Sanguine Manare

     Her head ached worse than her last migraine which had kept her bed ridden for three days. Completely unaware that the oozing pool of Sparks’ final heartbeat was mingling with her own spilt life fluids, Clara “Chondee” Darin bit her lip as she yanked the uncomfortable boiler plate out from under her shirt. Though she was already on the ground, the effort sent her falling back into the shelving unit. The impact of her head knocked down wooden cooking utensils which clattered to the linoleum and splattered blood on her thigh. When she came to she was horrified to find her body incapable of obeying the simplest commands. She lay there against the shelving unit in the kitchenware aisle of Chang’s Bazaar, staring at the dead body of her ex-boyfriend’s compatriot. Come on, Chondee! Get up girl. Get up! GET UP! MOVE YOUR ASS! Not that it mattered how loudly she chastised herself, her damnable limbs had gone on strike. Sinking further into the shelving unit, she closed her eyes and began sending motor commands to various parts of her body. She was midway through her body survey, when she heard the distinct sound of multiple foot falls and Tages’ all too familiar deep laughter coming from behind her.

Sanguine Redundare

     Being in the middle of the Inquisitor’s workroom was like walking into a Heart of the Seven Faeries carnival – so many varieties of red splattered everywhere that it seemed no other colors existed. Knowing the sticky, brick colored drippings to be that miraculous fluid that somehow kept the body functioning was one thing; using a squeegee, an ice scrapper, and tons of alcohol to remove it from the floors, walls, and ceiling was a wholly different thing. Mr. Vorant stood in the basement stairwell staring at the crumpled carcass of the ancient justice, Levi Bayleaf. “What were you even doing there, eh, old man?” Vorant grumbled. Rolling his shoulders, one by one, Vorant prepared himself, thinking, always get the good jobs, don’t ya? He laughed, “o’course, ‘cause they’re a bunch o’silly bitches.” He set the cleaning supplies down next to the door, slipped on a pair of shoe covers, and entered the torture chamber. Quickly surveying the extent of the spatter, Vorant wondered, what does he do? Play in it? Vorant’s entire afternoon was blown. Not that he’d had other plans, just that he hadn’t woken with ‘clean up the Inquisitor’s mess’ on his agenda for the day. He lifted the dead man’s head by the chin, gave it a squeeze and a shake, and then, grabbed the forehead to make the man talk, “too bad for you,” Vorant mocked himself with a nasally West Donian accent. “Too bad for you,” he repeated in his own voice as he dropped the head.

Pugnata Est

     Standing in the middle of the kitchen with a steaming cup of espresso, Jougs asked, “how much longer do you think he needs?”

     Vorant laughed. Then, laughed harder when he realized Jougs was serious.

     “Why ya laughin’?” Jougs asked.

     Without answering, Vorant crossed the kitchen to the espresso maker, took a cup out of the cupboard, and set it in the cradle. He’d managed to calm himself down a bit, but still wasn’t quite prepared to answer. After adjusting the dials and pressing the start button, Vorant turned to face Jougs. He shook his head, smiled lightly, and put a finger to his lips. Taking the cue, Jougs closed the distance between them and leaned his right ear toward Vorant, who promptly hissed, “the safe houses are rigged for sound. So, quit bitching.”