Morgan and Xen had been digging for half an hour through ancient transcripts and texts. When the little ones complained of hunger, Morgan gave them packets of fruit snacks and told them to go play again. But she knew that sooner or later they would have to go home.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat. She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose. Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes! Look down there!” Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless. But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.
“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden. But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was. They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple. They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” After a pause, Xen became perturbed. “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…” She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy.
She nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.” Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table. “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”
***
It was quiet up here. Nothing but the wind, and the occasional bird, and the repetitive motion of paddling the mortar through the air (Calla’s arms had finally stopped aching after every trip she took in it), and wisps of clouds overhead. No need to think. Just row, and stare out at the vast Russian landscape. Focus on what you can control, not on the fact that you’re a useless weakling who can’t even stand up to the most powerful witch in Russia.
Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga. But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once. Sort of. She’d pushed him into a cage. Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power. Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga. Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it. Useless.
I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed. New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.* Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case. He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.
Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water. The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.
Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked. Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.
But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time. She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong. It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water. Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere! Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.” After a second, Calla added, “Please.”
She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished. Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of. But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help. Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?
Pavel froze. He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear. But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells. Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there. It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use. She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still. She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief. Yes. Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was. He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree. He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant. If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.
*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.
Author's Note
Just a few things: first, I have decided to change gargoyle physiology somewhat. Gargoyles no longer turn to stone while sleeping. Now it's only when they die.
Second, this upcoming month is Nanowrimo, and I am planning on participating. This involves writing a 50,000-word novel in just thirty days. To help me keep working on this, I intend to post it here, as soon as I'm done with this one. So keep your eyes peeled, and if possible, please help me feel motivated to keep writing.
Morgan Hartford was walking down the street, on the way to pick up her daughters* from nursery school, when she saw Xen Wormwood sitting at a table outside of a cafe.
Even though her head was buried in her claws, that red hair was recognizable anywhere.
“Xen? Are you okay?”
She jumped a foot when she heard her voice, and quickly glanced up.
“Wha-? Oh. Hi.”
Her face looked normal, not blotchy at all, but her voice had cracked the tiniest bit.
“Tristan isn't back yet?” Morgan sat down across from her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She sighed, running a claw through her hair. “My mom’s here, helping look after Phil. I just-feel very helpless right now. I don’t even know how he’s doing. Or if he’s even alive. I’d like to think he is, since he’s a survivor, but-you know.”
“I think I understand. What if we try to do something to help you feel less useless? Calla could tell us what he's trying to do, and maybe we can find something useful and Calla can think of a way to get the information to him.”
“I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless.” But she sat up straighter, and pulled out her phone. “Maybe Calla can create a scrying glass or something that can help her find him.”
A few minutes later, the reply came back, and she held it out to let Morgan see.
Baba Yaga let me use her glass. I haven’t told her everything, because she might try to stop me from helping, even though that wasn’t strictly speaking in the rules. He’s alive, but looks awful.
Xen sagged against the table in relief.
“There’s one less thing to worry about,” she whispered. Then she typed furiously, Where?
In a forest, it looks like. He’s paying a lot of attention to the hollow trees.
Xen frowned, and rubbed her forehead.
“That sounds familiar…”
“Koschei the Deathless... Hollow trees... He's looking for the soul!”
“Yes!” The frown intensified. “That doesn’t bode well. Maybe he’s planning on using it to bargain for the sword. Anyone who gets the soul could control him with it. Or even kill him.” She tapped her claws agitatedly. “Things are getting serious over there if he’s going that far.”
“It must be. Can you think of any way we could help him?”
“We need to check the library.” And before she could protest, Morgan found herself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the library. It wasn’t until they were there and halfway through their research that she remembered, in horror, that her children were still at the nursery school waiting for her.
“I'll be right back, Xen!”
“What-”
Morgan didn’t stop to explain, just running out as quickly as she could.
Poppy and Rebecca’s teacher, Mrs. Flaversham, was waiting anxiously outside the building.
“There ye are, Mrs. Hartford! The girls have been worried to death! Rebecca’s been thinking ye’ve abandoned them!”
A familiar tearstained face peeked out from the door behind the caorthannach, looking somewhat relieved to see Morgan there.
“Oh, Rebecca, I'm sorry!”
Poppy looked out next. “Momma!” She glanced at Rebecca. “I told you she’d come for us.” But she looked equally relieved that Morgan had finally showed up, skipping out into her arms.
“I was about to take them home myself, but I’m glad you came,” said Mrs. Flaversham, mollified.
“I'm so sorry!” Morgan hugged her children to her, trying to console them. At least Friedrich had an extra hour of school left, so she didn’t have to worry that she’d forgotten him too.
Xen looked very shamefaced when Morgan returned with her little girls.
“Sorry. I forgot that you probably needed to pick them up.”
“It's all right, I forgot too.”
Xen showed her the pile of books she’d picked out. Many of them were old Russian fairy tale books, or just completely in Russian. A few were very ancient-looking, leather texts.
“There’s a lot of contradictory tales about where Koschei’s soul is. In some stories, it’s already been found and destroyed. But we know that’s not true.”
“What’s a koschei?” asked Poppy.
“It’s not a what. It’s a who. Koschei the Deathless is a very bad man who has hidden his soul, and Tristan’s trying to find it,” Xen explained.
Rebecca looked a little perplexed. “If he doesn’t have a soul...then isn’t he dead?”
“I wish.”
“Poppy, how about you take Rebecca to the children's section?”
“Kay.”
Rebecca started to protest, “But-” But Poppy pulled her off.
Xen gave her an unapologetic stare. “It would solve a lot of problems right now if he was dead.” Then she looked horrified. “Did I just say that?”
“You're under stress. It makes sense.”
With a sigh, she went back to looking at the works. “Generally in the stories, if someone is looking for his soul, they need to get the help of some obscure bird or something which somehow knows its location. Two people who actually managed to beat him once, according to this-” she passed over a book- “are Ivan and Marya, centuries ago. Marya used to be a guard over Koschei, until Ivan accidentally set him free, but eventually they beat him together by finding his soul and commanding him never to harm either of them again.” Xen pulled out her phone, sending a text to Calla. “And, of course, the details are hazy on how they actually found his soul. D____t.” Then she glanced at Morgan. “Sorry.”
Morgan put a hand on her shoulder. “It might be in another book somewhere. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
*Besides Poppy, Morgan and Nathan had adopted a troll named Friedrich, and a little golden-haired girl named Rebecca who was half-mage, half-demon. Rebecca’s story is a very interesting one indeed...but it will have to wait for later.
Using the well that was in the nearby woods, a few heat spells, and lots of soap, Calla was able to take a nice warm bath, as well as wash her filthy clothes. Then, with her hair still wet and unbrushed, she hurried to make dinner, as it was almost the hour when Baba Yaga would announce that she was hungry. Calla had not yet done anything to make the witch cross, and she was afraid of what would happen.
Luckily, there was no complaint from Baba Yaga, who (as usual) devoured the roast chicken and potatoes and rolls, eating whatever Calla did not get hold of first. Mentally the girl was resigning herself to another quiet night, perhaps with a phone call to someone back home, when Baba Yaga suddenly said, “You did not kill the vodyanoy.”
Calla jumped, and after composing herself, admitted, “I did not.”
“Why not? He could have drowned you.”
“I’m not a killer,” she said quietly. “Once was enough; I don’t need more blood on my conscience.”
Even without looking up from her plate, she could feel those red eyes staring at her. She just scooped up a piece of chicken with her fork, and bit into it hungrily. It really was good chicken; soft and chewy, without that horrid dryness that white meat tends to get. Calla would not dare to call herself the best cook in the world, but she at least knew how to handle meat.
After another silence, the witch asked, “You enjoy talking with him?”
“Well enough. He doesn’t know about much besides the pond, but he’s a good enough soul. Just very lonely.”
Baba Yaga made a bit of a sniff, and continued masticating her own enormous piece of chicken. Then she swallowed, and spoke again.
“How about that young man whom you talk to sometimes when I’m asleep? You enjoy talking with him?”
Calla felt her cheeks grow warm.
Of course she knows about him.
“Y-yes.”
The witch smiled widely.
“He’s a very precious young man, then. Even if you haven’t told him about the blood bond.”
Calla’s shoulders and neck felt warm this time.
“How do you know that?”
Baba Yaga shrugged, and stabbed her fork into a potato. “I can see into people’s hearts, myshka. It’s something you will learn too, if Chernobyl does not get the sword and you’re around long enough.”
The heat burned more fiercely; she’d thought she was growing numb to the idea, but hearing it spoken aloud in the witch’s pronounced Russian voice somehow brought all the pain back with a vengeance. Calla tried to hold it in, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut and take a gulp of water so that she would try not to cry in front of this woman.
Baba Yaga continued, relentless. “Even if he does win, if you go home and are no longer in my service, what are you planning to do about your young man? Will you want to bond him with a vurdalak as well? Or another of the Folk? Because otherwise, he is going to grow old and die long before you even start to taste old age.”
Calla stared at the old woman’s plate, unable to look at her face. “I haven’t really found a solution-”
“That is because you’re young and inexperienced!” she snapped. Then she used a bony finger to reach over and raise the girl’s chin, forcing her to look at her face. Though not at her eyes; Calla resisted that urge.
Baba Yaga smiled at her, teeth glinting in the light. “I might be able to help you.”
Internal alarms went off in Calla’s mind. But she forced her face to go blank, and asked softly, “How?”
Baba Yaga nodded over to the black sunflower. “Do you know why I keep this?”
Calla said, “I know it possesses some sort of powerful magic.”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes! The sort that kings have quested for, and alchemists wasted their lives trying to find! Each of those seeds grants the one who eats it one hundred more years to live!”
So, sort of a plant version of the Holy Grail.
Calla managed to keep a straight face and not giggle at her internal commentary.
The witch went on, “If your young man were to eat these, there would be no fuss over age difference. You could be happy with him.”
“What would your price be?” Calla countered.
The reply was succinct: “Become my apprentice.”
While Calla was still trying to digest that, she said, “You would not have to live here. You could go back to your home in America, and solve your little problems with Chernobyl, assuming he gets back. But you would come here every so often, and I would teach you what I know. And every month, if you had learned well and been a good pupil, I would give you one of these seeds to give to your love.”
Slowly the mage sat back in her chair, blinking and searching for the words she wanted. Finally she settled on, “Why?”
Baba Yaga said, “Be specific.”
“Why do you want an apprentice all of a sudden? And why me, of all the people in the world?”
The witch shrugged. “Call it a whim.” Then she stood up, cramming the last of the chicken into her mouth and gnashing it to shreds with her iron teeth. “At least consider it, myshka.”
Morgan, if Baba Yaga wanted to make you her apprentice in exchange for a way to make Nathan live longer, what would you say?
Calla tapped out the text message after cleaning up the remains of dinner, and sent it before thinking, Wait. That might have been a very stupid idea. I think she is going to freak.
She was right. Morgan’s first text was a question mark, followed by one comprised only of exclamation points.
What are you doing with Baba Yaga? was the third.
...It’s for a case, Calla replied.
You and Tristan get the strangest cases.
I know.
Let me think about it a minute.
Calla waited anxiously, curled up by the fire, which she had built up a little bit. It wasn’t necessarily that cold, but it made her feel a bit more secure.
Finally the response came. I don't know that I would now, but that's because of the blood bond. If you had asked a year ago, the answer would have been yes.
Even if it meant he’d have to watch his parents grow old and die while he stayed young for longer than he was supposed to?
That would be his decision to make, not mine.
She nodded slowly, even knowing that her friend couldn’t see her. Then she leaned her chin in her hand, staring at the fire.
Her phone vibrated.
Are you okay?
Calla typed back, It’s kind of a long story.
I'm listening.
This is a text message.
You know what I mean…
After a hesitant second, she texted back, Tristan has to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless or I’m going to be Baba Yaga’s prisoner.
Wow.
Yeah.
Any way I can help?
I doubt it. But thanks anyway.
Had she been more secure regarding her emotions, Calla might have jumped to Baba Yaga’s offer with a lot less hesitation. But she wasn’t.
To the best of her understanding, she loved Lars. But was it enough to make her want to make him immortal? After all, they were still in the process of getting to know each other. And frankly, sometimes she was afraid that he felt more passionately for her than she did for him. Or, to put it a bit more positively, he depended on her more than she did him. Probably because she was one of the first people he’d cared about outside his group of homeless children.
Is that really a healthy relationship, then? Maybe we’ve jumped into this whole thing too quickly...so is it really worth preserving his life for longer, especially because it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie?
Relationships are hard.
I wish Tristan was here, so I could talk to him about this. He’d know what to do.
Chapter Eight
Calla has some disturbing premonitions, and, at the brink of despair, I suddenly see the light
I sat at my desk, absentmindedly toying with a pencil. I seemed nowhere closer to the answer than before Greenbriar had brought in her crowd of stool pigeons. There was something vital missing from this case. None of Jessup's minions matched the description of the shadow, who they had also mentioned was small and slight; his bully boys had all been tall, muscular brutes, with no talent for strategic thought. There was always the possibility that Jessup had secretly acquired a smaller, more intelligent minion somehow, but I couldn't see how he'd have managed it after being locked up. But in that case, how could he have done it afterward? I mean, the prison guards were bribable, but after his imprisonment all Jessup’s holdings had been confiscated, and distributed amongst different government officials. I was pretty sure I’d found all his secret caches, and how would he get to them anyway? Maybe he’d been blackmailing the prison guards somehow? But with no resources left, and being locked up in a cell, how could he get anything on them? Gah, how I hated this guy!
I glanced up at Calla, to see how she was doing. She was seated in her chair in front of my desk, and looking rather peculiar. Her eyes were staring vacantly downwards, and her head drooped forward, listless.
"Kid?" I asked, "You okay?"
Slowly, very slowly, she looked up in my general direction. She whispered, "Xen is next. When the shadow man comes next, it will be for Xen."
I stared at her, aghast, until I remembered her telling me that she had premonitions sometimes.
"When?" I asked, trying to remain calm; however, the main part of my thoughts was planning on doing severe damage to several of Jessup's bodily functions should this vision come to pass.
"I-I don't know," she said. Her eyes became focused again, and she looked distraught. "I just saw Xen, sitting and painting, and then the shadow appearing and grabbing at her! It could happen at any time! And-"
She stopped herself, looking at me in a perturbed manner.
"What? What else did you see?"
"You don't want to know," she squeaked.
"Yes, I do, Calla."
"You won't like it."
"That doesn't matter. It concerns me, doesn't it?"
After some hesitation, she nodded.
"Well, if you're having visions about me, I want to know what happens. Whatever it is, I promise I won't get mad at you."
Squeezing her eyes shut, Calla said in a rush, as if trying to get the words out as fast as possible, "I saw you lying on the ground, bleeding. It was in a dark place, and you were hurt really bad in the stomach and shoulders, and I didn't know what to do!"
That was a sobering vision. For several moments, I was unsure how to react. From what she was saying, it sounded like she was seeing my death. But with an effort, I pulled myself together.
"Hey, Calla," I said. She looked over at me, her pupils dilated, though avoiding eye contact.
"Severe injury is not the same as death. Besides, nothing in the future is certain. You might just be seeing a possibility."
Calla looked unconvinced.
"I always see my visions come true. Always."
"Well," I said, trying to be nonchalant, "no sense worrying about it now. We've got a case to work on."
I knew that she wouldn't get it out of her mind that easily. But she was silent. I took the opportunity to call Xen, just in case. After three rings, which made my heart palpitate severely, she finally answered.
"Hello?"
"Xen! You're okay!"
"Yeah...should I not be?"
"...No, not at all. Just making sure."
"Okay, Tristan, what happened?" Her tone was that no-nonsense one that means no beating around the bush, or trying to fudge the truth. I can never hide anything from Xen when she uses that tone of voice, and have already promised never to lie to her anyway. I told her, tentatively, about Calla's vision of the shadow trying to kidnap her. However, I neglected to mention her other vision of my possible death.
"Huh. That's...not good," Xen finally said.
"No. It's not. So I was just calling to, y'know, make sure you were still there."
"Yeah, I'm right here. No evil shadows yet," she said dryly, trying to make it a joke.
"Be careful, please," I said softly.
"I will, Tristan. Don't worry about me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Come on, you have that bodyguard of yours posted right outside my room. What could happen?"
"The shadow is a teleporter. Calla saw him just appearing in your apartment, right next to you."
"Well, in that case, I shall keep my palette knife handy," was the reply. I managed a weak laugh.
"Bye, Xen."
"I'll see you when you get home."
As I hung up, I tried not to think that those might be the last words I would ever hear from her.
Chapter Seven part 2
Calla's eyes grew to nearly the size of wagon wheels; for a moment, she was speechless.
"You don't have to answer just yet," I assured her. "Think about it for a while."
"What would I need to do?" she squeaked.
"You'd help me in my investigations."
"Like Dr. Watson?"
"Not exactly. I can write my own memoirs. But you could go ask people questions for me, visit crime scenes, pretty much the same stuff I do. People are more likely to talk freely to a harmless-looking girl than a big, scary gargoyle."
Calla half snorted, another large step for her.
"You're not that scary."
Suddenly, I spread out my wings to full length; standing up to my full height, I bared my fangs, exposed my claws, lunged forward slightly, and roared, "OH, YEAH?!"
The girl screamed in fright, and flung her arms up in front of her. Without warning, I felt something slam into me, knocking me backward into the wall!
For a few minutes, all I could do was lie there and try to get my breath back. I managed to lift my head up and look at Calla. She was huddled on the floor, arms wrapped around her chest, rocking back and forth. Finally, she looked over in my direction. Seeing that I was staring back, she uncurled from the fetal position, and crawled forward.
"Are you okay?" she whispered. "Please don't be hurt."
"I'm fine, just a little winded," I replied, managing to pull myself up.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
"No, I'm sorry for scaring you like that. I forgot."
"But I should have had more self-control!"
"Kid, you've been through an incredibly traumatic experience. I'm not surprised that you're a little shell-shocked."
"But Doctor Higgins has been treating me! He was supposed to get me all better!" She looked down helplessly.
"Patience, kid. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."
"What's Rome got to do with it?" Calla muttered. However, she smiled a little, so I knew things were okay for now.
I avoided mentioning the previous conversation for a few days. No sense opening old wounds, and it might be good to let her think it over. So it surprised me when, on April 13, Calla asked, "Do you still want me to be your assistant?"
"Only if you want to," I replied.
"Well, I certainly wouldn't mind. I mean, you can't be everywhere at once, and it might be nice for you to have an assistant-"
"Calla," I interrupted, "what would you like to do? Quit worrying about what I want."
"I-I'll do it, if you like."
"But what do you, personally, want?"
"...I want to make you happy."
I gave a small sigh of amused exasperation. Blushing, Calla finally stammered, "I think I would enjoy being your assistant."
"Good. That's all you had to say, kid."
The next day, I took Calla with me to the office. In order to get her started, I had her read over the facts of the case, while I sorted through old files, and organized my desk. Occasionally she would ask me questions, but for the most part we both worked in silence. It was nice to have someone with a fresh view of things there; maybe it would help me find some extra clues. Suddenly, in a remarkable display of good timing, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," I called, with a feeling of deja vu.
In came Greenbriar, followed by an imp, a Fonin woman, and two mouse men, all of whom looked exceedingly nervous. Greenbriar glanced curiously at Calla, who looked up when they entered, then quickly back at the papers on her desk.
"This is Calla Gardiner, my assistant," I announced. "Anything you need to say to me can be said in front of her. Calla, this is Morgan Greenbriar, head of H.N.M, and..."
"The eyewitnesses. Jared, Grace, Timothy, and Nigel," she said, indicating each of them in turn.
The two of us exchanged pleasantries, while the foursome clustered together in a huddle, eyes darting in all directions. To make them feel better, I got up from my desk, crossed the room and closed the door.
"That won't work," Timothy muttered. "The shadow sees all, knows all. We'll be next, I know it!" His whiskers trembled in fear, and he was absentmindedly tying knots in his tail.
"Not if I have anything to say about it," I declared. "Now, I'm going to need statements from all of you about what you saw. Calla, would you mind?"
Nodding in understanding, she touched a spell we’d purchased earlier that would record things other people said. It turned green, indicating that it was on.
They all said pretty much the same thing-during lunchtime at the center, they had been heading for their usual eating corners, when they saw a dark form appear out of nowhere (soundlessly), grab Whitechapel, and disappear just as soundlessly. The only real variation was that Grace had been going to join Mr. Whitechapel; apparently, he was her boyfriend, making her the most distraught out of the whole group.
"You've got to find Clarence, Mr. Wormwood," she pleaded, "You've just got to!"
"I shall certainly do my best," I promised.
"See?" said Greenbriar as they were leaving, "I told you it would be all right!"
"Only now we can expect repercussions from the shadow," moaned Timothy, apparently the self-declared nay-sayer and prophet of doom. I hoped he would be proven wrong.
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.
Chapter 4 part 3
After I brought him my (soon-to-be) friend Larry, Doctor Higgins had told me to come back if I ever needed his help again, because he “finds my psyche an interesting study.” I'm not sure rather to be flattered or insulted, since I personally find Higgins to be a little creepy. But just for argument's sake, I try to be flattered.
The thing is, Archibald Higgins is a very hard person to like. His mother was a mage, but his father was a (extraordinarily oblivious) human. Higgins's abilities are comparatively mundane, just being able to move things without touching them, minor intuition, and limited mind-reading, the latter of which helps him in his job as a shrink. Not that any of that has to do with my disliking of the man. It's just that I can't stand how he views everyone other than himself as a lab specimen, something to be studied. When he's around people, he scrawls down everything you say, and he watches every move you make, and you just know he's trying to listen in to your thoughts, and identify your personality, upbringing, level of sanity, and I don't know what-all. But, if he could help Calla, I was willing to endure a bit of his staring and brain-picking for three weeks or so. After all, he's been a big help to Larry.
Larry is an interesting study. He's a werewolf, with depression, and who came from the past. That sounds kind of complicated, so let me go back a bit. At the beginning of the 1900s, he was in his early 30s, and had gone to join his father in his ancestral home in a small corner of Wales. I don't know whether the werewolf who bit him there one night was human at the time, or had only morphed halfway, or what, but whatever it was, he obviously didn't do it right. Larry couldn't morph all the way. Instead, during the full moon he turned into this weird, biped, hairy creature, not completely wolf or human. And with absolutely zero self-control. He terrorized his village, without meaning to, for about 4 months, since nobody could figure out what the heck was going on. I mean, they found tracks and stuff, but nobody could find the wolf. Then they realized it only showed up during the full moon, put two and two together (at least, as much as they were capable, since they didn't know the full story), and decided to go out during the next full moon and kill the monster. Larry was asked to be part of the hunting party. By now, he was a nervous wreck; he'd figured out what he was, and felt absolutely horrible about the innocent people he had hurt and/or killed. He had come to think of himself as a monster. Well, yes, he is; but he saw that as a bad thing. Anyway, he'd decided that the only way his soul could be saved would be for the hunters to kill him, so he intentionally separated from the others, transformed when the moon rose, and came after them, as he’d known he would. His own father had raised his gun (filled with silver bullets; it’s incredible what kind of crazy additions to myths you humans think up) and was about to shoot- when the wolf man suddenly vanished, mid-leap.
Meanwhile, on the same night, only 70 years in the future, some teenage mages were fooling around in the town cemetery, doing conjuring spells, since it was the full moon (Supposedly it's the best time for magic, when a mages powers will be at their height; personally I think I’ll believe it when I see it). And, it figured that by accident they would summon Larry. He appeared, sprawled across the coffin they'd been chanting around, snarling and growling. Terrified, the teens ran away; thankfully he was too dazed to chase after them. The next morning, having changed back into a human, he managed to get out of the cemetery and wander into the main part of town, begging anybody who came within his line of vision to kill him, and thus end the curse. That, in fact, is how we met. I was out on an investigation with Morty (this was before he became lieutenant), and Ishida gave us a call, asking us to take a break and bring in some lunatic who was causing a disturbance near the corner of Karloff and Hitchcock. So, we went and picked him up.
The moment I saw Larry, I knew he was in shock. His pupils were extremely dilated, and he staggered down the road, staring with unfocused eyes at the passing monsters. He had this awful, pained expression on his face. When he saw us, he said in a ragged voice, "Hello. Will you kill me?" He didn't even notice that we weren't exactly human, he was so far gone. Needless to say, after bringing him to the station, we searched the yellow pages for the first available psychiatrist, who happened to be Doc Higgins. And now, after almost a year of therapy, a weekly meeting with Lycanthropes Anonymous, and a special spell that helped him turn into a complete wolf every full moon, Larry seems to have adjusted to his new life. It has done him a world of good to know that he's not the only one of his kind, and that he can go through life as a werewolf without killing, or even maiming, anybody. He has a job, and a home, and even the possibility of a family in the future. He still has that tortured, agonized facial expression every once in a while, but I think that's become second nature for Larry.
Higgins lives in the middle of Elm Street, in an ancient house called The Nightmare. I don't know who came up with the idea of giving old houses names, but it's a weird one. Higgins uses The Nightmare as his office; his patients go there for appointments, so that he never has to go out, unless they schedule it as a house call. It's funny, but his house is the only one on his block that actually looks like the sort of place a monster would inhabit, and he's the only one in his neighborhood who doesn’t look at all like a monster. Everyone else has these normal-looking, modern houses, and he has this big, fancy, kind of dilapidated mansion. I wonder if he does it just to be eccentric.
It was pouring rain, and that makes for very bad flying weather, so I had to walk. I strolled down the street, lost in thought, hands in pockets. Unfortunately, my mind was so focused on the case, and its detestable suspect, that I was not paying strict attention to where I was going. Suddenly, I was hit from the front by something both small and fragile. I stepped back in surprise, and beheld a young woman, dressed in jeans, a jacket, and a T-shirt with the initials H.N.M. on it, holding a collecting tin in hand. I could see, just by observing her, that she was a hybrid Light Fae, that one of her parents had been disinherited (probably following their marriage), that she worked for a monster welfare program, and that she spent some of her time gardening. How did I know, you may ask? The first part, about her being a hybrid fae, came from her eyes. The right one was a luminous green, but the left was silver. When two different species of fae marry and have children, the children have bicolored eyes, based off what their parents are (I guess it’s because the two differing genetic materials split them, or something). Hers had been a Floran and a T'sa, respectively. And, since the T'sai are by nature mostly snobs, and discourage their offspring from associating with other species, let alone marrying them, her T'sa parent had most definitely been disowned. Also, she was generating a bit of sunlight to keep herself warm, a skill basically only possessed by Flori. The initials on her shirt stood for Help Needy Monsters, an organization that had come into being recently in Styxburg, and gives help to the tired, poor, homeless masses yearning to have a place in the monster world. H.N.M. also defends interbreeding between species, protesting against segregation and bigotry that show up every once in a while. As for the gardening, her hands were kind of tough and callused on the palms and insides of the fingers, especially on her right hand, meaning she had spent time doing manual labor. Since Flori are talented in working with plants, that could only mean work gardening.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to push past. To my surprise and annoyance, she stepped back into my way, brandished the collecting tin, and asked, "Are you aware that every day, hundreds of monsters starve in the streets, and thousands more are shunned because they are not pure-blooded monsters, or because they are not humans?"
"Well, yes, actually, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me..." I tried to squirm past, but she was persistent.
"Your contribution could help to feed just one of the homeless for a month, or help us to pass a law against discrimination on account of species! Only twenty dollars could-"
"Sorry," I interrupted through gritted teeth, "but I can't help you right now." With that, I bent my knees, and jumped right over her. I landed gracefully on my feet, and began to walk away. Don't get me wrong, I'm for justice and everyone having a home as much as the next monster. But I hadn't got any money on me, and I hate donating to charities. They annoy me, especially the overly zealous ones. The girl, obviously not believing I had nothing to offer her, stormed after me, demanding, "Have you no pity? While you sit in your comfortable home, eating 3 square meals a day and using hot running water, tens of thousands of poor, lost souls roam the streets crying out for the most basic necessities! They-"
That did it. My dander was already up on account of the case, and all the stress I'd been experiencing today. This girl made it worse. I snapped.
Whirling around, I snarled at her, "Look, lady! I've got my own problems right now; I don't need anyone else's! And furthermore, you have no right to judge me! Now LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
The girl stepped back in shock, looking as though I had slapped her. Without another word, I stormed on my way.
