Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.
I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange. For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell. She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could. At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes. Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind. But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.
We had been out late on a case. It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery. This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me. At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out. We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away. Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault. I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal. But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse. I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence. It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how? There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery. The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there. This was all very interesting...
When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells. She got the fish, and I had most of the chips. And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.
And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied. “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?” Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut. I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve. And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.
“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!” Calla flinched. “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars. I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly. But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth. “Okay. It’s fine. Very decent of you. It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't. I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her. “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”
I smiled, a tad grimly. Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of. Care to examine me?” She held out both arms for inspection. I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over. Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed). But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion. There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.
“Do you remember how you got that?” I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars. There are many I’d prefer not to remember.” She frowned. “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.” Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up. She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it! I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.” Realization confirmed the situation. “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup. Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”
This revelation was naturally very alarming. But it did explain a lot. The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it? After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death. Especially when it led to her getting random injuries. There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt. Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape. But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance. Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone. He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them. Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”
Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it. It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any. Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other. And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant. But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that. Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic. It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.
Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced. “Just what the world needs. A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people. He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so. Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sharky?”
Calla blushed. “It just seemed...appropriate for him. His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough. You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now. He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.” I thoughtfully munched a chip. Suddenly a new point came up in my mind. “When are you going to tell Lars?”
The kid flinched. “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually. Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!” She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm. I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home. As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet. But at some point...”
“Yeah, I know. There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”
Showing posts with label Ishida. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ishida. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Sunday, November 4, 2012
TANSTAV part 36
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
TANSTAV part 30
Chapter Nine
In which we discover the horrible truth, and then I die
Calla showed Xen next; then we all looked at each other.
"I didn't see this coming," I finally said. "Did you?"
Both girls shook their heads. Though, as I thought about it, it began to make more sense. I remembered that when I had been on the Skald property, I had caught a familiar scent in the air, before Jessup’s footprints distracted me. It was only now that I recalled whose smell it had been: Fleming’s (yes, it was Fleming. I congratulate you if you were able to successfully guess that it was him). There was only one logical explanation for why he had been at the crime scene just as it was being committed, and I was staring it in the face.
“So,” asked Calla, “what do we do now?”
“We confront him,” I replied. “We’re not the official police, but we can still capture him and bring him in.”
"Okay."
However, for several moments, we just sat there in silence. We were all a little...hesitant to make the first move. Not that we were scared or anything. It was just that actually confronting this guy made us a tad nervous. In the end, I was the first to get up. And, leaving the evidence there, we exited the forensics room, and went out into the main lobby.
I saw Morty sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, bobbing his head in time with whatever music was playing through his iPod.
"Hi, Tristan," he said, looking up.
"Hey. How're things going?"
"Not too bad. Only a minimal amount of killings, thefts, etc. this week. Xen, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Good. How's your missing person investigation going, Tristan?”
"I might have a lead. I just need to get help from-" I glanced around the station. "Where's Fleming?"
"He hasn't been in. Apparently he got in an accident of some kind, had to stay home."
I and Xen both tried not to snort. Oh, he’d gotten in an accident, all right. If you called being stabbed with a palette knife by a young woman trying to defend herself against you an accident.
Unconcerned, and apparently not even curious as to why we wanted Fleming, the Reaper began playing solitaire on the computer.
“Thanks,” I said as we went away. He grunted slightly.
Fleming lived on the southeast side of Styxburg, at 666 Shelley Avenue. It would be easiest to get there by flying, but there was the problem of Calla, who couldn't fly, and also that there seemed to be a storm coming; to fly in that kind of weather would be potentially suicidal. So we took the bus. It was a rather long drive, which gave me time to think that maybe we should have gotten police backup, since this guy was obviously dangerous. Well, Morty knew where we were going...then I remembered that he had been playing solitaire. Once he got absorbed in a card game, he had a tendency to temporarily forget anything that had been said to him in the last twenty minutes. It was a bad habit that Ishida had talked to him about several times, and that might have gotten him kicked out of the police force if he weren't so good at what he did. No, we couldn't expect any help from him.
We got off the bus about a block down the street from our destination, just to be safe. Then I pulled out my phone, and made a quick call. I didn't have long to wait.
"Wormwood, what is it?" asked Ishida grumpily.
"I'm pretty sure I'm about to capture a dangerous criminal who has kidnapped at least two people."
"What?! WHO?!" I heard whooshing noises through the receiver that sounded a lot like two flames spurting from the nostrils of an alarmed police chief.
"Well, you're not going to believe this, but it's-"
My phone flew out of my hand, and smashed itself to pieces on the sidewalk. Dang, that was the second one that had been destroyed on the job! I looked at the others in alarm, when my attention was all at once drawn to a small man who had appeared just in front of us, his arm and shoulder wrapped in bandages, but with a splatter gun in his good hand, pointed at me (Note: a splatter gun is a very nasty weapon invented during our version of the Cold War, designed to produce whatever amount of bullets the shooter wants to hit his [just for argument's sake, let's say it's a him] target[s], and upon impact, does a small explosion from inside the body, causing a very nasty, grisly death if the target is alive. The splatter bullets are able to pierce even gargoyle hide, making them particularly dangerous).
"I presume you know what this is, and what it does," sneered Fleming, in a voice that was very different from his typical whiny, prissy tones. "So I hope none of you will try to be a hero. Even if you had such thoughts, my, shall we say, operative is here as well." He gestured with the gun; we turned to see Jessup, eyes glazed, standing behind us, also wielding a splatter gun.
"Unfortunately, my hypnotism is only effective on demons. So I am forced to deal with you in this unsophisticated manner. Please come with us (as if we had any choice). You are just in time to witness my glory!"
In which we discover the horrible truth, and then I die
Calla showed Xen next; then we all looked at each other.
"I didn't see this coming," I finally said. "Did you?"
Both girls shook their heads. Though, as I thought about it, it began to make more sense. I remembered that when I had been on the Skald property, I had caught a familiar scent in the air, before Jessup’s footprints distracted me. It was only now that I recalled whose smell it had been: Fleming’s (yes, it was Fleming. I congratulate you if you were able to successfully guess that it was him). There was only one logical explanation for why he had been at the crime scene just as it was being committed, and I was staring it in the face.
“So,” asked Calla, “what do we do now?”
“We confront him,” I replied. “We’re not the official police, but we can still capture him and bring him in.”
"Okay."
However, for several moments, we just sat there in silence. We were all a little...hesitant to make the first move. Not that we were scared or anything. It was just that actually confronting this guy made us a tad nervous. In the end, I was the first to get up. And, leaving the evidence there, we exited the forensics room, and went out into the main lobby.
I saw Morty sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, bobbing his head in time with whatever music was playing through his iPod.
"Hi, Tristan," he said, looking up.
"Hey. How're things going?"
"Not too bad. Only a minimal amount of killings, thefts, etc. this week. Xen, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Good. How's your missing person investigation going, Tristan?”
"I might have a lead. I just need to get help from-" I glanced around the station. "Where's Fleming?"
"He hasn't been in. Apparently he got in an accident of some kind, had to stay home."
I and Xen both tried not to snort. Oh, he’d gotten in an accident, all right. If you called being stabbed with a palette knife by a young woman trying to defend herself against you an accident.
Unconcerned, and apparently not even curious as to why we wanted Fleming, the Reaper began playing solitaire on the computer.
“Thanks,” I said as we went away. He grunted slightly.
Fleming lived on the southeast side of Styxburg, at 666 Shelley Avenue. It would be easiest to get there by flying, but there was the problem of Calla, who couldn't fly, and also that there seemed to be a storm coming; to fly in that kind of weather would be potentially suicidal. So we took the bus. It was a rather long drive, which gave me time to think that maybe we should have gotten police backup, since this guy was obviously dangerous. Well, Morty knew where we were going...then I remembered that he had been playing solitaire. Once he got absorbed in a card game, he had a tendency to temporarily forget anything that had been said to him in the last twenty minutes. It was a bad habit that Ishida had talked to him about several times, and that might have gotten him kicked out of the police force if he weren't so good at what he did. No, we couldn't expect any help from him.
We got off the bus about a block down the street from our destination, just to be safe. Then I pulled out my phone, and made a quick call. I didn't have long to wait.
"Wormwood, what is it?" asked Ishida grumpily.
"I'm pretty sure I'm about to capture a dangerous criminal who has kidnapped at least two people."
"What?! WHO?!" I heard whooshing noises through the receiver that sounded a lot like two flames spurting from the nostrils of an alarmed police chief.
"Well, you're not going to believe this, but it's-"
My phone flew out of my hand, and smashed itself to pieces on the sidewalk. Dang, that was the second one that had been destroyed on the job! I looked at the others in alarm, when my attention was all at once drawn to a small man who had appeared just in front of us, his arm and shoulder wrapped in bandages, but with a splatter gun in his good hand, pointed at me (Note: a splatter gun is a very nasty weapon invented during our version of the Cold War, designed to produce whatever amount of bullets the shooter wants to hit his [just for argument's sake, let's say it's a him] target[s], and upon impact, does a small explosion from inside the body, causing a very nasty, grisly death if the target is alive. The splatter bullets are able to pierce even gargoyle hide, making them particularly dangerous).
"I presume you know what this is, and what it does," sneered Fleming, in a voice that was very different from his typical whiny, prissy tones. "So I hope none of you will try to be a hero. Even if you had such thoughts, my, shall we say, operative is here as well." He gestured with the gun; we turned to see Jessup, eyes glazed, standing behind us, also wielding a splatter gun.
"Unfortunately, my hypnotism is only effective on demons. So I am forced to deal with you in this unsophisticated manner. Please come with us (as if we had any choice). You are just in time to witness my glory!"
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.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
TANSTAV part 8
Chapter Three part 2
When I opened the door, I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Through it, I could see two pairs of glowing eyes: one in red, one in moonlight. I wasn't impressed; as I have mentioned before, many monsters, including me, have glowing red eyes. Furthermore, I was relieved that there were only two of them. And one of them was Morty. However, the other was Ishida, which might present a problem. And, as they showed themselves in, my stupid tongue started acting up.
"Is there a problem, officer?"
Instantly I knew the comment was a really stupid idea. Curse your bad habit of mouthing off, Tristan!
"You think this is a JOKE, Wormwood?!" Ishida demanded, as smoke poured liberally from his nose and mouth. It was filling my living room, and giving off a terrible scent, too. He gnashed his fangs, and a few flames spurted from his nostrils.
"Ssh," I whispered, "don't wake her up!" Quickly I went to the bedroom and closed the door. Then I went back to where they were standing.
"No, Chief," I said in a calm tone, "I don't think this is a joke. I don't even think this is funny. But I do think you need to leave her alone. She's not ready to be questioned just yet."
"I beg your pardon?!" the chief bellowed. "Since when is it your place to say whether or not a suspect is ready for questioning?! You insolent-"
"She's not a suspect, technically. We know for certain that she was the one who did it. But it was in self-defense. Besides that, she's in shock, because she just accidentally killed her dad. Give her a break!"
When he heard that, Ishida stopped ranting and raving. He looked surprised.
"She what?"
"Didn't the crew tell you?"
"...No. They were too busy ranting about how you'd flouted the rules...again." Ishida gave a small, bitter laugh. "You'd better tell me what happened."
I promptly did so, overlooking no detail.
"...So you see, she needs help. A chance to recuperate, after everything that's happened. She has nobody to go to. I can look after her until she is able to look after herself." Then, hating to do it, but seeing the necessity, I added, plaintively, "Please?"
After a long, tense moment, Ishida sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Then, slowly he nodded.
"Three weeks. In your care. She does not leave this apartment."
"Three weeks?!" I spluttered. "It will take years for her to fully recover from this!"
"We don't need her to fully recover!" Ishida snapped, "We just need her able to answer questions!"
Having no other choice, I conceded. "Deal. Thanks, boss."
"Don't mention it. I'm already jeopardizing things by allowing this. She'd better be ready by the time those weeks are out." With that, he turned and stalked towards the door, gesturing for Morty to follow. As he did, the Reaper turned to me.
"Why are you so anxious to help the kid? Do you like her, or what?"
"No!" I cried with great indignation. He chuckled, and billowed his way out. I was left alone in my dark, smoke-filled apartment.
Or, so I thought. Without warning, I caught a familiar smell. It was smoke, but not the same brimstone-kind Ishida had been emitting. It was more outdoorsy, like a campfire. The scent all gargoyles have, since our blood is basically liquid fire. However, it was also tinted by the sweet, strong tang of wild roses. A voice behind me asked, "What were they here for?" I turned, looking upon a small, ethereal female gargoyle, in short-sleeved shirt and paint-splattered jeans, wielding a paintbrush. A wide grin spread involuntarily across my face.
"Hey, Xen."
When I opened the door, I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Through it, I could see two pairs of glowing eyes: one in red, one in moonlight. I wasn't impressed; as I have mentioned before, many monsters, including me, have glowing red eyes. Furthermore, I was relieved that there were only two of them. And one of them was Morty. However, the other was Ishida, which might present a problem. And, as they showed themselves in, my stupid tongue started acting up.
"Is there a problem, officer?"
Instantly I knew the comment was a really stupid idea. Curse your bad habit of mouthing off, Tristan!
"You think this is a JOKE, Wormwood?!" Ishida demanded, as smoke poured liberally from his nose and mouth. It was filling my living room, and giving off a terrible scent, too. He gnashed his fangs, and a few flames spurted from his nostrils.
"Ssh," I whispered, "don't wake her up!" Quickly I went to the bedroom and closed the door. Then I went back to where they were standing.
"No, Chief," I said in a calm tone, "I don't think this is a joke. I don't even think this is funny. But I do think you need to leave her alone. She's not ready to be questioned just yet."
"I beg your pardon?!" the chief bellowed. "Since when is it your place to say whether or not a suspect is ready for questioning?! You insolent-"
"She's not a suspect, technically. We know for certain that she was the one who did it. But it was in self-defense. Besides that, she's in shock, because she just accidentally killed her dad. Give her a break!"
When he heard that, Ishida stopped ranting and raving. He looked surprised.
"She what?"
"Didn't the crew tell you?"
"...No. They were too busy ranting about how you'd flouted the rules...again." Ishida gave a small, bitter laugh. "You'd better tell me what happened."
I promptly did so, overlooking no detail.
"...So you see, she needs help. A chance to recuperate, after everything that's happened. She has nobody to go to. I can look after her until she is able to look after herself." Then, hating to do it, but seeing the necessity, I added, plaintively, "Please?"
After a long, tense moment, Ishida sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Then, slowly he nodded.
"Three weeks. In your care. She does not leave this apartment."
"Three weeks?!" I spluttered. "It will take years for her to fully recover from this!"
"We don't need her to fully recover!" Ishida snapped, "We just need her able to answer questions!"
Having no other choice, I conceded. "Deal. Thanks, boss."
"Don't mention it. I'm already jeopardizing things by allowing this. She'd better be ready by the time those weeks are out." With that, he turned and stalked towards the door, gesturing for Morty to follow. As he did, the Reaper turned to me.
"Why are you so anxious to help the kid? Do you like her, or what?"
"No!" I cried with great indignation. He chuckled, and billowed his way out. I was left alone in my dark, smoke-filled apartment.
Or, so I thought. Without warning, I caught a familiar smell. It was smoke, but not the same brimstone-kind Ishida had been emitting. It was more outdoorsy, like a campfire. The scent all gargoyles have, since our blood is basically liquid fire. However, it was also tinted by the sweet, strong tang of wild roses. A voice behind me asked, "What were they here for?" I turned, looking upon a small, ethereal female gargoyle, in short-sleeved shirt and paint-splattered jeans, wielding a paintbrush. A wide grin spread involuntarily across my face.
"Hey, Xen."
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
TANSTAV part 6
Chapter Three
After some brief...distraction, I return to my investigation
My apartment is across the street from my office, making for an easy commute. It's located on the top floor of the building, tucked in a corner. The place has a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom, all packed together snugly (which is my nice way of saying the blasted apartment was small and cramped). Fortunately, when the mirror transported us to my apartment, it placed us in the bathroom, so that when I doubled over, swinging Calla over one shoulder in the process, I puked bile into the tub, and not onto my carpet. Speak of the devil, Calla did not react at all to my regurgitation. She drooped against my back, shivering, with her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Once my convulsions stopped, I turned her towards me so that I could see her face. She stared vacantly at the ceiling; obviously, she was still in shock. I got to my feet, and carried her to the bedroom.
Now, shame on you if you're thinking what I think you're thinking. I had just barely met the kid, for heaven's sake! Furthermore, that was the farthest thing from my mind at the moment; I was focused entirely on helping her! Sheesh.
As I was saying, I took Calla into the room. Since gargoyles sleep by turning to stone, and I usually preferred to do that in the living room after a late-night movie, on the sofa, I rarely used it. Before tucking her under the covers, I took the time to remove her shoes, making a mental note to find some new clothes for her. Her eyes had gained some flickering of comprehension, and she looked at me with a slightly questioning expression, though still not meeting my eyes. Gently, I used two of my claws to push her eyelids shut
"It's okay, kid," I whispered. "Go to sleep.”
About 30 seconds later, she complied. It was as I sat there, watching her, that it came to me how much trouble I had gotten myself into.
Aiding and abetting a malefactor, refusing to comply with protocol, taking home evidence against the wishes of an officer of the law- I'd be lucky to make it to tomorrow with my life, let alone my job. Any moment, I expected the chief to come pounding down my door, along with a whole hoard of police trolls, nightmares, and the like, armed to the teeth with stun guns, handcuffs, and elemental chains. But surprisingly, knowing what I could possibly look forward to did not make me regret my decision. I knew this kid wasn't up to the rigorous questioning that they would put to her down at the station right now. Since she was technically an adult, and had caused extensive damage to property, not to mention committed accidental manslaughter, they would probably just lock her up in one of the cells. No, Calla was better off here with me. And I didn't know why, but I wanted instinctively to protect her. It might have been the helplessness of her situation, or how calmly she accepted the fact that she was a monster. Or, it might have been the fact that she still felt some compassion towards her father, despite the kind of man he obviously had been. Granted, as I said before, she might have had Battered Woman Syndrome. It was still pretty admirable.
After a while, I left the room, finally remembering to take off my sunglasses, and went into the bathroom to clean up the mess I'd made in the tub. It wasn't that much work, just requiring me to turn on the shower and swish all the water and bile down the drain. As I finished, I looked over at my reflection in the mirror. My hair and beard (ever since I turned 16 I've taken great pains to grow a mustache and goatee, which are kind of scraggly, I'll admit) are both light brown, and were, as usual, in disarray. I used my claws to at least move my hair out of my eyes, so I could see. If you're curious, my eyes are a brilliant red, and glow in the dark. But that's nothing special. Most monsters (the nocturnal kind, that is) have eyes that glow, and quite a few have them in red. My wings and tail, like my skin, are pale grey, and slightly furry while I'm awake. I was wearing my typical work outfit of white button-up shirt, black slacks, and a tie (in this situation, it was orange and green plaid). Because my feet are huge, and I need them for climbing and clinging to things, I wore no shoes. That is typical for my species, and for most monsters with claws.
All in all, I think I'm a pretty handsome devil. Er, gargoyle. However, my preening was interrupted by a loud pounding on my apartment door, informing me that the police had arrived.
After some brief...distraction, I return to my investigation
My apartment is across the street from my office, making for an easy commute. It's located on the top floor of the building, tucked in a corner. The place has a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom, all packed together snugly (which is my nice way of saying the blasted apartment was small and cramped). Fortunately, when the mirror transported us to my apartment, it placed us in the bathroom, so that when I doubled over, swinging Calla over one shoulder in the process, I puked bile into the tub, and not onto my carpet. Speak of the devil, Calla did not react at all to my regurgitation. She drooped against my back, shivering, with her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Once my convulsions stopped, I turned her towards me so that I could see her face. She stared vacantly at the ceiling; obviously, she was still in shock. I got to my feet, and carried her to the bedroom.
Now, shame on you if you're thinking what I think you're thinking. I had just barely met the kid, for heaven's sake! Furthermore, that was the farthest thing from my mind at the moment; I was focused entirely on helping her! Sheesh.
As I was saying, I took Calla into the room. Since gargoyles sleep by turning to stone, and I usually preferred to do that in the living room after a late-night movie, on the sofa, I rarely used it. Before tucking her under the covers, I took the time to remove her shoes, making a mental note to find some new clothes for her. Her eyes had gained some flickering of comprehension, and she looked at me with a slightly questioning expression, though still not meeting my eyes. Gently, I used two of my claws to push her eyelids shut
"It's okay, kid," I whispered. "Go to sleep.”
About 30 seconds later, she complied. It was as I sat there, watching her, that it came to me how much trouble I had gotten myself into.
Aiding and abetting a malefactor, refusing to comply with protocol, taking home evidence against the wishes of an officer of the law- I'd be lucky to make it to tomorrow with my life, let alone my job. Any moment, I expected the chief to come pounding down my door, along with a whole hoard of police trolls, nightmares, and the like, armed to the teeth with stun guns, handcuffs, and elemental chains. But surprisingly, knowing what I could possibly look forward to did not make me regret my decision. I knew this kid wasn't up to the rigorous questioning that they would put to her down at the station right now. Since she was technically an adult, and had caused extensive damage to property, not to mention committed accidental manslaughter, they would probably just lock her up in one of the cells. No, Calla was better off here with me. And I didn't know why, but I wanted instinctively to protect her. It might have been the helplessness of her situation, or how calmly she accepted the fact that she was a monster. Or, it might have been the fact that she still felt some compassion towards her father, despite the kind of man he obviously had been. Granted, as I said before, she might have had Battered Woman Syndrome. It was still pretty admirable.
After a while, I left the room, finally remembering to take off my sunglasses, and went into the bathroom to clean up the mess I'd made in the tub. It wasn't that much work, just requiring me to turn on the shower and swish all the water and bile down the drain. As I finished, I looked over at my reflection in the mirror. My hair and beard (ever since I turned 16 I've taken great pains to grow a mustache and goatee, which are kind of scraggly, I'll admit) are both light brown, and were, as usual, in disarray. I used my claws to at least move my hair out of my eyes, so I could see. If you're curious, my eyes are a brilliant red, and glow in the dark. But that's nothing special. Most monsters (the nocturnal kind, that is) have eyes that glow, and quite a few have them in red. My wings and tail, like my skin, are pale grey, and slightly furry while I'm awake. I was wearing my typical work outfit of white button-up shirt, black slacks, and a tie (in this situation, it was orange and green plaid). Because my feet are huge, and I need them for climbing and clinging to things, I wore no shoes. That is typical for my species, and for most monsters with claws.
All in all, I think I'm a pretty handsome devil. Er, gargoyle. However, my preening was interrupted by a loud pounding on my apartment door, informing me that the police had arrived.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
TANSTAV part 3
Chapter Two
In which I have another crisis on my hands (the story of my life)
Next to shooting pool, playing Frisbee, and watching rugby (there's nothing like a good game between the Walla-Walla Werewolves and the Oberpfaffenhofen Ogres to get the blood pumping), there are few physical activities I enjoy more than flying. I don't mean sissy human flying, in an airplane, or a hang glider, which is the closest they can get to it. I mean real, actual flying, with my own wings. The wind whistles through my hair, I can fill my lungs to the bursting point, and I just feel alive, and free from all my troubles. The open air, especially on a moonlit night, out in the country, is the place to be.
Unfortunately, my intended destination was much less pleasant. The police station for the MCPD, Western region, is in one of the most polluted areas of town (it flows over from the human settlements), seemingly for the sheer purpose of ruining both my lungs and my olfactory senses. You'd think, with all these magic users in the area, we'd be able to clear it up, but nooo, the ones in charge of that always make some lame excuse about "modern technology messing with their spell-casting abilities," blah, blah, blah. I'm sure they could get rid of the pollution if they wanted, they're just too lazy.
Anyway, the station is this 3-story, shabby old building on a street corner, with a fluorescent sign outside (whose letters keep flickering out, or else dying altogether; I don’t know why we haven’t replaced it already), spelling "MCPD-West". In what turned out to be very bad luck for me that particular day, Chief Ishida's office is on the third floor, with a humongous glass window, so that should he feel so inclined, he can admire the smoky view. Also unfortunately, there was a stronger wind than usual that day, which happened to blow me off course from my intended landing site on the roof. And possibly the worst thing of all: Chief Ishida's window just happened to be in the way of my landing.
CRASH!!
To my relief, I was unhurt. My skin, especially that of my wings, is very tough, kind of like rhinoceros hide; by closing my eyes and wrapping my wings around myself, I was able to safely land inside the office in one piece, without anything getting gouged out or cut up. However, I can't say the same for the chief's window. Once the glass stopped flying, I cautiously unfolded my wings, just in time to meet his withering stare. He was standing in front of his desk; his chair had toppled over, and papers were flying. I deduced that upon noticing my impact, he had leaped over the desk, out of danger from the glass. His agility was quite commendable.
As soon as he recognized who I was, his scowl deepened.
"Uh, hi, Chief. I know this seems-"
"What the h___, Wormwood?!" Ishida interrupted. Smoke literally billowed from his nostrils and ears; since his grandmother on his father's side is a Japanese fire demon, this was not too surprising. He also has his almond-shaped, glowing red eyes, near immunity to fire, fangs, and a preference for raw meat to thank her for (traits not uncommon among many monsters). If it were not for the scaly patches on his neck and chest, and his coffee-colored skin being at a nearly-constant temperature of 115 or so degrees, he could almost be mistaken for a vampire (which is ridiculous, of course, since vampires do not exist).
After the opening "pleasantries", Ishida erupted into an expletive-laced rant concerning my sanity, manners, and character, as well as who I thought was going to pay for his window. I pointed out that he just needed to ask his secretary (who was a mage) to put it back together good as new, but he told me to shut up. Not wishing to jeopardize the situation any more, I shut up. When he finally finished yelling, Ishida gave a loud, world-weary sigh, and then said, "Now get out of my office. Grimm will debrief you on the way to the transport room." I left, choosing not to say that I personally wore boxers. That would probably not amuse him.
"Let the boss bulldoze you, huh?" a voice hissed outside the door. Leaning casually against the wall, listening to his iPod, was Morty Grimm, Ishida's deputy. He is a Reaper. Now, for you who are less knowledgeable about different species of monsters, a Reaper is not the same as a reaper. For one thing, a Reaper has a capital R at the front, while a reaper has a lowercase r. For another, a reaper is the sickle used by both farmers and Reapers. A Reaper, by contrast, is a cloaked and hooded figure with eyes like orbs of fire, who separates your soul from your body when you die. They collect the souls they harvest, and carry them around in a bag, until either an angel or a devil comes to claim them. Typically they shape the souls into spheres while they wait, and use them to play marbles. Reapers also need these souls in order to absorb the energy they had in life, as an essential source of nutrients. This leads to them becoming greedy, conniving creatures, who will sometimes try to make bargains with you so they can take your soul before your time has come.
But Morty’s all right. He’s good-natured, if a bit lazy, and doesn't seem to have any interest in collecting souls. Perhaps it is this that makes his cloak gray instead of black, and his eyes the color of moonlight, not fire. Other Reapers shun him, considering him a heretic and a traitor to his species. Morty doesn't mind, and since it makes him more tolerable than most Reapers, neither do I. In fact, he’s more or less my best friend.
"Good to see you too, Morty," I sniped.
"Sorry."
"It's fine. I should be used to it by now."
He gave a dry chuckle. Of course, his voice is always rather dry and raspy, like dead leaves skidding across pavement. I've suggested throat spray, but it doesn't seem to have worked.
"So, what happened?" I asked as we headed for the transport room. Morty said, "At 0900 hours, there was an explosion over in Idaho Falls, Idaho. It resulted in the complete obliteration of a house on 63201 Crescent Avenue."
"Any police in the area?" I asked, referring to the human variety.
"There were within minutes, but we got some of the magic users to put a confusion spell on them, and make them leave, so they won't be in our way. If any humans come by, they won’t feel any interest, and will forget about anything they saw soon afterwards."
Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the teleportation mirror, flanked by two big trolls named Bjorn and Stoick, a mage named Fleming, and a Dark Fae (Note: There are two types of Folk in the world: Light Fae, and Dark Fae. 'Dark' does not mean 'evil' in this sense. It refers to their being nocturnal. The fae accompanying us was a Yoon, one of the four types of Dark Fae; they are well-known for their healing powers, which come in handy in this line of work. To keep herself awake, this fae, Harper, had taken to drinking copious cups of coffee, which effectively kept her alert and moving, but also made her slightly jumpy and hyper). I murmured the address we'd been given, and touched the glass. Instantly our reflections vanished, to be replaced by a pile of twisted, smoldering wreckage. I was confused, until I noticed the mailbox in front with 63201 Cres----- written on it. The rest of the address was completely obliterated. As I slipped on a pair of sunglasses, I wondered what it was that could do such a thing. A dragon? A salamander? A flock of rogue fire-breathing butterflies? Any of them had the capacity, to be sure. But what was the motive? Still pondering this, I stepped through the mirror's surface.
As I have mentioned previously, teleportation is not good for my digestive system. It's hard to describe exactly, except that it makes you feel as if you have been turned inside out, had some child play tug-of-war with your guts for a few minutes while jumping up and down violently, and then you've been turned right-side in again, and you wind up at your destination. For some reason, other species can stand it, but not me. As soon as I found myself back on solid ground, I collapsed to my knees and began retching violently. Since I had not yet eaten breakfast, all that came up was some quantities of bile, which is still pretty disgusting. My companions, who were familiar with my traveling problem, waited patiently until I was finished. Finally, I stood on shaking legs, adjusted my sunglasses, and wiped my mouth.
"Let's go and see what this is all about."
Even though it had been a while since the actual explosion, the rubble was still smoking slightly. I could see no signs of life. Cautiously we began to maneuver our way through the remains of what had once been a house. I could tell that the blast had been on the ground floor (it had been a 2-story house), and magically based. Small pieces of it were still floating around. I could see them, but since I have no magical ability myself, I would let Fleming handle them. It was more of his department, since he's a mage, though in my opinion, he's a pretty lousy one.
Of course, this might be based on my intense dislike of him. Not only is Fleming whiny, but he is also obnoxiously closed-minded, and worried about trivial things like following rules, listening to the chief, etc. The others are almost as bad; Harper is annoyingly hyperactive from all that coffee, as I said, and Stoick and Bjorn are just kind of slow. It's sad how often I get on the same team as them, and so have many occasions to recognize their flaws, and become even more annoyed with them. Technically I’m not a cop, but when Ishida wants me to investigate something for him, I get put in this group. I wonder if he does it to annoy me.
Sorry, got a little sidetracked there. Going back to the magic, when a magic user performs a spell there's almost always some residue left over; even if not, I can see the spell that was used. That was the scraps of magic floating around, and they're the same colors as that person's aura. To me, they look like floating scraps of light, if that makes sense. It's best if the mage or whatever retrieves and reabsorbs as much of the residue as possible, since magic is basically their energy, converted into power. Since there was so much of it in the air, I figured that whoever-or whatever-had done this had to be nearly comatose, if not completely so. Either that, or they were extremely powerful; if that was the case, I hoped we wouldn’t have to fight, as we would all die horribly. I managed to catch a piece in my claws and examine it. This magic was quite pretty: pieces of blue and green light, with small gold flecks here and there. The colors swirled and swished around, like water. It felt comfortably warm in my palm; I gave an involuntary smile. This magic was so nice; I did not think that the being this belonged to had hostile intentions in this mess. Granted, this was more of a gut feeling than an actual deduction, but I’ve learned to trust gut feelings.
"Wormwood! Come look at this!" The shout startled me into releasing the residue, which floated lazily away. I gave Harper a dirty look, but she didn't even notice. She was staring down at something on the far side of the wreckage. She had on sunglasses too, so her eyes were shaded from me, but her mouth was shaped into an expression of disgust.
I meandered over, and did a double-take. The object of her attention appeared to be either some insane artist’s grotesque idea of an abstract painting, or the charred, bloody remains of a body. Little bits and pieces were scattered here and there away from the main chunk, and it had already attracted flies.
"What was it?" rumbled Bjorn; he, Stoick, and Fleming had joined the party.
"Given the bits of clothes, and the few pieces of bone structure I can make out," I said, scanning the mess, "I'd say it used to be a human being."
Fleming clamped a hand to his mouth and gagged, the wimp. Crouching down on my haunches, I pulled out tweezers and a few plastic bags. I meticulously plucked a bone here, a chunk of flesh there, and a rag over there, and put them into individual baggies. Harper took them, and slid them into her pocket. The pathologists back at headquarters would be glad to see what they could learn from them. I could already tell that when the explosion occurred, whoever this had been was actually in the house at the time, and got blown apart by it. And I was pretty sure it had been an adult male, probably late thirties to early forties.
However, for the moment, I was baffled as to what had actually caused the explosion. I like to think I'm a good detective, but it's really hard to come to a conclusion when you have minimal evidence, no suspects, no- My moment of wallowing in self-pity was interrupted by a loud groan that nearly made me jump out of my skin. I looked down at the corpse. Had that-? But no, the noise came from behind us. We all turned around, and saw one of the piles of rubble shifting. There was something under there; something alive. The trolls and Fleming ran to the pile and began digging, while Harper and I watched from a safe distance, just in case. They uncovered the heap in record time, producing-a girl.
In which I have another crisis on my hands (the story of my life)
Next to shooting pool, playing Frisbee, and watching rugby (there's nothing like a good game between the Walla-Walla Werewolves and the Oberpfaffenhofen Ogres to get the blood pumping), there are few physical activities I enjoy more than flying. I don't mean sissy human flying, in an airplane, or a hang glider, which is the closest they can get to it. I mean real, actual flying, with my own wings. The wind whistles through my hair, I can fill my lungs to the bursting point, and I just feel alive, and free from all my troubles. The open air, especially on a moonlit night, out in the country, is the place to be.
Unfortunately, my intended destination was much less pleasant. The police station for the MCPD, Western region, is in one of the most polluted areas of town (it flows over from the human settlements), seemingly for the sheer purpose of ruining both my lungs and my olfactory senses. You'd think, with all these magic users in the area, we'd be able to clear it up, but nooo, the ones in charge of that always make some lame excuse about "modern technology messing with their spell-casting abilities," blah, blah, blah. I'm sure they could get rid of the pollution if they wanted, they're just too lazy.
Anyway, the station is this 3-story, shabby old building on a street corner, with a fluorescent sign outside (whose letters keep flickering out, or else dying altogether; I don’t know why we haven’t replaced it already), spelling "MCPD-West". In what turned out to be very bad luck for me that particular day, Chief Ishida's office is on the third floor, with a humongous glass window, so that should he feel so inclined, he can admire the smoky view. Also unfortunately, there was a stronger wind than usual that day, which happened to blow me off course from my intended landing site on the roof. And possibly the worst thing of all: Chief Ishida's window just happened to be in the way of my landing.
CRASH!!
To my relief, I was unhurt. My skin, especially that of my wings, is very tough, kind of like rhinoceros hide; by closing my eyes and wrapping my wings around myself, I was able to safely land inside the office in one piece, without anything getting gouged out or cut up. However, I can't say the same for the chief's window. Once the glass stopped flying, I cautiously unfolded my wings, just in time to meet his withering stare. He was standing in front of his desk; his chair had toppled over, and papers were flying. I deduced that upon noticing my impact, he had leaped over the desk, out of danger from the glass. His agility was quite commendable.
As soon as he recognized who I was, his scowl deepened.
"Uh, hi, Chief. I know this seems-"
"What the h___, Wormwood?!" Ishida interrupted. Smoke literally billowed from his nostrils and ears; since his grandmother on his father's side is a Japanese fire demon, this was not too surprising. He also has his almond-shaped, glowing red eyes, near immunity to fire, fangs, and a preference for raw meat to thank her for (traits not uncommon among many monsters). If it were not for the scaly patches on his neck and chest, and his coffee-colored skin being at a nearly-constant temperature of 115 or so degrees, he could almost be mistaken for a vampire (which is ridiculous, of course, since vampires do not exist).
After the opening "pleasantries", Ishida erupted into an expletive-laced rant concerning my sanity, manners, and character, as well as who I thought was going to pay for his window. I pointed out that he just needed to ask his secretary (who was a mage) to put it back together good as new, but he told me to shut up. Not wishing to jeopardize the situation any more, I shut up. When he finally finished yelling, Ishida gave a loud, world-weary sigh, and then said, "Now get out of my office. Grimm will debrief you on the way to the transport room." I left, choosing not to say that I personally wore boxers. That would probably not amuse him.
"Let the boss bulldoze you, huh?" a voice hissed outside the door. Leaning casually against the wall, listening to his iPod, was Morty Grimm, Ishida's deputy. He is a Reaper. Now, for you who are less knowledgeable about different species of monsters, a Reaper is not the same as a reaper. For one thing, a Reaper has a capital R at the front, while a reaper has a lowercase r. For another, a reaper is the sickle used by both farmers and Reapers. A Reaper, by contrast, is a cloaked and hooded figure with eyes like orbs of fire, who separates your soul from your body when you die. They collect the souls they harvest, and carry them around in a bag, until either an angel or a devil comes to claim them. Typically they shape the souls into spheres while they wait, and use them to play marbles. Reapers also need these souls in order to absorb the energy they had in life, as an essential source of nutrients. This leads to them becoming greedy, conniving creatures, who will sometimes try to make bargains with you so they can take your soul before your time has come.
But Morty’s all right. He’s good-natured, if a bit lazy, and doesn't seem to have any interest in collecting souls. Perhaps it is this that makes his cloak gray instead of black, and his eyes the color of moonlight, not fire. Other Reapers shun him, considering him a heretic and a traitor to his species. Morty doesn't mind, and since it makes him more tolerable than most Reapers, neither do I. In fact, he’s more or less my best friend.
"Good to see you too, Morty," I sniped.
"Sorry."
"It's fine. I should be used to it by now."
He gave a dry chuckle. Of course, his voice is always rather dry and raspy, like dead leaves skidding across pavement. I've suggested throat spray, but it doesn't seem to have worked.
"So, what happened?" I asked as we headed for the transport room. Morty said, "At 0900 hours, there was an explosion over in Idaho Falls, Idaho. It resulted in the complete obliteration of a house on 63201 Crescent Avenue."
"Any police in the area?" I asked, referring to the human variety.
"There were within minutes, but we got some of the magic users to put a confusion spell on them, and make them leave, so they won't be in our way. If any humans come by, they won’t feel any interest, and will forget about anything they saw soon afterwards."
Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the teleportation mirror, flanked by two big trolls named Bjorn and Stoick, a mage named Fleming, and a Dark Fae (Note: There are two types of Folk in the world: Light Fae, and Dark Fae. 'Dark' does not mean 'evil' in this sense. It refers to their being nocturnal. The fae accompanying us was a Yoon, one of the four types of Dark Fae; they are well-known for their healing powers, which come in handy in this line of work. To keep herself awake, this fae, Harper, had taken to drinking copious cups of coffee, which effectively kept her alert and moving, but also made her slightly jumpy and hyper). I murmured the address we'd been given, and touched the glass. Instantly our reflections vanished, to be replaced by a pile of twisted, smoldering wreckage. I was confused, until I noticed the mailbox in front with 63201 Cres----- written on it. The rest of the address was completely obliterated. As I slipped on a pair of sunglasses, I wondered what it was that could do such a thing. A dragon? A salamander? A flock of rogue fire-breathing butterflies? Any of them had the capacity, to be sure. But what was the motive? Still pondering this, I stepped through the mirror's surface.
As I have mentioned previously, teleportation is not good for my digestive system. It's hard to describe exactly, except that it makes you feel as if you have been turned inside out, had some child play tug-of-war with your guts for a few minutes while jumping up and down violently, and then you've been turned right-side in again, and you wind up at your destination. For some reason, other species can stand it, but not me. As soon as I found myself back on solid ground, I collapsed to my knees and began retching violently. Since I had not yet eaten breakfast, all that came up was some quantities of bile, which is still pretty disgusting. My companions, who were familiar with my traveling problem, waited patiently until I was finished. Finally, I stood on shaking legs, adjusted my sunglasses, and wiped my mouth.
"Let's go and see what this is all about."
Even though it had been a while since the actual explosion, the rubble was still smoking slightly. I could see no signs of life. Cautiously we began to maneuver our way through the remains of what had once been a house. I could tell that the blast had been on the ground floor (it had been a 2-story house), and magically based. Small pieces of it were still floating around. I could see them, but since I have no magical ability myself, I would let Fleming handle them. It was more of his department, since he's a mage, though in my opinion, he's a pretty lousy one.
Of course, this might be based on my intense dislike of him. Not only is Fleming whiny, but he is also obnoxiously closed-minded, and worried about trivial things like following rules, listening to the chief, etc. The others are almost as bad; Harper is annoyingly hyperactive from all that coffee, as I said, and Stoick and Bjorn are just kind of slow. It's sad how often I get on the same team as them, and so have many occasions to recognize their flaws, and become even more annoyed with them. Technically I’m not a cop, but when Ishida wants me to investigate something for him, I get put in this group. I wonder if he does it to annoy me.
Sorry, got a little sidetracked there. Going back to the magic, when a magic user performs a spell there's almost always some residue left over; even if not, I can see the spell that was used. That was the scraps of magic floating around, and they're the same colors as that person's aura. To me, they look like floating scraps of light, if that makes sense. It's best if the mage or whatever retrieves and reabsorbs as much of the residue as possible, since magic is basically their energy, converted into power. Since there was so much of it in the air, I figured that whoever-or whatever-had done this had to be nearly comatose, if not completely so. Either that, or they were extremely powerful; if that was the case, I hoped we wouldn’t have to fight, as we would all die horribly. I managed to catch a piece in my claws and examine it. This magic was quite pretty: pieces of blue and green light, with small gold flecks here and there. The colors swirled and swished around, like water. It felt comfortably warm in my palm; I gave an involuntary smile. This magic was so nice; I did not think that the being this belonged to had hostile intentions in this mess. Granted, this was more of a gut feeling than an actual deduction, but I’ve learned to trust gut feelings.
"Wormwood! Come look at this!" The shout startled me into releasing the residue, which floated lazily away. I gave Harper a dirty look, but she didn't even notice. She was staring down at something on the far side of the wreckage. She had on sunglasses too, so her eyes were shaded from me, but her mouth was shaped into an expression of disgust.
I meandered over, and did a double-take. The object of her attention appeared to be either some insane artist’s grotesque idea of an abstract painting, or the charred, bloody remains of a body. Little bits and pieces were scattered here and there away from the main chunk, and it had already attracted flies.
"What was it?" rumbled Bjorn; he, Stoick, and Fleming had joined the party.
"Given the bits of clothes, and the few pieces of bone structure I can make out," I said, scanning the mess, "I'd say it used to be a human being."
Fleming clamped a hand to his mouth and gagged, the wimp. Crouching down on my haunches, I pulled out tweezers and a few plastic bags. I meticulously plucked a bone here, a chunk of flesh there, and a rag over there, and put them into individual baggies. Harper took them, and slid them into her pocket. The pathologists back at headquarters would be glad to see what they could learn from them. I could already tell that when the explosion occurred, whoever this had been was actually in the house at the time, and got blown apart by it. And I was pretty sure it had been an adult male, probably late thirties to early forties.
However, for the moment, I was baffled as to what had actually caused the explosion. I like to think I'm a good detective, but it's really hard to come to a conclusion when you have minimal evidence, no suspects, no- My moment of wallowing in self-pity was interrupted by a loud groan that nearly made me jump out of my skin. I looked down at the corpse. Had that-? But no, the noise came from behind us. We all turned around, and saw one of the piles of rubble shifting. There was something under there; something alive. The trolls and Fleming ran to the pile and began digging, while Harper and I watched from a safe distance, just in case. They uncovered the heap in record time, producing-a girl.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
TANSTAV part 2
Chapter One cont.
My new client was a troll. He stood about 8 feet tall, average for his species, and had fur the color and thickness of granite. He also had big orange eyes, a bulbous nose, and a craggy mouth surrounded by a thick beard. The troll was wearing, oddly enough, a business suit that contrasted with his rugged appearance. Also odd for his species, as they are normally imperturbable, gentle giants, he was agitated. The troll was breathing loud and fast, leaving me to conclude that he had run here, and his ham-like hands were trembling so hard that he either had arthritis, or was terrified out of his wits.
"Meester Vormvood?" he asked in a deep, gravelly voice, made all the thicker by his accent. I gave a curt nod; I was feeling rather annoyed by the fact that I needed a new door, thanks to him.
"Oh, thank heavens! I am deeply in need of your help! It is a disaster of vich I am speaking!" By now, he had punched several holes in my ceiling by throwing his hands up in the air.
"Whoa, hey, relax!" I cried, jumping up onto my desk and catching them before they could do any more damage.
"How about you sit down, please," I said in near-perfect Jotun (the language of trolls; I'd taken a course in high school, and I was pretty good, though my voice is nowhere near deep enough to fully imitate the guttural rumblings that a troll can reach), "and tell me what's troubling you."
The troll looked rather startled. After all, gargoyles typically do not speak Jotun. But he sat down (the chair creaked ominously under his weight), and presented the case, speaking his own language, now that he knew I could understand it.
"My name is Sigurd Jorgensen, and this morning, as of 8:30 a.m, my brother-in-law vanished from outside his home, and has not been seen since. Apparently he went out to get the morning's newspaper, and never came back in. All they found of him was this-" Mr. Jorgensen reached into his pocket, and produced a slipper the size of two large watermelons, the kind that would only fit on the foot of a fully-grown troll. I deduced that the pocket, which did not look large enough to accommodate such a slipper, had to be one of those new expensive, expands-from-the-inside-can-hold-a-car models that I will never be able to afford, which is a shame, because they are totally awesome.
"It was found lying on the sidewalk, right next to the newspaper." The troll sniffled, and blew his nose loudly. I was surprised that he should have such tender feelings for a relative by marriage. I have one sister-in-law and two brethren-in-law, and they are all complete pains in the neck. But maybe his family was more connected, and more affectionate, than mine. Not that that would be much of an effort.
"May I come inspect the scene of the crime?" I asked. "There may be some clues there."
"Of course, Mr. Wormwood!" cried Mr. Jorgensen. You could tell he had been waiting for me to ask. I was getting up, when my phone began ringing. I could tell it was somebody important, because it made the loud, obnoxious sound of somebody blowing a raspberry. With a sigh, I stretched out a claw and picked it up off the desk.
"Hello?"
"Wormwood! Get down here! It's an emergency!"
"Good to hear from you too, Chief," I sniped. Don't get me wrong; I'm sure Chief Ishida is a wonderful person, really deep down. After all, he is married, and has three kids. But he's always seemed to me to be a bit, well, neurotic. Obsessed with success, workaholic, virtually no sense of humor. Know what I mean?
"Don't you use that tone with me!" Ishida bellowed. I imagined his face turning bright red, and then exploding. It's never actually done that, but thinking about it cheered me up to no end.
"Can't it wait? I have a client, and-"
"NO!! There's been an explosion in eastern Idaho, and I want you to go with a team and find out what happened!"
I groaned. Eastern Idaho today meant sunshine, which hurts my eyes, and also teleporting, which causes major nausea in me.
"On my way, boss," I muttered, and then hung up.
"Sorry," I told Mr. Jorgensen in Jotun, "but I have to go. Emergency case. Please leave your address, and the address of your brother-in-law, and I'll be over as soon as I can."
He looked disappointed, but did as I requested. Then he left.
With a sigh, I looked up at the shattered remains of my door, splintered top of my doorway, and gaping holes in the ceiling. I could see that I needed to make the door bigger, and wondered how much all of this was going to cost me. Well, no time to think about that now. I picked up my desk, moved it in front of the doorway to discourage burglars, and then flew out the window (remembering to open it first).
My new client was a troll. He stood about 8 feet tall, average for his species, and had fur the color and thickness of granite. He also had big orange eyes, a bulbous nose, and a craggy mouth surrounded by a thick beard. The troll was wearing, oddly enough, a business suit that contrasted with his rugged appearance. Also odd for his species, as they are normally imperturbable, gentle giants, he was agitated. The troll was breathing loud and fast, leaving me to conclude that he had run here, and his ham-like hands were trembling so hard that he either had arthritis, or was terrified out of his wits.
"Meester Vormvood?" he asked in a deep, gravelly voice, made all the thicker by his accent. I gave a curt nod; I was feeling rather annoyed by the fact that I needed a new door, thanks to him.
"Oh, thank heavens! I am deeply in need of your help! It is a disaster of vich I am speaking!" By now, he had punched several holes in my ceiling by throwing his hands up in the air.
"Whoa, hey, relax!" I cried, jumping up onto my desk and catching them before they could do any more damage.
"How about you sit down, please," I said in near-perfect Jotun (the language of trolls; I'd taken a course in high school, and I was pretty good, though my voice is nowhere near deep enough to fully imitate the guttural rumblings that a troll can reach), "and tell me what's troubling you."
The troll looked rather startled. After all, gargoyles typically do not speak Jotun. But he sat down (the chair creaked ominously under his weight), and presented the case, speaking his own language, now that he knew I could understand it.
"My name is Sigurd Jorgensen, and this morning, as of 8:30 a.m, my brother-in-law vanished from outside his home, and has not been seen since. Apparently he went out to get the morning's newspaper, and never came back in. All they found of him was this-" Mr. Jorgensen reached into his pocket, and produced a slipper the size of two large watermelons, the kind that would only fit on the foot of a fully-grown troll. I deduced that the pocket, which did not look large enough to accommodate such a slipper, had to be one of those new expensive, expands-from-the-inside-can-hold-a-car models that I will never be able to afford, which is a shame, because they are totally awesome.
"It was found lying on the sidewalk, right next to the newspaper." The troll sniffled, and blew his nose loudly. I was surprised that he should have such tender feelings for a relative by marriage. I have one sister-in-law and two brethren-in-law, and they are all complete pains in the neck. But maybe his family was more connected, and more affectionate, than mine. Not that that would be much of an effort.
"May I come inspect the scene of the crime?" I asked. "There may be some clues there."
"Of course, Mr. Wormwood!" cried Mr. Jorgensen. You could tell he had been waiting for me to ask. I was getting up, when my phone began ringing. I could tell it was somebody important, because it made the loud, obnoxious sound of somebody blowing a raspberry. With a sigh, I stretched out a claw and picked it up off the desk.
"Hello?"
"Wormwood! Get down here! It's an emergency!"
"Good to hear from you too, Chief," I sniped. Don't get me wrong; I'm sure Chief Ishida is a wonderful person, really deep down. After all, he is married, and has three kids. But he's always seemed to me to be a bit, well, neurotic. Obsessed with success, workaholic, virtually no sense of humor. Know what I mean?
"Don't you use that tone with me!" Ishida bellowed. I imagined his face turning bright red, and then exploding. It's never actually done that, but thinking about it cheered me up to no end.
"Can't it wait? I have a client, and-"
"NO!! There's been an explosion in eastern Idaho, and I want you to go with a team and find out what happened!"
I groaned. Eastern Idaho today meant sunshine, which hurts my eyes, and also teleporting, which causes major nausea in me.
"On my way, boss," I muttered, and then hung up.
"Sorry," I told Mr. Jorgensen in Jotun, "but I have to go. Emergency case. Please leave your address, and the address of your brother-in-law, and I'll be over as soon as I can."
He looked disappointed, but did as I requested. Then he left.
With a sigh, I looked up at the shattered remains of my door, splintered top of my doorway, and gaping holes in the ceiling. I could see that I needed to make the door bigger, and wondered how much all of this was going to cost me. Well, no time to think about that now. I picked up my desk, moved it in front of the doorway to discourage burglars, and then flew out the window (remembering to open it first).
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