Patrick Jamieson

  I sat in the dimly lit backroom of the nightclub, "The Velvet Lounge," nursing a glass of top-shelf scotch. The bass from the dance floor thumped through the walls, a steady pulse that normally soothed my thoughts. Not tonight though. Tonight, my mind was a whirlwind of frustration and planning.

  The club was mine, or at least it would be once I had more control over its owner. A few whispered suggestions here and there had him eating out of my hand like a well-trained dog. It was fuckin' pathetic, really. But it served its purpose for now.

  Two girls draped themselves over me on the battered leather couch – Chloe? Brandi? Didn’t matter. Their eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises, their hands fumbling clumsily over my shoulders. Desperate little things, begging like a fuckin' pet for a treat. Cheap thrills bought cheaper. Crystalline flakes dusted the low table, remnants of my little ‘motivational tools’. Much better than wasting precious mana suppressing them; let the drugs do the work, keep the subtle mental nudges for the important puppets.

  "More, Mr. Jamieson? Please?" one whined, her voice thick as syrup, fingers tracing the scar under my left eye like she was reading braille. Irritation sparked, sharp and hot. Pushy bitch. I gave her a lazy grin full of teeth, not warmth.

  "Maybe, pet. Settle down yeah?" My smile threatened to turn to a snear with the disdain. They were useful, but grating. Like background noise you couldn’t tune out. I had other problems to think about.

  Twenty-five wasn't fuckin' enough. The number burned in my gut. Twenty-five lieutenants dancing on my strings, perfectly controlled extensions of my will. They were running my little empire on the streets, shuffling the money, recruiting the cannon fodder. But push too hard, keep the control too tight for too long, and they started to unravel. Eyes going dull. Coordination slipping. Little tells that screamed wrong to anyone looking close. Like overclocking a cheap processor ’til it burnt out. I needed more. Needed stronger lieutenants, not just street trash. I wanted people with money and influence, but I needed power. I needed a spire lord.

  My fist clenched, knuckles cracking loudly in the suddenly heavy silence. The girls flinched. Good. Fear kept them docile.

  Fuckin' limitation. Dangerous thoughts wormed through my frustration. I had already set my hooks, had people out watching for a nibble. If I could just catch a spire lord… The thought made my mouth water. If I could take one like that… wrap them tight… They’d be worth fifty of these shuffling idiots. A lieutenant who could actually think, actually fight.

  Perhaps I needed better bait.

  The shadow of the FBI agents darkened my thoughts like spilled oil on the gulf waters. Colepepper and Melburn. Asking about spire lords right to my fuckin' face. They knew about the Astral. Government sniffing around was bad fuckin’ business. Could spook potential recruits. Could expose strings if they pulled hard enough on the right puppet.

  I needed a cleanup plan.

  Maybe… maybe that was the bait. Leak something. Another ‘unstable spire lord’ causing problems… lure the big game to hunt it; both spire lords and the government. Give them both a target. I could let them tire each other out, then swoop in when they were weakened…

  One of the girls slumped against my side, giggling at nothing. Distracting. Annoying. I shoved her off roughly. She sprawled onto the floor with a whimper, too doped to really register the pain. Fucking pitiful.

  "Enough. Out," I snapped, my voice a low growl cutting through the haze.

  They scrambled like kicked dogs, stumbling towards the door, whispering pleas, promising anything. Didn’t matter. I wouldn’t waste the powder on them again tonight. My gaze hardened on the throbbing neon strip under the door.

  Twenty-five puppets weren't enough. This grimy little kingdom wasn't enough. I needed more control. Needed better prey. And fuck anyone, spire lord, monster, or Fed, who got in the way of what was mine by right of being strong enough to seize it.

  The green-eyed girl on the floor tried to crawl back, murmuring apologies. I ignored her, already miles away, plotting how to make the city bleed just enough to draw out the real prizes. My fingers traced the scar again, a familiar path. Patience. For now.

  A knock interrupted my thoughts, sharp and insistent. My head snapped toward the door, the scotch in my glass swaying dangerously. Who the fuck had the balls to interrupt me? I set the glass down, the amber liquid trembling with the force of my movements.

  "Enter," I barked, not bothering to mask the irritation.

  The door creaked open, and two of my boys stood there, their faces smeared with blood and dirt. One had a split lip, the other a black eye already swelling. My gut tightened. They’d been out watching my trap for me, and from the look of them, they’d found something.

  "We found one," the taller one mumbled, avoiding my eyes. "A spire lord."

  My interest piqued, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Oh? Who are they? And what makes you think they're a spire lord?"

  The shorter one jerked forward, wincing as he moved. "We don't know her name. Just that she's a young bitch in the bad part of town; tall, athletic, and has long cornrows. She’s got…fuckin’ hair, sir. Like, alive. It moved on its own, wrapped around us. We tried to grab her, but—"

  I didn’t need the details. I could see the result. They’d come back broken, which meant she wasn’t just a spire lord, —she was strong. And they’d failed. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

  "Continue," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

  The taller one swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. "We tried, Boss, I swear. But she…she fucking took us apart. We didn’t even touch her. I don’t know what she is, but—"

  "You don’t know what she is?" I cut in, my voice rising. "You think I pay you to stand there and get your asses handed to you? I sent you out to find me a spire lord, not to get the shit beat out of you by some bimbo with a bad hair day!"

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Both of them flinched at my tone. They knew better than to disappoint me. I could feel the faint pulse of the mind-control mana in their minds, the boon that kept them loyal. But it wasn’t enough to make them capable. Just loyal. Loyal wasn’t enough.

  I stood, the leather chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward them. The taller one took a step back, his hands half-raised. "I didn’t mean to—"

  I seized his wrist before he could finish, my grip crushing. "You didn’t mean to? You didn’t mean to what? Fail? Embarrass me? Make me look like a fuckin' cunt in front of my own people?" I twisted his arm sharply, and he yelped, dropping to one knee.

  The other one watched, frozen, as I yanked the taller one to his feet again. My mind raced. I could punish them, make an example, but it wouldn’t fix the problem. So I did what I always did —I thought bigger. If they’d found a spire lord, and she was as strong as they said, I couldn’t waste her. I could use her. Bait. Leverage.

  "Get out," I spat, shoving the taller one toward the door. "Both of you. Don’t come back 'till you can tell me something useful."

  They bolted, the door slamming shut behind them. I picked up my scotch again, the ice clinking as my hand shook with suppressed anger. Twenty-five. Fuckin' twenty-five lieutenants, and none of them were worth the powder to blow them up. But a spire lord… a strong one… that was different. If I could get my hands on that girl, wrap her in my strings, she could be the key to everything. The FBI, the monsters, the other spire lords —fuck them. With her, I could sit back and let her fight my wars for me.

  The glass shattered in my hand. I stared at the blood welling in my palm, the shards digging deep. It stung, but I didn’t care. Pain was just a distraction, and distractions were for the weak. I wiped my hand on my slacks, the blood leaving a jagged stain.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed a number, waiting for the voice on the other end. "I need you to spread the word," I said, my voice cold. "I’m looking for a spire lord. Young, black, hair that moves on its own. Spread the word, and make sure everyone knows what’ll happen if they cross me."

  I hung up, the phone clattering on the table. The neon strip under the door pulsed like a heartbeat, and I watched it for a moment before my thoughts drifted back to the girl. If she was as strong as the boys said, she wouldn’t be easy to catch. But I always got what I wanted. Eventually.

  I raised the almost-empty bottle of scotch to my lips, the glass crunching against my teeth. The burn down my throat was just another irritation. I had work to do. I just had to be patient a little longer.

  ****

  Kobayashi Amaya

  I stood tall, my breathing steady as I lowered my katana, the blade gleaming faintly under the dojo's soft lighting. The familiar ache in my arms was comforting, a reminder of a good practice. Yet, my mind wandered, my focus unsteady —a rare occurrence for me. I sheathed my sword with a fluid motion, the sound of metal meeting wood crisp in the quiet room.

  There were still a few hours before midnight, but the dojo was empty save for me. I preferred it this way. Solitude allowed me to clear my mind, —usually anyway. Tonight, however, my thoughts were anything but clear.

  I retrieved a towel from my bag and wiped the sweat from my brow, my motions precise, though my heart raced with a different kind of energy.

  Cai would be boarding a plane soon.

  Twenty long hours. Twenty hours until I could see him again. The thought sent a flutter through my chest, a sensation that I only felt around him.

  Plans swirled in my mind, each detail meticulously thought out. We would spar first thing, our usual routine. He would likely tease me about my scary expression, and I would surprise him with a new technique I'd been honing.

  He would be here a whole week, which meant we would have plenty of time for a walk through the woods by the village —quiet, peaceful, just the two of us. And perhaps, if time allowed, we could visit the Plum Blossom Festival in Kyoto. The vibrant lights and bustling crowds would be a fun contrast to the quiet forest, but I imagined Cai smiling, and that was the true reward.

  Yet, beneath the excitement, a weight pressed against my chest. He would finally tell me his secret. The promise he had made haunted me, a mix of relief and dread. What could it be that required such care and secrecy? And what would it mean for us? I knew one thing for sure; I would find whatever was threatening him and put a stop to it.

  I paused mid-step, my thoughts echoing in the empty dojo. My hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of my katana, as if seeking reassurance. I had secrets too —secrets of my own, of my clan, of the life I had been groomed for since childhood. When would I find the courage to share them with him?

  What if he does not understand? The doubt crept in, unbidden. What if it changes everything?

  I took a deep breath, my resolve firming. I had little choice. He deserved the truth, and I could not bear the thought of him walking into danger blindly. My clan's legacy, my training, the path I had chosen —it all tied back to him. Protecting him, no matter the cost. That was my duty, my purpose.

  But perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was my heart.

  I turned, my eyes falling on the small wooden bird Cai had taken from an offering plate years ago, now sitting with my things on a shelf in the dojo. We had once placed it in a tree when Cai wanted to cheer me up. He didn't know I had secretly picked it back up before climbing down. Its simplicity belied the memories it held —of laughter, of quiet moments, of the bond we shared.

  I picked it up, my thumb tracing the intricate details. "Soon," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat. "I will tell you soon."

  The bird felt heavier in my hand, as though burdened by the weight of my secrets. Still, I clung to it, a tangible connection to the boy who had become everything to me. The boy who would soon know the truth.

  I left the dojo, the cool evening air brushing against my skin as I stepped into the quiet streets. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in hues of orange and pink that seemed to stretch endlessly.

  I wrapped my coat more tightly around me to guard against the cold evening air. My shoes made soft scuffing sounds against the pavement, a rhythmic accompaniment to my thoughts.

  Before I could turn the first corner, a figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby teahouse. His footsteps were too eager, his presence unwelcome. I recognized him instantly —Nakamura Hiroshi, a boy from the village who had always found it necessary to hover around me like a persistent swarm of gnats. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and determination, and I knew he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear.

  “Amaya-chan,” he called out, his voice too loud for the peaceful evening. I slowed my pace but didn’t stop, hoping he’d take the hint. He jogged to keep up with me, his breath quickening. “Are you going to the Baikasai festival?”

  I tilted my head slightly, acknowledging his question. “It is likely.”

  His grin spread too wide, his eyes lighting up with misplaced hope. “Then—then you should go with me!”

  I stopped now, turning to face him fully. My expression was neutral, but my tone carried a blade’s edge. “I have no interest in spending time with you, Nakamura-san. Besides, I have already made plans.”

  His grin wilted, replaced by a scowl that twisted his face. His hands clenched into fists, and he took a step closer in an attempt to intimidate with his size, his voice dropping into a snarl. “Plans? What plans? You’re always so damn cryptic! Is it him again? That Ryuzaki guy? It is isn't it? You only go out if it's with him.”

  I felt a spark of irritation ignite in my chest, but I doused it quickly, keeping my voice steady. “It is none of your concern.”

  His face reddened, and he barked a laugh that held no humor. “None of my concern? You’re always like this! So caught up in your own little world, your delusions! You think Ryuzaki understands you? You think someone like him could ever—ever—be what you need?”

  My grip on my katana tightened, though it remained sheathed at my side. I met his glare evenly, my voice cold but controlled. “What I need is for you to leave me alone, Nakamura-san. Now.”

  For a moment, he looked as though he might lunge at me, his anger boiling over. But then, with a muttered curse, he spun on his heel and stormed off, leaving me standing there with the echoes of his jealousy.

  I let out a slow breath, composing myself before continuing my walk. The encounter left a sour taste in my mouth, but it did not shake me. I knew what I wanted, and I would not let anyone —least of all Nakamura Hiroshi— distract me from it.