Seven Devils Page 9

  “Yes, Miss Warfell,” Detective Congress smiled, then frowned in response to her gaze.

  “Tell your boss to bring the case file here. Jimmy knows me, tell him to bring beers.” Warfell slammed the door shut before the young Detective could retort. She turned around to face her unkempt home.

  “Yikes! I have a date!”

  Later that equifade, a tap came upon Danica’s door and she wisped through her now spotless pagoda humming a song, bottle of beer in each hand, half-naked.

  She opened the door, a smile to the sky, which she dropped with her blues to see a teenage girl, very pretty with big brown eyes and long brown hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.

  “Hi! My name is British Fey! You are tall!” the pixie piped.

  “I’m not buying anything,” Danica hustled her shear robe into place.

  “Wow, nice rack. Am I selling cookies?” the girl stared at her bosom.

  “Go away,” Danica moved to close the door, but British slithered through and entered Warfell’s retirement home.

  “Oooooh, I love your place, love the weapons everywhere. Swing a sword much?” British sauntered right up to Warfell’s Throne of Steel Militia Sword adorning a wall along with countless medals, awards, armor and more weapons.

  “Okay kid, negative on the cookies, don’t touch that stuff and HEY!” Danica followed the four footer into her galley, just as British popped open a lager from the ice bucket.

  “Yoooooo have a date!”

  “What of it?”

  “Oh, I get it—you’re hot on the outside,”

  “Stop that.”

  “But a little cold on the inside, I love your hair,” British moved to the counter and popped a fresh dinner roll in her mouth, over-exaggerating its flavor, closing her eyes and groaning orgasmic.

  “What do you want before I carry you out of here kid.”

  Warfell tilted her head and furrowed her brows as another knock came upon the door.

  “Lord Captain thy pointy-stick has arrived,” British giggled as Danica threw a finger her way with the unspoken admonition—‘don’t you move.’

  Danica reentered her kitchen with the Chief Inspector sixty seconds later, but the strange girl was gone.

  “Someone was here?” Jimmy asked, noting the windows were locked from the inside, as with the sliding glass doors, no horse outside either.

  “Yeah, sure was, a girl,” Warfell was dumbfounded.

  “A girl was asking over you at the station not six hours ago.”

  “Pretty little thing about yay?” Danica used her thumb and forefinger to demonstrate.

  “Can’t be two of those running around, what’s going on Danica?”

  “Not sure Jimmy, could be nothing. Tell you what, show me that file so’s I can get you drunk,” she grinned evilly and the Chief Inspector’s eyes went wide, just now realizing his old friend’s ulterior motive.

  “Oh wow…um, this, there is…there is no more…no more file,” he fumbled the words, now lost in the idea of a reality that could not possibly be true, having admired the tall, platinum-haired woman for years.

  “Explain?”

  “It was the girl Danica, she brought him in.”

  “What do you say? Who?” Warfell’s fleeting calm appeared, the imaginary winged Sprite crossing its tiny arms in disbelief—clearly preparing for a rapid departure. She snatched the creature and Jimmy creased his brows in curiosity.

  “Our killer, a local farmer named Gus Boone, he confessed, begging us to take him into custody, apparently that girl shook him up pretty bad, though I can’t see how.”

  “Maybe you should have led with this Jimmy,” Danica set her beer down.

  “Sorry, you got off on a—then I got—”

  “Stop that. She said her name was British, British Fey.”

  “Fey?” Jim tilted his head slightly. “She told us it was Anita Manta Ryde…okay, I get it,” he just realized. “Hold on, there is a wealthy family named Fey up north,” the Chief Inspector traded his lusty eyes for business ones.

  “I may have served once under a man named Fey, a civilian with a command, scientist. It was years ago on a detachment out west,” Danica’s memories were a difficult territory to trod upon these days—violent encounters always taking the fore. She remembered the expedition only because they were attacked, ambushed on the road by outlaws.

  That evening fade, British and Bob camped out under Ana and the Stars, three dunes away from Warfell’s beach home. Over a crackling driftwood fire, she spoke to the Rock Pony in confidence.

  “What do you think Bob? Her war record is beyond impressive.”

  Bob nestled down in the soft sand, folding his legs and blinking his left eye as if to say, ‘go on, I’m listening.’

  “Well, question is how I convince her to track down a Gudoshi Assassin with me. I can do this myself undercover; in fact there is no missing her in a crowd.”

  Bob snorted, nudging British’s shoulder.

  “Yeeeah, I stick out too, and I’m the Daughter of a recent mark, they’ll be lookin for me, I know Bobby. So, what’s my move?” British closed her eyes with her face to a fresh breeze.

  I shall convince her

  The voice of her Father. Fey jerked to face Bob and the pony scrambled up to his hooves, startled, flinging white sand everywhere and snuffing the small fire.

  Please forgive me Daughter, Bless the gods of goodness, it is wonderful to actually see you

  She stood, slowly turning around to see a hazy image of a tall man in dark robes with a broad hood pulled over the face.

  She knew it was the Ghost of her Father—She fell back to her knees.

  On the crest of the adjoining dune, Warfell dropped her night scope and lost her breath.

  Okay that’s not possible, her only thought.

  Danica watched in fascination and awe as the small girl held a lengthy discourse with a real Ghost not five hundred feet from her home. After what seemed an eternity, she focused in close on the Specter’s face…

  She jerked back in horror when the apparition lowered its cowl and looked straight at her, followed by the girl. Danica hustled backwards on her belly and ran as fast as she could through the trudging sand for home. On the crest of the next dune, she afforded a look behind. The Spirit, (if that’s what it really was), was gone, and the diminutive young woman sat there with the Rock Pony nestling down aside her. Warfell shook her head and rubbed her eyes furiously.

  On the morning equifade, of course the tapping came. Warfell rose from the chair she’d pulled around to face her front door, having cranked her metal storm shutters closed tight over the rear glass-doors and windows.

  It was the girl—she knew it. She opened the portal and looked down.

  “You saw him?”

  “I did,” Danica backed in to allow the pixie free entrance to her pagoda.

  British told her everything, no lies, and it did not take long to awaken the retired Captain’s pique. Danica was also quick to figure out why the girl had sought her.

  “So, you wish to hire me?”

  “My Father does—says you are the best, I am, of course a self-contained wonder,” Fey smiled and Warfell could not help but to smile too.

  “How much?”

  “More than you’ve earned your entire life. I did some asking in town, they say you give most of your money away to the poor in Silvercrest. Is that true?”

  “Maybe, who told you that, Detective Congress?” Danica walked to the galley and British followed humbly.

  They ate and talked more. Warfell liked this kid, she could tell British was highly intelligent, but she had grievous doubts as to her fighting skills. She did not want to take on the Gudoshi Guild alone.

  “Tell me about the killer you brought in. How did you even know who he was?”

  “Bob and I rode past a farm just outside of town, and I needed to take an aggressive dump, and I saw the water pump outside, and I knew these people would have a real bathroom, so.”
<
br />   “So, what happened?”

  “Yeah, when this idiot opened the door, I smelled the blood, saw the poor attempts to clean up a scene and I just reacted,” British opened a beer. “Is it too early to drink?”

  “You reacted. Define reacting please,” Danica shook her head to the beer, choosing water instead. She reached into a cabinet and retracted a bottle with bright red pills inside.

  “Oooooh, toss me one—red rubies go smooth with a morning brew-ha and I just had the strangest night of my life,” British wasn’t kidding.

  “This is serious medication, how old are you anyway?” Warfell realized she forgot to ask.

  “Nineteen, almost the big two-zero,” Fey answered.

  “Sure,” she tossed the sparkly painkiller British’s way, doing a double take when the pixie caught the tiny orb by thumb and forefinger like a mountain Monk.

  “Where are your weapons?” Warfell decided to treat the kid as an equal, at least for now. When things got tight, she’d ditch her somewhere and take care of business. If British’s Father was just killed, Danica would be damned if she’d bring the Daughter down the same road, no matter how rich they were.

  “Right now, all I have is my Buck Skinner,” Fey flipped out the short, wide utility knife used for tanning hides. “When I am closer to the mark, I’ll pick up a sword and sumpin good,” she grinned and Danica shook her head no.

  “That’s not gonna cut it. Outfit here with my gear, just leave the bayonet-style Longsword and boot daggers be. Oh and don’t touch my Chesterborne, she’s a sensitive gal,” Warfell realized she was committing to help someone she just met. How could she not after what she saw the previous fade?

  “Well, yeah, thanks. I’ve been admiring all the weapons. You a sharpshooter?” British pointed to the two sniper rifles above the fireplace, mounted above an antique hunting shotgun.

  “Little bit, when called for,” Danica was being modest. “I have a short, cuffed Saber—”

  “Nooop!” replied Fey, eyes scanning the walls adorned with instruments of war and artifacts of deviltry.

  “I have a—”

  “Machete?” British interrupted with an unhealthy gleam in her puppy browns.

  “What? NO! I keep no bush down below.”

  “Yeah me too—wait! I see a beautiful piece—let’s see if you can read my mind?” Clearly, these two were becoming fast friends. Danica panned her blues about, settling for some strange reason on the most unlikely weapon a four-foot tall, flat-chested teenage girl might dare swing.

  “You want my double-bladed axe? I strap that to the saddle for firewood on the road. You fight with garden tools?”

  “Ah, but you have good taste, it’s made by Westbury—one solid piece of stainless surgical steel. Can I saw the handle down and wrap it in leather-cork?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t keep a ferrous saw that’ll cut through stain—”

  “I do, thanks!” the girl bolted to the wall, scampering up like an island lemur, hefting the rarely used item whilst dangling from a rafter. British then kissed the blade, bounding fifteen feet to the wooden floor, rolling like a gymnast and landing in a one-knee stance with her head low and the oversized axe held high above and behind, mimicking a ballerina in her finale pose.

  “What—the Seven—was that?” Warfell sat motionless in shock.

  “Me reacting,” Fey grinned like a naughty school kid.

  Northwestern Road between Silvercrest and Tibor

  British rode her faithful Bob, newly modified Axe slung through a frog strapped to her back. Aside her Warfell rode the Painted Appaloosa stallion, Rarity.

  “He is beautiful, I was gonna say something earlier,” Fey commented when the two horses touched noses as they walked.

  “Thank you, Rarity is very special.”

  “I see that,” British gently patted Bob’s neck to reassure him. She knew the Rock Pony could sense her admiration for the Appaloosa.

  “So, boss, do we, you or I have a stratagem?” Warfell asked, though she knew they were still two days out.

  “We, I do, and it will be we when I tell you.”

  “That was rude.”

  “I just wanted to say it, like saying do and do twice, you know?” British laughed, calmed and then followed the horizon with her eyes.

  “Six hundred miles due north of Moor, the Blue Mountain chain begins, as you know,” that connotation riled Danica, but British continued undaunted. “The Gudoshi have many strongholds, certainly near the major cities, but here, we have a remote outpost,” Fey passed Warfell a parchment map.

  “Why there and not a larger hive?” asked Danica.

  “I suspect a singular peak on a jagged range; Witcher’s Wand is the name on the map.”

  “Got it,” the white-haired rider studied the details.

  “Centuries ago an aboriginal tribe of Third Dynasty Iron Dwarves carved a small village within the marble peak, that’s the cool part, the catacomb system is smoothed from the marble, polished to a fine hone. It’s a beautiful sight, or so I have been told. Anyway, I among others have long suspected the Gudoshi Elders lived there as the lands are no longer preserved by the Throne of Steel. If so, we know that only their finest would be with them, kept very close as Guardians and Captains.”

  It made sense. Given the wealth and political stature of Caelum Fey, the Assassin contracted would undoubtedly be an ‘A’ player.

  “So how do we penetrate?”

  “Well they’ll know who I am, but no one should recognize you,” Fey smiled, “you said penetrate.”

  Warfell ignored it and continued. “I was approached once by the Akashi Guildsmen when I was on leave in White Falls,” she mused, realizing that one with her skill set might actually be a good recruit especially now that the Throne of Steel had collapsed to Moor. Aside from Silvercrest, she was without a Nation—a soldier without a war.

  “So we can get you in easy enough. I will have to do it the old fashioned way,” Fey flicked Bob’s reins.

  “And that would be?” Warfell did not believe this girl could sneak inside a Gudoshi stronghold—not likely.

  “I’ll do it their way, and that will piss them off to no end. Have you heard much of the Gudoshi’s methodologies?”

  “Little, but nothing good.”

  “Yeah, they will contract on anyone for the money—zero honor, bad people.”

  “Then perhaps it is time to restructure those policies,” said Warfell as she watched the girl navigate her bristling Pony over a rock outcropping. Bob—who names a horse Bob?

  “Well, for true justice, I need to discover who paid for the hit, and why. Then I will need to go see her,” the small girl clacked tongue to teeth.

  “You say her.”

  “Yeah, I have a bead on Isabella Frantz,” British shot Danica a glace to see if the tall warrior recognized the name—nothing. “You don’t keep track of wealthy people do you,” not a question.

  “Why would I?” Warfell let Rarity take the rocks on his own, allowing her body to shift with his movement and weight.

  “Noble indeed, I applaud you Captain,” Fey bowed in the saddle.

  “Who needs to hear about the lives of a bunch of pricks?” Danica added, realizing the girl might take umbrage and not caring. So far, British had scampered around the beach house like a gymnast, but Warfell was far from convinced she could handle a fight.

  And as though the Gods of the Lonely Road were listening to her thoughts, five men were blocking the path ahead, armed and mounted.

  “Well-well, they look up to no—wait! British!”

  Too late—the girl vaulted forward on the Rock Pony, raising her booted feet high like a show rider. Warfell gave chase.

  “C’mon boy, YAH!”

  The little elf girl slid Bob to a stop with ten lengths to spare between the armed men, all of whom were leveling swords at her.

  “Road ensh here little Mishy,” The largest, a man with no teeth and a lip-licking tongue virtually spat the words
. Danica reined Rarity in next to Bob.

  “What’s this a Mother-Daughter road trip?” another added with laughter from the rest. British smiled, chuckling to herself. She nimbly dismounted, patting Bob’s rump—the unspoken request—little room here buddy?

  Bob moved off the road and British watched the burly roadmen touch dusty boots to rock. Warfell alone chose to remain mounted, watching.

  “Do you know who I am?” British asked plainly.

  “Rish kid,” he shot a finger and a bloodshot eye to Danica. ”Momma, you try to run on that pretty horsh and your Daughter here won’t make it,” the leader admonished the retired Captain as he and his boys squared off before the teenager with a metal woodchopper still on her back. Oddly, British turned to face Warfell.

  “You can look away my friend—I understand,” she spoke with sadness and Danica jerked her head in surprise.

  British did not wait for a response. She moved lightning fast, hands excising the Axe and the Buck Skinner free from frog and sheath and spinning about.

  And Danica watched, rather she tried…

  When it was over, British stretched to her proud four feet, breathing deep over the bodies, roving her browns across the tattered meat, metal and bone now steaming near her boots in the cold evening air.

  The sulfur and metal vapors of bile and blood slapped Danica’s face hard and she shook her head abruptly.

  Seconds—if that, seconds. Warfell missed most of it, the kid moved like a mongoose. Danica found herself trapped in a cloud of fear. The screams of the men snatched her memory-mind and took hold, forcing Danica to remember that each cut made was not just lethal, but downright vicious. The kid got femoral arteries and hamstrings first, then the abdomens, then the necks. Warfell realized that British Fey was not a fighter at all—she was a goddamned killing machine with a ponytail.

  “You okay?” the girl asked her new friend, hoping they were still friends.

  “Yes—yes I am—you?” Warfell didn’t know what to say, the tactile terror still tugging away.

  “Need to saw a few more inches off,” she hefted the red-painted weapon, examining the two-foot handle. “Ever talk to a Spirit up close?” the girl asked, ignoring Warfell’s question.