Chapter Text
In the near future, with law and order overwhelmed and no longer able to protect the population, a radical solution was found. The secret Guilds were invited to become public; all crime would be governed by the guilds, with each person paying the guild a fee for membership and a percentage of their take. The Guilds then ruthlessly began to track down and deal with anyone that refused to join.
The most sinister of the Guilds was the Assassin’s Guild, which set out to eradicate any freelance hit men, seeing them as street trash, unlike the Guild-trained Assassins.
Some cities allowed the Assassin’s Guild free reign, not even trying to catch them, but others, like Denver, had decided that no longer would Assassin kills be seen as legal killings. They would be hunted down no differently than any other murderer, just as the Thieves Guild would be treated as no different to any free lance thief. For that reason, these cities now had a Senior Judge of the Dark, and a Senior Judge of the Light; the Dark dealt with Guild crimes, the Light, ordinary crimes.
The previous Judge of the Dark from Denver was Wallace Mason; he had been more than happy - given the right amount of money - to turn a blind eye to what Alan Holland was doing.
Holland was a non-Guild Crime Lord, who had gained control of the local Guilds through bribery and violence. He sat at the middle of his Empire like a giant bloated spider. He ran the Guilds ruthlessly, but he made money from running whores and killers from outside the guilds; people he could black mail because if their names were released to the Guilds, they would be tracked down and killed.
These people, unable to flee the city due to lacking the documentation needed to move to a new one, were virtual slaves. When they got too used up, he would just have them killed and it appealed to his warped sense of humour that he would actually be thanked by the Guild for his diligence.
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Washington DC
FBI Agent Buck Wilmington sat at the back of the lecture theatre as Dr Kenneth Cameron started his talk. Although young, Cameron was regarded as the top authority on sentinels.
Dr Cameron’s eyes swept over the sea of faces in front of him.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the first of six lectures on the place of Sentinel and Guides in society. The purpose of these lectures is to try and address the cultural misunderstandings that exist, particularly towards the role of the Companion.
The Sentinel phenomenon has been known about for at least 100 years, as men appeared with an enhanced sense of sight, smell, hearing, touch and taste. It was soon found that a sentinel, when using his senses, could fall into a coma-like state - what we call a zone out - if they stretch their ability too far. It was then found that what a Sentinel needed to anchor them, was a guide.
A guide is someone with empathic ability, but given the close physical relationship needed by a guide to anchor the sentinel, only female guides were considered to be morally acceptable. As sentinels formed Clans in the towns and cities, they began to vie for the right to claim a guide and there were bloody battles. In the end, it was decided that all empathy would be brought under the control of the Government; each empath would be evaluated and graded on their ability, but there has never been enough female guides to allow each Sentinel to have one each. As we understood more about the Sentinel / Guide dynamic, we realised that Clans actually could function with a small group Guide, who would balance the whole Clan. These Guides would be akin to what the Romans called ‘Vestal Virgins’; they keep the Sentinels balanced and they are considered to be pure and untouched. Many Clans will not let outsiders even see them. They are revered by the Clan and the quickest way to get torn apart is to slander their Guide.”
Dr Cameron paused. As no questions were raised, he continued; “Before a Guide becomes a Guide, they are called a Companion. The Companions work for the Government at the Harmony Houses, helping visiting or non-Clan Sentinels to control their senses. Now, Companions each have a price that the Clan has to pay in order to acquire them. This is NOT selling the Companion into slavery; because of the amount of money exchanged when the Clan purchase the Companion’s contract, they undertake to protect and cherish their new Guide. The contract contains the conditions under which the Companion will enter the Clan and is often so complex that it is considered a specialised legal field. Only then is a Companion a Guide. Honoured is their calling,” Cameron said with reverence.
The Sentinels in the audience echoed the words. “Honoured is their calling.”
Buck watched as a hand went up, waving to attract Dr Cameron’s attention.
“Sir, I am not sure how to ask, but isn’t a Harmony House just another name for a brothel?”
“Certainly not,” Dr Cameron said with venom.
“Harmony Houses were created as places where visiting Sentinels could meet and pay for Companions, where they can relax their senses in a controlled environment; a place where young Sentinels can learn to bond without fear of injuring their Clan Guides. To prevent a Companion from bonding, they take injections to block the natural secretions that would trigger a Sentinel to bond. Now, the block is expensive and a Companion has to use it every day; the more powerful the empath, the larger the dosage. This has to be paid for, hence the fact that Companions are charged for by each visiting Sentinel and thus the misconceived idea of Companion prostitution. Depending on the Companion, the rate can range from $500 to $1000 for the highest rated max 10 empathic Companion . Companions, I must stress, are decent, highly intelligent people and it is always a great joy when a Companion is united with their future Sentinel.”
“Yes, Mr Evans.” Dr Cameron pointed to one of the students.
“You said that all Companions are female; why then do the Harmony Houses have male Companions?” Evans gave his friends a leer.
“Male Companions cannot be taken as Guides, so they work exclusively as Companions. A Sentinel can often be nervous about a mock bonding with a female Companion. They have been brought up honouring their Clan Guides, so a male Companion can be used without the emotional attachment that they might form with a female. Also, a young Sentinel can lose control and we would not wish to inflict that upon a female. Honoured is their Calling.”
“Honoured is their calling.” The words were parroted back to Dr Cameron.
“With a male Companion, he is better able to handle an out of control Sentinel and many Sentinels prefer them for that very reason. They can let their hair down with them. A male Companion can have regular customers; some are visiting businessmen, others visit regularly until they are able to bond with the Clan Guides, some Sentinels never feel the need or calling of a Clan and therefore the Companion becomes a proxy Guide to them, often spoiling them, even paying off their contracts, making them what is called “Special Reserved Stock”. When this happens, the Companion will disappear into the home of the Sentinel and will never again be seen in public. Now, do you have any questions?”
Buck let the rest of the lecture wash over him; he had attended because he was going to have to make contact with one of these Companions in the course of his next assignment and wanted to know what to expect.
Agent Wilmington was a tall man in his mid to late thirties, with a friendly, jovial nature and a ready smile. He had been an Agent for 10 years and was a Gamma Sentinel; his senses were not strong enough to make him need a Guide. He had never joined one of the large Clans; the nearest he had gotten to a Clan was when a close friend had married and started a family. Buck had taken the role of Gamma, normally third in the hierarchy of the Clan, after the Alpha and the Beta, who would nurture the younger Sentinels and protect the Guide. But all that had been tragically taken away from him when they had been murdered. Now he had landed this mission, taking him to Denver and the Denver Harmony House.
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Denver
The Night Lite Club
Alan Holland threw the newspaper down on his desk in disgust. First the Assassin’s Guild, then by April it would be the Thieves Guild and he knew that the Moral Crusade was already lobbying for the Whores Guild to be made illegal. He leaned back in his chair and hit the intercom. “Have George come through.”
George Fallon was older than his boss. A powerfully built man, he worked as Holland’s enforcer and it was a job he liked. He got paid well and there were the fringe benefits, such as the two young whores that had been sharing his bed last night, pathetically humiliating themselves to keep him happy and avoid a thrashing.
Tonight he had a taste for something more hardy and muscular but with a hot body and an ass to die for. He was just about to press the speed dial and order this tasty morsel when he was called through. The discussion with the Boss took longer than he had thought and it kept returning to the one thorn in Holland’s flesh: Senior Judge Travis. Unlike Mason, the Judge was not corrupt.
In the end, there was only one course to take. The Judge had to be killed; it would send out a signal to everyone that the Guilds were not the force in Denver that his organisation was. In living memory, no Senior Judge of the Dark had ever been murdered. George ran a hand nervously over his bald head as if smoothing back non-existent hair.
“Alan, are you sure about this?”
Holland had an ego the size of Texas and wasn’t going to back down. “You find me an assassin and arrange for me to see him face to face.” He put a hand up. “I know, distance myself from the hit, but I am not trusting anyone else. The fewer people who know about this, the better, okay?”
“Okay,” Fallon said reluctantly, his mind racing to come up with a name.
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Later, Fallon sat behind his desk, his gaze resting on the young, dark-haired man whose fingers were flying over the computer keys as he expertly hacked the Assassin’s Guild computers. What he wanted was someone good.
“Hell, JD, it doesn’t even have to be a Guild member.”
“I’ve got someone, Mr Fallon.”
Fallon got out of his chair and leaned over the young man’s shoulder, one hand resting on it, his fingers tightening and then relaxing, enjoying the shudder that ran through the young man.
“So, who do you have, JD?”
“The, the Angel of Death. He’s a hit-man, not an Assassin; a weapons specialist. He is active.”
“You’ve done well, JD.” He let his hand slip to caress the young man’s neck, just above his collar, his grin widening as he flinched under his touch.
“Don’t worry, JD, your ass is safe.” Fallon moved back to sit behind his desk, enjoying the blush that infused across the young man’s face. “Holland values your IT skills too highly for the moment.” He let the veiled threat hang in the air. Just as JD was hurrying out of the door he called to him. “JD, have Mark send Divinity up.”
“Err, Mr Fallon, Divinity is off site at the moment, he’s got a...” JD trailed off.
“Speak up, kid. So he’s getting his ass fucked. God, kid, you’ve been working here for four months and you’re still like a virgin in a whorehouse. So, who’s he screwing?”
“He’s got a group booking at the Apollo Hotel. Twelve Sentinels, Sir, he’s been booked for the next five days. Whilst they’re in town.”
“Damn. Okay, send Honey and Ruth up.”
“Sir.” JD bolted from the room and then leaned against the door, trying to get his breathing under control. He forced himself to remember that in 2 months time he would have enough information on Holland for them to close the man down once and fore all. Then, he would be free of the undercover assignment. JD was scared the only way he could function was to believe the one day it would all be over.
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Seven Days Later
8.00 am The Night Lite Club - Holland’s Private Apartment.
Holland took a drink of his imported whiskey as the naked, lithe, young man stood in front of him and finished tying his Master’s tie, then moved gracefully to the wardrobe. He pulled a waistcoat off the coat-hanger and then returned to help his Master put it on. In the full-length dressing mirror Holland admired his prize.
At 27, the young man called Divinity was good looking with long hair and the most amazing blue eyes. Although slender, his body had a good muscular tone to it. The perfection was marred by several whip marks across his back and buttocks and finger-shaped bruising on his hips, but to Holland they just made the young man all the more appealing, as he had been the one to put them there.
Only when he was helped on with his expensive jacket did Holland consider what he was going to do with his toy while he was in his meeting. A smile touched his lips as he ordered him to find Fallon, knowing that the young man hated his second in command and his associates, because he was one of their favourite pastimes. As Divinity reached for his jeans, Holland grinned.
“Go as you are, Toy, I am sure Fallon won’t mind.” The blue eyes flared with a hatred that nearly took Holland’s breath away, but the next second it was gone. He would have liked to have punished his Toy for that show of defiance and licked his lips at the thought of having the beautiful body bent down over a chair. But, reluctantly, he pushed that thought aside. Pleasure for the moment had to be put on hold. He turned his attention to the business at hand.
Holland strode down the corridor, his Toy now forgotten. If he were ever honest with himself, he would have admitted that the man he was to meet scared him.
The Angel of Death was a hit-man; a cold-blooded killer who had killed the old, disgraced assassin that had mentored him. He alone dared to take contracts under the nose of the Assassin’s Guild. That was the man that Holland wanted and was prepared to pay to get.
Dealing with someone like the Angel of Death, Holland knew that he had to appear strong. Opening the drawer he pulled out a bottle of beta blockers and swallowed a couple down. It was said that the Angel of Death was a Sentinel and Holland couldn’t afford for the Angel to hear his rapid heartbeat, or see his hand tremble. Even so, he jumped as the intercom buzzed and he was told; “Mr Garrison is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him through,” Holland said, briskly.
Holland got to his feet to greet his visitor. Garrison’s lean frame was immaculately dressed all in black; a long black coat flared as he walked and Holland could understand where he got his working name from. If anyone was the Angel of Death in person, it was this man. The hit-man had dark, dirty blond hair and he was good looking, but his green eyes were arctic cold. You didn’t have to know he was a hit-man to know that this was a dangerous individual.
“Mr Garrison?”
“That name will do as well as any other, for the moment,” was the icy reply. Garrison’s smile was one of a predator and Holland had to fight a shudder as he could no longer meet the burning green eyes.