1

Daisy put the hat up by the fireplace, the bullet hole facing out into the lobby. She claiming it demonstrated the finest feat of marksmanship she’d seen in twenty years, and deserved pride of place. So there it stood, day in and day out, and everyone who walked into the club got to hear the story, some of them more than once

I’m not sure who I wanted to avoid more; the people who growled and stared stilettos in my back, or the ones who laughed and clapped me across the shoulders. For a while, I thought about going to a different range altogether, but I was pretty sure the story would follow me there as well. The only solution I could come up with was showing up early enough to avoid the rush.

Setting an alarm for five in the morning pained me as a bourgeoning bohemian, but I have to admit it worked. Sortie’s Gunmanship Club wasn’t open for all 24 hours, but it might as well have been. I’ve seen people show up at four in the morning but thankfully they’re not the conversational type.

I chose the outside range this time, in a field lit up with floodlights that far outshone the dark blue sky. It was windy today, very windy, which was good because I’d been looking for a challenge. I checked the flag over on the side, estimating the angle it was blowing at. You can use that to figure out a general wind speed with a little math, and when aiming with small arms general is good enough.

My first two shots were still a little off base, but by the time I burnt through the first magazine I was hitting the center point of the target. I loaded another magazine and aimed for a further target.

They talk a lot about meditation in the temple. Finding that space in your head where you aren’t boxed in by your own mind, where everything is just instinct and the freedom that comes with that. Ryan’s always excelled at finding that little place, claims it’s essential for ruling your thoughts and not the other way around. But for me, this is the only meditation that works.

Find the target. Shoot the target. There doesn’t need to be anything else.

I fired and fired until I was out of magazines, then ripped out my earplugs. It felt like I was being bombarded with noise in that split second, the wind and the traffic almost deafening. I sighed, holstered my gun, and walked back into the building.

Sortie’s offers its own cleaning station, which is nice because gun oil in the City is not cheap, especially when one is perpetually broke. I didn’t even have to wait in line this morning. I was busy stripping my gun apart when Keigo stepped into the doorway.

Keigo’s half a foot shorter than I am, but he makes up for it with bulk and a large bristling mustache struck through with grey. Unlike his wife and owner of this establishment, Daisy, I’ve never seen him actually fire a gun. I almost didn’t believe it when I heard he did the bookkeeping around here but now that I’d known him for a while I could see a shrewd glint in those dark eyes.

“You’re still coming in, huh?” It was the first words he’d spoken to me in six months. I tried to focus on my task at hand, brushing the gun’s action with solvent. The smell of it was sharp and all too familiar. I could do this with my eyes closed by now. It wasn’t enough to distract me anymore.

“Yeah. So what?” I muttered. That shut him up for a bit, then he nodded towards my weapon.

“Still using the Smith and Wesson 41, aren’t you? Beautiful weapon.”

“The best.” I corrected, hunting around for a luster cloth. Keigo picked one off the bench and tossed it to me.

“Debatable. Still, that beaut must’ve cost your parents a pretty penny.” For the first time, he glanced towards the lobby. Looking right at the hat I’d shot off his wife’s head from two hundred yards. Six months ago, when I’d been drunk as a skunk and with considerably less common sense. Keigo sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, you had the skill worthy of that weapon. Pity you weren’t a man worthy of that skill.”

I threw down the cloth, snarling up at him. I reached into my pocket, gripping the shiny little token I carried with me everywhere now, testament to dozens of meetings where I sat down and listened to countless sob stories just so I could get a chance to hand out my own. I though about pulling out that golden chip and shoving it in the bastard’s face, but some little voice in the back of my head had the shame to tell me not to.

“I’m – I’m not drinking anymore, all right?” I started putting my Smith and Wesson back together. “I wouldn’t walk in here like that again.”

“If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be stepping into this building again. Hell, you should be in jail for what you’ve done.” Keigo’s grip tightened on the doorway. “But Daisy wouldn’t press charges. Said if you could make that kind of shot while drunk, there’s no way you’d ever miss while sober.”

I should’ve lowered my head, let him finish his tirade and apologize a few more times. After everything I’d done, it was the least I owed the man. But instead I looked him in the eyes and said. “And?”

His scowl deepened, and he opened his jacket. I glimpsed the golden glint of a badge before he closed it again. “And I’ve been in the force for twenty years. I’ve helped run this club for ten. I’ve seen every breed of rooster strut about with their shiny new toy, and I’ll ask you the same question I wish I asked them: why?”

I opened my mouth to say the first snarky comment that came to mind, then paused. Why?

It wasn’t like my skills extended only to guns. I could hit anything with anything. Flawless free kicks in soccer, constantly striking out players in baseball. By the time I peered into Ryan’s archery club and starting making bullseyes, people start to bandy around words like “savant” and “prodigy”. I’d had multiple offers to join sports teams, but instead of endless fame and riches I chose to sign up for and subsequently drop out of a literature degree in the City. Because of course I had.

Point is, I’d picked up a lot of things over the years. I’d done really well at most of them, but the shooting club had been the first thing that had stuck. Why?

“I think, under all that talent, you’re just the same as most people who walk through these doors,” Keigo said, his face flushing red but his eyes as cold as they’d always been.“You’re just scared of the big bad world out there, and you think running around with a gun gives you power over it.”

“I –” I gritted my teeth. “You’re saying the world isn’t a scary place?”

“I’m saying everyone has bad days, Dylan. I’m saying that no amount of skill can save you from a gust of wind that comes out of nowhere. Or tripping over a rock in the wrong place. Or that alcohol shaking your hand just enough a bullet meant for a hat goes through someone’s face.”

Keigo stepped forward, his fists clenched. “Tell me, what would have happened to my wife if you were having a bad day?”

My eyes went down to the gun in my hand.. It was like my hands had worked of their own accord, assembling it flawlessly. “What exactly do you want from me, man? Throw this away and move on with my life?” I hated how my voice trembled as I said it. Because I needed this. I needed to know this was something in my life I could do better than anyone else. Something that was enough.

Keigo’s expression didn’t change. If anything, his eyes gleamed with more fury than before. “I’m telling you draw that thing out of its holster, you’re not just holding a gun in your hands. You’re holding every life you could take with its bullets. It’s something you take out at the right time for the right reasons, and you’ve shown me no evidence you’re capable of recognizing either.”

I shoved the Smith and Wesson back into my belt. “Screw you, old man.”

He didn’t say anything else as I stormed out of the building. I kept expecting one last comment, a text, a confirmation he cared enough to ban me from the building, but it was like the moment I stepped out of his sight I’d stopped existing.

I started twisting my ring, like I had countless times before, working the black metal around the skin of my finger, feeling the edge of each etching until the club had receded to a speck in the distance, until only the City surrounded me.

*

Ryan’s the kind of guy to have a guest bedroom in place for someone to move into, but not a guest bed. His solution was bartering for his downstairs neighbor’s small and very heavy waterbed mattress, which the two of us had to drag up two flights of stairs.

That said, the mattress isvery comfy, especially on cold nights.

It’s a big apartment, but it feels cramped. He’s stuffed multiple hidden compartments and probably an entire panic room somewhere in here, and partitioned off a chemistry lab and an art studio. He even hung a punching bag here, one that’s mummified with neon yellow tape for reasons I still haven’t figured out. Like I said, cluttered.

The living room is a nice exception, given that it doubles as an office to receive his client. It does mean I have to walk in and out of some very awkward conversations, which is why I wasn’t fazed to hear someone crying as I came close to the apartment door.

It was a choking, hesitant sort of sobbing, the kind that begs to be left alone rather than given attention. I hesitated for a moment, then turned the key and stepped inside.

There were two clients this time, which I didn’t see coming. They sat together on Ryan’s plush grey couch. They definitely shared a resemblance, with the same button noses, wild blond hair and eyes that were the watery brown of a forest stream. The woman had a toughness etched into the set of her jaw and the lines on her face, but she was the one was wiping away tears. The man was plump and dressed in a cheery blue uniform. Even the expression of concern in his eyes just made him look innocent. He raised his hand to put his arm around her shoulders, then hesitated.

My brother looked up at me from his armchair, one leg propped up on a stool and his forehead furrowed with thought.. “Could you make some tea or coffee for the clients, please?”

“I’ll take tea,” said the man, fiddling with his tie awkwardly. “And, um, M-Maryssa what you prefer?” She sniffled, wiping her face again almost angrily, but said nothing.

“Two teas for you two then.” I said, hanging up my jacket on the rack. “Ryan, care to introduce me?”

“Ah, yes. Florian, Maryssa, this is my brother Dylan, who is currently acting as my assistant.”

Florian gave me a doubtful look. “So this is a family business, then?”

“Currently, yes. Dylan, allow me to introduce you to Florian and Maryssa Vior.”

“It’s a pleasure.” I said, giving them a nod, and walked into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. I could still hear the conversation perfectly from in front of the stove. Now, where were the tea leaves? I thought I had a canister of silver tips right here…

“So,” my brother said, “your parents joined the organization when you were both very young, right?”

“Oh, yes. I was only a few months old, and Maryssa was… four, I think? Yes, four. Mama and Papa were both environmentalists, New Gen Hippies, really, and Mr. Pupil’s new nature reserves fascinated them. I can speak only for Papa, really. I knew Mama only through stories. It’s just that when Papa decided he was done with the Eye, he couldn’t convince Mama to come with him. He was worried she’d told Mr. Trout about his disloyalty. So he decided to run off in the middle of the night, with, um, me.” Florian’s voice shriveled up in the last few sentences, realizing the implication of what he’d just said.

I heard the kettle whistle, and turned around to brew the tea. Even with a wall between us, the weight of Maryssa Vior’s silence seemed to press down on me. She’d probably had had to live with that truth for her whole life, but still. It couldn’t be pleasant to be reminded that you were the one who was left behind.

“I’m, I’m sorry, Maryssa, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine. I mean, it’s what happened, isn’t it?”

My mother would’ve murdered me for not steeping the tea leaves long enough, but my curiosity would not be denied. Mr. Pupil… I’d heard that name recently, hadn’t I? It was the kind that popped up every once in a while on the news, on sketchy websites, on pamphlets pinned to light poles. I’d seen a few of the man’s representatives standing with signs outside my AA meetings, with hollow eyed smiling children and adults who tried their best to lock away their fury at the world.

I cracked a smile anyway as I loaded up the cups and saucers and maneuvered my way into the living room. The tray was set down on the coffee table with a clink. “The Eye of Eternal Freedom, eh? I always thought that name was really ironic for a cult –”

“True freedom comes through service.” Maryssa Vior said. It felt like a sermon, like a mantra, like words that had been tattooed across her face. She flushed with embarrassment and wiped her face with her sleeve. Her brother pulled out a handkerchief, but she shuffled to the other end of the couch. “I’m sorry. It’s just – ” She scratched at her arms with what I noticed now were jagged, uneven nails. I’m not like Ryan. I’m not good at seeing these things.

My brother gave me of his curious glances, then shook his head. “It’s completely understandable, Ms. Vior.” He took a sip from his cup on the table and set it down. “Are you all right with me asking you a couple of questions?”

“I would be all right with getting this over as quickly as possible.” She said, sneaking a resentful glance over at me. “All I’m asking for is a recommendation.”

“Of course, I told her the police department here is very commendable, what with all those drug busts and all that recently. But she insisted on an alternative.”

“That’s wise.” Ryan leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking to the right as he recalled a memory. “Especially with Cillian Pupil’s foothold in the city. Hmm. You asked me for advice regarding getting some kind of security, but it would help to know precisely what you need protection from. And why.”

Maryssa gave a choking sort of laugh. “Why? What, don’t you read the news? Don’t you know what happens to people who’ve walked away? The ones who’ve dishonored the Eye?” She sniffed. “Heh. After a certain point I guess it adds up to the same thing.”

Some of those deaths had seemed merely convenient, judging from headlines I’d seen over the years. They could be passed off as accidents. But not all of them, not by a long shot. Ryan’s frown deepened, and the lightbulb above us flickered, setting off the shadows of his face. For all his fancy renovating, the place still wasn’t exactly the Palace of Windsor.

“I have to ask,” Florian Vior broke in, his round face troubled, “after Maryssa here showed up on my doorstep. I know we’re not doing a very good job of showing it, Mr. Neville, but this is quite serious. I mean, honor killings! It doesn’t even sound real, not here. More like something that happens in Saudi Arabia, and you know,with all those other Islamic people.”

Ryan sighed and stood up. “Not exclusively.” He noted, crossing over to a set of drawers. “But yes, it’s interesting Mr. Pupil adopted that term for his organization.”

“It’s not an organization.” I objected. “Call a spade a spade. It’s a cult.”

The Vior siblings gave me a startled look, as if I’d just popped into existence, but my brother only nodded. “Either way, it’s best we move back to the matter at hand. I’m afraid my brother and I would not be very effective bodyguards. But I can recommend a man who is.” He drew a card out of the drawer and handed it to Maryssa. She almost snapped it out of his grip, her fingers creasing the cardboard in the process.

“Iqbal Erbakan.” My brother said. “Former Green Beret. He acted as bodyguard for Vivian Murphy during the Greenpark Bombings a few years back. He owes me a favor or two, and well, I owe him my life.” Personally, I’d never even heard of the guy, but Ryan’s contact list probably stretches into the thousands at this point.

Florian peered over his sister’s shoulder, and I could tell he was already shaping the word “Islamic” again with his lips.

Ryan leaned against the wall. “Iqbal’s gone through a lot. And he has personal experience with what you’re going through, with… honor killings.” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s really not my story to tell, but to put it simply, there’s other man in this City you can trust more to keep you safe.”

“One man?” Maryssa Vior asked. Her voice was still harsh, but she refused to look either of us in the eyes. She had a fascinating voice, something I only reallynoticed now. Musical and sharp, like a song that calls to war. “Your Iqbal could be a god among men and that still wouldn’t be enough. If they fail once, they’ll just keep trying again and again until they – ” All the anger died in her voice, overtaken by sadness and what felt a lot like fear. She wiped her face again.

“Now, now, Maryssa.” Her brother said. “It’s not like those Eye people devote all their time and energy against you. I’m sure a little protection is better than none. It’s not like we’re going to find a better deal than this.” The last sentence was muttered under his breath more than anything else.

It was strange to see how two people could look so alike and yet be so out of sync. I suppose the two of them were strangers, once you get down to it. Ryan cleared his throat.

“You do have a point, Ms. Vior. There won’t be any long-term solutions to this if we stay on the defensive. While I’m not much of a bodyguard, I am an investigator. I’m sure I can dig some things up on the Eye’s current presence in the City.”

“Wasn’t there a compound down in Crocus?” I suggested. “That’s as good a place to start as any.”

“No.” Maryssa Vior said. She stood up and stuffed the card into one of the tiny pockets on her faded floral dress. I could see a few patches from where she had mended it. “Don’t go poking around in those places. It’s not safe. It’s not…” She struggled to find words. “There’s no way Florian can pay you and that Iqbal fellow both anyway.”

“Actually, I’m sure we can come to a – ”

“Thank you for the advice, Mr. Neville.” She said abruptly, then wrenched open the front door and nearly leapt down the stairs in her haste to leave. The glimpse I got of her expression was strange. There was anger and agony and… was that embarrassment? No, not quite. It was closer to fear, and the flash of recognition in Ryan’s eyes told me he’d caught that as well. Florian cleared his throat and started the stand up, snapping our attention back towards him.

“I have your number.” Ryan said. “But can I know where Maryssa is living right now? It’s important she’s in close contact with you, especially for the next few days.”

“Oh, she’s living with me up in Hartview. It’s only about ten minutes away.” He checked the doorway. “Shit, she’s crossing the street. I’m sorry, I should probably catch up with her. Maryssa! Maryssa!” He rushed out of the door. I sighed, and got up to shut it behind him.

Ryan peered out of the window, then reached out and pressed on one of the wooden panels on the wall. It popped out, showing an array of files. He picked out a large binder, and started flipping through it.

I blinked. Those panels were arranged across the entire wall, all of them a very shiny coconut brown. “What, do all of these have secret storage space?”

“Naturally. But don’t worry, they’re harder to open than they look.” My brother flipped a page, and settled back down in a chair. “Kritides has some interesting things to say about the Eye of Eternal Freedom, but some of this data is over fifteen years old at this point.” He looked up. “Pass me that pamphlet, will you?”

I hadn’t noticed she’d left it behind. Maybe she hadn’t, either. Glossy paper, with large letters that glittered when I turned it to the light. The pictures were pretty normal looking, too. Laughing children, elderly people giving toothless smiles as they were handed plates towering with food. A man running through a field. They all looked fairly ordinary apart, but it was only when I looked at them together that I noticed that every single photograph had their subject’s eyes closed.

“It would match with the general eye symbolism.” Ryan said I pointed it out. “But take a look at this.”

He propped out the binder and started flipping through it, showing me more photographs. “These stained glass designs are taken straight from medieval cathedrals, like Canterbury, for instance. Pupil used a Dharma wheel design in this spot as well.”

“And that inscription is Sanskrit.” I said. I’d sat through enough temple sermons to know that much. “So this guy’s, like, strip-mining every modern religion?”

“Looks like it. Even mandating only photographs with their eyes closed is probably inspired from Islamic art traditions.” Ryan said, licking his finger and turning another page. “I’d probably include a few mainstream cults among those inspirations. I caught a few Scientology references in here as well.”

“Okay, fine. But what’s the point of doing all this?”

“Laziness probably had something to do with it.” My brother said. “But there’s a very real value in taking something familiar, while tweaking it just enough to make it unrecognizable. You draw people in without them being exactly sure why.”

I thought about the representatives who’d stood outside my AA meeting. How many people had taken their pamphlets? I’d seen at least a dozen before I’d stepped inside the building. Did these people stand out there in the rain every day of the week?

“Ryan… does that file of yours say exactly how many members of this group are out there?”

He shut the file closed with a snap. “It says about five thousand.”

“Right.” I said. “Five thousand people. Probably more than that, if that file’s fifteen years old.”

“Not necessarily. From what I’ve heard, the group’s going through a bit of a downturn. Too much negative media press. There’s only so many people you can pay off at the same time.” He saw the expression on my face, and shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not as good news for Ms. Vior as you might think it is. Honor killings – really, any kind of cultural violence – they’re motivated by fear and desperation more than anything else. When that echo chamber gets even smaller, when the group feel the boundaries pressing in…” He made a circle with his two hands, reducing its size before finally clapping his palms together. “That’s when things end violently. It’s the standard playbook for cults.”

I don’t remember whenexactly I started pacing up and down the length of the room. I thrust my hands into my pockets, feeling the chill even as a bead of sweat ran down my back. “I mean, none of this conversation really means much, does it? It’s not like she’s our client anymore, if she ever was.” I narrowed my eyes. “Unless you plan on making this one of your fancy pro bono cases.”

“Just because it’s a Latin term doesn’t make it ‘fancy’.” Ryan muttered. “And anyway, I try not to interfere with situations where I don’t have a proper client. It sets a bad precedent. Besides,” He peered out of the window again, “I don’t expect to have to make an exception here.”

“What do you – ” There was a frantic knocking at the door. I opened it, and Florian Vior stumbled inside, huffing and puffing with his face red. He bent over and clenched his knees. “I –” He gasped again. He kept trying to catch his breath, but he must not have had a lot of practice.

“I – I just came right back here.”

“Alone?” I asked, maybe a little too harshly. Florian scowled. “Mrs. Xavier usually keeps her company in the evening. I mean, I have to work the night shift at the store anyone. Hell, I should be there…” He checked his watch. “About five minutes ago.”

Ryan nodded understandingly. “I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. What did you come to ask me about?”

“I was thinking,” He said, a little quietly, “while walking with Maryssa and all that. I haven’t, I haven’t gotten to know her all that well. But I know if these people showed up in her life again, there’s no way she could take it. She’s the only family I got, man. And you were telling me you could look into it, see if there’s really anyone out there trying to hurt her.” He gulped. “I mean, could you tell me your rates? Does it have to be a one-time installment? Because Mr. Goring told me I’m getting a promotion to Sales next week, and maybe we can work something out.”

I’ll be honest, I hadn’t liked the guy all that much. But there weren’t many people who’d go this far for siblings they’d known for their entire lives, let alone someone you hadn’t met since you were a baby.

Ryan raised his hands. “Look, how about for now we just say you owe me a favor, all right? I can’t really promise you anything right now except that I’ll look into this, so I don’t think it’s very fair for you to promise me anything more substantial. Give me a few days, and we can properly talk about this with more information on hand.”

“Yeah.” Florian nodded, still breathing heavily. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He glanced over at me. “And thank you for the tea. It was very nice. I have to go now.” He rushed out of the door.

I went over to the window and watched him run, practically shoving a kebab vendor out of the way before turning the corner of the road. “So, what exactly is your endgame here, Ryan? I mean, you find out the Eye really is planning to kill her and you tell the police? You already said they weren’t trustworthy.”

My hand went to my belt. I’d forgotten to take off the holster. I’d even forgotten to take out the gun. I ran my hand over the smooth metal, now polished enough to gleam brightly. What was it Keigo had said again? That I should shoot this weapon at the right time for the right reasons?

What could be a better reason than defending a young woman threatened by brutish cultists?

Ryan caught my eye, and frowned. “You ask a good question, if one I can’t answer right now. But I do know that whatever solution I come up with, it won’t be through you entering a gunfight.”

I turned around to face him, feeling my pulse thumping in my ears. There was something shadowed in my brother’s expression, some kind of distaste or disapproval, that made me even angrier. I’d spent more than enough of my life with him looking down on me. “Don’t come at me with this shit again. Just because you have an allergy for shooting people doesn’t mean I do.”

He stiffened. “Believe me, Dylan, with you that was never in question.”

I pressed my advantage. “You can’t guarantee this won’t be dangerous. You can’t be sure at some point we won’t have guns to our faces, and what exactly are you going to do then? Buzz at them with your little taser and hope for the best?” I heard a hint of petulance enter my voice and bit my tongue. “You really don’t trust me that much?”

“No.” He said, crossing his arms. “I don’t. And before you remind me of the long list of records you’ve broken, there’s a difference between being a world-class marksman and a world-class killer. You walk into a gunfight, you’re more likely to hinder than help.”

I bristled. “Because you’re such an expert at shooting people, huh?”

“Because you haven’t shot anyone, period. You haven’t even done any military training like Dad!” He threw up his hands. “But fine, we’re not getting anywhere with this. Allow me a chance to prove my point.”

He stepped in front of the open doorway, and held out his arms. “Let’s say I’m a big bad man who’s planning to kill you. Is that gun of yours loaded? Is there anything in the chamber?”

I quickly double-checked. “Nah.”

“Alright, then. Put that back in your holster. Then raise it and pull the trigger at me.”

It’d take him at least five steps to get to my position. “Yeah, sure. On three, two…”

I’d pulled that dumb thing out a million times, but for some unexplainable reason I felt it tug this time when I tried to whip it out. On Ryan’s part, he moved faster than I’d expected, maybe faster than I’d ever seen him before.

He ducked his head, weaving to the side as I raised the gun, then wrenched it towards the ceiling. I squeezed the trigger just before his fist slammed into my ear.

My head rang, and I stumbled back. My mouth tasted like metal, like the old pennies you’d lick on the school bus cause your friends had dared you to. I must’ve bitten half-way through my tongue.

Ryan stepped back, his expression carefully blank. “You basically bared your throat for me. One jab in the right place,” He extended two fingers, “and I could’ve crushed your windpipe. If I had happened to be a big bad man with a knife, you’d already be dead a dozen times over. A gunfight is not a competition. You don’t win extra points for accuracy. If you can’t draw quickly enough, all your Smith and Wesson is going to be is a shiny piece of metal for your killer to loot.”

He reached for his jacket on the hook, and shrugged it on. “It’s probably best we check out the compound down in Crocus by tonight. You’re right about that, at least; time is of the essence.”

The ringing in my ears had finally faded to silence. I groaned and got to my feet, wiping my mouth and discovering the pinkish sheen of blood mixing with saliva. “I thought you didn’t need me for this, Ryan.”

“I didn’t say that and you know it.” My brother said, grabbing the door keys off the table. “Now, I won’t ask you this a second time. Are you coming or not?”