Chapter 24: The Slayer Part 2

I took from Larry's mind the key to the map, and I use it. Tap the brazier, and suddenly doors start appearing. The first five rooms are empty; the sixth reveals five Wolfins: three cubs, a girl that looks sickly, and a large, powerful male that hurls himself at me on sight. It's fast, but not as fast as me. I thrust my hand and project force at it; my spell reverses its flight, hurling it back from where it leapt. It leaps again, but I sidestep and pull my revolver. Without a thought I shoot it in the back. It falls to its knees and seems to cry; not the monster cry I've heard so many times before, but a more human cry I'm not used to hearing. It falls onto its side, and its tongue flops out of its mouth. It pants several more times, trying to breathe, but I had punctured its lungs. It's futilely struggling to hold onto its last breath.

I look back at the cubs and the sick girl. One of the cubs has a taste for vengeance but is being held down by the larger female. I lower my sword and raise the hammer on the Jesse James. The cubs crowd around the girl, seeking shelter. My god, they're children, nothing more—dog-faced, winged children covered in pastel fur, but children. "Go." I nod my head at the exit, and they stare at me in confusion—can't say I blame them; to them I must look like a monster. This is their home, not mine; I picked their lock and entered their sanctuary. I raise my gun into the air. "God damn it, run!" I yell. I fire twice into the air—they seem to understand that just fine; the cubs run, the girl limps, but they make their way out nonetheless. I killed someone that was defending their family. Family—that is a very universal concept, isn't it? To kill a man's father—has there ever been a more hell-worthy sin?

Down I must descend, ever further from the grace-giving sun. Only two more floors and another monster obstructs my passage—a Lamia, heavily bandaged, slithering at me. I stand, bladed sword in my back hand, revolver in my front.

"Slayer," she calls to me, "I know what you're thinking, and your wrong; we're not all the same." I know, I can see that, but I feel no need to say it. She says, "Yes, we have killed, but we kill to eat and to breed. Is that so evil?"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me; I know what you did and why. I don't pass judgment on everyone." The color of her skin has faded. I touch her face, and I can feel her pain. "Been a rough night, hasn't it?" She has been shot a dozen times, and someone has been magically feeding off her. She isn't much better off than the Wolfin I whacked upstairs. "Go to the top floor and hide in the restroom. I'll come back for you soon."

I make my way around her and continue down. I can feel only three life-forms left on the lower floors, myself included. One other is Job the Endless.

On the bottom floor, according to the memories of the hunters that came before me, I find myself undoing what El did and freeing Job from his stone grave. "Leave me," he commands.

"No."

"Why?"

"It's not your turn to die."

"I can never die, but what am I to do with no master?"

"Forge your own fate."

"Richard 'Dick' Blake, you are a kind man; those like you may free us all. but the kind are seldom long lived."

"Well … let's say you owe me," I say. Job stands and becomes spectral he fades away, no doubt into another world.

"Thank you, generous host, I shall not forget you," the spirit whispers to me from whatever world he fled to.

I feel a scream. I run to the upper floor and just as I thought, England in all his hideousness stands in the doorway to the outside, his hands morphed into something like a monstrous rake, blocking the exit. The Wolfin family hides behind the bar. The demon laughs at us all. He slouches, hiding his bestial size and shape. His body waves slowly, his fingers stretch, and he scrapes his hand against the wall, showing off one of his many inhuman gifts.

"I've been expecting you," I taunt him. One long, diabolic finger points at me. "Blake, you're a traitor." His hand stretches far to grab the Wolfin girl. "Letting untamed freaks run free," he chides. He sticks out his tongue and wraps it around the girl's muzzle, slurping her.

"Put her down, England."

"Her?" He rolls her from side to side in his hand. "Don't you mean 'it'?" One hand transforms into a scissor. He laughs devilishly as he swings the scissor at the defenseless girl.

I cast a Psionic Crush in England's direction, and he drops the girl, gripping his head. "You little monster!"

The girl runs out of sight, and England regains his balance. He flings one arm at me, transforming it into a spire. I try to lean away, but he hits my side, taking my shirt off and ripping a gash along my ribs. I dash at him and swing my sword. He grabs the blade and twists it from my hand. I project force again, and he is knocked onto his back. Next, we both find ourselves on the ground, rolling about. He slices up my arms pretty good and he catches a bullet to the kidney, I eat dirt and he eats my fist. We're on the ground for some time pounding the shit out of each other. England loves it, and I'm pretty sure I'm dead before sirens in the deep call England off." They're playing your tone, Blake," he whispers in my ear, then melts into darkness, leaving me beaten half to death on the ground.

***

Blake las on the floor bleeding, the sounds of sirens of little comfort to him. The minitour stands near by watching for a long indecisive moment. She reaches onto her hip pulling out a hammer holding it overhead, she could crush the hunter with one swing, but she doesn't. she notices the wrapping on his arm. the minitour undoes the dressing to unvale Blake's tattoo. "von Richton." She whispers to herself.

The cow girl picks up Blake and drags him into the depths of the labyrinth once more. He mumbles and complains punch-drunk. The minitour bathes and bandages Blake. It takes some time before he seems stable enough to talk again.

Startled by the approach of the bull-headed monster Blake pulls a hand into his chest readying his arcane power. The cow girl cuts him off. "my name is Horatata, you are von Richton. I have traveled here without documentation and I am prepared to face the full ramifications of my actions."

Blake lets out a slow breath as he relaxes "Horatata?" he sounds it out "Hoe-Ra-ta-ta." His head falls backwards as he looks side to side. on the wall there is a stone-ring fifteen-feet across with a long sequence of emblems drawn on it. Writing in some alien tongue.

Horatata leans forward wagging her tail as she looks the hunter up and down "can you take me to von Richton?"

Blake nods as he looks around for his phone, clothing, and gun. "I think that can be arranged." He looks up do you know…" The cow girl smiles as she holds up the phone. "yeah, that." Blake reaches up to take the pone back.

Blake looks at his phone, he has been asleep for at least 6 hours. He has 20 missed calls, Tail is every one of them. A single call to Wright von Richton is all it takes to get a team of medics and a transport to bring him home there. It seems there are benefits to working for a shadow government.

Blake is brought back to the Watcher Estate, he gets the best of medical care one can hope for. As for Horatata, she is given the treatment of a man being checked into care of the state, she is de-liced showered by a power hoes, and fitted with a body suit, equipped with a number on her chest, and a rope tied around her ankles and wrist. Blake ends up spending time in lockup with Horatata as his mission report is filed. There are inconsistencies that needed to be cleared up before Blake could return to active duty.

***

It's September 14th now, and I'm stitched up and have a new set of duds—black and gray sports jacket with candy cane lining and copper buttons; too rich for my taste, but if von Richton is footing the bill, I'll wear whatever she tells me to. It itches a bit; it might be lanolin, but I haven't looked at the tags.

Ms. von Richton directs me to a rich restaurant with two fellow Watchers as my guides. The floor is made of white linoleum, almost like marble. Red velvet carpets line the path to each table. The restaurant is two stories, and there's a chandelier hanging by four chains suspended between the floors. I've never seen such a lavish waste in my life as this billion-dollar designer nightmare.

I'm escorted to von Richton's table. She is in a red dress—strapless, form-fitting, and one legged with a blue sash slung down her exposed leg. Her hands are crossed in front of her mouth, just like back at her office. Her hair is pulled over her breasts; her glasses dangle in one hand, clenched softly. She smiles at me as I approach. I feel my stomach twist; she is hauntingly gorgeous.

Over her shoulder there is a painting: six feet by ten feet wide, mostly earth toned. It depicts a woman in a white gown with rosy skin and golden hair lying on a canopy-style bed illuminated by a single candle, loomed over by a pair of gray green imps watching her sleep. A face hides in the shadows—a flash red hair, combed and parted neatly, soft cheeks, pale skin, smooth like a child's, but with radiant, yellow eyes like a predator's narrowly gleaming in the dark. This figure is almost spectral, with two hands hugging invisible arms around her and an animistic smile spread across her lips. It is as if she wishes to be seen while remaining unseen, or seen only by some. I can almost feel her watching me through the echoes of time.

"Hello, Richard. On time this time?"

Of course, I'm on time, she sent men to dress me and drag me here. I might have been on time kicking and screaming. "Hi … um … yes?" I notice that my partner has seemingly failed to make it. "Why isn't Tail here?"

"Because freaks don't dine at the same table as men. It's simply not orthodox." She forces a soothing grin.

"But she is my partner." And I'm almost insulted by that statement, by the by.

"And England is mine; he is not here, either. Now sit. I've taken the liberty of ordering already—chili-fried lobster with lemon glaze, feta garnish, and broiled potato wedges and a six-cheese sampler. Do you like champagne, Absal (A rich brand of dark liquor) perhaps, black mountain grape?" I still feel in shock at the surroundings and can barely grasp von Richton's words, so I simply nod and do as told. "I saw your mission report. More than a little impressive—forty-nine confirmed kills? That's more than most of my agents score in their lifetimes, and here you pull it off in a single evening."

That doesn't add up; I only recall firing a single shot and a single kill, unless … England lied for me? He was the other agent, after all; he must have been the one to do the report. But why help me?

"So, Richard, you look well. How was prison?"

I shake my head. "Easy time."

"I hope I got there before you got sodomized." Why does everyone associate prison with anal sex?

"Yes, I'm fine, as far as I know. How did you get me out of there, anyhow?"

"A small agreement that we have with the armed forces and Interpol basically stating that the Watchers enforce their own laws."

I'll remember that next time I'm looking at a DWI.

Von Richton smiles as if she could hear my thoughts "It also helps that the cell you ended up in was one that we owned, but even if it was federal it would have been no different."

The food comes, and von Richton pours herself a drink. She holds it in front of her face, nothing more—never even sipping from her glass in the hour or more we sit together thereafter. I gorge myself on all the fish and bread I can eat as she touches nothing at all. She simply stares at me with a half-smile on one lip. I feel the need to inquire, remembering her words about dining. "Are you—?"

"Don't ask if you can't handle the answer I may give," she says. I knew it—she is a freak herself. Why the anger? Why the hate? There's still so much I just don't understand.

"Where do they come from?"

"The freaks, you mean? They're the results of the multi-verse. Most are reasonable, give or take. War refugees make up the greater body of the legal plane-shifters. If we know who they are and where they came from, they're far simpler to handle; and if they misbehave, we send them back. It's always been the unlicensed ones that have worried me most. The ones we can't track, the ones we can't predict and have nothing to lose. In short, Blake, we don't know. In the beginning, during our father, Abraham von Richton's, time, ten or twelve unknowns would enter our world, and finding them was easy—just look for dead livestock and angry farmers, and you're likely on the right track. Now it takes a network of thousands to track the cheeky bastards."

"What do you mean licensed, anyhow? And how do they get here?"

"On any plane where dimensional travel is not prohibited, one may acquire a travel pass, much like a passport—granted certain guidelines are adhered to and both housing and work are readily available. If one can meet all restrictions for extra-dimensional travel, you board the next convenient Gate and move quietly from stop to stop until you reach your destination. It's kind of like a bus. There are of course Gates that are illegally owned and operated, and that's where our prey comes from, like the Wolfin nest."

"What risk do they pose?"

"You should know that already. As I said, in the past traffic was slow, but now unregistered freaks are more violent and appearing in hundreds. They bring violence, plague, terror, and a black market that demands things I dare not repeat."

"Terror?"

"Blake, how different do you think the worlds are?"

It's an interesting question; I haven't taken the time to think about the possibilities. There's certainly room for insane alteration based of what diversity I've already seen.

"What do you think is more significant, the past hundred years or the thousand before it? Whose life was more meaningful, Socrates or Kane of Babylonia? You don't have to answer, only think. In your life, what was more important, your mother's drug habit, or the fact that your teacher Bethany Rogers never missed a day of work? If not every instant of life were as it is, what might have happened? Do you know? I don't." She baffles me with philosophy. "Do you know why Travelers call us Red Twilight?" she queries.

"No." I don't know any of that, to be honest.

"Look to the sky at 6:55 atomic time any given day and watch as the sky fades from blue to purple and finally to red. You have seen this hundreds of times and so you will barely notice it, but on any other world you will notice that that change will not happen."

Von Richton picks up a napkin and wipes her face then pushes her plate away from herself as if she had eaten her fill, she picks up a fork and knife then folds them across the tray to give the host promotion to take the tray away. How strange. Von Richton folds her hands over her lap as she leans back in her chair. "in other news. The information you gained the other day combined with the testimony of Horatata and Joe has unlocked new avenues of investigations. It seems there really is a otherworldly monster calling himself Cravixs and he does indeed have planes to invade our world. The watchers will be investing a fair some of energy into learning more about this monster…"

Wright von Richton is a mystery to me like no other. It is as if she seems so foul but acts so fair. She is a wolf hiding in a woman's skin. My quest has just begun; I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings in this world called Red Twilight.…

After the meal, von Richton leads me outside. I feel this is my last chance to talk with her in this nearly calm atmosphere as we make our way to her car. "Heaven and Hell?" I spout.

She looks at me strangely. "Was that a question of some sort, Mr. Blake?" I nod, trying desperately to organize my thoughts. "You mentioned them earlier. What are they?"

She almost laughs at the poorly thought out statement. "Sub-planes, and the universe's idea of irony, at that. I have no doubt that the Christian mythos has shared their narrow-minded point of view with you already. But I find the Sylph version far more entertaining, and closer to the truth, at that.

"The goddess Chaos had many children that grow into philosophies. The eldest two were order and anarchy—Jazirian and Ahriman; the two powerful dragons simply cooed not coexist. They took each other by the tails and spun until they ripped off their tails and flew off into space. To protect them from further harm, Chaos buried Jazirian at the center of one of her worlds, Baator, and chained Ahriman to a cloud, Cilestia, where the two must await their final judgment. Heaven is the land of orderly chaos and infinite freedom at the price of control, while at the same time hell enjoys the repetitious and overabundance of inescapable law. So in short, the spirit of order is chained into the land of otherwise chaos, and the spirit of chaos in shackled to the land of otherwise bliss. A paradox, if it hadn't been so ironic."

***

At last I get home to Tail. It feels so long since I've seen her; it's as if I never have. She is asleep on the bed in front of me, asleep in a pair of cotton panties, one knee up, one arm draped over her head, her mouth wide open. I can't remember having ever seen her in person; she has always been a voice to me. Thanks to those damn drugs, the apartment is a mess—empty food boxes sit out, a shirt's sprawled over the couch with a pair of jeans. I take off my coat and throw it down. I sit down on the floor and stare at Tail as she sleeps, so restful, so pure, so loving. I find myself reaching out to touch her but stop short. Instead I simply watch and admire her fine fur, her sexy body, and her teasing tails as they twitch beneath her. I could never do anything to hurt her.…

***

Before the sun even rises on the next day Tail rolls about in her sleep, a strange smell as snuck into her room. One eye opens as she looks swiftly around. Blake is asleep sitting up. His gun on the table to her side. a sword dropped haphazardly on the ground. Tail taste the air. Millie is in the room. Tail can taste it.

Millie kneels down next to Tail, Tail rolls onto her side to look at the kangaroo. Millie whispers "Has Joe been here?"

Tail whispers to her fellow alien, "not that I know of."

Millie explains "he was out all night with the senior watchers. Something big is going down." Millie thumps her tail to the ground "oh and something else. Word on the beet is, you are human."

Tail nods "as far as I know."

Millie takes a deep breath as she thinks "I wonder what that means for people like me? If I could have kids…"

Tail looks Millie up and down "you mean you can't?"

Millie shakes her head "I had an accident as a kid, I no longer have all the parts required."

Tail gets back on topic "so what? So what if I am human? What does that mean?"

Millie rest forward laying her torso on the bed with Tail. Millie's tail sticking up cutely as she leans in to whisper "brings up some ethic problems doesn't it? How human does a freak need to be before they get afforded constitutional rights. I understand Senator Walker even called us up last night wanting to ask about you."

Tail rolls her eyes looking about as she takes in the oddity of Millie's conversation with her "my being her has gotten the attention of a state senator? What sort of network of information do you have hear? How much money needs to be in the equation…"

This time it is Millie that gets to interrupt "apparently a lot as NATO has been looking to send someone in here to have a few words with von Richton also."

Tail whispers as she may have worked it out for herself already "Lichi?"

***

Fox's car comes to a stop outside the Lamia's Back. Dozens of cops and sheriffs are walking about, surveying the area. Fox quickly hides his medicine under the seat of his car and pulls out his camera. Fox is a middle-aged man with light brown hair and a frozen expression of boredom on his face—one of the effects of his medicine—and a thin build—part of his illness. Fox steps out of his car and walks toward his old friend, Sheriff Scott House.

Scott removes his glasses and spits out his gum. House is far older than Fox, but a great deal stronger. He rubs his gritty facial hair. "God damn it, Fox," he exclaims, "what in fuck's sake are you doing here? You're not a cop anymore!"

Fox looks down at his old Polaroid. "Morning, boss. What is the scoop?"

Scott shakes his head at Fox. "Didn't you hear me? I told you eight months ago to get married, have a kid, and enjoy your government pension. Any cop that finds himself on suicide watch is too sick to be a cop, now go home before I put you back in the lockup for obstruction of justice."

Fox raises his head with a glint of defiance in his eyes. "According to the Freelancer Act of 1880 and to the Second Amendment center, as a private contractor and inspiring journalist I have the right to visit any place at any time with an escort to exercise freedom of the press or speech. Not having an escort, though, I believe I still have the right to take up to fourteen days to secure publication and/or copy rights on any work without abridgment—"

Scott cuts him off. "Shut it, Giovanni! I don't need this from you. I already have fifty John Does I have to answer for, and twice as many abandoned vehicles I need to call in on. Plus within the hour I'll have the FBI shouting questions at me! And I don't have any answers. And you …" he exhales heavily, "do whatever you need to do and get out of my hair while I still have some!" Scott waves Fox on.

Fox lowers his head in a nod and rolls the film on his camera, checking its exposures. "Thanks, boss."

As Fox makes his way to the front door of the bar, House calls out to him, "And for God's sake don't touch anything!" Fox nods and heaves a sigh. He steps into the bar and looks around, taking a handful of photographs before one man near his feet coughs, spitting up blood.

"Hey!" Fox calls. "This one is still breathing." House and three more sheriffs run in and begin trying to revive the man in the tan sports coat. His eyes are wide and dilated. His breath struggles to escape him; it looks as if his ribs may be broken, and there is severe bruising around the stomach, chest, and arms. It's little more than luck that he is in as stable condition as he is. Internal bleeding could have killed him at any time.

Another voice comes from the bathrooms. "I have another in here!" As more officers come in from outside to assist the two found survivors, a door opens near the stage. Fox finds himself strangely drawn to it. He slowly walks to it and looks over his left shoulder. Everyone is wholly engulfed in their work, acting as if they can't see him or the door. An ominous wind howls from the lower levels, calling out to Fox.

The smell of a tomb rolls out from below; it leaves a harsh, burning sensation like that of old death, distilled and lingering. Fox walks down the cold, damp steps and into the subterranean castle. The mural that lights itself before him at the bottom is gigantic in comparison to any other painting he has ever seen. It must be over a hundred feet in length with human repaginations as is not more detailed than police interpretive art Fox can image that of he were to take every visage every image and pit it against reality he may just find in eerie number or resemblances. .

Far in the background there are two sister spires burning in a magnificent red hue. This is alluring to him—it seems to depict the very tragedy he narrowly evaded just yesterday at the Twin Towers in New York. He goes to take a picture and notices that his hands are shaking. A light pain begins in the back of his head. Oh no, Fox thinks, I just took my medicine. Fox knows well what's about to happen—it happens most every day at least once if he forgets to take his drugs.

The painting before him comes to life. The warriors dance on the canvas; several of them suddenly look like people he has seen before as they come into perfect focus. A terrible sound echoes in Fox's ears, like metal ripping metal or electricity arcing, maybe even static in high acoustics. The sound is deafening. Fox begins to collapse, holding his head. He knows the sound is only in his head, but he screams anyway. Soon only the pain resides, but it's completely overpowering.

Fox holds out his camera and starts rapidly taking pictures. The Polaroid spits out the photos. Fox scampers for his pen; hastily he takes down notes for himself. He stops for a moment, watching a photo come clean. The pain stops as a man with glowing, golden eyes appears with a katana strapped to his hip. "James?" Fox questions, recognizing the face as that of a close friend.

The pain intensifies five-fold and Fox falls on his back, twisting and flopping like a fish out of water. He starts to calm and sees a girl standing over him. She is in a Chinese priestess gown, white in color with a red ribbon around her waist. Her skin is lightly yellow, like an Asian child's. Her face is warm-looking and smooth; she is a lovely ghost to him with fiery hair pulled into a tight ponytail and one side of her head.

She reaches down and rubs Fox's face with one long, cold hand. Her fingernails are filed into short, sharp blades. She whispers to him, "My love." Her eyes are narrow and dangerous. They flash from brown to yellow as she speaks. "Look what trouble you're in now."

Fox is paralyzed at her feet. She kneels and lifts him into a sitting position. She rubs her nose into his neck. "Fear not, for I shall take you away from all this death." She kisses Fox, and Fox blacks out.