The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Read online

  “Power.” I announced, and the girls quickly agreed. “They all love power. They lord it over us, exploit us, and toy with us. It’s their drug of choice. So, if they love it so much, it must mean that it isn’t an unlimited resource, right? They compete with each other for their positions?” I asked, uncertainly. I was thinking on the fly and unsure of my direction.

  Risa asked, “If an immortal had the most power, it would reign. What is their kingdom? Is it here? Over all of us? Or is it actually something we cannot see?”

  A thought pushed forth from my memory. “Sandrine. She told me about their power structure without meaning to, I think, but I didn’t realize it until just now. She said that their master had built a labyrinth beneath the earth, under the forest. An empire we did not know about. I thought she was speaking in metaphors, but now I’m not sure. What if it’s real, or at least something that is real to the immortals?”

  “You men like Hell?” Wally asked thoughtfully.

  “Exactly, but not like the Hell of our literature. More like a goal, a tangible thing that they control as a reward for their dominance. We know they crave power, right? Well, what if their rule isn’t permanent? What if they can rise and fall in the hierarchy of the immortals based on . . . something? I don’t know what, but they must be mobile within their structure. They would have to in order to chase power. Otherwise, wouldn’t they just feed on us without end and let that be their reward?” I wondered. It was a Gordian knot of suppositions and assumptions. I wasn’t sure that I would ever understand the motivations of immortals, but I thought that, since they had once been human, maybe we could grasp that remaining kernel of their drive.

  Risa pulled at her lip and spoke. “How much would an immortal gain by bringing the three of us to heel?”

  “Well, since we kill them, I would think quite a bit. Maybe enough to overthrow someone ahead of them in the pecking order, so to speak.” I said, placing a modest value on our collectively lethal presence. I knew we were worth a king’s ransom to the right creatures, but I have flashes of immodesty.

  Wally spoke up. “We cannot be killed easily, right? It would require planning, much planning. These immortals have much more time than we do. So, they would plan for something like killing us, or whatever it is that would be done. They would plan for a long time, maybe longer than we think possible. We think like humans because we are humans, they think with a different clock ticking in the background. What if it was no accident that we met? That the three of us were pushed together, fall into this life, and we fit very well. And, then, we are pointed, like a gun, at someone specific--by someone else, who wants to move up this ladder in Hell. Past another immortal, to take more power, and eliminate some rivals along the way?”

  It was brilliant. Find three kids who fear nothing. Give one a horse to prove it, the other a brush with death, and the third a knife to plunge in a leering face. Then, when the time is right, put them together, and let nature take its course, all of which meant that evil incarnate can plan on a scope I could not envision. Until now.

  Our lives were changing. Gravity had found us, a heavy stone that was pulling us down, or forward, if I was being optimistic. Toward what, we were uncertain. Each encounter, each day carried inertia that sharpened my senses and kept my head on a swivel. My combat personality was at the surface every second. I did not have moments of lassitude, where the first decades of my life had been largely free of purpose or tension. I was getting tired, edgy. I felt an urgent need for a break, any break, something that we could hang our collective hopes on to bring the roiling waters of our current life to a glassy calm. I wanted the jewelry, or at least I thought I did. I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to know the truth about the Baron, or Elizabeth and her daughters? Sisters? Whatever their relation might be, they were certainly in competition. My younger self would have relished the upcoming afternoon of carnal pleasure with Delphine, simply for the sake of the flesh. Now, I knew that there was genuine risk, perhaps even the cost of what I increasingly believed to be a very real soul that rested in my body, somewhere beyond the reach of reason but close enough for me to feel.

  And lurking, at the edge of my vision and perception, was what was underneath the forest. Did we really want to know if Hell was real?

  Did we really want to meet who reigned?

  From Risa’s Files

  Dear Ring,

  I am pleased to write you of Miss Delphine’s upcoming visit. She is most excited about meeting you and has instructed me to extend a special invitation for your encounter. Rather than impose upon your hospitality, she has chosen to entertain you on her recently acquired yacht, a truly sumptuous vessel that has just undergone a tasteful redesign with her particular tastes in mind. I’m certain you will find it to be a singular experience, much like her company. The vessel will be ready for your visit on Friday, and Miss Delphine’s driver will pick you up at your home at two o’clock in the afternoon. This will allow you time for pre-dinner conversation and champagne on the deck of the soon-to-be-renamed Inquisitor. The setting really is quite spectacular, and she is most anxious for you to tour her newest acquisition. It seems the previous owner lost his passion for the sea, and many other things, much to the boon of Miss Delphine.

  I’ve readied a 46L dinner jacket, slacks, and wardrobe for your convenience, so please feel free to bring yourself, the gift, and a willingness to enjoy yourself for what should be a most stellar weekend.

  Respectfully,

  Joseph

  Florida

  “What takes this glorified hooker four days to get ready? What the hell does she have planned for you, anyway?” Risa sounded peevish, but I think it was the idea of me lounging on a yacht that made her jealous.

  “She knows my taste in women and is undergoing a full wash, buffing, steaming her undercarriage, doubtless some sort of waxing thing or - whatever it is you women do when you want to reel in the big fish.” I announced with modesty. It was good to be wanted, even if it was due to my ill-gotten jewelry rather than my dashing looks and magnetism. I’d take what I could get, especially if it involved silk sheets on a superyacht. And maybe a roll in the hay or three at the hands of an ageless sex goddess who was probably double-jointed. That thought I kept to myself out of a desire to remain free of bruises for my big day on the water. I’m smart like that.

  Before Risa could deliver a punch with her tiny, hard fist, or some other stinging rebuke, Wally came into the house, mumbling over an envelope that looked suspiciously important. I was right because she handed it to me wordlessly and sat down at the kitchen table. She began running her foot absently over Gyro, who occupied the bulk of the cool tile floor. We were all present. Later, it would seem fitting, given the contents of the letter, but, just then, it was another moment in our lives, unremarkable. Familiar, comfortable. That was before I opened an envelope that was bitter but rewarding. That moment was a give and take in which we were given an opportunity to help at the cost of a good soul. Risa opened the letter, scanning it quickly and briefly referring to pages beyond the top sheet. I knew enough of her reading speed to sit patiently, as did Wally. Then, Risa delivered the bad news first with no filter.

  “Lyle is dead,” Risa said softly. “He fought and lost. Here, read it.” She handed me the sheaf, disgusted and saddened by the loss of someone we had hardly known. But we knew what Lyle represented, even if we did not know much of the man. He had been a bulwark against evil, plying his trade out of vengeance and a greater sense of altruism than many people possessed. Now, he was gone. Looking at the letter and reading the high points, our conversation sprang into clarity because Lyle, a man who had built and sold an American success story, had just left every penny to us.

  I slid the packet to Wally, who began to read, while her long finger tailed down the pages as she consumed each line of the life-changing news.

  We were now owners of two accounts that had several million dollars, none of which we needed. Lyle had known that, and his exploratory
inquiry with us had advanced an idea that had languished for two years. We needed an attorney to help distribute the funds discreetly, a sort of windfall for the families left behind when their loved ones walked away from their lives into the predatory arms of an immortal. We needed someone trustworthy. We needed Liz Brenneman, so I asked aloud “Dinner tonight? Let’s invite Liz and bring her up to speed. If she says yes, we’re good. If not, I don’t think we’re hurt too badly, but I don’t like making her unnecessarily aware of the real world, so to speak. What about it?” I asked the girls. They were attuned to the ragged history Liz had overcome to live again. I didn’t want the sole responsibility of shaking that foundation, no matter how noble the intent.

  Wally spoke first. “Yes. Full disclosure, tonight. She will agree because she loves her daughter, and, at heart, I think she is a crusader. Inside her is the will, we will give her the means.”

  I raised my hand. “I volunteer to cook. Flatbread pizza, salad, no wine. Fruit tea. I’ll get dessert while I’m out--cake okay?” Two quick nods to my entirely rhetorical question, and I was out the door. We had plans to make, and we would be well fed.

  Liz arrived at seven, and we ushered her with genuine warmth, as she has that effect on people. Gyro leaned appreciatively against her, jostling a woman half his weight with his enthusiastic brand of affection. Risa had suggested earlier that we let Liz ask whatever she needed to in order to get comfortable with the fact that world had an entire unknown layer, populated with a brand of viciousness she had not seen, despite her occupation. She was used to asking questions, as well as being told stories of variable truth. How she reacted was anyone’s guess, although my instincts said that her intellect would allow her to assess and qualify the evidence fairly quickly. I began with a simple question that we had more or less scripted prior to the dinner.

  “Liz, if we gave you a chance to really help people who have gone through a tragedy they cannot understand, and, we could pay you enough to care for your daughter and yourself, would you consider coming to work for the three of us as our legal and financial counsel?” I laid the proposition out as succinctly as I could, knowing that a soft sell of something so irregular would be impossible, and probably offensive.

  Liz took our collective measure, and, seeing no incumbent laughter, set her tea down, smoothing her skirt with her hands out of habit.

  She spoke slowly, and clearly. I could tell she was measuring her words. “We are friends, or at least friendly. So telling you my earnings are no revelation, you’re my landlord, and you know my history. However, the opposite is true, as well. I know enough of your life to place some general values on what your holdings are. Until now, I never really asked how you earn your livings, but the fact that we are discussing this matter means, in all likelihood, that you’ve had a windfall. A fairly significant one, if I’m guessing. This leads me to believe that you have enough money to hire me. Also, since you know how I feel about, well, who I represent and what I do, I can presume that you aren’t asking me to do anything illegal. Which leads me to the real question, I guess. What do you want me to do with the money that you have recently acquired, and why me?” She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back on the couch, her body language becoming that of a receiver rather than speaker.

  “We’re killers.” It was Wally who broke the ice. Liz didn’t blink. But we had even more of her attention than a moment earlier, if that was possible.

  “And you do this legally?” Liz asked, dubious.

  “We don’t kill humans. Or animals, for that matter” I began, “but, rather than me tell you a decade of history, or try to do such a thing, we have a different idea. A format you might be more willing to trust. And you don’t have to do anything except read.”

  With that, Risa flipped her laptop around, setting it on Liz’ skirt. The screen was open to a document titled, simply, Risa’s Files, which was as complete a database of sin and retribution as we could create. Immediately, Liz grasped what we were asking her, and, with a quiet settling into the cushions, she began to read.

  From Risa’s Files

  Subject: Male, human, late thirties. Caucasian. Altered, drugs and alcohol. Assaulted Liz B., who was incoherently drunk and passed out in her car at Center. Subject was persuaded by Ring to leave the area after a brief physical altercation. Ring unhurt, subject no longer had the use of his left arm. Loose teeth were put in his pants pocket, admonished not to return to the area. Not immortal, merely a predator passing through. Do not expect to see him again, as he had a healthy desire to live when questioned by Ring.

  The first rays of dawn arrived in an orange whisper as Liz finished her reading, closing the screen gently with a click. She began stretching her back in a grand, lush, groaning gesture, arms skyward, to shake off the effects of a long, immobile session of intense concentration. She had called the babysitter hours earlier when it became apparent that her task was going to involve more than a cursory glance at a few files. Her eyes were bright as I approached her with a glass of juice; I had risen earlier and let the girls and Gyro sleep in the massive heap they formed on my bed. I spent the night on the couch, listening to the tapping of Liz’ fingers as she scrolled through the record of our personal vendetta against the undying.

  “What do you think?” I asked, handing her the glass.

  She drummed her fingers on her leg, looking around. “It’s like finding out that my entire childhood has come back to life--every nightmare, every creature under the bed and in the dark water of my imagination . . . everything that I left behind in the light of reason, it’s all back. And it’s real. And you kill them? Apparently with ease?” She shook her head in amazement.

  I gave a single slashing gesture to disabuse her of the notion that what we did was easy. “Not always. I have been injured, badly. I nearly died recently. The ones we are dealing with, they seem to be much older. Smarter, and more capable of planning in the long term. We think maybe that our entire living situation” I waved around at the quiet house, “might be a construct of one of them. A grand experiment--for what purpose, we don’t know, but maybe you can help us understand. And I know you can help us clean up the wreckage, make those left behind a little more comfortable. Less frightened of how they will live, at least?”

  “A crusade, like you said. I’ll do it, but there is one issue that comes to mind before we agree to anything.” Her mouth was set in a grim line.

  “Oh? Tell me. Is it something I can fix? Offer? Just ask.” We needed Liz, and I wanted to close the deal.

  “The law? It will have to be stretched, on occasion. Nothing fraudulent or risky, since it’s your money, but we’ll have to create dummy insurance payouts, wills, probate. Trusts from long forgotten relatives. Fictitious awards or stock benefits. Anything to create a wall between the victims’ families and the truth. And they cannot ever, ever meet you or the girls. The risk would be astronomical, both in terms of their finances and their lives. I don’t think you want glory, but you must remain anonymous. Can you do that?” Her request was reasonable and made excellent sense.

  I stuck out my hand. “Agreed, counselor. Your rent is waived. Your salary is one third more than whatever you make now, plus certain benefits that may come our way. We’ll share. And, thank you. We need you to help, to make some of the wrongs less permanent, maybe pull some good from the ashes.”

  She gave my hand a firm pump and pulled me close for a hug. Whether that was because I was killing immortals or helping provide for her future, I couldn’t be sure, but I enjoyed it, just the same.

  The mood in our house had improved considerably. Risa and Wally took the boat for a victory lap to celebrate and soak up some sun. I suspect beer was a critical component to their plan, and, as I was not invited, I opted to visit the Butterfly for an early dinner. Since the Suma issue still hung over us like Damocles’ lost cutlery, there was a chance that my meal would be awkward, at least in my mind. I resolved to keep my routine unchanged, or at least outwardly similar, until we
could form a solution that didn’t bring us collective heartbreak.

  Boon’s brilliant smile greeted me moments later as she took me, arm in arm, to a table near the east window. I exhaled fully, feeling tension leaving me as the warmth of the room permeated my mood. A blessing of calm enveloped me before my tea could arrive and Pan waved from the kitchen door as I mouthed prawns to Boon, a one-word order based on the heavenly smell drifting from a nearby table. This was home. There was so much more here than I had initially realized when they opened the restaurant. I was at ease from my first steps in the door, which made my actions toward Suma and her lies so magnified, so critical. So permanent.

  Boon joined me with my meal, picking scandalously at my plate with merry eyes as I slapped at her hand. It was a dance we did often. She crunched the savory head of an enormous prawn and smiled around her pilfered treat as I did my best not to gulp my tea. Pan had been heavy with the chilies, and I had a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead early in the meal.

  “Too hot for the tame American?” Boon teased, laughing and handing me another napkin to wipe my brow. Pan was being sadistic with the spices, and I would pay now. And later.

  “Your hubby is cruel, but I can’t stop eating.” I confessed, dredging another prawn through the vivid red sauce pooling on my plate. “Where is Suma?” I looked for her, realizing she had not popped over yet.

  “Hair. Nails. She has an appointment, and she’s doing girly stuff. I told her my hair and nails were perfect, to which she snorted and informed me that, if I didn’t get my nails done, she was going to refuse being seen with me in public.” Boon appraised her fingers and wiggled them as if proving Suma’s assessment was wrong. It was. Her hands were like a pianist’s, long and thin. She sighed and stood, announcing her return to work.