Death's Hand (32 page)

Authors: S M Reine

BOOK: Death's Hand

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“Not many kopes survive to my age. I’m past my prime. I’ve left the pursuit of justice and saving humanity to young men and bought a nice piece of land down South. I’ve got a house of my own. I run a few businesses and employ a lot of folks. I’m doing good for myself.”

James realized he was still rubbing his scar and forced himself to stop. Retired? Kopes and aspes never retired. The best anyone could hope for was dying in the service of mankind. The idea of being able to settle down and have a home and family was an alluring thought—equally tempting and disappointing, since he knew it was something he couldn’t have. He couldn’t even afford to eat on many days.

“What’s your interest in this bowl if you’ve retired?”

“Call it sentimentality. The bowl is difficult to reach, as you would expect. I need a young kopis—a great kopis—to retrieve it.” Mr. Black’s teeth were very white when he grinned. “I said I’m doing well, didn’t I? I’ll pay a good chunk of cash to have this piece added to my private collection.”

“I am not a mercenary. My services aren’t for sale.”

“I don’t want
your
services,” he said.

“No? Then why did you call this meeting?”

"You are powerful, Mr. Faulkner, I won’t argue that. Alain felt you coming miles off. But you are not the greatest kopis."

James went rigid. "What--?"

"You're wasting my time. I hate having my time wasted." That smile had grown fixed on his face. Mr. Black hadn’t moved, but he suddenly looked much more dangerous. "Where is he?"

Trying not to glance over Mr. Black's shoulder was pointless. By the time James ducked his head, he had already given away his thoughts with some small motion, and Mr. Black turned to point Alain to the cafe across the street.

The witch let a tram pass before crossing the street. As soon as he went through the door, a young woman sitting outside the cafe abandoned her espresso and entered the restaurant, invisible to Alain's searching gaze.

The waiter moved to intercept her, but she pushed past him and dragged a chair from an empty table to sit across from them. Mr. Black's confusion as he took in her girlish face and brutally short curls almost made James laugh. She was hard-muscled, too young to be out of school, and wouldn't have blended in at a supermarket, much less a fancy restaurant.

"Mr. Black," James said, "this is Elise Kavanagh. Elise, this is the man who has gone to so much trouble to find us."

He wasn't smiling anymore. "You can't be serious."

"I tried to stop her, but—” began the waiter, hurrying over with a red face. Elise leaned back and kicked her feet up on another chair. Her hiking boots were well-worn leather and covered in chunks of dried mud. If James looked like a mummy, then Elise was barely more than a living skeleton.

He waved the waiter away. “She’s with me.”

“With all due respect, sir, we do have a dress code, and she’s—”

“We won’t be long.”

“It’s all right,” Mr. Black said, snapping out of his reverie. He waited to speak until they were alone again. “Miss—Kavanagh, was it? This has got to be a joke.”

“I’m afraid not,” James said.

“But this is a girl.”

“Female kopes are uncommon, not nonexistent. I believe there are only three alive at the moment. She is the strongest of them.” James couldn’t help but smile. “In fact, she is the strongest of all of you. You wanted to meet the greatest kopis, so here we are.”

"How does a teenage girl become known as the greatest demon hunter above hundreds of men? No offense.” Which meant, of course, he was absolutely trying to be offensive.

Elise arched an eyebrow split by a white scar. When she didn't reply, Mr. Black looked askance at James, like they were old friends and she had just intruded on their dinner.

In fact, two things had elevated Elise to that status the previous year: Defeating the previous title holder in a formal sparring match, and then outliving him. These were publicly available facts. The Council of Dis, however, also credited her with the deaths of twelve angels, which no other human had done in recorded history, and ended up ranking her above every other living kopis. Nobody else knew this. James thought it was better that way.

"Her father used to serve on the Council," James said with a shrug. "He must have recommended her."

Mr. Black gave no sign of hearing him. He stared at Elise, and she stared back, locked in silent communication. “All right. If the Council thinks you’re great, you’ve got to be pretty good. Are you mute? Dumb?”

James cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. Black asked us to come here because he wants to hire you to retrieve an ethereal artifact. I’ve already explained that we’re not mercenaries and that we’re not interested, especially given the uniquely dangerous nature of the object in question.”

“We’re not?” Elise asked.

“Lord in Heaven, it speaks.” Mr. Black rubbed his hands together. “But let’s be fair. I wouldn’t describe this bowl as ‘dangerous,’ strictly speaking.”

James was sick of playing dumb. His voice hardened. “Anything made by angels is dangerous by virtue of its very nature. Men aren’t meant to possess these things, and if you’re stupid enough to think you can casually obtain one for your personal collection, then you must be an idiot—or think I am. If you want to be fair, then let’s be fair. You have something planned. We won’t have any part of it.”

Elise wasn’t listening to him. She stared intently at Mr. Black, and even though she looked like she was lounging between her two chairs, there was tension coiled in her muscles like a guitar string on the verge of snapping. “How much?” she asked.

And in that moment, it was as though James vanished. Mr. Black turned his gaze on her and flashed a brilliant smile.

“You can walk away from this restaurant with ten thousand American dollars. When you bring the bowl to me, I’ll round out that amount to—say, fifty thousand? I want this bowl, and I’m willing to pay fairly for its safe deliverance.”

“One hundred thousand,” she said. “Cash.”

James almost reached out for her, but thought better of it when she sliced her eyes over to him. He liked having both of his hands. “Elise—”

Mr. Black laughed. “You trying to negotiate with me, girl?”

She told him something in French. James didn’t understand French, and he wasn’t sure that Mr. Black would, either, but when the older man replied, it was in the same language—but he spoke with a heavy Cajun accent. His fake smile had vanished. James was certain he had just missed something important.

Elise stood up, gave him a sharp nod, and strode out of the restaurant.

Both men were left gaping.

“We won’t do it,” James said weakly.

Mr. Black finished his slice of bread and washed it down with wine. He patted his mouth with a white napkin, and James noticed that his fingers were trembling. “Can I give you some advice, Mr. Faulkner? As a friend.”

“No.”

“You better get the hell away from that girl,” Mr. Black said. “I think she might be your death.”

And that was how one of the most important meetings in history concluded. James was never quite sure why that was true, but then again, he also never spoke French.

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About the Author

SM Reine is a writer and graphic designer obsessed with werewolves, the occult, and collecting swords. Sara spins tales of dark fantasy to escape the drudgery of the desert, where she lives with her husband and the Helpful Baby.