“It’s a start.”
“These will be your weapons. Each belonged to a Gravedigger before you. You will add to the arsenal over time, as well, and then those weapons will be passed down to those who follow you.” Goldstein was leaning on his cane, standing behind a table whose surface was hidden beneath a mound of blades. “Choose whatever calls to you.”
Dressed in a white turtleneck and dark green slacks, Charity didn’t look like an angel of retribution this morning. She had slept hard and then wolfed down a delicious breakfast that Mitchell had prepared. Goldstein had watched her eat in silence but as soon as the last morsel of food had passed her lips, he had sprung into action, asking her to follow him into one of the many rooms of his home.
Charity reached out and lifted up a curved blade. Its highly polished surface gleamed in the sunlight that drifted in through the windows. She stepped back and spun it through the air with ease, the weapon whistling. She paused, eyes wide. “I feel like I’ve used this before.”
“Trace memories,” Goldstein replied. “You received them when you accepted The Voice’s offer. You’ll find that you can accomplish many things just by trying them.”
Charity plucked up a small crossbow and studied it. It was fitted with a band so that it could be tied about her wrist. She affixed it and whirled, operating the firing mechanism by a delicate movement of her arm. The bolt shot forth and buried itself in the exact spot where she’d intended it to go.
“Don’t get cocky,” Goldstein warned. “A lot of what you’re doing at the moment is based upon instinct. But when you have a bullet whizzing past your head, you might find yourself freezing up. You have to learn to be the same in battle that you are in practice.”
Charity removed the mini crossbow from her wrist and set it back on the table. Lowering her voice, she said, “You called it The Voice. That’s what I think of it as, too. Who is it? God?”
“Perhaps it is Adonai — that is what we Jews call the Lord in our prayers — but I personally think that it is not the God of the holy book. What relationship The Voice has with the most holy, I cannot fathom. It is what it is.”
“But you’re still religious? You still pray to… Adonai?”
“Of course. The Voice has never complained so why shouldn’t I keep all sides happy?” Goldstein laughed at his own joke. “Tell me, Charity, are you a religious person? Is that why you’re asking these questions?”
“My mother used to read to me out of the bible but that’s the extent of it. I never believed in God. After The Voice, though, maybe I should.”
Goldstein took a deep breath. “We should begin. You have a finite amount of time, after all.”
Charity opened her mouth to say something when a powerful set of arms locked around her throat, nearly crushing her windpipe. Stars formed quickly in front of her eyes and Goldstein stood by, doing nothing.
Mitchell’s voice, doom and firm, echoed in her ear. “I don’t want to do it but I’ll kill you if you don’t fight back.”
The pounding in her head was almost overwhelming now but Charity felt no fear. There was a mountain of resolve within her that she was just beginning to recognize. She had died once — and, according to The Voice, she would not die again… at least not for another three years. Somehow, someway, she would find a way out of this.
With confidence blooming, Charity threw her body back, raising both feet off the ground. She set them against the edge of the table and then shoved with all her might, sending bladed weapons skittering across the floor and driving Mitchell off-balance. He held on tight but the two of them ended up against the wall.
Charity reached behind her with her right hand, grabbing hold of Mitchell’s crotch. She squeezed hard enough to elicit a scream of pain and a loosening of the man’s grip. Then she was free of him, dropping into a crouch. A sword was beside her hand and she snatched it up, brandishing it with relish. She rushed Mitchell, who dodged her first swipe and caught her in the back with a hard punch. Her kidneys ached and she felt a scream die in her throat.
Mitchell grabbed her by her hair and yanked her head back. She saw him poised to deliver a punch directly to her face but she struck first, grabbing hold of her sword’s hilt with both hands and jamming it back. It slid between two of his ribs and she yanked it free, intending to strike again if need be.
“Enough!” Goldstein shouted and Mitchell released his hold on Charity. He was bent over, one hand pressed tightly against his side. Blood was oozing from between his fingers, dripping onto the floor.
Charity relaxed. She felt no guilt over the man’s injury — he had attacked her and deserved no less. She felt a strange sense of calm throughout her being, as if being in combat were her natural state.
Mitchell regarded her with no malice. He grinned, displaying a gold tooth in the upper front. “You move like quicksilver,” he said. To Charity’s surprise, he had a British accent.
Seeing her expression, Mitchell laughed, wincing as he did so. “Born and raised in Leeds,” he explained. “Goldstein, old chap, a little assistance, if you would?”
Goldstein helped Mitchell find a seat and he then directed Charity to fetch his black bag from the other room. After she returned, Goldstein helped open Mitchell’s shirt and began to examine the wound.
“Does he need a doctor?” Charity asked.
“I’ve suffered worse paper cuts than this,” Mitchell teased. “Don’t beat yourself up over this, luv. It’s just training.”
“I wasn’t,” Charity responded. She and Mitchell stared at each other for a moment and then both grinned. “So,” she said to Goldstein as he reached for a needle and thread. “Since I broke this one, who’s going to be my new sparring partner?”
Mitchell spoke up. “Girl, I’m nowhere near broken.”
Charity’s smile widened. “Yet.”
Goldstein shook his head. “What have I done by bringing the two of you together?”
“When I’m stitched up,” Mitchell said, “We’ll go again, luv.”
“Are you going to be brave enough to face me head on, this time?” Charity strode over to the table and set it back upright. She then picked through the weapons, choosing ones that suited her.
She was just about finished when she caught sight of a box lying open on the floor. It had been hidden from sight behind the table before she’d cause such a mess.
Without asking Goldstein about it, she hurriedly moved over and reached inside. A black and red bodysuit, slightly military in appearance lay within. Underneath were a full-face mask, boots, a shawl and a small clasp that featured the image of a scythe.
“This is mine, isn’t it?” she asked, turning her head to look at Goldstein. The old man nodded and she lifted the uniform out of the box. “It’s… lovely.”
“When I wore it,” Goldstein said, “It looked a bit different. They always do, based on what sort of Gravedigger you are.”
“You make it sound like you didn’t have it made for me,” she murmured.
“I didn’t. It arrived on my doorstep at dawn this morning. When I became Gravedigger, I found my suit hanging in my closet when I went back home.”
Charity eyed the fabric with something akin to hunger. “I have to try it on.” She stuffed the uniform back into the box and marched out of the room with it.
After she was gone, Mitchell asked, “You think she’s suited for this? I mean, a girl—“
“That girl is going to be incredibly dangerous,” Goldstein countered. “The female of the species is always more deadly than the male.”
Chapter IV: The Man With the Book
Arthur Meeks sat back, like a king on his throne. He wore only an elaborate Oriental robe that was open in the front, his well-toned body glistening with sweat. He held a glass of vodka in one hand and an opium pipe in the other. The thick smoke that filled the room seemed to shift and move of its own accord, as if it were a living creature.