Alchemist (The Four Corners of Santerria), Page 3

  “There’s plenty of food and drink in the fridge...when I checked last night anyway.” He shrugged.

  “I hadn’t looked but I’m not hungry, thanks.”

  Her uncle gave her a long look.

  “What?” she asked, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Nothing, it’s just unlike you not to be hungry.”

  She looked around. “Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “How are you anyway?” he asked as they began walking towards the mansion.

  “I’m good, thanks, just the usual, yourself?”

  “I have a headache, my legs ache and my mouth tastes like sick.” He smiled. “But besides that I’m fine.”

  “You only have yourself to blame.”

  “I’m starving though.” He admitted realising his stomach felt empty again. “I ate a whole plate of sausages last night and I still feel like I’ve not had anything in days.”

  Terry could sympathize entirely but only gave an understanding nod.

  “You know what is weird though?” Lyle said, looking at her as they carried on.

  “What?”

  “It’s been worse lately these last couple of weeks.”

  This caused her to raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah, must be all the alcohol.” He pressed a hand against his stomach as it churned.

  Terry grinned in amusement. “I sometimes wonder what dad would say if he saw you like this.”

  “I’m on holiday I can do what I like. He is also not here, which helps.”

  “Holiday?” she gave him a queer look. “That’s a great name for exile.”

  Lyle laughed but it ended in a dry, spluttering cough. Once the spasm in his throat had subsided, he said, “We will go home some day, don’t you worry. Even though the Southlands said that they would destroy all the trans-portal machines.”

  “Actually, that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you.”

  The smile faded from his face as he stopped and turned to face her. “What is it?”

  “Someone tried to open two portals last night near my house.”

  “Did anyone get through?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Connor and I found some burned grass but there was no sign of anyone.” She hesitated. “But I’ve been having a funny taste in my mouth for a few days now. I think they’ve tried a few times.”

  Lyle’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me this earlier?”

  She shrugged. “Because I’ve had it before a few times over the years and it’s always been a false alarm. But last night was different, it was really strong and I could actually feel the electrical charge. There was a bolt of lightning not far from my house.”

  Her uncle’s expression grew grave. “It’s strange that they would try to come through so close to where you live. I think you should stay here tonight.”

  Terry nodded. “What are you thinking about doing?”

  He shook his head, thoughtfully. “I’m not sure yet. Not until we know who it is who is trying to get through.”

  “You could always phone the others. Rufus would be able to help” Terry suggested.

  Lyle stared at her disapprovingly. “No, Rufus, made his feeling clear to me a long time ago.” He said, walking past her.

  Terry followed. She, her uncle and Conner once had been part of a group of seven during the time of what became known in the underground as the Age of the Uprising. They had fought together. But after the death of Rufus’s wife Katy things began to break apart.

  Lyle had not spoken to Rufus in nearly eight years and Faye, even longer. These days it was only her, her uncle and Conner who ever kept in touch. She felt regretful when she ever thought about it. They used to be a team. These days she felt like she was all on her own.

  Chapter 3

  Ghosts

  A thunder peel cracked and forks of lightning raced across the night sky.

  There was another and then another, sending forth a brilliant white streak from horizon to horizon. It only lasted a moment, but that time was long enough to light the entire world. Then it was over, silence returning to the night.

  But this had been no ordinary storm. Something had landed on the side of the mountain. Masked by the veil of shadow, it slowly stood, stretching its ghostly limbs, flexing its hollow fingers.

  The starlight that pierced its hollow form slowly vanished, until a solid figure stood where once there had only been shadow. It tested its feet across the rugged rock, having not felt the touch of ground against its toes for an age. Its skin prickled as it was touched by the cold. Then it turned to glance at the moon, revealing a glimpse of its identity to the world.

  His face was long, his cheekbones high and his features fair. But his eyes were wide, maybe a little too much. He stared at the moon, its pale glow gazing back, tracing his features, casting him in a white light, as if he were a ghost.

  Losing interest, he held out his hands, flexing his fingers once again. They were solid this time. Real. He ran them through his hair, savouring the touch of each strand. Satisfied, he looked to the sky and the touch of the moon and starlight pierced him once again. A flock of shadows danced off down the mountain side, as quick as a bird, disappearing over the black wilderness beyond.

  Chapter 4

  Assassination

  Rufus Trotsky was a rich man. In fact he was loaded to the teeth. But his multi-million pound mining empire did little to fill that void deep within. He sat alone in his office, gazing out at the stunning vista below.

  The sunny days never seemed to end in Los Angeles. That fact alone annoyed him; while he enjoyed a sunny day as much as the next person, day after day of rays and unrelenting heat got on his nerves. There seemed to be no seasons, no distinction between one time of year and the next. It made him feel like he was trapped inside a bubble.

  He squeezed the yellow stress ball in his palm gently, more out of entertainment rather than to cope with the pressures of work. He sighed, turning away from the brilliant view beyond the pane. Sitting the stress ball to one side he lifted his pen and returned to work. Just as the tip touched the contract before him, the phone rang.

  “Yes, Rachel?”

  “Sorry to bother you sir but Mr Crombie has arrived.”

  “Thank you Rachel, send him in.” Hanging up, he shuffled the papers and put them in a drawer. Standing, he straightened his tie and lapels before making his way around the desk to welcome his visitor.

  He was half way between the desk and the door when he entered.

  Rufus was greeted by a smartly dressed middle-aged man and a smile, which he returned. “Mr Crombie.” He said, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise Mr Trotsky, it is a pleasure to finally get to speak to you in person.”

  “Please, have a seat.” Rufus gestured, indicating the one in front of his desk.

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Err, yes, I think I could do with a glass of water please.” He said, sitting down.

  Returning to the far side of the desk, Rufus lifted the phone and said: “Rachel?” When he got a reply he said, “Could you bring Mr Crombie a glass of water and some coffee for me please?”

  Hanging up he sank into his chair. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, a glass of water will be fine thank you.” Mr Crombie smiled. A few wrinkles creased around the edges of his eyes when he did so.

  “Very well.” Rufus said, with a slight nod of his thin face. Rufus was a man in his late thirties; rich, successful and cool and confident. Unlike many men his age, Mr Crombie being no exception, he was lean rather than showing the early signs of a gut. His hair was sandy coloured, a little longer than most, but swept back and tidy. His eyes were an icy blue, sharp and alert. But then, Rufus Trotsky had never been like any other man.

  He weighed his words carefully before addressing his guest. “Cutting to the chase, I will admit t
hat I’m not keen on one of your proposed terms.”

  Mr Crombie simply held his gaze, his expression unreadable. Rufus was not certain if he was angry or indifferent to what he had just said. Finally, he asked. “Which term are we talking about?”

  “The one that has left me unhappy is how much of the business you wish to gain. Personally I believe it would be fairer if we controlled the majority share as we are the ones investing the most money.”

  “What percentage of the company did you have in mind?” Mr Crombie enquired coolly.

  “Fifty five per cent.” Rufus replied.

  Mr Crombie straightened at this, but his face remained an unreadable mask. “May I ask why you want to keep fifty five per cent when you could hold the majority share in the company with only fifty one per cent?”

  “Why do you want to hold the majority share?” Rufus fired back.

  Mr Crombie continued to regard the man across the desk, at least ten years his junior. “With respect, your experience and extensive knowledge of this industry are remarkable for someone your age and beyond compare.

  “However, I have been dealing in this market for at least ten years more than you. I am putting a large amount of investment into this venture and I would feel safer leading the newly merged business myself. I would be the safer bet and in time, once I retire, you can step into my place. By then, you would have learned everything that I know.”

  Rufus gave a slight nod, as he considered what he had just heard. “And I respect that experience, that is why I agreed to share partnership with you/ But I feel you may be over estimating your ability.” He leant back in his chair. “The ore we talked about may replace many of the materials we take for granted in the modern world. I have worked with it for a while now, you have not. There is also another problem. There are very few people who know how to manipulate this material properly. More need to be trained and with the greatest of respect, human resources and training is not something your business shines at.”

  Mr Crombie forced a grim smile. He had offended him, he could tell. “I think that is debatable Mr Trotsky, and it depends greatly on who you speak too.” Taking a breath he asked, “I take it you think you know how to recruit the right people and how to train them then?”

  Rufus nodded. “Yes. I make donations to one of the best engineering university’s in the country. I can assure you in four years we will have four additional fully trained metallurgists.”

  Mr Crombie’s ears seemed to prick up at this. “You sound like you have already shortlisted candidates.”

  “Yes, but there future all depends on what we agree here today. I have not promised anything to anyone or made any arrangements behind your back. I have merely consulted and been bought back a realistic cost and resource model on expanding the number of metallurgists I have.”

  “I see.” Said Mr Crombie thoughtfully. “How much will training these four cost?”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars. Each. Which I am willing to pay for.”

  Mr Staples studied the sly entrepreneur. Finally, a thin smile crept across his aging features. “I think fifty five per cent is a reasonable offer.”

  “You accept?”

  “I most certainly do.” Mr Staples replied with gusto, rising to shake the Rufus’ hand.

  Rufus smiled in return as they sealed the deal. “I am glad that we could come to an agreement.”

  The secretary appeared at that moment with their refreshments.

  Taking a sip of his black coffee, Mr Trotsky returned to discussions with his new business partner.

  ******

  “Goodnight Terry.” Said Connor as he, his wife and the alchemist filed out of the pub and into the street.

  “Goodnight guys, see you later.”

  With a smile, the happy couple headed the other direction. Terry pulled up her hood, to stop the light drizzle and the chill of the night from getting to her. Digging her hands into her pockets she headed off home.

  Four streets over Terry walked round a corner then ducked into an alleyway. Pressing her back against the wall she cautiously took a quick glance back into the street. There was no one there. No one she could see anyway but her other senses said otherwise.

  A shadow slithered into the alley behind her as quietly as a shadow. The creature’s features glinted slightly in the orange street light, as it snuck up behind her. It moved its arm, silently drawing some kind of blade.

  As it came within reach, it quietly drew its arm to strike. Before the blade could fall it was knocked away with a clang as something metal came up to meet it. The stalker was momentarily surprised by the sudden counter. But the expression vanished from his face as a metal blade slipped through his stomach. He coughed, gasping for air as a dark liquid began to pour from his lips.

  Terry pulled her blade free and let the body slump to the ground. The blade on her right hand and her gauntleted fists slid melted away, forming into human flesh once more. She rolled the figure onto his back with a heel. He spluttered, a trail of crimson spittle falling from the corner of his mouth.

  Seeing the helpless attacker laying there in a pool of his own blood caused something primeval within her to stir. Resisting the urge to transform into the most ancient form of the Alchemist race to feed, she knelt down beside him. Grabbing the straggler by the collar, she pulled him up so that they were almost face to face. A blade extended from her arm, coming to rest just beneath his throat. The veins in her hand and arm began to turn grey as the miniature robots in her blood started to come alive.

  “You’re a shit stalker.” She said, the veins on her neck also starting to change colour. “Why were you following me?”

  The man stared at her, his face devoid of colour or emotion. She held the blade closer and narrowed her gaze. But his eyes turned vacant as his head lolled to one side. Dropping him she sighed. Reaching around him she fumbled through his coat and trouser pockets but she found nothing; nothing to tell her who he was and nothing to tell who had sent him. Why would someone send a human to kill an Alchemist? The man never stood a chance. She squatted down and lifted the blade he had dropped when he fell. It was nothing more than an ordinary flip knife. They had not even given him a real weapon. They were not event trying.

  Pocketing the knife, Terry glance around the alley and listened. Certain that she was alone, she grabbed the dead man by the scruff of the hood and dragged him off into the darkness.

  Strange noises emanated from the darkness, followed by a low growl and the crunch of bones.

  ******

  Terry coughed, realising her throat was dry as she stepped into the kitchen. Her uncle turned and glanced at her as she came in. “Morning.” He said with a smirk, turning his attention back to the onion he was dicing.

  “Morning.” She mumbled her voice hoarse. Dipping into the fridge she fetched out a bottle of water. Guzzling down half of it at once, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said: “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

  Lyle stopped what he was doing and turned, his face etched with concern. “Are you alright?”

  She nodded as she took another mouthful of the quenching liquid. “Oh I’m fine.” She replied, waving away the question like it was no matter, “He started following me after I left the club I was at with Conner and Jo.”

  “Who was it?” asked Lyle, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He was human. He tried sneaking up behind me to stab me with this.” She handed him the knife.

  Lyle examined it. “This? Is that all?” Deciding that it was unremarkable he shut it again. “It sounds like he was going to try and mug you. Or stab you and mug you, or rape you. But he picked the wrong person.”

  “It seems a bit odd though, that that happened last night, what with everything else that’s happened this week.”

  Lyle shrugged. He handed the knife back to her. “I think it was just a coincidence, that’s all. You were a woman walking home at night by yourself in the
town centre. It was just a nut job trying to take advantage of that.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Did you get rid of the body?”

  “I ate him.”

  Lyle smirked. “Good.” He returned to his cooking.

  Chapter 5

  Information

  A scream rang through the rafters as a man was catapulted up into the air, screaming. He screamed even louder when he hit the floor, his pain evident in the blood soaked shirt that covered his flabby form. His face was lumpy, swollen black and blue from unrelenting punches. One of his eyes was shut, two large bumps forcing it closed his eyelid was black as pitch. But tears still trickled from it, flowing over the motley that was once his fair face.