Lady Death, Brian Drake [howl and other poems .TXT] 📗

the hot water sprayed over his body, he built a picture of her in his mind. I married into the jihad... She was German. Blonde hair, blue eyes? He might cheat by looking up her name on the Internet. She sounded like one of the thousands of women from Western Europe who found their way to the Middle East. They either met jihadist boyfriends or found recruiters on internet forums or social media. Raven considered it an odd phenomenon. Perhaps her family had spoken to the media. Many others did the same when their daughters vanished from home to turn up in Syria or Jordan or Iraq or...

Nuts, he decided. Let her find him. He’d hand off Tanya Jafari to the CIA and let them deal with her.

Every soldier needed R&R. His was long overdue.

Raven stood at the rail of the King’s Bridge in Stockholm, overlooking Klara Sjö (“Lake Klara”). It was a canal cutting through the city. Why the Swedes named a canal a “lake” was a question too amusing to ask. The waterways in the city didn’t pool into anything the size of a lake.

But who cared? Raven enjoyed the view from the bridge. The evening was cool with pink sky above as the sun set. The water rippled below. Raven stared at the surface as if in a trance. He wore casual clothes for his night out and wasn’t carrying his pistol. But the leather sap he also habitually carried rode in the right pocket of his slacks. He couldn’t go out totally unarmed.

He ignored the other pedestrians passing behind him. The King’s Bridge connected the Stockholm district of Norrmalm to Kungsholmen, an island in Lake Mälaren, also part of central Stockholm. Lake Mälaren was also not a lake.

The two one-way concrete sections of the King’s Bridge arched over the Klara Sjö. Below, boats passed. A loud crowd on a party boat made Raven grin. He liked seeing people have fun. It reminded him of better times.

The canal didn’t have the same effect on him as watching the ocean. The sight and sound of crashing waves did more to bring him peace than the rippling canal. He didn’t have an ocean to look at, but the canal served his purpose. He wanted to get his mind off the constant state of war in which he found himself. He needed a respite from tangling with the worst the world had to offer.

A war without end wasn’t the life he’d chosen. Fate had decided for him. He’d tried to resist, but the ghosts of his nightmares wouldn’t leave him alone. They remained a constant as he battled the stream of predators who sought to destroy innocent lives. Raven often felt he made no difference. One fight ended; another began. His ghosts told him otherwise. He kept fighting in hopes of someday silencing the nightmares, but they persisted.

Enough melancholy. He cleared his throat, straightened, and adjusted his jacket. He crossed the top of the arch and walked down the other side. He was treating himself to a night of roulette at the Casino Cosmopol, and a dinner at the casino’s Jackpot Bar & Grill.

He fully intended for the casino to pay for his dinner via his winnings. He had a system for roulette, and while he lost as much as he won, he could count on winning the price of dinner. Or at least breaking even. It all depended on how loud his stomach growled.

The casino required a cover charge; he paid at the door. Entering the restaurant, the hostess asked for his identification. Nobody under 20 allowed, and the staff checked all IDs. Older guests were no exception. Raven showed her his ID and made for the bar. It was still early, and the place wasn’t full. He found a stool and signaled the bartender, a man named Sven. Raven had gotten to know Sven well over his frequent visits.

“Hello, Mr. Raven.”

“Good evening.”

“Your usual?”

“Please.”

Raven’s “usual” would make martini aficionados scream in agony. A shot of gin, shot of vodka, touch of vermouth, twist of lemon peel, stirred, because James Bond was an idiot. Nothing on the initial list would send the hobby drinkers to the roof. They also wouldn’t admit such a concoction carried with it the scent of rubbing alcohol. Raven stumbled onto a solution one night, long ago, by accident. Two teaspoons of water after the pour. Cue the weeping and gnashing of teeth!

The extra water served a purpose. It muted the rubbing alcohol smell, seemed to bring out the flavor of both gin and vodka, and enabled one to enjoy a good martini. More than one actually. The unintended consequence was his martinis tasted like water. One could quickly polish off several and forget the natural result. Next-day hangovers were rough indeed.

Sven set a glass of ice water in front of Raven, with a teaspoon beside it, and proceeded to mix the martini. He poured the elixir into a glass, added the peel, and placed the glass in front of Raven with reverence.

“Your turn, sir.”

Raven added the two teaspoons of water, stirred once, and set the teaspoon on a napkin. He swallowed a sip and smiled.

“Amazing as always.”

Sven refused to add the water. It went against his conscience. He’d appealed to Raven not to do such a horrible thing the first time Raven made the suggestion, to no avail.

The bartender excused himself to serve other customers. Two young ladies dressed in their best night clothes took a lot of time ordering. They rejected several of Sven’s suggestions. They looked as if they were finally legally allowed in the place. He smiled at them and raised his glass. They turned away and spoke close in hushed tones followed by giggles. Raven grinned. Have fun, ladies. It’s all downhill from here.

Sven returned after finally serving them. “First timers,” he said.

“I figured.”

“Been out of town? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Raven swallowed another sip. “Way out of town,” he said. “I’m hoping to stay home for a