Stories by Kiera Dellacroix Read online

  Stories by Kiera Dellacroix

  Engravings of Wraith

  Icehole

  Fractured Tapestry

  Engravings of Wraith

  All content with the exception of song lyrics used without permission is the property of the author. © 2001 Kiera Dellacroix

  A woman of reluctant violence learns about life and love.

  Prologue

  "Cameron," she said with a heavy Irish accent as she picked up the phone.

  She listened attentively to the voice on the other end of the line for several minutes before speaking again. Bailey Cameron was a strikingly attractive woman, standing about half a foot short of six feet tall. Her waist-length hair was a study in ebony that contrasted sharply against a somewhat pale complexion. She was trim and moved with an economy of motion that spoke volumes of athletic prowess, yet the latter took nothing away from her feminine attributes. However, her most prominent feature, the one that people immediately noticed when not engaged in observation of only her body, were her eyes, which were as black as obsidian and frighteningly intelligent.

  Those eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she listened to the voice coming from the phone. "I see, are you sure?" she asked and nodded when answered.

  "Very well, let me have the address," she said as she fished in a desk drawer for something to write with.

  "Repeat that, please," She requested and dictated the information to a pad.

  "Well done, I'll make sure payment is transferred to your usual account in the morning," she said in departure.

  She turned in her chair to look out the window that stood eighteen stories above Atlanta, staring out at the night and the lights below for almost an hour before reluctantly rising from her seat.

  --------

  John Clinton stumbled down the steps that led to the sidewalk, a stumble that was destined to turn into an embarrassing crash had his friend and drinking partner not grabbed an arm to steady him.

  "You gonna be alright to drive, Johnny?"

  "Yeah, don't have that far to go."

  "You shouldn't drive drunk, why don't you let me call you a cab?"

  "I'm not completely in the can, Pete. Besides, Susie will have a shit fit if I show up without my car."

  "Alright, I should probably argue with you but I'll settle for saying goodnight."

  "Did you drive or ride that goofy bike of yours?"

  "I rode the goofy bike and if you would try some physical activity, you might lose that gut you're developing."

  "What gut?" John said standing up straight and failing miserably in an attempt to suck his stomach in.

  "You better start breathing or you'll pass out," Pete laughed.

  John expelled the breath that he was holding and his gut promptly reasserted its bulging presence.

  "It's all the beer I drank, tomorrow I'll be as slender as a reed," John theorized.

  "Tomorrow you'll still look like you ate the horse you rode in on," Pete chuckled.

  "Oh… Oh…" John said as he stumbled around in mock laughter. "You're killing me."

  "Yeah, well what can I say? I got a million of them. Want to hear some more?"

  "Spare me."

  "Your loss, are sure you don't want that cab?"

  "Nah, I'll be okay. See ya next Monday?"

  "Yep. See ya then, Johnny," Pete said bending unlock his bicycle.

  "Okay, talk to you later," John said as he watched his friend straddle the bike and pedal away.

  As he made his way toward his car, he noticed that besides his own there were only two other vehicles left in the parking lot. A discovery that filled him with a mixture of adolescent pride and adult dismay upon realizing that he had shut the bar down again. He fumbled the keys out of his pocket when he arrived at his car and successfully inserted the key into the lock after only two intoxicated attempts.

  Bending to seat himself in the car, he was totally unaware of the silently moving and rapidly approaching figure until a vice-like grip descended on his arm as he reached to close the door. He caught only a startled glimpse of black clothing before he was struck just below the ear with a wickedly powerful blow that rendered him unconscious.

  His body was roughly shoved over into the passenger seat and the intruder sat down behind the wheel to start the car, backing out of the space slowly and emerging on to the street leisurely.

  The car traveled at steady legal pace for several miles, leaving the ritzy neighborhood that John frequented on his drinking nights in favor of the inner city. Eventually, the vehicle slowed and came to a stop next to the curb on a street lined with apparently abandoned buildings. The only glint of light coming from a street lamp several blocks in the distance.

  Bailey stepped out of the car and walked silently down the sidewalk, tucking an errant lock of raven hair back into the beret she was wearing. She approached the entrance to an alley and was soon engulfed within its confines, coming to a halt next to a dumpster where she knelt and tossed aside several garbage bags to expose the body hidden under the debris. She quickly removed the jacket and shirt from the man and upon standing, removed her own jacket and donned the clothes she had taken from the body. Returning to the car in clothes that were several sizes too big for her, she leaned into the vehicle to pull John's unconscious form into the driver's seat, spending several tedious moments positioning his body behind the wheel. Stepping back and pulling a pair of large leather gloves on over her already existing pair, she drew a small automatic handgun from the waistband of her pants. Leaning in close and extending her right arm through the window, she fired two rounds into the back of his head.

  Withdrawing her arm from within the car, she squatted on the sidewalk and cast a regretful stare upon her handiwork.

  "Sorry, John," she said finally.

  She sighed sadly as she walked back to the body in the alley and stripped off the clothes she had borrowed from the unconscious man. After several minutes of frustrating work, she had the shirt and jacket back on the body and had placed the large gloves that she had worn on the man's hands. She placed the gun in the waistband of his pants and dropped John's wallet into his front shirt pocket. As an afterthought, she spared a second to verify that the man was still alive before she put her own jacket back on and walked out the opposite end of the alley.

  --------

  Matt Fisher slowly climbed his way back into consciousness and abruptly realized that not only was he not at home in bed, but every joint in his body hurt. He tried to sit up and instantly grabbed his head to quell a serious attack of dizziness.

  "You've been out for over twenty hours," a female voice with an Irish accent drifted over him.

  "Where am I?" he asked groggily as he again attempted to sit up.

  "Russell Lake."

  "Huh?" he asked, slowly taking in his surroundings.

  The rocking motion that he thought was just dizziness was in fact the movement of the little metal boat he found himself floating in. He belatedly noticed with rapidly increasing alarm that his ankle was handcuffed to a short heavy chain, which in turn was padlocked around a large cinder block. It was shaping up to be a pretty fucking scary dream.

  "Who are you?" he asked the woman sitting in the back of the boat.

  "Bailey Cameron."

  "Do I know…" he started but cut off suddenly as the name registered. "Oh my God," he whispered as reality crashed in on him and he turned wide eyes on the woman, unable to make out her features in the dark.

  "The problem with corruption is once you've indulged, there's always someone who knows."

  "Wait, we can talk about this," he blurted, close to panic.

  "I'm curious. How much did they pay you to set me up, Mr. Fisher?"


  "You don't understand…"

  "How much?"

  "Thirty-five thousand, but you can have it," he blubbered. "You can have all of it, just don't do this…"

  "Is that all they offered for ruining what's left of my life?"

  "Please don't do this, please!" he begged, the tears coming suddenly and uncontrollably. "You can have the money, I have a wife…"

  The words were cut off by the unseen stroke of a katana that sang through the dark and cut his throat. She turned away from the man's final moments, staring silently out over the black water until he bled himself out. With a little sigh, she stood up and wiped her blade clean on his pant leg, placing it on the deck behind her when she was finished. Releasing another sigh, she bent to force his body first, and then the cinderblock overboard. She straightened and stood unmoving in the little boat, watching the water with an indifferent expression where the corpse had been sucked under.

  --------

  Twenty-four hours later she was once again seated at her desk and staring out at the night. She hadn't moved for over an hour and her expression was unreadable. There were no lights on in the office and the sudden ringing of the phone elicited no response from her. It rang nine times before she reached out to pick up the receiver.

  "Wraith," she answered and listened for a moment. "It's done."

  Part One

  God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes, Then you really might know what it's like to have to choose

  - E. Shrody

  I

  Bailey walked briskly to her car after having offered her condolences to John's widow, Susan, ignoring everyone else present. She slipped in behind the wheel of her Barracuda and irritably started the car, resisting the urge to stomp on the accelerator as she left the cemetery in the rearview mirror. She ground her teeth in an attempt to reign in her temper as she slowly traveled through traffic, finally taking the turn that allowed her access to the interstate and accelerating up the entrance ramp at an alarming velocity. The Barracuda hitting I-20 at close to 90mph, gaining speed with no intention of slowing as the rocketing car wove in and out of the interstate traffic, eventually leaving the city behind in the wake of a roaring motor.

  She paid no attention to the speed at which she was traveling, she really didn't care. It was race to avoid reality, the speed kept her from thinking and she pushed the Barracuda until it was no longer an option. In the end, her thoughts caught up with her and took a slight lead, she tried to overtake them but they tenaciously solidified their supremacy. Fight or forfeit? As soon as the question entered her mind she knew the race was over. Reluctantly, she eased her foot off of the accelerator as she prepared to take the next exit, the car gradually slowing until it came to a complete stop at the end of the off ramp. Content to let the car idle, she stared through the windshield at nothing for several moments until finally reaching up and pulling the rear view around to face her, taking a hard look at the face staring back at her.

  "Was there a time you didn't look like a prisoner?" she asked the stranger in the mirror who only blinked in response.

  Fight or forfeit?

  Without permission and despite the sadness that always accompanied thoughts of family, her mind took her back in time.

  Dinner was almost ready. Mother was busy setting places while a 15-year-old Bailey and her brothers were sitting at the table with their father. There had been another funeral earlier in the day, one of father's friends. Her father had lost a lot of friends to either death or imprisonment. She knew more than her family wanted her to. She was not naïve enough to buy into the story that all of her father's friends had died of 'accidents'. They tried very hard to give her a normal life, always protecting her and shielding her from information. She knew her father was involved, and her older brother, but she never quite knew why. The British were always nice to her. They would smile at her when she passed, and once when she had lost track of mother in a crowd a British soldier had stayed with her until she was found. She had been embarrassed at the way mother had treated him when she caught up with them. Looking at her father across the dinner table she summoned the courage to ask the question she had long wanted the answer to.

  "Da, why do we fight with the British?"

  She saw the wince on her father's face when he heard the question and he looked at her for so long without speaking that she began to squirm a little under his attention. Looking around the room she noted that her brothers and that even mother had stopped the preparations for dinner and seemed to be nervously awaiting his response. The silence and her father's regard dragged on long enough that she prepared to ask the question again when he finally answered.

  "Sweetheart, everybody has to fight to be free."

  The decision was made.

  Two hours later, she navigated her car through the parking complex to the private garage she kept in the high-rise building that was both home and office. She was tired, but there were a few things she wanted to take care of before allowing herself the luxury of sleep. She swiped her access card across the sensor and was rewarded with an electronic buzz that invited entry.

  --------

  From the security desk in the lobby, Tommy White's head snapped up to the sound of the private door opening. He knew it could only be one person so he wasn't surprised, having long since gotten used to seeing her come and go at the strangest of hours. Knowing that it wouldn't do to have the owner of the building and his employer see him slouching at his desk, he quickly set his back ramrod straight and put on his best smile.

  "Good evening, Miss Cameron," he said as she emerged from the doorway.

  "Hello, Tom," she replied distantly as she made her way to the private elevator and disappeared.

  God, she's beautiful. A thought that entered his mind every time he encountered the elusive Bailey Cameron and on each occasion he found her in his thoughts for hours afterward. He had worked for C-Corp for almost three years and was privy to most of the rumors and gossip that circulated the building. Over time, he had gathered a great deal of information.

  He knew that she owned the eighteen-story building that he was sitting in and lived on the top floor. She also owned the company that conducted its business on the other seventeen floors. It was a successful business. To the people who worked within the confines of the building, Bailey was something of a spectre, infrequently involving herself in the operation of the company and preferring to leave it in the hands of a Board of Directors. She only appeared when asked or needed and those times were rare. The presence of Bailey Cameron meant that either there was a lot on the line or someone had pulled a full fuck-up. The last thing anybody wanted was a personal visit from Bailey, she had an immensely intimidating presence and a way of speaking that both dismissed you and cut right to the heart of the matter. It was a well recognized observation from those who had dealt with her firsthand, that although generally considered as almost too smart for her own good, she also possessed a swift temper. In fact, one of the most carefully guarded secrets within the corporation was that behind her back, the employee's had half-seriously and half-jokingly nicknamed her 'The Princess of Darkness'. A name most thought was well suited, considering her dark features and the fact that she always wore black clothes. However, it was the general consensus that she was an excellent employer and despite the dark tones that she was popularly painted in, one would be hard pressed to find a truly disgruntled employee.

  The woman was an enigma, not only to himself but to the populace at large. It was obvious that she took great pains to isolate herself from anything other than basic human interaction. She fascinated him to no end. She also scared him on a level he didn't often let himself think about, because he knew something about her that he suspected very few people did. The woman had secrets. Some of which were dangerous.

  He had only been working for C-Corp for a couple of months when late one night the private door had opened to reveal Bailey.

  "Hello, Miss Cameron."

&n
bsp; "Tom, I need a favor."

  "Of course, what can I do for you?" he said quickly, eager to score brownie points.

  "Come with me please."

  He got up from his chair and followed her through the private entrance to the garage she parked in. He was keenly aware of the tension surrounding her, an electric feeling that he felt sure he could touch if he tried. They descended the stairs and he was astonished to find six men lying in a rough circle in front of her car. It didn't take a brainiac to see that the men had been on the losing side of a rather severe ass kicking. He lowered himself to a knee and was relieved to find them alive. Knowing he had an expression of awe etched into his face, he turned to find her looking at him patiently.

  "What kind of favor can I do for you, Miss Cameron?"

  "These men require transportation, Tom. Would you get one of the vans and drive them to this address?"

  She handed him a piece of paper and he felt his hand, without his permission, reach out and take the offering.

  "Miss Cameron, don't you think we should call the police?"

  "I'm afraid that's not possible, Tom."

  "But…"

  "Believe me when I tell you that under no circumstances can I allow police intervention on this matter."

  "But…"

  "I know this must seem strange, I'll make sure your efforts are rewarded."

  "But…"

  "Yes or no, Tom?"

  And with those intense black eyes bearing down on him, and the eerie feeling that 'no' was not a possible response, he had agreed. Twenty minutes later he found himself arriving at his destination where there were two men waiting. Neither spoke to him and he gladly returned the silence as they helped the wounded from his van and into one of their own.

  He didn't see Bailey again for over two weeks following the incident, although she intruded upon his thoughts constantly. It frightened him more than he cared to admit that one person was capable of inflicting the damage that had been dealt to those men. It was a knowledge that he would rather not have and a danger that he cared not to dwell on.