Warrior of the Ages (Warriors of the Ages) (8 page)

LATELY THE WILLOWYTH police force consisted entirely of Warriors of ilu. Despite that, they ran the station like any police station in the state. Red tape and bureaucracy reigned. Warriors weren’t designed for the pencil pushing tasks necessary to run the police force, but there was no choice.

Conformity had become necessary in order to blend. Internal Affairs always hovered and occasionally a Seeker rookie would be placed with them, so the warriors kept their guard up, playing their parts well while in the station house. Today’s conversation consisted of typical police business. Boxes of fresh doughnuts stacked the front counter, four coffee pots filled with fresh brew sat on a table in the tiny waiting room. Notices with updated regulations were stuck to the wall. Kahtar filled a cup with java and piled doughnuts on a plate. He had no intention of eating or drinking either. The food wasn’t clean, but they’d all had to force a bite of doughnut now and then or sip the coffee, for the most part the coffee went down the drinking fountain drain and the doughnuts got flushed.

Kahtar pushed the door of his office open with a foot.
Kent Costas, Police Chief
stenciled in gold and black lettering glistened on the frosted glass. Normally he detested his office at the station, though on any given week he put several hours of face time in. Today he was anxious to use the rickety computer to check on the status of last night’s victim. Plopping the plate and mug on the edge of his cluttered desk, he dropped into his chair.

Kahtar found all he could on Denise, serious but stable condition.

Thank you, ilu.

Then he glanced at the little clock on the monitor, ten minutes had passed, and he sighed. The monotony of the station seemed to invite the unpleasantness of shades to descend. All the men complained about it. Determined to avoid them, and keep his mind occupied, for some twisted reason Kahtar got on Wikipedia and searched ‘Longinus’. For two thousand years the shade had followed him. He knew a legend had sprung up from that day, knew that somehow those there had learned his true name that day, but over the ensuing centuries he’d ignored it. Yet today, on a whim, alone with a computer and no witnesses, he impulsively reached into the past.

He found it. Some of the stories were expectedly convoluted. Still the details of that day survived surprisingly accurate, especially considering the amount of time that had passed. Leaning close to the machine he started to fish around in cyberspace, wondering if there were paintings of Longinus that might even be similar. He felt certain those at the foot of the tree had gotten an eyeful of him that day, and despite his odd repeating existence, he always looked exactly the same. Gazing down at his big hands on the keyboard he flexed them, had anyone ever been as familiar with a pair of hands as he was? A memory stirred and Kahtar no longer saw the keyboard.

A boy’s hand, pink and small engulfed in the black hand of his warrior father.

“Baba, why is my hand the wrong color?” the little boy’s voice quavered. His father, wearing the vivid colors of clan leader, knelt in the dust, looking into his eyes. Strong, ebony fingers combed through his son’s long hair, it slid through his fingers the color and texture of dry savannah grass.

“ilu has his reasons.”

The memory came sharp. It had been seconds later when he’d remembered. His past had dropped like it always did, the realization of his endless history roaring through him, like a tornado, a hurricane in his head. When he stopped screaming, when he opened his eyes to gaze into the dark, worried faces of his clan, he knew why his hand was the wrong color. I am, again.

The door to his office banged open so hard that the glass rattled, pulling Kahtar rudely from memories of an Arc in the Serengeti. Honor Monroe stood grinning in the doorway of the police station in Willowyth, the picture of health.

“Chief.”

Obviously there’d been trouble in town, nothing tickled Honor like action and apparently being shot hadn’t changed that, he already had his bulletproof vest in his hand.

So young.

“911 over on Pearl Street,” said Honor.

“Where? The only life on Pearl Street is Cerulean Blue. Who’d call 911? They don’t even have a phone.” Despite his argument, Kahtar got to his feet and moved.

Honor Monroe ran in front of him, shouting, “It came from a cell. Consider heard the recording, said some guy is threatening someone’s life.”

THREE SQUAD CARS seemed overkill. The men doubled up piling into vehicles, and jockeying for the opportunity to drive. One barked command in Kahtar’s second voice and they fell into order like the well trained Warriors of ilu they were.

“Stop smiling.” Kahtar hurtled through town in his vehicle, scanning the short distance to Pearl Street while griping at Honor Monroe. Sitting in the passenger seat, with his spiked hair sticking up in all directions Honor wiped the smile off his face, but even his frown looked thrilled. Scanning ahead, Kahtar couldn’t sense anything unusual from Cerulean Blue. Hidden inside an abstract, the public had no access to the eatery. Unfortunately even millennia of experience hadn’t given Kahtar the skills to scan inside the thick cloaking of an abstract, so he couldn’t be certain nothing had happened.

Honor’s right hand opened and clenched over his hip, as though worrying the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there.

Kahtar snapped at him. “And kill the siren, what’s the point in announcing we’re coming? There are three plebes sitting inside Cerulean Blue, eating their lunches outside the abstract, they’ll probably run outside in broad daylight if they hear us.”

“You can scan that from this far?”

“There’s a reason I’m the Warrior Chief, Monroe. Wear a vest anyway.”

Honor’s reply was muffled as he hurried to don the vest in the confines of the squad car, but Kahtar was fairly sure he’d muttered the word ‘cool’.

They pulled onto Pearl Street and Kahtar realized there were people in the old Victorian, next to Cerulean Blue. He noted the line of vehicles parked along the usually quiet street the same time his warriors did. Communicating only in second voice the warriors raced across the yard, mounted the steps silently and then stood outside the door with weapons drawn. Kahtar had no idea who or why people were inside the old abandoned house. Though the half dozen people inside seemed to have no weapons, this anomaly so close to Honor’s shooting struck Kahtar as far too curiously coincidental. Kahtar did not believe in coincidence.

Almost expecting to find assassins, they attacked. Kahtar kicked and the antique door came off the hinges. It slammed against an interior wall and glass crumpled with a faint tinkling sound and his men poured in, weapons drawn.

The room filled with shouts of protest and a handful of men ran back and forth in confusion, but in times like this Kahtar shone. In the midst of chaos he could access a situation in a glance, it was his particular gifting—gestalt. What he saw made him point his weapon in the air and shout to his men in second voice.

“Draw up.”
As one they obeyed. The tumult in the room continued for several moments while workmen with tool belts, and one lone businessman, in a suit, ducked for cover. Within seconds they were under tables or behind a counter. Kahtar’s warriors remained standing, and one lone woman. Beth White stood staring at them in disbelief.

The Orphan of the Inquisition he had threatened to arrest, if he ever saw her again. He certainly had not expected to ever see her again. Yet here she stood, right in the middle of his territory, staring in wide eyed wonder at the half dozen police holding guns in the air. The statuesque woman wore heels that put her eye to eye with the bulk of his warriors and she fearlessly made only one comment.

“What on earth?”

Kahtar suddenly felt excessively foolish, obviously something had gone very wrong, but Beth White had not shot Honor, and nobody’s life was in danger. Several large blueprints were scattered over a countertop and Beth held only a charcoal pencil in her hand. She looked amused when she met his eyes and without meaning to he stepped towards her, her too friendly heart already flip-flopping against his. He refused to know how appealing it was.

“Somebody called 911.”

Beth’s brows arched as though considering that, but she didn’t argue, taking Kahtar at his word. She stooped neatly to look under the mismatched tables, addressing the cowering men with calm politeness.

“Does somebody have their cell in their pocket maybe?”

The workmen crawled out as one, and several hurried to check their phones until the culprit popped up from behind the long walnut counter and shamefacedly admitted.

“I was sitting on it—but I didn’t ask for the police!”

Consider Drake piped up. “I heard the call, there was shouting and somebody said ‘They were going to slaughter them …’ and then it cut off.”

Men Kahtar recognized as local electricians and plumbers, started to laugh. Beth grinned at the abashed culprit, the only man wearing a suit.

“Sherman made a booty call,” she teased.

The soft faced, grey suited man swore, placing the phone in the inside pocket of his suit.

“Lawyers have their own vocabulary, and I meant I was going to slaughter the town in court if they didn’t approve Beth for wiring—legally they have to.” Looking around at the police, his pale eyes narrowed in suspicion. On a silent signal from Kahtar his men all immediately holstered their weapons, and two of them started to help a carpenter trying to put the door back on its hinges.

Sherman continued to eye them grimly, addressing Beth and feigning calm. The Lawyer lifted a piece of paper off the counter and fingered it. Kahtar noted the city’s seal on the letter and also the sheen of sweat on the man’s forehead. Sherman’s continually darting eyes and rambling betrayed his nervousness.

“This town is notorious for over-reacting. If they thought this house was really uninhabitable they wouldn’t have issued a Certificate of Occupancy. If they didn’t want an occupant they shouldn’t have let it go for back taxes, either, though I’d hardly call half a million back taxes! This letter is sheer bull!” Dramatically Sherman waved the paper before plunking it back on the counter. “Beth, you promised whoever gave you the best news got lunch, and I’d say that’s me.”

Beth, statuesque and polished, grinned at the man. Before she could reply, Kahtar interrupted with a growl.

“I’m afraid Miss White won’t be able to keep her promise. She’s under arrest.”