Warrior of the Ages (Warriors of the Ages) (4 page)

That frank statement, and loyalty to her current employer, won her points in Beth’s eyes. Beth knew she should ask about Brenda’s girls, their ages and names, but she didn’t bother much with polite conversation, especially not when there was something else that needed clarification first.

“What do you mean about other restaurants? That place right there is a restaurant.” She pointed to the smaller one-story house on the lot next door.

Brenda glanced over at it. “No, it’s not. Why do you think that?”

That was a very good question.

“It looks like a restaurant.”
No. It is a restaurant. I’m sure it is.
Though as yet she hadn’t seen a single person go in or out.

“Just looks like a house to me, like an old people’s house. Besides, this town can barely tolerate Cliff’s coffee shop. I think they’d be happy to have a perfect looking ghost town. Surprised you got a permit to open.”

Worry prickled up Beth’s spine. “I don’t, not yet.”

“Well dang, girl, good luck with that. Can’t imagine why you’d want to move to this fun-forsaken town?”

“Why do you live here?”

“Hiding from my ex. There’s only one road in and one road out, and I think the cops in this place would give you the chair for even speeding. It’s safe here.”

Beth waited. Though she thought Brenda was probably right, there was another reason. She could sense it in the woman.

Brenda grinned at her. “And the cops are hawt.”

Beth wanted to roll her eyes. The woman had children for pity’s sake. Hot? The image of the hulking Police Chief flashed to mind. Touché. Her eyes were drawn back to the restaurant next door, just a house, according to Brenda. She was definitely getting weird. Brenda seemed a bit weird in her own right, but that kind of weird was easily cured. Some coaching on polite conversation—along with kinder hair dye—and she might make a fine addition to Sweet Earth.

“Come on inside, Brenda, and we’ll talk. I’m Beth White. How old are your girls?”

HONOR MONROE REMEMBERED nothing. It was infuriating.

“How can you not remember? Within minutes of when I left, you were shot point blank in the chest!” Kahtar said.

“I realize that.” Honor’s cheerful demeanor was not easy to crack. “I’m lucky to be alive.” Positioned carefully in a plush bed with pristine white sheets, just hours after being shot his bare chest showed only a very faint scar right in the middle of his breastbone. The prayers of the clan’s warriors were strong combined with Welcome Palmer’s skills.

Stalking around the good sized bed, Kahtar clutched the remnants of Honor’s bloodied shirt. There was a hole in it as large as his hand.

“Fortunately the Old Guard happened on me. What are the odds of that so far from the Arc? It wasn’t my day to die.”

In frustration Kahtar looked at the doctor leaning patiently against the window seat. Welcome shrugged fit shoulders covered by a black t-shirt, with the slogan
Got Christ? He’s kosher
on the front. Kahtar found it disrespectful. Welcome moved to the bed and leaned over to kiss Honor on the forehead. His green eyes slid slightly out of focus briefly as he scanned inside the warrior and then looked up at Kahtar.

“He’s going to be just fine, except for a really nasty scar from the exit wound, afraid his back will never look the same again. He should stay here and rest a day.”

“He doesn’t remember what happened!”

“That’s not unusual, he almost bled to death. In time it might come back to him.”

“Sorry, Chief.” For the first time, Honor Monroe sounded genuinely upset, not because he’d been shot, but because he couldn’t answer his Warrior Chief’s questions.

Kahtar went to his side and impulsively tried to pat Honor’s thick spiky hair down. He was a good kid, with a good heart.

“Sometimes the mind blocks things out.”
I wish mine did.
“We’ll be wearing armored vests for a while.”

Honor smiled, his bright blue eyes lit up at the thought.

Kahtar dropped his hand and warned, “You’ll take the day to rest here before you can don yours. Understand?”

“Absolutely, Chief.”

In the tradition of the clan Kahtar leaned down and kissed him briefly. Then in an old gesture he’d kept since the beginning, he pressed his thumb against Honor’s forehead.

“I love you, Honor. I’m thankful you survived.”

“I love you too, Chief, but you never answered, was the car yellow?”

WITHOUT HONOR MONROE’S story of what had happened, the Willowyth police force, which at the moment consisted only of members of the clan, was left to deal with forensics. It was a warrior specialty, no samples or vials or rubber gloves necessary. A group of a dozen warriors dressed in their navy police uniforms stood alongside the rural roadway, scanning and categorizing all available evidence with just their minds. Squire Askins and Consider Drake stood side by side reporting verbally to Kahtar. The two were an odd pair, one pale and thin and the other dark and stocky. They worked in tandem.

“There were two men, both fairly short, around five foot nine or ten inches.” Squire Askins squinted as he simultaneously scanned the evidence, apparently reenacting the crime scene in his mind from bloodstains, fiber particles, and DNA embedded in the road and weeds.

Consider Drake shot his partner a dirty look. “Five ten is hardly short.”

“When we’re talking to almost seven feet of Warrior Chief, I’d say they were practically petite.” Squire smirked at all five foot seven inches of his best friend. Squire had exactly one inch on Consider. He turned his attention back to Kahtar. “These guys didn’t stick around, Chief, I’d say they got out of their vehicle, weapons drawn and shot Honor without a word of warning.”

Running a hand over his cropped hair, Kahtar frowned without really focusing on the men. They’d both demonstrated an uncanny ability with their talents many times, and he knew their hypothesis would be impressively accurate. The fact that it didn’t make much sense was irrelevant. The thought of drug trafficking wafted through his mind a split second before Consider Drake shot it down.

“I don’t sense any drugs, though I suppose it could have been well wrapped in plastic. Someone threw a cigarette out of their car over by that patch of Queen Anne’s lace, but I’d guess that was yesterday. Judging by the tire print in the grass right there, whoever shot Honor was driving an SUV. We should all memorize the pattern in case it shows up again.”

Squire Askins piped up. “Chief? Judging by their gait I’d almost say they were related. They walk in a similar fashion.”

“Gang members?” Kahtar prompted, scanning the faint markings of dusty footprints in the soft tar of the roadway.

“I don’t think so, not gang members. No self-respecting gang member wears superstore cheap shoes like these.” Consider Drake sat down on the road with his short beefy legs spread and stared at the places where the footprints were invisible to the naked eye. They still left a ghost of a mark in the mind of a scanning warrior. “Though I see what you mean, Squire. It’s almost like they step precisely the same distance with each footfall. Odd.”

Kahtar waved a motorcycle around the crowd of police. The driver stared at him so long he drove right off the pavement and had to swerve to right the bike, his sudden acceleration sprayed gravel back into Kahtar’s face. He spit a stinging mouthful into the grass, moving towards his car.

“Find me if you discover anything useful. Everyone on police duty is to wear their vests—everyone—I know it is hot and I know they’re half plastic—no exceptions. Until we find out what happened to Honor we’re not taking any chances.”

INSTEAD OF TURNING left into his driveway, Kahtar made an abrupt right. The police car bumped up a dirt road, where weeds grew tall on either side of the rutted roadway. At the end of the narrow road it took a moment to turn the vehicle around, and then he punched the gas, scanning in all directions at once, including straight up into the heavens. Trees blocked the bulk of his little game, but it wouldn’t do to have any eyes in the sky watch him vanish.

Knowing all was clear, he shot back across the road and just before reaching his driveway he threw the car into neutral and shut it off. A roar of air rocked the police car as though it had been dropped out of an aircraft at terminal velocity. Kahtar shot right through the opening of the veil that hid his house from the rest of the world. Momentum took the car almost a half mile, most of it simply at a slow roll from the gentle downward slope of the drive.

Home sweet home. The complete absence of 21
^st
Century noises was a balm to the soul. No aircraft, no traffic, not even a cell phone signal could possibly penetrate the veil. Weather, however, was another matter. The same oppressive humidity that he’d endured all day in his polyester blend uniform, pressed just as uncomfortably inside his little pocket of paradise. It took less than a minute to yank his uniform off and toss his shoes into the trunk of the car. By the time Kahtar pulled on a simple cotton blouse and leggings, the familiar canter of his dog, followed by his enthusiastic panting, echoed down the drive.

Wolves, the name he gave all his dogs for the sake of simplicity, crashed into him as the warrior walked barefoot to meet him. The dog was a huge eighty-pound behemoth of brown, red and grey shaggy fur with a Border Collie face and mismatched eyes. He looked more like a mixture of coyotes than any wolves. Cradling him like a puppy, Kahtar scratched his belly and the dog gnawed wildly on his upper arm, teeth chattering with excitement. Kahtar scanned the dog, lamenting the fact that canines lived such short lives and grumbled, “Ach, Wolves! You’ve got fleas again! Get lost!”