Guardians of the Gates - Part 1, The New Breed by Jeff Schanz (best short books to read .TXT) 📕

her mind, which was, “Your eyes are so beautiful.” But she froze, completely entranced by Sebastian’s very unique irises. Irises that could scramble a memory, or daze someone for a little while, or make them lose track of time. He held her gaze for a few moments, planning to only scramble her recent memory, so she would simply have a lost hour, or so where she could remember nothing from that time. But he hesitated, feeling like he was stealing something. Though that feeling had nagged at him during other scrambles, not as much as at that moment. Why couldn’t Jillian’s memory just be vague? There could be hints of confusing things, but her general memory could stay intact? She didn’t deserve to be blanked. Nobody did. Sebastian held back his concentration. In the long run, there was no telling what mind-scrambling could do to a brain. He always felt his way was gentler than the drugs, though he had no proof. Anyway, Jillian wouldn’t completely lose her memory tonight. It would just likely be very vague, which would hopefully be healthier for her. He blinked and released his eye lock.

Sebastian said, “You look fine. No problems.”

He let her chin drop and she blinked slowly, rhythmically. Her thoughts were completely blank for a moment. Sebastian sighed. It would be nice if she didn’t completely forget me, but I doubt she’ll remember any details. Too bad. It would be nice to talk to a girl for once without it involving scrambling her brain, either intentionally, or accidentally.

He covered her with a throw blanket she had folded on the couch. She sat still, blinking. “Thank you,” she said softly, to no one in particular. “That was a weird dream. I’m so sleepy.”

Satisfied she was sufficiently confounded, he folded Frank’s coat across a chair and headed for the door. As he grasped the handle, he noticed several individually wrapped chocolate wafers in a plastic bowl. She had indeed just bought some biscuits, hadn’t she? He grabbed two of them and quietly said, “thanks” before he walked out.

 

 

 

Sebastian was running on fumes. He had gone to London two days ago to help with a group of wolfers in the English countryside that had given the British Saint field agents a hard time. The wolfers’ elimination took longer than expected. Then, heading back to his hotel already tired, he passed by Regent’s Park and caught the strange, bloodthirsty thoughts of something both feral, yet human enough to speak English in its mind. Quickly changing course, he interceded, tapping into energy he wasn’t sure he had in reserve. It had already been a long two days in London. Killing wolfers in the countryside was exercise enough. Stalking and killing another one in Regent’s Park, plus carrying an unconscious woman to her apartment, not to mention the fancy footwork to sneak her there without being noticed and fingered as some rapist who drugged his date, and then the effort to scramble her thoughts, and don’t forget the jetlag, all added up to one very exhausted Saint. A hungry Saint too. Two cookies, a.k.a. “biscuits,” were not enough to sufficiently replace the energy lost. But energy or not, he had more work to do. No sightseeing this trip, even though he had been at the entrance of the immense British Museum just the other day visiting a very “special” antiques dealer. That antiques dealer had a secret side occupation that was important to Sebastian’s work. And before the evening was over, Sebastian would have to return there as well.

Edwin Fryer ran a very respectable antiques and artifacts shop. He never bought or sold anything controversial, or gained anything from anyone controversial. In essence, he was as clean as a whistle to all the authorities who dig into archeological dealers and their business practices. Probably way too clean for anyone who might be looking for suspicious activity. Sebastian had no idea how Edwin had managed to escape judgmental inquisitors when it was well known that the first rule of good cover stories was to not look too spotless. Whatever. Not my problem. Squire Fryer was as crooked as he needed to be when it came to lending out the essential tools in the Saints’ trade. Sebastian had only met him a couple of times, but was still his favorite supplier. He loved the European medieval gear almost as much as Japanese medieval weaponry. Granted he shouldn’t care as long as it did the job, nevertheless, medieval long swords were as cool as they came. And he still had to eventually return the sword Edwin had loaned him, just not yet. Still things to do tonight.

Next stop: A demon-infused little runt named Nigel.

He doubted he needed the sword for Nigel, but you never know. Nigel wasn’t a typical demon. He wasn’t a typical anything. But he referred to himself as a “reformed demon.” As a rule, it was never wise to confront someone possessed by, or suffused with, demon energy, albeit a “reformed” one, without a stable weapon. Demons aren’t to be trusted, period. But then, who is?

Sebastian’s trip to Nigel’s apartment in Queen’s Docks hadn’t taken long. It was not a difficult trip at this hour, and even easier if you had a motorcycle. Like the sword, the bike had been borrowed off one of Sebastian’s associates. Sebastian loved the simplicity of them when you were traveling light, and it was also nice to be able to weave through traffic. No traffic at this hour to worry about though. All the better for Sebastian’s faltering alertness. Plus, the less time he spent on the eastern side of London, the better. Some pockets of clean living were all around, but they were bordered by some of the scariest city dwellers anyone could find. The food delivery vehicles long ago quit doing any business in Queen’s Docks, as they kept losing money when their drivers were robbed. Of course, the drivers, like all London denizens, weren’t allowed to carry weapons, so it followed that when enough employees threatened to quit, the employers dumped the route. But Sebastian did have a weapon, and he didn’t think a bunch of gangster malcontents were more difficult to handle than a seven-foot croco-wolf-thing.

Sebastian stared at the number on the door. It looked different than the last time he visited. At least, he thought so. Was this even the same place? He knocked underneath the numbers “6” and “9,” which were not consistent with the other apartment numbers. Nigel always had an adolescent sense of humor.

It took almost two minutes and another series of knocking before the door finally opened. Holding the knob was a short, skinny, sallow-faced man who was in his late twenties, but whose body had seen enough chemical infusions to resemble a man much older. His large bug-like eyes closed and he squeezed his lips tight as he recognized his visitor. He quickly regained his composure, or more likely remembered to fake this composure, and smiled broadly.

“Ah, Sebastian, me ol’ sod. How are ya, mate?” said the sallow-faced man. His accent was the clichéd mix of cockney and gutter English. It sounded more like a foreign actor’s attempt at English rather than a genuine accent. If Sebastian didn’t know better, he would’ve accused the man of faking it.

“Nigel,” said Sebastian, with a broad, just-as-fake smile. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Nigel examined the air, smile fading slightly. “Weren’t you ‘ere three months ago?”

“Was I? I missed you that much, I guess,” said Sebastian. He stepped into the doorframe. Nigel shifted uneasily.

“Your, uh, brother isn’t ‘ere is ‘e?” asked Nigel.

Sebastian just grinned as he abruptly pushed past Nigel into the hallway.

“Ah, come on, mate. I’ve got…,” Nigel made a meaningful tossing motion with his head. “Guests,” he finished.

Sebastian grinned. “I’m a guest too, Nigel.”

“Yeah, but you don’av tits, do you?”

Sebastian entered Nigel’s kitchen and peered into the small living room. It was furnished with an assortment of outdated paraphernalia like lava lamps, doorway beads, and glow-in-the-dark fantasy posters. Nigel apparently resigned his decorating tastes to the secondhand stores, with the exception of a few recent playmates of the month on the rear wall.

Two ladies of questionable moral character lounged in the center of this retro palace, wearing only their undergarments. Neither looked particularly aware of anything in this room, or in this world for that matter.

“Nigel, you brought one for me? So sweet of you.”

Nigel rolled his eyes and turned on his kitchen light. “Yeah, right. Perhaps you want to tell me what in the bleedin’ hell you want so I can get back to entertainin’ me guests.”

Sebastian smiled and knelt near one of the ladies. Her eyes were about as dilated as possible as she smiled and stared unblinking at Sebastian. He turned to Nigel with an arched eyebrow.

“What?” said Nigel. “They were this way before they got ‘ere.”

Sebastian smirked and shook his head slightly.

“Oi, it’s some shit I got from a bloke in Limehouse,” said Nigel. “Swear it’s straight.”

By “straight,” Nigel meant not from any kind of rift-altered substance, or dimensionally enhanced artifact. Sebastian didn’t really care, and Nigel knew that too, so there was no response to Nigel’s comment.

“Whatever, mate,” continued Nigel, opening his refrigerator for a beer. “What d’you want?”

Sebastian caught a glance inside the fridge, briefly wondering if there might be something in it worthy of eating. But Nigel’s fridge was worse than his own. Nothing but condiments and beer.

“Just some information, if you have it,” said Sebastian.

“Yeah, yeah. Like I’m Deep Throat or something. You Saints think I hang around dodgy bastards all day so I can get enough shit to pass on to you. Just ‘cause me job don’t pay me much, you think I go around peepin’ an’ creepin’. You’re a bunch of lunatics, you are.”

“Never said we weren’t.” Sebastian wasn’t in the mood to be bartered with. He had paid Nigel before, and may even do so again, but he had no cash on him now, and he was very tired. It was true Nigel wasn’t really a player anymore, however, he had associations with many of the very troublesome entities that haunted the earth. Entities that Sebastian and The Saints referred to as demons. Although the term demon was used very loosely regarding pretty much any entity or energy that came out of any dimensional rift, however in Nigel’s case, it fit.

He called himself a “reformed” demon, which he said sounded better than a possessed human. There was nothing reformed about Nigel other than he didn’t get caught doing the shady things he did. Sebastian had heard Nigel’s story about how he escaped some sort of slavery in the other dimension and ended up inhabiting Nigel’s body. The questionable details of the story seemed to change every time Nigel told it, but the reality was that the human part of Nigel did seem to welcome the outer-dimensional entity’s presence. The demon Nigel had a kind of power the human Nigel didn’t understand but wanted. The human Nigel was a lonely and depressed communications technician, the demon Nigel needed a body, and they came to an agreement. Almost like a movie about some schmuck who sells himself to the devil for fame and fortune, Nigel got a demon makeover to become Nigel 2.0. He still looked the same, still did the same stuff (yes, Nigel still actually worked), but he had a strange magnetism that got him what he wanted. Plus a thin moral core which further helped him get what he wanted. And as long as he didn’t call attention to himself too much, he stayed in the clear. The new Nigel craved sex like a man in the desert craves water, and spent most all his days building up to the next great conquest. Tonight looked like a mission accomplished.

The two ladies in his living room were surprisingly attractive. Sebastian doubted they would’ve come here for free. Certainly, they wouldn’t have been interested in Nigel under legitimate circumstances. But the demon