Griffin's Feather Page 2

  Another Ancient had arrived on the scene.

  Chapter Two

  I placed my bag on the floor and turned a full circle in the room. When I looked at the cracked mirror on the dresser, I spotted a black feather floating toward the floor. I did more circuits of the room with my hand creeping toward the Glock on my belt. The hideous cackle of glee from above me froze me in my steps. The sound of sandpaper being drawn across a dry boulder would be more pleasant than that laugh.

  Swallowing hard for the second time today, I closed my eyes to steel myself for what, or who, I might see above me. I raised my chin to the faded yellow ceiling and opened my eyes. A blue-skinned woman hung in the corner. Strips of ragged clothing hung from her bony frame revealing skin hanging loose on a twisted skeleton. Her black, talon-like toenails jutted into the rotted drywall of the motel room and kept her suspended. Greasy strands of hair hid her face, and a tattered crow perched comfortably on her angled shoulders.

  She took her time walking to the floor. Each step slammed against the wall. Her toenails gouged the drywall even more. I stood transfixed by the sight. I couldn’t move and dared not speak for fear of disrupting her concentration and suffering the wrath of an Ancient. When she finally neared the floor, she hopped in a bird-like fashion from the wall to land in a crouch on the crunchy shag carpet. She left her head drooping downward, so I couldn’t catch a glimpse of her face. It was probably a good thing. The horrors of some Ancient visages are too much to bear even without locking eyes with them. Her arms hung limp at her side as if relaxing them before taking up a great effort.

  The crow on her shoulder opened its beak and released a hideous hissing voice, “Bow before Cailleach, Servant. She’ll turn your bones to stone and trap you forever on the shores of a cold isle.”

  Shit. A hag. Wait. Correction. Not a hag, but The Queen Hag from the British Isles.

  Nemesis showing up was bad juju, but she really couldn’t hold a candle to Cailleach’s anger and ability to come up with creative punishments for those that displeased her. I had to play things careful with this one, or I might lose my immortal soul before the bargaining could commence.

  I immediately dropped to one knee before her haunting presence. “I am ready to perform any task you require.”

  “Obedience to Cailleach. Most excellent.” The crow spoke for its mistress in a raspy tone.

  The Ancient before me waited on my words, and I repeated the ritual words for the second time today. “What task do you have for me this day?”

  “One of Cailleach’s ice pixies has been taken captive by a very stupid mortal. His name is William Elliot Preston. He does the cruelest things to my mistress’s innocent creatures and must be stopped. Only she is allowed to bring pain and misery to her people.” The crow’s fervor rose with its final statement, and its voice became even more grating.

  “What kind of cruelties does he perform on Cailleach’s people?”

  “Too many to recite. This time, he has captured precious Rhoswen. He collects butterflies, other insects, and items he considers novelties.”

  “Then why did he—”

  The sound of wind whistling between a fissure in a cliff face silenced me. “Listen to Cailleach if you care for the marrow in your bones.”

  I fell silent.

  After a few moments, the Ancient’s crow continued, “Rhoswen is an ice pixie. She will melt to nothingness at sunrise tomorrow. You have until then to return her to me.” She tore into the carpet with one of her toenails and wrenched it back and forth until it ripped loose from her foot with a spurt of crimson blood. The wound on her toe knitted closed before my eyes. The black talon bounced a foot closer to me before rocking to a stop. “Break that when you have Rhoswen safe, and Cailleach will fetch her from you. At that time, you will receive your payment.”

  “My usual payment is my father’s journals, but—”

  “She is aware of this.”

  “But I’ll need more than just journals. I can’t kick down the door and storm in with a gun in my hand. That’ll bring the mortal authorities down on my head. This will require some more finesse. I’ll have to reach out to a friend of mine for help, and he’ll require payment for the risk. Mortal payment.” I still hadn’t risen from my kneeling position. I liked my bones where they were.

  “Acceptable. What do you require?”

  I thought for a quick moment before saying, “Gems. A small bag of gemstones. Turquoise, garnets, and amethysts. The winter birthstones. Ten of each. Nothing overly large, but more than a speck. I need to sell them without attracting attention to myself.”

  “Fine. Two journals and your gemstones.”

  “Three journals and the stones, and we’ll have a deal.”

  “And if you fail Cailleach, she will mount your immortal bones on her favorite cliff face in the isles for all to see as a warning for the price of failure.”

  Even though I needed my bones, I felt like I’d pushed my luck with this Ancient as it stood. “The barter is struck.”

  “Agreed.”

  The crow hissed in warning. “You have until the sun rises tomorrow before Rhoswen perishes in this heat. If she dies, so do you.”

  “Lady of the Winter, do you know why this William Elliot Preston person took her if it means her death? Does he not have ways to keep her alive?” I pictured the pixie being stored in a commercial freezer somewhere in his house, but if this man liked to put insects on display, maybe he only wanted her displayed for a single night. I puzzled through this for a moment.

  The crow spat out, “Cailleach cares not what the mortal man’s motivations are. His capture of Rhoswen will be her demise, and you must rescue her.”

  I nodded in acceptance. “Lady of the Winter, if I may ask. Why me? Why am I immortal? Why am I a hound at the Ancients’ beck and—”

  A violent hiss sundered the air, and gooseflesh rose on my entire body. The crow cawed, “Forbidden! You have been working long enough for us. You should know better than to ask such impertinent questions.”

  I caught a sense of fear mixed with the anger in the words. If one such as Cailleach could be frightened by the answer to my question, then perhaps I should be afraid as well. I asked this question of an Ancient every few years. The answer never changed: forbidden. Someday I hoped whoever, or whatever, forbade the answer would relax their rules, show itself to me so that I could ask it directly. Then again, if an Ancient feared this being, I probably should too.

  Cailleach and her crow sank into the floor and melted away.

  And like that, she vanished from my room leaving behind the nastiest toenail clipping I’ve ever set eyes upon.

  I dug a leather glove from my biker jacket and plucked the black thing up. I almost wanted to see what it smelled like, but common sense overrode curiosity. I slipped the nail into a pair of rolled up socks for protection. I didn’t want the thing breaking before I completed the task before me.

  I sat on the hard corner of the motel mattress. Even the sharp jab from a broken spring couldn’t take my mind off of what had just gone down in this piss-stained room. Most of the time, my jobs for the Ancients came one at a time. They were rarely mundane or routine, but now I had to fetch not one, but two creatures, in a short period of time and very little information to go off of with either of them.

  To burn off some nervous energy, I unpacked and rechecked my equipment. I didn’t have much on me, so it didn’t take long. Reassured that all of my magazines were fully loaded, my gun was in good repair, and the rest of my goods in my sea bag were packed with the least essential in the bottom, I stretched.

  Finding a flying griffin could take me almost anywhere away from San Antonio by hundreds of miles, but the pixie, I hoped, was here in the metroplex. With less than twenty-four hours to track down William Elliot Preston, I decided to focus on that job first. Once the pixie was firmly back with her cold mistress, I could track down Xerxes before falling into Nemesis’s clutches for the next three years. Of course, if dawn ca
me and I didn’t have Rhoswen returned, Nemesis and Cailleach would have to fight over who owned my immortal bones.

  Before another Ancient could appear and offer me yet another difficult task, I snatched up my bags and hit the door. Once I got outside to where my trusty Harley awaited me, I sucked in a deep breath of relief. The feel of fresh sunlight on my face improved my mood. Even though the muggy springtime heat of southern Texas hammered into me, clearing out of the motel made me feel better. Birds sang in the distance while a passenger jet roared past high overhead. The few springtime flowers that grew in the cracks of the parking lot even released a pleasant smell in the air.

  Despite the crappy start to the day, everything seemed to be falling into place. All was well with the world.

  Freedom to hit the open road on my motorcycle and dodge any other Ancients heading my way opened up before me. My own joyous thoughts of cruising down the highway clouded my vision, and I didn’t notice the guy sitting on my Harley until I stood less than ten feet from him.

  Ragged blue jeans and a grubby, black concert t-shirt with hard-to-read red lettering on it covered his bone-thin body. Spindly arms jutted out from the loose t-shirt, and I was pretty sure if I bounced up against him in a mosh pit, he’d either break into pieces or pierce me through the heart with those bony elbows. Greasy hair hung limp about his face and shoulders, and zits, along with a few open sores, covered his face. He cracked open a gap-toothed smile. What few teeth remained in his head were rotted stubs. “Nice bike. Gimme the key.”

  I hesitated at the unexpected sight. He swung his right hand from behind his back and revealed a rusty revolver.

  I hate it when people point guns at me. Knife fights are so much more honorable, but you know what they say about thieves.

  Chapter Three

  I held up both hands. “Take it easy, Buddy. My keys are in the right front pocket of my jacket. I can’t get to it with this big ass bag on my back.”

  “My name’s not ‘Buddy,’ you asshole. Just gimme the fuckin’ keys.” Even at this distance, the fetid stench of fresh cat piss washed over me. He waved his gun back and forth with his wrist to make his point.

  Great. He’s a meth head. If he’s high, he’ll never feel the pain of what I’m about to do to him. If he’s jonesing for more meth, he’ll never care what I do to him.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll give you the keys. Just take your finger off the trigger. I don’t want to get shot today.” I took a slow, half-step forward.

  Meth Head’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “I don’t care what you want. Just gimme your key. Got it?”

  “Fine. Let me shrug out of this bag, and the key is all yours.” I took a full step this time and shrugged upward to dislodge the sea bag from my back. As the bag came down, I swung it to the ground in front of me and a bit to the left.

  The heavy bag thumped to the pavement, and Meth Head took his focus off me for just an instant to watch it. His eyes gleamed with greed at the possible loot.

  I used the distraction to make my move. I pulled on the sixty-something pound bag as a counterweight and launched myself at him. I moved just a bit to the right while closing to force him to pull his aim across his body. Meth Head reacted just as I wanted him to and squeezed off a quick shot that buzzed wide of my left shoulder.

  Meth Head adjusted his aim.

  He had me lined up, but I reached his wrist before his finger tightened on the trigger. I managed to wrench the gun aside. Another bullet winged its way past me.

  Pain burst in my left ear, and ringing took over my world. I suffered some minor hearing damage, but it’s better than having a bullet blow out my brain pan. Despite the sharp pain in my ear, I grabbed his wrist with both hands and put him in a painful joint lock.

  Before his pistol hit the pavement, I yanked Meth Head off my Harley, twisted around, and threw him to the ground a few feet from the gun.

  He took the blow without flinching.

  Damn. He’s high. This is going to be rough … on him.

  Meth Head’s eyes lit up and focused on the gun not too far from him. He rolled to his knees and scrambled toward the firearm. Before he reached it, I reared back my boot-clad right foot and kicked him square in what few teeth he had left.

  His head snapped back. Spit, blood, and white fragments flew through the air. He moved a little slower, so I knew I had dazed him with the blow. The drug-crazed bastard still clawed his way across the pockmarked asphalt toward his gun.

  I used the toe of my boot to kick it a few more feet down the parking lot. “Listen. Stop now. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”

  “You haven’t hurth me. Thuck off ’n’ gimme yer keyth, Athhole.”

  The words burbling past his busted lips garbled enough to make it hard to understand him, but I got the gist. “You don’t seem to understand the situation here. You’re not in control anymore.”

  “Jush waith ’til I geth muh gun.” He hoisted himself up to his hands and knees and crawled closer to the gun.

  I casually strolled a few paces ahead of him and gave the gun a good kick. It skittered across the rough asphalt and tumbled to a stop under a rusted-out truck.

  Police sirens rang through the early morning air. In this run-down, drug-addled neighborhood, the police presence remained pretty strong.

  With a sigh and a shake of my head, I stepped around Meth Head and moved to pick up my sea bag.

  A high-pitched scream split the air. Meth Head launched himself from the ground at me. I’d kept him in my peripheral vision, but his sudden charge caught me off guard. I managed to pivot with his body weight at the last second and shrug him off. I silently cursed myself for being lazy and careless. Had I been paying attention, Meth Head would have flown a good ten feet before hitting the ground instead of flopping at my feet.

  Meth Head snarled up at me from the ground. “I’m gonna kick yer aths.” He tried to struggle to his feet, but I kicked him hard in the chest. He rolled across the parking lot and finally stopped flailing about a dozen feet away.

  The sirens closed in on our location. I didn’t have time to “discuss” things with the authorities, and I certainly didn’t want them inspecting my fake ID too closely. I sighed again. Times used to be simpler. I used to assume a new identity when it came time for the old one to die, move to the next village, or simply vanish. I guessed I had a minute, at most, before the police arrived on scene.

  I quickly strapped my sea bag to the bitch seat on my Harley with a few bungee cords, and pulled the keys from my left pants pocket.

  Meth Head screamed at me. “You liar. You thaid your keyth were in your jacketh.”

  Ignoring the druggie’s outrage, I made quick time starting up my motorcycle. Within thirty seconds, I rode out of the parking lot and slowly drove in the direction of the sirens. The cops would be looking for someone fleeing, not someone driving at them. Sure, they might still stop me, but this tactic reduced the chances of that happening.

  I’d traveled a block and stopped at a stop sign when three police cruisers blew the stop sign heading to the scene of the shooting. None of them even turned their heads my way.

  I chuckled while looking both ways before continuing on my way with the rumble of my Harley’s engine. I’d picked up two jobs from two different Ancients and kicked a druggie’s ass all before my first cup of coffee. I decided to fix the lack of caffeine right away. Eddie was my breaking and entering expert, but he’d still be sleeping this time of day after finishing the books for the night of business at his bar. He pushed the limits on last call and rarely kicked out the last customer until nearly two-thirty in the morning.

  I cruised north on my Harley for about a mile before I found a greasy spoon with a broken neon sign out front. The “O” and “E” on the “OPEN” sign still worked, and I hoped that meant they were indeed open. I parked my Harley around the side of the yellow and orange building in the hopes the police wouldn’t easily spot it or be able to identify it if they did.
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  I unstrapped my sea bag from my bike and hoisted it over a shoulder before walking into the diner.

  A small bell jingled to announce my presence in the establishment. The smell of hot bacon and brewing coffee hit me hard. My stomach grumbled at me, and I’m certain everyone in the place heard it. Three people looked up from their coffee and waffles but quickly made it a point to look anywhere but at me. I sat at a table near the corner facing the rest of the room and leaned my bag against the wall. I’d been shanked in the back in greasy taverns too many times over the centuries to sit elsewhere.

  Latin music blared from tinny speakers from the kitchen. The songs were overridden by shouted Spanish as the cooks prepared food. Clanking of plates and utensils punctuated the up-tempo music and rhythmic conversations. The undertone of sizzling bacon completed the musical backdrop of almost every greasy diner in the area.

  A smile broke out on my face. I had a feeling I’d just found a new favorite place to eat.

  Two of the customers were old men wrapped up in some argument that had devolved into them jabbing their pie-crusted forks at each other and just declaring the other person wrong. A woman with a baby in a stroller next to her table sat in the center of the diner. She rocked the stroller back and forth with one foot while sipping her coffee.

  A cute waitress walked up and slid a menu on the table. “What ya drinkin’, Hun?”

  Bright yellows and oranges decorated the diner, but a slight hint of built-up grease on most of the hard-to-reach surfaces showed. Typical diner.

  The waitress’s icy-blue eyes peeked out past her short-cropped blonde bangs. The reflection of purity and innocence there caught me off guard. It took me a moment to process what she had asked.

  I finally managed to get out a single word. “Coffee.”

  “You gonna eat?” She pointed her pencil at the menu with a smile on her face.