Nephele and Faye

Of course, when he said it, it was out of scorn for the rather skimpy sundress I once put on as a teenager

The female pilot noticed me staring and gave me a wink. I looked away and focused on cleaning the pint glass in my hand.

Noah, who had started to work for me after the Black Roses went silent, came over, wide-eyed and excited.

"That's her. That's the Widowmaker!"

I glanced back at her again, saw how she dressed, and stood at the corner of the bar with such nonchalant conviction. I knew he was right. It must be her. The new knowledge had an immediate effect on me. A darkened cloud like a thunderstorm over my eyes and in my heart. My hands clenched. Noah noticed it, so he whispered,

"Easy, Faye. She's not worth whatever you're thinking about doing right now."

Noah knew me too well. And though he was just a teenager, he was wise. Perceptive. I used to be surprised by it. But I've grown used to it. He's seen more than a teen ought to see.

I snorted at him, then narrowed my seething eyes on the Widowmaker as I pressed an empty pilsner glass into the glass washer. The way she smiled. The way she lingered by the bar piano -- Eli's piano -- gliding her forefinger against the top of it, drawing curvy lines in the thin layer of dust atop the lacquered wood. It was enough to drive my mind into a frenzy. My hands shook with rage. I was tempted to march over to her and slap her. Maybe spit in her face. Then I thought of the shotgun I kept beneath the bar counter. It was meant only for self-defense and to scare would-be robbers, as it was loaded only with birdshot. But at point-blank, a blast to the guts or chest would likely be fatal.

Noah held out a hand for me. I stared at the offered hand, hesitated to take it, but took it anyway, put my hand in it, and squeezed it. Then, after looking both ways, he leaned in and whispered,

"You know, we might have a golden opportunity here," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

By way of explanation, he whipped out a playing card. He set it down on the table and slid it my way. I picked it up discretely. Its back had a crude artwork of a black rose on a blood-red background, surrounded by a wreathe of thorns. I turned the card back over and noticed the face of the queen on it. Rather than the face of a queen you'd normally see in a deck of cards, there was a photo of the Widowmaker. The Black Rose handed out decks of cards to their men with the faces of the highest value targets among the rank of the enemies. I glanced up at Widowmaker, still standing by the piano. Another pilot was in the middle of telling her a joke, which she chuckled at, but her eyes were turned to the piano keys, and her fingers ran over them lightly. The Widowmaker must have sensed me staring. She looked up, found my eyes, and smiled at me. I affected a smile back.

***

Nothing of consequence ever happens at my bar without it making it to Regan's ears. Better that the information comes from me. He would want to know about the Skybreakers. He would want to know about the Widowmaker.

I quietly made my way to the garage behind the bar. The morning light still had not broken, and the mist hung low in a ghostly haze beneath the lamplights in the wet, empty streets. The garage was once Eli's father's shop.

"A little birdy told me you had something for me," growled a gravel voice from the shadows. Then, a slow rasp of exhalation from deep lungs, like a bear in a yawn upon awakening from hibernation.

Regan stepped from the shadow into the slanted light from the high garage windows. I had not seen him in months. Not since the Black Roses went quiet, so I was taken aback by how he now looked. His hair had grown long and thick -- a lion's mane. His eyes were sunken yet full of coal fire. His chest and arms bulged like bound cords of steel. I had always been wary of him, but now, I felt visceral fear, as if he were a wild and hungry wolf just stepped out from the trees.

He studied me calmly. When he was done, he put his tongue against the inside of his front teeth to spit out a jet of tobacco juice onto the garage floor. I took an unconscious, nervous step back from this fierce creature but tried my best to reorient my courage to face him and eliminate the temptation to change my mind and flee. I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat and said,

"It's the Widowmaker. She's here."

He cocked his head.

"In the city?"

I nodded.

"In my bar. The Skybreakers all came in last night. They're going to be regulars. Figured you might like that bit of news."

He grunted, fixated on his fingernails, and spat out another dark glob of tobacco juice onto the garage floor before he responded,

"I suppose you think I'd do something about it."

"Yes."

His eye narrowed on me. His gaze was fierce.

"What would you have me do?"

I was taken aback by the question. Wasn't it obvious?

I fished out the card that Noah gave me.

"That's her, isn't it?"

He didn't take it. His eyes glanced at it momentarily, and he responded,

"It is."

I nodded.

"She's all yours. Just don't destroy my bar."

It felt weirdly calming to say it, despite that what I was telling him now would mean the death of this woman that I didn't even know and who didn't even know me. Nevertheless, this was what I wanted. I wanted her dead because she had killed my husband. But apparently, Regan wasn't on the same page. He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow, and chuckled softly. His face went light.

"I got a better idea," he said. "Those pilots are worth more alive than dead. You're going to gain their trust. Then you're going to keep your eyes and ears open for us. You let me know anything they say and do in your bar."

"What about the Widowmaker?"

"Treat her nicely. Get to know her. Your job is to build rapport. That's how you get them to tell you stuff."

Disappointment boiled up inside me. But I refrained from protesting. Perhaps after enough time, I would get to have my vengeance anyways.

"...Ok," I agreed.

Regan smirked. His eyes stared steadily and deeply into mine as if to read my soul. I glanced downward, fearful that he might find something in there he didn't like or couldn't trust.

"You know what they'd do to you if they find you passing intel to me?"

"Of course."

His eyes narrowed. He nodded.

"Very well."

He walked to the door without shaking my hand. Just before exiting, he turned his head to me and said,

"Congratulations."

"For what?"

"For returning to the fold."

Nephele

The war had started slowly, then suddenly, as in how the leaves in autumn start to turn colors at the cusp of October, then dump all at once over a weekend. It started first with minor naval skirmishes. The Donavian coast guard vessels fired on fishing trawlers fishing in their claimed economic exclusion zone. Then the trawlers began arming themselves. Of course, there was more to the violence than fishing rights. It was more than mere economics. The fishing war was instead only the top layer of a far more ingrained irreconcilability between our two nations.

They elected a leader with a charismatic message of manifest destiny that riled the Donavian citizens into a war frenzy. It was inevitable then that the maritime skirmishes turn into a full-blown war. First, we fought them in the air and on the sea in the Northern Strait, the strait between our two countries. The Donavians won it quickly. Their air force came in like a thunderous lance. They fought cruelly. They fought like ferocious predators. It didn't matter that we shared a language with them, a common history. Sibling rivalries are often the most terrifying.

At the tip of their lance was the Widowmaker. She rose from obscurity to become the singular symbol of their victory. In the early days of the war, she and a wingman confronted two Estean fighters over the open ocean. Her wingman was downed quickly. She took on the two enemy fighter jets herself and shot them down. She became the first pilot in her country to pull off such a feat. In less than a week, she became her country's first ace. Within a month, she doubled her kill count. The Donavian media machine made her the darling of the war. She was invaluable as a morale boost to her countrymen and spite to Estea. Every kill made the news. By the time the Estean government capitulated, she had fifteen confirmed kills, a triple ace. The only triple ace in the age of fighter jets.

The leader of the Skybreakers was a Colonel named 'Bat,' another legendary ace fighter pilot. Bat was his callsign. He carried a polite, silent air about him. He was courteous, unassuming most times, and spoke little, but when he did speak, he spoke with a commanding presence that made it very clear that he was a leader of warriors. The Widowmaker, a Major, I learned, was his right-hand woman. She was the squadron's executive officer, always by his side, and she was very protective of him. I could see that they were close. Something between them that was special. Different than with the other pilots.

Like Bat and the Widowmaker, all the pilots had callsigns. There was 'Tiny,' the largest pilot in the group and the Widowmaker's best friend. There was 'Nose,' a man with a prominent nose. Trigger because of his itchy trigger finger. Smiles because of his smiles. Hangover because, well, his epic hangovers. Every pilot's callsign had a story behind it. Bat because of eyesight poor enough to get any other pilot thrown out, but with him, the doc looked the other way. Those were the obvious ones. Others were not so obvious. Fallout, for example, was a callsign derived from a story I never entirely understood involving nuclear radiation. What I learned was that pilots never picked their own callsigns. And they were not supposed to be flattering. The Skybreakers were an elite group. To become one, you had to have at least two confirmed air-to-air kills. These pilots had all proven themselves in combat. They were the most feared among the enemy and the most admired and envied among the Donavians.

After the pilots had turned my bar into their second home, the locals tended to stay clear, save for a disappointing number of women that had an eye for the fighter pilot uniform. The bar was convenient for the pilots because it was near the municipal airport they now used as their base. The bar was close enough that their jet engine thrust rattled the windowpanes whenever they took off or came in for a landing.

The bar was so convenient, in fact, that they started to use the backroom as their debriefing theater after their missions and training exercises. They often discussed missions at length and, to my estimation, in detail, that normally shouldn't be spoken beyond the base's security gates. I took notes. I didn't understand most of what they said, of course, but I would decipher valuable something every now and again. Issues they've had with spare parts, complaints about the operational tempo, who flew with who, and how often.

I learned about their pecking order, too. The Widowmaker always got first choice on missions and who she'd fly with. She always eagerly took the riskiest missions, the ones the others looked to the floor whenever Bat asked for volunteers. She was the flight lead of the lead unit in the squadron. There were four units, and each unit was called by its radio callsign. Her unit was called 'Lotus.' On the radio, she was Lotus One. Tiny was another flight leader. His was called Felon. Then there was Raven and Ibex. Bat didn't belong to any unit in particular, but he still flew often. And often, he flew with the Widowmaker.

***

It was a rainy afternoon the first time a word ever passed between the Widowmaker and me. Bat gathered the squadron in my bar to celebrate an occasion. They centered around the youngest-looking one among them and raised their pint glasses.

"To our newest ace," Bat said, and they cheered and drank.

During the noisy celebration, the Widowmaker made her way over to the bar, over to me, and leaned back casually with her elbows against the bar counter, near enough to me to smell the jet fuel on her uniform. She drank her pint coolly and kept a lazy gaze on the newly minted ace.

"It's nice that we don't do these often anymore," she said.

"Worried that someone might beat your record?" I replied. The words came automatically and tersely. She turned to face me and cocked her head to one side. Her eyes darted up and down my body, and a pleased smile grew as if she were impressed by my brashness. I kept my eyes serious and narrow like blades, fixed to her eyes. I didn't mean my words to be so confrontational. But with her, knowing what she was and what she was capable of, it came that way. My coldness didn't seem to register with her, or she chose to ignore it. She gave a curt laugh and flicked her hair, nothing more than amusement on her face, as if she decided that I had said something flirtatious and funny. The laughter was beautiful. I found that annoying. She turned around, sat on the stool, and placed her forearms on the bar. That annoyed me too. It meant she wanted conversation.

"It's just nice to not have to fight all the time. Anyways, what do you got to drink that's strong?"

"Whatever you want," I answered curtly.

"Got anything good? Anything local?"

"Everything's local," I answered.

Her eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

A bottle of bourbon sat on the speed rail. I grabbed it, grabbed a low ball off the glass rack, and poured her one neat.

"It's from a distillery in town," I said.

"Can I get the bartender one?"

Hesitantly, I took another glass out and poured. She raised her glass. I raised mine quickly and threw back the shot. She placed her empty glass back in front of me. I poured her another.

"By the way, we haven't been formally introduced yet. I'm -- "

"The Widowmaker," I completed for her.

She smiled weakly.

"Nephele Sol. Or Neph for short."

I nodded once, just to acknowledge her.

"Nice to meet you, Nephele Sol. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bar to run."

I flashed her a forced smile. For a furtive moment, I glanced into her eyes. They were light hazel, liquid in the bar light. The left eye twitched as she smiled. An endearing quality. I glanced away, so I didn't have to look at her.

I knew that I ought to treat her nicely, to converse with her like a friend if that's what she wanted. I had to because that was Regan's instruction. But mentally, I wasn't prepared to. I held her in too low a regard. I struggled to think of saying anything nice to her. Strangely though, it was just her. The others I was OK with. I found them to be amicable. But she was different. She was the Widowmaker. Even if she was Nephele Sol, or Neph for short.

***

After the last of the pilots filed out of the bar just past midnight, I closed and began cleaning down the bar. I took another shot of the bourbon. It was enough to give me a pleasant buzz as I put up the chairs and mopped and swept the floor. It put me in a serene mood and smoothed over my anxiety like a wave over a sandy shore.

As I always did, I started cleaning up in the back room. I put up the chairs, swept the floor. Next was mopping. I filled a bucket, pumped the mop into it a few times, whipped its wet head onto the floor, and danced around it, leaving a shiny trail of water and suds. The lights were all turned off -- the power goes out at midnight as part of the provisional government's security curfew plan -- but I didn't mind the dark. I could still see the floor in the light of the full moon. I imagined I wasn't in the backroom but on a beach beneath the salt cypress that whispered sweetly in the breeze. And the mop wasn't just a stick with a wet head on the floor, but Eli. Some of the memories I cherished most were the times spent dancing on the beach with him. Once, we were caught in the rain and danced until the rain stopped. That was the night I fell in love with him.

As I was lucidly reminiscing, a sudden sound came from the main room. It brought the happy memories to a jolting halt. A musical arpeggio from the piano out in the bar. My first thought was that a cat had wandered in and hopped onto the keys. But that theory went to shit when the notes came again, and it was clearly not accidental. They came soft, timid, and lyrical.

I thought to storm out there to scold the mystery piano player for being in the bar past closing time. But then I realized that not only did I not know who it could be, they were also bold enough to break into my bar past curfew hour, so they might be dangerous. So, I froze, and my thought went immediately to the shotgun beneath the bar counter. I figured I wouldn't be able to get to it. But there was a bat in the pantry, so, after slipping off my shoes to muffle my footsteps, I crept over to the pantry and grabbed the bat. Then I crept along the hallway to the main room.

The mystery pianist played random, playful runs from vaguely familiar songs, ran up the keys, and back down in masterful arpeggios. Warming up. I knew this because Eli did the same before beginning his sessions.

Like a ninja assassin, I inched closer with the plan to get to the corner at the end of the hallway closest to the piano. Inch by inch. Ever so closely. Close enough to swing the bat at the intruder before they had a chance to stand. When I reached the corner, I raised my bat, took a deep breath, and lifted a foot to take a plunge out into the main room for the attack. But then the pianist began to play a song that froze me in place and filled my soul with an electric explosion, sending chills from the center of my chest into my extremities.

It was a song I was very familiar with. A song etched firmly into my heart and bones. Eli's favorite song to play. It was the one that he always played whenever he felt down and needed cheering up. One that I knew the words to and which I found myself often singing whenever I needed a cheer. A minor key song that reminisces about bygone days. And it now played on the piano as if the ghost of Eli had returned to play it for me.

But I knew it couldn't possibly be Eli, so that made me more frantic than before (strangely, I was relatively calm when all I had to deal with was an intruder). Who else could possibly know to play that song on that piano, as if that piano had been sitting there waiting to have only that song played on it?

Yet, there it was with its sweet melancholy. The sort of song a father would dance with her daughter to on the day he gives her away. I lowered the bat as a wash of emotion overcame me, shorting the fear that had electrified me earlier.

After a while of just listening, I decided to see who it was. I peeked around the corner and found the silhouette of a petite woman. Her hair was short, swept-back, and shimmered in the dim moonlight, and she swayed back and forth to the song's rhythm. She played the song with all her heart.

It was her. It was the Widowmaker.

I should have been horrified. I should have reacted indignantly. And some of me strongly urged me to jump out there and scold her while brandishing the bat. But there was something about the way she moved. The gentle flicks of her delicate wrists, the swaying of her body. And the music. The music was solemnly beautiful, and because of that, I couldn't help but see this woman as someone different. There was beauty there. Tenderness in the way she touched those keys. An unavoidable feeling of familiarity, like she was a lost long friend.

I had held my breath too long. The need to breathe came to me suddenly, so I breathed suddenly and much too loudly. The song stopped with an abrupt, dissonant note, and she swiveled around on the bench and stood quickly like a child caught red-handed doing something naughty.