Eye of the Equifade Read online

  Eye of the Equifade

  JA Stone

  The Man in the Iron Mirror

  The Man who wanted to be God

  The Woman with a Bad Problem

  The Man with Nothing Left to Lose

  The Man, the Woman, and the Golden Gun

  The Man with an Abusive Father Figure

  The Man and the Already Dead

  The Woman with Crimson-Black Eyes

  The Girl who Loved Horses

  The Maneater

  The Man who Knew Too Much

  Man’s Best Friend

  Eye of the Equifade

  2017 JA Stone

  Concept Actuation M Stone

  Editing RL Adkins

  Formatting M Stone

  Original Poems and Cover Art JA Stone

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of pure fiction, raw imagination, documenting extraordinary events on a rocky moon orbiting a gas giant orbiting a yellow Star orbiting a super massive black hole…

  THEY FOUND TWO scrub oaks close enough together and sat, leaning against them with legs out and boots touching.

  Sleep came easily for British Fey—always did—not so much for Danica. As she sat there, gazing up to the celestial sky, she thought about the girl’s Father and wondered what it would be like to die and come back as a Ghost. The tall platinum haired warrior’s mind was still reeling from what they just did—and what he just did. She tried to find her calm and settle it when her voice boomed in her head.

  He moved those horses by himself—pushing thousand pound ponies aside as if they weighed nothing, Damn the Seven Devils she saw that with her own eyes. And the target? He—it clamped those bony fingers about the man’s nape and—it just wasn’t possible. Yet here she was sitting across from the entity’s living Daughter who also saw every single detail.

  British agreed that her Father’s Ghost was becoming more powerful, but would say little else. Despite her own astonished puppy-brown eyes during the kill, the petite beauty gave no indications of alarm at this. Perhaps the girl was reluctant to admit the obvious insanity of tracking down serial killers marked by a Spirit—or she simply had no mercy for those men, having murdered so many. The images flashed behind her blue eyes and she looked to the sky for the assurance that would not come.

  Above her, the green Moon, Occia, rose at a crescent before the banded background of the Gas Giant, Ana. The stars began to dim. Soon it would be time.

  On the eye of the equifade, the Spirit said. I will be there. She wrapped her fingers tight over the grip of her Thronesword and thrust her eyes shut forcefully, desperately trying to shatter the images—push them away somehow. Good luck with that. After several moments and without realizing it, her body’s exhaustion overcame the adrenaline and Danica Warfell was soon fast asleep.

  Yet her restless mind continued, replaying the events over and again, searching for the answers to questions unasked, analyzing and calculating tactical outcomes…

  “Does this happen to you often?”

  “Being captured?”

  “Yes British, being captured,” Danica pulled on the steel cuffs behind her slender back one more time, she could feel the skin on her wrist beginning to break.

  “It was the fastest way into their den, one moment please,” answered coyly with her brown eyes studying the calcium drip ceiling, “there we are,” the diminutive girl thrust her arms forward and tossed her metal shackles to the stone flooring.

  “How’d you…never mind.”

  “All in the wrist,” said British with a grin as she began working on Danica’s. “In fact, we are now—no longer,” the cuffs snapped open and Warfell brought her hands forward, squeezing them in turn as if each needed the freedom hug.

  “Weapons,” Warfell crouched, now studying the damp basement with her business eyes. As she did, British snorted a laugh and pointed to the garden tools hanging in a locked cabinet.

  “I want the machete,” spoken as the girl released that lock and opened the cage door.

  “Really?”

  “Love machetes man. Did you know the Falchion is really a glorified machete? Nobles pass them out to the poor to raise a fast army because even without training, anyone can chop.”

  “Boss?”

  “Right, on to it,” British grabbed the rusted branch-hacker and passed a fire hatchet to her partner.

  “Actually, give me those trimmers.”

  Danica accepted the oversized scissors, moved to a workbench, found some pliers and removed the bolt at the axis. Now she had two short swords. She spun them and grinned at Fey, who was also smiling ear-to-ear like a dolt.

  “Crafty Danica, trade?”

  “Noop!”

  “Fair enough,” British dropped her smile to the sticky floor. “Let’s go see the man of the house then shall we?”

  Chemical smoke permeated the air as the two warriors creeped up the dark stairwell to the first floor. Danica recognized the smell—they were cooking ephedra, wonderful, now they’d all be jacked up with raw adrenaline, chemically out of their brains and numb to the touch.

  British vaulted the final steps and thrust the kitchen door wide. Danica joined her. Warfell and Fey stepped forward to command the room.

  “Howdy boys, I heard you kill people, is this true? Were you gonna try and kill us?” the girl with a baby face asked the six armed men huddled over a stove, her glassy browns sparkling like a child’s. “Do any of you know who I am?”

  British never gave them time to answer, driving through them at waist level like a mad little wolverine…

  The dream began to fade as her foot registered the ever so slight tapping, and her focal awareness awakened to the real world—it was time to go.

  The Man in the Iron Mirror

  DANICA WALKED HER Painted Appaloosa, holding the reins by the tips of her fingers as a formality. Rarity would never abide a bit in the mouth and to try could be to lose a finger or worse. He allowed a soft suede bridle and reins for the same reason his Master held them—formality. He knew where Danica wanted to go. He watched her eyes as she rode him having learned to feel her wants and needs.

  “A bit longer boy,” she whispered, clicking tongue to teeth twice, one of many sounds in the secret language shared between rider and steed. Next to Danica and Rarity, British trod on foot, having lost her pony, a first season mare named Bob 17, not two days prior.

  British Fey was just what the name implied—small. Four foot nothing on a good day, she was very pretty with long brown hair and deep brown eyes holding a profound sadness within. Danica knew not to gaze into her companion’s eyes for more than a second. She knew how dangerous the girl was and those eyes often hypnotized her—victims? No, not the abominations, the wild animals the Father-Daughter team faced and put down on the fades.

  The fades—long periods of dusk and dawn, when the Aleuthian Moon was positioned aside the gas giant, Ana. Each fade was preceded and followed by shorter periods of true twilight termed the equi-fades. Aleutha revolved on his axis every thirty-two hours, but it was Ana, consuming forty percent or more of the sky, who decided periods of true day and night for all of her seventy Moons.

  Danica shook her head, gathering her composure.

  “How much longer British?” she asked.

  “Not much. Do you need to stop and make water?” the diminutive girl smiled with her eyes down. Danica said nothing for a long moment and then finally broke the silence.

  “I—yeah—maybe I gotta pee some. Don’t you ever pee?”

  An hour later, as they walked, Danica again found herself studying the boss. She looked like a kid with a baby face that would keep her as a kid until she reached her thirties. British did not like her youthful appearance, but she had no pro
blem exploiting it to complete a mission. Danica called them missions, but her boss called them cases, and recorded the details meticulously afterwards, tossing out the mundane but keeping the strange ones, numbering them for reference.

  Danica could not believe it was her third mission with the Father-Daughter team. She already felt old and tired with experience. First two missions, Danica saw everything—they let her see, so she’d know what she was getting into.

  One man, a very bad man, confessed all he had done when the Father-Ghost entered his body and mind. It did not take long for Danica to realize they were not just exacting revenge by killing those responsible for murders, they were going for the worst Aleutha had to offer, the really sick ones—men and women who were truly evil, monsters.

  And the Spirit knew where to find them every time. Problem was, the Father could only appear on the Physical Plane during the twilights, dusks and dawns of the fades and equi-fades. In the full daytime and deep of night, he could not manifest and at those times, his Daughter was vulnerable.

  Not like the four foot tall pixie needed it. Before Caelum was murdered, he taught his Daughter advanced combat tactics, trained with her for years on end and created a little killing machine.

  Her skills barehanded were frightening, with a bladed weapon, the pretty creature was unstoppable, give her a gun and damn the Gods of Goodness—everybody dies.

  Danica believed that British was using illusion or hypnosis when fighting. On mission number one, the retired Captain turned mercenary distinctly heard one of the opponents screaming repeatedly, that there were too many of them, when clearly it was just the girl.

  The yellow sky dimmed as they continued down the rocky road to Moor.

  Danica could feel him coming, her platinum-white hair stood on end as the air charged with static. An apparition materialized next to British.

  In life, Caelum Fey was a tall spindly man, thin and bony with long straight brown hair. However, his looks were deceiving a master swordsman, he was well accomplished in the sciences of war. Caelum was a brilliant scientist as well and advisor to the Throne of Steel, before Good King Macedon was assassinated. Afterwards, he acted as War Councilman for the Governor of Tibor under Good King Atria.

  In death, he appeared to the physical plane as a tall human entity wearing long flowing black robes, face shrouded in shadow by a massive hood. His hands, the only distinctly visible flesh, were thin and bony, but appeared very much alive.

  He spoke only to British in a calm, warm and loving voice. Danica was always referred to as though she were not there, often in past tense.

  I see you have found the Swordsman. I am honored. Where did you find her?

  British smiled and replied with a coy glance to Danica. “She was on a date, at the Four Flowers. I rescued her from a very ugly man.”

  “That was my boyfriend, very handsome, now he thinks I like chicks.”

  “It was not going well, he was about to say something stupid, I rescued her.”

  Pay her well for services. What has transpired, did you find and rescue the twins?

  “Yes, the kidnappers were hired by a man named Holon, Demetrius Holon, a Guild Captain in Moor.”

  Danica watched carefully as the Spirit nodded its hooded head and absorbed the details his Daughter was conveying. Holon was not the end target. They needed his boss.

  Enter the city just you and the Swordsman. Go to a tavern named The Golden Goblet. Holon may have been there. I will be close, watching. Love you Daughter.

  Caelum took to the sky, disappearing in the clouds.

  “The Goblet is on the south side. We should get you another pony. Maybe we could find a cute one that you may want to keep and, name?” Danica raised her eyebrow in hope though her partner was already shaking her head no.

  “I’ve given up on falling in love with horses that die, Warfell, sorry,” the last said with a touch of sadness in British’s voice.

  The walls of Moor began to fill the horizon like a small mountain, grey, black and ominous.

  “Ivana, Ivana Biggun and this is my niece, Anita Mantoo. She’s not all together with us, you know?” Warfell winked to the guards at the Main Gate.

  “I do not know—state your business for the logs,” the man was unmoved.

  “Well Sir, she has the scours, an airborne virus that causes violent, highly aggressive diarrhea. Takin her to see Doc. Sharpton at the Citadel,” as Warfell said the words, the man was already backing away, signaling them to pass through the gates and move on.

  “Fear and disgust, works every time,” Danica whispered to herself as they cantered Rarity onto the dark streets of Moor.

  “Yeah, thanks,” British whispered back into her tall friend’s shoulder.

  They stopped at a horse stable to look about for a pony. Danica was ready to move on when British finally found a Tinker stallion, dwarf variety.

  “I’ll take this one,” she said to the Steward, tossing him a small pouch of uncut emeralds, enough for every horse there. British came from a very wealthy family—on cases, she always brought plenty of gems so that nothing would impede the hunt.

  They saddled the stallion and British leaped atop like a housecat. She gripped the reins and pulled him about. “I will call you Bob 18,” British afforded her hired mercenary a glance before turning to face the Steward. “Sir, can you tell me the quickest road to the Golden Goblet? We’d like to get drunk now.”

  “You are not old enough to drink young Miss,” the Equestrian Steward replied.

  “She’s twenty, where is the Pub District?” Warfell interceded with a calculated severity.

  “Take this road, Canal Street, she’ll bring you there—sorry Madam.”

  “Good man,” British smiled and cantered Bob 18 out onto the street. She rode like a racer with her legs high up on the torso, giving her recoil and allowing the pony to move with less resistance from the rider. She looked like a professional jockey, size was right for it. Danica had to ask.

  “Have you ever raced professionally?”

  “No, but I did study at the Equestria Dominie, earned my Masters at twelve.” British said it like there was nothing out of the ordinary but her partner knew how prestigious that academy was. Only the filthy rich could afford…”Hey”…forget the tuition, Knights and Nobles, Princes…”Hey there”…

  “Huh?” Warfell snapped to.

  “Quick stop,” British dismounted and led Bob 18 to the window of an Armorer. Danica touched foot to cobble and followed, Rarity keeping aside her faithfully as they stopped and gazed through the wide window. A fat man waddled up and smiled.

  “I cannot sell to…” British spilled fourteen red rubies on the small counter.

  “But I do accept fine gems. What’s your pleasure Riders?”

  The two girls panned eyes about until, there, the weapons wall. The Proprietor grinned and moved a wheeled rack of swords forward.

  “Everything is forged locally.”

  Danica studied the myriad of blades. She had her own.

  “Nothing for me,” she politely smiled. Suddenly, her partner began talking in a stern voice that belied her knowledge of weaponry.

  “I need the Westbury Scimitar, three of the Kukri daggers, in the back? Way back? Can you bring that rack closer Sir?” she was pointing to the firearms. The weapons dealer grinned again and mumbled under his lips as he moved the small rack into place. "These take a little more than a dozen or so red…”

  British plopped the small leather pouch down. “Here are their cousins.” Dozens of them, a small fortune.

  “That one please,” the small beauty was pointing to a rifle, a very short rifle with an elaborate pommeled grip and a barrel that ended in a trumpet-like flare.

  “The Blunderbuss? No Ma’am, those are inaccurate and dangerous, you don’t want that thing. How about a repeater? Shotguns will shoot shatter shot in a two-foot spread. Wait, these are new.” The man held up a small weapon.

  “It’s a Chesterborne 238—I know
. May I please have the old relic? It’s for my Dad,” British blinked her deep brown eyes and the old fat man melted his composure with a smile.

  “Sure sweetie. The Blunderbuss it is. Be careful,” he removed the small rifle and handed it to British. “These nasty fellows were designed for one bloody purpose—up close and personal. Cool thing about these older models is you can pack anything into the pad chamber, rocks, shards of metal, lead slugs, glass, scatter shot, anything handy in a pinch. The barrel is tough, titanium and steel, it can fire while hot and makes a handy club because you will miss anything shy of point blank. They were initially forged for warfare at sea, when combat was tight and quick. It is a single shot path blazer, gets the first guy off ya before, well, just be careful with it good Lady.”

  “I shall and thank you,” British gathered the Scimitar, daggers and rifle.

  Back on the street, British mounted gracefully and began clipping a strap onto the short-barreled shotgun, within seconds; she had the weapon strapped to her back as if it belonged there. The Scimitar, she slid through the saddle-straps, the daggers, she cashed inside her riding leathers and vest.

  Warfell shook her head side to side. “You’re gonna be recognized quick all suited up like that,” she commented as they continued on to the Pub District.

  “Moor is a tough town,” British added with a touch of anger as though she had history there—foul history.

  “There, see?” Danica pointed ahead to the argon lights that identified the Golden Goblet.

  “Let’s stable these guys and secure quarters,” British ordered.

  “On it!” Warfell took off on Rarity as British and Bob 18 examined the streets and the Pub entrance.

  The south side of Moor was an all-out lawless free-for-all in the deep of night. Even the militia pulled out near the end of the equi-fade—those on duty that is. There were Dwarven populations on the south side as well. Centuries back a tribe was befriended and allowed to live within the walls. Dwarves do three things: forge ferrous, funnel froth and fu…