1.
Wade was perched on the edge of his bar stool, eating lentil soup and absentmindedly reading the paper.
“Excuse me, young man,” a reedy voice asked, from over his left shoulder.
Glancing back, he saw an old palestino man with a beard down to his sternum.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Are you reading the local section?”
Looking down at the paper in his hands, he noted that he was, but with a profound, almost vegetative disinterest. He slid it over to his left, in front of the man.
Taking this as an invitation, the older man sat on the stool, and opened the paper.
For a moment, Wade ignored him, looking down into the soup and trying to discover some hidden meaning to the distribution of beans in the broth. A wishbone from a small animal—probably a bird, but Wade's knowledge of zoology was limited, it could as easily have been a large rat or snake—floated on the broth on one side, and a bay leaf mirrored it on the other.
The old man coughed, working some phlegm out of his throat.
“How's the soup?” Mari asked, passing by, behind the bar.
“Good,” Wade said, without looking up.
After a moment, she returned, and looked down at him.
He glanced up.
“What?” he asked.
“Are...” she began, then squinted at him, “are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”
“Do I smell?” he asked.
The old man rustled the pages, and let out an “aha!”
“Not that much,” she consented.
“I fell asleep reading last night,” he said, “forgot to undress.”
“You'll need to get some new clothes, soon.”
“I suppose.”
The older man looked over at them.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I don't mean to pry...but if you're having trouble affording necessities, the Temple of Eshmun has a program that you can get clothing from. Hand-me-downs and the like.”
Wade squinted.
“Eshmun?” he asked.
“Ah. You're not familiar with the Levantine Revivalists, I take it?”
“No. Can't say I am.”
The old man smiled, obviously broaching a subject that pleased him to talk about, but he looked at his watch, and frowned.
“I have an appointment. Check the phone book, come tomorrow, we have a festival. Drinking, song, and other such things.”
The man stood, leaving the paper, and headed up the stairs.
2.
TAKE, v.t. To acquire, frequently by force but preferably by stealth.
Algernon listened to the old man speak, and then lit a cigarette as he consulted a spiral notebook he kept, trying to find an equivalent case.
“We don't generally deal with vandalism,” he confided in the old man, “as we're mostly recovery experts, though identifying a vandal is fairly similar to identifying a thief. I've done it before.”
The old man smiled and nodded.
“I'm just going to need your insurance card,” he said.
“Well, that's a little complex,” the man said, “The Temple of Eshmun is an NRM and a charity; mostly, operating it is zero-sum.”
“So you have no insurance,” Algernon said, leaning back in his chair and frowning.
“Not exactly,” the old man said, “We're self-insured. Whenever the profits exceed the cost, a certain percentage goes into a bank account to insure the temple. The rest is invested into local businesses.”
Algernon nodded.
“Fascinating. Our fee is two-hundred a day, plus bus fare for my assistant.”
“Assistant?” the old man asked, wary.
“Yes. As you can see, I currently have a broken leg,” he tapped the giant black boot that had been attached to his foot, “which makes pursuing hoodlums somewhat difficult. My assistant handles the leg-work, I handle the thinking.”
The old man nodded, and stood.
“So, we hope to clean up the Temple before tomorrow. Is your assistant busy?”
“Not in the least. Probably slacking off downstairs right now. I'll get him filled in on the situation and send him over after lunch.”
The Old Man smiled.
“I'm glad to hear it. Bless you, guero.”
“Don't call me guero.”
Laughing the new client left the office, and Algernon paged his assistant. In a little over a minute, Wade walked through the door and sat down.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Yeah. Did you see that old man who came in here?” Algernon asked.
Wade noded.
“He borrowed my paper for a bit. Talked about some strange religion.”
“Levantine Revivalism. They're neopagans, of a sort. Tend to be a bit more level-headed and less cultish than others, in my opinion. They worship the old Philistine gods.”
Wade nodded.
“He seemed a little strange, but generally an alright guy.”
“Well, he's a temple elder, which means he's sort of three parts rabbi, two parts community organizer, and one part pimp. Being friendly's in his job description.”
“Excuse me? Pimp?”
Algernon nodded.
“The Revivalists practice sacred prostitution.”
Wade furrowed his brow, confused.
“...Okay...What did he need? Did someone steal something from their temple?”
Algernon thought for a moment, looking into his notebook.
“No. It's vandalism. He wants us to identify who did it so they can take legal action. This is going to be a little difficult, though.”
“Why's that?”
Algernon leaned forward, resting his leg out to one side.
“We have both hard-line Muslim communities and evangelical Christians. As you can imagine, an organized group of charitable pagans aren't going to be terribly popular.”
Wade nodded.
“Okay. I suppose I should get going and find some information on what happened, then?”
“You're learning. It's only a couple blocks away.”
“Any leads on who might've done it?”
“Hard to say. The Old Man said there was graffiti, but didn't really describe it. First step should be to take pictures.”
Wade scratched his stomach, and furrowed his brow.
“The police aren't interested? I thought we only handled theft.”
Algernon was nodding before he finished.
“When they're interested in going into Palestino areas at all, it's usually because of a crime committed in an anglo part of town. And the Revivalists? Bah.”
“Bah?”
“They reported it, but you think the cops give a shit?”
“Oh. Right. Do the police do anything around here?”
Algernon smiled wanly.
“Not as much as they should. City council's been talking about expanding the police force for a while, but there are some weird bylaws. Back in the early days, the sheriff ran the show; now it's just a position filled by those who want to serve eviction notices.”
Wade stood.
“I suppose I should get going, then.”
Algernon squinted.
“Wait a second...” he said.
Flipping on his desk lamp, he turned it toward his assistant, who squinted and turned away.
Stretched out on the ground behind him were two shadows.
3.
The Revivalist Temple might once have been a large house. It had been refurbished many times, and was now an adobe structure with squared columns and simple surfaces. In what had once been a front yard was now a statue of a man wearing robes.
The statue had a cane made of carved wood, entwined with a bronzed serpent.
Scroll work above the door read:
“TEMPLE OF ESHMUN”
On one wall was a large, stenciled graffiti, depicting a red scorpion. Wade stood in front of it, and snapped a photo before sending it to Algernon.
All on the way there, he had looked down at his feet, studying the shadows. One was obviously natural, mirroring his movements.
The other was a pale imitation, barely visible in natural light. It was also subtly off. It was proportioned wrong and moved differently, a fraction of a second difference lay between his motion and its.
“You got here faster than I thought you would,” the reedy voice of the old man came from the doorway as he exited.
“It wasn't a far walk, sir,” Wade said, and examined the scorpion, “if you don't mind, what is the form of address I should use to refer to you?”
The old man smiled.
“Much like your Christians use 'Father' or 'Reverend,' we use 'Ab.' It means 'elder.'”
“Thank you for your answer,” Wade said, and indicated the figure on the wall, “is this the only vandalism?”
“Several windows were knocked out with stones and bricks.”
Wade looked up, and took photographs of the damage.
He stopped, stretched his neck, and hummed for a moment.
“What are you doing?” the Ab asked.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
Wade's phone rang.
“Algernon's interpretation. I'm new,” he picked up the phone:
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“Obviously Hashshishin,” Algernon said.
“How do you know?”
“A lot of them have a scorpion thing. I don't know much about them, though...you might want to ask an expert. Try Theia.”
Wade pulled out his notepad.
“How do I get in contact with her?” he asked.
“I'll give you the number...”
Afterward, Wade boarded a bus, making a solidus-mark on his notepad to indicate that he'd used public transit once, thus far.
4.
“Don't! Don't ask again, dammit!”
“What?” Wade responded.
Theia grimaced at him.
“You think that I know much about those fucking hoodlums?” she asked, “Just because I dress strangely doesn't mean I go around knifing people for the hell of it!”
He was walking after her, across the VCU campus. She carried a rugby ball underneath her left arm, and paced quickly. Wade had to hurry to keep up, despite his height advantage.
Lunging forward, he turned around to face her.
He held up his hands defensively, but spoke forcefully.
“Okay. Obviously we're talking about different things, here. I just asked if you could identify this symbol. I said it was Hashshishin, I did not say you were. Understand?”
She gave him a sour look beneath thunderhead brows, before snatching the camera away from him.
“The people you're looking for are in Palladion.”
Wade nodded.
“Palladion. How can you tell?”
“North is Red, Black is south. Understand?”
Wade took the camera back and pocketed it.
“So I want to go to Palladion.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Listen to yourself, a guero like you, going to Palladion? Dressed like some square? They will stack the tires around you and light you up like a jibber.”
“What? All I heard was 'the people you're looking for are in Palladion.' I can handle myself fairly well.”
“Your funeral,” she noted, and pushed past him, her solid shoulder connecting hard with his elbow.
He rubbed the sore limb, and looked after her; she stopped on the steps of the library, and began talking with the librarian he had met last time he had been there.
What's his name?
Cincinnatus. That was it.
Turning, Wade walked away, headed north; he would have to call for directions to his ultimate destination.
First he called Mari.
“You want to go where?” she asked.
“Palladion. That's north and west of the university, right?”
“North and east. But you shouldn't go there.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Hashshishin make their den there, and they will tear you to shreds, Wade. Tell Algy this is too dangerous, and just head on back.”
“What bus do I take there?” he asked.
“I'm not telling you, Wade. It's too dangerous.”
“Alright, I'll just call Algernon, then.”
He was headed vaguely eastward, and paused on the street corner.
“Fine. But I'm not calling your family to let them know how you died.”
“Not asking you to, Mari. Talk to you later.”
He hung up, and sent a text message to Algernon:
Need to get to Palladion. Which bus do I take?
His response was quick:
45N. Be careful.
He grunted, and began looking for the sign that would lead him to the bus.
5.
Palladion was a confusing jumble of low brick buildings.
The alleyways were full of blind turns and chain-link stoppers that would prevent any significant progress.
He began combing the area for the red scorpion sign. His hand made a fist in his pocket; inside was his own stinger, the switchblade that Algernon had given him.
Not a serious knife fighter, he hoped he wouldn't need to pull it out. Only if someone attempted to cut him would he respond in kind.
As he combed the empty shells of storage buildings, the sun sank down. But he eventually found his goal: a building lit from the inside.
The stylized red scorpion was emblazoned to either side of the door, and a man in black stood with his arms crossed outside; the sound of music could be heard from inside.
As he watched, two young women, one dressed in the black clothing of the Hashshishin entered, exchanging nods with the bouncer.
Wade approached, his eyes fixed on the door.
“Where do you think you're going?” the bouncer asked.
“I'm here for the music,” he said, mumbling.
“What? Are you stupid? Talk louder.”
“'M here for the music,” Wade grunted.
“Five bucks.”
Wade paid up. Reminding himself to mark it as an expense that needed reimbursement.
He entered.
The room was wide open, and about half-full of people. In the middle of the concrete floor was a pile of rags and pieces of wood. Two low platforms sat to either side of it, and behind it was the concrete stage.
Two Hashshishin were pouring gasoline onto the detritus, and the band was setting up. No one seemed to pay him any mind.
He kept to the wall, and slouched in a corner, keeping his eyes opened.
A young man—a palestino dressed in black--approached him, holding a glass pipe in one hand.
“Hey, man,” the hashshishin said, “want a toke?”
Wade assented, looking in at the deep brown half-sphere inside the pipe. He briefly wondered what it was, but lit it, not wanting to stand out too much.
The acrid, pine-smelling smoke of the substance burned in his lungs, and he exhaled through his nose.
“Thanks,” he said, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offering them to the other man.
He took one.
“You look out of place,” the Hashshishin said.
Wade nodded.
“Avoiding work. My boss's an asshole.”
The man laughed.
“I'm Spitt,” the man said.
“Wade.”
“Let me give you some advice, Wade,” Spitt said, “when the fire-leaping starts. Get in on it. Don't wait for the flames to go down. Be the second or third one across. Show you're part of the group.”
“Got it,” he said, and coughed.
“What was that?” he said, looking at the pipe.
Spitt smiled.
“Black Hash. The local specialty. You can't find it anywhere else in the world.”
Spitt left, and the world began to swim through Wade's vision, unlike the effect of anything he'd ever imbibed. There was a brittle edge to it, and his muscles felt tense.
The fire was lit, and the band started playing. Three guitars. A set of drums. A bass. Trumpet. Some unidentified string instrument.
As it roared higher, people began lining up.
Wade joined them, his two shadows of equal darkness in the firelight.
The first jumped across, as the music reached a crescendo, the flames licked at his heels, and he shouted wordlessly as he crossed.
One of the women he had seen enter was next. She did a somersault in the air, and almost botched her landing.
Wade pushed forward after her friend had pulled her away, clapping her on the back and smiling.
He ran across the platform, and leaped across almost horizontally, the furnace of the bonfire beneath him, its hot wind pulling his jacket away from his frame.
A tongue of flame singed at the left cuff of his jeans.
He hit the ground, and rolled into a standing position, bellowing wordlessly, as he had seen the others do.
Strangers clapped him on the shoulder, grinning, welcoming him, calling him “guero” and laughing.
He slunk back to the wall and slouched where he had been.
6.
After the band finished, Spitt and two other Hashshishin joined him by the wall, and a bottle of rotgut was passed around.
“Good job, Guero,” one of them said to him, then laughed to his friend, and declared: “fearless.”
“Damned right,” Wade said.
“You probably lost your job, by now,” Spitt said, “if you work nights, that is.”
Wade shrugged.
“It's more like an on-call thing than anything else.”
“Oh?” the Hashshishin asked, “What do you do?”
The intoxicants had clouded his mind, and loosened his tongue, he knew something bad was about to happen.
“Now?”
Spitt nodded.
“I'm working for a detective, he broke his leg a while back, so he's got me running all over the place, taking pictures and shit.”
The bottle smashed into the top of his head, and he staggered.
“Son of a goddamned whore!” he slurred, then shouted, “mother of twelve bastards!”
There were knives out, when he looked at them.
The three were advancing towards him.
He forgot his own knife, and grinned at them, a savage light burning in his eyes.
Beneath him, his own shadow grew pale and watery. The foreign shadow, the one that had appeared only recently, began to darken.
Balling his right hand up, he struck at the closest one; the knuckles of his fist connected with the bridge of the man's nose. The Hashshishin crumpled, falling down.
The second one lunged forward with his thin knife, striking upward at the root of his throat.
Wade raised his left hand, and the blade passed between the bones at the base of his middle and ring fingers. He made a fist around his attacker's, and reached forward. He slapped the side of the man's head, grabbing his ear.
With a short, sharp jerk, the ear came off. The man fell to the ground, screaming, holding the side of his head as tears came to his eyes.
He tossed it to Spitt, who caught it without thinking, before dropping it to the ground.
“Ghul!” the Hashshishin shouted in fear, dropping the ear.
Wisps of black, greasy smoke appeared around Wade's head, coming from his mouth and nose.
He grinned, as something angry and powerful shifted inside of him.
7.
He was running across the bridge, toward Little Masyaf.
His muscles didn't burn, and there was blood on his knuckles.
Ahead of him, a black-clothed figure ran, glancing back periodically.
Wade's legs pumped mechanically.
His unblinking eyes still burned.
A trail of blood led forward.
His left hand hurt, and he left his own trail of blood behind him.
Slowly, Wade gained on the receding figure, coming to just outside of arm's reach.
Spitt looked back, and his eyes widened with fear. He was breathing hard, but Wade couldn't feel anything other than the ache in his left hand.
When they neared an intersection, Spitt would look back at him.
A wicked idea sprouted in Wade's head; to guide his prey, he lunged left or right at the intersections, driving for a destination.
When they reached the temple, Wade lunged forward, seizing Spitt by the neck, and pushing him down to the ground.
“Let me go! I gave you charas! I shared whiskey with you!”
“And turned on me when I revealed who and what I was,” Wade said.
He dragged Spitt up the steps, and threw him to the ground. He kicked the other man in the gut, and pointed at the wall.
“Do you know who did that?” Wade asked.
Spitt groaned.
Wade held his left hand over Spitt's face when the other man opened his eyes, drops of blood falling into his open sockets.
He cried out, and rolled onto his stomach.
“Please...”
Wade kicked him again.
“Do you or do you not know?”
“I know. I know. You ripped off his ear.”
Wade laughed.
He reached down, and removed Spitt's belt. He made a binding out of it, and left the Hashshishin there, tied to the foot of Eshmun.