Last Stand of Dead Men

“Sorry?”

“Myra. She said she loves me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yup.”

“Smooth.”

“We’ve only been going out six months. I mean, I didn’t expect … you know.”

“Right.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“I’m not sure,” Valkyrie said. “Maybe get your priorities straight?”

He smiled. “You are a great help.”

He could practically see her nodding. “Best ex-girlfriend ever. Have to go now. Things are happening.”

“Aren’t they always? Stay safe.”

“You too.” He hung up, and went out to the living room.

Tane was flicking through the TV channels. “Hayley’s helping Myra pack,” he said without looking up. “Or that’s what she claims. She’s probably in there threatening her.”

“That sounds more like Hayley,” Fletcher agreed. He sat on the armrest. “So what side do you come down on? Australia’s a Cradle of Magic so everyone expects it to side with Ireland, but what about New Zealand?”

“You got me,” Tane said with a shrug. “We’re on the same page as the Aussies on a lot of things, but this is different. This is about world safety. And let’s face it, the Grand Mages of New Zealand and Australia do not get along.”

“So I’ve heard. But do you think your Sanctuary would side with the Supreme Council just because of a personal disagreement?”

“Stupider things have happened.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Expecting anyone?” Tane asked, getting to his feet.

“No,” said Fletcher, “but then I wasn’t expecting you, either. Hold on.”

Fletcher teleported outside and down the corridor, looking back up to the apartment door. A man stood there, waiting for the door to open.

“One man,” Fletcher said as he teleported back beside the sofa, “no visible weapons. Looks normal.”

“That’s the best way for an assassin to look,” Tane said. “I’ll get Hayley, she’ll know what to do. You keep your eye on the door.”

Tane hurried towards Myra’s bedroom. The man knocked again, then rang the doorbell. Fletcher teleported to the storage locker he rented in New Jersey, grabbed the baseball bat from the rack of weapons, and teleported back to the apartment. He held it in a two-handed grip, ready to swing. Then he turned, looking at the window behind him. A guy knocking on the door could be the distraction, allowing the second assassin to abseil down from the roof and crash through the glass, throwing ninja stars and grenades and things.

A brown envelope slid under the door.

Fletcher crouched, teleported to the door, grabbed the envelope, and teleported back. It was addressed to Myra. It looked like an electricity bill. He turned it over. Scrawled on this side was Delivered to us by mistake!

He crept to the door, pressed his eye to the peephole, just in time to see Myra’s neighbour shuffling back to his own apartment.

“Who was it?” Myra asked, walking up beside him.

“Mr Sakamoto,” he said, smiling, “who really isn’t all that scary once you see how slow he moves. Ready to go?”

Myra said something and his body snapped away from the door and he fell, convulsing. Pain seized his mind. His legs kicked. His arms curled, fingers clutching at nothing, his muscles contracting with each spasm that shot through him. He tried to tell her to run, but his jaw was locked, his tendons straining against his skin. Run. Run. Why wasn’t she running? She was kneeling over him, speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then she stood, put something on the hall table and stepped over him, heading for the kitchen.

The thing on the hall table. He could see the edge of it. It was black plastic or metal, with two little silver points. A taser.

He tried to teleport. Of course he couldn’t. No one could use magic, not with that much residual electricity running through them. He gave a grunt that sounded like a gag, and heaved himself on to his stomach. He started crawling. He could hear her now. He could hear the rattle of cutlery as she searched for something.

He crawled for the bedroom.

He heard her curse. She’d found the muffins in the bin. She was not happy.

He crawled faster.

He got to the bedroom. Tane Aiavao lay face down on the carpet, a knife lodged in his skull. Hayley Skirmish sat against the far wall, her throat cut.

Fletcher nudged the door shut, swung himself round to place his feet against it, and he lay back and tried to regain control of his body.

The handle turned, and Myra pushed and Fletcher pushed back.

“This is silly,” she said from the other side. “Fletcher, you’re delaying the inevitable. Come on. Open up.”

He would have come up with a witty retort, but it was at that moment he realised his bladder had loosened.

“I-I’ve w-wet myself,” he said through chattering teeth.

“That’s normal,” Myra told him. “You’re lucky that’s all you did. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Why’re you … why …”

The door shuddered violently. “Why am I doing this?” she said. “Because I’ve been paid to do it. It’s my job.”

Fletcher’s teeth were chattering so hard he bit his tongue and tasted blood. “You s-said you … loved me.”

“Yeah,” she answered, “and you didn’t say it back, you creep!”

She started kicking the door. He could hear it splintering from the other side.

“S-sorry,” he called. “I … I l-love you, too.”

She laughed. “Bit late, yeh flamin’ drongo.”