CHAPTER 6: SWORD OF DAMOCLES

  SOUTH END—OCTOBER 17th, 1992 | AFTERNOON

  ?

  Leroy couldn’t blame him for the anger.

  The rage, the fury, the spite. It flowed from him freely, violently, like a vapor that could be set alit into something far more volatile. He killed the kid’s friend, or girlfriend, or sister—whatever Mercedes Garcia was to him—but she didn’t give him much of a choice. She didn’t call off her damned flame-sprite, and moreover, still had the gall to reach for the gun on the floor. If there was any mercy to be had, the possibility of it was lost on Leroy the moment she decided to try him again. Two times over he had warned her, and two times over she refused to listen. Leroy didn’t feel bad about the way it all turned out. He wasn’t about to lose his life, or a paycheck, over her antics.

  Whispers intensified, and as Cameron approached him, Leroy felt the mark on his neck warble and scream, hissing words in a language that he never fully understood, but recognized nonetheless. Wicked and vile sweet nothings that only he could hear. Ones that only grew louder the longer he made use of the foul abilities afforded to him by his contract.

  Yaerzul wanted him to let loose. To do more.

  Let me out.

  Leroy denied him this. “Quiet.”

  Cameron advanced, slow and strong, heavy in spite of his size. Leroy clenched his fist and pulled, and the water Cameron stepped into sprouted into a large and frozen spike. It sent him up into the ceiling. Its tip shattered against his bone-like skin. Not a scratch.

  Cameron landed stomach-first. What began as a crawl swiftly turned into a dash, and Cameron bounded toward Leroy with a raised fist. If he had any skill at all, it was forfeited to a striking and undeniable aggression. The grooves and rivets of his knuckles were clad in that same ivory material, and Leroy, knowing better than to meet him head on, pushed off his back foot, calling upon the water once more. One puddle turned into a wall that sprouted to the ceiling. And another. And another; and each broken through by Cameron’s strained punches.

  If nothing else, the kid was persistent. Dangerously so.

  Leroy had to think smarter, not harder. He used up all of the bullets of his gun to bust enough holes in the faucet to create a continuous leak, so that was off the table—and even if he had bullets, he doubted they’d do anything against Cameron’s skin. Hexlings were troublesome things. Children of contractors, like him, who’d inherited two things: a variation of their parent’s contract abilities and a forfeited soul.

  Cameron Kessler was damned, or at least, his soul was. There was more to it than that, and some nuance to what they were exactly, but none of that nuance was going to serve him in the moment. Only some of it did, which Leroy conveniently recalled: hexling abilities were derivative in nature, limited in scale, and couldn't be used for long. At least, this was true for the ones who were still young, inexperienced, and lacking in formal instruction. Cameron Kessler checked all of those boxes.

  Cameron yelled and his voice cracked and shook. If there were any words spoken, they were unintelligible and frenzied.

  Leroy’s tired eyes glanced around the room. He visualized where the piping of their loft’s plumbing must have been situated. More water, more ice, more cold. He didn’t need to enter a brawl with Cameron, he just needed to find a way to gas him out, or otherwise keep him contained until his abilities ran dry.

  Cameron advanced. He broke through the third wall of ice faster than Leroy anticipated, and before Leroy could think to conjure anything else from the remnant leaks of water, he was punched—hard—in the center of his chest. Air thrusted out of his lungs, followed by an audible crunch, his old bones gaining a new fracture somewhere: rib, floating rib, sternum, collar bone. Could've been any which one of them, or two, or all of them. All he knew was that Cameron Kessler hit like a bull, and he was the matador that should've retired years ago. Leroy hit the wall behind him. The force of the impact caused the exposed concrete to crack. A dull pain shot up and down his back.

  And the kid—relentless.

  He closed the distance and threw another punch toward Leroy. Leroy whisked two fingers up, a large shard of ice erupting from the nearest puddle. It crashed into Cameron’s back, not hurting him in the slightest, only off-setting his balance just enough so that he’d miss. Cameron’s ivory-armored hand punched straight though the wall instead of into Leroy’s face.

  Good. If he peppered the walls enough, he’d save Leroy the leg work of exhausting himself breaking it apart with his ice. It was a risky thing, though, remaining so up-close-and-personal with a hexling that, with enough persistence, might very well beat him to death. Ten years ago, Leroy would’ve taken a more aggressive approach. Would’ve met him head on, embraced the scrap of it all. His knees weren’t what they were, and mean as his left hook was, his knuckles wouldn’t break Cameron’s face. Cameron’s face would break his hand. Goad, redirect. That would be his one-two. Not a jab and a cross.

  “Had it coming,” Leroy finally replied. “Warned her. She went the stupid route and decided not to listen.”

  Cameron’s eyes narrowed. He pounced toward Leroy once more, and Leroy leaned up against the wall again. Like clockwork, his two fingers flick up again. Ice was reused from what had already been shattered and drawn from what remains of the puddle. Another shard emerged in tandem with Cameron’s punch, and once more, he is set off balance. His heavy handed strike goes straight through the wall.

  Rosco, all the while, was still unconscious on the ground, peppered in splashes of water and remnant blood spatter. He hadn’t moved since Leroy entered the loft with him, where he’d left Rosco already on the verge of incapacitation. Leroy honed in on him. More fuel. “Your friend there was quick to sell you out, too! Gave you and your friends up real quick. Don’t blame me, blame him, or better yet, blame David—he’s the one who started this all, no?”

  Cameron bellowed out in anger. Blinded by his rage, he couldn't see what was happening to him, nor understand how easily Leroy was taking advantage of his recklessness. He once again fell victim to Leroy’s goading, his taunting, and missed him for a third time, his hardened hand shooting through the wall, just barely missing Leroy’s face.

  Then came the water. Far more of it.

  Cameron punched squarely though a pressurized pipe, maybe even multiple at once. A burst of water spilled out, onto Cameron, onto Leroy, onto the ground. Abundance. It prompted a smile from Leroy, wise and whimsical, and he held a hand out. Ice crystallized along Cameron’s arm, still lodged in the wall. He broke free. The water flowed, and flowed, and flowed. The frost multiplied, over and over, until it took hold of him. Until Cameron’s arm was stuck.

  Leroy clenched his hand and twisted.

  Ice spread all around Cameron’s body. It expanded and thickened into an exoskeletal, crystalline prison that swelled around his silhouette until he could no longer move. Cameron’s skin sustained it, bound, but unharmed, save for his face and his scalp, both of which were rapidly succumbing to the lowered temperatures. His fair complexion splotched with the blues and purples of second-degree frostbite.

  Any water that was left from the leaking pipe was reduced to half a droplet. Leroy heard it hit the ground, felt how it mixed with the larger pool of liquid that was now around all of them. His checkered flat cap, hardly soaked, still had enough water on it to bother him. He took it off, shook it, placed it back onto his head, and stood in front of Cameron.

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  “Y-Y-You.. you—” The cold made Cameron's lips quiver. That was all he could get out before he began to shudder.

  Leroy didn’t need to hear anything further from him. Didn’t want to. Cameron’s eyes said enough: gray like steel, with a quiet wrath that was not given the chance to be let loose. Not fully. It was a leer of an animal who felt cheated, who felt wronged; the spiteful stare of a creature who could not fully realize the violence that came so naturally to it.

  “Look. I’m not going to lie to you, kid, and tell you that I’m sorry. I warned her. Warned both of you. And you both went with the choice that was the wrong one.” Leroy stepped back.

  He leaned up against the wall and exhaled, raising his hand around his neck. More whispers goaded him, and the dim teal glow of the mark on his neck radiated traces of light between the fingers that covered it. “This?”

  Cameron stared at it, frost paling the features of his face. By now he couldn't speak at all, even if he wanted to.

  “You don’t care about that. You? You’re wondering what’ll happen if you get out of this, wondering when you’ll be able to even the odds. Eye for an eye sort of thing—you seem the type.”

  Cameron flared his teeth, the skin of his frosted lips breaking. Speckles of dry blood framed the corners of his mouth.

  “Chances are, you’ll be living the rest of your life behind a cell at Blackpool Penitentiary. They’ve got people in there who are stronger than you. Older, meaner, scarier. Wicked, foul. Nasty. Hexlings, like you, contractors, like me. Thaumaturgists, mesmers, witches. All manner of those mutated accursed. Once you’re there, you don’t get out. Ever. Make your peace with that."

  Leroy scanned the room for the time, and was surprised to find a blocky digital clock in the corner of the room. It was the middle of the afternoon. Leroy grimaced. If he had more time, he might be able to slap Rosco awake, get some more answers out of him. A mistake on his part. If Leroy hadn't felt so rushed, or maybe, if he cared more about this stint, he would've had the sensibility to ask the guy what their missing ringleader, David St. James, was up to. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Rosco was laying in a pool of water, clothes soaked, hair slickened wet. Not far from him was Mercedes, still suspended on the frosted spike that killed her. What a mess.

  Leroy’s water-slickened boots pattered through the puddles. The faucet of the kitchen sink, or what remained of it, was still leaking, and he was careful to avoid it as he surveyed the loft. A wall-mounted phone was on the opposite end of the room, closer to the central corridor that Leroy suspected led to each of their rooms. He pressed the numbers to see if it worked. He smiled to himself at the sound of the first beep first beep, entered a few more numbers, picked up the receiver, and listened to the low hum.

  “Civic and Occult Authority. What is your emergency?”

  “Put Holmes on the line.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Leroy Waters. Arbiter. License number A0902-82.”

  “One moment,” the dispatcher said. Click. Leroy turned and leaned against the wall. He stared at the icy silhouette that clung to Cameron’s features and was satisfied to see that he held up.

  “Leroy?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Holmes. Got it handled, mostly. Listen, ah.. their little ringleader, David? No clue where he’s at. But I’ve dealt with the other two, go ahead and send your boys in. Set a timer. You’ve got twenty minutes before I head out.”

  “Leroy, the arbitration note specified—”

  “You called me 'cause you said the hexling was the main problem. I handled it, alright?”

  “Alright, alright. No need to get lippy with me, asshole. Look, all I’m saying? Hausser, she’s going to be pissed. She wanted all of the Sables handled. Not two out of the three.”

  “Take twenty-percent off my commission. You remember what I told you, yeah? About me needing to be at city hall? My license is due to expire today. Need to renew it. If Hausser really wants me to find this David guy, tell her to find me in Cyprus Alley or to call my line directly.”

  Captain Holmes exhaled, his hefty breath buzzing through the phone. “I’ll send some people out. Sit tight.”

  Leroy hung up and placed the receiver back into the wall-mounted phone line. He made for the couch and sat down, letting out a much-needed groan, and leaned back, kicking his feet up onto the table. The mark on his neck was still glowing, and the whispers had continued all the while. It was only now that Yaerzul’s words became clear. Its voice was discordant, painful, almost, thumbing through his mind like frostbitten fingernails breaking on a chalkboard.

  Why did you let him live?

  “Because.”

  Speak plainly. You killed the girl. She was no threat to you. You could have subdued her, easily, as you subdued him.

  Leroy rubbed his face.

  You’ve sowed the seeds of revenge in him. You have made him more dangerous because of it, and you know not of the demon’s essence he has inherited. Its name and its power. The boy will grow stronger and it will be your end if you do not kill him now.

  “Would you shut the fuck up?” Leroy snapped. “We’ve been through worse.”

  I am merely warning you.

  “Warning me,” Leroy said with a huff. “Alright.”

  Kill him.

  Maybe Yaerzul was onto something, but Leroy did not think to entertain the demon any further. Its contradictions were tiring. Let loose, kill, blah, blah, blah. It couldn’t help its nature, and that, Leroy understood. The sooner Leroy died, the better off for Yaerzul. He’d collect on Leroy's soul and move onto the next. It struck him as odd whenever the demon uttered its warnings and its omens and its words of caution. He’d been with this thing for years, and knew now that most of its words were meant to steer him towards danger. A demon’s diet has two parts: chaos first, and the soul of those whom it possessed second.

  Attempting to kill Cameron would either yield further chaos by way of blood and death, or, it would get Leroy killed in the process, and Yaerzul could collect early and move onto whatever spring chicken was foolish enough to make a pact with him. Younger body, better vessel. Half of Leroy's desire to stay alive was just to spite the fucker. Leroy shook his head at the whole thing. Yaerzul was a fool if he thought Leroy would want to go fist-for-fist with that kid. He glanced over his shoulder again, content with the body-shaped prison he’d put Cameron in, and smiled.

  You are trapping him in the same cycle as you.

  Leroy set his jaw. “Enough.”

  You think you are robbing him of the opportunity to get revenge. It is different. She is dead, and you have given up, and my power remains wasted on you. You have resigned yourself to thinking it is over. He is not like you; this I know. He will not abandon the feeling that sits heavy in his chest like the weight of the world itself. A feeling you once knew. A feeling you lost. You told him he will not have a chance—you are wrong. Speaking in absolutes will only encourage him. He who is younger than you. He who is headstrong. He who is foolhardy. His inexperience is his strength; a sword still being forged. And when the path you have put him down is made clear to him, it will hang over you.

  Louder and louder. Yaerzul's dissonant voice grew to be undeniable, and Leroy held his head.

  You will deny this for as long as it suits you. But one day you will look up to see where it looms, and you will know that Cameron Kessler is not another victim to your carelessness. He is your Sword of Damocles.

  LEROY WATERS

  CAMERON KESSLER

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