Vanity of the Whisperer Page 3

“Give it,” it said.

  “What the fuck, Henry?”

  Henry reached under Regi’s hooded shirt and yanked the holster, breaking it, took his sword, tossed his Glock at him, and left without a word. This fucker ain’t Henry no more.

  Regi had assumed temporary insanity or multiple personality disorder was a made-up defense but he wasn’t so sure anymore as Henry’s dopy ass smiled in his face, and asked, “Hey man, are you heading back to the apartment?”

  They were outside on the lawn, and it was early morning. While it was a cloudy day because it was Houma, light filtering through the clouds and breeze before the coming rain had felt nice on Regi’s face. Assigned with their new missions and positions, Elders were leaving—getting into their cars and driving away all at once as if a corporate retreat had ended. Some were riding together and had left, some were still in the parking area exchanging words, playing catch up.

  The hush and the uncertainty of the hallway had dissipated in the outdoor air. The commander was in control, the man had a plan. With everyone’s role clear, Elders spoke louder, clearer, and nodded with conviction.

  A giant ass vulture flapped its wings and even gave a little run to take off from the lawn. With wingspan three, four fold longer than the height of its body, the vulture was much bigger in the air than it had been standing upright on the ground. And it had been eight feet tall, at least.

  A great black kite was what it looked like floating away—getting enough height to be a speck in the sky—no different than any other bird up at that height. That had been Shen, and it distracted Regi and he forgot to answer Henry.

  “Hey, man,” Henry tapped Regi’s chest, “are you going back to the apartment?”

  Regi had stopped paying rent elsewhere because he’d practically been living at Henry’s the past few months. So yes, he was going back to the apartment to get his things.

  He volunteered to go with Ana because she was traveling to his hometown, Josling, Michigan. It was a small ass town with unmarked buildings and no road signs, no tourist map available at that destination. It would have helped to have someone who knew his way around, but Sasuke had wanted Regi to stay.

  Should there be a half-born attack, Regi’s illuminate (he’d been calling his sunlight that because it was what Ana called hers) would be a stack of C4 to clear an entire area, and the commander knew it. So yeah, damn right, Regi was going back to the apartment to gather his belongings because this warrior of light lived at the HQ now.

  “Where’s my sword?” asked Regi, still feeling iffy about Henry and his disorder.

  “Oh, I gave it to the commander,” said Henry. “Turned out it wasn’t silver, no worries, man.”

  It is silver, and you owe me a holster, motherfucker.

  “Hey,” Henry continued, “can you bring our games and PS?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Anything else? Cream and sugar with your coffee, sir? Get the fuck out of my face, freak.

  Someone tapped Regi on the shoulder and when he turned it was Sasuke. The commander extended Regi the short sword and holster with a broken strap.

  “Get a proper weapon, this is not silver,” Sasuke said. “Get a proper holster, you’re going to cut your own face and arm off drawing a weapon this length from that height. I recommend a dagger, stabbing is easier. Silver to the heart, that’s all. An Elder dies the same, no matter how fancy the kill, all right?”

  Walking away, Sasuke tapped his right thigh as if he was calling a dog. “Sifer, on me.”

  And there it was again. “Yes, Commander.” Henry snapped into Sifer. It was like a switch that flipped in him. Now that Regi saw it, he was fascinated and meant to find out more when he returned.

  “All the games? Or any in particular?” asked Regi but Sifer didn’t answer. He didn’t even hear him. Marching after his commander, Sifer was a tinman made of ticking things and a switch that Sasuke flipped at will.

  Yeah, that is one badass mofo, Regi thought about the commander as he headed to his car. No carpooling for him, warrior of light had his own ride. The prospect of an all-out war excited him. Rubbing his hands together, Regi felt giddy like a damn girl, skipping back to parking where his black Mustang awaited—newer year, younger bitch, council money. Hell yeah, son.

  Then he saw the blue-haired Gen Z, Collette, sitting on his car, scratching the hood up doodling with a stick.

  “Hey, man,” she said, sliding off and making more scratches. “You’re going to New Orleans? Can I get a ride?”

  “Nope,” Regi said. Elder or not, had she not been a female, Regi would have jabbed her in the face.

  “Come on!” She followed him around the car. “I can show you where you can get real silver, how about that?”

  “My weapon is fine. Get away from my car.”

  “Fine for mugging a granny maybe,” said Collette. “For Constantine, you need silver, douche.”

  “Hey,” Regi said. “Why did you scratch up my car?”

  “It’s too shiny, it was embarrassing. I was weathering it for you. Now it’s a warhorse, look.” She pointed to where she’d doodled and Regi saw she’d etched the words ‘battle scars’ onto his hood. He really wanted to punch the bitch in the face, but he wanted to find out who she was to make council instantly.

  Also, he wanted to know why they kept saying his blade wasn’t silver. He paid for silver and had thought it was silver.

  “Fine,” Regi grunted. “Don’t fuck with my ride again though, I’m warning you.”

  Collette laughed in his face, clapping and stomping. Regi’s right hand naturally balled into a fist.

  “You’re funny,” she said. “That was a good one. Okay, let’s get moving.” After inviting herself into his front seat, Collette sat snapping her fingers. “Come on, big boy, move your fat ass! The day is being wasted!”

  Regi did tell Mama he wouldn’t hit a woman, and he was a mama’s boy. It’s for you, Mama, he said to himself as he got into the Mustang that now contained Collette.

  The engine revved, his baby growled, battle scars and all. Warrior of light, here I come!

  Chapter three

  Karl’s Antique and Jewelry

  All that horsepower and Regi had nowhere to go. Taking the foot on and off the brake was how the driving was going. No gas pedal since they left the plantation.

  With all the Elders leaving at once, and with the roads around the HQ being a trail through the bayou, traffic was slow, crawling slow. There was a bend up ahead on the road and the train of cars serpentined left like a great snake winding its long ass tail around the swamp.

  Curving up ahead, and around the bend, the council cruiser with Ana in the backseat and Ayka driving came into view about twenty cars away. The card trick oxford shoes mofo was in the car with them, sitting in the back next to Ana, but no Drake. Two females and oxford shoes hunting for Constantine didn’t seem right. The mofo had looked weak but maybe Regi’d misjudged. He wanted to know who the mofo was.

  Regi looked at Collette who was sleeping. As soon as they left the parking area the chick started snoring as if she was at home in her bed.

  “Yo,” he said loud enough to wake Collette. He was giving her a ride after she’d scratched his baby to hell, the least she could do was answer some damn questions. “Who be that?”

  “Who?” Collette asked stretching and yawning as if she’d slept a hundred years.

  Regi pointed with his chin. “Up ahead, council cruiser. The male in the car with Ayka the Whisperer.”

  Still yawning, Collette leaned forward and squinted, then blew a long raspberry sounding more like a wet shit than just a fart.

  “That be his name?” asked Regi trying not to laugh. A man was never too old for fart jokes.

  “Spelled with silent K-o-s-t-y-a, he’s called a twat.” Turning a palm up, Collette motioned at the cruiser like a tour guide presenting a landmark out the window. “Observe the twat in its natural habitat, among females of the species. Without another male to challenge hi
s position, the twat feels secure and relaxes.”

  “What is he, though?” Regi wanted to know if Ana was safe.

  “A twat.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” Regi said. “Other than a twat, what is he?”

  “A light bender called Kostya,” Collette said. “Fucken no one. When Crawford turned to ash, the twat saw an opening. Stepped on all the Kage to get a seat at the council. He’s sleeping with Ayka, that’s the only reason the commander knows his name. Bootlicking is a typical way a twat gets ahead.” Collette flipped off the cruiser, whistling high and low notes as the middle traveled up and down.

  “But war has a way of setting things right,” said Collette. “Putting the weak and the worthless in their proper place. Cowards crawl back into their holes once the killing and the dying starts.” She had put her legs up on his dashboard, but Regi didn’t mind her then. She thought like him, and this was all right. “Kostya is a small-time magician, a no one with nothing to show for our House. But he’s in that cruiser, on the most important mission we have whilst my ass is to assigned to fucken civvy detail. I hate him so much, you have no idea.”

  Oh, he got the idea, but he caught something else, our House. Did he finally meet a proper light bender?

  “Are you a Kage?” asked Regi feeling hopeful.

  “Collette be my name, mirror be my magic.”

  Seeing as how all other ‘light benders’ had turned out to be kros and Djeds, Regi wanted proof.

  “Nah,” he said. “Show me something.”

  “Okay,” said Collette, and Regi was a ghost flying along the road. He had no body, no hand, no steering wheel, and no car. The shit was trippy.

  “Damn!” he yelled, “stop it!” It was too much of a mind fuck.

  He heard Collette laughing. Then the reality snapped back into place. Windshield, car, and hands with knuckles turned white holding the steering wheel for dear life—looking down he had legs again.

  The cloaking hadn’t been cool because he’d been driving. The only reason they didn’t crash was that they were going at toddler speed. After calming down some, Regi had a question. That was not how cloaking worked. Thinking it was possible he misunderstood the Talent, he went over everything he’d read about the Kage.

  Cloaking was bending light to camouflage something, turning it invisible from the outside. Under the cloak or within the shielded area, one could see themselves and each other. To make sure he got it right before asking something stupid and sounding ignorant, Regi recalled a story from the Elder War.

  In the story the commander, sailing up behind Constantine, had Crawford cloak his warship. Shen’s writing concurrent to the event described the men’s mood going into the battle, conversations he had with Sasuke, and the weather conditions referencing the sail of the ship. Nowhere in there had it said the men were freaking out as flying ghosts above the water.

  “It’s blowing your mind, isn’t it?” Collette said. “I know, I’m the boss. My Talent is triple. This Kage can cloak through as well as around. My projections be badass too. The only reason yellow-bellied Crawford was voted over me for council is that no one likes me. The commander actually nominated me, and Drake voted for me, but no one else.” She wrinkled her nose, almost sniveling. “Everyone hates me.”

  “Oh, well. Fuck them. I’m here and Crawford is not, so fuck him too,” she said, then asked, “Do you want to see something neat?”

  No, Regi did not. Not while driving, but he didn’t get a chance to refuse. A half-born fell onto his hood with a thud, shattering the windshield, and clawed at his throat. Swerving all over the road, Regi screamed. He’d reached for his gun but it was gone by then. As if nothing had happened, his hood was fine, the windshield was intact, the only thing that remained was the Glock in his hand. And to be honest, his heart pounded, trying to break out of his chest like the damn looney tunes character in love. He’d never been that close to a half-born.

  Stumping her foot and clapping, Collette laughed her ass off. And you wonder why everyone hates you. You’re an asshole.

  Wait, Regi thought even as his heart raced. “How are you projecting sound?” Because he heard a thud when the half-born handed on the hood. He even heard the glass break, clear as day.

  “I’m not,” said Collette. “It’s all in your mind. You expect to hear a thud, so you do. The same effect with muzzle flash, most people hear gunshot with that as well. Doesn’t work on everything though, like I could project a police car, but you won’t hear a siren because sometimes they have lights without the sirens. You get?”

  Kind of.

  “I show you glass shattering, and most people will hear the shattering as well. Works better with fast and short sounds, instantaneous reaction to danger before your mind catches up. You get?”

  He wanted to know more and they talked about the Elder War. Having finally met a vet he could converse with, Regi heard firsthand some wild-ass stories. The wildest was how the commander had Collette cloak through some of the enemy soldiers charging. She wouldn’t say how many because that would reveal her limit—a weakness. But never mind that.

  Suddenly disappearing from the world, the men had thought they died in battle and roamed around as ghosts. Being the one throwing the cloak, Collette could see them, and she had seen what men did when they thought they were free.

  Hearts of men were dark indeed, Constantine hadn’t been way off base when he said the world needed to be cleansed of evil.

  At the intersection where plantation road met pavement, Regi saw Drake get into the cruiser with Ana—now, that was more like it. But where did he come from? He had been at the plantation when Regi left. Drake had a dagger on him in plain sight, which made Regi ask Collette, “Why do you think my sword ain’t silver?”

  “Oh, we burn when we touch silver.” Collette nodded somberly. “See,” —she illustrated by pulling out Regi’s sword and touching the blade— “nothing. That’s how we know.”

  Regi hadn’t known that. He just thought it screwed with their Grace. Silver wound didn’t heal proper anywhere on an Elder, but catch it in the heart, and it stopped the Grace altogether. He hadn’t known it burned their skin.

  “Really?” he asked, fascinated to learn something new.

  “No, lametard! You see us carry silver all the time! Aren’t from you from Elder Patrol?”

  Regi had never in his life been tempted to punch a female so much. Not even Jenna, the kro who killed his cat, had irritated him this much in such a short time. And Collette had sniveled about people not liking her when she be should glad that no one had killed her—yet.

  “We’re not allowed to carry lethal silver at Elder Patrol, lametard.” Regi knew his comeback was weak even as he said it. “They issue silver shivs for self-defense but not a blade with a lethal amount of silver. We’re not allowed to kill y’all mofos, no matter the crime. Search, locate, report, wait, assist. That’s all.” Yep, the order was always to assist, but never to lead or kill.

  Only High Council could issue a verdict of death; otherwise, Elders would be killing each other all the damn time. They were a lot like humans in a lot of ways—including the abundance of crimes they committed against each other.

  “It’s the weight, dum-dum,” said Collette shaking Regi’s sword like nurses did thermometers in old films. “Silver is much denser than steel. At this length and width, the blade would be the weight of a brick, and the handle even heavier to keep proper balance.”

  “Maybe it’s silver plated?”

  “Then it’s no good. Can’t have plated edge, you get?” said Collette. “Also it’s stupid. Where did you get this man, online?”

  He did get it online. Where else would you get a silver sword? It wasn’t like they carried it at the local Walmart. ‘Good for werewolves and vampires,’ the description had read. It was a fantasy site but it had said ‘genuine silver,’ and Regi had paid for genuine silver.

  “It’s all good, man,” Collette said. “I have to go pick up something from K
arl’s, they have silver there. I’ll hook you up, but a fair warning, the dude is pricey.”

  That’s fine, Regi thought, the warrior of light could spare some coin for his primary weapon.

  “Why do you want a silver sword though?” asked Collette.

  He wanted a sword and silver killed Elders, ergo silver sword.

  “Having a dull side like this,” said Collette gliding a hand across the back of the sword, “means you have to draw it a certain way, handle it a certain way. Why don’t you get a silver dagger like everyone else? Easy to carry, easy to wield, proper weight, much easier to handle. Just pull out and stab. Can’t miss a heart, can you?”

  Because Sasuke had a sword, that was why. Warriors had swords that was why. But Regi wouldn’t say it though, he knew it would sound lametard.

  “Most Elders, who carry swords, first of all, they carry steel not silver,” said Collette. “Second, that is the weapon most familiar to them. Like Ayka, she sometimes carries a saber but she had it before guns were common. There is Marcus’s gladius because he was a Roman legate.

  “And of course, the most famous, the commander’s katana. A katana is single edged because the mune, the back of the blade, is different than the yakiba, the hardened side with the edge. They are cooled at a different rate which makes the edge harder and sharper, and the spine more durable. That’s what creates the hamon, the squiggly tempered line in the middle running the length of the blade. But there is no need for silver to be single edged. You get?”

  Yeah, he got it, she knew more than him—she was a show-off. Maybe when Ana called Regi a nerd what she meant was annoying like Collette.

  Back in New Orleans, Regi waited for a red streetcar full of tourists to clear out of his way before u-turning into a parking slot on Canal street.

  A colorful row of old buildings, with a Levi jeans shop on one side and Seven Luck Spa on the other, Collette led the way to the door of what looked like a pawn shop. The sign above the door read, ‘Karl’s Antique and Jewelry’—red on white with a font that reminded Regi of a Chinese take-out by his place back in Detroit. He pushed the metal handlebar and a small tin bell above the door rang as he and Collette entered.