fiction
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Having returned to Ishan’s offices, Fane was at a loss regarding what he was supposed to do. He was no bodyguard. He was neither certified nor trained as one. He was an ammo tech and dive instructor. He monitored the armoury. He cleaned and accounted for everything. He taught people how to not drown when…
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“Come on! We need to get going!” Shelly popped into the room unannounced. The instructor and Fane flinched, glancing up from a children’s workbook. “What’s wrong?” Fane rose, his hands clearing every vest and pocket in succession as he subconsciously checked for his armaments.
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The guns were laid out on the side table, along with about half his stash of knives. Ajay had insisted that he respect his employer enough not to come to the lunch table completely clothed in metal.
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A light rapping at his door woke him. Thankfully he had slept through the rest of the night, and dreams had taken a hiatus, to his relief.
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Shelly left Fane at his room after their evening meal, promising to show up the next day. She had reserved several hours with a local wise man who supposedly had some old scrolls she was chomping at the bit to see and was unsure when she would come to him.
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The rattling of the window panes in their frames existed as a dull frequency to grate at his nerves enough to tell him he should be up and out of there. The darkened room sat illuminated by the lifted rail line lights and a burning pink neon sign outside, blinking away Hotel Morrison.
Chapel Orahamm 