Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (15 page)

             
Chip wasn’t convinced. “You think it’s safe to bring him here? They can see him and the last time they saw him they tried to kill him,” Chip looked confused, he scrunched up his ugly little face. “
Again,
” he finished meekly.

             
“I’m not going back to work until I catch these guys,” Michael told his friend. “Just go down there with him,” he gestured deep into the alleyway, which narrowed towards a rusted metal door beside two grey dustbins. “Stay low; keep him hidden.”             

             
“Crawl into the alleyway with the naked man,” Chip said distastefully. “Sure, why not.”

             
Chip motioned for James to follow him. They walked to the end of the stretch of alley and ducked behind the bins, concealed but for a thin slice of naked flesh.

             
Michael watched the two go, turned back to the window of the bed & breakfast and then checked his timer.

             
“Five minutes,” he said.

             
Naff took a step forward, sliding up alongside his friend, his eyes also now on the window of the small establishment across the street.

             
“Why did you get an early warning on this guy and not the others?” He eyed up the man through the window. “Are you sure he’s a werewolf?”

             
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I saw someone else, brief, but enough for me to get suspicious.”

             
“And if it’s not him, if it’s not
them
?”

             
Michael shrugged impassively.

             
Naff stuffed his hands into his pockets. He looked around with a casual boredom and then wondered. “You ever deal with so many deaths this close together before?”

             
Michael gave a brisk nod. “A few years ago a dodgy batch of pills was circulating the pubs and clubs. I took in six poisoned kids in one weekend. I’ve seen murders. Drug deals gone wrong. Escalated domestic violence. Had one fifteen year old kid kill his grandmother when she refused to lend him a tenner. Never anything like this.”

             
Naff nodded, looking slightly worried. “What are we going to do if they do show up?” he wanted to know.

             
Michael grinned from ear to ear. A telling grin that Naff didn’t appreciate. Don’t worry,” he said confidently. “I have a plan.”

             
“Great.”

****

             
When a sleek silver vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the bed and breakfast, Michael knew he was witnessing the arrival of his targets. The car was an immaculate, expensive machine; its tinted windows shaded the occupants within. It was out of place in a town like Brittleside. The tinted windows were a common theme with the town locals, but they were usually fitted on broken relics barely fit for scrap and came with crude paint jobs and sound systems more expensive than the car that contained them.

             
The two men in black suits slowed clambered out of the car, as if to further dispel any suspicions that Michael did not have. He watched them stand momentarily by the front door of the B&B. They checked their surroundings, failing to see Michael and Naff who had now shifted to the back of the establishment, peeking through the slats of a gate at the side of the house.

             
Michael heard the owner greet the two men, he heard them reply, their voices muffled through the brickwork.

             
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the baffled owner stuttered, sounding anxious.

             
“Are you Alan Richards?” One said, repeating his initial question.

             
“Tell me who you are first.”

             
“Friends,” Two said simply.

             
The owner took a step back, swapping his glance cautiously between the pair. He was used to having strangers drop into his home, but these two were stranger than strange.

             
“Friends!” He spat, indignant. “How can you be my friend if you don’t even know my name?”

             
“Is it Alan Richards?” One said without fault.

             
At that moment Michael entered the room from the back of the house, stepping in from the kitchen door at the other end of the spacious room. The B&B owner was now cornered between three intruders.

             
“What’s going on here?” Michael said to attract attention.

             
All eyes fell upon him, including those of Naff who casually, and reluctantly, trotted into the room behind him.

             
“Alan Richards?” One asked Michael.

             
“Who wants to know?” Michael said with a flick of his head.

             
“I bloody well would,” the real Alan Richards said. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you?” he asked both sets of intruders.

             
A noise from beyond the room alerted them; they all turned towards the door to the living room to see a woman enter. Her face was etched with a pleasant greeting at first, one practised through years accompanying her husband in the hospitality business, but when she saw the three strangers standing in front of her, with questioning and intimidating glances on each of their faces, her happy eyes widened.

             
“What’s going on?” she looked beyond the suited men at her husband, the fear in his eyes told her something was wrong. Michael and the two men watched silently as the woman saddled up to her husband and was taken under a protective arm. He whispered something reassuring to her and then stared at the intruders in his home, flashing each of them a threatening stare that they all returned.

             
Michael ignored the owner and strode straight up to the two men. Standing in the centre of them he peered up into both pairs of sunglasses. “Who are you?” he asked them.

             
“None of your concern,” Two stated.

             
“Unless you’re Alan Richards,” One added.

             
There was a brief pause, followed by Two querying: “Are you?”

             
Michael nodded his head and lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

             
He saw them simultaneously grasp for their pockets but he didn’t react. He saw them both produce pistols that glimmered and spread the dim sunshine that crept in from the large windows, but he didn’t flinch. Only when the bullets were ejected -- the thick thuds of gunpowder expanding in the small room -- did he move. He flung himself backwards, toppling over a sofa and flipping dramatically on the floor.

             
The men turned their pistols on Alan Richards and popped a staccato of bullets into his surprised face before he had a chance to assess the situation and get out of the way. His wife watched in horror and opened her mouth to vocalise her terror, but her words were sucked back into her lungs when a strong of bullets pierced expertly through her forehead.

             
The men then turned their guns on Naff, ejecting the remaining bullets from the magazine into him.              There were six shots in total, all of which hit Naff in the chest, but he didn’t budge. He remained standing, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets, a look of disinterest on his face.

             
A glimmer of emotion, shock, perhaps awe, appeared on the faces of the two men. They swapped glances, making sure they both felt the same way, before turning back to Naff.

             
“You’re not mortal?” One asked.

             
“Uh huh,” Naff casually shrugged his shoulders. “This was your great plan?” he asked Michael.

             
A pained sigh lifted from the floor. Michael pulled himself to his feet with his hands grasping his chest and a twisted expression on his face. “That fucking hurt,” he spat through gritted teeth.

             
He turned to glare at his friend; a knowing look was exchanged and then shrugged off by Naff. He pulled out his timer, checked the display and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Bang on time for once,” he declared.

             
“You’re immortal as well?” One uttered redundantly.

             
Two pulled out a timer of his own and checked the screen, looking perplexed. His colleague glanced over his shoulder. Michael waited patiently.

             
“The woman,” Two said softly. They both raised their eyes, noted the soul of the departed woman lingering at the back of the room. They looked at each other and offered a reciprocated shrug.

             
“We’ve been looking for you.” Two slipped the timer back in his pocket and raised his gun at Michael again.

             
One declared: “I think you have something that belongs to us.”

             
“Give it to us.”

             
The two assassins made a point of pressing their guns closer to Michael, aiming in the centre of his chest. Michael met their threats with a wide grin and crossed his arms over his chest.

             
“You didn’t think that through did you?” he asked cockily.

             
They exchanged glances again; a thought seemed to pass between their shaded eyes before they returned their gazes to the reaper.

             
“We may not be able to kill you,” One told him. “But we can find plenty of ways to hurt you if you do not give us want we want.”

             
Michael nodded, “What
do
you want?”

             
“The soul,” One told him. “James Paddington.”

             
“Waddington,” Two corrected.

             
“Waddington,” One repeated with a nod.

             
Naff was still motionless at the back of the room, looking bored with the situation. Michael shot a glance at his friend before relaxing his own casual posture and facing the men with a look of negotiation.

             
“Fair enough,” he said as genuinely as he could. “I couldn’t give a toss what happens to him, but first you tell me why.” He glared at each of them in turn, expecting something to flicker behind their staunch apathy, but nothing budged.

             
“Why werewolves?” he pushed. “Why steal their souls? What could you possibly want with them?”

             
“I’m afraid we cannot divulge that information.”

             
“It is none of your concern.”

             
Michael sighed loudly. “I’m getting fucking sick of hearing that.”

             
“Hand over the soul and we shall be on our way,” One declared.

             
Naff stepped forward from the back of the room, suddenly interested. “And why do you look so much alike?” he wondered, his eyebrows arched inquisitively as he strode to Michael’s side and studied the doppelgangers. “You twins?”

             
“Close.”

             
“We are clones.”

             
They both smiled simultaneously, as if to emphasise their statement. Naff looked a little less interested and took an instinctive step closer to Michael, feeling creeped-out by their smile.

             
Michael moved forward, leaving Naff to battle his disturbances without the shoulder of his friend to lean on. He looked at them both closely and they let him, taking pride in their status.

             
“Weird,” Michael said under his breath. “Every little detail.”

             
“So how come you’re not constantly speaking over each other?” Naff wanted to know.

             
“Were genetic doubles, we are not the same person.”

             
Naff looked bemused; he opened his mouth to issue another question and then slammed it shut when Michael offered a different line of questioning.

             
“So does that mean you’re both mortal?”

             
“Yes,” one answered proudly. “Of course--”

             
“
Shit.”

             
Michael planted his hands on their shoulders and grasped tightly. Instantly the colour drained from their faces. They fought back, tried to wriggle free, but their strength rapidly leaked from their body. Their limbs quickly became incapable of resistance; their lungs incapable of breath.