pair of large men with shotguns. Customers paid for “tokens”, which were then redeemed for company with a young lady in any of the smaller rooms located in the labyrinth beneath the tower. The upper floors were reserved for security posts and administrative offices, and access could only be gained via an archaic freight elevator with a sliding iron grille and massive handles that looked like tank controls.
Cross recognized Payne, a dark-skinned man with bladed flame tattoos on his neck and arms who dressed in a flak vest and camouflage pants but wore no shirt. Cross could never figure out why he wore sunglasses in the darkness of the club. Payne also wore a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster rig and a pair of large silver daggers in wrist scabbards.
“ Howdy, Payne,” Cross said.
“ What the hell do you want?”
“ Good, good,” Cross said with a smile. “Glad to hear it. Up, please.”
Cross tried to step into the elevator, but Payne put a hand on his chest.
“ Nah,” Payne grinned.
“ Uh…yeah. Warfield is expecting me.”
“ Warfield is busy.”
“ Payne,” Cross said. His spirit coalesced around his fingers, invisible but warm, like a fiery gel. Cross took in a ragged breath. She was growing stronger. “You need to take me up there,” he said with a slow and controlled tone. “Please.”
“ Turn around,” Payne said with his gleaming white smile. “And piss off.”
Cross didn’t need his spirit to take Payne by the wrist, spin him around and force him to his knees. Payne reached for his gun, but Cross had his own out first, and he pushed the HK against Payne’s temple and pulled him into the elevator.
“ I did say ‘Please’, right?” he said. “Take me to her. Now.”
Payne quietly did as he was told. The elevator lurched to life and groaned upwards past two more floors filled with dancing and lewd behavior. Images flashed through the grilled elevator door: naked flesh and open wine barrels, clouds of hashish and discarded clothes and armor.
He took his gun off of Payne. His spirit was coiled and ready to strike, and her effect on the air was so poisonous he was certain even a non-mage could detect the volatility of her power and presence.
The elevator ground to a halt at the top floor, a network of dark hallways and closed wooden doors. Everything was painted black and white, and another armed bouncer waited at the entry hall, a massive black man with a bowler hat and a mismatched steel and olive suit covered in oil and blast stains. The man was armed with an AK-47 and had a punch-knife the size of a boomerang, which he displayed in a holster in his open suit jacket.
“ Evening, Mr. Cross,” the man said. “Miss Warfield is expecting you.”
Cross shot Payne a smirk, and then started down the hall.
“ Where?” he asked.
“ Straight ahead. Room 402.”
The halls of the upper floor were silent, save for the sound of wood as it creaked beneath his feet. The doors had been cut at odd angles, and each of them seemed to lean in and loom at him like back-alley drunks.
Cross felt dizzy. Sharp whispers cut through his mind. He’d managed to stave them off for nearly a day, but they were back.
They were the voices from the liquid – the whispers of a dead goddess.
With every step he took he felt control over his spirit slip. It was a wonder she hadn’t done some incredible violence to Payne.
She tore at his skin with ethereal nails. The world dissolved. Everything pulled away from him like smoke. He stumbled through a plane of shadow, floated as if a void hung beneath his feet.
His mind squeezed through dark edges and compressed into corners obscured by liquid midnight. His breaths escaped as wisps of frosted steam.
Cross .
Hands took hold of him, pushed him and grabbed him. They were ungentle, but familiar.
Cross .
He fell back into the liquid. His eyes bled midnight.
He sees the keep. The sea is ice-cold oil that burns the anemic shore. Low tangles of iron
Cross recognized Payne, a dark-skinned man with bladed flame tattoos on his neck and arms who dressed in a flak vest and camouflage pants but wore no shirt. Cross could never figure out why he wore sunglasses in the darkness of the club. Payne also wore a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster rig and a pair of large silver daggers in wrist scabbards.
“ Howdy, Payne,” Cross said.
“ What the hell do you want?”
“ Good, good,” Cross said with a smile. “Glad to hear it. Up, please.”
Cross tried to step into the elevator, but Payne put a hand on his chest.
“ Nah,” Payne grinned.
“ Uh…yeah. Warfield is expecting me.”
“ Warfield is busy.”
“ Payne,” Cross said. His spirit coalesced around his fingers, invisible but warm, like a fiery gel. Cross took in a ragged breath. She was growing stronger. “You need to take me up there,” he said with a slow and controlled tone. “Please.”
“ Turn around,” Payne said with his gleaming white smile. “And piss off.”
Cross didn’t need his spirit to take Payne by the wrist, spin him around and force him to his knees. Payne reached for his gun, but Cross had his own out first, and he pushed the HK against Payne’s temple and pulled him into the elevator.
“ I did say ‘Please’, right?” he said. “Take me to her. Now.”
Payne quietly did as he was told. The elevator lurched to life and groaned upwards past two more floors filled with dancing and lewd behavior. Images flashed through the grilled elevator door: naked flesh and open wine barrels, clouds of hashish and discarded clothes and armor.
He took his gun off of Payne. His spirit was coiled and ready to strike, and her effect on the air was so poisonous he was certain even a non-mage could detect the volatility of her power and presence.
The elevator ground to a halt at the top floor, a network of dark hallways and closed wooden doors. Everything was painted black and white, and another armed bouncer waited at the entry hall, a massive black man with a bowler hat and a mismatched steel and olive suit covered in oil and blast stains. The man was armed with an AK-47 and had a punch-knife the size of a boomerang, which he displayed in a holster in his open suit jacket.
“ Evening, Mr. Cross,” the man said. “Miss Warfield is expecting you.”
Cross shot Payne a smirk, and then started down the hall.
“ Where?” he asked.
“ Straight ahead. Room 402.”
The halls of the upper floor were silent, save for the sound of wood as it creaked beneath his feet. The doors had been cut at odd angles, and each of them seemed to lean in and loom at him like back-alley drunks.
Cross felt dizzy. Sharp whispers cut through his mind. He’d managed to stave them off for nearly a day, but they were back.
They were the voices from the liquid – the whispers of a dead goddess.
With every step he took he felt control over his spirit slip. It was a wonder she hadn’t done some incredible violence to Payne.
She tore at his skin with ethereal nails. The world dissolved. Everything pulled away from him like smoke. He stumbled through a plane of shadow, floated as if a void hung beneath his feet.
His mind squeezed through dark edges and compressed into corners obscured by liquid midnight. His breaths escaped as wisps of frosted steam.
Cross .
Hands took hold of him, pushed him and grabbed him. They were ungentle, but familiar.
Cross .
He fell back into the liquid. His eyes bled midnight.
He sees the keep. The sea is ice-cold oil that burns the anemic shore. Low tangles of iron
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