Jay Posey - Three

According to the tale, the wave had broken and turned back when Governor Underdown appeared on the wall. There was much speculation about the power he seemed to wield against them. Some argued it was the memory of battles Underdown had fought long ago that caused the Weir to flee. Others said it was the efficiency of his command. And one suggested there were darker things at work, though he was quickly booed to silence. It all had the feel of a common refrain, as though the men had rehearsed it a thousand times before. Whatever the truth, Three made a mental note. He’d seen Wren do things he couldn’t explain; perhaps Underdown could explain them.

It was another hour before Three heard what he’d come for, and it was from that group of men that it came. A snippet of conversation floated to him.

“…big fella, with an arm all broke…”

He missed the next part because his attendant returned and loudly asked if he’d wanted anything else. It took a long moment to send her away, but once she was gone, he focused in.

“…well, it just ain’t right. Him hanging around, leering at folk like they don’t belong,” one of the men was saying. There was a pause, and then Three heard the emphatic bang of a bottle set too heavily on a table. “ He don’t belong.”

“Maybe you don’t belong, Vel.”

“Ah, shut yer face, Arlen. You know what I mean.”

There was some good natured ribbing from the crew, and over the course of a few minutes, Three had what he needed. He poured himself a last cup of the mixed brew. It was barely warmer than room temperature now and had started to turn bitter, but it wasn’t important. It was the finality of that last drink he wanted. Three drained the cup, placed it firmly on the table, and made his way to the door.

Fedor paced the narrow side street that ran along the three-story building Asher’d put him in. An apartment, on the top floor, all to himself. It was nice to have his own space for a change; nicer still that the accommodations had been well-furnished by the Governor’s own staff. But they’d been in Morningside too long, sitting idle. Asher assured them all that they’d be back to business soon, that Haven and her pup would be back under control, or dead, matters resolved either way. But even after the man had shown up at the gate and escaped into the night, Asher remained with the Governor inside the compound instead of finishing the pursuit. Fedor’s apartment had become a prison.

He seethed, anxious to be done with this waste of time and energy. Haven was an asset to be sure; one of the best. But she was a chemic, and nearly burned at that. She could be replaced. Would have to be replaced, eventually. And the boy. Just a boy. Though, Asher’s half-brother. Fedor understood something about brothers.

It was vengeance that stirred him so. Asher’s dalliance annoyed him. But here, now, the man that had killed Kostya, his dear brother, was almost within reach, and yet Asher refused to let him finish the job. That was infuriating.

A sudden noise caught Fedor’s attention, the crunch of glass underfoot, somewhere in the dark behind him. He turned and scanned the street, irritated at the interruption. But there was nothing. One of the useless locals, most likely.

Fedor squeezed his dead arm with his left hand. The man. The man had taken his arm when they’d fought. But when Kostya was killed, that man had taken Fedor’s heart. His baby brother, by three minutes. Scores would be settled. Fedor would rip the man’s own heart from his chest, and eat it still beating before his dying eyes.

Images of vicious and glorious revenge were why Fedor was out on the street at this hour. He had worked himself up enough to contemplate disobeying Asher, and hunting them down on his own. But not yet enough to abandon his post. They would come on their own, Asher said. But why wait? They had waited long enough. Chased long enough.

The wind washed over the buildings on either side of him, making a hollow sort of sound in the narrow alley, like shadows scraping across the rooftops. And Fedor suddenly felt that he was being watched.

He quickly checked up and down the alleyway, straining his eyes in the heavy shadows. A single light glowed around the front of the buildings, spilling softly into the mouth of the side street, but creating strange pools of darkness along the sides. Fedor listened for any hint of sound, but detected none.

Until the whisper.

It was barely more than a rasping wind through the alley, but there was no mistaking what it said.

“I am sorry about your brother.”

Fedor ran protocols, just as Asher had taught him, casting a wide net into the datastream that would tell him if not who was there, at least where they were. In an instant, the results came back. Empty.

“I thought he was you,” the whisper said, this time from the opposite side of the alley. Closer.

Fedor searched frantically. It was the man, undoubtedly, but where. He reached inside his coat and drew out a wicked whipcoil baton, with a vicious pyramid-tip designed to puncture flesh and strip bone. It didn’t matter. Anger surged, adrenaline flowed. Vengeance was at hand. The man would appear, and then Fedor would rip him in pieces.

“Come, little dog.”

“I’m here.”

The whisper came from behind, so close Fedor could feel the breath. But even as he spun, he felt the blade bite just above the elbow of his good arm, felt the explosion of pain, the severing of bone, tendon, artery. Something metallic clattered away against the wall of the building, and something thumped wetly nearby. The arm. The other arm. Gone. Fedor stood face to face with the man, and the pain could not diminish the rage kindled.

With a roar, Fedor lunged with a lightning head-butt, but the man melted backwards, downwards, and Fedor felt a hard impact on his throat and in the same instant on the back of his neck. A wave of warmth rolled down his back. His breath came out in a whistle. And looking down, Fedor saw the hilt of the man’s blade just below his chin. Fedor tried to speak, but something hot and metallic bubbled out of his mouth instead. The man stared back at him passively. Quietly. Peacefully.

Fedor hated him.

Getting back out of the city had proven even easier than getting in had been, and Three made his way nimbly back through the outskirts. There were no others out now, no one watching the roads at this time of night. By his guess, he still had four, maybe five hours until the sun came up, bringing with it whatever storm he had called upon himself. Killing Fedor had brought him no joy, nor relief, but it was finished. It was done. The message had been sent.

There was still no clear plan in his mind, but he knew the next step: get back to Wren. He’d figure it out from there. At the very least, he had shifted the game. Made himself known as dangerous prey. Unpredictable. Maybe it would buy them some time.

Three slowed his pace as he approached the tumbledown building that Mr Carter had chosen for their hideout, and made a wide, careful arc, looking for any sign of trouble. Though he couldn’t imagine anyone would have followed him, he doubled back just to be sure before making his way inside. As he crept through the front of the building towards the corridor, he hunched down, making himself small in the near-absolute darkness.

About halfway down the hallway, he stumbled over something heavy that hadn’t been there before. Three managed to catch himself without too much noise, but even as he recovered, he knew there was trouble. The floor was gummy, and the thing he’d tripped over was warm, though not as warm as it should’ve been.

Mr Carter. Dead.

Three whipped down the hall, knowing what had happened, knowing that the room he was about to walk into would be empty, that Wren would be gone. But he couldn’t stop himself. He burst through the doorframe and stopped short.