Vanity of the Whisperer Read online

  As different as Ana had become from the girl Giselle had brought to the plantation last Easter, the child still got red patches on her chest when she lied. Shen, who didn’t know, nodded and believed Ana. It made sense to him, and Ana usually didn’t lie to her Laoshi.

  Oh, well, Giselle thought. Drake brought her husband back by the means the child had. She cared only that it was done, not how. Sasuke hadn’t had any time to recover and was exhausted. But with the foretold coming of Constantine, her husband wouldn’t get any rest.

  Inspecting the leaves of her steeped tea and seeing that it was good, Giselle poured a cup through a strainer and left to take it to her commander.

  At nightfall, Giselle lay her head in Sasuke’s lap. They’d been drinking with Souley in Drake’s lounge. Sasuke had his eyes closed but he wasn’t sleeping. She circled her fingers on his thigh and got a knee-jerk ticklish reaction. His eyes opened dark—he’d been speaking with someone, and he mouthed the word ‘behave’. She stuck her tongue out and in return, he narrowed his eyes. So, like a feline, she hissed with open mouth and fangs, to which he gave a low growl like a wolf and flashed his handsome fangs. Like so, they’d been playfully escalating when a thud outside was followed by a sound like a sharp exhale—curtains of the library lounge flung up. Marcus and Dalila had arrived.

  “Fucken clown,” she heard Souley say.

  “All right, let’s go teach this fool a lesson in jiu-jitsu,” Sasuke said sounding playful.

  When Giselle lifted her head from his lap, Sasuke stood up, stretched, and released cricks from his neck. He’d managed to appear cocky. But he wouldn’t win this bout of unarmed combat with Marcus, he knew that. Everyone knew that.

  A bull blasted out of solid rock, Marcus was a square figure with short limbs. Despite having a clear reach advantage, Sasuke lacked the physical strength to leverage any position against the bull-man. It wasn’t that Sasuke was tired, that never mattered to him in a fight, it was that Marcus had unnatural strength. The bastard could even match a Djed.

  At first, her husband was red in the face, angry, for having been pushed around like a child. Then he was flushed at being held in a chokehold for too long.

  Sasuke wouldn’t tap, Marcus wouldn’t release, and it was after Sasuke’s Grace had churned that Marcus took him down—face first—landing on top of Sasuke with his two-ton Roman weight. That would break a couple of ribs at the least.

  They were behind the plantation. Souley’s backyard was acres wide, with plenty of room for two men to be tussling with each other whilst others spectated.

  Giselle, with Sasuke’s katana in hand, stood but a few meters away from the grappling zone—he’d tossed it to her before this nonsense began. Souley and Sifer were some distance behind her. Dalila had been watching but she’d gotten bored, Giselle supposed, because the Suns had walked back into the house.

  Out of anger, Giselle had been tempted to draw the katana, diminish Marcus of his head, when she heard Dalila scream’s from behind.

  “Sasuke!” Dalila shrieked, hysterical—it had been overdramatic even for a Suns. Had Sasuke not called her, Giselle would have turned to Dalila.

  Marcus still had him in a chokehold when Sasuke’s eyes turned, “Giselle, let me in!”

  She hadn’t thought what happened or asked why. Sasuke requested, Giselle complied—an ingrained response requiring no additional time to contemplate. But turning around to look at Dalila, that would have taken a split second—which Giselle did not get.

  Sting at the side of her neck like a rubber band snap, that had been all—no pain. It was at the same time she heard Dalila scream, “Constantine!”

  Despite the instantaneous outward appearance, Giselle found Elder death an experience of a moment lasting much longer than other moments. Marcus’s hands dropped, releasing Sasuke from the lock, then she saw the Roman’s guts bottom out as well—don’t be a coward! Don’t you dare be afraid of him!

  She watched as Sasuke scrambled for her. He was fast, but not enough—no one was. He’d been a good twenty meters or so away from her.

  He doesn’t look like himself, Giselle had time to think about Constantine. Despite both Souley and Sifer being there, he was allowed to approach her from the back carrying a sword. He looked like someone they trusted, someone expected to be at the plantation—armed.

  Giselle meant to raise the hand she held the katana in. To toss the blade to her husband who’d leaped at her. But there was no hand, only a katana on the ground. She’d become the shroud of ash that enveloped her husband—who was screaming.

  “No! Don’t!” She would have yelled because there was Constantine behind her and Sasuke was coming right for him, unarmed.

  But by then, she was no longer outside the plantation, no longer a night in Houma but daylight at the beach. Blue waves broke at the shore, thunderstorm sounded but the horizon was serene with heavy grey clouds, like smoke sitting atop the ocean.

  Giselle looked back and saw their four-century-old home, a minka Sasuke built himself, a wooden shack on the small island of fishermen—she was in Sasuke’s Cellar. He’d managed to pull her mind into his Ka. But without a body to return to, her existence would expire soon.

  Oh well, she thought. We had a good life, she would say. Sasuke’s Cellar had a time limit of a single hour, not long enough, not nearly—but it would be time enough to bid farewell. She’d speak to him then, but for now, she’d sit at the beach and watch this beautiful memory in silence.

  Her speaking would interfere with his focus, and he had a Constantine to deal with in the backyard. Oh well, she thought again. Oh well, but no matter how many times she would think or say it, she was still furious. Seething.

  Now Sasuke was stranded without her. She had always been his way out when the world became too much to carry. Constantine had done this on purpose, of course, he killed her first to trap Sasuke—and to hurt him. She would scream had she not known that it would distract her husband from a fight.

  So, oh well, it was.

  Giselle remembered each day they’d been together, and knew which one this was. The grey would start a downpour soon, and she would go inside the minka.

  Four centuries ago, Sasuke would have been inside, boiling some water and looking nervous. She’d shown up unexpectedly and he didn’t have anything in his home to offer her. That was why he was nervous. He would go hunt in a bit and bring a thing he could give her.

  Four hundred years ago, this would have been the first day of their life together. But now in a Cellar, there would be no Sasuke inside the minka. So, oh well, it was.

  Chapter two

  Weeping Angel

  Regi flicked a Zippo and heard the trademarked click, then sounded his own effect, “woah,” as he pulled the fire into his other hand, palmed the flame and blew into his closed fist, showcasing a magic trick of moving the flame up to the top of his index finger. The fire stayed as if his finger was a damn candle wick. He lit his joint, then snuffed the flame by closing his hand.

  He’d been flicking a Zippo a lot lately. The warrior of light could bend fire now, no Ignis needed. Now that Drake was back, Regi meant to get a showdown because, in his absence, his sister Ayka had taunted Regi saying, “You can only redirect fire. My brother can ignite it out of nothing. When he snatches the lighter from a hundred feet away, because he is a Ka, he’ll still be a Ka and an Ignis. And you’ll still be nothing, so shut up before you end up in a slot.”

  I’m not nothing.

  Damn broad had anger issues but her threats were empty. Whisperers couldn’t mess with mediums and that was the least of what Regi was. The warrior of light is the savior of the world—his time would come for the end was fucking nigh, but in the meantime, he’d pass the joint to Henry.

  Guardian Ana, creepy with her eyes rolled back and turned white, hummed a Christmas tune familiar to Regi. She walked her fingers along an imaginary surface then pointed to the corner in the room. It made Regi’s skin crawl and hair stand on end. He hesitate
d but had to shoot a glance back to check, to make sure some type of children-consuming nightmare clown hadn’t popped up. There was nothing behind him but a closed door in a bedroom on the second floor of the plantation.

  It was Regi’s first time coming to brother Souley’s home. The man had loud taste, everything was blinged out and gold plated—extra fancy with laces and shit. It was Mike Tyson times Elvis’s Graceland to the power of Buckingham Palace. Everything was old, antique but loud as hell at the same time—unique for sure. But tacky was more like it.

  “What do you see?” asked Henry, the only Elder in the room. It was just the three of them. Henry was hardly the best person to be conducting this seance but everyone else was occupied.

  Shen would normally lead Ana in and out of her transcendence, ascension, channeling… whatever it was, but when Regi went to check, the scribe was on a video conference with what appeared to be the whole goddamn Wall Street. Folks rich enough to be celebrities for just being so damn rich. The billionaire’s club allowed no measly millionaires.

  Of course it would the rich that would be the friendlies—the last Regi heard, it was a CEO of a pharmaceutical who suggested spinning the dark phenomenon as a viral infection. When your thought process was that askew, the apocalypse was just another way to make more money. The weapons boys wanted to know what killed half-borns. They’d wanted the exclusive on manufacturing that; just in case the world ended, their stock would go up. It would be a spectacle that the media could cover, their ratings would go up.

  “Angels, twin heads, made of stone,” Ana said—add a headgear and a drum, she was a damn shaman.

  “Can you clarify?” asked Henry.

  Can you be creepier?

  Ana didn’t answer, she blinked instead, turning her eyes brown again.

  They spent the next half hour watching Ana as she sketched. Passing a joint among the three of them, they often hung out in New Orleans. Ana was a chill female when she wasn’t channeling scenes of horror films, and lived in the same apartment building as Henry. They’d kick it sometimes, order pizza, drink beer, pass the bong along and watch cheesy action flicks, laughing their assess off. It could be said that they were friends.

  “Where’s Sasuke?” Ana asked, sitting on a giant bed while she sketched with a pencil in the thick book full of goth art—if those were visions, Regi was damn glad not to be the guardian.

  “Commander is meeting with Forger,” Henry said and passed the joint to Ana. Continuing to sketch, she held the joint in her pouty lips for longer than Regi could, then exhaled a veil of smoke without the cough. Her morning runs paid off in lung capacity.

  “The twins?” asked Ana.

  “No,” said Regi. He knew the answer to this one. “The ability to screw with human memory is called forging but there is only one Elder known as Forger. The twins are forgers, yes, but they’re called Weavers.”

  “That’s confusing,” Ana said.

  “Guess mofo was the first forger,” said Regi. “Did you know Rollerblade is actually a brand name? But people say rollerblade when they mean inline skates. Same with Forger, forger, and forging.”

  “Why are you such a nerd?” Ana asked, Henry laughed, and Regi snapped his collar feeling like a player—knowledge was a good thing. Ain’t no shame in having it.

  Regi had been excited about meeting Elders he’d only read of before. Twin Elders were a single soul splintered into multiple bodies at conception. They had the same Talent and appeared as children. Most Elders appeared young but twin Elders appeared as children.

  The Weaver twins, both girls, looked like the chick who played in the Casper movie, but younger, despite being over four hundred years old. It had been more disturbing than cool when Regi ran into them downstairs just a few hours ago.

  That was another thing, the Elder command was gathering. Shit was about to hit the worldwide fan with the resurrection prophecy of Constantine. Yet, Regi couldn’t help but giggle with excitement. Boy, he had a feeling that he’d be a part of the grandstand of biblical proportions. A tale to replace all tales.

  A knock came at the door announcing the meeting commencing. Regi put out the last of the joint, and all three got up. Seeing Ana’s sketch Regi said, “Weeping Angel.”

  Old fountain in a town graveyard—Josling, Michigan. Regi would know, he walked past it every day on his way to school.

  With Guardian Ana, Drake, Shen, Ayka (the anger management issues), Weavers, and brother Souleymane in the council great library, Elders lined the hallway like a damn queue to the soup kitchen during the Great Depression. The fake light bender and the CSI broad Lela, his boy Henry, and a few other familiar faces along with many unfamiliar ones crowded the hallway, speaking in hushed tones amongst themselves. Scrabble word of the day: Constantine. Another popular phrase: the dark war.

  All vets, Regi assumed. They just had that vibe, except for a pasty looking mofo with slicked back hair, shuffling cards. The mofo had peeked into the council room and waved. There were only True Elders in there, so despite looking like an office worker with a button-up shirt, suit pants, and shiny black shoes, the mofo was hooked up and had connections high up. Regi kept looking at him because his sleight of hand wasn’t half bad.

  Snapping his fingers, the mofo kept flipping the card. Regi was watching but couldn’t catch it. A queen of heart turned to the ace of spades, ace of spades to the queen of heart, a queen of heart to the ace of spades, an ace of spades to the queen of heart…

  The murmurs faded, and Elders in the hallway parted like the red sea. Regi looked at the card one last time; the magician had landed on the ace of spades when he pocketed the cards. Without knowing what happened, Regi had gone along with the crowd and lined up against the wall—then he saw the reason for the scurry: Sasuke had come.

  As the commander walked the hallway, The Elders stood still like statues at salute. Looking like a praying mantis with her long limbs and tiny body, Giselle was behind Sasuke—no one (not even his wife) walked alongside Sasuke. Even when he was walking with his lieutenants like Drake or Souley, they’d always trail a few steps behind.

  In a white v-neck over navy joggers and sneakers, the man looked casual. Functional was what Regi thought. The commander carried both his swords with a black strap and plastic clip-on fasteners as one might carry a laptop or something else mundane. A samurai would keep the shorter sword, wakizashi, with him always. But he wouldn’t typically carry the long sword, the katana, indoors. It was rude to the host, Regi had read, but never mind rude—it was war.

  Sasuke wasn’t tall or big, he wasn’t dressed as a lord or a commander, but the man had menace. When Elders spoke in their hushed voices, not everyone, but some had said Constantine returning was a misstep on the commander’s part. Yet no one squawked shit as Sasuke passed them in the hallway. They stood like fixtures attached to the wall, soldiers at attention—that was power.

  One day, one day, Regi thought, soon you mofos will see I’m a warrior in my own right and not speak down to me, calling me nothing.

  Sasuke had passed Regi, then turning on his heels he came back. If Regi was being honest, that had made him nervous. Sasuke motioned for him to come closer. That made him more nervous as Regi stepped out of the literal line to do so. When he approached, Sasuke leaned in to say, “You can’t carry that concealed when I’m here, okay?”

  Damn, he be sharp.

  Regi had a silver short sword with him. He’d even given up one of his Glocks to holster the blade under his arm, to carry it concealed under his hoodie. Humans couldn’t carry lethal silver, Regi knew that, which was why the hoodie was worn over his holster. He had it on him the entire time since he arrived last night. House full Elders, and no one had noticed till Sasuke just walked by him.

  As Sasuke said it, something else happened that fucked with Regi’s mind. His boy Henry, who’d been standing across the hall and flashing his goofy smile whenever they made eye contact—just snapped. His eyes shot black, and baring a mouth full of filed
down fangs, Henry’s face morphed into an exact expression of vampires in flicks. Not friendly or sexy ones, but evil ones like the 30 Days of Night.

  “You can’t carry silver in the presence of the commander!” Speaking and growling at the same time without his sneered mouth moving, this thing was no longer Henry.

  Everyone had turned to stare at Regi. This hadn’t been the attention he wanted.

  “It’s all right, Sifer. He didn’t know,” said Sasuke. “The boy means to kill Constantine with it. Isn’t that right, Reginald?”

  Damn right, Sasuke, he thought, but when he spoke only a stuttered, “Yes, Sir,” came out.

  “When you’re in a friendly place, like headquarters or a safe house, you wear your weapon where others can see it,” said Sasuke. “And you take it off completely when I’m in the room, that’s all. Everyone relax, now he knows.” Sasuke patted Regi on the shoulder, then walking away he said, “Let’s hold this outside, we’re not all going to fit that room. I want everyone present.”

  When Sasuke looked back again, Regi’s heart sank for a moment but it wasn’t him the commander was looking for.

  “Collette,” Sasuke called.

  “Yes, Commander.” A petite woman with a pixie cut and oversized clothes stepped out and snapped to salute, even clicking the heels of her converse as she did so. With her digital art shirt, tattered jeans, piercings, and blue hair, had Regi seen her in the street he would have assumed Gen Z. But she was clearly a soldier.

  “Collette, I need you on my council. You’re replacing him.” Sasuke pointed at the mofo with the card tricks. “You’re dismissed, Kostya, seek shelter at the Dome.”

  Walking past the council room Sasuke went out through the door, and everyone queued up to follow out creating a traffic jam toward the exit. Regi tried to line up but Henry stepped in front of him.