Jessica Strange E-Book

Stephen Drake

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

From the mountains to the ocean, the West Coast States have been depopulated by The Event, triggered by the arrest and transport of Phelonius Blackwing by his Grandson Socrates.

It's the year 2074 and Tacoma, Pacific Coast-Washington, has reverted to the Wild West. It's the only population center remaining.

The Event has taken the husband of Jessica Strange: ex-police officer and defunct Ambassadorial liaison, now a freelance gun for hire. Soon, Jessica's life takes an unexpected turn in the form of an offer from the Federal Government. But what are the strange creatures discovered in the vaults on Q'estiria?

A riveting science fiction adventure, Jessica Strange is the second book in Stephen Drake's Blackwing Saga.

Leseprobe

JESSICA STRANGE

BLACKWING SAGA BOOK 2

STEPHEN DRAKE

Copyright (C) 2020 Stephen Drake

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to Linda and Susan, this work would not have been possible without their help and support.

A heart-felt thank you to my beta-readers:

Katie Kuhn and Corinne Dutton

A special thank you to Paula Shene, K.J. Simmill, and J.C. Stone, authors in their own right, for their friendship, suggestions, help, and taking the time from their busy lives to read my work. Words fail to convey my deep appreciation for them.

“The universe is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.”

— Eden Phillpotts.

CONTENTS

1. The Meeting

2. Reunited

3. The Best of Times

4. An Unexpected Visit

5. Unexpected Gunfire

6. California, Here I Come!

7. Building Tensions

8. The Search Begins

9. Escape and Evade

10. No News is Good News

11. Resuming the Search

12. The Calm

13. The Storm Begins

14. The Eye of the Storm

15. The Passing of the Storm

16. Turning the Page

17. Clearing the Air…Somewhat

18. Return to Q’estiria

19. Trials on Q’estiria

20. Cha-Cha-Changes

21. Back into a Fold

22. No more Q’estirians

23. The Last Dance on the Eighth Plane

Glossary

About the Author

Other books by this author

1

THE MEETING

Jessica Strange, recently a Special Diplomatic liaison, and an ex-Detective in the Tacoma, Pacific Coast-Washington Police Department, was sitting alone in a bar outside the cordoned downtown area.

“It’s been a month since the Event…” a television reporter for a national news station was saying, “and the CDC is no closer to the cause than it was that horrendous day in which millions died in the Pacific Coast States.”

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Jessica grumbled, but no one in the noisy bar heard her. She finished the shot of Jack Daniels she'd previously poured. The back of her hand rubbed across her mouth to keep herself together. She grabbed the half-empty bottle and poured herself another.

“To add a historical perspective, in the mid-2020s, the western parts of Washington and Oregon were trending to be bastions of extreme liberalism, while the eastern parts of those states were trending towards being more conservative. The conservative sides, feeling that they no longer had a voice, divided the two states, from north to south, down the Cascade Mountain Range's crests. The areas west of the line became commonly known as Pacific Coast-Washington, or PC-Washington, and Pacific Coast-Oregon, or PC-Oregon.

“Californians, also being extremely liberal west of the mountains, divided their state evenly from Mount Shasta in the north to just east of Sacramento and down to the mid-point between Chula Vista, California, and Yuma, Arizona, with the same ‘PC’ designations, a few years later.

“These three states tended to be more politically correct, since the 1990s. Those living on the eastern part of the states, now called the western side, 'PC' for politically correct.”

Jessica was only half-listening as she sipped her JD. A month and no one can tell me anything, she thought. I can't get into the PD because they haven't cleared it of all the bodies, damned Feds. She could feel the tears welling as she thought of Irving Strange, her late husband, and Captain Trooper, her boss, friend, and father figure. She gulped another shot to try to wash the thoughts of them out of her mind.

“You better go easy on that stuff,” a male voice said.

When Jessica looked up, she saw a tall, well-dressed, insufferable federal agent wearing sunglasses inside the darkened bar. She knew him only as John Smith.

"Mind if I sit?" Smith asked as he slid the chair out from the table before sitting.

“If you must,” Jessica replied with as much surliness as she could muster. “What do you want? You called this meeting." She leaned back, draping her right arm over the back of the chair next to the one on which she was sitting.

Smith sat and pulled something from a pocket. “I thought you might want this,” he said as he slid a cell phone across the table.

It appeared to be Irving's phone; she recognized the graphics on the case. She tried to turn it on, but it wouldn't.

“The battery’s dead. How am I supposed to turn it on if the battery’s dead? How am I supposed to confirm it was Irv’s?”

“You can take my word for it—”

“If you said the sky was blue, I’d have to go out and check,” she interrupted, overly loud. “With me, you lack the required crumb of integrity necessary for believing the simplest of facts coming out of your mouth!”

“Is this guy bothering you, Jess?" a booming voice said. A meaty hand slapped Smith's shoulder. Smith looked up at the speaker and shrunk a little from the huge man.

“No, Billy, I can handle this Federal gnat, should the need arise, but thanks anyway.”

The one called Billy nodded and removed his huge hand from Smith’s shoulder. Smith watched the big man return to his place behind the bar as he straightened his clothing.

“Handle me? You're going to handle me. And if I choose not to be handled by you, then what?” Smith ranted as he turned to face her, trying to keep his voice low. He felt something hard tap the inside of his knee and then heard the distinctive sound of a cocking revolver. He’d failed to notice her change in position.

“My little friend, which used to be yours, will…explain it to you,” Jessica grinned mirthlessly.

"You won't shoot," Smith said dismissively, "You're a cop, and you took your oath seriously."

"I don't think you've been keeping up with current events," Jessica said. "There's no police in Tacoma anymore. I wasn't a cop the last time you saw me, remember? Add to all that, I don't like, nor trust, you, so tell me again how I won't…alter your equipment?"

Smith blanched. “I have information for you, so I hope you leave my testicles, and everything else, intact.” He swallowed hard.

"Give me your information. If I like it, I might spare you the conversion.”

Smith studied her face quickly and saw her resolve in the scowl she wore.

"We are trying to select an interim mayor," Smith said after exhaling loudly, "until an election. We're going to need an interim police chief," he said finally, raising his eyebrows at the end.

“Not interested,” Jessica said stoically.

"Okay, you know that Tacoma was the only city not totally wiped out, and we still don't know how someone could've accomplished it."

“That’s not news.”

"Well, whatever happened, it only took out ninety-five percent of the population. Those that survived, locally, are gathering outside the cordon. We're in dire need of police to keep the peace."

"I'm going to be busy hunting the ones that did this," she growled.

“But we need you!”

“So? As I said, I’m busy! Now, get outta here, while I’m still feeling generous!”

Smith got up slowly and glanced under the table to see the barrel of his Desert Eagle. “That might be a bit more firepower than you’re used to.”

“I hopped over the pass and bought a few cases of ammo for it and have been practicing for the last month, so I’m quite used to it. Care to find out?”

Smith looked dubious but decided not to test his theory and left. Jessica poured herself another drink.

Irving awoke in what appeared, to him anyway, to be a dimly lit concrete storage room. On the floor next to him was Captain Trooper. As he looked around, he noticed huge barrels with markings that he recognized as runes. They all said the same thing, "Ale". His brain saw the runes and translated them without thinking about them. He'd recognized them from the documents he'd translated for Blackwing. He saw boxes with more of the runes. "Dried Meat", he read.

“Hey, Cap’n!” he said, trying to rouse the older man.

He shook him gently, and the captain's head lolled to one side. Irving could see the captain's hair and skin had aged dramatically. Half of his head looked as expected, but the other half had aged forty years, or that's how it looked to Irving.

What the hell happened? We were in the cap’n’s office, and the PD had an alarm sound, one I've never heard before, and then the T’et Faqin Q’estirian threw something big at us. As I remember, it was big and black —looked like a black hole— and then there was something electric in the air. And now, we’re here, wherever here is.

He looked around for a door and failed to find one. He opened a barrel of ale. As he smelled it, he could detect the alcohol. He tasted it and found it similar to the brew that Blackwing served. He cupped his hand and drank, dipping it to his mouth, slurping it loudly.

Not the most sanitary, he thought, but without a cup, what can you do?

He opened the top of one of the wooden boxes, and it also seemed to be the same as the bits Blackwing had given him.

I know this is safe. I've had some of Blackwing's, and it didn't kill me.

He went back to try to rouse Captain Trooper. As he did, he heard a noise, like a door being opened. When he turned to look, he saw a diminutive person standing in a doorway staring at him in terror. It ran off, screaming something unintelligible.

“Wait! Don’t leave us here!” Irving yelled as the door closed and latched. “Great! Maybe the little guy will bring help.”

Irving heard Trooper moan. “Cap’n, you okay?” he asked.

Captain Trooper didn’t answer. He just moaned and passed out again.

It wasn't long before Irving heard the door open again. As he stood, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wizard-step coin. Another T’et Faqin Q’estirian entered the chamber. Though this one looked similar to Blackwing, he was younger, more polished, and carried a curving staff in the shape of a snake. In the snake's mouth was a crystal that looked, to Irving, to be onyx.

“Hey there, friend! Can you get some help for my cap’n? He's not coming around, and I'm getting concerned."

Irving heard the man say something, but he couldn’t understand him. It must be a different dialect, he thought. The Q’estirian was looking at him warily, and the crystal in his staff seemed to be glowing.

Svengol Broadaxe was nothing special, as dwarves go. Good dwarves raised him to be a good dwarf. As such, he was a firm believer that conjurers battle conjurers. Those with no magic skills had no business fighting "magic-throwers", as he called them.

He’d been working in the vaults for many years. The Q’estirians were good to him and his family, and they had meaningful work to do and a pleasant, safe environment to work. His job was to empty the storage vaults of the deceased Q’estirians, redistribute consumable items found in them, and pack up anything else to be claimed by any clan members that cared to.

When he reached the door of the next vault to empty, he marveled at the enormous hinges that were spring-loaded to help with opening the heavy door. Some captured beasts had raised havoc with the doors, many years ago, before they were hidden, through magic once the door was closed.

When he unlatched it, the door pulled back into the hallway a bit. The springs allowed him to open or close the entrance to the vault easily. As he swung the door open, he saw the unexpected creatures inside the vault. When he recovered from the initial shock, he quickly shut and locked the door before raising the alarm

“Demons! Demons in the vaults,” Broadaxe yelled as he ran down the hallway. “Demons! Bloodthirsty demons are in the vaults!”

The dwarf rounded a corner and skidded to a halt at the young Samir Thunderclap's feet, the resident T’et Faqin Q’estirian, placed here for just this sort of thing.

“What is that you are screaming, Broadaxe?” Thunderclap asked as he scowled at the dwarf.

“Demons, your Lordship! Demons come to invade, come to kill us and feed on our bones!”

“Demons! Phah!” Thunderclap scoffed. “Take me to these…demons! I wish to see for myself! And, so help me, if you are telling tales, I will turn you into a toad!”

Broadaxe turned and started a hop-shuffle style of walking sideways to keep up with the much longer-legged Q’estirian. “They are right this way, your Lordship, trapped inside one of the storage vaults of one of your brothers!”

Thunderclap glared at the dwarf, “They better be!”

At the door, Broadaxe made to open it. “You open it and stand aside,” Thunderclap ordered. “Whatever you do, stay behind me!”

As the door swung open, Thunderclap was staring at…something. He didn’t know what it was.

“Hey, there! What are you doing here?” he asked.

He saw one of them staring at him, and the other was lying on the floor, unmoving. The one staring at him just looked confused and started waving his arms around and babbling something. Thunderclap knew it was probably a language of some sort, but he had never heard anything like it before.

“Are you going to answer me?” Thunderclap boomed. “I demand you tell me who you are and what you are doing here!”

He was answered by more gibberish and accompanied arm-waving. When he entered, he was prepared. His battle-staff was ready, and he was well versed in combat. If they throw any vile energies, my staff will absorb it and let me turn it back on them, he thought.

He saw the standing creature gesturing toward the one lying on the floor with both hands and spouting more gibberish.

Thunderclap floated a gold coin from an inside pocket of his duster. Plucking it from the air, he whispered the incantation and tossed it to the standing one. Before the coin could reach its target, the creature disappeared and reappeared behind him. The coin clattered to the floor not far from the unmoving one.

The one lying on the floor rolled, and the back of its hand touched the coin. The coin immediately turned into a band and secured itself around the reclining one’s wrist.

Irving, trying to get help for Trooper and seemingly getting nowhere, saw the coin tossed in his direction. With the glint of gold, he thought it was one to secure him, like the ones he’d seen Blackwing use, so he wizard-stepped out of the way before the coin could touch him.

“Hey! He’s not hurting anyone!” Irving yelled as Trooper rolled and touched the coin. “We need help here! We aren’t dangerous to you!” If I use my sword, he’ll cut me to ribbons, he thought. I’ve never been able to best Blackwing with a sword, or any of the other Q’estirians with whom I trained. Do I surrender? Is that the only way I can get help for Trooper? Thinking better of the situation, Irving put the wizard-step coin back in his pocket. He had no more than pulled out his hand than he felt something powerful grab his legs just above the knees. Irving hit the floor.

“I have him, your Lordship!” Broadaxe yelled as he felled the much taller creature. He had hit him from behind to aid in the capture.

Thunderclap walked over and placed a gold coin on Irving’s hand. Both of Irving’s hands became bound by golden manacles.

“That should hold you until we figure out what you are and what you are about,” Thunderclap said. He noticed the tone of his voice seemed to calm the creature, and this puzzled him.

Once the creatures were secured, Thunderclap looked over the one lying on the floor. He didn’t seem to be injured, just unconscious. The other one was standing and looking at his companion with a concerned expression.

Thunderclap murmured the incantation to levitate the unconscious creature, and the other creature walked out of the vault, being led by Thunderclap, leaving Broadaxe to complete his chores.

“Jessica,” a familiar basso profundo voice said from behind. She didn’t need to look to see who it was.

“Blackwing,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you home and get you to buy some of that Sichuan I’m fond of.”

“Did you come here to pull your drunken friend out of the bar?”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Drunk.”

“Not nearly enough to suit me.”

“It’s difficult…dealing with loss.”

She turned to face him. “What would you know about loss?” she asked with as much surliness as she could muster. “I lost my husband! I lost someone as close as a father, all in a single instant. Having a husband was something new for me, you know, and I wasn’t ready to give him up.”

“You lost a husband, and I lost two friends,” Blackwing whispered. “In my life, I’ve lost friends and family, a lot of friends and family. I’m no stranger to loss, even though I don’t understand your particular loss.

“We are alive. And I find that I need my friend,” Blackwing smiled at her, a compassionate, sad smile. “Maybe we can find some consolation in each other’s company.”

“Suzanne isn’t here?”

Blackwing shook his head, “No, she has other responsibilities to see to at the moment.”

Suzanne Hawks, well, the person who was born Suzanne Hawks, presented herself to S’hyrlus on the Hamadryad Plane.

“The Lady S’hyrlus has called, and I present myself,” Suzanne said as she knelt and bowed her head.

“Arise, Suzanne,” S’hyrlus commanded.

Suzanne did as she was commanded and stood, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Has Blackwing found Phelonius?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Suzanne answered. “I know he is actively searching, though.”

S’hyrlus nodded. “He will. He has never failed before, and I doubt he will start now. We are aware of the tragedy Phelonius has caused, and we felt it here. Consequently, any assistance we can give, Socrates is welcomed to it.”

She rose and started to pace. Suzanne followed.

“Is he prepared to do what is necessary?” S’hyrlus asked after some time.

Suzanne shrugged, “No one knows what will be asked of him or how he will respond. He will do as he thinks is fitting, as always.”

“That is not what I was asking. I know the high council will order him to terminate Phelonius personally, and I need to know how that will affect him. Will he do as ordered?”

“You know him better than I,” Suzanne said. “I know he will do as he determines is fitting, without regard for any orders one way or the other. It is something you would have to ask him directly. How do you know what the council will order?”

“Usually, we are against termination, but not in this case. Officially, the Hamadryades are on the side of the council, in this matter.”

Suzanne looked to S’hyrlus with a questioning look.

“We have consulted with the council, and we agree that Phelonius has recklessly endangered all the Planes. My son needs to know what our stance is on this matter.”

“I will let him know your stance,” Suzanne said. “I do not know what he will do, but I will inform him. That is all I can do.”

2

REUNITED

Irving and Captain Trooper were escorted to a holding cell. Irving was manacled to the central table and sat on a rough-hewn bench. Captain Trooper was placed on another bench away from the door. Being the only one lucid, Irving was being talked to, sternly, by the Q’estirian that had affected their capture.

“Look, like I said, I don’t understand you,” Irving explained testily. “We aren’t here to cause any trouble. The captain needs help,” he gestured towards his unconscious companion, and the Q’estirian looked in Trooper’s direction. Irving thought he was starting to get through to him, a little, anyway.

It was then that another Q’estirian entered the tiny cell. Are these two twins? There certainly aren’t many differences in appearance of these two Q’estirians or too many differences between them and Blackwing, Irving thought, except Blackwing looks old enough to be their father.

The Q’estirian that had just entered continued giving orders to him and gesturing. All Irving could do was shake his head. He didn’t understand anything being said.

Samir Thunderclap was trying to get his questions answered when Clo’Cha Hornsdoodle entered.

“Where did these two come from?” Hornsdoodle asked.

“They were in one of the vaults,” Thunderclap explained. “The one lying down has yet to regain consciousness, and this one is incapable of the simplest understanding.”

“What do you mean, incapable?”

“I have tried every language I know, and I get no look of understanding. It just keeps pointing to the other one, gesturing and blabbering.”

“What species are they?” Hornsdoodle asked.

“I have no idea. The pair appear to be something of a cross between several species.”

“Do they have any magic capabilities? How safe are they?”

“I do not know, sir. I did not think to scan them for theSource.”

Hornsdoodle raised his sphere and began looking at the strangers through it. “They have something with traces of the Source,” Hornsdoodle said, “upper right arm. And there is something else close to the hip.”

Thunderclap stepped forward, indicated his upper arm, and gave the creature a questioning look. The creature looked to his upper arm and touched it. It stood and opened its suit and showed the platinum band above the bicep.

Hornsdoodle and Thunderclap looked at the platinum band with amazement. Hornsdoodle brought the sphere closer to the band, which shifted colors and showed a warning.

“Blackwing?” Hornsdoodle questioned as he read the sphere.

“Which one?” Thunderclap asked. “There are a number of them.”

“I do not know, but I am reluctant to contact any without more information,” Hornsdoodle said.

Having had the platinum band around his arm for a while, Irving had forgotten about it. He was as shocked as the Q’estirians when one of them indicated his upper arm and looked at him with that questioning look. When he exposed it, he saw the sphere they were holding change colors, and then he got more questioning looks from both of them.

“Well, it seems you two are curious about this band,” he said aloud. He knew they wouldn’t understand him, but it made him feel better. “A friend of mine gave it to me—” It was then that, in a flash of inspiration, Irving sat at the table and started drawing a few of the runes he knew on the tabletop with his finger. He didn’t know if he could get it across to them that he needed something to write on and with.

The pair talked amongst themselves for a bit, and one produced what looked to be parchment and something resembling a pencil. Irving sat and started to reproduce some of the runes he had seen from the letter of appointment that Blackwing had shown. He did translate it, somewhat, with Blackwing’s help. Now, he was trying to remember some of them. As he drew a few, he was starting to remember a few more.

After some time, Hornsdoodle snatched the parchment and pencil away from him.

“What does it say?” Thunderclap asked, trying to see what the creature had drawn over his superior's shoulder.

“It is crude and lacks any finesse or refinement, but it says something about ambassadorial services,” Hornsdoodle said.

“Ambassadorial services? Where would this creature possibly have contact with anyone in our ambassadorial service or our writing?” Thunderclap asked skeptically. “I think you might be reading too much into the crude drawings of this creature.”

“I am not so sure,” Hornsdoodle said skeptically. “It has a band that indicates K’obi Sha Shin J’oi Faqin. It drew runes saying something about ambassadorial services, and it is too much for coincidence.” He commanded a tankard of ale from the inside pocket of his duster. Immediately the creature reached out for the tankard and made drinking motions. Hornsdoodle slid the tankard over, and the creature grabbed it up and started drinking.

“Wait until the ale is gone,” Thunderclap said. “The creature will be lost on how to get more.”

As the creature finished the tankard, it tapped the handle three times, and the tankard refilled.

“That,” Hornsdoodle said, “was no accident. It knew what to do.”

“Let me check on someone named Blackwing in Ambassadorial Services,” Thunderclap said, still shocked by what he saw.

The creature was making motions that Hornsdoodle thought were eating movements. He produced some of the dried meat and slid it across the table. The creature snatched it up right away, and the bits disappeared down its throat.

“Anything?” Hornsdoodle asked over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

Thunderclap looked flushed when Hornsdoodle looked at him. “Well, out with it!”

“The only Blackwing in Ambassadorial Services is Socrates Blackwing. Chief Commander and Ambassador to the Eighth Plane…”

“Is that all?”

“No, he is also great-great-grandson to Cornelius Blackwing—”

“Cornelius Blackwing? As in leader of the high council? That Cornelius Blackwing?”

Thunderclap nodded slowly.

Thaddius Crowfoot and H’Difa Thunderclap were sitting in Thaddius’ office.

“We may have a problem,” H’Difa said under his breath.

“What kind of problem? You know I hate problems,” Thaddius said.

“My grandson, I do not know how far back, works in the vaults.”

“How nice for him,” Thaddius said without looking up.

“He has apprehended two…creatures in the vaults. One of them carries the K’obi Sha Shin J’oi Faqin of Blackwing.”

Thaddius stopped and raised just his eyes. “Which Blackwing?” he asked.

“At this point, we are uncertain. Only one of the creatures has demonstrated writing of runes and drinking ale from one of our tankards. Thus showing familiarity with us.”

“And the other?” Thaddius asked.

“He remains unconscious and has been since found. He also has the K’obi Sha Shin J’oi Faqin.”

“In what form?” Thaddius asked.

“Bands, around their upper arms.”

Crowfoot closed his eyes and rubbed between his brows. “Well, that is quite the pile of P’koosh Z’airka. Who else knows?”

“No one, yet. I heard about it from my family communications network, and I brought it to your attention as soon as I could.”

“What do you suggest?” Crowfoot asked as he continued to rub between his brows.

“I would suggest getting a healer in to see to the unconscious one,” Thunderclap said quietly.

“Any other suggestions?” Crowfoot asked.

“I am uncertain how, but we need to discover who they are, where they come from…and how they got here.”

“At what point do you want to inform Cornelius?” Crowfoot asked.

“I do not want to inform him unless and until we get some answers,” Thunderclap stated.

“That is a dangerous gambit,” Crowfoot said quietly. “It could work against us.”

“I cannot see how. We did not bring them here, and our security requires that we determine how they got here.”

Crowfoot was about to say something and stopped himself.

“You had an idea?” Thunderclap asked.

“I had a thought, but I need more information. Work on getting the information quietly. If anyone prevents you from proceeding, let me know and keep me informed about what you find out.”

Blackwing and Jessica walked in the back door of the house that Suzanne had purchased. Currently, it was the ambassadorial residence. Blackwing sat Jessica down while he laid out the Sichuan for everyone. He did have to see to his fellow Q’estirians.

“You know, I need to hire a cook of some kind,” Blackwing said as he worked.

“You can hire me a bartender while you’re at it,” Jessica sniped. “If you get a chef or a cook, they’ll just try to change how you eat.”

“And will a bartender change the way you drink?” Blackwing quipped.

“Pro’ly,” Jessica slurred as she put her head down on the table.

“What were you doing there, anyway?”

“I had a meeting…with our ol’ buddy Smith. You know, the one that tried to ventilate you at the PD?”

“What did he want?” Blackwing asked with surliness.

“He wants to make me chief of police…or something. I think that’s what he said.”

“Sounds like something you’d enjoy. How you say, ‘right up your alley’?”

Jessica made a spitting sound: “Not bloody likely! I told ‘em I wasn’t in’erested.”

“Why aren’t you interested?” Blackwing asked as he came in and sat at the table.

“I got some huntin’ ta do, firs’.” Jessica had managed to get the heavy gun out of her holster and laid it noisily on the table.

Blackwing eyed the pistol and assessed Jessica’s state of inebriation. “Well, eat up. It won’t be tonight.”

“I’m looking forward to it being soon,” Jessica said as she dished up some of the food. “I do need another drink,” she said before she began eating.

“I think your stomach will appreciate the break from the alcohol,” Blackwing said. He did send out messages to let the other Q’estirians know they could come into the house and eat.

As they filed through, helping themselves, Suzanne entered. She made up her plate and sat next to Blackwing.

“Hiya, Suze!” Jessica slurred.

“We need to talk,” Suzanne said to Blackwing, speaking Q’estirian.

“What di’ she shay?” Jessica asked thickly.

“It was something…personal, Jessica. Please eat. You’ll feel better for it,” Blackwing said in English.

“Yes, Jessica, please eat. It’s important that you keep up your strength,” Suzanne said sarcastically.

The room became void of conversation. The Q’estirians ate and watched Blackwing and Suzanne. None of them understood English and thought all the strange-talk was…strange. Blackwing and Suzanne were watching Jessica as they all ate. Suzanne was half-expecting Jess to pass out and hit the floor, given her level of intoxication. Blackwing was just trying to get his friend to eat enough to offset the alcohol she’d absorbed already.

“I think we need to hire a cook,” Blackwing said after an extended silence.

“Grum K’sha U’ien or human?” Suzanne asked.

“Either is acceptable to me, but I’m leaning more toward the human. I’d like someone able to cook Sichuan, more than once in a while,” Blackwing said.

“Wha’ the hell is a grum ka shoe in?” Jessica asked through blurry eyes. She was wavering in her balance and was about to fall over onto the floor.

“She will have quite the head in the morning,” Suzanne commented. “Why did you let her drink so much?”

“I didn’t let her. You know Jess. She does pretty much what she wants. I couldn’t stop her,” Blackwing said.

“Well, that’s not exactly true, is it?” Suzanne asked. “The Great Warrior couldn’t handle Jessica? There’s nothing in your bag of tricks to get her to slow down on the alcohol? Somehow, I think you could if you wanted to.”

“If she said that she has a problem and wants to quit, I can help. What I can’t do is violate her free will.”

“Take her to her room and put her in bed,” Blackwing said in Q’estirian. One of the guards that had finished eating got up to comply.

The guard bowed slightly and levitated Jessica to her room, placing her gently on the bed. As he closed the door, the covers flipped over Jessica without apparent external forces causing it.

Once the guards finished, they cleaned up and left Blackwing and Suzanne alone in the living room.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?” Blackwing asked in Q’estirian.

“I am to pass the word that the Hamadryads are backing Phelonius’ termination. So, it is the great council and the Hamadryads.”

“I was expecting that,” Blackwing mused. “He has angered enough people over the years that now they are all screaming for his head.”

A guard entered, stood a respectful distance, and waited to be recognized.

“Yes?” Blackwing acknowledged.

“Pardons, sir, but a messenger is waiting to see you and the Lady.”

“Send them in.”

The guard bowed and backed away. The guard was replaced by the messenger.

“Yes?” Blackwing asked. “You have a message for me?”

“Yes, sir, I have a message from Cornelius Blackwing.”

“I wonder what he wants,” Suzanne whispered.

“Mister Ambassador. Greetings. It is with a glad heart I request your company and that of the Lady Suzanne, immediately in my private chambers at Sh’tuk Q’estiria Faqin concerning a private matter.”

The messenger bowed and left.

Blackwing stood. “I’ll be making a trip to Sh’tuksa Q’estiria Faqin,” he said to the senior guard. “I’ll need three guards to escort myself and the lady, well-rested and well provisioned. It will be as quick a trip as is possible.”

The guard bowed.

“Also, I need the remainder of the guards to keep Jessica here and away from the alcohol and her firearm.”

The guard bowed again, and Blackwing dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The guard disappeared.

“I wonder what this summons is about,” Blackwing commented. “It can’t be good news, being summoned this way. Usually, it is ‘at your earliest convenience’.”

“He did start it ‘with a glad heart’,” Suzanne said, “so, how bad could it be?”

The trip to Sh’tuksa Q’estiria Faqin,the court of theQ’estirian Ruling council, took three days of hard traveling. Once Blackwing and Suzanne presented themselves at Cornelius Blackwing’s office, his adjutant told them to wait, and he entered Cornelius’ office. A long time passed before he returned.

Finally, the adjutant escorted them into Cornelius’ office.

“Socrates!” Cornelius greeted jovially. “And the lovely, as always, Lady Suzanne.” Cornelius gave a stiff bow to Suzanne.

“Cornelius,” Suzanne said coyly.

“What did you want to see us about that would warrant us presenting ourselves immediately?” Socrates asked flatly.

“Ever the pragmatist, eh, Socrates?” Cornelius cleared his throat. “Alright then, I have something I think belongs to you.” Cornelius turned towards his private entrance and clapped his hands together loudly.

As the door opened, two individuals, manacled and unwashed, were led into the plush office.

Socrates looked blankly at the pair and said nothing until the guards were dismissed. After the guards left, he attempted to make a more systematic assessment of the pair.

One of the pair seemed…lopsided. In Socrates’ opinion, he was older on one side of his body than the other, but that would be ridiculous. A glance at Suzanne showed that she found the smell offensive.

“Blackwing?” the apparent younger of the pair said…in English. “Is it you?” the individual started to weep. “And Suze!”

Suzanne got to her feet and looked closer, in shock. “Irving? Is that you under all that dirt and hair?” she asked.

“Do these belong to you?” Cornelius asked Socrates in Q’estirian.

“Not exactly,” Socrates responded. “I think I know who they are, just not how they came to be here.”

Cornelius exhaled loudly: “That is a major point for the council. Everyone is panicked, and they demand to know how they managed to get here in the first place.”

“Where did you find them?” Socrates asked.

“They were in the vaults, in one vault in particular. The vault belonged to Aenta Nighthawk.”

“There was an Aenta Nighthawk assigned by me to protect these two before the catastrophe,” Socrates related. “I included his name in my casualty report the day after. How long have they been here?”

Suzanne, who kept an ear out for Cornelius' questions, repeated them to Irving and relayed his responses. “Irving says they were in the captain’s office when an alarm sounded, and then a gigantic black something was thrown at them by the Q’estirian guard. The next thing he knew, he was here, sort of. Not here in this office, but here.”

“Irving? What is an Irving?” Cornelius asked.

“The younger of the two,” Socrates informed.

“We asked them several times who they were and got no response,” Cornelius said.

“Did you ask them in English?” Socrates asked.

Cornelius looked blank. “What is this…English…you are asking about? I have never heard of it.”

“Just as you did not understand them, they did not understand you. To them, we are speaking gibberish right now. They do not understand Q’estirian.”

Cornelius looked shocked. “They don’t understand Q’estirian? How can they thrive, or hope to be civilized, without the beautiful mother tongue of the Seven Known Planes?”

Socrates chuckled: “They probably think the same thing about you not knowing English.”

“Do you have any means that they may shower?” Suzanne interrupted.

Cornelius looked dumbstruck. “You mean they want to stand out in the falling rain?”

Suzanne smirked. “No, but strangely, that is close to the mark. They want to wash their bodies…in water. Do you have something like that?”

Socrates shook his head. “They will have to wait until we get home…assuming they are free to leave?” he looked to Cornelius questioningly.

“How did they get here?” Cornelius asked. “I need to know if I am not opening the Seven Known Planes to invasion by releasing them.”

“From what I can understand,” Socrates stated, “the guard assigned to them got them away from the trap that Phelonius had set. He had no idea if it would keep them safe, but he tried and succeeded, apparently. They cannot get here on their own.”

“How will you get them back to their own plane?” Cornelius asked.

“The obvious way is the same way they got here,” Socrates said. “They cannot go through a portal; they have…devices…that prevent the portal’s use, so they have to go the same way as they arrived. Suzanne, please explain it to Irving.”

Socrates pulled out the black cloth he last used to move the bookstore. “Ready?” he asked the pair. They nodded, and Socrates tossed the fabric, and it covered them. As it did, the pair disappeared.

“Make certain they do not return here,” Cornelius said sternly.

“I would suggest certain of our brothers learn English. It should be part of their training, should they need to travel to the Eighth Plane.”

“I will take it under advisement,” Cornelius said.