'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Nine- Domestic and None-Domestic Problems

Two days later, when Anna and her company returned to the northern gates of Desanadron, she knew instinctively there were problems. An intangible quality to the city stuck in her mind, and she knew that she’d have some business here, at home, to take care of.

That intuitive knowledge did nothing for her mood, and she brooded as she led her company down familiar streets and back alleys to a sewer grate. Once they were all down in the system of tunnels that would connect to their Guild hall, the idea struck as loudly as any thunderclap in her mind.

Upon entering the main meeting hall of the Guild, Stockholm took a good look around and wanted to scream. Agents were lazing about, thumbing through books at leisure, not having noticed who’d come back to the base.

Lee excused himself to use the nearest bathroom, and Norm asked for permission to head to his lab for a few last items. Anna granted him her approval, but warned him that they’d be in the city no longer than a day. She looked into Stockholm’s face, and Flint’s, and an unspoken message rang through all three minds—it’s time to clean house.

Anna sauntered through the meeting hall, making certain to remain inconspicuous, while Flint nipped off toward the exercise rooms. Stockholm got himself right up behind Coates, who should have been in Stockholm’s office, taking care of reports this early in the morning.

The Human Rogue was laying on one of the couches, a magazine over his face, and Stockholm had no trouble getting himself set low to the floor, grabbing the underside of the couch.

Anna watched as he let out a horrifying, primal roar and flipped the couch over, spilling Coates to the floor and sending the couch crashing against a far wall. Anna slipped out of the meeting hall, toward her office, as the interrogation began.

“Fargan ooshka magento,” Stockholm raged in his Race’s tongue. It was a well known phrase around the Hoods, one he reserved for the agents who really deserved to have their hides tanned, and it translated roughly to ‘What the piss, boy?’

Coates stared in wide-eyed horror up at the red menace, soiling himself as he scrambled to get to his feet.

“Stockholm, Chief, sir,” he stammered, finally realizing that he’d pissed his pants. “Um, you have the advantage of me, sir.” He tried to smile and be smooth.

Stockholm hauled the con-man up by the front of his overcoat, his eyes aglow with fury and his lips pulling taut over his lupine teeth.

“Don’t try any of your smooth talk bullshit with me, boy.” He pressed his forehead against Coates’ face, so they were eye to eye. “You’re not taking reports, and there’s an awful lot of agents emptying this hall right now, which means they aren’t out there earning their keep. What’s wrong with this picture, Coates?” Stockholm hurled the Rogue to the floor, bruising the man’s back quickly.

Coates moaned and tried to squirm away, but Stockholm grabbed him by the ankle, and held him aloft.

“Please, sir. Please! I just, I didn’t know there was so much to your job, and I know you do a lot above and beyond what's needed, and the stress just got to me sir, I needed to relax, sir."

Stockholm wouldn’t hear these pathetic excuses.

“We weren’t gone but a week, at the most, and this is what happens? You are sorely in need of a large amount of moti-fucking-vation, boy! What is the title you were entrusted with?”

“Guild Chief, sir,” Coates squeaked, hoping to come away from this with his body intact.

“And what is the Chief’s primary function?” Stockholm shouted. Ah, he thought as he bellowed, it’s good to be home.

“To ensure the continuous training and operation of field agents, and record all progress and mission status, sir.”

“That’s right, that’s right. Very good, Coates.” Stockholm dropped the con-man roughly to the floor. The Red Tribe Werewolf looked around at the few stragglers who were watching in awe and terror. He spotted one of the Hoods’ regular troublemakers, and decided to show just how angry he was with Coates, by being kind to the young Gnome thief. “Jerry, get this man a gold fucking star,” he shouted, and the Gnome took to his feet almost as fast as Lee Toren.

Stockholm turned, and loomed over Coates like Death wrapped in crimson fur. “We’re not going to be home for long, but let me make something plain.” He growled, crouching down so that his face appeared upside down in front of Coates’ eyes, then smiled hugely, revealing all of his teeth. “If we come back, and I find you’ve been dicking off at my post, I will not hesitate for a moment to bury you, boy. I will use my claws to rend you apart, and then I will take the biggest axe in my collection, and I will ass rape you with it until you bleed out. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

His teeth were less than an inch from Coates’ nose.

The con-man nodded, and passed out from the fear.

“Excellent. I’ll hold you to that,” Stockholm said to the limp, unconscious form.

Yessir, he thought, good to be home.

* * * *

As Anna approached her office, she heard Borshev’s deep, rumbling voice as he hollered himself hoarse. Somebody had apparently gotten on his shit list, Anna thought, and she would like to see whom.

The rough concrete walls of the hallways felt good under her fingertips as she walked along, her hand out to her side. The city really was the place for her, she realized. Even her brief time out in the plains and woodlands had been uncomfortable, the grass and soil beneath her boots giving her a sense of being an outsider on foreign territory. She supposed, however, that if she ever really intended to move out into the wilds with Harold that she had better get used to the discomfort. The open sun on her face, she mused, had felt refreshing. Operating almost solely in the darkness of night wore on a person’s psyche after a while.

The door of her office flung open, and the brawny Minotaur manhandled a Wererat out of the office, his hands on the agent’s collar and the hem of his pants. With a single heave and grunt, he hurled the Wererat down the tunnel opposite Anna.

She recognized the Wererat when she got a moment’s look at his profile—the agent typically served as barkeep. Borshev rubbed his hands together, ridding himself of whatever issue he’d just dealt with.

“Might I ask what that was all about?” she asked.

The Minotaur whirled around, and his face registered open shock.

“Headmaster! I, I was just,” he stammered, and she waved him off good-naturedly. “I’m sorry, sir. Things haven’t been going so well. I ordered Sean to shut down the barroom until further notice, sir.”

Anna motioned him into her office, and he immediately seated himself in the guest chair.

Anna took her old, comfortable chair, and leaned back, putting her feet up on the desk. The few papers on its surface appeared to be in order, she noted, but she didn’t see Coates’ signature on any of them. Hollister has apparently been doing his own job, and the Human’s as well.

“Any reason you decided to do that?” She pulled a cigar from her top desk drawer, clipped the end off, and lit it with a match from the same drawer, striking it off of her belt buckle.

Borshev shook his head miserably, his eyes alight with fire.

“Because, sir, nobody’s taking their tasks seriously,” he rumbled. “We’ve got agents lounging about, drinking themselves into oblivion. Coates hasn’t sent me a single report since you left, William. He shrugs his duties off onto Hollister, or myself. If I don’t help the mutant,” he said, referring to the Sidalis, Hollister. “He’s going to crack under all of the pressure.”

“So what exactly has Coates been doing with himself at night?” She blew out a huge cloud of bluish smoke. The air was heavy with it now, and Borshev gave a small cough before replying.

“He’s been going into town and hunting the red light districts.” The Minotaur spat on the floor, making a face at the thought of it. “And when he returns, with less money on him than when he departed, I know what he’s been up to. The biggest problem, as I see it, is that he hasn’t run out of money.” He put up a hand to stop Anna’s obvious line of questioning. “I’ve already had an audit performed on the treasury. He isn’t dipping in for extra.”

Anna nodded, her unspoken concern waylaid.

“So, Borshev, what do you suggest be done about him? What would you like to happen? Don’t forget, when we head out again tomorrow, you’re in charge here. I have entrusted you with not only the acting title, and all of the responsibilities it entails, but all of the authority and privileges as well. Use them efficiently.” She stubbed out her cigar and picking up a report. Hollister’s fine handwriting was neat, well organized, and concise. She didn’t immediately dismiss Borshev, and the big Minotaur was now up and pacing back and forth on the other side of the desk.

Hollister had put together a summary of the first night’s missions, the earnings, and had assembled an entire page in the report on individual agents’ observations. The turtle-like mutant seemed to have a knack for this sort of thing. Perhaps, she mused, when we come back for good, I’ll assign him to Stocky as an assistant. Might take some of the load off the old boy.

“Borshev?”

“Yes sir,” he said, coming to full attention.

“When you see Coates, inform him that he is relieved of his report duties for the interim,” she said, setting the reports in a single pile and tucking them under her arm as she got up and slipped around the Minotaur. “And tell him that all of the labor duties on Hollister’s list are to be placed on his own.”

“Um, with all due respect, sir,” Borshev said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "One of those duties is stocking the weapons room, and Hollister is suitable to it because of his strength. It’d take Coates hours to get it done.” His eyes widened with revelation as the Headmaster’s tactics finally made themselves clear to him. “Oh, right. Riiiight.” He gave the thumb’s up. But when he turned to give the sign to his Headmaster, William Deus was already gone.

He took a seat where Anna had been a few moments before, and leaned back, putting his big feet up on the desk as she had. Before he got back to his business, he wondered for a moment if William would mind if he took a cigar.

* * * *

“Wot the bloody blue fuck do you mean ‘no booze’,” Lee Toren growled at Sean Mackey. The Wererat tended bar during the daylight hours, and robbed the taverns topside during the night, until he had enough money and booze in his Void Bag to stock them for another week or so. He had three Void Bags in the stockroom, filled with barrels and bottles of the finest ales and wines the city above had to offer, and he felt it was a shame he couldn’t do anything with it. At the moment, so did Lee.

“I mean, I have orders not to serve any alcohol at this time, Mr. Toren. Sorry.” The Wererat wiped down a glass with a clean rag.

Habits form quickly, he thought. In every world, in every reality across the vast expanse of ‘WHAT IS’, every bartender can be found cleaning out a mug or glass of some sort with a rag. It just happens, and no mortal person is really sure why. “But Borshev says if I serve even one beer, he’s going to rip off my genitals and force feed them to me.”

Lee made a face, and got down off of his stool.

“Just great,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “I’m going to have ta go topside and pay fer a drink. Wot’s this world coming to?”

Lee Toren didn’t think of himself as a cheapskate. He thought of himself as a man who could find anything he wanted for free, or for a reasonable trade. Reasonable, of course, meaning that he would swindle people into giving him things simply for his time and effort. In his own mind, his time was more valuable than gold, so trading his time to someone should yield him something.

When he’d brought William Deus news of the Glove of Shadows, he’d felt almost obligated to tag along. Now, he was tallying up the days as they passed, and the efforts he’d had to put in to their overall objective. Sneaking into Fort Branick had been a tremendous risk for him, and that alone added another one hundred gold pieces to William’s bill.

As he climbed an access ladder up to the streets of Desanadron, he readied himself to add the drinks he’d partake of to the bill. However, as he set the grate back into position and was about to take out his notepad to check the running total, he felt a disturbing and familiar presence behind him.

When he turned around, he saw a man he had hoped to never see again.

“Fancy meeting you here, Lee Toren,” said the man with the glimmering steel teeth.

* * * *

Flint had never seen his office so organized and clean, and he just stood in his doorway, staring. “Um, sir,” Hollister tried to gain his attention yet again, finally succeeding. “Is there a problem, sir?” The Sidalis’s huge, limpid black eyes shimmered with concern.

“Oh, no, no problems.” The Wererat lit a cigarette. He scanned the top of his desk. “Where’s my ashtray?”

“Oh, I cleaned it out, sir. It’s over there, sir.” Hollister pointed to one of the many previously disused shelves along the walls. “I don’t partake myself, sir, so I set it over there for safe-keeping.”

Flint grinned gently, impressed by the mutant’s attention to detail and his apparently sound mindset.

When Flint had first opened the door, Hollister had been writing a report, which he now continued to scratch out in his fine, neat cursive writing. Reports weren’t exactly Flint’s forte, and he realized that Hollister probably should have been given the temporary post of Chief, not Prime. Of course, that would have made Coates the Prime, and from what Stockholm had told him, that just couldn’t be allowed to happen. Ever.

“Hollister?”

“Yes sir?” Hollister adjusted the giant shell on his back. He set his quill down for a moment, folding his hands in front of him.

“You know, Stockholm and I are impressed with the work you’ve been doing while we’ve been gone. The Headmaster too.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nostrils.

“Thank you, sir,” Hollister said with a shy smile.

“When we leave, keep up the good work. You’ll note that we’ve given your labor duties to Coates, and you’ll be taking his report duties. If you don’t mind,” Flint added, because Anna had made it clear to him that if Hollister didn’t want the extra paperwork, he shouldn’t be forced to do it. But he was damned good at it, she’d said.

Thankfully, he saw the shy smile widen into a genuine grin of bemusement.

“I don’t mind at all sir! Anything to help out,” the Sidalis said. “Um, how long are you back for, sir?”

“Just a day’s time.” Flint found his Pockchi game board assembled neatly on another of the shelves. The two decks of playing cards, the dice, and all of the pieces had been placed into wooden containers, and were set on top of the board itself, ready to take down and play at any time. It had been a long time since he’d played Pockchi, and the last time he had, Stockholm had trounced him with a handful of crap cards and a trunk-load of strategy. Even with his loaded dice, the Guild Prime had been bested. He shook his head and smiled ruefully, taking the board down and packing the game into his travel bag. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir, I was wondering if you could grant me a couple of hours’ leave,” Hollister said. “I’d like to head down to the gym, to use the pool.”

Ah, yes, Flint thought. Hollister had to spend a certain amount of time immersed in water every few days in order to retain his full mental capacity. While not the most dangerous man in the Hoods, the mutant could get wily and combative if his mind slipped.

“Granted,” Flint said without hesitation. “Go on out now, so’s you can get back to work.”

The Sidalis thanked him, and slipped out of the office, away and up into the city above. Flint looked around his office, and silently wondered how long he could keep it nice and organized like this. “I give it a month,” he whispered to himself, starting to catch up on recent events.

* * * *

Striker, Lee Toren thought with mute horror. He’d met the man once, and had cleaned out his pockets and pouches. The man had noticed only a few minutes later, and had chased the Pickpocket out of Desanadron and into the flatlands west, following his trail almost all the way to the coast.

There, Lee had taken a passenger ship to Rest Island, a small island ten miles off the western coast of the continent. Decades before, Elves had traveled to the land and settled in, setting up a vacation resort for the more affluent members of the Elven Kingdom. It was rumored to hold a fallback compound if the capital of Whitewood ever came under massive assault again, as it had thirty years before.

Now, in a shadowed alley of Desanadron, the Gnome Pickpocket was face to face with the relentless assassin once again.

His left hand slowly reached back for one of his long knives, but Striker lashed out with a well-aimed kick, hitting Lee just above the elbow and knocking him hard into the wall of an apartment building on one side of the alley.

“Now, now, now, let’s not be stupid,” Striker sneered.

Lee didn’t remember the man being so tall, but he eclipsed the little sunlight that filtered into the alley. Lee took a tentative step backward, toward the street, holding his injured left arm. No break in the bones, he thought, but gods it hurt!

“I don’t mean to hurt you, little man, not unless you force my hand, or foot,” Striker said with a snicker. “I just want what’s due to me.” Striker halted his advance and held out one gnarled, stained hand.

Lee looked at the outstretched hand, taking in the dirt and grime, the absence of fingerprints on the tips of his bare digits. Striker wore black leather gloves, with the fingers cut off, in order to keep his ability to grip and grab people and things.

Well, all things considered, he thought, I’m getting off easy here. Lee undid the strings of two of his money pouches, and dropped them in Striker’s hand. The man with the steel teeth counted the money silently as Lee set his feet to carry him away from further confrontation.

“It’s all there, every gold piece accounted for, mate.” Lee flexed his left hand. The feeling had returned, and his flesh felt like it was on fire.

“As fer the jewels, well, I’ve pawned them, so that’s why there’s a bit extra in that gold.”

Striker smiled again, that wide, glinting smile that reminded Lee of Death himself.

“This’ll do, for now, Gnome.” Striker adjusted the bandana tied over his blond hair, and stood up straight. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Thought you and your little friends had gone on a little journey.”

“Just stopped in to use the bathroom,” Lee said with a fair amount of sarcasm. “You know me—bladder like a walnut.”

“I know,” Striker said, taking a step away from Lee. “That’s how I tracked you to the coast, little man. Good of you to repay your debts, I must say.” Striker turned his back on Lee. “I’ll see you again, sneak thief,” he growled, and leaped clear from the alley floor to the roof of the apartment building, a good four stories up.

Lee’s heart lurched, and he worried that he would indeed see the creature called Striker again. And the next time he did, he wouldn’t owe the man anything like money.

He’d probably owe him blood, by the gallons.

* * * *

Far to the east, Thaddeus Fly and his Midnight Suns walked along the Snake River’s southern banks, making their way further east. Trent had found signs of Reynaldi’s passage, tracks that were perhaps already a week old. The company had made good time, only having to stop to rest after dispatching a band of Lizardman highwaymen who’d asked them to pay a toll to travel the road they were on.

Markus Trent seemed much the better for the bloodbath, Fly thought, and Rage had performed spectacularly. Fly, Akimaru and Lain had simply stood back and let the Human Ninja and the Orc Berserker trample all over the six robbers, moving like a streak of lightning and an unstoppable boulder through them.

Now, four hours after that incident, Fly wondered at the wisdom of his current course of action. They would follow Reynaldi’s trail, hoping to catch him out in the plains, the woodlands, or some foothills. Anywhere other than another Fort or a major city would be fortunate for them, but he had the sinking suspicion that when they did catch the Paladin, he’d be behind stone walls and have a large number of friends with him, ready to fight.

Unbidden, a familiar voice, cutting through the rest of his mental clutter. They’re back in the city, whispered Mr. Striker’s cold, steely voice.

Fly had left him a communication sutra, in case there were troubles back home and he needed council. He hadn’t expected to hear from the man, but now, here he was, days and days away from Desanadron, and Striker was contacting him.

Who’s back in the city, he thought, focusing on the mental image of Striker.

Deus and his lot. I had the good fortune to run into Lee Toren, Striker called through the sutra scroll. He was good enough to repay me for our previous encounter. Fly heard the intended chuckle, though it didn’t surface into Striker’s mind.

Why would they be back? Did he tell you?

No. He was a smart-ass, of course. Said they’d stopped in to use the bathroom.

Fly had to suppress a little laugh at this. While he loathed Lee Toren, he had to admit that he was quick of wit.

What do you want me to do about them?

For now, nothing, Fly thought in response. Keep me apprised of the situation, though. If there’s any major trouble, I can make my way back easily enough.

Understood, sir. And then, Fly found his mind cleared, the connection broken. He looked around at the others of his company, all of whom were staring at him like he had three heads. “What,” he said.

“Nothing, Headmaster.” Trent smirked. “It’s just that you stopped walking and started sort of twitching about with your head, like an epileptic. Sir,” he added, as an afterthought.

“I’m fine, Trent,” Fly spat. “I left Striker a communication sutra. He was just reporting in.”

“Anything we should know about?” Lain looked at him suspiciously, as she always did whenever someone had a talk with Mr. Striker. She’d met the man three times in her entire membership to the Midnight Suns, and she’d never told anyone about her meetings with him. Fly assumed the man had given her the willies, but she never said. She just seemed fascinated by Mr. Striker, and took every opportunity to learn more about the man.

“Nothing major,” Fly lied. As lies went, it wasn’t very convincing, but nobody argued the point and he soon had them moving once again. He marched behind Trent, side by side with Akimaru once again. The grass felt good underfoot, the soil slightly spongier here than it was further to the north or south. The ground soaked up a good deal of moisture from the wide Snake River, and here and there, wild berries dotted the bushes that grew along the river. Fly watched with detached disinterest as Akimaru picked a handful of the fruit, stashing the berries away in a leather pouch. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw Rage eating large fistfuls of them, their juices smeared over his cheeks and chin.

What a savage, he thought. Then again, that’s why we have him along, isn’t it?

“Sensei,” Akimaru whispered in his ear.

“Hm?”

“Sensei, I sense trouble ahead, on this road. I know not exactly what kind, but I know it is something dangerous.”

Fly nodded, and called Trent back, bringing the company to a halt. He looked off down the road they traveled, noting the way it bent around and out of sight around a nearby set of foothills that flanked them on the south.

“Trent, we need you to scout ahead.” Fly pointed to where they lost sight of the tracks. “Akimaru senses danger. Head into the foothills and see what lies ahead of us. The rest of us will remain here and rest up. Report back as soon as you know what we’re up against. We’ll plan our next move from there.”

Trent grunted disapprovingly, but moved off at a trot anyway, leaving Thaddeus Fly and the rest of the Suns behind.

The Human Ninja had reveled in the bloodshed only a few hours before, stabbing, slashing and tearing into the Lizardmen with deadly grace and precision. He had rejoiced in the slaughter, but now he found himself bored again. In a way, he hoped there really was danger ahead, perhaps a more worthy set of opponents. The reptile warriors had posed no threat, as he and Rage had been plenty to deal with them. He wondered, briefly as he made his way up a path on the hillside, how it made Fly feel to see other reptile men cut down. He hoped it made the Headmaster cringe, because once again, he was reminded of the deep, boiling urge in his blood to kill the Black Draconus.

Trent made his way over rock outcroppings as he rose in elevation, climbing easily up the hillside. When he came around a group of scattered bushes, he immediately crouched, his eyes falling on the threat that Akimaru had perceived. Below, perhaps one hundred yards around the turn in the path, a scene of carnage was laid out. The savaged bodies of six or seven people, half of them heavily armored Dwarves, the others Minotaurs, lay strewn about. Thanks to his angle and his keen eyesight, he saw that they had been mauled to death by the three black, lumbering forms that presently tore at their armor and weapons.

Trent searched his memory for the name of the beasts. Large, heavily muscled bodies, appearing much like a panther’s, sat hunched forward, tearing with claws and teeth at the armor. Where their hindquarters split off were six slick and scaled tentacles. Down their broad, black furred backs, a set of spiny spikes stood on end. Seeing them, he remembered their names. Thresherbeasts, monsters that came from rivers and streams that feed on metal.

He watched with a blend of terror and fascination as the thresherbeasts tore into the armor, biting into it and purring loudly as they chewed it with ease. Just three of the creatures had murdered both Dwarves and Minotaurs, all of them heavily decked out for combat.

Trent made his way swiftly back to the company, and reported. The river did not bend with the road, continuing on east, and he wondered if Fly would suggest they take to the other side of the river and continue on. But Reynaldi’s tracks led right through the thresherbeasts. Avoiding the monsters might take longer than simply dealing with them—if they could.

     “How many of the beasts are there?” Fly asked.

Trent reminded him that there were three, and they appeared to be larger members of their freakish species.

“Hmm. Suggestions?”

Nobody said anything at first. When Rage opened his mouth to speak, Fly regretted ever having asked.

“We could just go and kill them,” the Orc said flatly. This was met with a groan of disapproval from everybody else, and he hung his head. “Just sayin’,” he grumbled.

“Markus,” Lain said, her hand on her chin, thinking the situation over. “How freshly dead are the men? The Dwarves and Minotaurs?”

“No more than a half an hour, at the most.”

Fly knew right away where her question was aimed, and he nodded his approval before she even asked.

“Do it,” he said. “Trent, take Ms. McNealy up to the spot you spied them from. She’ll handle things nicely for us. Akimaru, Rage, we’re going to head forward, to the corner turn in the path, and wait in case any of the thresherbeasts attempt to escape back into the river. If they try, we’ll finish them off.”

Rage smiled and nodded an exaggerated yes, yes.

“Very good. Let’s do it, people!” Fly felt excited, like he always did when he had a good plan of attack laid out before him. Lain would raise the bodies of the Dwarves and Minotaurs, and set them on the monsters from the river. Supernatural or no, the creatures were flesh and blood. Being set upon by zombies would not be their idea of a good time. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have eaten the weapons yet, and the undead servants would kill one or two of them, certainly injure them all enough that when they attempted to flee to the river, Akimaru, Rage and himself would be more than capable of finishing them off.

Besides, he thought. Thresherbeast teeth sold for a high price in the right markets. A little exercise and a healthy profit, and this day will go down as a good one.

* * * *

Lee Toren darted looks over his shoulder as he sat in the Flaming Tongue tavern, expecting with each glance to find Striker looming over him like the angel of death. But he never spotted him, and by the time he was on his fifth drink of the hour, his recollection of the encounter was blissfully foggy. “Oi, Harry,” he called, gaining the barkeep’s attention. “Another mead, if you please.”

The pudgy barkeep handed him another bottle, and Lee took it, slipping down off of his barstool. He made his way staggeringly over to men’s room, making use of the facilities before he had his last drink of the early afternoon.

He quickly quaffed his mead and made his way out to the streets of the city. Lee wondered how long this job would take, and if it would be worth it in the end. He’d receive a king’s ransom in wages from the Hoods, but he could be out there, among the citizens of the city, cleaning people’s pockets for them with a smile and a joke while they turned away from him. He could easily make the money doing what he did best, but for some reason, he felt compelled to help William Deus. He guessed something about the Rogue’s sense of honor reminded him, abstractly, of Byron Aixler. The Paladin had given him many tasks over the years, and he’d performed his duties quickly and efficiently.

Perhaps, he mused drunkenly, he just needed a break from the randomness of his life, and Will’s gang footed the bill nicely. “Yes, that’s it exactly,” he said aloud, belching mightily.

A few ladies across the street gave him disgusted glares before moving on.

Lee grunted at them in return, but they had already turned away, shuffling daintily down the street.

Something in the way the Human women carried themselves reminded him of William Deus, though he couldn’t for the life of him tell why. He let the idea sizzle and disappear into the alcoholic haze of his mind, and soon enough, he was back in the Hoods’ meeting hall, asleep on one of their couches.

Striker never showed himself while he was out, after that initial encounter.

Neither had the tracking agent, but that didn’t stop her from seeing him.