mixture of moon- and street- light.
“You think she’s home?” Shaw asked as he rubbed his hands together prior to sticking them in his coat pockets.
“We can just kick the door in and find out.”
“I think the Boss wouldn’t be too happy with that one.” Shaw said as he turned away looking up and down the street.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. We could do it anyway though.”
Johnny frowned and turned to look at the building.
“
Ben nodded and they both started up the stone steps and into the apartment building.
The knocking at the door woke Lexi up from the slight slumber she’d managed into. The television was still on, as was a small light in the kitchen; the light and noise paired with the startling wake-up from sleep she wasn’t aware of inhabiting.
“If that’s Sammy, I think I’m going to scream,” Lexi mumbled as she rose amidst her grogginess and stumbled towards the door. She brusher her short hair from her face and then reached for the knob. As she did so mentally she prepared herself to call the police if Sammy didn’t leave at once. It brought the flood of emotions back to her, the anger and betrayal. He was a felon. How couldn’t she have known? He didn’t work. He didn’t leave his apartment all that often. No friends. No family. He fit the description of a terrorist. And she had been about ready to sleep with him. But that meant little, the door was opening.
A blond woman, pretty, very pretty, and angry in pajama pants and a t-shirt opened the door and drew on a mask of puzzlement.
“Can I help…you?” Her speech was slow, cautious. She’d lived in bad neighborhoods for too long.
“Yes, you can ma’am. I’m Special Agent Shaw and this is Special Agent Washkowiak. We’re with the FBI and we need to talk to you about an,” Shaw stopped to fish for the politically correct word, “acquaintance of yours.”
“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”
“Ma’am, we’ve got strong reason to believe that you might be aiding and abetting a felon. We’re going to need to come into your apartment.” Washkowiak tried to tower to his full potential at five foot seven as he popped of his threat.
That anger, which was washed into confusion, was quickly remembered. This has to be about Sammy. At first Lexi didn’t want to turn him in, the social ties of duty towards one’s friends had been pulling at her, urging denial. Those ties were suddenly and permanently severed as her own safety was put on the line.
“Come on in. This shouldn’t take long.” Lexi shut the door and worked at the chain. Out in the florescent flickering pain of the hall’s light, Shaw and
“Thank you for your co-operation, ma’am,” Shaw greeted as the agents were led into the apartment. Lexi led them into the kitchen area. In the background the television still prattled on.
“Ma’am, do you mind if we record this conversation, do you?” Ben motioned with a small, black digital recorder. He set it on the counter that separated the agents from the woman.
“No. No, go ahead and record. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Lexi’s lips pursed and her arms folded across her chest.
Greyhound Bus on I-70W,
Sammy hated buses. They were slow, stopped frequently, always uncomfortable, and… the mental train of grumbling ended there. He was feeling terribly alone; betrayed. Old Sammy tossed and turned in his seat, finally convincing himself that there was no way to get comfortable. The scene at Lexi’s door played over and over again in his head.
Sammy? What the hell are you doing here?
Doubts began to creep through his mind, flickering along the spider webs of mental “what if”s.
I can’t let you in here.
She didn’t even look sad about it. There was no sense of misunderstanding spread through her pretty eyes. No, the only emotion there was anger. She was angry at him. Maybe she was afraid too. But any fear that she might posses was rooted in selfishness. He would have been safe there. If the FBI had managed to link Lexi to Sammy it would have taken hours. All he needed was minutes. All he had needed was a phone call, he’d gotten that much from a stranger. Kind strangers, in D.C. of all places. Nothing was making sense.
No, Sammy. Good-bye. I’m calling the police now.
She was so final in those few words; so determined. If Sammy wasn’t so worried about her actually going through with her threat he might have considered calling her on a bluff. He could see it. Him standing at the door, and her, her there on the other side with only the security chain barring his way. Sammy could see himself telling her no. What a turn of the tables that would be. No, Lexi. You’re not gong to call the police. This is silly. Do me one final favor. Let me in; let me clean myself up; I’ll use your phone, check my email, and then I’ll be out of your life forever. Then you can be happy. She couldn’t possible have continued to bluff beyond that. And if she had, who cared. Sammy had worked himself into a good, solid, pissed-off state. He’d trusted Lexi, and in his moment of need she had abandoned him. People went to shrinks over things like that. Sammy didn’t have time for that, not now, and not with the FBI after him. Remembering his particular situation, Sammy was shocked back into reality. Lexi, at least for the moment, didn’t matter. What mattered was getting to
The winds whipping of the
That someone came walking down the cobblestone walk, his heels clicking against the street and adding to the chorus of gull cries that dared to drift into the occasional gust of wind. Mathew Marques, ugly for a Siren, but attractive by any human standards, took a seat next to the Duke without asking permission.
“Sir.”
“It has to be her.”
“This,” Marques paused to casually look about, “Susan White, you say?”
Danilo didn’t respond, instead he nodded with a solid flick of snake-like charm. The pair sat quietly for a brief few seconds. The Duke reached down into the brown leather briefcase that rested in the chair next to him. Inside were a collection of manila folders and envelopes, phone records, credit reports, travel receipts, even Customs documents. Inside was the paper-trail of a life.
“She’s been busy. Phone calls to
“And you’re sure that-,”
“It’s here. All here.”
Now it was Marques’ turn to turn silent. Only he was not glimmering with the victory over the hunt. Danilo might have caught the fox’s scent, but Mathew was the hound who had to follow it high and low, as far as need be.
“I’ll get her. Give me two days.”
“Of course. I know that I can trust you.”
Marques didn’t stay any longer. His cold demeanor, his business-side, washed over him within heartbeats of accepting the job. Without so much as a murmur Mathew Marques drifted back into the belly of the Parisian beast and Danilo’s coffee arrived, a soft layer of steam laying on top of it.
Cold Siren knuckles rapped on the antiquated, heavy wooden door. Wood grated against wood as the speak-easy style peephole opened up. No words were spoken. The peephole slid closed and from behind the door turning bolts could be heard. The stale scent of old smoke spilled out and Mathew Marques stepped in. The room was nearly empty; of course it wasn’t the ideal witching hour for the Hatter’s Guild. Mathew cut around deep cushioned sofas and tables littered with ashes and empty bottles. The room looked like some morbid version of a fraternity party had only recently died down, the hellish party-goers all vanished into the mists from which they had come. All but the host, that is.
Hector was lounging in a large chair. His head, framed with long, straight dark hair, was wedged haphazardly between the back of the chair and a stuffed wing. One leg dangled over an arm of the whilom throne. Small, circular, and exceedingly dark glasses perched high on his nose, barring what little light there was in the room from reaching the Siren’s eyes. Hector.
“Hector.” Marques’ voice ripped across the room. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“I’m listening.” He wasn’t moving though. Hector sat perfectly still, lodged as he was, like a cadaver that had somehow been coaxed to speak. Marques took a few more steps towards the cruel force behind the Hatter’s Guild. Hector still failed to move.
“The Duke has found her. Joanna.” The name drew Hector to stir, if even just slightly. The leg, which was dangling over the chair’s arm, lurched ever so slightly.
“So, he has done our work for us. And he is certain?” Marques didn’t respond. He just stood there, stood as a stone. He was ready. “Are you prepared to find her? This bothersome ‘Joanna’? This Siren who already knows too much?”
Again, Mathew Marques stood there, a stone, as the motionless marionette questioned him.
“She had started so simple; she fed into our plans and started…all of this,” Hector’s speech was riddled with a slight lisp. Marques didn’t know if it was an after-affect of the drugs and absinthe or simply his position. Buried deep within this dark handed dealer, Marques was starting to have doubts. How much longer can Hector keep pulling strings? How much longer can I be pulled? “It’s almost a shame, you know she must be killed. And when the Hatter’s Guild comes forward with the claim…,” Hector’s arm shivered slightly; his lip trembled a bit as he lisped the words out. “Then the rest of the Siren Empire will know who is truly in charge. Drink?”
Marques didn’t reply. He just stood there. At the end of his sleeves his fingers flickered and curled. His face was carved from stone. Perfectly unreadable.
“Well then…,” Hector finally stirred, his arm snaking and slithering forward to wrap about the heavily gilded and tarnished handle of an antiquated brass bell. The bell chimed; the clear, ominous sound cut through the room’s thoroughly dead air. Before the resonation had left, Marques was no where to be seen.
Jeremy Potts couldn’t believe what had just floated across his desk. The oddest news bubbled up to the Assistant National Security Advisor, but this one took the cake.
“Not human. This had better be a joke.” Potts rubbed his tired face with hands aged well beyond their thirty-three years. “This type of buzz is the last thing we need.” It was almost time for Bush’s inauguration and Potts was on his way out. All he needed to do was end this term from Hell. First jumping scandal to scandal, then impeachment, an election that would never end, an assassination attempt, and now this? Ranch work in
Potts’ fingers pounded the keys on his phone.
“Yeah, this is Potts. Patch me through to,” he looked down at the memorandum, “FBI Director, Louis Freeh.” Potts hung on the phone, his eyes drifting away and landing on the rolled sleeve of a more than respectable tailored shirt. “Freeh? This is the Assistant National Security Advisor, Jeremy Potts. Yes, this is about the memo. I don’t know whether to take it as a joke or not.” Unconsciously, Potts began drumming on his desk, bouncing a pen up and down. “Photos, you say? Yes, do fax them over.” The pen had stopped drumming. “And you’re certain that this is not some sort of sick hoax. This Special Agent Bach, he’d be willing to testify before Congress on this? No, I’m not saying that it’s going to come to that, but, just make sure you’ve got all your facts right before I get on the phone with Sandy.”
At the side of Potts’ office a white square box rang twice and then hummed to life, printing out photo after photo. Craning his neck from his desk, Potts twisted for a look.
“Yeah, I’m receiving the photos right now. Hold one.” He placed the phone down and nervously rose from his thick leather chair. Plush carpet cushioned light feet as he passed along the edge of his thick red-stained wooden desk. His fingers left slight trails of oil and sweat along the varnished wooden shelf where the fax rested. The photos were stunning, shocking, and unnaturally obscene. The first half dozen were crime scene photos, bodies sprawled about some sort of sewer, but the three that had already printed almost caused Potts to lose the little dinner he’d manage to eat.
Their bodies were long and thin. Their hair was knotted and gnarled into dread locks. They appeared to be a woman and a girl, but…Potts snatched up the newest photo, still clutching to the previously printed ones, and had to drop them all. Their naked bodies were pock marked and withered. Their skin had a pasty hue illustrated so putridly against sterile backgrounds, marking tapes, and brilliant lights. Potts just let the photos lay where the fell, crumpled from when his fist had instinctively clutched, and alone on the thick office carpet.
“I’m going to need copies of those immediately. Are they…?” Potts couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. He didn’t know whether he wanted them alive or dead. News like this could change the world. Change wasn’t always a good thing. His hand kept rising to sit on his hip, and then reach across his body, balled into a fist and resting behind his other elbow. From there it’d go back to his hip.
“In
Sammy was a bit nervous about stepping off the plane. The last time he’d flown into LAX to meet Jules McCleary had started Sammy on a road trip he wouldn’t soon forget. Traffic in the airport was relatively light though, and Sammy spotted the Siren from a distance.
“You look even older,” Jules greeted with a magazine-cover smile. Sammy didn’t know how to take that, so he just shrugged. “You alright?” Jules was being exceptionally perceptive, especially so for a Siren.
“Yeah. All things considered.”
“That doesn’t sound good. We’ll talk in the car.”
The two peeled off in Jules’ slick silver Jaguar, ripping into the empty concrete ribbons that surround
“Did Nathan fill you in on what I need you for?”
Sammy shook his head.
“We need to find Joanna, and I think I might have brought us a step closer.” Jules slipped into a higher gear and darted into the left lane, passing a small green station wagon. “Brian Corbin is holed up in his house. He’s afraid to leave because the word floating about is that he’s Joanna.”
The smooth British accent was almost lost on Sammy. His eyes still burned away looking at nothing and failing to find answers.
“Did you hear me Sammy?”
Sammy nodded. “What do you need my help with?” His words were a choked whisper.
“Because, Corbin knows me.” That was only a fraction of the truth. Sure, Corbin knew Jules, but if Jules didn’t play it right, Corbin might discover that Jules had been part of the conspiracy. Jules was still fighting with that ghost, that he was responsible for the assassination, and all the events that littered the downward spiral that had spun from it. “And I heard you were in a spot of trouble with the FBI.” Again, that was only part of the truth. “I gathered that perhaps we could help each other out, Mr. Underhill.”
* * *
The sun was setting as Sammy stood on the slight concrete patio in front of Brian Corbin’s hillside house. Behind him the valley was starting to light up, but the house before him was cryptically silent. Jules’ had parked a block away, equipped Old Sammy with a cell phone and tape recorder and wished him luck. Sammy still wasn’t feeling quite right, but he choked his regrets down, he buried his own anger, his own misunderstanding, his own cynical view of life, and knocked on the door.
Nothing. The pounding of his fist drifted away into the void. Sammy looked about and found the doorbell hidden behind a small plastic case. He pushed the button twice.
From inside he heard a slight crash, like a horrible beast rising up from a slumber, prepared to rip asunder all who dared to wake it.
“Get the fuck out of here!” The words were ripped straight from the grave. Sammy was not in the mood for this tonight. He jammed the doorbell, releasing a second volley against the beast within.
Brian raised his hands rubbing at his eyes and stumbling through the cluttered interior of his house. This was it, his end. Whoever was at the door intended to kill him. But Brian was tired of hiding, tired of waiting; he was ready for death. His hand smacked against the wall, saving his still heavily muscled form from falling.
A loud smack rippled the glass storm door that Sammy had propped open with his leg. He slipped back slightly, but barreled forward, ringing the bell a third time.
The third ring sounded just above Brian. He was two steps from the door. His hand wrapped about the handle and pulled it open. He expected gunfire, a knife, a bat, a bag, a chloroformed rag. He saw an angry human; his finger was still hovering above the bell.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The Siren was not who he used to be. Sammy recognized him as Brian Corbin – B movie actor. Of course, he was far from the pretty face that had launched a so-so career that never hinted at breaking into the big time. The Siren looked as gaunt as any of the pretty ones could ever hope to. His face was pale, his eyes rung with black circles. He’d lost weight, no longer the hunk of flesh that had made up for a distinct lack of acting abilities. His close hung at his shoulders; mind you he was still built enough to rip Sammy apart were he angry, but his fall from the little grace he managed was blatantly evident.
“We need to talk.”
“Are you a reporter? I’m not doing interviews-,”
“No, I’m not a reporter. Let me in. I need to talk to you.”
“No. You ain’t getting in my house.”
“Don’t play tough with me. If you want this Joanna-stigma to finally be gone, you’ll let me in.” The air between the two froze. All anger left the Siren, replaced by a slight tremble and acquiescence. His arm fell and he took a few steps back into the hallway. Sammy didn’t wait for an invitation. He closed the door behind him.
“Do you have somewhere that we can sit? I think you’ll be slightly relieved with the news I’ve brought.”
“Do you work for them?”
“No.” Sammy didn’t know who ‘them’ was, and he wasn’t sure that he could force himself to care.
Life had taken it’s toll on them both. They sat opposite of each other, the small table between them littered with scraps of paper, on which notes were frantically scribbled, and alcohol spilled on. Bottles littered the house, empty boxes of food were stacked and scattered, and news papers were torn and sprawled. Sammy tapped his finger on one of the few empty spaces on the table.
“I know you’re not Joanna. That’s why I’m here.”
“What is it that you want? How the hell do you know any of this? You’re a human.”
“If you’ll let me talk, I’ll fill you in. I’m going to have to ask you some questions, fill in some of my own blanks before we can get around to fixing this whole mess.”
“It is a big fucking mess. Biggest mess I’ve ever seen. I used to be somebody, used to be respected, and now look at me!”
“Shut up.” Sammy’s words, so unlike himself, cut through the air. The Siren listened.
“From what I’ve been told, you’ve been labeled for bait. Everyone knows you’re not Joanna-,”
“Tell that to the people who’ve been trying to kill me!”
“No one’s been trying to kill you. Will you shut up and listen to me?”
“Everyone’s after me. They blame it all on me, I’m blamed for Danillo Mettuchi’s rise. And I’m telling you, I’m innocent. Ino-fucking-cent.”
“Hey.” Sammy slammed his fist onto the table knocking a bottle of vodka over and dousing the table in the stagnant booze. “I’m trying to help you here. I’m not getting anything out of this.”
“The hell you’re not. No one does anything for free.”
Sammy couldn’t argue with that. What bothered him was that in this case, he was doing it for free.
“Regardless. The people that are using you for bait know you’re not Joanna. But they think you might know. You were supposed to contact her.”
“I don’t know who she is! Why won’t anyone believe me? Jesus!” The Siren raised both hands to his face, pressing his fingertips into his forehead and racking down towards his jaw. “I thought it was going to be different. You know?” His words were quiet. Sammy leaned in to listen. “I thought this would be my ticket to the big time. That if I helped out, that the Euro-trash Old Worlders would have to listen to us, ‘cause we were in charge here. That’s why I helped.”
“You’re mumbling, I can barely hear you.”
“But the grass wasn’t greener on the other side. Its fucking dead. I’m fucking dead.” He’d billowed back up to a blustering yell. His own fist slammed the table.
“We want to help you.” It was all Sammy could think of to say.
“We?!”
“Damn it. Who is Joanna? Tell me. This will all go away.” But Sammy’s words fell on deaf ears as the Siren heaved the table up and at him. Bottles and papers fell down in wave, washing over Old Sammy as he leaped to escape the crushing wooden table top.
He hit the ground hard, expecting to be pummeled to death. In shocked silence he waited, his eyes squinted shut. Corbin was gone. He’d disappeared somewhere.
“Fuck.” Sammy slowly stood up, trying to see in the darkness where the mad Siren could be hiding. Is he waiting for me? A rustling in the next room seemed to suggest otherwise. There was a clatter of falling, sounded like hangers and shoe boxes. What the hell is he doing? Sammy slipped over towards the door, peering around. His ears weren’t wrong. On the other end of the room, Brian Corbin was standing on a small stool and rifling through the top of his closet. “Corbin?”
“Don’t take another step. I can’t take another step.” He wasn’t making any sense, but the good news was that he’d backed down from the stool and into the small, jeez this guy has a tv room?
“Corbin, you need to calm down. I just want to help you.”
“The fuck you do. But I’m not going to let you get to me. I’ve had enough of this, enough of the games, enough of the pain.” With a disjointed sense of balance, Corbin turned to face Old Sammy. In his hand was a small nickel-plated pistol.
“What do you plan on doing with that?”
“I’m done, man. I’m not playing these stupid fucking games any more. The grass was supposed to be greener. Not this. I didn’t ask for this. No one asks for this.”
“Then do it.” Normally Sammy wouldn’t have said that, but it’d been a bad week.
“Yeah. You’re right.” Brian raised his pistol up, bent his elbow and sent a 9 mm bullet through his right temple.
Sammy turned away from the corpse with the smoking entry wound. He turned away and pulled out the cell phone.
“Jules? Yeah, it’s Sammy. No. He killed himself. Bring the car up, I need to get out of here.”
* * *
“Why did he do it?”
“I told him to.”
“You bloody did what?” Times like this bring out the Londoner in Jules.
“He’d lost it. He was either going to kill me or himself. I figured right now either one was as good as the other.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but people’s lives are at stake here.”
“You’re right, Jules. People’s lives are at stake here. Like mine. I’ve lost everything, every damn thing in my life, and for what? Because I’m somehow obligated to help a couple of races I know nothing about and shouldn’t owe anything to?”
Silence descended on the car. Not a silence like earlier, no, this silence was the stiff, humid, suffocating type. Jules looked at his knuckles, white from pressure against the black leather of his steering wheel. Sammy was right.
“I don’t have anything more, Jules. I’m at rock bottom. I-,” Sammy chocked and started to shake.
“Come on. You need to sleep.”
The subway was empty at this hour, but that didn’t bother Mathew Marques. He was a stone. The Siren was moving in for the take down. Soon the
The photos sat behind him, sat in the Oval office. They were all in there. The FBI, Sandy Bergman, the President, even General Shelton –chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The gravity of this discovery was easily measured by level of personnel in that office. Jeremy Potts wanted a cigarette. It’d been almost six years since he quit smoking, but be damned if he wasn’t feeling the need for one right now. Potts found his feet, rubbed his hands down the front of his slacks and looked about. An Army major occupied the chair flanking the door’s other side. Attached to his wrist was a steel briefcase. The football. Technically it was Monday now, or so his watch informed him. Six more days on this job. All Potts had to do was make it through those six days.
“You don’t smoke, do you Major?”
“No, sir. I quit years ago.”
“So did I,” Potts belatedly responded. He turned away and looked down the hall. At the end the windows reflected back at him. Beyond them stretched the western lawn. Passed that the metropolitan sprawl. And what else? That unknowing bothered him. Now he did know. He’d seen the photos. He’d talked to people. This, whatever it was, was real. There was no way of denying the evidence that he himself had possessed, had held, had been frightened by. In six more days he might not know any longer. I’ll be out of the loop. And what about the American people? Hell, a situation like this would mean that national boundries didn’t matter that much anymore because it was now Man and something else. Were they aliens? How did they get here? How long have they been here? The FBI said the spoke and understood English. What else do they know? A pervasive sense of betrayal nibbled at the back of the assistant National Security Advisor’s hairline. Without thinking he reached a hand up and scratched at it. Scratching didn’t help. More questions sprung up. How many of them are there? What do they want? How exactly do they survive? And the most startling question of all, the one that drove all others into the back of his mind, suddenly not so important, how is it that we haven’t found any of them before? Potts realized he was pacing, rather unprofessionally, and sat down.
Location Undisclosed
The room still reeked of sawdust and stagnant air. A recently crushed cigarette didn’t help the situation. Behind him, the deliberation process was still in affect. It’d been going on for, a quick check of his watch verified this, almost five hours now. Five hours of waiting. George Pruent was not a happy Golem. Neither was Greig Anders. Apparently George’s old partner turned traitor still had a heart. That almost made George laugh. He was more of a traitor than Nathan ever could be, but his private and hidden nature never brought that to life. His laugh wasn’t heartfelt. The Golem shook his head and looked about. He hadn’t been here in a quite sometime. He wasn’t even sure how often the Council had been convening, they certainly hadn’t been using him. It was as if they’d forgotten the Writ of the Dead in the month or so since the assassination.
That one got beneath the Golem’s skin. He’d been used, set up, and Nathan and that human – Sammy - had made certain that he was aware of it. Perhaps they were trying to help, but tactless help is easily construed as an insult.
“George Pruent, you are recognized by the Council of Elders. Step forward.” The Crier Guard’s voice run out amongst the suddenly thick air. It was George’s turn. His long, looping strides carried him into the same room he’d visited so often during his time as eyes and ears. The crates that made up the walls were taller and more forbidding than he had remembered. Perhaps it was the berating words still faintly echoing about. His ears strained to hear it before reason ruled its existence out. Perhaps it was the haunted look about the eyes of Anders, or the way his long pointed right ear sort of bent as it poked through his matted dreads.
“Elders, I stand before you, George Pruent, and openly bare the answers that you seek.” He didn’t realize that he had spoken. Only when he heard his own name did George realize that he was speaking. The elders looked at him with pocked faces, aged skin, long locks of grey hair where hair still grew, and a distinct pulsing sense of unease.
“George, you have always been one to be on top of things.”
“Thank you.”
“And so you must realize what happened at the Golem complex in northern
“I’ve heard some things.”
“By ‘things’ you mean the involvement of Nathan Wilde?” Mathew Summers, the elder seated centre cut to the chase- his usual tactic.
“I had heard that Nathan notified Anders, yes.”
“Did you know of his involvement with a human?”
George stopped. Of course he’d heard of it. They both had involvement with humans. Hell, George had involvement with Sirens, he had involvement with Joanna and that was perhaps the origin for this foul situation.
“No. The bylaws strictly forbid using humans directly.”
“Of course they do.”
“Golem-kind is perhaps in our darkest hour. Man and Siren alike are at our heels. Danillo Mettuchi’s plan, this ‘Enforced Civility’ threatens us and now we have humans walking inside of Golem homes.” Summers paused. “The Writ of the Dead has not yet become affective, and it may need to become more so. The time to strike is here upon us. Targets amongst Siren-kind are placed at the top of the list, but also any humans found to have contact with Golems, for better or for worse. All shall die.”
George didn’t know what to say. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette. While his thumb worked at the wheel of his lighter, Summers continued. “We’ll have a list to you of potential targets. Do not become caught up in that list. Your main concern is Nathan Wilde. Find him and make sure that he realized he has betrayed his own people.”
George took a long drag of his cigarette and looked over the council. Had his eyes been closed before or had they always been this mad? Exhaling, he turned and walked, leaving a silky grey cloud behind him.
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