Interlude V
Jimmy Lee might be getting on in years, but by God, he still takes care of The Bog all on his own.
And this morning? Well, this morning, he has maintenance work to do again.
He wakes before even the roosters are ready to crow, his creaky old bones protesting.
In his eighty-seven years on earth, he has never had so many aches and pains as he’s had this past year or two, and they are steadily worsening.
But that’s alright, he thinks; all part of the aging process.
That’s what makes him human, in the end.
Smiling, Jimmy pulls on his work overalls and galoshes to keep the mud off of his newer pairs of boots.
He hums as he prepares breakfast for his two guests, the little lovebirds in the far shack across the circle.
Rather pleasant the two are; yessiree, he enjoys their company quite a bit.
The strong-looking Faeral helps cut wood for him without having to be asked, and the softer one gives him a good bit of conversation.
They’re supposed to be here only briefly for their own protection, though Jimmy can’t imagine who would want to do them harm.
It will be a darn shame to see them go once the Reapers have the situation all sorted.
He loads their breakfast tray with eggs, toast, and extra buttery grits, along with a pitcher of orange juice.
He carries it carefully through the central building, using his back to push open the old front door that doesn’t sit quite right in its frame.
He heads down to their shack, gives a soft knock at their door, and sets the tray down.
“Jimmy?” comes a voice from inside, which he recognizes as Ms. Mariam’s.
“Yes’m, here with breakfast.”
“Thank you!” comes a chorus of both ladies’ voices. Jimmy nods to himself and then sets off as Mariam opens the door to take the tray in. Hafta remember to pick that up later, he thinks to himself.
Humming to a little tune he likes to play on his harmonica, he makes his way to his maintenance shed.
He finds the key on the keyring in his front pocket and unlocks it, then retrieves his big red toolbox from a dilapidated shelf inside.
He grabs a ladder out, too. Some shingles are looking a mite bit loose, and he wants to get a handle on them before they become a bigger issue.
It will be a long day for Jimmy Lee, that is for sure.
* * *
The sun in the sky doesn’t make the day feel any shorter; it beats down on him the entire time he works, making him sweat an awful ton, soaking his handkerchief through.
It’s an awfully hot morning, especially for fall, and on the roof nailing down the loosening shingles, he feels it most keenly.
He hates to call strangers from the Reapers’ human connections out to his shacks to fix the problems he can’t, so he tries to make everything last as long as possible, including his shingles.
Besides, the last roofers were terribly rude.
The next job is cleaning the gutters, a gunky, slimy job, but someone has to do it, and that someone is him.
Shortly after noon, he takes a break to make the two ladies their next meal and trade their breakfast tray for a lunch platter, as well as to have lunch himself.
A good hot cheese, ham, and fresh onion sandwich with a moonpie.
One of his favorite lunches since he was a wee one, yes sir. Then it was back to work.
That evening, while preparing their dinner (a mighty good feast of his homemade macaroni and cheese, stewed collard greens, and steaks), he heard someone or something moving around out in the entryway of his shack. It would be awful strange for one of the ladies to come by out of the blue.
Setting his oven mitt down, he peeks out of the kitchen to find a youngster he doesn’t recognize, a big fella with a face full of pockmarks and acne scars.
Jimmy gets a shiver looking at him, a specific magical shiver that tells him it’s a Reaper.
Jimmy usually gets warning beforehand if a Reaper’s coming by, but it could be he missed something, or maybe it’s an emergency.
The man certainly looks confident that he’s in the right place.
Jimmy decides to greet him with a smile as he steps out from the kitchen, offering his hand. “Well, howdy there! I didn’t know—” Jimmy stops himself, noticing too late that the man has a hand hidden behind his back.
The Reaper takes a step forward and swings his arm out towards him… and in his hand, a blade.
Jimmy Lee is dead before he can scream.
* * *
Through Darwin’s eyes, Caedren watches the old man’s head roll across the floor, landing with a thud at the base of his well-polished counter.
The corpse slumps to the ground as blood begins to pool around what’s left of its neck.
Caedren sniffs. Hundreds of miles away from the scene, he cleans his own blade, then sets it on the table among his other tools.
“What now, Master?” the Reaper asks, though he’s speaking mind to mind rather than out loud.
“The food, Darwin. The food. Use the sedative.” Caedren disinfects his cat o’ nine tails whip, carefully removing dust and oil build-up from each barb.
He’s had this as a curiosity for decades, but he’s never used it.
Until tonight. It shines in the moonlight, ready.
He smiles to himself, already knowing what it’ll be used for.
In the back of his mind, he’s aware of Darwin carrying the food from the old man’s kitchen. “Take care not to be seen on your way.”
“Yes, Master.”
Caedren pays attention as Darwin trudges through The Bog’s swampish terrain, watching critically for any sign of the human, the Faeral, or anyone else who might see him.
Despite himself, he feels a twinge of anxiety.
Acting through Darwin as an intermediary, Caedren is in no danger, but he has come so far and is so close now.
Another failure at this stage, the inevitable move to yet another safehouse, would be crushing.
But he breathes a sigh of relief as Darwin makes it to the door of the only shack with lights in the window, and sets the platter of food down with a knock.
Through Darwin’s ears, he hears a voice, maybe the Faeral’s. “Jimmy?” There’s the sound of movement towards the door.
As Darwin stands there dumbly, panic seizes Caedren again. “Tear, you fool! Don’t let them see you!”
Darwin does as he is told, thankfully, and momentarily he’s back in the main shack.
Caedren curses under his breath. Everything is lost if the Faeral or the human suspects the food has been tampered with.
He hoped they’d be slower to the door, but now he can be ruined as easily as one of them thinking to ask how that doddering old man got out of sight so quickly.
“Go to the window,” Caedren says. “Look towards their building, for just a moment.” He watches Darwin step over the body of the caretaker, lifeless and cooling on the floor.
An unfortunate case of working for the wrong side; necessary, but something Caedren takes no joy in.
He was clearly a loyal and long-suffering man. He would have made a fine servant.
Darwin sidles up to the window with his back to the wall, then makes a quick check with a turn of his head. It’s enough to confirm—they’ve taken the platter inside. Caedren can only hope they’re eating. Now he waits.
Darwin takes a seat behind the desk as Caedren busies himself with the finishing touches on his house of horrors, an abandoned farmhouse near his bunker that he has transformed to his ends.
With no neighbors for miles, it’s the perfect location for the grand finale of this magnum opus of a hunt.
He polishes his tools, prepares his music, ensures the magical barriers are strong and in place.
Caedren has never been so… elaborate on a hunt before, though neither has any prey proved so infuriatingly elusive as to push him this far.
What will be done here tonight is justice.
Some half an hour later, he decides he’s waited long enough.
“Check on them,” he says through his connection to Darwin.
“Be prepared to kill if they’re still moving.
” He hopes against hope that they have taken the bait.
If they haven’t, Darwin will have one chance with the element of surprise…
Not how he would like this hunt to end, though, and frankly, he doubts the Faeral could be so easily dispatched even in an ambush.
Caedren can finally breathe again when Darwin opens their door and finds them both out on the bed, one barely-touched plate of food on the nightstand and the other shoved off the bed and shattered on the floor.
The Faeral is lying face down, and could be mistaken for simply having gone for a spontaneous evening nap.
The human, however, is unnaturally slumped over to one side, and does not immediately appear to be breathing.
“Check her pulse,” says Caedren. He’s done the math; there was no way to dose the sedative that made him confident enough the Faeral would stay down without risking the human dying prematurely.
Like every step of this plan, he’s hoping for the best-case scenario and prepared for many worse ones.
By now, though, all the worst possible outcomes have already been averted.
As long as he gets the Faeral, the human’s death here would be… disappointing, but acceptable.
But Fate has been merciful… to Caedren, at least. “She’s alive, barely,” comes Darwin’s voice through the connection. “Shall I return with them now, Master?”
“Yes, yes.” Caedren smiles. Absolutely everything has gone as he planned, a better outcome than he let himself hope for.
As he awaits Darwin’s return, he turns up the volume on the radio that will be providing the evening’s soundtrack, a collection of Chopin’s nocturnes.
The piece that’s playing now has been a favorite for years.
A shame humans couldn’t have developed this technology sooner, though; the recording doesn’t quite compare to that night a couple of centuries ago when he heard it performed by the composer.
Darwin tears in, the targets over each of his shoulders. He bows, slightly awkwardly under the additional weight.
“Set the Faeral here,” Caedren commands, tapping his foot in the center of five titanium stakes he’s driven through the rotting floorboards, one for each of the dog’s limbs and one for her head.
Darwin nods and slides her off onto the floor, where she hits with a dull thud.
She groans, startling Caedren, but she doesn’t stir.
He’ll have to tie her down quickly. “Take the human into the other room, there, on your right.”
“Shall I restrain her?” he asks.
“No need,” Caedren says. “She’s no threat, and she’s half-dead already.”
Darwin nods as Caedren grabs rope from his tool table and kneels to begin tying the Faeral down to the stakes, making sure she won’t escape. He ties his knots quickly in case she starts moving partway through.
“And your collar, doggy,” he says, grinning to himself as he pulls her head against the fifth stake and fits a dispelling collar around her neck and the stake.
The collar he’d bought off a hag some time ago, and has been saving for a rainy day.
Under its effects, the Faeral will have no use of her magic, nor will she be able to transform.
As he stands from her side, he hears Darwin returning. “What’s next, Master?”
Darwin stands on the other side of his tool table, the usual vacant look on his face.
Caedren picks up his broadsword. Darwin has served his purpose by now, and the plan was to dispose of him at this point.
It’s a miracle the mind-numbing potion has kept him this pliable for this long, and Caedren is sure his streak of luck is running out.
But something stays his blade, tells him that to kill Darwin now would be a mistake.
He lowers the broadsword, considering. Calculating.
Perhaps Caedren has not set his sights nearly high enough.
Through Darwin he has an in with the Reapers and the ability to be anywhere, at any time.
He feels almost foolish for not seeing it sooner—he could bring an end to this cat-and-mouse game he’s been playing with The Champion.
She’s powerful, sure, but she must have some kind of weakness.
There’s always some winning strategy, if he can just find it.
This night has proven that. With Darwin’s power, he’ll find that strategy and kill The Champion himself. Yes, he will spare the Reaper, for now.
“Stand guard by the human in the other room, would you kindly?”
Darwin nods and heads back down the hall.
Caedren’s head swims with possibilities.
But first things first: he has captive prey awaiting slaughter.
He’ll start with the Faeral, of course. If the human is still alive afterwards, she’ll be the encore, but he’s going to take his time with the Faeral, starting as soon as she wakes up.
Lowly little mutt, causing him so much trouble.
The resources she’s cost him. To think he’s even had to find help from a slave…
not to mention the massive, scarring wound on his side.
A quick death would be far too kind a mercy.
Oh, no, she must pay dearly. And pay she will.