After a ridiculous succession of throat clearings and once more twiddling his fingers and tapping his long pointed shoes on the floor below, Jasper Slokin continued. “Miss Røderic wishes to gather intelligence on the whereabouts of the… the… organization that…” he laughed nervously in a high effeminate tone, “…she wants to know who guards the Hall of the Slain.” Slokin rolled his eyes like a bashful schoolgirl, wringing his hands and lolling his head with a sheepish smile that Carlos could not help but find immensely disquieting. The strange envoy was by some degree undoubtedly insane, far surpassing the bench mark for flamboyance.
“I know,” he added with another amused cackle, “it must sound crazy. But she is convinced that such a place really exists and that you know…” he poked Carlos playfully with an equally whimsical chant, “…where…” poke, “…it…” poke, “…is.” Then he fell back in his chair for a hearty giggle, folding his hands together gleefully. His behavior was downright creepy.
“Please, Mr. Slokin, I am a sick man. Don’t touch me,” Carlos said with no small amount of frustration and adjusted his cardigan, flashing a look to Miro who watched Jasper with a sharp eye.
“Oh, I’m sorry. So sorry. My apologies,” Jasper excused his actions, but there was no sign of contrition. His way was rather more sarcastic, or even deliberately malicious in tone.
“You are looking for Templars, Mr. Slokin. Tell Miss Røderic that she must seek out The Brotherhood, an ancient clandestine order of Templars set on guarding the secrets of Asgard, of the Hall called Valhalla by the texts,” Carlos disclosed as clearly as he could while having to observe the idiosyncratic quirks of Jasper Slokin.
“But The Brotherhood must be here in Tomar,” Slokin protested with a wince, obviously upset by what he saw as a lack of interest by Mr. Oliveira. “This is after all the last town built for the Knights Templar and their cause, is it not?”
Carlos was taken aback. He was unaware that Slokin was more than just a messenger, more than just a rude, freakish imp.
“Yes, you are correct, if you are referring to the Knights Templar, Mr. Slokin.” he leaned on his elbows on the table, “However, the Brotherhood to which I am referring are not God-fearing monks who hide treasures from the Church. They are Templars only in name, my friend,” Carlos choked and fumbled for his handkerchief as another coughing fit ensued. Jasper Slokin was growing impatient and turned to look at Miro, gesturing at the wheezing man and scoffing in insensitive jest. Miro ground his teeth, desperate to be 35 years old again, his knuckles hard and his jabs deadly.
“So, when you have gained control of yourself again, please,” Slokin sniffed arrogantly and folded his hands in parody of a very interested audience, “do continue before we all die of old age.”
His audacity was astounding. Insults and contempt seemed to come as naturally as breathing to him. Several people in the establishment could not but shake their heads at the skinny brat’s ill manners.
When Carlos tamed his cough, he thought about sending the rude bastard headlong into the company of The Brotherhood, where he would not be tolerated farther than one rude word. He was going to warn Slokin of The Brotherhood’s swift executions, their precise and methodical coordination and their disregard for anyone who pursued what was hidden in the ancient place they were protecting. But now he chose to keep his knowledge of the archaic band of sentinels to himself and simply send Røderic’s pet right to them.
“I believe the Brotherhood is in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the moment. They are nomadic, so you should better hurry.”
Slokin was intrigued, “How do I find them?”
“I heard that they were waiting for one of their own to recover from a brawl before riding out again to God knows where,” Carlos reported, his eyes on Miro as he spoke and seeing his friend nod with a smile. “I do not know where they are, but their injured brother is recuperating in Southern General, I think. You can ask him where to find their leader.”
Slapping his knee cheerfully, the defiant and unpleasant young man rose from his seat and said, “Well, then, I had better get going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Oliveira. And please, go see a doctor. Tuberculosis is a terrible way to go.” With a smile he saluted the two exasperated old men and turned on his heel, whistling as he disappeared around the corner.
“Fucking imp,” Miro said.
“How did he know I have TB?” Carlos gasped.
“Doesn’t matter, old friend. His death will be one for the books. Well done.”
For the first time ever, Ilda heard the two old men laugh.
Chapter 11
The cold snapped at Jan’s hands as he attempted to keep his fingers steady to get them into the leather gloves. He knew better than to spend too much time outside, in the cold night before trying to start his Honda; but he had to adjust the headlight first, so it left him with hands burning from the cold and numb fingers he found almost useless. Outside The Thirsty Turtle, he stood under the cloudy night sky, the frigid wind threatening his ride home tonight, but all he focused on was getting his hands warm. Without warm hands, he could not grip the clutch, couldn’t hit the brakes. Of all his mates, he was the last to leave on account of an inviting woman and a promise of more than a double rum, which ended up being a married floozy with no desire to test drive his motor.
Her intoxicated ass was falling about the bar, harassing the less than wholesome clientele of the Turtle. Jan did not have time for that. He liked his women wide awake and willing, the kind to feel him up from behind him when they occupied his pussy seat at a 180km per hour. Finally, he just pushed his numb burning fingers into the gloves with the hopes that each finger will somehow employ muscle memory to find its home. As he struggled to fit his helmet before mounting his 1300cc, an arguing couple stumbled from the noisy bar and ranted all the way to their car. As they cussed and threw insults about, the husband was looking for the right key while his wife ripped him for being ‘inadequate’ at even that.
Jan scoffed. Thank god he was not married. Never had been. Not for the lack of trying, but he was one of Sweden’s less attractive sons. Instead of his brother’s blonde locks, he was dealt with carrot red tresses, the texture of steel wool, thanks to his maternal grandfather’s genes. Nobody cared that he was intelligent and hilarious, or that he was a star rugby player with a body that would make a woman reach for his jean button. No, he was just the ugly brother and that was the end of it. Now that he was watching the two bitching, abandoning entirely the feelings they may have had for one another once upon a time, he was glad he did not have to endure that institution.
The husband finally got his door open, but not before his wife had sunk to her knees in front of the grill of the car parked next to theirs. She vomited incessantly, provoking even more rage from her hard-headed man, who promptly pulled her up and unceremoniously tossed her into the car and slammed the door shut. It was then that Jan noticed the silent silhouettes seated in that dark car. Unmoving they sat, three shadows, and he could see their heads keep dead still against the sharp security light that cast its sharp white halo from behind them. Jan found this peculiar. How did they not find the escapade playing out next to them entertaining or even worth a view? They seemed entirely uninterested in the developments of the crazy couple, because they appeared to be waiting for something. But what, he wondered.
Jan looked to the opposite side of the parked car to see what their straight line of vision could possibly afford them, and found two bikers seated on their machines. He frowned at the odd scene. The two bikers did nothing, merely sitting on dead ponies in the chill of the night wind. Neither did they speak a word to one another. Like mannequins, they just sat there, in direct opposition to the ruckus inside the bar.