Unfinished Tales, Vol. 7

Meira swept the last of the glass into the rusty metal dustpan then dumped it into the trash and surveyed the diner, satisfied she’d gotten most of it. She would have to call Jimmy to come replace the windows tomorrow, but for now…

She glanced over at the two Desert Eagles and shoulder rig resting atop a pile of men’s clothes. She thought for a moment, decided Rubian probably wouldn’t be happy to see her, especially not with her making demands, and decided to give the rig a try.

Her arms slipped through the straps and the weight of the guns pulled slightly on her shoulders. She windmilled each arm in turn, made a few adjustments to the straps and smiled. Fit pretty well. Guess the guy wasn’t really as big as he acted.

She slipped the guns in the holsters, then turned to face the front door. She cracked her knuckles, settled her breathing. Imagining Rubian’s face, round and almost as ebon as an eight ball, she drew. The right pistol flashed out and up ended pointed straight and unwavering at the door, the left the same place a half-a-heartbeat later. Meira adjusted the left-side straps, then redrew. She smiled. It’d been awhile, but she liked the weight in her hands. Not that she planned on drawing both hand cannons at once. Kiss her wrists goodbye doing that.

She gathered her black leather jacket from the rack behind the counter, checked her tats in the fish-eye security mirror—wrists, fingers, neck—then winked at herself and slipped out onto the dark, wet street.

Rubian’s sat on the other side of the district down by the docks, about a fifteen minute walk from the Diner. Most people wouldn’t dream of walking across the District during the small hours, but Meira didn’t mind. Wasn’t much she was afraid of, nor much to lose in any case. And that was beside the point; Rubian’s monsters had toasted her windows. It was time for the big man to pay up.

The first ten minutes passed uneventful, but as she made the left onto Heart, she felt something strange, a tension.  All the neon and fluorescents seemed supercharged, ultrabright, and every small movement clicked by at a slow shutter speed. She watched a dealer pass off a small gray leather bag to a short white guy with no irises and dreadlocks, who in tandem slid the dealer a fat roll of bills. As long as it was dark, Heart street would beat.

Vignettes of activity slid past, her mind soaking it up, filing and storing for easy access. Names and faces called up memories, additions and deletions made from synaptic fireworks. As her body slip-dodged through the crowd on the sidewalk, Meira studied the District’s denizens, knowing she’d need the information later.

A blink, the scent of incense and goose bumps raised on the back of her neck. Time slowed further as she passed the mouth of an alley, she looked to her left, saw the flash of a glinting red eye, the squish of a wet appendage, and thought about pulling the Eagles. She kept walking.

She arrived at 777 Heart St. and paused, checking over her shoulder. No one appeared to be watching, but she knew better. She mashed the doorbell with a thumb, moved down two steps and rubbed her triceps as if cold.

After a moment, the door cracked and a disembodied voice rumbled forth, barely audible over the ambient noise of the street.

“Meira.”

“Din.”

“What brings you?”

“Some of Rubian’s… pets smashed up the diner a bit ago.”

“Heard about that. So what?”

“So Rubian’s business hasn’t anything to do with me, and I’d like him to replace them.”

Din laughed. Meira felt it in her chest.

“You walk all the way over here this hour for that?”

“You thought I’d wait until tea time tomorrow?”

Din laughed again, then opened the door, a massive forearm holding it for Meira to pass beneath. As she ducked past, Din said, “You’re looking good. When you gonna give me a hello kiss?”

Meira turned back toward Din, put on her best coy smile. “Hey, anytime you’re ready. Your funeral,” she said, fingering the bone-colored ankh at the hollow of her neck.

“Still that, eh?”

“Still that.”

“When you going to do something about that?”

“Been working on it.”

Din hmmphed, said, “Rubian’s in the back. Wait while I tell him you’re here.”

“He already knows I’m here.”

“Gotta follow the rules, Meira. Who knows what he’s got in that room, ya know?”

 “I know.” And she did. She’d seen a lot of the things Rubian brought to that room with its green-tinted windows, enormous scrying ball and racks and shelves of weapons, books and artifacts.

She glanced around the foyer, admiring the original McKean works and the dark ornate woodwork. Not for the first time, she wondered what was at the top of the long curving stair case.

She heard Din approaching and turned. He stopped and sniffed the air, then his eyes widened. “You packin?”

She nodded, shrugged.

“When’d you start doing that?”

She shrugged again.

Din scowled, then nodded, then narrowed his dark eyes. “I need to take them away from you?”

“The hell you do,” Meira said. She laughed, to get Din moving again, him having froze from her flippant comment, then started down the hall. At the broad black double doors, she glanced down at her tats again, touching each with her fingertips, then entered Rubian’s study.

Rubian stood in front a tall green window, staring up at the sky, tattooed muscular arms clasp behind his back. Meira started reading the tats.

“Meira, you ruined my pets’ fun,” Rubian said, voice smooth and low, black sleeveless robes swishing as he turned from the window.

“I did your dirty work for you. You should pay me.”

“You spared him from what he deserved.”

Meira crossed the room, boots clomping on the stone floor, and slid into a high-backed black leather chair. “So, who’s Vivian?”

Rubian leaned forward on the desk and Meira fought the urge to squirm, part of her brain wondering if his skin was really soaking up the light.

“Why did you come? Why now?”

She shrugged then leaned forward in the chair, playing nonchalant and praying he wouldn’t notice her trembling hands. “Your ghouls broke my windows. I’d like them replaced. I’d’ve thought you’d’ve taught them to use the doors by now.”

Rubian glared down at her, then smiled without showing his teeth. “Fine, tell Jimmy to bill me.”

A wave of power, invisible but palpable, rolled over Meira. She felt as though someone had pushed her from behind. She glanced up to see Rubian shaking his head and peering past her, dark eyes squinting. “Meira, come here,” he said, eyes never leaving the room behind her.

She slipped off the chair, staying low, and crept around the desk, back pressed to the wooden drawers.

“You know the hole?” he asked without looking down.

“Yes.”

“You wore your wards, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then get in the hole and move.”

She had enough sense to be frightened, because she knew Rubian was frightened, but sense was not winning out. She moved across the space between the desk and the black-paneled wall, spinning a tight circle and drawing the left Eagle. Flashes of green and red light rapidly painted the wall then vanished. Back planted on the wall, she rose on her toes and looked across the room.

A vertical slit of neon blue light appeared, growing from a chest-high pinpoint down to the floor and up to the ceiling in an instant. The light widened and a man stepped through. He was almost as tall as Rubian, but slight where Rubian was thick and with skin white as alabaster. The white was broken only by flowing white pants and ice blue tattoos across his bare chest. Sunglasses hid his eyes and power roiled across his skin.

“Rubian of the Black Sept,” the man said, voice dry and raspy.

Meira felt the air around Rubian grow warm, then hot, and the surface of his hands began to glow like an iron left too long in the fire. She inched away from Rubian, gun steady and pointed at Alabaster. She sighted one of his tattoos, one in runes she’d never seen before but center in his chest.

His eyes glowed blue and he turned toward Meira. Then he smiled.

“How dare you,” Rubian said.

“Easily,” Alabaster said. He raise his left hand toward Meira and the Eagle flew from her hand, across the room and into his. The following report filled Meira’s ears, even as she ducked behind the desk. She felt the bullet slam into Rubian’s forehead, heard the glass explode above her and saw emerald shards fill the air like green mist.

Ears ringing, she counted to three then ran for the panel hiding the entrance to the hole. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the panel being open. When she opened her eyes, the Eagle was in her right hand again, the panel open, the room behind her quiet save for the sound of papers on the desk ruffling in the night breeze.

Several steps into the room, she looked to her left, saw Rubian, his body bent backward over the shattered windowsill, head an exploded mass of black skin, red fluid and jagged white bone. She fought a gag.

“Rubian.”

She blinked.

“Rubian!” Din’s voice boomed from outside the door. “Rubian.”

Meira stared at Rubian’s ruined skull, trying to make sense of the image, nauseous and fascinated.

The doors shook behind her. “Rubian! Dammit, answer me!”

The doors shook and Meira looked at them, then back to Rubian.

The doors exploded open, splintering across the stone. Meira looked at Din across the space, she saw her death in his eyes, and knew it for true.

“Oh, fuck,” she said, then turned and dove through the hole.