Tweet of the Day: Strings of Retaliation – 8a – Show
Brick Factory Yard, Ince-in-Makerfield, Wigan, UK, 1 August 22:28 hrs GMT
I stood at the edge of the cone of b bright light projected by one of the many floodlights around the yard. Tom stood on the other side.
“I was surprised when I got your call, Gwen. Or should I call you Joan?” he said. His face was hidden in shadow, but the smugness in his voice came through.
“I don’t care what you call me as long as you listen to me,” I said. Light glinted off Excalibur’s edge.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Tom.
“Then I can’t protect you,” he said. Something that sounded like a firecracker went off in the distance. Tom stared at me for a second then drew a flintlock. I snapped my fingers. A spark set off the powder in the pan. He screamed in surprise. I charged and struck him across the face with Excalibur’s pummel. We fell in a heap, with me on top.
I grabbed him by the collar, “Tell me where your precious Prince is, Tom, or I swear I’ll carve you up like a Christmas turkey.”
“I’m sorry Gwen,” he said. He had some sort of grenade in his hand. I rolled away as it exploded. I kept rolling in the dirt to put the the flames out. When I finally stopped I looked back. My brother’s body twitched as it burned in angry red orange flame. Visions of London filled my mind. The collapsed homes, the smell of human flesh. I pushed my self from the ground far enough not to smear myself with my own vomit. I river of tears flowed from my eyes.
“Damn you Tom!” I shouted into the night. Martin pulled me up to my feet.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I just killed my brother, Martin. There is no alright for that,” I said. A sharp pain roiled through my head. “Where’s Owen?”
“Don’t know. The moment my imp found the sniper he ran for it,” he said. A pudgy, bat winged creature landed appeared on Martin’s shoulder, murmured something to his ear and vanished. “This way,” he said, a long finger pointing to the street.
There we found Owen, bloody knife in hand, slumped against the side of a lorry. He was still breathing, the other two slumped on the ground, no so much.
Not you Owen, please.
“I’m okay my lady. Brave little Sir Owen is okay,” he said. He popped a couple pills into his mouth. “A bit of headache. Had to take down their mentalist and managed to get something of…” he glanced at the nearest corpse, “him.”
My fingers trembled as cradled his sweet face on my fingertips, “What?”
“Eryn, the Prince is in Eryn,” he said. “Don’t know what came over me. It’s not like I deserve you.”
The numbness spilled over his mind into mind. Whatever those pills were, they worked fast.
“We better get back to the safe house before the police arrive,” said Martin.
For the first time, in a long time, I cried all the way to bed.