1
Mary Ringwald opened her door with a
full hand but kept it open with a foot. She had worn long pants in
defiance of tradition, an act induced by her laundry schedule. Her
auburn hair had been like fire once, and years ago she had been
beautiful. She still got looks. Her arms were full of bread and eggs,
and a briefcase with folders full of dark, over-printed pages. She
stepped over the threshold and her door slid shut behind her with a
mind of its own. Startled, she looked up and saw Roger in the
darkness.
He was wearing a black suit, sitting on
a ottoman with his elbows propped on his knees. Windows over his
shoulder lit the room, but left him in a single patch of deep shadow.
When she'd come in he had been staring at his hands, but now looked
up without straightening. He had to stare at her through his thick
black brows.
“Roger,” Mary whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You're here.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this social?”
“No.”
The monosyllabic answers and the tone
were enough. The door was shut fast behind her, and even if she
dropped everything, she wouldn't make it out.
“Is this professional?”
“Yeah.”
He glanced back down at his hands.
“So I've warranted a personal call?”
“Yeah.”
He look back at his hands and his huge
knuckles. His hands alone were big, but his knuckles were freakishly
large. When he didn't flex his fists, the skin still went white
across them. Mary had a sudden violent hatred for his soft, short
answers.
“So why are you here professionally
for me?”
Roger shrugged.
“Are you here to kill me?”
Roger shrugged again.
“Roger, don't be quiet.”
The big, dark man looked up again, then
down, then back up as if it took effort to do so. Then he nodded
slowly. He spoke very clearly and very succinctly. “Yes, Mary. I'm
going to kill you.”
She felt like she won something when he
started speaking in complete sentences. “Can I put away my
groceries first?”
“Yeah,” he acquiesced and looked
down again.
“You're heart isn't in it, Roger.”
“Being heartless is good some times.”
The eggs went into the refrigerator.
There were slots for a dozen, which she half filled. The milk went in
the door.
“Who invited you in?” she asked as
she began unpacking her paper bags. Little things went into cabinets
and shelves.
“Your land lady. I told her I was
your cousin. She didn't believe me at first, but I lied for a while,
told her stories. Eventually she relented. Better that way. She's an
old little thing. I asked her softly. She's fine.”
He looked up. She had a knife in her
hands. It was a big one, imported from the east, and the edge of the
blade had waves like an angry sea. It cut through sourdough
effortlessly.
“It's been a long time coming,”
Roger said, unprompted, while he watched the motions of the knife. He
was peculiarly fascinated by it. “Edmund's dead. We dropped a safe
eleven stories onto him. Someone in Surrey had a cold iron safe that
weighed half a ton. It was too perfect not to use. With him out,
you're next. I could have come in the night, but then you wouldn't
get your last sunrise. Now you won't get a last sunset, but I went
around and around over that in an alley until I figured it didn't
actually make that much difference. Besides, I was here already.”
Mary finished her knife work. Her hands
moved in short, dexterous motions that plunged the blade deep into
the loaf and slid it out, gliding the cutting surface through the
cut. She worked the kitchen knife like a razor. When the loaf was
meticulously divided, she held it negligently. Roger kept looking at
it. She plunged it into a wooden block holder swiftly yet gently, and
it barely rattled. Her visitor looked disappointed. Auburn haired
Mary carefully laid the bread slices in a wooden box.
Her murderer rose and faced the window,
eying the setting sun set fire to the clouds. The kitchen rattled
with faint sounds. Cabinetry opened and thudded lightly closed, and
gravity rang hanging spoons like tinny bells. Then it went still.
Roger turned and looked back.
Mary was standing in the center of the
room, drying her hands on a dishtowel, waiting.
The big man cocked his head at a slight
angle. “You didn't try to run?”
“No. I won't.”
His head pulled back against the mounds
of his shoulders, and muscles on the back of his neck bulged forward.
When he recovered from his recoil, he asked, “Then do you have last
words?”
“How do you intend to do it?”
“My hands.”
“Then no words either.”
“Have you nothing in your life of
enough importance to be remembered?”
“Lots, but not that I'll say to you.
Had I last words, I wouldn't tell them to you at a time like this. My
attempted murderer won't be the recipient of the final letters of my
life.”
“Attempted?”
“I'm intending to fight.”
“What.”
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even an
attempt to be such. It was a flat, derogatory expression of disdain,
the first emotional words Roger had spoken to her in years. Earlier
he'd had nothing but emptiness. Now he unveiled scorn.
“I'm intending to fight you. I'll
kill you if I can.”
“But you can't.”
“We'll see.”
“Yes. We will. I've got at least
eight stone on you.”
“We call it fifty kilograms now. Or a
hundred and some pounds, if you like only somewhat newer
terminology.”
Roger shook that aside with a visible
shudder of apathy. “Woman, do you think I'm not going to do my job?
You think I'll turn aside?”
“Not ever.”
“Then why didn't you take the
knife!?” he demanded, waving a sweeping hand towards the kitchen
over her shoulder.
“Please, Roger. You were in my house
first. Let's mutually acknowledge neither of us is stupid. I assume
you made sure that knife bore no threat to you.”
“Then don't you have a gun on you? A
little thing that throws metal? Are you going to throw little iron
bullets at me?”
“You've searched my house by now. Did
you find anything to indicate I have a gun?”
“So you actually intend to fight me?
With bare hands?”
“Yes.”
So perplexed was Roger his mouth hung
open. He suddenly glanced over Mary professionally. Her feet were
ever so slightly outside shoulder width apart. Her weight, less than
half his, rested evenly on both toe and heel. Her hands were open and
relaxed, by her hips. She'd tied her hair back tightly, a severe bun
that made her look younger, and it wouldn't get in her eyes. Nor was
her clothing encumbering. She stood barefoot on the stone floor. She
didn't look confident, but she did look utterly at ease. Yet she
wasn't making a move.
Then Roger began to move. He rolled his
shoulders back, then upwards, and rolled them forward until his huge
arms took positions beside his head. Unrestrained by a tie, his neck
swelled in his shirt and pushed the collar wide down to the second
button. His feet slid apart from each other, and he deepened his
stance. The slight illusion of loss of height was insignificant
compared to the immense size advantage over Mary he already had, and
the corresponding illusion of increased width seemed to double his
mass. He stepped forward, away from the window, and shouldered aside
the sunlight until he loomed in the dark. His shadow filled the
kitchen. There was nothing in his face, nor an instant's hesitation
in his movements.
He advanced slowly, probingly across
the floor. His shoes slid on the rug, and his torso rolled with every
movement. His entire body was erratically gliding on a thousand
points with nearly infinite mobility and struck like lightning from
an astonishingly long distance away.
Initially he threw a short jab, lunging
behind it, and when Mary sank aside, the following cross was already
following. She couldn't dodge that, but foiled the contact with a
braced forearm. It rocked her. Roger kept coming, and stepped even
closer, driving in another slamming jab. She was able to dodge this,
and counterstruck an elbow to his temple. He let her connect in
exchange for a perfect uppercut that threw her into the ceiling.
Dangling pots broke their hooks and went flying, scattered like
kitchen shrapnel. She bounced back down towards the ground, and he
spun kicked her out of the air. Without contact with the ground, she
had no way to dodge. His entire body fell behind the shin, and when
it hit, she crashed backwards, broke through a plaster wall, and tore
a hanging painting from the wall as she went down.
Roger ignore the hole in the wall and
went to a nearby door. It opened away from him, so he didn't bother
trying. He grabbed the knob and yanked, and broke the thin thing in
half, throwing the pieces behind him. Mary was back on her feet. He
resumed his boxing stance and advanced again.
She hit him with a chair. He
shoulder-checked it, and let it shatter about him, but had to close
his eyes against splinters. His hands went up to guard his face.
Going straight for his throat, she shot through his guard and jammed
her thumbnail into his Adam's apple. He gurgled, tried to catch her
arm, failed, and she hammered the inside of his knee with a bit of
the chair. She was back before his eyes opened, and then she bounded
off her dresser to come over top. Her fist fell like stone rain, she
followed past to nearly the ground, and rose from beneath his guard,
aiming for the crotch. He blocked, ducked even lower until they were
on the same level, and struck with open hands.
Roger struck like a snake, Mary
retreated like water, and the snake got soaked when she closed. She
got inside his guard, matched him, and hammered his head, hands, and
knees. He threw elbows, knees, and jabs at too close a range, and
then shot in low trying to take her down. Mary played out wide, and
his rush shoved her back. Her bare feet barely resisted sliding
across the stone floor. She redirected him when he nearly clipped the
bed, and redirected him into the wall. Only then did she let go and
retreat. Roger grabbed a desk one handed, braced against a wall with
his other, and hurled the thing at her backhanded. She ducked and it
put a hole in the wall. He followed up with another lunge, connected,
and kicked her back into the kitchen. This time she didn't fall.
They circled warily. Suddenly they
closed, several hits were exchanged, and they separated. They did it
again and again. Someone outside started yelling. Neither of them
made any noise beyond breathing and striking. Mary kicked him in the
knee. He tried to counter and missed. She kicked him again. He
repeated his earlier action. She kicked him again, in the head this
time, and put all her weight behind it. He shrugged it off like
nothing and tried to punch her out of the air. She had already
retreated, and put the kitchen island between them.
Roger threw the island at her. Mary
ducked, now scared, for thick beams had anchored the island to the
floor. It ruined the sofa, but the effort took him a moment to
recover from. She hit him again in the throat, right in the trachea,
and he starting gurgling again. She went with an open palm strike to
the ear, punch to the throat, kick to the knee, jab to the throat,
thumb to eye, punch the throat, inner thigh, throat, throat, eye,
throat, eye. Glancing strikes to his head and arms meant nothing, but
he started sucking air sloppily, trying hard to breathe. She
retreated, made him chase her, and ducked around the broken couch. He
almost caught her with another round kick, and when she dodged that
her feet got tangled up in a rug. Mary went down. Roger took the
countertop from the ruined island and broke the granite over her
head. She stood back up in a dust cloud.
“You aren't bleeding,” Roger noted
grimly. His voice was high and squeaky. Blood trickled down his neck.
“You took me for stupid.”
“There isn't a spell in this whole
house but the ones I put there. I checked.”
The red-head made a face. She closed,
and they traded shots in another fast round. Roger ducked low and
tried to shoot on her again. She evaded, scoring elbows to his back,
kidneys, and ribs. He threw her off, and started jabbing again. She
won the trade and connected. They exchanged three more times before
she risked a power kick and caught him perfectly in the liver. It
should have stopped him. He caught her with a hit she only partially
blocked and threw her across the room.
Mary got up. Someone was pounding on
the door, trying the handle. The bolt wasn't shot, but the door
didn't budge. A short, round silhouette was jumping on the lace
curtain, and an old woman was yelling in fear outside. The carriage
house was half destroyed inside. Immense, stoic Roger was closing,
slowly, across the floor in his usual guard. Mary went for the
knives.
She struck, he evaded and with shocking
speed smacked the kitchen knife from her hands. She took another, and
he ripped off the refrigerator door for a shield. She almost managed
to skewer his arm through it, but lost the weapon for her trouble. He
threw the rest of the refrigerator at her, connected, and broke
another wall with her body. The water heater ruptured and blasted
near boiling water everywhere. Mary dashed out of it, her pale skin
flushed from exertion. She had a few freckles left. There were no
burns, though her wet hair steamed in the hot room.
Waves of debris broke on the floor and
made footing treacherous. Roger tried for another take-down, and she
made him pay for it. She connected to his knees, throat, and ears. He
started fighting sloppy, with his balance so shot standing upright
was a chore. Mary retreated, let him command the center of the room,
and took refuge by the fireplace. It ran on gas, and she wanted to
find out if immolating him would do the trick physical violence
seemed incapable of. His brows were bleeding, so he didn't see her
well. His nose was broken, so he couldn't smell anything but his own
blood. But relentless Roger kept coming, slowly, cautiously, like a
rising tide. With a deft twist she opened the valve all the way, and
then stood and fought.
He broke the floor, ripping the
millstones up to hurl at her. One shattered the fireplace. Next he
pulled the ceiling beams down, the better to beat her with. Impact's
meant nothing to her. He got his hands on her eventually, and then
Mary nearly did panic. Roger's immense, man-killing hands went for
her neck, and with slow pressure meant to squeeze the life from her.
Broken pipes flooded the room to ankle depth. He drove her to the
ground,and put his weight against her. Her maneuverability meant
nothing, and water lapped almost over her face as grim faced, he
tried to close her airway. Now she began to gurgle.
Mary stopped fighting with one arm,
pulled out a lighter she kept in a pocket, and it caught on the first
spark. The entire apartment caught a moment later.
She got out about the time the building
collapsed. Jets of blue flame gushed upwards around the rubble, and
sucked greedily at the pipes for more. She staggered away, wet,
bedraggled, and with bits of rubble stuck to her skin. Her landlord
was away, yelling into a phone, and must have departed before the
carriage houses ended to call emergency services. The blaze itself
was going to go on for a while.
While she ran, barefooted through the
evening wrapped woods, away from the town, streets, and people, she
realized with distinct surprise her throat hurt. Putting her hands to
it, she felt what would become deep bruises. Her wet skin didn't
bother her, the heated water long since cold, and the flames that had
consumed her house had not touched her. Yet Roger's hand prints
burned around her neck. He had very nearly gotten through.
2
Edmund met her at the taxi stand at
BWI. After a round of bad communcation with a cabbie, she was getting
out of the black and yellow there instead of the departures gate. She
had barely paid the fare when she felt a hand on her side. She spun
around, recognized Edmund, and embraced him like mad. He held her
long enough for the shaking to stop, then put her right back into the
taxi, and ordered the driver take them back to Baltimore. She didn't
argue, and they began talking quickly in old English.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“Surrey, looking for you. Roger told
me you were dead.”
“Roger? When did you meet Roger?”
“Not a full day ago. He found me in
my home.”
“And?”
“It was a professional visit.”
“I'm so glad you're alive.”
“Barely. He told me they dropped a
safe on you.”
“They did, but it was bait. There's
only one cold iron safe in the county, possibly the country, and I
made sure it was in the town I lived. I couldn't very well put a ward
on it, but I made absolutely sure I knew where it was, and a half ton
safe isn't a subtle weapon. I was prepared that in such circumstances
it could be used against me I was as protected from it as we can be
from that much iron. There were arrangements that let them think I
was dead. Roger?”
She was wearing a hooded sweater and
pulled it open on the side. Her neck was bruised and black. Edmund
hissed. She let her hood fall back.
“How did you-”
“Burned my house down on him.”
“Is he-”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“He's tougher than he used to be.
Faster, stronger, and quicker. This,” she brushed her hood,
suggestively. “-was after all my spells. I had everything I could
on me, and years and years in the making. He broke them one by one
with his hands and feet.”
“With the help of his own, I'm sure.”
“No. They were all confining. His
magic is subtler than before. I walked into his trap without
realizing it, and once in, I had to burn the house down to get out.”
“That would do it,” Edmund
admitted. “If you could survive the house fire, it would clear
anything he put on the house.”
“If I could survive being trapped in
a house fire with him,” she corrected. “Big if.”
“Very big.”
In agreement they stopped talking and
stared out their windows.
Edmund was as fair skinned as her, and
they had the same set of face and shape of jaw. His red hair was
brighter, but hers was already lighter than it had been. She was
strawberry blond again. For being centimeters taller, he wasn't much
heavier. They looked like siblings.
“How was he?” Edmund suddenly
asked, breaking the silence.
Mary drummed her fingers on the bench.
She thought carefully about the question, because whichever way she
described him was going to define things.
“Heartless,” she chose. “Pain,
futility, or fire. Nothing slowed him down.”
“His magic is subtler. He's also
stronger, faster, and tougher?”
“Yes.”
“Please, do not take offense, but
could you be forgetting how fast, subtle, and strong he used to be?”
“No. I have forgotten nothing of
Roger, ever.”
She threw the words at him, and the old
Indian cab driver looked up in the rear view mirror. He was an eon
too young to understand the words, but he heard the venom.
Edmund said nothing, and then turned
back to his window.
“He fell for your ruse,” she said
suddenly, facing the pacing countryside.
“It was not a simple ruse,” Edmund
said quietly. “Half a ton of cold iron.”
“Roger.”
They were silent.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think we'll either find a way to
deal with Roger, or we'll die.”
Mary's green eyes swept over to him,
and met the reflection of his. They were browner and not as deep,
flecked with green instead of pure emerald. Outside the cab the world
was dark, and the countryside passed in flashing light posts on the
highway. They alternated, and when the light came from her side, his
window was a mirror. In racing reflections she held his gaze.
“Why now? Why after so long?”
“The thousand years since Arthur's
fall is long past. Maybe Armen wants to come out from under the hill.
Throw off the facade. Bring magic back to the world. You know that's
always been his desire.”
“The world's more full of metal and
fire than it ever has been before.”
“Well, maybe he's given up on waiting
out humanity to wipe itself out.” Edmund turned from his window,
when get sick of staring at himself or a yellow blur in alternation.
He turned around entirely to address her. “We thought knights would
do it, when they burned the fields and everyone would starve. Then it
was long bows. Then guns. Then atomic bombs. Maybe it was atom bombs.
By then there was no reason to keep waiting, because if men were
going to wipe each other out, they would have done it. How much
deadlier a weapon do they need? They even played with it. Mutually
assured destruction? It's like a game of chicken standing in a fire.
Yet people are still here. Maybe the disappointment of even after all
that, they didn't fall from the world was finally too much for him.”
“Maybe he thinks men finally will do
the deed, but with enough permanence to take out those under the hill
as well.”
“Maybe.”
“You don't think so?”
“How many times have you known Armen
to pay enough heed to the actions of men to openly fear them? Maybe
long years have tempered him, but if they'd tempered him enough he
worries about humanity, I doubt he'd send the Black Hound after us
both. That doesn't sound like temperance.”
“Maybe Roger acted on his own?”
Edmund held her gaze until she stared
out her window. Then the reflections betrayed her, and the dark glass
held her gaze directly into his eyes. “Do you believe that? You
remember him better than I.”
“I don't know what to believe. I
wasn't as ready for that as I thought I was.”
“You sounded like you were.”
“Oh, I laid my traps and wove my
spells, but-” Her words stalled. Finally they started again, like
the sputtering of a broken motor. “Roger tried to kill me. I felt
his hands on me again, and they tried to kill me. I had expected it
always, but lied to myself when I thought I was ready for it.” They
shared a long silence. Like the others, it was respectful, not
awkward, but not comfortable either. Edmund knew she had something
else to say, and Mary knew he knew, and eventually his patience won
out over her aversion to saying it. “Do you blame me for that?”
“No. But we can't afford you to get
weak over it. It's only going to get worse from here on out.”
“Do you want to take my heart, so I'm
as relentless as Roger?”
“No. I want an ally, not a tool. We
can't afford giving you that small kindness either.”
She nodded. “What did you do in
Surrey?”
“I sold plants in little glass
bottles,” he answered, an innocent tone for an innocent question.
It seemed it was time for the more traditional exchange of
information between people who hadn't seen each other in a very long
time. “The metaphor amused me. What did you do in America?”
“Taught French.”
He shot her a look of disdain.
“French?”
“It's a beautiful language.”
“Yes, but the people who speak it are
French!”
“You've been above the hill too long.
You're taking their prejudices as your own.”
“And you've been in America too
long.”
“It's a beautiful language!”
“It's French!”