《Charon's Oar (ON HIATUS)》


 Prologue - The Flip Side

    ZERO


    The Prologue


    Bounty Hunters tend to come in two flavors: Big Muscle Biker, and Let¡¯s Fight About Something (and I Might Also Be a Biker). Both favor denim or leather vests with an absurd amount of zippers, and display tattoos that would just as likely warm a mother¡¯s heart as send her to her prayers. They generally drive loud motorcycles or awkwardly big trucks that leave them smelling of diesel and sweat.


    Then there¡¯s me: I wear crisp, ironed button-down shirts, pre-faded blue jeans, and dress-casual shoes. I wear a hemp bracelet my niece told me was hip in the 90s, and a gold ring with a diamond set in black stone. I drive a small sports car. I use cologne. My name is Lloyd Wealcan, and I¡¯m a Bounty Hunter.


    I run two businesses out of separate offices. Two days a week I teach piano lessons and work audio production out of a private studio in Des Moines, Iowa. The rest of the week I operate as a bounty hunter in my office on the Flip Side.


    Most people aren¡¯t aware, but every major city has a flipside. In many cases, flipsides are opposites of their real world counterparts. Des Moines is a relatively low key, Nice Town kind of place. As a result, it¡¯s flipside is darker and carries more of a big-city corporate and heartless vibe. I like to describe it as a den of iniquity, to steal a phrase. It¡¯s every dark desire you¡¯ve ever craved, and every craving you would never think to desire.


    This isn¡¯t to say all flipsides are like mine. Chicago¡¯s is a beacon of peace and all that is good; hippie central, in other words. Rio de Janeiro¡¯s is rich, all ritz and high class. Anybody who¡¯s anybody spends a weekend there a few times a year. I certainly do.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    As best as I can piece together, most flipsides were willed into existence by the struggling emotions of their opposites in our world. When human civilization first began gathering and forming cities, those cities became congested and conflict was introduced. Opinions, practices, law - these began defining boundaries of society and the less dominant emotional essences needed a way of being acknowledged. They burst through to create an alternate version of those cities in a parallel reality I call: The Flip Side. The opposite. Yin and yang. However you want to phrase it.


    Some flipsides manage to retain their more traditional, historic selves - cities that have been around long enough to have a history that embraced every emotion, with roots so deep they refuse to let go. Rome and Athens have flipsides still stuck in their respective Empire days. London¡¯s still holds a firm grip on it¡¯s Victorian era identity.


    There are also cities where olde magicks - the kind of magic that deserves the dated spelling and that existed before civilization conquered their territories still retain authority in their flipsides. Edinburgh, Moscow, and Sioux City to name a few.


    On the Flip Side, reality follows rules it makes up for itself. Overall city layout is usually passingly similar to their real world counterparts, but actual buildings and their construction can differ drastically. The Des Moines flipside packs its city blocks with skyscrapers and skywalks. The alleyways are always dark and foreboding. It¡¯s a city¡¯s darkest, most dangerous corners and largest, most heartless businesses - without any signs of normal society in between.


    In my flipside, you¡¯re either somebody, or your life isn¡¯t worth the time of day; and these are my hunting grounds.


    Catch you on the Flip Side¡­


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 ONE - The Client

    ONE


    The Client


    With the sun threatening to set I saw my last student of the day on her way. The studio was a bit of a mess, with the parts to one of my grands strewn about. I¡¯d spent the afternoon showing my students how to dismantle and maintain individual parts of a piano. As the sky outside became a mess of purples and reds, I spent the next two hours replacing keys, tuning strings, and touching up the felt on hammers before sliding the action back into place.


    Confident everything was in it¡¯s proper place, I called it quits on my day job. I locked up my studio, hopped into my Mitsubishi and listened to a few Chopin Preludes as I drove over to my buddy¡¯s restaurant.


    Bento Fusion wasn¡¯t actually Shed¡¯s restaurant, but he was the head chef. They specialized in over-the-top westernized renditions of classic Japanese cuisine. Shed was always coming up with new recipes to try out on the locals and the restaurant had never received a complaint or bad review while he was on shift.


    I pushed open the double doors and walked inside like I owned the place, expecting to see a familiar frown. To her credit, the hostess¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waiver. She hates me. I always eat free here, and for some reason that irks her something awful. I¡¯ve never cared enough to ask why. She couldn¡¯t have been any older than nineteen and I expected would be described by her peers as high maintenance. I gave her my best Tom Cruise - you know, the smile that has absolutely nothing genuine behind it - and winked as I passed the Please Wait to be Seated sign.


    I heard her mutter something under her breath as I made my way to the sushi bar, and I¡¯m pretty sure it had to do with me shoving that smile of mine somewhere. I grinned a little wider.


    ¡°Irrashaimase!¡± Kenji, the sushi chef said in welcome as he gave me a curt, short bow and went about making my dish.


    I never have to order here - the entire staff knows I always get whatever unagi dish is the best that day. Despite their physical appearance, eel is astoundingly tasty. As is our custom, Kenji and I engaged in a heated discussion about the best sak¨¦ that season while I ate. Kenji doesn¡¯t speak any English, and it¡¯s amusing to see the reactions of the other Iowa customers when they see us arguing passionately in Japanese. I¡¯m not convinced he ever actually disagrees with my comments about rice wine - I¡¯m a scotch man, after all. It¡¯s more that he likes to push my knowledge of his native drink to it¡¯s limits, which he does, every time. I actually have to do homework between visits to keep up.


    He and Shed had trained together in Osaka before the restaurant opened. All the kitchen staff and chefs are required to train two months in Japan before being hired on. Shed and Kenji trained for a full five years, and cooking techniques were only a part of their studies. Suffice to say that like Shed, Kenji is one of the few people in this world I would think twice about crossing. I¡¯m quite content that he approves of my continued existence, and participation in the future of Bento Fusion - I sometimes play improvised versions of traditional Japanese folk music on the baby grand piano they keep in the corner on weekends.


    My stomach full of goodness, I bowed to Kenji and grabbed my dishes (I¡¯ve never seen the bus boy - I have no idea how this place stays so clean), and walked back into the kitchen. I don¡¯t actually do my own dishes, but I figure I can at least drop them off as I always walk past the dishwasher anyway.


    After handing them off to a staff member whose name I couldn¡¯t remember or never knew, I gave Shed a fist bump and friendly nod while he took a break from chopping radishes. Bald by choice and a touch on the short side, Shed was lean - devoid of body fat and chiseled in a way that made one think of Burce Lee despite his pale skin. I saw a nasty looking burn on his arm and raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°A kobold came out of the walk-in a few minutes ago, looked around surprised, and freaked out¡± Shed sighed. ¡°He grabbed a pan I had heating on the stove and took a swing at the new guy over there¡± he finished, pointing to a kid no older than seventeen chopping onions with his head down. It was obvious he was trying not to be seen.


    I kept my eyebrow raised.


    ¡°New guy froze up, I intervened¡± he continued, staring at the blond kid. ¡°I dealt with the ugly little lizard, but took the hot frying pan to my forearm in the process. Tssss¡± he hissed, mimicking the sound of burning flesh. Everybody has quirks, and one of Shed¡¯s is creating his own sound effects. That, and killing people.


    ¡°New guy is, as you say¡­ new!¡± I suggested helpfully.


    ¡°New guy will be dead guy if he doesn¡¯t get his act together and put his expensive training to use¡± Shed called out, his voice raised enough for all the staff to hear as he swatted the back of the kid¡¯s head. ¡°There¡¯s a reason I send the staff to Japan to trade, Lloyd. If they just needed to know how to cook I¡¯d handle it here. Now get, I gotta lock up the walk-in after you and these radishes are losing their cool¡±.


    I rolled my eyes. Shed loves wordplay and bad puns as much as I do, but that one was lame. ¡°Speaking of losing, what¡¯s the new guy¡¯s name?¡± I asked, stepping into the walk-in.


    ¡°New Guy, until he earns otherwise¡±. Shed slammed the walk-in door and my world plunged into cold darkness.


    Bento Fusion¡¯s walk-in, for reasons unknown (at least to me), is a doorway to Des Moines¡¯ flipside. There are other paths here and there throughout the city, but this one led to a stall in the street-level restroom of the same building I ran my other office out of. It was fast and convenient. I never have to worry about the stall being occupied, because not only is there no toilet, but unless you entered the restroom specifically looking for the door leading back to Des Moines normal side, you simply won¡¯t notice it.


    Usually. I don¡¯t think the kobold that burned Shed had intended to end up in a walk-in freezer, but kobolds are stupid enough not to realize the laws of reality were bending to hide a door from the ignorant. They¡¯re a waste of molecules, if they¡¯re even composed of them. I¡¯ve never tried to understand the laws of since on the Flip Side. What the hell was one of their lizard brood doing in my building anyway?


    I stepped out of the stall and made sure the restroom was empty as kobolds usually run in packs, before checking myself out in the mirror to ensure I hadn¡¯t spilled any of my dinner. I never have, but I make it a habit to always check. My clean and dashing good looks affirmed, I walked out into the lobby that, while once was a grand marble wonder, hadn¡¯t aged well.


    The building was very similar to its counterpart in the normal Des Moines. It¡¯s the tallest sky scraper in the city, though here its significantly more so. I listened to the clack of my heels on a marble floor that probably shined once upon a time, then took the elevator up to my office.


    The lift will take you as far as the nineteenth floor. After that you need a keycard, numerical code, Word of Power, and to pass a voice activated scan to access the landlord¡¯s office on the thirtieth floor. Nobody knows what exists between floors nineteen and thirty, and asking just doesn¡¯t seem wise. My landlord has a way of turning one¡¯s organs inside out when she¡¯s angry.


    I punched the number ten and waited while an old Index Case song played through the speakers. The elevator plays only local music, and the fact that you¡¯ve probably never heard of a band other than Slipknot to come out of Iowa in decades should tell you the quality of the soundtrack as I rode up.


    After a ding and a pause that lasted just long enough to merit worry, the doors parted - six inches lower than they¡¯re supposed to. I sighed dramatically and stepped up out of the elevator and onto my floor. I¡¯d have to talk to the landlord about fixing the elevator. Again. For the third time this month. And I hate talking to her. Or interacting with her in any way.


    The tenth floor is entirely mine, so when one steps out of the elevator they have about five square feet in which to enjoy their existence before encountering a steel and iron reinforced door with a plaque that originally read ¡°Wealcan: Bounty Hunter¡±. I¡¯d scratched in ¡°bring money or gtfo¡± below it, just to make my attitude on casual visitors clear. I earn the bulk of my income out of this office, and don¡¯t care to answer questions for free when there could be paying clients out there. Somewhere, out there. There was a post-it note stuck to the door, and a package on the floor.


    I paid no attention to the package. It is not wise, on the Flip Side, to mess with containers until you have some idea what may be in them. Sometimes this offends the package, but I always err on the side of caution. I can take an angry package. I can¡¯t always take, say, an inter-dimensional vacuum. Or, y¡¯know¡­ a bomb. Live and learn, they say. I started to read the post-it note aloud, but stopped as soon as I realized how stupid it would sound.


    #include <iostream>


    Using namespace std;


    Int main()


    {


    Count << ¡°Wish to hire services on behalf of client \n¡±;


    Count << ¡°Client will pay standard rates \n¡±;


    Count << ¡°Package contains details \n¡±;


    Count << ¡°Will be in touch¡±;


    System (¡±pause¡±);


    Return 0;


    }


    I only know one person who hand-writes in programming languages. I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and sighed again. What the hell? There was no signature, but I knew it was from Tresch. Tresch is a hacker, and a friend among other things. He¡¯d only outsource to me if the contract required violence, infiltration that demanded physical effort, or the potential for either. He abhors violence - at least the kind that requires him to participate, and if there¡¯s effort involves that doesn¡¯t involve typing, forget about it. When jobs with those requirements come his way, he contacts me, Shed, or Big John. Working with Tresch is always interesting, always lucrative, and never safe.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I mentally lowered the defenses on my security door, and a mellow hum vibrated through me as the wards went down. After a break-in a few months ago, I¡¯d hired a techno-wizard to come by and install a few security measures on the door to help keep people (and things that are very much not people) out when I¡¯m not here. After showing up on three separate occasions to a hallway splattered in blood and various bits of something, once in shades of blue and green, without so much as a dent in the door I felt confident in the amount of money I¡¯d spent.


    I opened the door and slid the package into the room with my foot. Just because it was probably from Tresch didn¡¯t mean I should be reckless. I¡¯d been a Boy Scout as a child - always be prepared, cautious, and not stupid. I¡¯ve had to alter the motto a bit, over the years.


    Everything in the three thousand square foot landing was just as I¡¯d left it last week. My gorgeous dark mahogany desk sits front and center with two suspiciously comfortable leather chairs facing it for clients who choose to come to me in person. The floor plan is completely open, and only a few freestanding shoji screens Shed gifted me after one of his latest trips to Japan give the office an area of implied boundary.


    Off to the east is my personal library, storage for the gear I occasionally use on hunts, and a kick-ass home theater setup. The west end houses a bed, couch in front of a flat-screen with every videogame console I¡¯d ever come across, and my other music studio where I keep all the instruments too dangerous or strange for use in the normal world.


    I frowned when I saw the light in the bathroom was on. I told it to shut itself off and reprimanded it for not doing so of it¡¯s own accord after being on so long. It came with a voice-activated privacy screen, rather than walls and a door. I¡¯d ordered it my first month here from a store a few blocks south that specializes in technologies from potential futures. It was worth the money, most of the time. Occasionally it gave me attitude.


    Light from the offices across the street mixed with the faint red neon of dance club to the southwest and gave the room a comforting glow. I don¡¯t have windows, but the whole southern brick facade of the building is see-through from the inside. It¡¯s a great effect, as it tricks the eye into thinking the floor just ends, open to the night and thee street below. It¡¯s soundproof, shatterproof, and bulletproof, which is neat.


    I slid the package along the floor to give it ample space on all sides, and retrieved a piece of chalk from my desk. I used it to draw a circle on the floor around the box, then opened it. Inside was what I expected: a black stone, and an old cellular flip-phone. I grabbed the phone, and left the stone where it was. Once outside the circle, I touched the edge and muttered the Konami Code under my breath (hey, mantras can be anything, as long as they work). My willpower short forth into the circle from my fingers, drawing up a column of invisible force around it¡¯s edge. The cell phone rang.


    ¡°Wealcan¡¯s¡±.


    ¡°Yo,¡± said Tresch¡¯s familiar voice. ¡°Gimme a sec here¡± he added, and I heard the clicking of keys in the background.


    Not five seconds later the stone began to glow, then broke apart as the air around it ruptured in a pulsing shockwave, thankfully contained by my circle. Seemingly out of thin air I was suddenly looking at an old man in a worn, grey toga.


    Did I mention that despite Tresch¡¯s love of computers, he also hacks reality?


    ¡°Costume party?¡± I ventured as a guess, arching an eyebrow for the second time this evening.


    ¡°Yes¡± came a heavily accented reply. The man looked about curiously as if he could actually see the forcefield around him.


    ¡°As who?¡± I asked curiously.


    ¡°As me¡±.


    ¡°This is Charon¡± Tresh said through the phone.


    ¡°Oh¡±. I was glad I¡¯d drawn up that circle before answering the phone. Charon is the legendary Soulcaster who ferries the dead across the river Styx. A man with the power to transport souls was both creepy and dangerous.


    ¡°Dude, speaker already!¡± the voice in my ear snapped. I hit the button and set the phone on the desk behind me.


    ¡°So, what can I do for you, Mr. Charon?¡± He was ancient, but not weak, and I always try and start my business relationships politely.


    ¡°I am told by the man on the phone that I am in need of your services as his will be inadequate for the task at hand¡±.


    It always give me pause when Tresh can¡¯t handle a task without help as that usually means I¡¯m going to get the shit kicked out of me at some point. I waited with a smile, inviting him to continue.


    ¡°I hired your colleague there to track down an item of certain value, stolen from me two days past. I know where it is, but I don¡¯t know Where it is¡±.


    I blinked and stared at him.


    ¡°What he¡¯s tryin¡¯ to say,¡± offered Tresch¡¯s voice from behind me and distorted by the phone¡¯s tiny speaker, ¡°is that the building it¡¯s being kept in doesn¡¯t actually exist¡±.


    ¡°Huh?¡± I said, showing off my amazing conversational skill and ability to keep up.


    ¡°The room housing his stick exists, but the building it¡¯s in and thus it¡¯s entrance or anything I should be able to hack, doesn¡¯t. Exist¡± Tresch added helpfully.


    ¡°Stick? What exactly was stolen from you, Mr. Charon?¡± I asked in an attempt to bring the conversation back to a place I could make sense of, a pit of dread forming in my stomach.


    ¡°My Oar¡±.


    ¡°Your oar¡±, I repeated. Charon stared back at me, non-pulsed.


    ¡°Okay¡± I said with a shrug, as if a missing oar were an everyday occurrence. Money is money in the end. ¡°Let¡¯s talk payment, then details. Then we¡¯ll probably have to talk payment some more, because that tends to happen when Tresch involves me in his work¡±. I pulled out my smartphone and accessed the calculator.


    ¡°The standard rate for locating and retreiving a non-animate item is three thousand dollars per week, current American tender. One-thousand up front to cover potential expenses. This is of course in addition to whatever you¡¯re paying Tresch. Unless you¡¯re paying me, Tresch?¡± I added.


    ¡°I also want the thief brought back to me. Intact¡±. There was no malice or deception in Charon¡¯s voice. Only a cold, logical inflection. His eyes were inky black chasms that I couldn¡¯t read.


    ¡°Alright¡± I continued with nonchalantly. ¡°The minimum for hunting someone - wait, is the thief human? Do you know?¡±


    Charon shrugged, an oddly modern gesture for his old frame.


    ¡°Well, if they¡¯re human¡± I continued, ¡°the minimum is five thousand weekly, first week up front. It goes up from there. I¡¯ll let you know the final cost upon delivery. While I will do everything in my power to bring in the bounty alive, I make no promises and speak no oaths. I can also offer absolutely no guarantee that they will be unharmed¡± I finished.


    Charon nodded in understanding and opened his mouth to speak.


    ¡°Yer gonna want Johnny along on this one¡± Tresch said before Charon could make a sound. Uh-oh. I looked at Charon, twisted around to eye the phone, then turned back to Charon.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to tack on another ten thousand right now, all of which will need to be paid up front¡± I said with as stern a voice as I could muster.


    Tresch grunted in agreement, and a knock sounded on my door. I excused myself and walked around to the other side of my desk. Charon and Tresch were muttering something about their own financial agreement as I pulled out my chair and reached down to touch a rod of brass I had worked into the underside of the wood, ready to channel my will into it if needed. It connects to a brass circle embedded in the floor at the door.


    ¡°Come in¡±.


    The door swung open to reveal a briefcase floating in mid-air. The poltergeist courier couldn¡¯t enter, as I never take down that particular ward when I get to my office. You just can¡¯t trust ghosts these days.


    I let my hand drop. ¡°Just leave it there¡± I said, and the case dropped to the floor. I walked over, grabbed it, and shut the door again. Back at my desk I set it down and opened it to find sixteen thousand dollars in crisp stacks of hundred-dollar bills. I looked up at Charon.


    ¡°I will forward the remaining balance when you return the thief and my Oar. You have twenty-four hours¡±.


    I gave him my most incredulous look. ¡°Twenty four hours? There something else I need to be aware of?¡±.


    Charon looked at me as one would a dimwitted child. ¡°Without my Oar, I cannot navigate the river¡±.


    My shoulders dropped as I realized the implications, and that the look Charon was giving me was warranted. The river Styx is composed of rejected souls, and the Oar gives him some measure of control over the currents they form, allowing him to cross without those souls dragging the boat down to their lower depths. No ordinary stick would do the job.


    ¡°Hold up¡±. I tapped a few buttons on my phone¡¯s calculator, entering the variables of the hunt and factoring in the new time limit and reviewed the number it spit back at me. ¡°That tight a time frame is going to require more upfront assets¡±.


    Charon narrowed his eyes but raised an eyebrow at the same time. I¡¯d have to learn how to do that, because it was effective at conveying his curiosity at my continued negotiation after he¡¯d made his final declaration and paid me. Apparently he was unaccustomed to backtalk. A moment later his look transformed to one of amusement, though the blackness of his gaze lacked any familiar sparkle.


    ¡°Very well. Keep that briefcase as expense-only upfront asset. I¡¯ll pay your normal rate in its entirety when you complete the task, in twenty-four hours.¡±


    I nodded. He made to leave, then caught himself and turned back for one final bit of advice.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you can imagine my need for haste Mr. Wealcan, but you don¡¯t know the half of it. The banks of the river are crowding. When there is no room left, souls will have no choice but to spill out into the rest of the world. Do not fail¡± he finished. His face faded away, revealing decaying flesh in patches over a skull crawling with maggots. I swallowed, grateful for the protective ward encircling him.


    That was creepy, I had to admit. I smiled, showing my teeth. People tell me when I do that, there is a recognizable manic look in my gaze, but they¡¯ve never explained to me what they mean by that.


    ¡°If Tresch recommended me, then he¡¯s also told you of my reputation. I never fail, Mr. Charon¡±.


    Never show fear - or the potential for it - as a mortal on the Flip Side. Do, and you¡¯ll be trampled as everyone and everything walks all over you. Or eats you. And not necessarily metaphorically. For all his age and power, Charon hesitated a moment before tilting his head curiously, bowing politely, and disappearing through the rip in reality. With a reversal of the shockwave that brought him here, the rip sealed itself up. Sometimes it pays to have a reputation like mine.


    I picked up the phone and said my goodbyes to Tresch, but the line was already dead.


    I sat down at my desk and powered up my computer. Leaning back in my chair, I snapped off a piece of the phone and popped it in my mouth. Tresch only ever sent me edible phones, since they can¡¯t be traced or accessed for data once they¡¯ve been digested. This one was watermelon.


    As I finished chewing, I checked my email: nothing. That was par for the course. While I often work multiple cases at a time, most people on the flipside don¡¯t trust email. It¡¯s too easy for beings that exist outside normal wavelengths to intercept. Still, it didn¡¯t hurt to make the option available just in case.


    I picked up my smartphone again and told it to get ahold of Big John., After a few seconds I heard his flat, no-nonsense ¡°What¡±. It wasn¡¯t that he knew it was me - he doesn¡¯t pay attention to caller ID. That¡¯s just how he answers his phone.


    ¡°Meet me over at Exodus in ten? I¡¯ve got some work for you. And before you ask, yes, you¡¯ll get to use your guns¡±. He grunted and hung up.


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 TWO - The Oldest Pub

    TWO


    The Oldest Pub


    Wedged between a faerie night club and a vegan coffee shop a few blocks west of my building, Exodus is the most interesting pub on the Flip Side. Or anywhere. Apparently, Moses originally built and rank the pub near Mt Sinai, back in the day. It showed up here sometime in or around 1910. To my knowledge, nobody save for the owner knows why he or it chose Des Moines¡¯ flipside nor how the entire pub was transported, intact, from the Sinai desert. He never offers up an explanation. He just stares at you like you¡¯re an idiot and says ¡°I¡¯m Moses¡±. And he is.


    Exodus is my favorite libations dealer anywhere in the world. I¡¯d be a regular if Moses allowed regulars, which he doesn¡¯t. He¡¯s kicked customers out for showing up too regularly. I¡¯ve never asked why, even though it seems contrary to every business model ever conceived, because he¡¯s never once kicked me out. I¡¯d hate to ruin a good thing, and his pub tops my list of Good Things. I suppose we¡¯re friends, in a way.


    The pub is constructed out of what I can only imagine are the original materials. Rough and unstained, hand-cut wood planks make up the tables and benches. You¡¯d think they¡¯d be uncomfortable, but a few millennia of customers have pressed ass-conformed shapes into the wood that let you settle right in as if they were specially molded to yours.


    Some of the tables have worn leather chairs, and a set of menacing Victorian leather lounges sit in the corners. I never sit in them. I fear they¡¯ll eat me. The floor is unpolished stone and immaculately clean. I¡¯m convinced Moses uses a cleaning service but he refuses to acknowledge it and give me their number.


    As I arrived, only a few people where in their drinks. The heat of flame threatened to scorch my face as I walked through the single door and into the pub proper. Moses never got around to wiring the place for modern lightning and still used torches on the walls and candles on the tables. Why he kept live torches on each side of the door frame¡¯s narrow entryway is up for debate. Some say it¡¯s to keep evil away. I think it¡¯s just to annoy us, and weed out some of the customers he¡¯d rather not deal with.


    I arrived before Big John so I took a seat at my normal table with a nod to Moses, who had already grabbed a bottle of Macallan for me. Scotch is my drink of choice, and I enjoy it something fierce. I don¡¯t drink every day,m but when I do, only touch the good stuff. And sometimes I touch it a lot.


    As at Bento Fusion, but for very different reasons, I never have to order here either. Moses just gives me a once-over when I enter, and decides what to serve me, as he does with all of his customers. The first time I¡¯d ever been to Exodus I made the mistake of trying to order for myself. Moses had leaned over the bar and punched me in the neck. By the time I¡¯d recovered he¡¯d set a Talisker and scotch egg in front of me, and I had to admit it was by far a better choice than what I¡¯d been about to request. I¡¯ve let him make the call on my orders ever since. I also don¡¯t tell other people about my experience, because I enjoy watching him hit them for the same mistake. His beatings ahve a certain old school charm to them.


    Of the three other patrons, I only recognized one: Harrold Taylor. He was a private investigator originally based out of Seattle who so often ended up in the Des Moines flipside following leads that he¡¯d recently decided to move his whole operation out here. We cross paths now and again on cases, and I raised my glass to him.


    ¡°How¡¯s life?¡± I asked, taking a sip and holding it on my tongue for a moment before swallowing, then relishing in the slow warmth as the nectar spread its heat through my chest.


    ¡°Never bored, frequently frustrated, and in desperate need of an assistant who isn¡¯t a complete idiot¡±. He sniffed and shook his head.


    Harrold - don¡¯t ever call him Harry or you¡¯ll spend your later years fondly remembering when you had two testicles - had the strangest of accents. All the proper enunciation of the British with the inflection of a Midwestern American. He was an all around average looking guy. His brown hair was showing signs of wanting for a haircut and he was a bit scruffy at the edges but that comes with the job. He had on his grey duster of his grey suit and red tie. I¡¯d never seen him wear anything else. I noted the half-empty bottle of merlot clutched in his right hand while he drained the last of his goblet with the other. That¡¯s right, Moses uses actual goblets, another reason I love the pub.


    ¡°Dead end with a case?¡±


    ¡°In a matter of speaking, yes. I am completely, utterly, and dis-satisfactorily out of ideas.¡± He refilled his goblet.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a few minutes to kill, bounce some ideas off me¡±.


    ¡°I can¡¯t, that¡¯s part of the problem. My payment comes with a geas that prevents me from sharing details with any person other than my self and my astoundingly incompetent assistant¡±.


    I was about to respond - and I promise it would have been a witty remark about how his assistant must be a reflection of himself - had the door not flown off its hinges right then, landing with a bang and skidding to a halt a few inches from my feet.


    As the dust cleared a man with the most pronounced barrel chest I¡¯d ever seen stepped through, looked menacingly at Moses, and smiled through his unkempt beard. After another loud bang, he was unable to look at anybody, as his head was in pieces, splattered on the walls and floor behind him. I looked over to the bar as Moses put away his shotgun. He was calm and composed, so I decided I would be too.


    As was my way, I raised an eyebrow when I caught his eye.


    ¡°Wealcan, Taylor, do an old man a favor and haul that trash out back before it bleeds the rest of its life force all over my floor, would ya?¡±


    ¡°Old man? Dude, look at you. You¡¯re like¡­ twenty-two¡±. I was comfortable right where I was, thank you very much.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been around more years than you can count numbers. It¡¯s just my body that has the fitness of a twenty something¡±.


    ¡°Uh, I rest my case?¡± I tried.


    ¡°Just get rid of the body, I¡¯m busy¡±. With that, Moses turned back to the plasma screen mounted above his bar, and devoted his attention to drying the same goblet over and over with his cloth while watching the cricket match. He¡¯s fascinated with cricket. I think it¡¯s incredibly boring, but it¡¯s the only sport his TV shows. Ever. You might think it¡¯d be hard to air cricket matches twenty-four seven, but you¡¯d be wrong.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got the legs, you take the head¡± Harrold said, swaying slightly now that he was on his feet.


    ¡°Works for me¡±. I rolled up my sleeves, scooped up the remaining chunks of what once constituted the mans head and walked out the back door to dump them down the sewer grate. No reason for the rats and Other Things that live down there not to benefit from the guy¡¯s death. Look at me, recycling.


    ¡°You¡¯re a dick. You know that¡¯s not what I meant¡± Harrold huffed, dragging the rest of the body through the door as I held it open for him.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re a dick. Get it? Because you¡¯re a P.I.?¡±


    Harrold sighed. ¡°At least help me heft this into the dumpster¡±.


    ¡°Just leave it by the grate there, something¡¯ll come up for it. What? It¡¯s called recycling!¡± That earned me an eye roll to go with another sigh. Some people, I tell ya¡­


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯m off in search of my assistant¡± he said, dropping the corpse to the ground and wiping his hands on its jeans. ¡°She disappeared for no reason. Have a good one, man¡±. Harrold waved distractedly to me and stumbled out of the alley.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I stepped back into Exodus and made for the bathroom to wash up, remembering to be mindful of the blood streak left behind by Harrold dragging the body, then realizing that wasn¡¯t necessary. There was no blood anywhere in the pub - nor on my hands. As it had been when I arrived, the floor was pristine. The front door was back on its hinges. The bits of brain I hadn¡¯t picked up were gone, and the room smelled vaguely of cardamom. I glared at Moses.


    ¡°Dammit man, give me the number of your cleaning people! Stop holding out!¡± I said, grudgingly sharing how impressed I was.


    ¡°What cleaning service?¡±. His gruff, gravelly voice belied his age.


    I let out another sigh, this one exasperated, and made to argue when I noticed the lovely glass of Glenmorangie Signet at my table. I can never ague when there¡¯s Signet to consume. It¡¯s a weakness, sue me. I took a set and breathed in it¡¯s aroma of caramel and pecan pie, letting it assault my olfactory senses. I love scotch.


    The door swung open again, this time remaining intact, and another rather large and muscular man entered. Giving the man a once over always left one impressed. A Scottish Claymore handle peeked up diagonally over his right shoulder, and the butt of his 1216 semi-automatic shotgun mimicked it on the opposite side. Two bandoleers crisscrossed his torso with various rounds, and his belt held four different kinds of explosives. An old six-shooter sat in its holster on his right hip. Both thighs wore canvas bands of throwing knives, half of them silver, the other iron, and each calf had a gigantic campy knife sheathed and strapped to it. His reinforced steel plated boots clunked heavily on the floor as he headed straight for me. One of the customers spit out his drink and ran out the back door as fast as his legs would carry him.


    ¡°John, glad you could make it!¡± I raised my glass to him, then took another sip.


    His eyes followed the man who ran out the back but he turned back to me, unsheathed the claymore and shotgun to prop them against he wall, and took a seat. There was a 750ml bottle of ale in front of him. I hadn¡¯t seen it arrive, but that¡¯s Moses for you. He used the crook of his elbow to squeeze and pull out the cork, and took a swig.


    ¡°I want to shoot stuff. When do we start?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t even told you what we¡¯re doing yet¡± I said as a smile threatened its way across my lips. His voice was softer than his build led one to expect.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care what you¡¯re doing. I just want to kill something¡±.


    ¡°Bad day?¡±


    ¡°Nah, just bored as shit¡±. He responded, scratching the stubble on his chin and downing half his beer before speaking again. ¡°I finished up a contract over at the Court House a few days ago and nobody seem skeen to hire me. They say my methods are too bloody and I should take a break to ¡°collect myself¡±. I don¡¯t get it¡± he finished, shaking his head in a sort of disappointed confusion.


    I thought about the Court House. With the Des Moines flipside being oriented the same way as it¡¯s real world counterpart, most of the equivalent buildings were in relatively the same locations. Where the courthouse sits in Des Moines, the Court House sits here. The major difference, other than the Gothic architecture of this version, is that where the courthouse deals with civil cases of law, the Court House is where members of the Houses hold court. Some law is laid down there, true, but it¡¯s also a social and political event. Anybody who thinks they¡¯re anybody tries to be seen there and show that they were important enough to be invited.


    ¡°What I do know¡±, John continued, ¡°is that I don¡¯t have my son for another two days and I¡¯ve got both of them off from work back home. So give me something to do. If you don¡¯t, you know I¡¯ll just end up over at your office playing video games, and we both know what that means¡±.


    I remembered all right. I remembered when he got so angry at the game that he shot my Play Station with an assault rifle. He replaced it, and it was pretty funny, but still¡­


    ¡°Alright, here¡¯s the low down. Cha - actually¡± I interrupted myself, ¡°what all do you know about Greek mythology?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I had a class on it in high school. Emo gods who couldn¡¯t keep their shit together or their dicks in their pants, titans, orgies, incest, war, the underworld -¡±


    ¡°There!¡± I cut him off. ¡°The underworld. Tell me about that¡±. I always enjoyed the chance to make John prove he knows more than he lets on. He never went to college, and I¡¯ve never seen him read a book or a magazine that wasn¡¯t a video game guide, but he always seems to say things at just the right time so as to make him seem wise.


    ¡°Dead Greeks go there. Think they still do. Cerberus or whatever he¡¯s called, the three headed dog, guards the entrance. You pay to get in, cross a river, I don¡¯t know I wasn¡¯t paying that much attention. I played God of War though, so I know some of the monsters. Teacher of that class was a hottie, too.¡±


    ¡°Well the man you have to pay to cross the river is Charon. He¡¯s a boatman who, for a price, will ferry your soul safely across the River Styx and into the underworld proper¡±.


    John signaled for another three beers while I was educating him, but did his best to pretend like he was interested.


    ¡°Styx is a river with currents composed of rejected souls. They try and drag down any who come too near¡±.


    ¡°Booooring, get to the point¡± he drawled.


    I ignored him and kept on with my recollection. ¡°Only Charon is capable of navigating his boat across. He was able to do this with a special Oar. The Oar is missing, adn we need to find both it and the thief who made off with it¡±.


    He stared at me over the top of his second bottle as he emptied it. ¡°So, what¡¯s the catch?¡± he belched.


    ¡°The catch is that the building it¡¯s in doesn¡¯t exist and we only have twenty-four hours to retrieve it, the thief, and get them both back to Charon¡±.


    ¡°A building that doesn¡¯t exist. That doesn¡¯t sound like my kind of party Lloyd. I like waves of enemies coming at me as I slaughter my way toward a goal. I guess I don¡¯t really need a goal for that, but I¡¯d rather the goal exist if there¡¯s gonna be one¡±. He burped again.


    ¡°If we miss the deadline¡± I pressed as he opened his third bottle, ¡°the river overflows and the countless restless souls pour into the world¡±.


    He took another swig, unimpressed.


    ¡°The case is being outsourced to us from Tresch¡± I finished, disappointed he didn¡¯t appreciate the gravity of the situation.


    A happy but unsettling grin slowly crept across John¡¯s face. ¡°Well then, cheers!¡± he said as he chugged the remains of his bottle.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to help¡±.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± I let out, almost spilling the last of my Signet. ¡°I hate it when you do that, dude!¡±


    ¡°Poof!¡± Shed added with a smirk as he took a seat where a bottle of sak¨¦ waited for him. He was wearing a black jumpsuit and had only a katana strapped to his back. He was covered in dry blood. He spoke before I could perform my signature eyebrow raise.


    ¡°I just finished a contract. And it¡¯s good for the skin¡±. He clicked his tongue.


    ¡°I doubt that¡±.


    ¡°Blood¡¯s not the bodily fluid that¡¯s good for the skin¡± John added, smirking.


    Shed shrugged, drank some of his sak¨¦ and changed the subject. ¡°So, where do we start? Who knows where a place that doesn¡¯t exist is?¡±


    We were interrupted when one of the patrons I hadn¡¯t recognized stumbled drunkenly into Shed. He started to apologize, then squinted, staring at the blood. He made as if to question, but Shed immediately struck the man at three different points on his body with his fingertips and the man collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Never bother Shed.


    ¡°Where were we?¡± he asked, turning back to us.


    ¡°Lloyd, John, Shed.¡± Moses said to each of us with a look. ¡°Get out¡±.


    ¡°What?¡± I responded. In addition to always being on top of social situations, I¡¯m also very eloquent. I knew it was a mistake the moment I finished saying it. Moses hates repeating himself.


    ¡°I said¡±, he paused. ¡°GET OUT OF MY PUB!¡±. He spoke with a booming authority in his voice that brokered no room to withstand, regardless of the strength of my willpower. We found ourselves standing up and walking quickly to the door, despite not moving our legs on our own.


    Once out of the pub we stumbled, control of our limbs finally returned to us. I slammed right into a woman with fiery red hair in an office friendly skirt and sent her sprawling to the ground.


    I¡¯m so sorry, miss¡­¡± I apologized, offering a hand to help her up. She let go of my hand quickly, turned promptly, and ran away. I have that effect on women sometimes.


    ¡°The hell just happened?¡± John asked.


    Shed stood calmly, bushing an imaginary spec of dust off his shoulder as though dust were a problem where dry blood wasn¡¯t, and didn''t seem the least perturbed.


    ¡°I have no idea. He¡¯s never done that before. I won-¡± I felt a weight in my pocket and reached in to pull out a gorgeous silver flask. I opened it and sniffed.


    ¡°Aberlour¡± I said aloud, and smiled. I didn¡¯t know what Moses was thinking, but I took the scotch to-go as a sign that he wasn¡¯t angry. Just up to something. Apparently so did the others. He¡¯s always up to something.


    ¡°Well dudes,¡± said John, ¡°where to now?¡±


    ¡°Lloyd,¡± Shed pointed to my right hand. ¡°Your tats are glowing again¡±.


    I looked down and saw a faint blue glow through my sleeves. I rolled up a cuff and saw the normally dark blue runes on my forearms glowing - a sign of danger. Then I noticed a tattoo on the back of my hand that I hadn¡¯t put there. It looked like a hand-drawn arrow, coming from my wrist and pointing to my knuckles. I rubbed at it, but it was definitely in the skin, permanently.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a tattoo there¡± I said. Fast on the uptake, as always.


    Shed looked off int he direction the office women had run. I sighed.


    ¡°Well, at least we have some direction now¡± I added, realizing this is probably why Moses kicked us out. Maybe he was trying to help, in his way.


    |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 THREE - The Ink

    THREE


    The Ink


    Shed and John stood staring at me. Whenever we work together, they usually let me take the lead. Shed does it so that he can¡¯t be held accountable for the bodies he so often leaves in his wake. John does it so that he can keep an eye out for any bodies he might miss, to ensure he leaves them in his. I¡¯m fine with this. I have a harder time accepting direction than giving it, and since I¡¯m generally always right, it works out. Ego aside, I¡¯m not always right; but admitting that would be like admitting that I¡¯m not the most awesome human being ever to grace the planet, and that just isn¡¯t going to happen.


    ¡°Based on her suit and the direction she ran, chances are good she works at either the Court House, or The Tower¡± Shed said, bringing me back to the present.


    ¡°Yeah, uh, the Court House isn¡¯t too happy with me right now¡± said John, scratching the back of his neck. ¡°They¡¯re still cleaning all the viscera from my last visit¡±.


    Shed turned to look at the gigantic skyscraper a few blocks away. ¡°Tower it is, then. Let it be known that this is a Bad Idea¡±. He followed it up with a ¡°Dun, dun, dunnnnn!¡± sound effect.


    I wasn¡¯t all that thrilled, either. The Tower is home to the coldest, most powerful business giants operating on Flip Side. Not just the Des Moines flipside, but anywhere in the world. The kinds of businesses where killing people who get in their way, regardless of right or wrong, was not only common but standard procedure likely written in the handbook for all new employees.


    Business who have no qualms putting families out of homes, letting children starve in sweat shops, and laundering the money they use to pay overseas factories go pale at the thought of crossing a businessman from The Tower. All of them have personal security forces that rival those of Heaven and Hell, Valhalla, and any of the alien embassies. Some of them apparently even recruit from those places. This wasn¡¯t going to be easy. Chances were good that it was going to be violent and messy. But hey, you have to start somewhere.


    ¡°Lets stop by my office. I think I¡¯ll want a weapon along for this one¡±. I turned and strode back toward my building, not waiting for a response. The simple fact that I felt the need for a weapon was almost a portent of doom in itself. I rarely carry one, because I never feel the need. The guys followed close behind me.


    ¡°We should probably hit up Capital Inves-¡± I stopped short, surprised and confused. My companions stared at me in question.


    ¡°My hand¡± I explained, massaging the new arrow tattoo. ¡°It hurts¡±.


    ¡°That¡¯s not possible¡± Shed said in a lowered voice. ¡°Not since Tesla in Osaka¡±.


    ¡°Obviously, but I mean¡­¡± I rubbed my hand and slapped at it hoping to numb it, to no avail. I flexed it a few times, which seemed to help. ¡°It¡¯s a runic T, I have others like it in my engravings but those don¡¯t hurt. Forget it, let¡¯s just keep going¡±.


    John shrugged, satisfied that I wasn¡¯t going to be a baby about it, and continued on. If I wasn¡¯t going to make a big deal out of it, he certainly wasn¡¯t going to put forth any effort to. What are friends for, and all that.


    John bobbed his head to the Facecage song that assaulted us through the elevator speakers as we traveled up to my office. The pain in my hand continued to ramp up. As before, the door opened lower than it should have, this time by almost two feet. I grabbed my phone and texted my landlord, asking her to come down for a little chat, took down my defensive wards, and invited the guys in.


    ¡°I gotta use the can, man¡± John said, walking toward the corner.


    ¡°Dude, turn on the screen!¡± Shed shouted as John dropped his pants. ¡°Nobody wants to see that again. Like, ever!¡±


    I grunted, trying to ignore the growing pain, and focused my attention on the sword leaning against one of the bookshelves. I¡¯d never wielded it in battle. As I said, I rarely feel the need to carry weapons. The Tower, however, was no place to be without backup ways to kill. I was told when I acquired this blade that it was the fabled Tyrfing. It has called to me since then, an ever present hum in my mind whenever I was near it. More importantly, the closer I drew now, the more the pain in my hand lessened.


    That warranted more consideration, but I didn¡¯t have time at the moment.


    The corner of Shed¡¯s mouth twitched up when he saw that I was considering bringing Tyrfing. ¡°Still afraid of it?¡±


    ¡°I was never afraid of it. I was just¡­ wary of it. I mean they told us it was Tyrfing, the sword of Odin¡¯s grandson, Svarfrlami. It should never miss a stroke, never scratch or rust, and should cut through anything. It¡¯s certainly never rusted or needed any maintenance from me, but I get this vibe from it. Like it has a bloodlust, or something. It wants to kill¡±.


    ¡°That¡¯s because it was cursed¡±.


    ¡°You never told me that¡± I said, looking sideways at him.


    ¡°Every time you unsheathe the blade, it must kill. That¡¯s why it banished to the flipside. We kill in our line of work though, so I don¡¯t see the problem. The curse apparently also has a stipulation that it be the case of three Great Evils, two of which have not yet been recorded. You were told this when it was presented to you. You apparently weren¡¯t listening¡± shed finished, cocking his head to consider me.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°That should come in handy, then!¡± exclaimed John, buckling his belt as he strode up to us. ¡°Killing is the right attitude for a weapon to have¡± he nodded, grinning. He was really gearing up for what was to come.


    ¡°I wrote it off as a legend¡± I offered weakly, ignoring John. ¡°Master Tesla was a bit kooky, you have to agree. If it¡¯s so bad, why was it given to me instead of kept in protective custody? I¡¯m not black-hearted evil, but I¡¯m extremely gray¡±.


    ¡°Exactly. Now,¡± Shed agreed, then pointed at my hand, changing the subject. ¡°When did your new tattoo start glowing?¡±


    I looked down. There was a slight pulsing of blue coming from the arrow symbol in my skin. Unlike my forearm tattoos that only glow when I fight - or am in danger, this light seemed to throb in time with jolts of pain. It had been years since I¡¯d experienced pain, and I was having a hard time getting used to it.


    ¡°That¡¯s new. Well, newer. The pain lessons the closer I get to Tyrfing, though¡±.


    ¡°A cosmic sign!¡± John offered sarcastically. He was impatiently heading for the door. ¡°Now let¡¯s get going, I want to hit something¡±.


    ¡°The hell with it¡± I said, and grabbed the sword. The blade slipped from the scabbard as I lifted it, and the sheathe fell to the floor. As I turned, I accidentally brought Tyrfing out in front of me - and stabbed my landlady through the heart.


    ¡°Oops¡­¡±


    She¡¯d apparently let herself in while we were talking. My wards and other protections don¡¯t apply to her, though neither I nor any security company I¡¯d ever brought in - scientific or otherwise - could figure out why.


    ¡°Awkward¡­¡± John muttered. ¡°Guess the curse is true? I¡¯m gonna go play a game while you get this sorted. Let me know when we can head out, dudes¡±.


    I stood staring at the body slouching on the blade, and realized I¡¯d been staring for minutes as I heard Modern Warfare 3k boot up at the other end of the room. I tried to play back my actions in my head. My tattoo had been glowing, the pain throbbing, and I wanted to get a move on. I grabbed the sword, but then what?


    I glanced at Shed who was looking at my landlord and I, completely unimpressed with the whole affair. I resented him a little right then, as a certain panic began to build slowly inside of me. I might not get along with my landlord, but I never wanted to kill her. I must have been thinking slowly, as I could hear that John was already in a multiplayer match.


    ¡°What just happened?¡± I asked, my breath cutting short.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t see your draw coming, so you¡¯ve apparently improved since Japan¡± Shed offered. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear your landlord arrive either, and that in itself is impressive. I am not supposed to be able to be caught by surprise, after all. I suppose there are exceptions to ever rule? In any event, what happens now, Lloyd?¡±


    Before I could respond a vibrant blue light burst forth from the arrow tattoo and a searing pain at a level I could not remember ever having experienced shot up my arm. The light seemed to bend itself toward Tyrfing¡¯s blade. My vision skewed both forward and back, while my body felt ripped in two. I was both outside and within myself, and I was not enjoying the experience. When the light finally touched the blade my vision snapped back and the sword disappeared. My landlady¡¯s body crumpled to the floor.


    ¡°That looked sweet!¡± John said, peering over his shoulder from the couch. The sound of gunfire burst out of my surround sound setup. ¡°Fuck!¡± he shouted, turning back to the TV. ¡°Fucking twelve-year old noobs!¡± He powered off the console in annoyance and walked back over to us.


    Shed¡¯s forehead showed the hint of a crease on his otherwise emotionless face, the only sign that he was thinking. ¡°What did you feel, just now?¡±


    ¡°Like I was being torn apart¡± I answered numbly. Shed hummed the theme to the Twilight Zone as I stared at the body on my floor and wondered what I was going to do about it. If it seems odd that we were all so calm, there¡¯s a certain sociopathic apathy that accompanies death on the flipside. The world works differently here, and the almost Darwinian concepts of survival long ago replaced any kind of society based morals from the real world. I think in the end, those of us who spent too much time here became sociopaths.


    ¡°Thats what I thought¡± he said, stopping his tune. ¡°I felt something similar when I first drew Kiraa¡± Shed explained, using the layman name for his katana, Satsujinsha. ¡°Though I didn¡¯t go all double-bodied like you just did. A samurai¡¯s sword is said to be his soul and for good reason - it is. Your experience was different, though. I¡¯m guessing that your soul is instead bound to your blade. Perhaps that is why it was given to you, instead of a traditional katana?¡±


    ¡°Before I can wrap my head around any of that, we need to figure out what to do about-¡± I stopped short, looking down. There was no body on my floor. Instead, standing in front of me as I raised my eyes back up, was my landlady. Annoyance was written all over her face.


    ¡°Well? What do you want?¡± she snapped, her Russian accent rearing it¡¯s head.


    ¡°Um¡± I stuttered, surprised. ¡°The elevator is broken again?¡±


    ¡°Tch, is fine, it just has character¡±.


    ¡°How did you¡­ What just¡­¡± As I said earlier: eloquent.


    She gave me the same look Charon had when I asked about the Oar - the kind that let me know the world considered me slow. ¡°This is my building. The building is me¡±.


    Okay, creepy. I decided not to ask about that last part, and made a mental note to consider looking into other office space in the future. Something told me if I asked, I¡¯d find out she was being literal, and that I¡¯ve been living inside my landlady all this time. That was a disturbing thought. I mean, I¡¯ve done things in here. Things I would never want to do inside my landlady.


    ¡°Well then, we best be on our way. Please fix¡­ yourself? So the elevator works again¡± I requested, making my way to the door.


    Shed and John followed suit, either arriving at the same conclusion about questioning her choice of words, or not caring. I rather wished I¡¯d had an actual elephant in the room, so I¡¯d have had something to talk about as I brought my wards back up and hopped down into the elevator. I considered getting one as we rode down in silent.


    I breathed easier once we were back on the street. I could think out here.


    ¡°Alright. I feel pain when I can¡¯t feel pain. I killed my landlady with a sword that must kill when drawn, except she apparently is also a building and didn¡¯t die. Then my sword, which may also be my soul, disappeared. I have a tattoo I never got, and have to find a room that doesn¡¯t exist. We¡¯re off to a good start and I¡¯m not going crazy¡± I finished, my voice dripping with sarcasm.


    ¡°Time will tell. We should get ourselves to The Tower before shifts change, as that would be our best bet at finding someone who knows the girl we¡¯re seeking¡± responded Shed.


    ¡°Works for me¡± I sighed and let it go. ¡°We can hit up the security desk outside Capital Investments first. They¡¯re the most friendly of the bunch, if friendly were a term you could apply to any aspect of that place¡± I said with a sigh, as we turned and headed east toward The Tower.


    |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 FOUR - The Training

    FOUR


    The Training


    ¡°You¡¯ve never told me why you don¡¯t like weapons¡± John said as we walked, doing our best to avoid getting near any of the sidewalk drains. You can disappear down one of those.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t like ¡®em, it¡¯s that I rarely feel the need for them¡±.


    He gave me a queer look. ¡°You used ¡®em in the New Orleans job¡± he challenged, referring to when I first introduced him to the flipside¡¯s existence and forever shattered his concept of reality. He stared at me, waiting. It seemed I wasn¡¯t going to get off that easy, so I settled into my pace and took a deep breath.


    ¡°Before going off to college to earn my piano degree, I trained for a year in Osaka¡¯s flipside. Shed was partway through his training there with Kenji, and vouched to have me brought over. I¡¯d not yet heard of the Flip Side, but hey - free ticket to live in Japan, right?


    ¡°You remember that I used to cage fight, before I took up piano?¡± John nodded. ¡°Well, this was a chance to train in a place that was rich in martial arts culture. A chance at my own ¡®80s kung fu montage. I couldn¡¯t resist¡±.


    ¡°I thought kung fu was Chinese?¡± He interjected.


    I ignored him. ¡°We flew into Narita and spent a couple days in Tokyo to help me get over the jetlag and culture shock, then took a train to the western edge of Chiba prefecture. That was almost a second culture shock in itself. Where Tokyo was nothing but city in all directions, Chiba was pretty rural. Rice fields and small homes outside town as far as the eye could see.


    ¡°It was there that Shed introduced me to master Watraru Miyamoto, a sensei of his. I¡¯d later discover he trained with multiple people. I only spoke a little Japanese back then and Miyamoto-sama spoke no English, but I could tell by the way he moved that I could learn a lot from him¡±.


    We continued walking, the streetlights casting their harsh and unwelcoming yellow glow down upon us.


    ¡°Shed translated for us the first few days, but then the old man forbade it. I would have to learn to understand him through context and time. It took awhile, but it worked.


    ¡°It was incredibly hot the first few months, and I came down with heat sickness a few times. It didn¡¯t matter to Miyamoto-sama. I trained while I was sick. He was relentless, and considered any sign of exhaustion a sign of weakness. In short, it was hell. In retrospect I¡¯m glade he pushed me, but I really hated it at the time¡±.


    Shed chuckled, remembering.


    ¡°I wish I could say it was like the movie montage I¡¯d hoped for, starting with me bruised and bloody and ending with me one-inch punching my way through a tree, but the reality is that I was bruised and bloody the whole time. We ran miles each day, most of which were through the mud and waters of nearby fields. We sparred, and he only gave me half rations. ¡°American pudginess¡± he called it. I didn¡¯t argue.


    ¡°He trained me in various Aikido techniques, explaining I¡¯d need some defensive ability for what would come later in the year. He also routinely struck my hands, forearms, stomach, back and thighs with a wooden katana, demanding that I not flinch. I flinched a lot¡±.


    Shed nodded in agreement.


    John¡¯s pace slowed a little as I told my story, perhaps in an effort to be polite and hear me out since he¡¯d pressed me for the tale.


    ¡°I would wake each day in more pain than I¡¯d known prior, with welts the likes of which I¡¯d never seen, and still he would strike me. I started to think I hated him, but I stayed - mostly because Shed was taking it all alongside me without a single fucking complaint¡±.


    I glared at Shed with a smirk, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring me. I caught the corner of his mouth raise in amusement.


    ¡°Looking back, it¡¯s obvious he was teaching me to disconnect myself from pain, so that it would not rule me. I¡¯m grateful now, especially for how it prepared me for what was to come later that year. Regardless, the beatings toughened me and my pain tolerance slowly caught up with Shed¡¯s. Like him, I was eventually able to stand stoically until our sensei decided we¡¯d have enough. I got full rations from then on¡±.


    The three of us rounded a corner and had to jump up against a shop window to avoid colliding with a biker who¡¯d hopped the curb to get around a carriage. We were only about halfway to our destination, so I pulled out the flask Moses had left me and took another drop of bliss into my mouth as John continued to question me.


    ¡°Aikido is defensive¡± he began, ¡°but is going to be useless against a gun, or someone skilled with a blade. So you still haven¡¯t answered my question¡±.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    ¡°I¡¯m getting to that¡± I said, giving in and deciding to compress the story so I could finish before we reached Capital Investments. Shed remained silent, which was common for him, and let me finish. ¡°I just wanted to set the stage for what came next¡±.


    ¡°As the weather began to cool, Miyamoto-sama told us that he would be heading in to Tokyo for an annual Aikido tournament. They apparently honored him each year. I was interested in seeing it for myself, but was informed that we would be remaining behind. Our next sensei was already on his way to pick us up.


    Shed and I spent a few days in the old sensei¡¯s home, going about our daily exercises and sparring with one another as usual. We were in one of these sparring sessions on the fourth day when Shed managed to throw me to the ground. I rolled with the motion and came back up as I was expected to, and found myself staring at an honest to god Viking¡±.


    ¡°A Viking¡± John repeated flatly.


    ¡°A Viking. At the time, I could only describe him like that. As it turns out, he actually had been a legitimate Norse pillager and follower of Thor, making him a real Viking once upon at time. Before I could open my mouth to say hello or ask who he was, he charged me. I reacted instinctively, reaching for his wrist and stepping to the side, intent on using his own momentum against him as Miyamoto-sama had taught me. It would have worked, too, had he been using Aikido techniques himself¡±.


    ¡°Right, a Viking who knows Aikido¡± John smiled.


    ¡°Yeah, well, he wasn¡¯t using any of those techniques. As I grabbed his wrist and started to twist it, he bent and rammed his shoulder into my stomach, lifted me off the ground, and slammed me into the side of Miyamoto-sama¡¯s house. I saw stars. He then cracked my jaw with his elbow before stepping back and drawing his sword.


    ¡°Shed shouted and tossed me a similar one-handed Viking sword. I¡¯d never held one before but it felt¡­ I don¡¯t know. Right? In my hands. The Viking rushed me with his sword raised. I had felt his strength and expected to fail if I tried to block or parry, so I gave up¡±.


    John looked at me incredulously. ¡°Wh-¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I interrupted him. ¡°I didn¡¯t give up the fight. I gave up on making it through the fight alive. Instead I put all my focus into ensuring I took the brute with me¡±.


    Shed¡¯s mouth curved upward in satisfaction. ¡°Your first kill¡±.


    ¡°Yeah. I still don¡¯t know why I did it, but I flipped the sword over in my hand to grip the blade, and threw it at him. It was a lucky throw, I admit that, and it lodged in his shoulder. He dropped his own blade and snarled at me as he grabbed the hilt to pull the blade out. As I rushed up to him, I grabbed his dropped sword from the ground, and shoved it through his throat¡±.


    I stopped, remembering the rush I¡¯d felt, and then the sickening sense of dread that had followed shortly after. John smiled with a faraway look in his eye, doubtless remembering his first kill fondly. Interestingly, once the initial shock of it all was over, I found that the dread wasn¡¯t from the act of killing a man - that wasn¡¯t actually bothering me at all. It was that I had been forced into it without knowing why. That irked me, at the time, being attacked without knowing the reason. Now it happens monthly. How times have changed.


    ¡°In any event, a slow clap brought me out of my numbness as the adrenaline wore off. I turned to find a thin man with a gray mustache and a steam-punk looking brown suit standing next to Shed. His glasses were round, and had that look of being actual glass¡±.


    ¡°That was Tesla, our next trainer¡± Shed added. ¡°He took us to Osaka for the next year¡±.


    ¡°And in Osaka¡± I continued, ¡°Tesla gave me my tattoos. A process that ended up robbing me of the ability to feel pain¡±.


    John turned his head to look at us as we walked, waiting for an explanation.


    ¡°Oh come on, you know Tesla right? The electricity guy?¡±


    ¡°I know the cars¡± he offered. I sighed.


    ¡°Nicolai Tesla was a contemporary of Thomas Edison. They went about the handling of electricity differently. Anyway, he gave me these tattoos by engraving my arms, not inking them. He used electric arcs, spraying ink with them as they shot from a metal ball of some kind into my arm. He worked with a set of levers to control the arcs, and engrave the runes on my arms¡±.


    ¡°Doing so deadened his pain receptors¡±, Shed finished for me.


    ¡°Woah, neat. Why didn¡¯t you just do that all over?¡± John asked.


    ¡°We did, kind of. You¡¯ve never seen me without a shirt. My forearms, entire torso, and thighs were all engraved and devoid of pain. The nerves in my hands were dead too, until this fucking thing¡± I rubbed at the arrow tattoo again.


    ¡°You¡¯re leaving out the best part¡± Shed said. John looked at me expectantly.


    I paused. I hadn¡¯t told anyone about my bones, though Shed knew.


    ¡°When we continued training, we found a side effect to my engravings. I should note that this wasn¡¯t an established method of his - it was a completely new experiment for Tesla, I just didn¡¯t know that at the time. Anyway, without the pain we got into more and more dangerous sparring sessions.


    ¡°Shed was better than me, but I could take enough of a beating to keep up with him. Shed landed a blow that absolutely, positively should have shattered the bones in my arm. I felt fine, but since I couldn¡¯t feel pain Tesla called a stop to our session and took me into a side room where he had some more equipment. A few x-rays later, and we realized that a side effect of his engravings were that he¡¯d permanently changed the composition of my bones. They were interlaced with what looked like metal, and had no breaks at all¡±.


    ¡°You telling me you¡¯re Wolverine?¡± John asked, starting to laugh. I looked at him. The laugh stopped before it left his lips. ¡°Woah¡±.


    ¡°Yeah, so y¡¯know. I don¡¯t normally feel the need for a weapon. Eventually the rest of my pain receptors stopped functioning, not just the tattooed areas, and it seemed my bones were in no danger, so from then on I¡¯ve tackled most situations hand-to-hand¡±.


    ¡°Badass, man. I wouldn¡¯t give up my guns, though. Victoria here would get jealous¡± he added, patting the six-shooter at his side. ¡°And Pedro would be pissed¡± he added, referencing the shotgun on his back.


    I smiled, not just at the names, glad that the pistol had found him. In a way, that six-shooter was to him what Satsujinsha was to Shed, or Tyrfing was to me. Sastujinsha, Tyrfing, Pedro and Victoria. I shook my head in amusement, but it faded quickly. I still had no idea where Tyrfing had gone after it disappeared, but I shoved the worry aside the moment.


    The entrance to The Tower loomed ahead of us. The streetlight above flickered ominously.


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 FIVE - The Money Men

    FIVE


    The Money Men


    The two security guards at the desk stared at us the way I stare at a burger when I finish a hunt and haven¡¯t eaten for two days. The part about that glazed look in their eyes that bothered me was that to them, we actually could be dinner. Capital Investments employs ghouls at their security desk, because Capital Investments is run by vampires. It¡¯s not enough to suck people dry literally, they also do it metaphorically by taking all your money and ¡°investing it¡±.


    Their eyes cleared up when they noticed Big John, however. While Shed does have his katana strapped to his back, it¡¯s legitimately hard not to notice John¡¯s bulky gear and the fact that he¡¯s got a reputation as a one man army. The ghoul guards could call the rest of their security force down to the first floor, but that wouldn¡¯t make it a fair fight - John would slaughter them all.


    ¡°Whaddya want¡± the fat one asked, trying and failing to look bored. The other¡¯s eyes flicked between us rapidly.


    ¡°We¡¯re looking for a girl¡± I began.


    ¡°Me too, heh¡± fatty responded, interrupting me. I stopped a moment and stared at him, giving him the opportunity to keep talking while conveying that he was wasting both our time by interrupting me. He leaned back in his chair and waited for me to continue.


    ¡°Fiery red hair, probably arrived in a huff about half an hour ago, wore a grey skirt¡± I finished.


    They stared at us. ¡°I dunno Bill, you see a broad like that tonight?¡±


    ¡°No Frank, I ain¡¯t seen no tart in a skirt.¡±


    It was going to be like this, then. So be it. ¡°Have you met my friend, Big John?¡±. John smiled, and the two guards probably would have paled if they weren¡¯t naturally so. Everybody has heard of Big John. When he smiles this way, it¡¯s because he¡¯s imagining all the various ways he can kill you right now. It¡¯s unsettling, for most people.


    ¡°Here¡¯s what¡¯s going to happen¡± I said, to get their attention again. ¡°You¡¯re going to tell me where to find the girl I mentioned. I can tell by your attitude that you know exactly who I¡¯m talking about. In exchange, Big John is not going to feed your entrails to whatever is crawling around in the alley out back¡±.


    I learned early on in the flipside that you have to own everything you do. You walk the walk, you talk the talk, and you expect people to fall in line. They don¡¯t always, but if that isn¡¯t your base line you¡¯re not going to make it very far. Think about the biggest jerk of a CEO you¡¯ve ever read about. That¡¯s like Level 01, if the flipside were a game. It starts with that mentality, that expectation, and only goes up from there.


    Unfortunately, working at Capital Investments and carrying a gun seemed to have made an impact on Frank and Bill, because Frank responded by reaching under the desk and pressing a button. A series of clicks echoed through the lobby as the front doors bolted shut.


    John¡¯s smile grew wider as Bill - the thinner and probably faster of the two, rose and drew his pistol. None of us moved as he pointed it in our general direction, unsure of who to hold his aim on. I put my hands in my pockets and affected a yawn.


    ¡°You¡¯d better keep that aimed at me, Billy-boy¡± I said, feeling the adrenaline ready to launch my body into action.


    ¡°Keep it trained on the big guy, Bill. I got these two snots¡± Frank said, bringing a shotgun out from under the table and heaving himself up onto his feet.


    ¡°Tsk tsk tsk¡± Shed said, shaking his head sadly.


    ¡°Billy, pal, if you don¡¯t point that pistol at me, I¡¯m going to kill you¡± I said. The runes on my arm began to glow, their brightness just peeking out from the cuffs of my shirt. I never said they only glowed when there was danger to me. That got Bill¡¯s attention, and he turned his gun on me.


    ¡°Dammit Bill I sa-¡± Frank¡¯s admonition was cut short with a bang, as John and quick-drawn Victoria and placed a bullet between Frank¡¯s eyes.


    I sighed. ¡°Now the whole building knows we¡¯re here, man¡±.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like it¡¯ll kill him, takes more than that for these freaks¡± he replied with a sneer. I had a sneaking suspicion he was pleased the rest of the building would have time to prepare for us. I turned back to Bill.


    ¡°Frank was stupid, Billiam. You¡¯re doing a good job keeping that pointed at me, though, so for that I¡¯ll extend the courtesy of asking again: Where is the girl?¡±


    The guard looked at his partner on the floor. The desk was in the way so we couldn¡¯t see him, but I was sure the blood had already stopped seeping out of him.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be right as rain by morning Bilbo, don¡¯t you worry your ugly face. Now, the girl?¡±


    Bill licked his lips nervously, and opened his mouth to speak. Unfortunately, his nerves got the better of him and he also pulled the trigger. I felt a motion on my left arm and looked down to find the sleeve of my shirt ripped, the bullet having grazed me. Blood started to soak into the fabric.


    ¡°Aw Billbur, man, this shirt was like sixty dollars!¡±


    ¡°Where the hell did you pay sixty dollars for a shirt? And why?¡± John asked, his voice raised in disbelief. The guard moved his gun to focus shakily on Big John., but John paid it no mind, looking instead at me like I was crazy. Shed simply watched Bill.


    ¡°Express for Men out at Valley West Mall¡± I answered with a sniff, not ashamed of my choices. One should always look their best. John rolled his eyes. I took the opportunity and dashed forward and around the desk while Bill stood stunned by our conversational back and forth, and slammed my fist into his face.


    He crumpled into an unconscious heap next to Fat Frank. He wouldn¡¯t be waking up any time soon. Having metal twisting through your bones means punches pack a¡­ well, a punch. Shut up.


    I nudged Bill¡¯s body out of the way with my foot and clicked the space bar on Frank¡¯s keyboard to wake up the monitor sitting on their desk. A password prompt appeared.


    ¡°Damn¡±. I pulled out my phone and dialed Tresch. He didn¡¯t say anything when he picked up, but I heard the keys of a keyboard clicking furiously in the background and knew he was there.


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t suppose you can hack Capital Investment¡¯s security desk can you? I need the security footage¡± I asked.


    A moment passed, but the typing continued. ¡°Busy at the moment. More to the job than I told you about. Can¡¯t spare the time, trying to hold him back¡±.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°No time¡±. The phone went dead and I frowned.


    I typed ¡°cheeseburger¡± into the prompt, because it¡¯s obvious Frank has inhaled an awful lot of those in his life. It was rejected, but it amused me to try.


    ¡°Two tries left¡± I mumbled.


    Shed had opened the side drawer, and pulled out a sticky note. He slapped it to the monitor. It read: g00dp455w0rd


    ¡°You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me¡±. I typed it in and tapped the enter button. ¡°I can¡¯t even¡­¡± I stated as I watched the login credentials authorize me and display eighteen live camera feeds.


    I grabbed the mouse and clicked the image of the lobby where I could see the three of us standing with guards bodies at our feet, and maximized it. Once fullscreen, I was able to access the time-bar and drag it back to view previous footage. About forty minutes prior, the girl I was looking for burst through the doors. She¡¯d slowed down to a fast walk, but made her way past Frank and Bill without a glance.


    I took a look around the room. She probably made a b-line for the elevator, so I closed out of the camera pointed at us and found one pointed at the elevator. Sure enough, after dragging it back to the same time, Shed and I watched her enter the frame and hit the elevator. The resolution was awful and I couldn¡¯t make out the numbers above the elevator - but it did catch the glow move from number to number as it moved from the upper floors to the lobby.


    I sped forward a few seconds, so we could watch how many times the glow moved before stopping: fifteen times.


    ¡°Fifteenth floor¡± I said. Shed was already walking toward the directory next to the elevator, scanning it for which company took up that level.


    ¡°You gonna erase the footage of us and the guards?¡± John asked hesitantly.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°No¡±


    ¡°Oh, good¡± he smiled, relieved. I rolled my eyes and we moved to follow Shed.


    ¡°Radu & Basarab Interim Term Mutual Fund¡± Shed read to us.


    ¡°Oh good, a corporate Mutual Fund company. This should be fun¡± I responded sarcastically. Shed and John looked about as excited as I was. I pressed the up button, and we waited until the ding told us our ride was there.


    ¡°Is that¡­ Is that Enya?¡± I asked as we rode the elevator. John was not bobbing his head.


    ¡°Whatever it is, I hate it¡± he said.


    ¡°It¡¯s like they¡¯re trying to lull you to sleep, or at least prep you to doze off while they go on and on about their corporate investment strategies¡±. The elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened - level with the floor, just like they¡¯re supposed to. At least their landlord kept maintenance up to par on their building.


    ¡°Can I help you, gentlemen?¡± asked a man going grey at the temples, wearing an equally gray but well tailored suit and brogues. He paused before calling us gentlemen, likely having heard the gunfire below a few minutes prior.


    ¡°We¡¯re looking for one of your employees, girl with fiery red hair?¡± I asked, confident that Shed had already scanned the room for all available ambush points, and John had already worked out how to kill every single person in every single cubicle he could see. We wouldn¡¯t be doing that, of course. Probably. Always best to be prepared, though.


    ¡°Did you have anything to do with the shots we heard earlier?¡± he asked, pointedly looking at Big John¡¯s armaments.


    ¡°Yes. Capital Investment¡¯s guards drew on us. It was self defense, or y¡¯know. Something like that, I suppose. The security footage will show they pulled weapons on us first, anyway. In any event, they¡¯re merely unconscious, you know how hard ghouls are to kill. So, the girl?¡±


    He smiled politely, though it was obviously forced. ¡°Lucy, come here please!¡± he called over his shoulder.


    I watched a head of red pop up over a cubicle wall, about sixteen deep as she made her way through the office maze to us. She looked at him curiously, but immediately lowered her eyes to the floor when she noticed we were there.


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Price?¡± she asked meekly.


    ¡°These gentlemen are here looking for you, Lucy. I believe they may have some - questions, was it?¡± he asked, turning back to look at me.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say, but yes, questions¡± I replied. Turning to the girl, I asked ¡°Earlier when you bumped into me. It seems you left me a present¡±. I held up my hand, showing the arrow-like T rune symbol.


    Lucy looked between Price and I before returning her eyes to the floor. ¡°I was paid to deliver the rune. Bumping into you was the only way I could think of to give it to you without you rejecting it. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s a curse or not and I don¡¯t know who hired me, they just paid me and I did it and I¡¯m not sorry, I have bills to pay¡±. Her speech had sped up toward the end, as if she was trying to hurriedly get to the justification of her actions.


    ¡°Lucy,¡± Price said in an admonishing tone. ¡°You¡¯ve accepted payment for outside work?¡± Lucy seemed to shrink before him.


    ¡°Did you register an OBA with HR? Any odd jobs you take outside the company require registering Outside Business Activities. I¡¯m going to have to write you up, Lucy¡± he continued, shaking his head in disappointment.


    John snorted, but whether it was amusement or annoyance I wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡°Lucy, I¡¯m afraid this can¡¯t be a dead end for me, there¡¯s too much at stake. I need to know who paid you to give me this rune. It¡¯s likely linked to a case we¡¯re working that will impact your business¡±. I didn¡¯t elaborate on how it would impact it, but surely the stock market would be affected negatively by hundreds of thousands of souls suddenly pouring over into reality and the world figuring out that everything they ever attributed to myths and legends is real.


    Price focused his attention back on me in an instant, his face moving from Lucy¡¯s to mine faster than humanly possible. More vampires, then. His eyes held a piercing intensity, making it obvious he¡¯d like more information on how they would be impacted.


    ¡°Suffice to say you¡¯re going to have a lot fewer potential investors in a few days if I don¡¯t deliver on a contract, and Lucy here is my only lead¡±.


    ¡°Very well¡± he nodded. He slapped his palm above Lucy¡¯s eyes and her head snapped back leaving her staring slack-jawed at the ceiling. Color left her pupils as here eyes turned milky white. Price kept his palm against her forehead and muttered under his breath, as if finding his way through her memories.


    She began to shake as her body fought against his invasion of her mind. Shed looked on curiously at the developments, but John and I had seen it before. When I¡¯d taken him to New Orleans, it was to wipe out a vampire coven that was rebelling against the House that had contracted me to eliminate them and return a memory card they¡¯d stolen.


    With a snarl Price pulled his hand away from Lucy¡¯s head as if he were burned, and she swayed slightly on her feet as her vision returned. ¡°I have a headache¡± she mumbled, disoriented.


    ¡°Return to your seat and rest, Lucy. We¡¯ll discuss your reprimand later¡±. She turned and shuffled off back into the cubicle maze. ¡°Gentlemen, please come with me¡± Price said distastefully, his fangs slightly longer than they had been before. I lifted my right cuff as he turned, but my tattoos remained dormant. Shrugging to John and Shed, we followed after him.


    Describing the office as a cubicle maze turned out to be a pretty good descriptor, as I felt a bit turned around by the time we reached the back office Price had been leading us toward. CEO was printed on a glass plaque next to the door. Price knocked, and we entered.


    As our host went over to the CEO to whisper in his ear, I took in the office. Smaller than mine, but these vampires obviously had money the likes of which I could only dream of. The decor was stuck in the 1800s, but that really only meant all of the wood was incredibly solid and well polished, probably of some rare or extinct type. An actual zebra skin rug took up the middle of the office floor, and various heads - two of which were human - were mounted high up on the walls between bookshelves with what looked like legitimately ancient tomes on them. A large painting hung above and behind the CEO¡¯s chair, depicting a field of pikes, bodies impaled on all of them. Price cleared his throat.


    ¡°Please, close the door¡± he instructed. John ignored him and walked up to plop himself down into one of the two leather chairs in front of the CEOs desk. He propped his feet up on the edge of the desk while I closed the door. Price¡¯s eyes went wide and the CEO glared at him, but John just smiled.


    Shed took the other seat more politely, sitting with his back straight and at attention. I stood between the two, and leaned on the wingback extension of John¡¯s chair. The CEO, while dressed in a modern cut, custom suit, had the air of someone ancient despite his sixty some odd years appearance.


    He took a breath, a conscious effort making it obvious he hadn¡¯t actually spoken in awhile - vampires only breath to speak, after all, and addressed us.


    ¡°Mr. Price has filled me in on all that has transpired, gentlemen¡±. He nodded to John and Shed in turn, then focused his attention on me. ¡°Your friend here¡± nodding in my direction, ¡°has been gifted a curse, it would seem¡±. He spoke with a heavy Slavic accent.


    John snorted again. ¡°How can a curse be gifted? A gift is like, something good you give someone, right?¡±


    ¡°Unless your girlfriend calls after breaking up with you to tell you she left you a gift, and to get yourself checked out¡± Shed replied with a smirk, making air quotes around the last two words as he said them. John turned his lip up in distaste at the thought and looked away.


    ¡°A curse can be a gift, because a curse can be good and bad at the same time, Mr¡­¡±


    ¡°Big John¡± Price filled in.


    ¡°Mr. Big John. Never heard of you¡± the CEO responded. I raised an eyebrow, but he ignored me. ¡°You have the mark of Tyr on you. This indicates you¡¯re likely descended of Tyr, one of Odin¡¯s sons¡±.


    ¡°I thought Thor was Odin¡¯s son?¡± John interjected before I could really react to the CEO¡¯s claim.


    ¡°Where did you come to the conclusion that Tyr isn¡¯t also a son?¡± Mr. Price asked him. The CEO flicked his gaze over to John.


    ¡°Those Thor movies¡± John replied. ¡°It¡¯s Thor and Loki, though Loki isn¡¯t really a natural son I guess¡±.


    Shed and I joined the CEO and Price in a collective sigh. I shook my head. ¡°Read a book, bro¡±.


    The CEO turned his eyes back to me. His head and body hadn¡¯t really moved this whole time, and despite my having known about vampires for a few years now, it was still very strange. Uncanny valley, I think is what they call the feeling.


    ¡°It¡¯s likely that you will grow in power, or come into some kind of ability the rune will unlock in your blood. However, I suggest you read all you can on Tyr, and what he did for the world. The fact that only one hand is marked, is telling, and the mutt is loose¡±.


    We waited, but it looked like he may not be giving us much more to go on than that.


    ¡°The CEO is very busy, gentlemen¡± Price stated, clearly indicating that it was time to go.


    ¡°We¡¯ve overstayed our welcome¡± I said to John, placing a hand on his shoulder as he was about to argue with Price. It was enough information now, another lead to follow. Obviously researching Tyr would tell me something, if I left myself open to the information. That, and I was starting to get the impression that this CEO was much older than I initially thought. Where had I seen the names Radu and Basarab before?


    ¡°But we haven¡¯t killed anyone yet¡± John grumbled, getting to his feet. ¡°Not that you guys deserve killing or anything, being polite and all¡± he added, looking at Price and the CEO. They just stared at him, waiting for us to leave.


    ¡°Feel free to take out your frustrations on Lucy, she caused this for you after all¡± Price said as we exited the CEOs office room.


    Shed looked at me, but John spoke up first. ¡°She was just a delivery girl, we¡¯re not monsters¡± he said, stressing the last word as he looked over his shoulder at Price to make a smoochy face. The vampire just smiled coldly. While Big John was well known for causing mayhem with all kinds of jobs, he¡¯d gotten his start as a Vampire Hunter and I could tell that Price knew his name.


    ¡°Probably best to head for the Library. How the hell do we get out of here?¡± I asked no one in particular, looking out at the sea of cubicles and seeing no direct path to the elevator at the far end.


    ¡°You!¡± John said, drawing Pedro and pointing it at a wiry young and pale kid whose badge indicated he was an intern. ¡°Show us the way to the elevator¡±. The kid bared his fangs and hissed, clearly unaware of who he was standing up to and unafraid of Pedro.


    ¡°Kyle, show them the way please¡± Mr. Price said from the CEO¡¯s doorway, clearly annoyed at the scene, though it was unclear if he was annoyed the way we were acting, or Kyle. Manners are a particular concern of vampires the older they get, but their idea of what constitutes good manners were often odd.


    ¡°Yes sir¡± the kid said, closing his mouth and taking the lead. We followed, and I felt depressed looking at all the dead faces (no pun intended) carrying out their monotonous duties at their computers. I wanted to get back to the street and back to the task at hand. Corporate offices drain the energy right out of me.


    The elevator let us back out into the lobby, and John made a point of walking over to Fat Frank¡¯s body to kick it a few times for good measure.


    ¡°Asshole¡± John muttered, taking a few quick strides to catch up to us at the door.


    ¡°Oh, right¡± he said with a snort as I tried to push the door open and found it still bolted shut. John jogged back over to the computer, spent a moment fiddling with the mouse, and then smiled as he walked back over to us. A few loud clicks later, and the doors swung open to freedom once more. Cool, fresh air revitalized me as I breathed it in, stepping out into the crisp, dark night. The streetlight out front continued to flicker as it had when we arrived, as if it would go out at any moment and plunge us into darkness but never delivering on the threat.


    ¡°Alright¡± I nodded once confidently. ¡°To the library¡±. Shed followed a step behind as usual, but John picked up the pace. The Library here on the flipside was dangerous, and that meant he may find some fun there. A wolf howled in the distance, but we paid it no mind. The flipside is full of all kinds of monsters.


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