Chapter 10 Fairy Dust

 

On the other side of New London, in the Labyrinth of Love, Spike was in a large armchair made of red leather. The carpet beneath his feet was soft and there was a pint of beer on a table next to him with lines of iridescent dust adjacent.

“Good to be back?” Spike asked the Bookkeeper.

The Bookkeeper sat on the same type of chair next to him. However, he was skinny now—there was not a shred of fat on the man and his skin did not sag. Still, he was topless and runes covered his body. They were currently sitting in the same office the team came to see him in, only the lights had been dimmed and a lavender scent laced the air.

“Yes,” he huffed, “Urum is not exactly as I expected it would be. I went before the Great Merge; what a thriving city it was. Slavery is still good there, but the people are starving.”
“One of those jobbies eh,” Spike commented. “Fucking sand shaggers.”
“I agree, my friend, but here I am, back home in the city I adore,” the Bookkeeper remarked, turning his gaze to three women on stripper poles dancing. All three were naked; one had golden skin, the other with white fur and icy ears, and the last was a human with perfect proportions.

“Seems this city is turning on its head,” Spike muttered. “Aye, and sorry for that last-minute meeting.”

“No need to apologise, Spike. I do understand why they are such a threat to the safety of the city. They almost slipped under my eyes; I suppose the Unwanted is the same. I’m guessing your mission was successful, Mr Famous?”

Spike laughed, shaking his head. “You saw it too? Which I ripped a sick solo now.”

“You should have, my friend!”

“If I knew beforehand I would’ve, believe me, mate,” Spike jeered.

“We should stop talking about work, my friend, let us enjoy a night of pleasure.” The Bookkeeper clapped his hands twice and out came servants with wine, drugs and an entourage of naked women behind them.

Spike bent over onto the table with a straw pressed into his nose. A line of iridescent dust quickly vanished off the table and his eyes flashed with the same colour. As if in space, gravity didn’t seem to affect him. His body slowly rose in the air as if he weighed nothing at all. A naked elf, a part of the entourage, grabbed his crotch and pulled him back down into the comfy leather chair. She straddled him and began to kiss his neck, slowly making her way down to his collarbone. “Fuck - not there, luv,”

Roach had been led out of the Royal Albert Auditorium by the man in the suit. He was pondering what it could be about. Did she want to somehow gloat? His brain was cluttered and clouded with fog; so many thoughts but not enough time to process them, and that was the pinnacle of problems for the man who felt void of anything.

Eventually, the man in the suit stopped outside a rather extravagant club. The entranceway was something from New York in the sixties; a golden porch with bright white lights and a rep carpet. Among the armoured cars outside were what appeared to be an entire battalion of guards equipped with heavy weaponry, and the queue to enter weaved through them. 

Night clubs were not Roach’s scene; it was hard to hear, hard to think, and with all the blinding lights, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of a weapon. Nevertheless, there was no one by his side - he was alone.

Skipping the queue, he was led through a long hallway. Dulled music became unobstructed and a deep bass pulsed through Roach’s body. He was taken to a door which read ‘VIP Private’ in silver lettering. The man opened it and Roach was taken up a staircase. On every step, there was an armoured guard, staring daggers through him.

Upon reaching the landing, the man asked him, “Are you carrying any weapons, sir?” 

“You should have done it before we got here,” Roach corrected him.

“Do you, sir?”

“A knife on my right shin,” Roach replied.

“Why?” he questioned, his hand slowly making their way to his waist.

“Same reason you carry that point-five SMR pistol with armour-piercing rounds,” Roach responded after getting a look at his holster.

“I’ll need to search you, sir,” the man insisted.

Roach blew air out of his nose and held his arms out. A pair of double doors was suddenly swung open and there Elora Evergrand stood with a glass of red wine in hand. She was still dressed up but her extravagant look and demeanour had gone—she looked bothered and tipsy. “Oh for goodness sake, he’s not a threat. If he wanted to kill you or me he would have done so already,” Elora told the bodyguard.

“But Lady Evergrand your father—”

“Did you not hear what I just said?” she questioned arrogantly. “Am I not in charge of myself? Begone and don’t bother us.” 

Roach raised an eyebrow over her assertiveness; she wasn’t like that at all yesterday. He almost liked it. Perhaps this was the real Elora Evergrand.

“Please come in, whatever you want to go by,” she said, standing aside the door.

Roach didn’t say anything as he entered. The room was large and square with a lowered seating area in the middle. One wall was entirely glass that looked over a fancy club. A DJ was on stage and women with eyes of gold prayed on the elites of New London who dared to venture to the Outers for an evening. He noticed a bottle of red wine was half-empty and also the price tag of it. She was drinking an average month’s wage.

“No one’s listening in,” she told him, closing the door and walking towards the lowered central seating. Despite the half bottle of red wine, there was no wobble to her step.

“How can I trust you?” Roach asked.

“Fine, search the room,” she insisted, rolling her eyes with her hands open sparingly. Roach locked eyes with her; she wasn’t a threat, nor did she appear to have an ulterior motive. Why was he here?

“I just wanted—”

“You have some nerve bringing me here,” Roach cut off, “after the shit you said today.”

Elora opened her mouth but no words came out.

“We’re not some fucking stars like you. We’re mercs; we kill, we get paid. The footage being leaked onto the internet was bad enough but then you go and spill shit about me on the news—”

“I just wanted to say thank you!” she exclaimed with furrowed eyebrows.

“I was just doing my job, miss. I like my privacy and you invaded it. I don’t care that you’re rich or famous, you were just someone I protected.”

“I’m miss now, am I?” she abruptly questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re just a person to me. The only difference between me and you is blood and twenty vaults of gold. Good day, miss … and if I were you, forget my face and name.”

“Do you not want your sister to get a good role in the next play?” she offered, taking a sip of wine and kicking off her heels.

“Is that a threat, miss?” Roach questioned, stopping and turning to face her.

“No, it was an offer.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you want a drink? Now I have to apologise for what I’ve just said and thank you. You saved my life, Sol—”

“Roach,” he corrected sternly.

“You’re not doing anything tonight, are you? If you want, we can watch beautiful women act like they’re interested in ugly men?”

Roach clenched his jaw. Bitterness, rage and anxiety were flowing through him. Then again, it was not like he was doing anything anyway. His sisters were out; June was with his teammate and May was most likely throwing herself on any man that had a jawline. The damage had already been done. So why shouldn’t he at least try to enjoy himself? Besides, not many people can say they’ve had a drink with Elora Evergrand.

“Do you have whiskey?” Roach asked her, his tone guarded.

Elora motioned her head towards a black and gold transparent fridge. Inside, illuminated by smoky blue light was a collection of spirits with foreign names attached.

“I’ll stay for one,” Roach told her.

“Cor,” Spike choked and winced, “th‘fuck is that stuff?”

“Moonshine. Earthern moonshine from America. I think it’s a bit weak,” the Bookkeeper joked. 

“Hahaha—fuck off, mate. It’s seventy years old,” Spike said, picking up the small bottle. “Tastes like jet fuel.”

“It’s because it is,” the Bookkeeper joked, smiling wide.

“Another?” Spike offered. “Wooahh, bitch, keep yours outta there.” A naked woman had shoved her hand into his trousers and grabbed his member. “Take it slow, alright? I’m hurt, you need to look after me tonight.”

Between the two, six women were fawning over them like kings. Spike liked the Bookkeeper and loved him for his women. The Labyrinth of Love always lived up to its name.

“You’re going to be eating the carpet after this,” the Bookkeeper told him, pouring a tiny bit of the moonshine between two shot glasses.

“Fuck it, I ain’t working tomorrow.”

“That one in the red dress and black heels,” Elora pointed out, pressing her nose into the glass.

“The one dancing by herself,” Roach remarked.

“And how do you know that?” Elora questioned him.

They were both looking through the one-way glass wall that overlooked the dancefloor. Roach had a glass of whiskey in his hand while Elora had filled her glass up.

“She hasn’t shaved her legs. Her hair isn’t straightened either,” Roach told her.

“But her movements and—”

“She’s having fun.”

“You can tell all that by just looking at someone?” Elora rhetorically asked. “How about the woman in the pencil dress, dancing by the DJ?”

“She wants the DJ, simple—she likes the fame. Coin isn’t an issue for her.”

“How are you so good at this?” she pondered.

“Am I right?”

“Yes, actually, she’s a cousin of mine.”

“Distant I hope,” Roach muttered, raising an eyebrow as he watched the woman turn away from the DJ to pick nothing up from the floor.

“Yes … she is a disappointment,” Elora murmured with a blank expression. “You didn’t answer my question. How are you so good at this?” she asked as she sipped her wine and squinted her eyes at him.

Roach didn’t look back, continuing to watch the dancefloor. “No personal questions.”

“But it wasn’t a personal ques—”

“No personal questions, Elora.”

“Oh, so I’m Elora now?”

“You’re on the verge of going back to miss.”

“Fine fine. That man there, the one with the terrible quiff.”

“That quiff is a wig. Fake watch, cufflinks are real—still cheap if he’s partying here. From the way he’s moving his feet, he has two clogged arteries in both his legs. He can’t afford to get them healed. He could drop dead at any moment. Who is he?”

“Lord Bartholomew; was recently removed from parliament by his house due to multiple rape accusations. He wasn’t removed for that reason but it was a good excuse to fire him for his poor performance and fence-sitting,” Elora answered, taking another sip.

“How young?”

“Thirteen and Fourteen.”

Roach didn’t flinch which surprised Elora. “How about,” Elora proposed, “I tell you one quirk about me—or you ask me, and you answer one of mine?”
“What isn’t there to know about you after a quick search?” Roach countered.

“My whole life isn’t on the internet,” she declared. “Go on then, what?”

“You’re an orphan,” Roach stated.

She placed a hand on her chest, completely shocked. “How, by the Three Moons did you know that?”

“You want to know?”

“Well, of course, the only people who know are seven people. If the press were to find out I—”

“I don’t care that you’re an orphan. The only reason I should care is that it would fetch some coin from the tabloids.”

Elora slapped his arm and Roach half-smirked without his eyes.

“Go on then, how?” she asked, swirling the red wine in her glass.

“Simple things. Your GMS score, it’s unparalleled to your family's line. You were born with a gift and not given it through training like most Evergrands are. The Evergrand family hasn’t produced someone of your calibre for over three centuries, and not to mention you can project and enhance. Your hair; it’s natural, your father's and mother’s isn’t. Neither are your grandparents. Skipping generations is common but still nothing adds up for you. Your eyes and frame are completely different from your family too. Also, to add, you come across as quite tough—you were starved as a child and had to fight for food. You’re over-friendly nature is taught for publicity reasons but you also like to treat people with respect, even with common folk behind the cameras as you were once one of them. Now that I say all that aloud, you’re not too bad for an elite, Elora.”

Elora blinked twice in complete and utter shock and amazement. “You gathered that all from?”

“Simple observations,” Roach replied as he sipped the whiskey. “And a quick search online.”

“So I’m guessing you were taught that during training?” she asked, curiously.

“Is that your question?”

“What?”

“Your personal question?”

“Urm, no, it’s not,” Elora replied, looking down.

“I hope I haven’t upset you,” Roach said honestly. “I thought you brought me up here to gloat or some pointless shit like that. I misjudged the situation.”

“I accept your apology.”

“I didn’t apologise.”

Elora pouted, she couldn’t get through to him. His mind was like rows upon rows of brick walls, with each having nothing behind them but a cold response. “So, Mr Roach, how can you observe someone so easily and discern so many features?”

“I’m not the smartest tool in the shed, Elora, but Pointy has taught me a lot of probability and the art of deduction when reading someone. And I was a great thief before I joined the Unwanted.”

“A thief?” she questioned, covering her smile. “Surely you’re not a thief? The man who can’t die can pick pockets?”
Roach held up her diamond-encrusted watch.

“What? How?!” she exclaimed, clutching at her wrist.

“Easy latch this one,” Roach explained to her, tapping it. “It’s still difficult since there’s only two of us here. Stealing is all about reading, knowing if someone is street-smart. Businessmen can be deceiving; how will they react? Do they have a gun? What gun is it? Is it for show or its intended purpose? Their stride, is it confident? Picking a victim is easy if you know them, and picking the right one is an untouched gold mine. Women make the best targets most of the time and young men with daddy’s coin.” He handed her back the watch.

“And where do I rank in there?” she asked, taking it.

“Clueless women,” Roach responded, holding in a smirk. “And a little tipsy.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”
Elora rolled her eyes.

“You’ve asked me two personal questions. You’re in debt,” Roach remarked, taking a tasteful sip of the expensive whiskey.

“Fire away, Mr Roach, or can I call you—”

“Roach is fine. How are you doing?”

“Oh, personal personal,” Elora said, tapping her wine glass. “As you can see, I’m quite a state. Why are you asking me this?”

“How you feel is how the country feels. You’re the unassigned ambassador to the people. If you’re not great then the people aren’t, and that’s a problem for the Unwanted.”

“This is about work, isn’t it? You don’t care about my feelings?”

“Not at all,” he bluntly stated.

“Then I have another question. Are those your real sisters?”

“That’s too personal.”

“A personal question is a personal question, Mr Roach, don’t change the rules of the game when it's not in your favour.”

Roached breathed through his nose, replying with, “We’re orphans, all of us.”

“How tragic.”

“Quite,” Roach agreed, finishing his whiskey. “It was nice speaking with you, Elora.”

“Can I not tempt you with whiskey from Urum, aged for 150 years? Scented with herbs located in a Drakon’s den that only appear every other generation.”

“That is tempting. If I take the bottle home I’ll stay, but only for another,” Roach bargained.

“A bottle will cost you,” Elora told him, walking over and bringing the whiskey out.

“I only have two gold on me,” Roach replied honestly. “And it’s not being spent on whiskey.”

“It will cost you a question,” she responded, “I can assure you I don’t need coin.”

“Oh, good shit, mate … good shit,” Spike applauded as he rubbed his nose. “Straight out a fairy’s arse.”

“You know, my friend, the three women on the dancefloor are all virgins,” the Bookkeeper told him with a grin.

Spike returned it. “I can smell business coming from you.”

“I don’t think you can smell anything right now.”

Spike inhaled through his clogged nose. “No, I can.”

The Bookkeeper chuckled and pointed to one of them on the stripper poles. “The one with gold skin; she’s a Sun Seeker from beyond the Gold Sea. Their people live on mountains and build towers to be as close to the sun as possible. The higher the tower, the more status you have. Over time, their skin turned reflective and golden to counteract the rays from the sun. They all possess a genetic ability to turn invisible.”

“Are they all like that?” Spike questioned, eyeing the women up.

“Yes. They don’t eat, only drink and spend all day staring at the sun. It’s a matriarchy—very interesting. Bitchy but civilised. Men are treated terribly, worse than any women here. Violence is outlawed completely. Instead, humiliation, rejection and long working hours are punishment.”

“I do love me a bitch,” Spike said, tipping fancy spirit down his neck. “And what’s that one?”

“Ice Wolf, purebred. Picked up from the icy coast in the Land of Giants near Strokkun. Her people are fierce but tameable. They do not sweat but do have a cold touch so to speak. These are popular in Sandrum as it is so hot. The auction for her was—well, pricey, especially for a virgin.”

“And that one? The human? Is she a di?”

“No, not a di. She is the very best from a long line of slave breeding. Look at the curvy hips, the upright breasts and the slightly muscular stomach. No gag reflex, already snipped and has extraordinary genetic stamina.”

Spike grunted in agreement. “So, my friend, my kind Dagian, what’s your price?”

The Bookkeeper sipped his drink and side-eyed the eccentric bard. “For you my friend, eighty gold for one of them.”

Spike blew air out his nose in temptation.

“And,” the Bookkeeper continued, motioning to the woman around them, “you may have any else of these women free of charge.”

Spike grinned and shook his head. “They’re all virgins too, right?”

“Yes, my friend, I do not lie. I even have a gynaecologist on standby at the Labyrinth just to check.”

“I believe you, mate, don’t you worry,” Spike grunted in pleasure from the thought. He eyed the three women dancing. Most would debate the options, but Spike had already made his mind before had even sat down. “I’ll have the Ice Wolf.”

“Good choice. I know you like your women tough,” the Bookkeeper replied, grabbing Spike’s shoulder and squeezing. “Eyluygen,” the Bookkeeper said to the Ice Wolf, “this is your man, and he is my friend, treat him to the best of the night of his life.”

“Yes, Bookkeeper,” the Ice Wolf replied in a loose English accent. She walked over with a blue and silver tail swishing behind her. She bent over, grabbed Spike's collar and pulled him to his feet. He shivered.

“So, Mr Roach, do you have any more questions for me?” Elora asked, leaning on the window and looking down. Her two top buttons had just been undone.

“Not really,” Roach said, still people-watching.

“Nothing at all?”

“No. The whiskey is good,” Roach muttered.

“What shall we talk about then, the weather?”
“No no no, not the weather,” Roach confirmed, adamant it would not lead to small talk.

“Can I ask you a question then?” Elora asked, looking at the side of his eyes.

Roach turned and looked her up and down, then back to the club. “Go on.”

“How are you hard to kill?”

“Just a lot of body conditioning,” Roach responded.

“That’s a lie,” she responded.

Roach raised an eyebrow towards her. “And tell me why?”

She pouted, looking him up and down. “I’m very sensitive to mana, yet I feel nothing from you.”

“And?”

“You have no mana.”

“Pretty obvious,” Roach responded, taking a sip. “I was born with Broken-Heart Syndrome. I do have mana, it’s just so little it's unnoticeable.”

“I’ve heard of it. Very rare, right? So how is someone with no mana, able to condition his body to regenerate so fast?” she questioned, tapping her wine glass with her nails.

“You’ve got me there, but that’s still a secret.”

Elora didn’t respond. She turned around and settled into the lower-seating area. “When you were regenerating from what seemed like nothing, I saw some unusual marks covering you.”

Roach ignored her.

“I’m not a fan of the silent treatment,” she spoke, tilting her head at him.

“Get used to it,” Roach snapped, turning around to face her. For the first time, he saw her beauty. It was odd—Roach never experienced feelings like this. Yet her enlarged, blue eyes, her high cheekbones and even the curve of her chest made him briefly halt for a split-second. “What did you see?”

“Tallies, thousands of them, and a skull—a tattoo of a skull so perfect no steady hand could do it.”
“You saw all that within a few seconds?” Roach questioned, raising an eyebrow.

She looked down, embarrassed, “I may have watched the video a few times.”

Roach nodded slowly, taking a sip after. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m just doing what you’re doing. And by The Three Moons, you already know everything about me. Do you want to elaborate then?”

“That’s too personal.”

“Personal questions are—”

“I know … I know, but there are things not even my teammates know.”

“Do your sisters not know who you are? What you can do?”

“Of course not. Work and personal are completely separate. The fewer people know the better.”

Elora nodded slowly in agreement. “How are they your sisters?”

“Too personal.”

“Oh, Mr Roach, you don’t like to talk much, do you?”

Roach ignored her, sipping the whisky.

“Are sure you couldn’t enlighten me further?” As his back was turned, she laid down on the lowered seating and tucked her legs up to her behind. She made sure a portion of her cleavage was showing but not too much exposed - just enough to add mystery and allure. Roach, seeing it all in the reflection of the glass, raised an eyebrow—why was she doing this, and to someone like him?

“Elora, sleeping with someone like me won’t do you any good,” he harshly spoke without turning around. “I’m far below you, and I’m sure any male model would bow at your feet for the chance.”

“I—I—”

“I enjoy talking to you,” Roach replied, turning around, whiskey in hand.

Meeting his eyes, she slowly rose and walked sensually towards him. Placing a hand around his on the whiskey glass, she took it from him, settling it down on the glass table, and standing back up an inch away from him. She could smell his manly odour, and himself her enchanting perfume. Raising her hand to his chest, she grabbed the top button and undone it. Roach snatched at her hand.

“Please,” she said softly.

Roach let go - she carried on; one by one, his buttons began to undo. She stopped halfway to admire the tallies on his body, dragging her finger up and down them. As she went to undo the last button, his phone rang.

“I have to take that,” Roach told her.

“Interrupting Elora Evergrand?” she questioned with a smirk, then kissing his pec.

“Unfortunately so.”

She pouted as Roach reached into his trousers and saw the number. “I have to go,” he told her firmly.

“Now?”

“Now,” Roach replied, doing his buttons up.

“Is there any chance I could - we could meet up again,” she offered, tilting her head, enlargening her eyes.

“Those eyes don’t work on me,” Roach told her. “But I’d like to, yes.”

“Don’t keep me waiting,” she told him as Roach threw his jacket on.

“I’ll try not to,” Roach replied as he headed out the door.

“Wait,” Elora said, heading out after him. “What’s your number?”

It was too late, Roach had gone. She slumped back into the seating area with a loud huff. There was something she found intriguing about him, or perhaps it was the first man who told her no. Reaching between a cushion in the seats, she pulled her phone out and speed-dialled her assistant.

“Elora, everything ok?” a voice answered on the other side.

“Yes, everything is fine. Could you contact the Unwanted rep?”

“Urm, sure, I can, I could go through your father—”

“No, not my father, this must not go through him.”

“Of course, what would you like the message to say?”

“I would like the contact details of an Unwanted, Raptor Rank, Roach, it is very important to me that I speak with him.”

“Consider it done, Elora.”

Inside a bedroom, draped in silk sheets, red lights with a musty smell, Spike was enjoying his well-earned time off. His feet were in the air and three women were down below, servicing the eccentric bard. The ice wolf, whose name he’d forgotten already, was straddling his stomach with her cold-to-the-touch thighs. Spike was having a wonderful time.

“I want you to talk to me,” the ice wolf instructed in broken english, grabbing his fingers and thrusting them on her breasts.

“Talk about—” he coughed, “talk about what?” Spike slurred.

“How I want your big dick inside me.”

A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream came from the other room. 

“What was that?” Spike asked, sitting up.

The ice wolf grabbed his neck and pushed him into the silk sheets. Spike quickly forgot about it as her cold tongue licked his ear. “Cor, you naughty slag. Sit on my face.” Clutching her behind, Spike thrust her crotch on his face, finding it cold and wet. He licked up and down, biting her through her white panties.

Another scream came.

Spike sat upright, throwing her off and kicking the other women away. Muffled gunshots rang out, along with the clanging of blades and blood spurting. Spike dove for his guitar in the corner and began to tune it. His guitar turned thin and long, with the end becoming a sharpened point.

Suddenly, the door began to rot, ageing hundreds of years before his eyes. An all-consuming presence was on the other side of the room, suffocating his attempt at fighting back. But Spike would never go out without a fight. The door was thrown off its hinges, splinters of wood showering the women and himself. Jumping on the bed, stark bollock naked, he propelled himself off, guitar raised above his head. For a split-second, Spike saw the intruder; it was the same man as before with half a theatre mask covering his face.

Before he could react, a circle of grey magic was emitted from the man’s palm, wrapping around Spike and invading every inch of his being. His body became limp, slumping into the side of the wall and the colour of his eyes turning a ghostly white.