Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us by Doty J. L

Author:Doty, J. L. [Doty, J. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781938701337
Publisher: Telemachus Press, LLC
Published: 2013-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: A Bargain Fulfilled

Cadilus opened the door to Magreth’s private sitting room, approached her and bowed deeply, touching one knee to the floor.

“Please rise. You have news of this mortal mage?” Magreth demanded.

Cadilus stood. “Yes, Your Majesty. Apparently, Sabreatha pierced his soul with les flèche du coeur.”

She started and the flames appeared in her eyes. “It is done then. He is dead.”

“I assume so, but I have yet to confirm it.”

“Of course he’s dead. No one survives les flèche du coeur.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. No one survives that.”

She frowned with uncertainty. “Get it confirmed. Immediately.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Cadilus bowed deeply and backed out of the room.

~~~

Anogh dropped to one knee before the Winter King.

“Rise,” Ag said, “and tell me of your success in capturing the young, mortal mage.”

“I did not capture him, Your Majesty. I was intercepted.”

Frost settled on Anogh’s shoulders and in his hair. “You were intercepted?”

Simuth grinned, anticipating Ag’s anger, hoping to see Anogh punished in Ag’s typical brutal fashion.

“Sabreatha,” Anogh said, and both Ag and Simuth started. “She claimed right of contract, and delivered les flèche du coeur.”

Ag stood stunned for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Finally, someone delivers on a promise. Come, Simuth. Let us celebrate.”

~~~

McGowan hauled Paul off to a private clinic down the peninsula run by a friend of his. The friend apparently practiced more than just surgery, and he had a few special colleagues and nurses to help him. Colleen assisted, apparently used some sort of druid healing shtick to shorten his convalescence. He was weak as a kitten for several days, but Katherine had been correct: no vital organs, no serious arteries. And with Colleen treating him on a daily basis with her druid mumbo-jumbo, in one short week he felt reasonably well, though still a bit sore. He’d feel a lot worse if not for the practitioners.

Paul had returned to his apartment after only a few days in the clinic. He was there, about ready to go to bed when a knock on the door startled him. It was late, a little too late for a casual visitor.

Paul peered through the peephole before opening the door, saw three men dressed in dark business suits, but couldn’t make out their faces. He took a brief inventory of his personal wards and those protecting his apartment, then opened the door carefully.

Karpov stood there in his stock attire: coat and tie, dark wool overcoat, wearing a hat that looked like it belonged in a Sam Spade private-eye movie. Behind him, and to either side, stood Boris and Joe Stalin in their horse-blanket, heavy, wool business suits. Both were large, physically imposing men; the word thugs always came to mind. Boris—Paul reminded himself the fellow’s name was really Vladimir—had high, Slavic cheekbones pitted with acne scars, and long, stringy, greasy-blonde hair. And Paul could never put aside how much Joe—Alexei—looked like a young Joseph Stalin: bushy mustache, bristly, short hair.

“Mister Conklin.” Karpov said. He pronounced mister more like meester, and he rolled his r’s heavily in a thick Russian accent.

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