Streets of Shadows Page 8

  He panted.

  She caressed.

  He sighed.

  “Consider this business, Bull.”

  Morrigan pulled a pin from her long black hair, freeing up a lock that curtained a portion of her face. She shoved the pin into Bull’s eye. He opened his mouth to scream. She gagged him with a kiss.

  Bull was powerless against her. She rode his death throes with ease, her lips never parting from his. Eventually Bull gave in and died. Morrigan dismounted the corpse, spat the tip of his tongue at his face and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the cuff of her coat sleeve. There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in, boys.”

  The brothers eased the door open, scanned the room to piece together their boss’s final moments and fell to their knees in perfect synchronicity. Morrigan strutted towards them, snatched her key fob from the silent brother’s loose grip.

  “You two run this neck of the woods now,” Morrigan said. “Try not to piss me off.”

  Both men bowed their heads. When they looked up again, one decade of the Rosary later, Morrigan was gone.

  * * *

  The Raven touched down on the balcony safety railing on the top floor of a tall building. The bird cawed and looked down onto the narrow street below. A black Range Rover pulled into a kerbside parking space. Morrigan stepped out onto the footpath and approached the front door of the tower block. Automatic doors swished open upon her approach. She glanced up at the Raven and nodded.

  The receptionist didn’t react as Morrigan crossed the lobby towards the lifts. All three sets of doors swished open. Morrigan stepped into the middle one without breaking pace and hit the button for the 13th floor, though the button proclaimed it the 14th. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror as she ascended, her expression a mask of calm. The doors pinged open and Morrigan turned to leave the cramped confines. She rolled her shoulders and strode a short distance down the corridor. Then she removed a key-card from her pocket; let herself into the room she’d stopped outside.

  The executive suite’s living area was empty, though there were plenty of signs of occupancy. Empty champagne bottles and rolled-up banknotes were scattered across a glass table dusted with cocaine. A trail of clothing led from the table to a set of double doors. Bedspring creaks and fuck moans attested to the activities on the other side.

  Morrigan approached.

  She kicked the door open to reveal a tangle of bodies atop a kingsize bed. A man and two women: him broad-backed and stacked with muscle, the slight women almost suffocated beneath him.

  Morrigan waited. Seconds later, the man looked over his shoulder and cursed.

  “By all means,” Morrigan said. “Finish off, Chris.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That won’t be happening, junior.”

  Chris whipped the jumbled top sheet from the bed and bunched it around his waist. The women shivered, but made no attempt to cover their own modesty. Morrigan snapped her fingers.

  “Bathroom, girls. Now.”

  They’re movements were fast, but disjointed and unnatural, like marionettes guided by a drunken puppeteer. They stumbled to the ensuite and one of them managed to engage the lock.

  Morrigan patted her hair, as if to check it was still there. “Enjoying my girls?”

  Chris smiled. His deep cut shoulder and chest muscles twitched. He wiped at his nose, crusted with blood and cocaine, and giggled.

  “Is he done in?” His voice was baritone deep and steady. “Bull, I mean.”

  Morrigan’s mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

  The man nodded.

  “And what now?”

  Morrigan licked her lips. She pointed to the bathroom door. “You may want to finish what you’ve started.”

  “Like a final meal?”

  Morrigan laughed, shrill and cruel. “How did you know?”

  “Your girls are protected. I overstepped my mark. I know you have a tendency to overreact.”

  “But you seem so calm.”

  “What would panic achieve?”

  “An adrenaline spike.”

  “I’m already there. You know I’m not going to go easy, Morrigan, right?”

  “Oh, the Cúchulainn clan…Dependable as ever. I’d be oh so disappointed if you just rolled over. The gods know you’d be the first of your bloodline to develop the yellow streak.”

  “I get that you want me dead, but wasn’t snuffing out Bull a bit of an overreaction?”

  “It seemed appropriate.”

  “He was one of my best earners.”

  “He touted on you with barely a second thought, Chris. Brave as you are, you’re a bit of a gobshite when it comes to choosing allies.”

  “And now?”

  “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  The man nodded.

  The bathroom doors opened. Morrigan’s girls brandished a dagger each. Chris’s brow crinkled with confusion.

  “Where did they get the blades?”

  “My girls have their ways.”

  “And I have mine. C’mon, then. Let’s see what you’ve got, ladies.”

  Chris beat his bare chest with one clenched fist, thud-thud-thud. He roared and, in the living room, the balcony door safety glass cracked as if hit by an invisible stone. From its perch on the balcony, the Raven stood sentry, his head bopping.

  In the bedroom, one of the girls lunged at Chris, her knife leading the charge. He slapped her wrist with his left hand and landed an open palm on her forehead. Her legs left the ground and her back slammed the lush carpeted floor. She coughed and rolled to her side. Chris snatched up her dagger.

  “I hope you can do better than that,” Chris said to the more cautious girl.

  The naked woman looked at her fallen partner and back at the barbarian standing over her. She took a retreating step then whipped her knife back and forth before flinging it at the broad target. Chris raised his left hand to shield his face. The dagger buried itself in his forearm. He hissed but showed no other sign of pain. For a second he allowed his attention to shift to the point of the blade that had burst through his inner forearm. When he looked back up, the knife-thrower was airborne, both feet headed for his midriff. He turned lazily and dealt out a hammer blow as she flew past. Spared her life by hitting her with the butt of the dagger handle rather than the blade he brandished. She hit the deck like a shotgun-blasted bird.

  Morrigan slow-clapped. “You got stung, Chris, by a pair of malnourished, coked-up whores. Bet you can’t wait for me to get started, eh?”

  “Please. I let that bitch sting me. Call it motivation. And now I have two daggers.”

  Chris clenched the blade of the first knife he’d taken between his teeth then ripped the second knife from his forearm, unconcerned by the jet of crimson that followed it. He let the blood flow freely from the wound, careful to keep his wrist raised so that the rivulets dripped from his elbow to be soaked up by the carpet. Morrigan watched as he took a knife in each hand and rotated his wrists and shoulders to trace a pattern in the air with the wicked blades.

  “Are you ready?”

  Morrigan nodded and turned her back on Chris. The barbarian tightened the sheet around his waist then followed her into the living area.

  “Stand and fight, Morrigan.”

  “I’ve no interest in fighting, Cúchulainn. I’m a goddess of war, not mere battles.”

  “Woman, I’m tired of your shite. Do what you came here to do.”

  Morrigan’s pupils expanded and pushed beyond the boundaries of her irises. The whites of her eyes gave way to the malignant spread of black. She glared at Chris through obsidian marbles and cawed. Then she raised both arms upwards and outwards, her fingers splayed at shoulder height. The balcony door that had been damaged by barbaric posturing exploded inwards. The shards of unstuck safety glass blasted by Morrigan, outlining her form briefly before homing in on Chris. The swollen warrior tried to deflect the glass from his face by crisscrossing his daggers at head height. His eyes we
re spared, and the hotel room itself bore the brunt of the projectile spread, but a network of lacerations patterned his flesh. Cúchulainn fell to one knee, dazed.

  “Are you spent?” Morrigan’s voice skipped an octave higher. “Do you concede?”

  “Never.”

  Chris Cúchulainn attempted to stand. Succeeded in stumbling towards Morrigan before falling short. He buried his fingers in the plush carpet and dragged himself towards his mark. The Raven flew in from the balcony and perched on Morrigan’s shoulders. Morrigan’s black eyes, a match for the Raven’s curious gaze, regarded her victim’s struggle dispassionately.

  “I’ll kill you.” Chris’s words were almost soaked up by the carpet fibers, along with his draining blood, sweat and tears.

  Morrigan looked to the Raven and then back to the struggling mass of near-death at her feet.

  “You’ll kill no more, Cúchulainn, but I’ll do you one favor.”

  “I reject all from you.”

  “All the same, you deserve a warrior’s death. You won’t bleed out on your belly. Arise.”

  The Raven punctuated Morrigan’s words with its own cries. A plume of black smoke funneled through the broken balcony doors. Morrigan’s girls had awoken and they emerged from Cúchulainn’s bedroom, their hair interwoven with black feathers. The plume of smoke became a congress of ravens commanded by the familiar on Morrigan’s shoulder. Morrigan and her girls raised their arms to form an obtuse V over each of their heads. They muttered a guttural verse and Cúchulainn rose from the carpet as if kicking upwards from the bottom of a lake. His muscles strained against an unseen force and yet he seemed as malleable as wet clay. Morrigan’s girls dropped their arms and flanked the suspended barbarian. Their goddess stood to one side and allowed them unobstructed passage towards the balcony. The ghostly congress of ravens plotted the path. With each step Morrigan’s girls took forward, Cúchulainn’s floating form kept pace.

  Morrigan whispered another ancient verse for the Raven. It took off from her shoulder to land on Cúchulainn’s. Morrigan’s girls stopped at the doorway to the balcony. Cúchulainn’s body butted the ruined frame that had held the shattered glass panes. It gave way as easily as mist. The Raven spread its wings and Cúchulainn rose over the iron safety barrier. The congress took off into the night. Morrigan cursed and Chris Cúchulainn plummeted.

  * * *

  A mature tree in front of the hotel, its thick trunk encased in an iron-wrought cage to protect it from pavement traffic, held Cúchulainn’s body aloft. Supported by thick bows tucked under each of his armpits he’d been allowed to slip away from the mortal coil, upright, though not quite on his feet. His toes pointed to the cracked concrete six foot below. The Raven pecked out Cúchulainn’s left eye then took flight. It disappeared into a thick black cloud that blotted out much of the night sky. As if pierced by the Raven’s beak, the cloud burst and hailstones fell.

  Morrigan’s hair was dotted with white the second she walked through the hotel’s front door. She passed under Cúchulainn’s body and boarded her Range Rover. The hail in her hair and on the shoulders of her red coat melted instantly. Her girls, now garbed in black dresses and black overcoats, bundled themselves into the backseat. Their body heat steamed the inside of the car’s windows and Morrigan flicked on the AC before indicating to pull out of her parking space. The windows demisted to reveal a growing pack of gawkers around the hanging tree. Stood slightly apart from the crowd, two large men only had eyes for Morrigan’s range rover. They approached and a street lamp highlighted their fiery curls as they passed under it. Morrigan shut off her indicator and wound down her window.

  “I’ve somewhere to be, boys. What is it?”

  “We’re looking for the dog.” the more talkative brother said.

  “Ah, my prize Staffordshire bull terrier. I don’t recall losing him.”

  “There’s a fight-meet coming up. We want to borrow him to fight for the purse.” He scratched at this thick jawline. “You’ll get a generous cut, of course.”

  “That’s not how it works, boys. I’m not here to provide a service for you two. But you can invite me to this fight-meet. Rack up a little goodwill.”

  “Thought you might want to put your energy into something else, just.”

  “Aye?” Morrigan tapped out a beat on the steering wheel with her thumbs. “Spit it out, then.”

  He cleared his throat. “Caught wind of a new brothel operating on your territory.”

  “And you’d be willing to babysit the Staffy until I took care of business?”

  “That’s about the height of it.”

  The wail of approaching sirens harmonized the sudden banshee howl that shook Cúchulainn’s tree. Morrigan tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

  “Meet me for a drink at McCaffery’s tomorrow night. Mine’s a White Russian, extra milk.”

  The brothers nodded in unison and stood still until Morrigan pulled out onto the road. They watched her leave then elbowed through the crowd to spit at the base of Cúchulainn’s tree before moving on.

  * * *

  Gerard Brennan’s short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including three volumes of The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime. He co-edited Requiems for the Departed, a collection of crime fiction based on Irish myths, and co-wrote The Sweety Bottle, a stage play. His novella, The Point, was published by Pulp Press in October 2011 and won the 2012 Spinetingler Award. Blasted Heath published his debut novel, Wee Rockets, in 2012, and they will release his latest novel, Undercover, in 2014. He is currently working on a creative writing PhD at Queen's University Belfast.

  Such Faces We Wear, Such Masks We Hide

  Damien Angelica Walters

  Someone tapping on your living room window is the last thing you want to hear when it’s after midnight. Even more so when you live in a third floor walk-up. Wine sloshes over my hand as I spin toward the sound and in spite of the raging headache from tonight’s work, I put on my public face, the kind of face you can pass by a hundred times without ever noticing.

  A figure is crouched on the fire escape. I put down my glass and peek through the blinds. Fuck. Edge is the last person I want to see tonight—or ever—but after a few seconds, I open the window.

  I drop my disguise as well. Edge is one of the few who knows my real face.

  I’m a chameleon, a face for hire. I was born with the ability to change my appearance in any way, shape, or form. Young, old, male, female, it doesn’t matter. A gift, a curse, who knows? But it’s a living.

  Being a chameleon isn’t like some bullshit illusion either. I could play someone’s husband and their spouse would never know unless they’d been told. Only another chameleon can see through a chameleon’s disguise.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, crossing my arms beneath my breasts.

  “Let me in, Maxi,” he says. “It’s important.”

  I rub my temples. The painkiller I popped as soon as I walked in the door hasn’t hit yet. Magic hurts, okay? Don’t let anyone tell you any different. Not just the kind of magic I have, but all of it. You’re a fool if you think there’s no price to pay for such abilities. And you don’t get used to it. I’ve been on this earth for twenty-seven years and every headache hurts like it’s the first one.

  I step back so Edge can climb over the windowsill. The last time I saw him, four years ago, I was throwing a vase of flowers at his back. Maybe not one of my best moments. I missed, but neither the vase nor the flowers survived.

  Edge is a lot of things: muscle for hire working under Big Ben, one of the four Baltimore bosses, my ex-boyfriend, and an undercover cop, something only a few people, me included, know. But I keep his secrets and he keeps mine—the ones he knows about anyway.

  I can’t help but notice that he still looks good. Broad shoulders, muscles in the right places, dark eyes that look through you, not just at you. He isn’t classically good-looking at all, but his face makes my heart go pitter-patter, like it always did.
<
br />   He shuts the window and pulls the curtains closed. “James is dead,” he says.

  I hold up one hand. “Why in the hell would you come here to tell me that? I don’t work that side of things anymore. You know that.”

  “Because it isn’t just James. A month ago, Nate was found in his apartment. Supposedly an overdose, but the guy didn’t even drink. And two months before that, Chuck bought the farm.”

  Names I know all too well. Names I don’t want to remember. Or to hear. Names from a life I left behind four years ago, right before I said goodbye to Edge, too.

  I sink down on the sofa and press my hands between my knees.

  “Get it?” Edge says. “Someone’s killing the chameleons.”

  The words and the way he says it are almost laughable. Almost. But I’ve got goosebumps on top of goosebumps.

  “I don’t work for her anymore,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. No need to specify who the her is. Not with Edge.

  “But you did, Maxi. For a long time, you did.”

  I rub my arms, and ask a question I don’t want to ask. “What about Vivian?”

  Edge rubs his chin. Looks away. “No one’s seen her in a while.”

  “And?”

  “The official word from The Storyteller is that she’s fine, under guard twenty-four-seven, but the bosses think maybe…”

  Yeah. I get it. The Storyteller isn’t one to involve the other bosses. She never was. Never needed to be.

  “Get the hell out of the city until they find out who’s doing this. Please.”

  “But no one knows where I live. No one knows anything about me now.”

  “Then at least lay low and stay out of sight. Okay?” He holds out his hand. “And take this. It’s not much, but it’s something, unless you’ve got some other talents you’ve kept hidden?” He smiles, but there isn’t much whimsy in it.

  I shake my head and take the knife. Chameleons can change faces, but that’s it. If we want to kill someone, we have to get our hands dirty. I may have been in the life, but I was never in that far.