GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 (26 page)

“But, Guardian,” Forneus went on, “I have not risen to this position without occasionally granting a mercy.” He laughed as if this were some grand joke that all the world should know. The Shades all around me joined in the laughter.
 

Forneus said, “I am going to spare you, Guardian.”

That’s when it finally hit me. He’d been calling me Guardian all this time, and I’d been so terrified that it hadn’t sunk in until now. Forneus thought I was a Guardian. And I wasn’t about to correct him.

Forneus let the tip of the Soulcleaver fall to the floor. “I will withhold this consequence, for now. But I require of you a service. You will deliver for me a message.”

I swallowed again. “Who should get the message?” I asked, sick to my stomach over the quiver in my voice.

“One of your superiors,” Forneus replied. “Anthriel is his name.”

I knew the name. Anthriel wasn’t my immediate superior because I belong to a completely different area, but he was a superior, and far superior to me in every way I could think of.
 

“You must deliver the message promptly,” Forneus said. “Can you do this?”

“Yes,” I replied. “What is the message?”

“It is not for you,” Forneus said, his yellow eyes narrowing to reptilian slits. He held up his hand and black tendrils began to grow out from the flesh of his fingers. They intertwined again and again until a shape in black ash appeared. He blew into his hand, and the ash dispersed in a dark cloud. A scroll rested in the palm of his hand.

“This is the message for Anthriel,” he said, handing it to me. “Deliver it soon, Guardian, or I will need to come and find you. And then, nothing will hinder my blade. Have we an understanding?”

“Yes,” I said evenly, doing my best to make eye contact.
 

Forneus scanned me shrewdly, and I feared he might somehow recognize me. But no, he had something else in mind. Something that would all but cripple me.

“You seem awfully fond of that silver case of yours,” the Senior Knightshade said, a glimmer in his sickly yellow eyes.
 

Instantly, I became very nervous.
 

“A kind of toolkit,” Forneus went on. “Place your weapons within the case.”

He said it so casually, and yet, I could literally feel the force of his ancient will bearing down on me. Every syllable of his command was weighted with Soulcleaver venom. To resist in even the most minute fraction would result in unyielding agony…and the end of my mission. I lowered the case to the ground. And while the Shades nickered and snickered all around me, I put the Edge and a few Slammer grenades inside the silver case and closed it. I stood, knowing what would come next.

Forneus reached down—a long way down for him—and half-crushed my fingers as he wrapped his massive hand around the case’s handle. He took it from me as if I were a disobedient child and said, “I will hold on to this for now…as collateral. Return to me once you have delivered my message, and I might return it…that is, I might consider sparing you.”

He gestured for me to leave, and believe-you-me, I took the hint and started walking. But just before I reached the iron door, Forneus’ voice rumbled out of the darkness once more.

“Guardian,” he called. “Give the message to Anthriel only. If you give it to any other of your order, they will end you instantly.”

Chapter 23

There’s something about being threatened with annihilation that can really rattle a guy.

I’d driven away from the abortion clinic/Shade stronghold and spent the first fifteen minutes in an absolute thoughtless haze. I don’t know which roads I took or what places I passed. I’m reasonably certain I followed the traffic laws, but beyond that, I didn’t know much else. After all, I’d just narrowly survived a run-in with a legendary Senior Knightshade, keeping my existence only in exchange for running an errand that would almost certainly turn out to be epic-level evil.
 

When I finally snapped out of my fog bank, I came to the realization that I’d rarely been to the end of my rope like this. Not only was I #1 on Forneus the Felriven’s hit list, but I still hadn’t come close to completing my mission. Smiling Jack and his accomplice were still out there. Innocent young women were still in danger. The FBI was back in and, as far as they were concerned, I needed to be out. Even Agent Rezvani, with whom I’d shared a kind of tacit partnership, had been browbeaten into disowning me. Did that mean I really was out? It was somewhat standard protocol for me to be involved only when no one else could be…or more often, would be. And yet, I did not get called to a mission by mistake.
 

Ever.

And yet, here I was at a virtual dead end. I had a lot to think about. I needed wisdom. I needed direction. But, at least for the moment, I needed coffee.
 

 
I’d driven aimlessly past a dozen strip malls. Why I stopped at Miracle Strip Shopping Center, as opposed to any of the others, I have no idea. But, it seemed like in this area, you could drive five minutes in any direction and you’d be sure to run into a marvelous coffee shop.
 

I sat down at a place called Nightgrounds. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the interior was a sight to behold. In one corner stood an honest-to-goodness iron maiden. Shackles and chains hung from the left hand wall. A flickering candelabra rode a barely visible wire back-and-forth between jagged, black chandeliers overhead. A leering stone gargoyle sat on the front counter.
Dungeon Feng Shui.
The tables even had little coffin-shaped containers to hold the sugar and sweetener packets.
Groovy.
 

The waitress who came to my table was, of course, as Goth as she could be. Seriously, she made Morticia look like Snow White.

“Welcome to Nightgrounds,” she said amiably. Though it was hard to read
friendly
from lips and eyes so darkened by makeup.
 

She started to hand me a menu, but I held up a hand. “I’m not eating,” I said.

“This isn’t for food,” she replied.
 

“Then, what is it for?”

“Coffee,” she said. “Duh.”

“I already know what I want.”

“But you’re not a regular.”

“How hard can it be?”

“We have 177 blends.”

“I just want coffee. Black.”

“Black we got,” she said and spun on a platform heel.

She came back with a mug. It wasn’t a mug really. More like a stein or a tankard—ten inches tall at least. And the thing was decorated like Dracula’s castle.
 

I gave the waitress a look like,
Really?

She sneered and stalked away.
 

But at least the coffee was good. It was the darkest black I’d ever seen. Crude oil black. Tar black.
 

It was bitter, sharp, strong, and…delicious.

I sat, sipping my coffee, and thinking. A stream of pedestrian traffic moved by.
 

Downtown Panama City Beach isn’t like downtown New York City or downtown Chicago…or even downtown Albuquerque. It’s not skyscrapers and taxicabs. It’s not designer suits and briefcases. It’s casual. Even at night when the party crowd comes out, the place is low key and smooth.
 

So when a certain man turned the corner and sauntered to my table, I actually raised an eyebrow. He wore a black, three-piece zoot suit. I kid you not—a zoot suit.
 

The long coat was buttoned at his chest only, draped back behind his arm, and a hoop of gold chain dangled from his pocket down to his knee. He tipped a black fedora with a red feather sticking up out of its satin band. He straightened a jaunty yellow tie and flashed a blinding white smile.

“Mr. Spector,” he said, words rolling off his tongue like jazz. “I believe I have come at just the right time…as usual.”

“Do I know you?” I asked.

He smiled and took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. “One would think, with all the oh-so-timely assistance I have provided, that I might just
merit
remembering.”

I shook my head.
 

“Apparently not,” he said.
 

He stared at me. His face was perfectly tan, but his skin had a waxy look as if he was one of Madame Tussaud’s figures come to life. He had eyes darker than my coffee and a sharkish nose. That knowing, chalk-white grin never left his face. And I still wondered how he knew my name.

Then he actually removed a gold pocket watch from his billowing slacks’ pocket. With a smooth flick of the wrist, he flipped open its lid, glanced, and pressed it closed again. “I really must impress upon you,” he said. “My time is not unlimited, you know. I have other appointments to keep.”

I sipped my coffee. Then I laughed and said, “Don’t let me keep you. I’d just as soon be alone anyway. Lots of thinking to do.”

The pocket watch disappeared with his hand into the deep pocket. “A shame really,” he said. He spun with a flourish of his pinstripe coat. As he walked away, I heard him say, “Too bad though. I do believe Smiling Jack is about to get busy again. A shame.”

The wrought iron chair scraped loudly on the stone floor as I thrust myself up to my feet. “Wait!” I called.
 

He stopped and spun back. “Yes? May I be of service…after all?”

I gestured to the second chair at my table and cleared my throat. “Sit,” I said. “Please.”

The way he moved, weaving his way between the other tables, and coming to rest lightly in the chair—it was New Orleans cool. Liquid velvet.

“I am so glad you reconsidered,” he said. “But still…you really don’t remember me, do you?”

“Look, cut to the chase. How do you know me? What do you know about Smiling Jack?”

The Goth waitress decided to appear at that moment. She handed my new guest a menu. And I’ll be boiled in pudding if he didn’t take his sweet time. I watched his eyes travel the coffee menu, line by line.
 

“Hmmm, mmmhmmm,” he mumbled with a languid drawl. “Mephisto. I am most reasonably certain this blend will satisfy my discerning palate.”

“Whatever,” the waitress replied. She whisked the menu out of his hands and left abruptly.

“Insufferable youth,” he said. The easy smile disappeared for a moment. Only a moment. Replaced for a blink by something close to violent hatred. But it was gone so fast I had to wonder if I’d really seen anything at all.
   

“Who are you—”

“I do know you, John Spector,” he said. “I know you very, very well. I know how you work, how you play, how you op-er-ate. And, as always, I am here to help you. Why, yes I am.”

Another casualty of my most recent memory wash,
I thought. If I did force-forget him, I’m pretty sure I knew why. I don’t like folks beating around the bush.
 

He sighed. “Well, though it seems to me a travesty to be required to remind you, I suppose you should know my name. Scratch is the name. Mr. Scratch. Say my name and strike a match and I’ll come calling.”

“I didn’t say your name. I don’t carry matches.”

He waved his long fingers. “A triviality,” he said. “I am not without a heart, my dear Ghost. I saw that you were in grave need.”

I slammed my fist on the table.

“Should I come back?” the waitress asked, holding another castle-tankard.
 

I waved an apology and shook my head.

Scratch accepted the coffee, breathed in its scent, and closed his eyes. Then, he exhaled deeply. “I do believe I made a most excellent choice.” He drank from the mug. He drank for a long time. I saw the steam rising and wondered how he didn’t scald his throat. When he put down the coffee, it was more than half gone.
 

Just before he spoke, he adjusted the cuff of his dress shirt, sliding it out of his coat sleeve to cover his wrist. But I caught a glimpse of wounded flesh, the white marbling of a burn scar. I frowned, thinking that maybe I had a faint memory of something similar.
 

“About your friend, Smiling Jack,” he said. “You are most certainly barking up the wrong tree.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “You’ve most certainly resolved a few issues. But lately, you’ve been most willingly blind. You dig?”

I shook my head.
 

“You sure that memory trick you do doesn’t take a few of your most clever thoughts away too?”

I thought about taking something out my silver case, something that would alter Scratch’s sense of humor. That’s when a lightning bolt hit me: I no longer had my silver case. No wonder I’d been in a mindless haze after leaving the clinic. Being without my silver case was like losing an arm. Maybe I should have just given myself over to the rage and taken a crack at Forneus.
Right.
I might have managed to put a dent in his ancient, armored hide before he hacked me asunder with a thunderous flourish. I squeezed my fists so tightly that my knuckles cracked.

“Did I say something wrong?” Scratch asked.

“Let’s just say I’m feeling a little unsettled right now.”

“Interesting,” Scratch replied, taking another gulp of his coffee. “Well, now see how splendid it is for you that I am here. I’ve come with such timely advice, and I’ve even brought you a little gift.”
 

I watched, flinching involuntarily as Scratch reached beneath the table at his side. When his hand came up, I fully expected to see a big black handgun…but he had a silvery baton instead. He slid it across the table to me.
 

The Edge.

“How…?” I stammered. I usually make it a point not to stammer, but here it was more than appropriate. “How could you get…I mean, my case won’t open for anyone but—”

“And now, for the advice,” Scratch said, cutting me off and standing. As he waltzed away, he said over his zoot-suited shoulder, “Sometimes the way forward is the way back.”

* * *
   
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“’Sometimes the way forward is the way back.’ Great,” I muttered, driving the assassin-mobile toward Grayton Beach. “I’ll just put that on a bumper sticker. Super.”