Prisoner of War
an excerpt

I waded through the lunchtime crowd unhurriedly, nodding and tipping my hat to ladies whose gazes crossed mine. It was a gesture from another age, but it was always appreciated. The women smiled and blushed, casting their eyes down becomingly. I tried not to smile back at them - it ruined the effect.

People like to think that they are modern and civilized, that they don't believe in the nightmares that used to frighten them in fairy tales. Their hindbrains know better. So do their pets.

My lawyer (what? Even I need a lawyer these days) had set up his office in a fashionably expensive part of town. The brownstone was old and weathered, oozing history and the respectability of age.

What can I say - I'm a traditionalist.

I removed my hat as I walked through the heavy glass doors, the black felt soft and familiar between my fingers. The gentleman at the heavy oaken front desk nodded respectfully to me.

"Mr. Sekhmet."

I am a traditionalist, and I also have a sense of humor.

"Your weekly appointment with Mr. Dorsey, sir?"

I nodded and shrugged out of my coat for him as he came around to take it. Hat and coat were hung carefully in the hall closet. I ran my thumbs under my suspenders to straighten them, then settled in one of the overstuffed leather chairs to wait.

The receptionist, now back behind the front desk, picked up the heavy melamine handset of his ancient rotary phone. He spun the dial once and held the handset to his ear.

"Mr. Dorsey? Mr. Sekhmet is here to see you." He paused, listening. "Yes sir, Tuesday again. Shall I escort Mr. Sekhmet upstairs?" He nodded, presumably to himself, then replaced the handset with a soft, discrete click.

"Mr. Dorsey is ready to see you, Mr. Sekhmet. May I escort you to his office?" He presented an impeccable image in his dark suit, though his outstretched hand trembled slightly.

Suddenly annoyed at all the obvious fear today, I negated him with a sharp, flat-handed gesture. "Thank you but no, I know the way."

Pushing myself out of the chair, I walked over to the curving staircase, my steps muffled by thick carpet. I reached the landing and glanced down to see the receptionist look down quickly.

I narrowed my eyes at the rudeness, and resolved to have a word with him on my way out.

My lawyer's office door was open a crack, letting out a spill of electric light. I preferred gas or oil light, and Dorsey knew it. He defied me in littled ways like this, probably as much as he dared. It amused me to allow it, usually. Today it was another sour note in an already faltering symphony. I restrained my annoyance with an effort and pushed the door further open to let myself in.

Dorsey's office was paneled in dark, lustrous wood, glowing even in the ugly glare of incandescent light. The Persian rugs covering the wood floors warmed the room with reds and golds, reflected in the stamped patterns of the authentic tin ceiling.

Dorsey himself sat behind his wide victorian desk, which was polished to a mirror-like shine. He wore his trademark timeless, sober suit, a gray silk tie knotted at his throat. He looked pale, but in my experience it was so common that I hardly ever gave note to it anymore.

When his right hand dropped below the surface of his desk, however - that did give me pause. My hand still on the crystal doorknob, I waited for his move.

It was too bad, really. I'd liked Dorsey.

When he brought a crucifix up out of his lap, however, I burst out laughing.

Dorsey flinched; my laughter has been compared to screaming by more than one person. To his credit, he didn't curl into a fetal ball at the sound, just cringed away. And the crucifix didn't waver.

"I know what you are," he quavered loudly.

I settled my laugh back into silence, grinning broadly at him. "Oh, I very much doubt it." I turned my back to him and closed his door, feeling the fear in him jump up a notch. When I turned back, he had risen from his high-backed chair to wrap both meaty hands around the crucifix, holding it shaking at arm's length.

I walked purposefully to the edge of his desk to lean my hands on its polished surface, feeling the push of his faith and the pull of my hunger in delicious conflict. When I leaned into it, basking in the hot glow, Dorsey stumbled back and fell into his chair again. The crucifix clattered against his desk and landed soundlessly on the red and gold carpet.

"Get away from me!" he panted, stark white now and panic-stricken. "Devil! Demon!" His voice was sliding up the octaves. I motioned impatiently and his voice went silent, his eyes bugging.

"Dorsey," I said sadly, as though to a slow child, "You are both right and wrong. Right, in deducing that I am not now, nor have I ever been human."

He shook his head frantically, seemingly trying to burrow backwards through his chair.

"Wrong," I continued, "In believing that your tired, overused symbol could stop me." Dorsey was breathing quickly; shallow breaths as though my breath stank. It probably did - I was fast moving from "amused" to "angry", and the fires were light in my chest, belching sulphur fumes.

"I am no demon subject to your god, no fallen angel ruling the depths of hell, no ghost, no fairy lord."

Under the roiling fear, was that a glimpse of curiosity? Oh, I would miss this man.

"I am War, Dorsey. That cross has been on my banners for years at a time; you cannot threaten me with it." I reached out and took Dorsey by one lapel.

"I like you, Dorsey, you are a warrior inside. But I am War, and I cannot give you a gentle death."

*** (cut)

Camilla wished her ridiculous military mandated hairstyle wouldn't give her such a headache. Mazer stepped back into line, his medal pinned to his rather puffed-out chest, barely keeping the satisfied grin from his beefy face. He was such a fucking moron, should never have been accepted into the academy in the first place, but his feel for military tactics was stellar, and he seemed to know no fear. Thus the medal.

Lieutenant Sykes, he's the best man you have. We have to recognize him. Yes sir, captain.

Pin a medal on a man she'd rather punch in the face.

Mazer was a military man from decades ago in his attitudes, regardless of his apptitude for war. Like some enlisted man or NCO on an ego trip, he seemed to know exactly what to say to get her goat, and say it in a way and in a time which made it impossible for her to respond.

"Thank you, ma'am." Damn it, if that smug catlike smile would just escape his control and slip out, she could hand him his ass on a platter. It hadn't yet, and Camilla doubted it ever would. He was too fucking canny to allow it.

"You are to be commended, cadet," Shit, every word of that hurt, and the bastard probably knows it, "Excellent work." Excellent work grabbing glory from your fellows, you're a natural.

Mazer dipped his head; was he hiding a smirk? Fuck, it probably didn't matter what he did at this point. The dean loved him.

With that heartening thought, she straightened up even more and said, "Company - dismissed. Make good use of your time off, cadets. The staff sergent will be greeting the dawn with you on Monday morning, bright and early."

Someone whooped near the back, probably Smithson. All at once she had to smother her own grin.

The mass of half-grown men in front of her dissolved into chaos, and Camilla turned away. From experience, she kept her spine ramrod straight and marched off toward her own quarters as though on parade duty.

As essentially, she was.

*** (cut)

I could feel anger starting to color the edges of her thoughts. A spitfire, for certain.

"With all due respect sir, I still don't know what that job is. A soldier goes where she is sent, but I'm not a spy - I believe I deserve to know what I'll be doing." Stiffly, the small woman turned to face me, her expression grim. "Sir."

Raising one eyebrow at her, I pulled out her plain wooden chair and arranged myself on it, pulling the creases on my uniform straight and sharp. Humans often find my height imposing; sitting down usually put them more at ease. This young officer instead puffed up, radiating possessiveness and irritation. Small wonder she'd found herself trapped at West Point in a dead-end post.

"I need perspective, lieutenant. I am one of the old guard, so to speak, and it's come to my attention that I haven't kept up with the times. You, Sykes, are exactly what I need to bring me into this century. And I need you now." I looked directly at Miss Sykes, obliquely wondering why I was arguing with her. I really should just take her and be done with it.

Instead, I settled more firmly in her chair. "I've spoken to the dean; he had no issue with your reassignment. And do not worry that you will be treated as a glorified secretary." I smiled again, watching blood drain from her face. "Your record speaks for itself on that subject. What did you call that brigadier general? 'A misogynistic fuckwad'?" At that, she blushed bright red. It was almost chameleon-esque.

Sykes looked down briefly, regaining her poise, then locked eyes with me. My respect for her raised another notch.

***(cut)

Ian sat with his head in his hands, across the street from his father's ruined office. The air stank of wet ash and the chemicals used to put out the fire.

Only a day ago, he'd been safely stowed behind the huge walnut desk in the old restored lobby, greeting clients and making calls to his friends on the cell phone he'd kept hidden in his pants pocket, or reading old books for homework assignments.

Now, he sat penniless on the curb, his cell phone gone, the Latin text he'd been reading burnt to cinders, and his father's body an unrecognizable lump of carbon somewhere in the destroyed building in front of him.

He stared numbly at the trash in the gutter between his knees, unable to think beyond the last moment he'd spent in that building.

He'd been deep in the Aenead, assuming Mr. Sekhmet would take his usual two hours. Then, there'd been a great whumpf, as though a large amount of air had been displaced. Ian had looked up to see gouts of flame shooting out his father's office door. He'd leaped to his feet, jumping the desk and preparing to hurtle himself up the stairs, to rescue Dad.

That's when Ian had seen him.

Mr. Sekhmet had emerged from the inferno without so much as a spark kindled on his hair or shirt. Responding to some animal instinct, Ian had ducked behind a plant where he couldn't be seen.

Like a fucking rabbit, Ian. With your father burning to death upstairs!

Ian Dorsey shook his head. Those internal voices were getting louder.