Small room somewhere in England, the Glenlivet crest over a dying fire, two greying men staring into the embers. One, small, birdlike with sharp grey eyes, sips a whiskey from a cut crystal glass.
“You received their request for help, but are loath to commit?”
The other, sighed, his only response was to gaze harder into the fire, forehead wrinkling as if reading something whose meaning remained elusive.
“I came,” The slight figure continued, “Because I agree it is a shame to waste minor trumps” He hesitated as the larger man bristled at the metaphor, then forged on, “When I have found the joker”
The larger mans head whipped round, “Jura? You found the bastard?”
“Yes”
“He won’t bloody help, you know he won’t”
“If we get him to even consider it might lift the curse, he will help”
“Will it though? I had grown rather fond of the thought of him suffering for lifetimes”
“Only the Morrigan knows”
“Do it, just don’t bring the shit here if he needs patching up”
A hotel room, Saigon. The ceiling fan like a slow-motion helicopter blade, barely moves the thick warm air.
Saigon, Shit. I’m still only in Saigon, every time I wake up it’s back here in Saigon, fan rotating, Doors tune in my head and a craving for a cigarette, I reach to the table, push the empty Brandy bottle aside, feeling for the packet.
I hear the double click of a zippo from across the room and I freeze. Jesus if they have traced me here. It would become an endless computer game of spawn die repeat. The final click as the Zippo closes and a voice.
Calm, cold, “Want one?” female.
See what the rules are, and role with it. Sitting up as I pull the covers over my lower half, the 45 is gone from the table as well as the camels, turn to see who’s here.
Icy beauty, that figures. Pale skin, raven hair, red lips, the whole ensemble but the look isn’t seduction, more watchful distain. She throws me the missing carton.
“One of Morrigan’s?” I’m not going for wit or incite, just getting things rolling as I extract a smoke from the packet, nodding to the Lighter on the table by her side. Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“Matches in that mess on the bedside.” Making me move further back and not giving me a little block of metal to throw, okay. She waits while I light up, trying not to show her how much I need this, even though she knows.
She stubs hers as the silence threatens to break.
“The novice priestess, Jura, she was known to you, yes?”
The past tense was like a frozen blade sinking slowly to my heart.
“What happened?” It came out strained, I didn’t care, If I thought for one second this frigid bitch had harmed her I would kill her, she hadn’t, not even to get at me, I’m not worth a priestess.
She waited, as I worked a few things out, they don’t like to waste breathe, she (Jura), was dead, they wanted revenge and I was their weapon, it wasn’t negotiable, it probably wouldn’t do me any good, in their eyes I was lost, a tool, I would do it, but not for them.
“It’s all in the dossier, she nudged a folder with her foot, you have three days, all in there.” She rose and headed for the door, then paused, without looking back “It will probably take you more than one go, and you never know, it might make a difference.”
I had wished for a mission, something other than the pointless cycle I had settled in to, and for my sins they gave me one, bought like room service by a beautiful woman and when it was over I’d never want another.