Chapter 10 part 2
As bad as that sounds, it was very necessary. She had to check and make sure there was no shrapnel or remains of bullet left in my body, before she could do any real healing. How can I describe the process of being vivisected while one is still alive and mostly conscious? Let me see...oh, yes. As I once said to an annoying reporter during the rare moment I agreed to an interview, even a masochist would find the process impossible to enjoy. Xen has also told me that it’s basically the most disgusting thing she has ever done, but she knew she had to in order to save my life. Some of the experience’s kind of hazy, and I think I blacked out once or twice, which was probably a blessing. One of my more vivid memories is Xen reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small packet of white powder.
"What's...that?" I managed to gasp.
"Powdered Yoon bone," she replied, opening it. "It'll help regrow your ribs and clavicles."
"They...shattered?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time."
Despite the distressing circumstances, Xen kept her voice calm. I admired her self control, and that she was trying to act like a doctor.
She took out a pinch of bone, and gingerly placed it in a few select places. I idly wondered where she'd gotten it. I hoped the Yoon it belonged to was already dead, or that the bone had had to be surgically removed, or something. As the powder got in my system, the sharp pains I was feeling began to go away. Ah, good, the stabbing sensation in my lung had dissipated, and with some spit, Xen plugged up the hole. As soon as she was sure all the bones were put back together, after adding a bit of her blood to prevent infection, she coughed up a large glob of spit (also very gross), and began dribbling it into my wounds. Once in a while, I would point out a spot that Xen had missed, or groan in pain, but other than that, things were going pretty quietly. I noticed that Calla had freed the other prisoners (except Jessup, thank heavens), and had also moved Fleming, who was unconscious and bleeding, into another cage. She came over to where we were.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He's on the mend, thank heavens," Xen replied. The girl's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of relief. It was then that I drifted out of consciousness again.
It didn't seem very long before I woke up again, but it must have been, because I felt a lot better. Granted, I was still weak, and I once again felt like I had after being thrashed nearly to death by those hired goons (No, I am still unwilling to tell you about it; it was very humiliating for me); but I could tell that the holes in my guts and shoulders had closed up, and my insides felt good as new. I slowly opened my eyes, and saw Xen staring anxiously down at me. I was abruptly a bit anxious myself; having to save someone’s life by tearing them open, and then putting them back together, is a very intimate, personal process. What if she was so repulsed by what she had to do that she no longer loved me? Seeing me awake, she smiled with relief; but what if she was just trying to keep me happy? Behind her, I saw Calla, who wiped her eyes, and cried out, "He's alive!"
I smiled weakly, hoping it wasn't showing my fear, and whispered, "Hey, Xen."
"It's about time," she replied.
Then, remembering something she'd said while attacking Fleming, I said, "Uh, Xen, technically I'm not your-"
"Tristan," she interrupted, "shut up."
And then she kissed me. I shut up.
When I was finally allowed to talk again, the first words out of my mouth were, "Marry me, Xen. Please?"
I know, this was not in my original plans. But I couldn't wait. I had to ask now, before something else happened. She stared at me in shock. A full ten seconds passed, making me nervous. Maybe she was too grossed out to still want me. Then, with an expression of utmost delight, she cried, "Land sakes, Tristan! I thought you'd never ask!"
Pulling me up, she hugged me. I asked, "Does that mean yes?"
She sat back, and scrutinized me, trying to see if I was serious. Realizing I was, she looked me right in the eyes, and said slowly, "Yes, Tristan. Yes, I will marry you."
That made everything all right.
After a long, long while, I finally thought to see what Calla was doing. I glanced over in her direction, and saw that she was standing by the altar, arms folded, staring up at the ceiling. She was humming slightly, and I got the impression that she was embarrassed. I tried to stand up, and felt my limbs all simultaneously collapse. Thankfully, Xen was there to catch me before I could do a faceplant, and drape my arm around her shoulders.
"Take it easy," she cautioned me, "You just nearly died. Give yourself some time."
Slowly we shuffled over to Calla, and I held out my other arm to her. At least, I made a gesture at her with my free hand. She came over, and hugged me around the chest, not caring about my bloodstained clothing (don’t worry, after gargoyle blood cools down, it’s safe to touch). With effort, I returned it.
"I'm so glad you're alive," she murmured.
"Hey, I wasn't gonna leave that easily," I replied. "Someone's got to be there to look after you."
Calla gave a small laugh, the first I'd ever heard from her. It was sweet.
At that moment, the police finally arrived. Ishida burst into the room, with what seemed like half the police force in tow.
"What the devil is going on here?!" he barked. "What happened? What's all this mess?"
Xen pointed at Fleming, and said, "He's the one you want."
I added, “You’ll want to arrest him for kidnapping, attempted murder, theft, necromancy, and deception.”
“Deception is not against the law!” Fleming, who was finally awake, squawked indignantly.
“True,” I shot back, “but it is a commandment.”
“The ninth, to be precise,” said Calla.
I nodded to her. “Thank you, Calla.”
Two cops headed for the cage; I asked the chief, "How did you find us?"
"We traced the last signal we'd gotten from your phone, and-" Ishida stopped, and frowned at me, looking confused.
"Why do you have blood on what remains of your shirt?"
"It's...complicated, chief. I'll tell you in the report. Just know that you've got two new prisoners, one of whom needs to go back to Chernabog, ASAP. And let me know if you find a hooded cloak, or if Fleming has any notes about this. I need something to add to my collection."
(I keep little mementos from all my cases in a file cabinet at work.)
With the help of the girls, I shuffled over to the cage where my enemy stood, glaring at me, his handsome face contorted with a paroxysm of deepest rage.
"Hi," I said. "You know, being behind bars really suits you."
"This isn't over, Wormwood," Jessup hissed, "I'll get out again, and when I do, I'll come for you, and your lady friends, and make sure that before you die you watch them undergo the most horrible, painful-"
"Spare me. If I had a dime every time someone threatened my life, I’d have-” I did a quick mental calculation- “about twenty dollars.”
“You've been threatened by two hundred different people?” Calla gasped.
“No, some of them repeated themselves. Anyway, Jessup, you don't have a snowball in Texas's chance of getting out. And if you do, I'll be waiting. You name the place."
"Yeah. We'll be waiting too," growled Xen. She bared her fangs at him; I noticed that Calla, though looking a lot less intimidating, did have her best glare on. She whispered, "I hope you enjoy prison, sir."
It was then that we decided to go home. I'd had enough for one day, and besides, we had some plans to make.
Showing posts with label Chernabog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chernabog. Show all posts
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
TANSTAV part 23
Chapter 6 part 4
After her bout of hysteria had subsided, I got Calla to eat some soup. Because I was feeling kind of hungry again, I ate some too. We sat at the kitchen table, munching in silence. Then I noticed that Calla was watching me eat, eyebrows furrowed.
“What is it, kid? Expecting me to be slurping it up like a savage jungle beast?”
“No. I-I just noticed that you’re left-handed, like me.”
“Actually, I’m ambidextrous.” I demonstrated by effortlessly switching the spoon to my right hand. “But Xen’s left-handed.”
“Who’s Xen?”
“My...friend. She’ll show up at some point.” I continued, “Getting back to what I was saying, many monsters are left-handed. It’s no big deal to us. It’s probably part of the reason why humans used to think it was such a taboo, and sinful thing; primeval memories associated the two.”
Calla murmured, “I see,” and inhaled a noodle so fast it flipped her on the nose as it went in. She managed a small smile at that.
When we finished, she went back to bed; and, finally admitting defeat, I did too. When I awoke, it was 7 in the morning. Normally, I would have gone to work now; however, Ishida had said that Calla was to be in my care. And, since she was forbidden to leave this apartment, I was unsure if that meant that I had to stay here too. Reluctantly, I called him to find out the exact details of her incarceration.
After about 3 rings, his voice came grumpily through the receiver.
"What is it, Wormwood?"
"Since the girl has to stay here, do I have to too?"
"Huh? What- Oh. Yes. Yes, until further notice, you are temporarily relieved from working with us. Only go out if you can get someone to replace you."
Silently, I punched the air.
"Thanks, Chief."
"My pleasure," he said dryly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."
"Oh, wait! I forgot to add: I got her set up with a psychiatrist. Dr. Higgins. Does she have to stay here for those too?"
"...I'll send a message to Dr. Higgins to make it a house call," he sighed. And with that, he hung up.
For three weeks, I spent most of my time in my apartment. Xen came over as often as possible, in order to help look after her, and every other day, Higgins came for the therapy session. I don't know the exact nature of his treatment, since I usually took those times to go to the station or work on the case, but I do know that soon Calla was looking a lot better. The bruises faded, and having healthy meals made her look less cadaverous. Xen went out shopping for her, and bought her some new clothes, which fit her frame a great deal better. Furthermore, she responded well to the therapy. I think Higgins might have cheated a little, using some kind of spell to calm her nerves, but if it did the trick, I was okay with it. Within two and a half weeks, Calla's serious brown eyes began to lose that haunted look. Not completely, but to an acceptable degree. A few times, I even made her smile. A small, timid one, but a smile nonetheless.
However, while she may have been improving, my case was going nowhere fast. I watched the tape, and it showed zilch. At 8:30 am of that day, Jessup was still in his cell, lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. The list of enemies brought no clues whatsoever, since they all had alibis, and were not known for having any motive for kidnapping that I could find. I brought the magic samples down to the station, and a mage (not Fleming, thankfully) found out that the one outside the senator's house and the one in the elevator had both been used for teleportation. The one in the cell had been a hypnotism spell. That certainly made things suspicious, but it wasn't really concrete evidence. We still couldn't find out who the fragments had come from, and I was sure Jessup wasn't gonna talk. It was possible to use a spell to force the truth from him, but it had the side-effect of shattering the person's mind. As delightful as that would be, it was also highly illegal. Dang it.
Anyway, the three weeks were soon up. Calla went to the police, made her statement, and the case was officially recorded and filed. Since she was a legal adult, and had no known relatives and nowhere to go, I took her back home with me. Well, that’s not the only reason. Our laws have a special clause called the Mercy Clause, installed by President William “Billy” Bones back when he was in office, regarding people who kill in self-defense. If they have true remorse for their actions (we have ways of confirming that), and it’s clear that they hadn't planned to kill the person beforehand, they can avoid time in prison if they can instead be put in the custody of a trusted relative, or the equivalent, to make sure they don’t get into trouble again. As there was no one to fulfill this role, to her knowledge (her mother had left when she was eleven, and she didn't know where she was, and the judge and Ishida preferred to just get this over with, rather than spend time looking for her), I stepped in as her non-official guardian.
Now that she was no longer under house arrest, Calla was allowed to go stay at Xen's place while I went to work. With a small sigh, I headed for the office. It was a Monday, so of course my spirits were already rather low (not to mention it being April, the cruelest month), without the added weight of having no information regarding the senator. I slumped at my desk, and doodled furiously on my legal pad. Suddenly, I heard a knock at my (newly repaired) door.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened, and in came that freaky zealot I'd met in the street!
As soon as we saw each other, I could tell she recognized me. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and for a moment looked as if she were about to beat a hasty retreat. But after a moment, she composed herself, and entered. I, however, was slower to adapt, and gasped "You!" in a strangled tone.
Standing straight at attention, Freaky Zealot Girl said calmly, "Mr. Wormwood, I have a case for you."
I rolled my eyes. Why else would she be here? However, I decided not to comment. Remembering my manners, I said, "Please take a seat, Miss..."
"Greenbriar. Morgan Greenbriar."
Without further ado, Miss Greenbriar sat down in the chair across from me, and said, "I need your help. One of the people I have been caring for at my center has vanished without a trace, and I would like you to find him."
I must admit, my eyes popped slightly. Two people missing within three weeks of each other, in the same city? That sounded too close to be a coincidence.
After her bout of hysteria had subsided, I got Calla to eat some soup. Because I was feeling kind of hungry again, I ate some too. We sat at the kitchen table, munching in silence. Then I noticed that Calla was watching me eat, eyebrows furrowed.
“What is it, kid? Expecting me to be slurping it up like a savage jungle beast?”
“No. I-I just noticed that you’re left-handed, like me.”
“Actually, I’m ambidextrous.” I demonstrated by effortlessly switching the spoon to my right hand. “But Xen’s left-handed.”
“Who’s Xen?”
“My...friend. She’ll show up at some point.” I continued, “Getting back to what I was saying, many monsters are left-handed. It’s no big deal to us. It’s probably part of the reason why humans used to think it was such a taboo, and sinful thing; primeval memories associated the two.”
Calla murmured, “I see,” and inhaled a noodle so fast it flipped her on the nose as it went in. She managed a small smile at that.
When we finished, she went back to bed; and, finally admitting defeat, I did too. When I awoke, it was 7 in the morning. Normally, I would have gone to work now; however, Ishida had said that Calla was to be in my care. And, since she was forbidden to leave this apartment, I was unsure if that meant that I had to stay here too. Reluctantly, I called him to find out the exact details of her incarceration.
After about 3 rings, his voice came grumpily through the receiver.
"What is it, Wormwood?"
"Since the girl has to stay here, do I have to too?"
"Huh? What- Oh. Yes. Yes, until further notice, you are temporarily relieved from working with us. Only go out if you can get someone to replace you."
Silently, I punched the air.
"Thanks, Chief."
"My pleasure," he said dryly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."
"Oh, wait! I forgot to add: I got her set up with a psychiatrist. Dr. Higgins. Does she have to stay here for those too?"
"...I'll send a message to Dr. Higgins to make it a house call," he sighed. And with that, he hung up.
For three weeks, I spent most of my time in my apartment. Xen came over as often as possible, in order to help look after her, and every other day, Higgins came for the therapy session. I don't know the exact nature of his treatment, since I usually took those times to go to the station or work on the case, but I do know that soon Calla was looking a lot better. The bruises faded, and having healthy meals made her look less cadaverous. Xen went out shopping for her, and bought her some new clothes, which fit her frame a great deal better. Furthermore, she responded well to the therapy. I think Higgins might have cheated a little, using some kind of spell to calm her nerves, but if it did the trick, I was okay with it. Within two and a half weeks, Calla's serious brown eyes began to lose that haunted look. Not completely, but to an acceptable degree. A few times, I even made her smile. A small, timid one, but a smile nonetheless.
However, while she may have been improving, my case was going nowhere fast. I watched the tape, and it showed zilch. At 8:30 am of that day, Jessup was still in his cell, lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. The list of enemies brought no clues whatsoever, since they all had alibis, and were not known for having any motive for kidnapping that I could find. I brought the magic samples down to the station, and a mage (not Fleming, thankfully) found out that the one outside the senator's house and the one in the elevator had both been used for teleportation. The one in the cell had been a hypnotism spell. That certainly made things suspicious, but it wasn't really concrete evidence. We still couldn't find out who the fragments had come from, and I was sure Jessup wasn't gonna talk. It was possible to use a spell to force the truth from him, but it had the side-effect of shattering the person's mind. As delightful as that would be, it was also highly illegal. Dang it.
Anyway, the three weeks were soon up. Calla went to the police, made her statement, and the case was officially recorded and filed. Since she was a legal adult, and had no known relatives and nowhere to go, I took her back home with me. Well, that’s not the only reason. Our laws have a special clause called the Mercy Clause, installed by President William “Billy” Bones back when he was in office, regarding people who kill in self-defense. If they have true remorse for their actions (we have ways of confirming that), and it’s clear that they hadn't planned to kill the person beforehand, they can avoid time in prison if they can instead be put in the custody of a trusted relative, or the equivalent, to make sure they don’t get into trouble again. As there was no one to fulfill this role, to her knowledge (her mother had left when she was eleven, and she didn't know where she was, and the judge and Ishida preferred to just get this over with, rather than spend time looking for her), I stepped in as her non-official guardian.
Now that she was no longer under house arrest, Calla was allowed to go stay at Xen's place while I went to work. With a small sigh, I headed for the office. It was a Monday, so of course my spirits were already rather low (not to mention it being April, the cruelest month), without the added weight of having no information regarding the senator. I slumped at my desk, and doodled furiously on my legal pad. Suddenly, I heard a knock at my (newly repaired) door.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened, and in came that freaky zealot I'd met in the street!
As soon as we saw each other, I could tell she recognized me. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and for a moment looked as if she were about to beat a hasty retreat. But after a moment, she composed herself, and entered. I, however, was slower to adapt, and gasped "You!" in a strangled tone.
Standing straight at attention, Freaky Zealot Girl said calmly, "Mr. Wormwood, I have a case for you."
I rolled my eyes. Why else would she be here? However, I decided not to comment. Remembering my manners, I said, "Please take a seat, Miss..."
"Greenbriar. Morgan Greenbriar."
Without further ado, Miss Greenbriar sat down in the chair across from me, and said, "I need your help. One of the people I have been caring for at my center has vanished without a trace, and I would like you to find him."
I must admit, my eyes popped slightly. Two people missing within three weeks of each other, in the same city? That sounded too close to be a coincidence.
Friday, August 3, 2012
TANSTAV part 17
Chapter 5 part 3
The elevator creaked and groaned, moving with all the speed of a giant ground sloth going uphill.
You'd think a high-tech prison could afford a better elevator system.
Aside from all the mechanical grumbling, the ride was silent. The ogre was disinclined towards conversation (which was good, because he would probably take the opportunity to mooch more money off me), leaving me free to examine the contraption in which we stood. Small, cramped, badly lit-hello, what was this? A particle of that black and red magic, the same as had been at the Skald residence! Why on earth was it in the elevator? I looked at Flavius. He was picking at the sleeve of his jacket in a bored manner, paying no attention to me. Nonchalantly, I stepped in the direction of the magic, sliding a spare baggie out of my pocket, and standing at such an angle that the ogre couldn't see what I was doing, if he bothered to look at me. You can never be too careful in this job, after all. There seemed to be no security cameras, no observation orbs, no nothing in here. So with a swipe of my hand, the light was captured and sealed. I slipped the baggie into my pocket, just in time. At the speed of a racing snail, the elevator ground to a halt. The doors creaked open, and we exited.
The prison tower we were in was shaped like a rectangle with no middle. The cells were placed all next to each other against the wall, with a walkway next to them, and a balcony on the opposite side of it. I peeked over the balcony, to see a long, long drop down to the lobby. I could just make out the lamps by the receptionist's desk down below. When I looked up, it seemed to me that there was still lots of room to spare, even though we had gone up 10 flights. The prison had to be expandable, like Mr. Jorgensen's pocket. I turned away from the balcony, and looked to the cells. The doors were all made of magically enhanced steel, with a small slot where food could be sent through. On the left side of each cell were a blue button and a green button. The blue had the word RESTRAIN on it, and the green RELEASE. On the door to the right of the elevator, I could see the number 10000. To the left of the elevator was cell 19999. I sighed. We were going to have to do quite a bit of walking, it was apparent.
I shall spare the (probably impatient) reader the long walk and checking of numbers, before we finally found 10642. But rest assured, find it we did. It looked no different from the others, but to me, the knowledge of what abomination it contained added a touch of sinister feeling to it. If, that is, he was still there. Flavius was about to push the RESTRAIN button, but I interceded.
"May I?" I asked.
Flavius looked unsure. But another hundred assuaged his fears. I pressed the button with my index claw; it lit up a paler blue, and from within I heard a muffled cry of surprise, followed by several oaths. Good. That meant someone was in there, and if it was who I hoped, it gave me great pleasure to inconvenience him. I unlocked the door, keeping the key with me, and went in. There, hanging in midair, with arms out and legs shoulder-width apart, completely immobilized, was Desmond Jessup. In person.
To the eyes of one who doesn't know him, Jessup isn't that bad-looking. In fact, to certain frames of mind he might even be called handsome (though not as much as yours truly, of course). He's tall, maybe 6'2", and though thin, also muscular. His skin is perfectly tanned, and almost flawless. The only mark is on his left bicep: a red diamond-shaped outline tattoo, with a smaller red diamond inside. It looks like a rather peculiar eye. He has shoulder-length black hair, which I think looks rather hideous (Don't get me wrong, shoulder-length hair is nice. On women. On men, I think it looks kind of icky.). Jessup also has deceptively clear grey eyes, heavy-lidded, like Paul McCartney's. The kind of eyes that make girls swoon. All in all, he looks like an unusually handsome human, except for his feet. The left one is a cloven hoof, and the right one has the clawed talons of a bird, maybe a hawk. They are the only visible signs of his demon heritage, and needless to say, make him walk rather awkwardly. Many an innocent (and many a guilty too) has trembled in fear at the sound of his approach.
The elevator creaked and groaned, moving with all the speed of a giant ground sloth going uphill.
You'd think a high-tech prison could afford a better elevator system.
Aside from all the mechanical grumbling, the ride was silent. The ogre was disinclined towards conversation (which was good, because he would probably take the opportunity to mooch more money off me), leaving me free to examine the contraption in which we stood. Small, cramped, badly lit-hello, what was this? A particle of that black and red magic, the same as had been at the Skald residence! Why on earth was it in the elevator? I looked at Flavius. He was picking at the sleeve of his jacket in a bored manner, paying no attention to me. Nonchalantly, I stepped in the direction of the magic, sliding a spare baggie out of my pocket, and standing at such an angle that the ogre couldn't see what I was doing, if he bothered to look at me. You can never be too careful in this job, after all. There seemed to be no security cameras, no observation orbs, no nothing in here. So with a swipe of my hand, the light was captured and sealed. I slipped the baggie into my pocket, just in time. At the speed of a racing snail, the elevator ground to a halt. The doors creaked open, and we exited.
The prison tower we were in was shaped like a rectangle with no middle. The cells were placed all next to each other against the wall, with a walkway next to them, and a balcony on the opposite side of it. I peeked over the balcony, to see a long, long drop down to the lobby. I could just make out the lamps by the receptionist's desk down below. When I looked up, it seemed to me that there was still lots of room to spare, even though we had gone up 10 flights. The prison had to be expandable, like Mr. Jorgensen's pocket. I turned away from the balcony, and looked to the cells. The doors were all made of magically enhanced steel, with a small slot where food could be sent through. On the left side of each cell were a blue button and a green button. The blue had the word RESTRAIN on it, and the green RELEASE. On the door to the right of the elevator, I could see the number 10000. To the left of the elevator was cell 19999. I sighed. We were going to have to do quite a bit of walking, it was apparent.
I shall spare the (probably impatient) reader the long walk and checking of numbers, before we finally found 10642. But rest assured, find it we did. It looked no different from the others, but to me, the knowledge of what abomination it contained added a touch of sinister feeling to it. If, that is, he was still there. Flavius was about to push the RESTRAIN button, but I interceded.
"May I?" I asked.
Flavius looked unsure. But another hundred assuaged his fears. I pressed the button with my index claw; it lit up a paler blue, and from within I heard a muffled cry of surprise, followed by several oaths. Good. That meant someone was in there, and if it was who I hoped, it gave me great pleasure to inconvenience him. I unlocked the door, keeping the key with me, and went in. There, hanging in midair, with arms out and legs shoulder-width apart, completely immobilized, was Desmond Jessup. In person.
To the eyes of one who doesn't know him, Jessup isn't that bad-looking. In fact, to certain frames of mind he might even be called handsome (though not as much as yours truly, of course). He's tall, maybe 6'2", and though thin, also muscular. His skin is perfectly tanned, and almost flawless. The only mark is on his left bicep: a red diamond-shaped outline tattoo, with a smaller red diamond inside. It looks like a rather peculiar eye. He has shoulder-length black hair, which I think looks rather hideous (Don't get me wrong, shoulder-length hair is nice. On women. On men, I think it looks kind of icky.). Jessup also has deceptively clear grey eyes, heavy-lidded, like Paul McCartney's. The kind of eyes that make girls swoon. All in all, he looks like an unusually handsome human, except for his feet. The left one is a cloven hoof, and the right one has the clawed talons of a bird, maybe a hawk. They are the only visible signs of his demon heritage, and needless to say, make him walk rather awkwardly. Many an innocent (and many a guilty too) has trembled in fear at the sound of his approach.
Monday, July 23, 2012
TANSTAV part 16
Chapter 5 part 2
This time, thankfully, I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down, though not without effort. Not only did I do it because the food had been made by Xen, but also because it would not be practical or sensible to allow the only nourishment I'd had all day to come up again. This was no time to disregard my health. I feel through the mirror to the ground, and lay curled in a ball, arms wrapped around my stomach, in paroxysms of agony until the convulsions finally ceased. It seemed like an eternity to me, but was probably only two minutes, give or take. My stomach gave one last lurch, trying to dislodge the food, and finally gave up. I pulled myself up, swallowed with difficulty, and wiped the sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt like I'd been giving a thrashing by a pair of hired goons with heavy sticks (I know what that feels like from a personal experience, which I would prefer not to go into right now, if it's all the same to you). Figuratively speaking, I pulled myself together. A couple of months ago, I actually had to see that happen. Bjorn, one of the trolls I work with often, came through one of the teleport mirrors wrong, or else it malfunctioned, because his arms and legs came through first, and the rest showed up afterwards. It was singularly icky, if you must know. We thought he was going to die, but Harper spit him back together, and soon he was good as new. However, we all gained an intense, irreparable mistrust of that particular mirror, and since then have avoided it like the plague.
I was at the very foot of Chernabog Prison. It was set on a giant, black rock, way out on the water, shrouded in spells of concealment and repellency to humans. To me, they looked like thick black clouds, with flashes of aura belonging to different mages who had worked to construct the spells. The castle itself looked every bit as forbidding and creepy as the mirror image had been. Undaunted, I stepped up to the iron, magically enhanced gate, lifted the knocker (which was shaped like an imp’s face) and banged twice. A slit above the knocker-way above the knocker-opened, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes peered out.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
"PASSWORD?" a voice rumbled.
Since when is there a password? I wondered. Then I realized what he (I guessed it was a he) meant. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the wallet Morty had given me, extracted a crisp 100-dollar bill, and held it up to the slot. A pair of meaty fingers the color of curdled milk (tipped with blood red nails) somehow reached through, plucked the bill from my claws, and then retreated inside. The slit slammed shut. I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, creaking ominously, the prison door opened, revealing the guard to be an enormous ogre. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, slightly grimy, with a nametag that said "Flavius" on it. At his belt he carried a club, one of those enchanted kinds that would electrocute whoever it was pointed at; very useful for subduing unruly inmates. Flavius waved the bill at me, and made a slightly mocking bow.
"ENTER, AND OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
I stepped through the doorway, and felt a chill run through my body. That had to be the air spirit that checked for concealed weapons. I held still until it stopped. The ogre looked pleased by my cooperation. When a disembodied voice whispered, "All clear," he gestured for me to follow him. I did. We were in the opening hallway, which was lined on either side with rows upon rows of statues and suits of armor, all armed to the teeth. I conjectured that they were designed to come to life and attack, in the case of an invasion or a prison breakout. Very cliché, but usually effective. The ceiling seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens. Even with my night vision, I was barely able to make it out. It looked very blank and cheerless, just like the rest of this place. Everything was made out of either stone or metal. Cold, lifeless objects. The place had a general air of wickedness and corruption, with overlying confinement and neglect. I wanted out, and as soon as conveniently possible.
We finally made it to the front desk, where there sat an imp woman with short, curly hair pulled into an untidy bun. Imps come mostly in black, but her skin was a sickly green. At most she had to be 4 feet tall, with beady red eyes, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose. Her fingers were covered with warts, and her right hand was missing the pinky. Looked to me as if it had been bitten off some time in the past, though what did it could be any number of creatures; it had probably been something small, judging by the size of the scar, with very sharp, pointy teeth.
"What is your business?" she demanded in a high, yet businesslike tone.
"My name is Tristan Wormwood. I'm a detective. I want to visit a prisoner," I replied.
"Did you obtain and fill out the appropriate paperwork? You need the blue form, the green form, the red form, the-"
I pulled out another 100-dollar bill, and laid it on the desk. The imp looked down her nose at me, with some difficulty, since she had to look up in order to do so.
"Do you think, Mr. Wormwood, that I am susceptible to bribery?"
I added two more bills. Instantly she became more compliant.
"Which prisoner is it that you want to visit?" She gave me what I supposed was an ingratiating smile, exposing a fine set of tiny fangs; I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to bite off her finger. But I decided that was silly.
"Desmond Jessup. If it's quite convenient."
Both imp and ogre gasped. They gave each other nervous, darting glances, before looking back at me.
"Why him?" asked the receptionist in a strangled tone. I gave both her and Flavius another bill.
"He is still here, isn't he?" I probed.
"Of course he is!" The imp's indignation looked genuine. "He's just more...dangerous than the rest. He needs to be restrained first, and if you wish to speak with him privately, in his cell, it will cost you extra."
"Oh, I don't mind." Understanding why Morty had given me this wallet, and wondering how I would ever be able to pay him back, I handed her two more bills. The receptionist produced a ring of keys, and selected one. It had the number 10642 on it. She handed it over, and nodded to the ogre.
"Flavius will bring you there, and wait outside until you have finished. Have a nice day."
"Thanks."
With that, Flavius and I went to a nearby service elevator, and Flavius, with some difficulty (they weren't custom-made for fingers his size), pressed the button for the 10th floor.
This time, thankfully, I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down, though not without effort. Not only did I do it because the food had been made by Xen, but also because it would not be practical or sensible to allow the only nourishment I'd had all day to come up again. This was no time to disregard my health. I feel through the mirror to the ground, and lay curled in a ball, arms wrapped around my stomach, in paroxysms of agony until the convulsions finally ceased. It seemed like an eternity to me, but was probably only two minutes, give or take. My stomach gave one last lurch, trying to dislodge the food, and finally gave up. I pulled myself up, swallowed with difficulty, and wiped the sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt like I'd been giving a thrashing by a pair of hired goons with heavy sticks (I know what that feels like from a personal experience, which I would prefer not to go into right now, if it's all the same to you). Figuratively speaking, I pulled myself together. A couple of months ago, I actually had to see that happen. Bjorn, one of the trolls I work with often, came through one of the teleport mirrors wrong, or else it malfunctioned, because his arms and legs came through first, and the rest showed up afterwards. It was singularly icky, if you must know. We thought he was going to die, but Harper spit him back together, and soon he was good as new. However, we all gained an intense, irreparable mistrust of that particular mirror, and since then have avoided it like the plague.
I was at the very foot of Chernabog Prison. It was set on a giant, black rock, way out on the water, shrouded in spells of concealment and repellency to humans. To me, they looked like thick black clouds, with flashes of aura belonging to different mages who had worked to construct the spells. The castle itself looked every bit as forbidding and creepy as the mirror image had been. Undaunted, I stepped up to the iron, magically enhanced gate, lifted the knocker (which was shaped like an imp’s face) and banged twice. A slit above the knocker-way above the knocker-opened, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes peered out.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
"PASSWORD?" a voice rumbled.
Since when is there a password? I wondered. Then I realized what he (I guessed it was a he) meant. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the wallet Morty had given me, extracted a crisp 100-dollar bill, and held it up to the slot. A pair of meaty fingers the color of curdled milk (tipped with blood red nails) somehow reached through, plucked the bill from my claws, and then retreated inside. The slit slammed shut. I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, creaking ominously, the prison door opened, revealing the guard to be an enormous ogre. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, slightly grimy, with a nametag that said "Flavius" on it. At his belt he carried a club, one of those enchanted kinds that would electrocute whoever it was pointed at; very useful for subduing unruly inmates. Flavius waved the bill at me, and made a slightly mocking bow.
"ENTER, AND OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
I stepped through the doorway, and felt a chill run through my body. That had to be the air spirit that checked for concealed weapons. I held still until it stopped. The ogre looked pleased by my cooperation. When a disembodied voice whispered, "All clear," he gestured for me to follow him. I did. We were in the opening hallway, which was lined on either side with rows upon rows of statues and suits of armor, all armed to the teeth. I conjectured that they were designed to come to life and attack, in the case of an invasion or a prison breakout. Very cliché, but usually effective. The ceiling seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens. Even with my night vision, I was barely able to make it out. It looked very blank and cheerless, just like the rest of this place. Everything was made out of either stone or metal. Cold, lifeless objects. The place had a general air of wickedness and corruption, with overlying confinement and neglect. I wanted out, and as soon as conveniently possible.
We finally made it to the front desk, where there sat an imp woman with short, curly hair pulled into an untidy bun. Imps come mostly in black, but her skin was a sickly green. At most she had to be 4 feet tall, with beady red eyes, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose. Her fingers were covered with warts, and her right hand was missing the pinky. Looked to me as if it had been bitten off some time in the past, though what did it could be any number of creatures; it had probably been something small, judging by the size of the scar, with very sharp, pointy teeth.
"What is your business?" she demanded in a high, yet businesslike tone.
"My name is Tristan Wormwood. I'm a detective. I want to visit a prisoner," I replied.
"Did you obtain and fill out the appropriate paperwork? You need the blue form, the green form, the red form, the-"
I pulled out another 100-dollar bill, and laid it on the desk. The imp looked down her nose at me, with some difficulty, since she had to look up in order to do so.
"Do you think, Mr. Wormwood, that I am susceptible to bribery?"
I added two more bills. Instantly she became more compliant.
"Which prisoner is it that you want to visit?" She gave me what I supposed was an ingratiating smile, exposing a fine set of tiny fangs; I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to bite off her finger. But I decided that was silly.
"Desmond Jessup. If it's quite convenient."
Both imp and ogre gasped. They gave each other nervous, darting glances, before looking back at me.
"Why him?" asked the receptionist in a strangled tone. I gave both her and Flavius another bill.
"He is still here, isn't he?" I probed.
"Of course he is!" The imp's indignation looked genuine. "He's just more...dangerous than the rest. He needs to be restrained first, and if you wish to speak with him privately, in his cell, it will cost you extra."
"Oh, I don't mind." Understanding why Morty had given me this wallet, and wondering how I would ever be able to pay him back, I handed her two more bills. The receptionist produced a ring of keys, and selected one. It had the number 10642 on it. She handed it over, and nodded to the ogre.
"Flavius will bring you there, and wait outside until you have finished. Have a nice day."
"Thanks."
With that, Flavius and I went to a nearby service elevator, and Flavius, with some difficulty (they weren't custom-made for fingers his size), pressed the button for the 10th floor.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
TANSTAV part 15
Chapter Five
The plot thickens (of course)
The plot thickens (of course)
By now you readers must be tearing your hair out (or fur, or feathers, or horns, or antennae, depending on what you are), wondering who it is I suspected, why he has mismatched feet, what he’s doing in Galveston, and why I have such a deep personal vendetta against him. Well, I’m tempted not to tell, just to preserve the suspense for a while longer. But I really hate it when writers do stuff like that: they don’t get straight to the point about what they want to say, but have to go off on a tangent and blab on and on about something completely off topic, and you want them to shut up and get on with the plot, but they keep jabbering away about some random thing, until finally you yell at them to-
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
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