Nothing Personal

Charley’s faded sneakers dangled precariously over the swiftly moving dirt road as it disappeared into the distance. His legs were stretched out in front of him and he nervously wrung his hands as the scenery changed from barren farm land to a forest of dead and withered trees. Rotting wooden fence posts lined both sides of the road and were joined by three lines of rusted barbed wire. Perched upon one of the posts was a vulture, standing straight up like a scarecrow guarding its crop. Even from a distance, it made the hair on the back of Charley’s neck stand on end.

“This is it, kid.”

Charley turned his eyes to the driver, who had stopped the truck and was now standing in front of him. “I’m letting you off right here.”

“In the middle of nowhere?” Charley asked, in disbelief.

“I’m not allowed to go any farther than this,” the driver said. “Local law.”

What law? Charley wanted to ask, but thought better of it. He slid out of the bed of the truck and landed softly on his feet as the driver returned to his seat behind the steering wheel. “Town’s that way,” the driver said, with a vague sweep of his hand. “You’d better start walking if you want to get there by nightfall.”

Charley took a few steps back and helplessly watched as the truck changed directions and drove away. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance; then, a faint and teasing voice broke the silence: “This is quite a strange place, isn't it.”

Charley turned to see who had spoken. A man dressed from head to toe in black riding gear stood just a few feet away, straddling a black motorcycle and looking sorely out of place. Charley couldn't help but wonder where he had come from, or how long he had been there. “Can you give me a ride to the next town?” Charley asked. “I need to catch a bus to Avalon.”

“We don’t have a bus system,” the man said, without hesitation. “I can take you to Corinth and give you a place to spend the night, but you’ll have to find your own way to Avalon in the morning.”

Charley drew a breath and slowly exhaled through his teeth. There was no other option to choose from, and another howl from the unseen coyote forced him onto the back of the stranger’s motorcycle. “Hold on tight,” the stranger said, and before Charley could draw another breath, he spun the motorcycle around and steered it onto a hidden dirt path that ran through the lifeless forest.

**********

“I don’t like this, Emerson. I don’t like this at all.”

Sebastian stood in the drawing room with his arms crossed, staring down at the flurry of activity that was taking place in Rockefeller Square. It had been quiet all afternoon, but the unexpected arrival of Remington Leith and his mystery guest stirred up a cloud of rumors and chaos all over the city. The townspeople chatted mindlessly and worked themselves into a frenzy at the news that Remington had checked his guest into Palaye Royale. Sebastian was furious. Palaye Royale was home to some of Corinth’s wealthiest people and he had never once been invited to rub elbows with them. “I would kill him in a heartbeat,” Sebastian said, of Remington, “but we both know what that would lead to, don’t we.”

From his high-backed leather chair on the other side of the room, Emerson smirked. “There are days when I wonder what I've done that has caused you to hate me so much,” Sebastian said, as he turned from the window. “Then there are days like today, when I absolutely cannot afford to care.”

Emerson sat silent as Sebastian walked out of the room in obvious anger. He didn't hate his brother, but knowing that Sebastian was the only thing that stood between him and a permanent seat on the Royal Council kept them in constant conflict. They had both agreed to use Remington as a political bargaining chip – whoever killed him would be killed themselves and thereby forfeit the seat – but Emerson was the only one who took advantage of that agreement. He had set up a series of accidents that were meant to take Remington’s life, each one based on Sebastian’s own signature, but they never resulted in anything more than a powder burn or some other superficial injury. His efforts were futile and, after a few miserable months, he gave up and soon found a new hobby to occupy his time.