Guardians of the Portals (3 page)

“I found the target, but there are complications.”

“Explain.”

“The wolf is at the door.”

Eirik cursed under his breath, but the connection had already been severed. He hobbled to the small console set into a recess on the wall that lay opposite the bank of windows. He keyed in a fifteen-digit code and the distant rumbles indicated a lockdown in progress. Recessed track lighting faded as emergency backup lamps flickered on, replacing the cool white with soft bluish tones.

Eirik hit speed dial and barked a command. Within minutes his driver appeared.

“Ranulf.”

“Sir.”

“Pick him up.”

“The usual location, sir?”

“No, that one might be compromised.” He jotted down an alphanumeric code on the palm of his hand and held it out for the driver to read.

“Understood.”

Eirik watched the burly man pace to the door, but before he could leave the room he cautioned, “Ranulf? Be careful out there.” The driver twitched a shoulder and exited the room, pulling the door shut with an audible click.

The gothi decided not to bother with the trappings of the Althing. His nephew might be correct. Perhaps it was time to shed the illusion and fully embrace the modern world, become a viable part of it, live out their lives in the now. He wearied of the shuffling between and amongst dimensions. Few of the younglings saw the necessity for convention and tradition, though Trey at least paid it some lip service. For him it would continue to be a comfort, a guilty pleasure and an indulgence for his advanced years.

Eirik moved to a credenza and fumbled in the cabinet for a glass tumbler. He poured a generous amount of cognac from the crystal decanter. Just in case, he set out another glass, although his nephew seldom indulged in spirits. One had to admire the discipline, but in truth he considered the young man to be wound too tight. Gunnarr had succeeded all too well in producing an automaton, a near-perfect killing machine with a compulsive nature and the cunning of a predator. That there remained some moral compass after the years of abuse never failed to surprise him. Unfortunately his history and genealogy made the boy suspect amongst the rest of the Jarls and it was only his complete break with his father and brothers that had convinced the assembly of his usefulness, if not his trustworthiness.

That, and his ability to manipulate the Portals with uncanny ease, made him their single most valuable asset. Not one of the Jarls had objected to Eirik making the young man the Gothi’s second-in-command. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” was one of his favourite take-away phrases from his collection of ancient texts.

Eirik eased onto his chair and propped his aching leg on the ottoman. He often wondered what the populace would think if they ever found out that their supposed deities suffered from all the maladies that afflicted humankind. Ancient leaders, far wiser than he, had long ago allowed their culture to join the stuff of legend, with only occasional forays into what he euphemistically called
known space
. The group’s primary focus evolved to oversee and protect the miniscule population of gifteds. They’d not always been successful in living up to that mission statement.

Even more rarely, they would recruit fresh blood if the gifteds’ talents, and DNA, proved congruent with the Althing’s directives. Identifying candidates, evaluating abilities and personality profiles, and finally assimilating them into the culture—this was no easy task as the transition often led to subtle instabilities or full-out psychotic breaks. Trey excelled at dispensing with the failures.

A knock at the door roused Eirik from his musings. He reached behind the chair and pressed a button to release the door, then withdrew his Glock 28 from his shoulder holster and rested the weapon on his lap.

Trey entered slowly, hands raised. He kicked the door open and sidled through.

“Gothi.”

“Nephew.”

The young man leaned over a panel on the wall to his left and placed his hand on the scanner. At the green light, Eirik waved him closer with the Glock.

“Uh, Uncle? I’m not alone.”

Eirik sat up and levelled the gun at his nephew. He spat out, “Unwise.”

“Unavoidable.”

“I will be the judge of that.” Eirik debated his options, taking his time to come to a decision. “All right. Bring your guest in.”

Trey moved into the room and motioned for the shadow figure in the hall to join him.

Eirik’s eyes widened in shock as a tall woman entered, brushing past the young man with annoyance. Her heels clacked with startling clarity on the polished wood floor as she approached the older man with grace and authority. If she harboured any fear for her safety it was not apparent. Eirik looked at his nephew and wondered whose idea it was for her to come to the one place forbidden to outsiders. While he’d learned to trust the young man’s instincts, in this matter he would require something more than a gut level feeling.

Eirik rose smoothly off the leather seat, though it cost him, but he could not risk the appearance of frailty, especially not before a witch as powerful as this one.

“Madame. Would you care to sit while Number Two explains why you are here?” He glared at Trey with a “better make this good or you are both going down” look.

The woman smiled and moved to the sofa in the center of a seating alcove, settled carefully and crossed her long elegant legs. She looked no older than her early forties, though Eirik knew that she was on the far side of sixty. He felt the flare of excitement that the rumours might indeed be true.

She spoke with a soft Southern accent, dripping with refinement. “I believe I am quite capable of speaking on my own behalf, sir.”

“Of course, Madame. May I offer you refreshment?” At her slight nod, Eirik waved to his nephew to take up a position on the other side of the sofa so he could indulge in the small pleasantries and gamesmanship this prize offered. He kept his gun trained on the woman until Trey rounded the sofa and backed against the stone façade with arms crossed and eyes at half-mast, but there was no mistaking the tension in his body language.

Eirik took the extra tumbler, poured a finger of brandy and handed it to the woman. She accepted the drink, took a dainty sip and smiled in appreciation, then set the tumbler down on the glass-topped end table on her right.

“I am...”

“Kathleen Margaret Sutton O’Brien. I know who you are. And I am...”

“Eric, Head of Council, Final Arbiter. Did I miss anything?”

Eirik smiled at the mispronunciation of his name. “One or two critical appellations, but that is of little consequence for now. I assume you have been introduced to my nephew, Trey?”

“Um, yes. A most persuasive young man.” The woman uncrossed her legs and shifted forward. She smoothed her wool trousers, obviously stalling for time to organize her thoughts. “I, we, have a small problem.”

Eirik took a sip of brandy and sat in his chair wishing he had even a clue as to what disaster his impetuous relative had dumped in his lap this time. He glared at Trey lounging casually against the wall.

I thought I told you to clean up your mess. What in the names of the gods possessed you to bring the asset here? I swear, Trey...

Listen to her. It is worse than we thought and she has information to share.

Fine. But you and I will talk ... later.

Trey shrugged and gave him a sneer. Eirik turned back to the woman who watched the silent exchange with interest. From her look of confusion it was clear she’d sensed or heard the interchange but did not understand the Old Norse tongue. She was bright enough to put two and two together and this one would need careful handling. Eirik indicated she should continue.

“Yes, well, if you are quite done berating your nephew? It was my idea to come here. I will not waste my time, or yours, rehashing ancient history. You are aware that my family, on the maternal side, has a propensity for producing female progeny with certain talents. These abilities tend toward the parlour trick variety, but on occasion a generation will manifest more interesting aptitudes. My own forte is a certain faculty for physical subterfuge and an ability to manipulate objects. Ouija board usefulness for the most part and one which netted me a small income to get us through the lean years.”

Eirik interjected, “I’d like to know more about this ‘subterfuge’, if I may.”

“Hmm, of course and that’s what they wanted also.”

His eyebrows shot up as he exclaimed, “They?” and Trey shifted position imperceptibly.

The woman continued, “Regrettably, it is a long story, of which you likely know the broad outlines. Am I correct?” Eirik nodded assent but his nephew looked from one to the other, eyes narrowing to slits. He waved for her to continue.

“My husband is, was, a Marine, a gunnery sergeant stationed at Quantico for much of his military career. When he retired he took up with certain unsavory elements in the precincts of Baltimore, strictly on a civilian consultant basis.”

Trey interjected, “I don’t understand. Consulting for what?”

“Arms—weapons, handguns, and semi-automatics, mostly. He was, uh, what he called ‘non-denominational’, sold his services to the highest bidder.” The woman wrung her hands and leaned forward. “That went on for a few years. Jake was tolerated and protected by his own unique skills and the backing of a few of his friends. We all were getting quite financially secure. But...”

Eirik said, “But what?”

“Time. Time is the enemy, always. Jake and his cohorts got old, tired. Some died and some retired. Eventually Jake figured he’d gone to the well once too often and pulled out. He helped a younger man take over the business, taught him everything he knew.” She sighed audibly. “But it wasn’t enough. There was a new game in town, where he was stationed in Reistertown, with good neighborhoods and an aging population, plus they had something to sell, something no one else could offer.”

“And that was?”

“The usual crap, something for nothing and a chance to make the dollars stretch by playing on the fears of the elderly.” She rose from the sofa and paced about the room. “You have to understand. Three years ago, there were more than thirty gangs in the city of Baltimore alone. When this new group hit town, all but a few of the nationally based groups simply disappeared. They are well funded and well connected. They now control most of the drug, white slavery and money laundering trade, with a few of these more innovative enterprises on the side.”

––––––––

T
rey listened with half an ear, his gut telling him something wasn’t quite right. Too much of the woman’s delivery seemed canned, well-rehearsed.

Eirik echoed what he was thinking, “None of this is exactly news, Mrs. O’Brien. What do you have that would,” he paused for effect, “blow a breeze up my skirt?” Trey snorted at his uncle’s unexpected snide remark.

“That breeze is more on the order of a gale, because the man who replaced my husband...”

The woman strangled a gasp as Trey bore her to the ground and covered her with his body. The air above them erupted in flame as the shields on the plate glass windows disintegrated under a barrage of fire from a helicopter hovering within meters of the building.

Trey shouted in the woman’s ear, “Follow him,” and pointed to his uncle crawling across the floor toward the safe room that he’d keyed open from a remote control implant. He waited to see that both of them made it safely through the doorway and then rolled to a crouch and bolted for the opening, skidding over glass shards as the room around him erupted in flames. He wondered, furious at the turn of events, why the automatic sprinkler system wasn’t engaging as he took aim with his Sig Sauer and laid a pattern along the bow of the AJ-6H Little Bird gunship. The pilot swerved up and out of range, but he could hear a second gunship approaching from the southeast quadrant. Time to go.

He raced for the open door just as the second chopper opened up with a missile barrage that took out the entire back wall of the apartment. He pulled the heavy metal door shut, preparing to engage the locking system, but paused and looked at his uncle who was wiping blood from his face with his shirt-sleeve. The woman stood calmly in the center of the small room, her eyes shifting from one man to the other.

His uncle shouted, “The locks!” but Trey waved him off. Instead, he approached the woman and placed his Sig Sauer against her left temple and growled, “How did they know?”

Eirik shouted, “Boy, what are you talking about?”

“Think about it, Gothi. This is the one place in this dimension that we assumed was secure. How did they find out about it?”

He poked the barrel against her skin and marvelled that she could keep the glamour going under such stress. “Where the hell is it? Tell me or I will blow your fucking head clean off. And then I will go after the rest of your family, their friends, neighbors, and their acquaintances.”

“Boy, are you sure?” Eirik asked, unwilling to allow anyone to harm a gifted when so much rode on the woman’s special abilities. She was possibly the first and only shape-shifter they had encountered in over fifteen hundred years of monitoring human potential. They needed more than just her DNA sequence and tissue samples for further study, because a fully functional shifter was a prize beyond measure.

Trey snarled, “Where is it?” The woman rubbed the back of her neck. “Gothi, watch her.” He slid the Sig Sauer into the waistband of his jeans and pulled a thin stiletto from a holster on his belt with his left hand. He wrapped the woman’s long black hair in his right hand and pulled it away from her neck. A pale splotch of red indicated where the microchip had been recently inserted. He flicked the tip of the blade along the axis of the small scar, ignoring the gasp of pain, and dug mercilessly until the blade contacted the chip. With a deft movement, he flicked it out and onto the floor, then stomped it into tiny shards.

His uncle angled closer to the woman, his gun steady, face set in grim lines. Trey replaced the stiletto in the holster and walked over to the control panel and set the locking system manually, using an over-ride program he’d developed just in case the primaries were compromised. He had to assume that was the case.