Warrior of the Ages (Warriors of the Ages) (14 page)

Just do it fast.

“Good Morning, Marge! I know you say you have diabetes and I want you to know I’m not here to ask for anything, so please don’t think this is a bribe. I can’t get my permit to open shop and so much of my stock is perishable, so I’m giving it away.” Beth twisted to reveal the silk covered boxes better. “I’m hoping that some of the people who work here might be interested in these chocolates, they’re Ugandan, organic, the best I’ve ever had—quite expensive on the market but free today. Can I PLEASE leave these boxes here for whoever wants them?”

Marge’s eyes went to the colorful boxes with interest then flickered back to Beth suspiciously.

“It’s not like I can stop you.”

Beth dropped the boxes of chocolates on the countertop and bolted. She made it halfway down the hall before blurting, “You could if you really wanted to, liar.” She hoped Marge hadn’t heard her.

“Who you calling a liar?”

Beth swiveled towards the masculine voice, dropping several tote bags and her purse. An unfamiliar cop stood there, staring at her with a frown on his tanned face. He’d asked her a question, so of course she had to answer.

“Marge.” Motioning with her chin towards the door to the Department of Public Safety.

Brown eyes glanced in that direction and he tried to bite back a smile while grudgingly admitting, “She does lie.”

Then to Beth’s surprise the cop squatted down and started to gather her stuff together. She watched him critically, taking in the fact that he looked almost like a bodybuilder except that he was graceful. When he stood with her things, she felt skinny as a walking stick next to him.

“I’ll carry them to your car,” he offered, seemingly unabashed to carry the colorful totes and giant silver pocketbook past interested onlookers.

Beth took the opportunity to proceed with her campaign, and told the cop what her shop sold and invited him to come by.

“I don’t really have hours, but drop by anytime you see my car out front. I’m Beth White, by the way.”

“I know,” he admitted frankly.

Beth glanced at his badge that bore the name, ‘A. Drake.’ They stood by her car and his soft brown eyes studied her so intently that she blushed and added.

“Bring your wife or your girlfriend if you like. I’m sure I carry something you’d be interested in.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I mean that, anything you need, stop by.”

“That’s all right. I think I have what I need now, thanks.” A. Drake slid Beth’s pocketbook back onto her shoulder and walked away.

Beth watched him curiously as he slid into his squad car, not so coincidentally parked nose to nose with her car. It wasn’t until he gave her a friendly wave and started to drive off that she realized with absolute certainty that he’d pocketed her cell phone from her purse.

WAKING BEFORE 4:00 a.m. shaking and sweaty from the shade of Golgotha, Kahtar ran the wooded paths behind his pond. Wolves’s barking chased him, but the dog couldn’t stay focused long enough to run with him. Breakfast was then charred venison, gummy oatcakes and freshly picked strawberries. Those nice berries might have saved his plebes from a caning, but did nothing for their self esteem when he told them exactly what he thought of their lack of skills.

An Old Guard met him in the huge old barn in the back field. From the moment Kahtar stepped into the dark, dusty confines of that barn he battled for his life. Old Guard did not play games. They tried to kill him, and he fought back with everything he had. They started with spears—the type that had been around as long as he had—they were the one weapon he refused to touch. He had not held a spear in his hand since Golgotha, and today he used a metal pole to defend himself against one.

The Old Guard soon grew bored and exchanged their weapons for claymores. Kahtar managed a brief moment of fleeting pleasure by scoring a small mark across his Old Guard’s cheek with the sword. The scratch faded almost instantly, and the man laid him down with the flat of his blade right across Kahtar’s back, smacking him to the ground as he had threatened to do to the plebes earlier. Moving on they graduated to gladiator scissors, which they strapped to one hand. The weapon had a razor sharp blade attached and they both held a katara dagger clenched in their other hand as they circled. Kahtar had been named after that dagger in this repeat. He felt it was his duty to win the round with his namesake. He felt an affinity to the name Kahtar. He’d been named after many weapons, but Kahtar was a new name, and new was always good in his book. He wondered if anyone had any idea how many different variations the name John had evolved into over the centuries.

When the Old Guard grew bored of besting him, the man simply flickered away in a flash of light, letting his gladiator scissors and katara dagger drop to the dirt floor. Kahtar put the weapons away, hanging them on the posts and crossbeams where hundreds of other weapons waited for tomorrow. Limping a bit as he made his way over the dark field to the pond, he wiped blood that trickled into an eye. The cut was deep and eventually he gave up, letting it run freely. Plebes had run his bath in the shed that served as his bathroom. All of Cultuelle Khristos had indoor plumbing except Kahtar. After all his time on earth, something about putting a toilet inside a house still seemed wrong to him.

In the dark of the shed, his plebes managed to heal the wound above his eye. Three of the boys pressed fingers to his forehead and whispered their healing prayers. Kahtar felt the sting of the wound as it closed. The lads were honorable, if inept in most other areas. Honor and faith were necessary for healing.

Preparing for the day, he wondered if Beth White had any aptitude for healing, and if she’d ever thought to try. Few women could heal well. They had a far greater gifting than knitting bones and flesh. Standing in the black of the shed over a bowl of water, and lathering soap on his face, he used a straight blade to shave. It wasn’t necessary to see to shave that face, it wasn’t necessary to even scan. He knew that face—every dimple, divot and curve. For thousands of years, in every repeat, he grew into a man wearing that exact same face and he shaved it.

THE FIRST LIGHT of daybreak painted the sky pink, and the dark shape of Wolves raced across the field in front of him, barking an enthusiastic greeting. Christian Moore waited for him, trying to shoo Wolves away with a folder and failing. The balding man in the grey suit retreated up the porch steps to escape the dog’s dirty greeting. Kahtar whistled one sharp bark and Wolves slunk off into the woods with his tail between his legs.

“Thanks, Kahtar, I’m working at the bank today and that dog stinks. I think he rolled in something.”

“Good news or bad?” Cutting straight to business Kahtar sat on the porch steps, accepting a mug of tea from one of his plebes and offering it first to his kinsman.

“Ah, no thanks, I ate breakfast with my wife who was kind enough to cook this morning. She tends to take pity on me the mornings I need to be in town.” Taking a seat on the stairs below Kahtar, right in a wet spot, Christian opened his folder.

“It’s bad news. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve put plenty of obstacles in her path. Financially and legally I’ve squirreled up everything with Beth White’s name on it, from the IRS down to the music she buys online. It will take her years to straighten it all out. Kelts, Phelps & Associates will be no help. They’re under enough strain of their own thanks to us.”

Nodding, Kahtar smiled. There were so many ways to win a battle. Christian pulled out a piece of paper and frowned as he stared at it.

“The problem is she has enough inventory and access to cash that these things won’t stop her anytime soon. Just yesterday she bought two new cell phones with money from an account I hadn’t known about, and from what we can see she’s moving along, planning to open for business.”

“We’ll see about that.” Setting his mug down, Kahtar stalked up the long driveway, towards his vehicle.

“WHAT DO YOU mean she’s giving it away?” Sitting in his office at the police station Kahtar stared blankly at the rookie, trying to make sense of his words.

Dark haired Honor Monroe wistfully fingered a cardboard box of tea, repeatedly lifting it to his nose for a whiff.

“I was next door to her shop, at Cerulean Blue for breakfast, and they were talking about it. She’d given this tea to them and it is divine. It is really good, clean but somewhat addicting. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

Kahtar glared, and Honor cleared his throat.

“Anyway she’d told them since the town wouldn’t give her a license to open her shop, she was just going to give things away.”

Consider Drake lumbered forward—strong, compact, and extremely hairy. His police uniform only enhanced his thug-like appearance.

“She’s following the way instinctively. It’s inspired. Like she knows that we don’t use money. I think she just knows—you know in her heart—that is how it is supposed to be.”

Kahtar leaned forward to pluck the box of tea out of Honor’s hands and reminded Consider.

“She’s not part of our clan, and you don’t follow the way by adhering to one rule.” Lifting the box to his nose, his mouth watered and he almost groaned.
Brack tea. Where on El’s Sweet Earth did she find brack tea? Even the Old Guard can’t get it anymore.

“Honor? Why did she give you this?”

“She ran into the street to nick a cat that almost got hit on Main Street. So I gave her a ticket for jaywalking. She rolled it up and tossed it on the sidewalk. Then she told me to give her one for littering, and I’d probably get promoted.”