A Patrol in the Woods

**Republished ahead of my year's end reflection piece because this story and, even more significantly, the character it birthed are the greatest outcome of my time on Vocal in the past year. Plus, as is so often the case with my irreverent comedic characters, "A Patrol in the Woods" got washed in a short story competition, so back to Vocal it goes. Be it Martin Williams, Dick Winchester, or now Jason Nightingale, they never seem to impress the stuffed shirts and intellectuals—on or off Vocal. And these characters would have it no other way 😎**

Sometimes, life’s problems can’t be solved with a glass slipper. Sometimes, you need a Nightingale.

Or so our billboards proudly stated at every inn, city gate, and causeway that saw any sort of hoof traffic. Matter of fact, I came up with that slogan based on a previous assignment involving a sexual deviant and a very impractical piece of footgear, but you’d never know it considering the distinct lack of royalty checks my pigeons have brought me.

Then again, perhaps I should shoot the messengers here. I can feel their resentment in those beady, lifeless eyes. All because I pinch a bit of seed from their tray. Well, a man’s got to eat, Horace and Boris, and I don’t have time to pop down to the butcher and prepare a mutton leg every day.

Besides, it’s their own doing. Lord knows how many letters to former lovers they’ve carried for me, only to “lose” their gushing replies on the return journey. Simply to deny me love and help around the manor.

Their malice is all the more evident in the fact that they’ve never once failed to deliver my work contracts. And there are a lot given they work for the top agent at the Nightingale Agency.

And let me remind you, Casey, that you said I need to add more details to these assignment reports. We’re a 21st Century workplace and employee mental health is a high priority and all that jazz/nonsense.

Well, you want up front, you get up front. Everything. Up. Front.

So here goes:

The breeze was wending its way through the valley when I came upon the squat cabin. Squat, but well maintained. Someone took great pride in keeping the grounds tidy and the walls slick with fresh paint. I guess it made sense if they could afford to hire us on.

It wasn’t long until the occupants made themselves known. Seven of them came tromping out of the woods that ringed the cabin, belting work songs and swinging their pickaxes in unison. None could have stood over three feet tall.

That explained the small stature of the dwelling. Still, none of the seven individuals appeared to be in need of a Nightingale, even if they were short. Trouble comes their way? Slam one of those pickaxes into it. Trouble leaves with a lot to think about before coming back.

Yes, Casey, I know it’s no longer “palatable” to refer to dwarves as short. You didn’t hire me for my workplace sensitivity.

So, I set to work with a patrol of the grounds and the woods beyond, searching for any clear indicators of bad actors.

I found nothing out of the ordinary.

Annoyed that this was shaping up to be a boring protection detail, I knocked on the door to the cabin to gather more information.

The door opened a slit, revealing an almost unhealthily pale face and a wide green eye. Then the door slammed, and I heard the telltale sound of a bolt turning a second later.

Okay, then. Guess I’ll ask the dwarves.

Later, when the seven brothers had returned from the mines, I approached the foreman and asked if he knew anything about my assignment.

He nodded and proceeded to tell me an entire tale. A powerful and sadistic member of the local aristocracy was using a magical talisman to root out her enemies. However, this mirror had apparently grown a conscience at the sight of one so beautiful as their ward in its glass and managed to get a warning to the dwarves.

I asked him if the mirror hadn’t happened to mention how the attack would come. I couldn’t just shoot any random passerby, after all. I’ve learned that lesson.

Looking about to see if anyone else was listening, he leaned in close and told me the killing blow would be a poison.

“Then what the hell am I doing patrolling the exterior?” I nearly shouted. “I should be on the inside watching those closest to her, especially anyone involved in food or drink preparation.”

He took great offense at the notion that he or any of his kin would ever harm their charge. Yet, the insinuation that I would come inside seemed to anger him even more. I believe the phrase “no menfolk” was repeated several times.

Attempting to placate, I promised to keep watch from the outside, but I insisted on getting a share of the delicious meal I could smell wafting from under the door.

“Ah, to test for poison, eh?” the foreman asked me with a gleam of respect in his eye—presumably because the thought should have occurred to him. “You think the Queen’s magic could infect her food before she takes a bite?”

“Er, right,” I replied, definitely not thinking about when my last meal had been. “Yes, make sure I always have the first and largest portion of any fast breakages, midday dinners, and evening suppers.”

“That’s why we hired the best,” he said, offering me a wink and a proverbial pat on the back.

Pat on the back of my thigh, in reality, but it wasn’t his fault nature decided to put him at a decided disadvantage in a fistfight with a barrel. Three out of four matches, anyway. I’m a big believer in betting on the upset.

Not that I attend any illegal dwarf-barrel fights. Certainly not behind O’Laury’s Ye Contemporary Pub.

But I’m telling you, my boy Tharsurum Jadejaw is overdue.

Hypothetically.

So, several days passed while I patrolled, saw nothing suspicious, and debated how much of my next paycheck to put on the barrel going down in the fifth round. All while enjoying amazing food. If it was poisoned, the cumin did a great job masking it.

Still, one can never be too careful, right?

I also varied up my sleep schedule, patrolling at odd hours and sleeping at different points during the day. The key to good security is to never develop a routine. Keep your opponents guessing, and they’ll be far less willing to try something.

Considering the odds of what happened next, I’m putting it all on Jadejaw. The manor. Horace and Boris. The whole nine cubits.

After all, I had a bit of a luck streak. It was getting later in the day, and I had shortened my perimeter patrol to ensure I would be near the cabin when the mining brethren would return for the evening meal. Maybe that seems a bit careless/selfish/reckless/[insert adjective my former lovers have screamed at me], but who would be brazen enough to attempt something in broad daylight? In front of seven witnesses, no less?

Someone who could count on a disarming disguise, turns out.

My threat assessment kicked in the moment I saw her. It’s not like the cabin gets all that many visitors. Specifically, none since I had shown up.

Even so, I found myself doubting well-honed instincts. It was an old woman, barely able to move without that walking stick of hers. And I cannot sit through another bystander shooting deposition, let me tell you.

Still, I happened to be concealed at the edge of the tree line where I had paused to observe. So I stayed hidden as I watched the crone rap on the door, expecting the same cold reception I had received.

Instead, I felt a bit insulted as the mysterious occupant stepped outside, the first time I could recall her leaving the interior. My principal turned out to be a young woman with dark hair and skins as white as, uh… frost? You know what, it doesn’t matter.

My eyes bored into the visitor’s side, and I swore her eyes flicked in my direction.

I focused on the crone’s spindly fingers, waiting for them to draw a knife from her belt, make a grab at my principal, anything.

My own fingers tensed around my weapon as she reached in her sleeve. But instead of pulling out a vial of acid, the visitor withdrew an apple. Innocuous enough, even as I wondered who keeps an apple in their sleeve? Much less offers that lint-covered fruit to someone they just met?

Did I have it all wrong? Was this my principal’s grandmother I was about to draw on?

Uncertainty amplified as the young woman reached out to accept the offering. Again, who takes fruit from someone they don’t know? Despite all my years, had I misread the situation?

Then the apple emerged from the old woman’s shadow as she held it out, and the glare it threw off was just unnatural enough that it made me reassess in the opposite direction.

That, and I remembered the whole “mirror warning of poison” prophecy.

Should I have recalled that critical tip a bit earlier? Sure, if you’re a perfectionist.

Did it stop me from putting a 9mm hollow-point through the corrupted produce?

Nope.

Suck on that, William Tell.

By the way, Casey, I may have gone a bit “off market” for my service weapon. The crossbows are stylish, but the reload time leaves a bit to be desired. Be a dear and approve the expense report, would you?

Both women stared at the empty space where the apple had been, forgetting for a moment to blink apple gore out of their eyes. The old woman recovered her senses first, and her head curled toward me in a very strange manner.

Overwatch position now revealed, I stepped into the clearing, Beretta still tracking the threat.

“Well, would you look at that?” the old woman crooned, leering at me with teeth that looked far too sharp. “A Nightingale. I should have known this wilting violet would hide behind a big, strong man.”

She ripped away the cloak, and I had to force myself not to look away as my skin crawled at the thought of seeing her old, shriveled body.

Well, I certainly don’t claim to be an expert on naked elderly women, but I could have sworn most weren’t quite so buff. Or covered in scales. Or growing larger as their neck lengthened and their face extended into a snout.

Showing far better instincts than when she had been about to accept an apple from a complete stranger, my principal ran into the cabin and locked the door. Not that I thought that a traditional deadbolt would stop a woman this ripped, but it certainly helped that Frost White (or whatever) was out of the way for this next part.

“I was saving this trick for a certain prince suitor of hers, but I suppose the chance to kill a Nightingale is opportunity enough,” the half-woman, half-dragon roared as wings unfolded form her back.

Not to worry, I had planned for contingencies like this.

Okay, not contingencies exactly like this, but close enough. I let the Beretta magazine drop as drew the one filled with my “special surprise” from my tactical belt.

“What?” the now mostly-dragon taunted. “No grand declaration that you will defeat me for the good of the kingdom and all of its subjects?”

“Nope,” I said, lining up the sight picture. “Not for the kingdom.”

“Then, what, Nightingale? Personal glory? The reputation of the agency?”

“Payday.”

I would have shrugged, but then that would have fucked up my aim.

The dragon’s shoulders drooped, a bit disappointed by that lackluster answer, I assume. Fortunately, she didn’t have to live with her disappointment long as the “special surprise” slammed into her chest.

The “special surprise” was bullets. Just in case that wasn’t clear.

But not just any bullets. The rounds were certainly more high-powered than your conventional hollow-point, and I shook my hands as the recoil continued to throb through my arms and spine. Still, the moment the wizardess returned through the portal with my Beretta and a tale of the fabled armor-piercing projectiles, I knew I had to have them. How better to take on a knight?

Guess we’ll have to try them out on a knight another day, but we can at least add scale-piercing to the list. Definitely worth the expense to add “dragon killing” to our agency’s portfolio.

Separate expense report, by the way, Casey. The wizardess charged a more than generous tithe to go break into a place beyond the veil of this world known as the Federal Armory. Her words, not mine.

Truth be told, I was slightly worried she was taking me for a ride until I saw the results for myself.

As the dragon lay gasping on the ground, it began to shrink. Morphing back into the old woman. I walked up to catch her half-dragon, half-human smirk.

“My final vengeance with the little time I have left,” she rasped. “They’ll put you up on murder charges for killing an old woman.”

“They probably would,” I said.

I shot her again. The transformation stopped.

“Guess your time ran out.”

What? I already told you, I can’t go through another bystander shooting deposition. This way, there would be no doubt.

Mostly no doubt, anyway. The seven dwarves came running up, and the foreman was convinced I had gunned down some “innocent shapeshifter.”

Before I could offer any number of incredulous responses, the principal came running out and told them what happened.

“Still,” the foreman insisted, “how did you know that apple was poisoned? Otherwise, that old woman was just defending herself from that devil weapon of yours.”

At that point, the birds who had gone silent at the first gun shot began to sing once more. Apparently they were lulled by the young woman’s voice, and after a few more moments of me expressing my deep offense at the work of a great blacksmith being called a “devil weapon,” they fluttered down from the trees and landed on her outstretched arms.

Growing more comfortable, a few pecked at the apple bits spattered across the ground.

The foreman and I only paused our “spirited debate” when those birds started dropping dead.

Let me tell you, I’ve never seen someone go from threatening contract termination to demanding an extension with bonus portions at each meal quite so fast.

Apparently, some stuffed shirt at the castle was pushing a relationship quite aggressively before the principal fled the castle, and she expected him to come to propose marriage to cement his claim to throne through her now that I had “killed the ruling monarch of the kingdom.”

Or something like that. These aristocrats are always making mountains out of molehills.

Regardless, she doesn’t think he’ll take no for an answer. Which is a bit inconvenient considering that’s been her answer since Day 1.

On the bright side, I’ll get to try my “special surprise” out on a knight after all.

Expect additional reports in the coming days.

Oh, and pass my best to your sister, Casey. She hasn’t been returning my letters. Horace and Boris at it again, I’d bet.

***

Part 2: