Doing Viktor’s Bidding
“After a brief break, we will have lot number four hundred one. Recently unearthed and painstakingly reassembled after a . . . violent situation in Mozambique, an antiquity that resonates with power: the Antikythera Mechanism.
“Bidding starts in five minutes at one million American dollars. Equivalent sanguinal currencies gladly accepted.”
From the back of the dimly lit auction house, Viktor grinned. It seems I’ve arrived just in time.
He scanned the neat rows of chairs, looking for a vacant seat. To his left he noticed two shaven-headed priests of the Tibetan demon-prince, Pekhar. Potentially dangerous someday, Viktor thought, but they don’t have the resources to even be here. They must be sellers of a lot that comes up later.
Directly in front of him was a serpentine aztecal, slowly fanning itself with the feathers on its head-crest. Clearly here as a proxy for someone else. I wonder whom? Next to the aztecal was an immensely fat wendigo taking up two chairs (clearly prospering under the curse, Viktor thought) and a Norse fire-demon (useless in a situation like this). Read the rest of this entry »
The High Cost of Failure
“If you didn’t find a body, then he’s not dead yet.” Dr. Gilman paced in front of his desk. “This ‘Agnar’ has plagued me for months. You reported him dead last week. Now I have an intruder somewhere in the hospital, and my security expert tells me Agnar might not be dead after all?”
“The entire building collapsed after the explosion! You can’t expect me to believe . . .”
“Haroldson,” said Dr. Gilman gently, taking a syringe from the desk. “This Agnar is clearly more than he seems. He destroyed my abomination, and mortals just don’t do that. It’s a virtue to be thorough, and you weren’t thorough. How do you suppose I should punish this failure?”
Haroldson eyed the syringe, swallowed hard, and said, “Um . . . Don’t deal with me until you’ve taken care of the intruder, doctor.”
Agnar, Hunted
Squinting into the darkness of the tenement room, Agnar checked for exits, then foes, then weapons. The door was locked, and the window was closed and fifty feet above the street below. No intruders hid in the shadows of the tiny room. His gun was under his pillow, already in his hand. His sword was in his duffel bag at the foot of the bed. The trumpet case was on the bed next to him.
Agnar tentatively lifted one leg, but grimaced and gently set it down when the creaking bedsprings announced his shifting weight. I’m stuck, unless I want to announce that I’m awake.
Unbroken light shone under the tenement door. When they step in front of the door, I’ll see the shadows of their feet and get a second or two of warning. Two shots to the center of the door, then I grab the case, the duffel bag, then . . . Read the rest of this entry »
