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!"
Showing posts with label Morty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Morty. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
TANSTAV part 15
Chapter Five
The plot thickens (of course)
The plot thickens (of course)
By now you readers must be tearing your hair out (or fur, or feathers, or horns, or antennae, depending on what you are), wondering who it is I suspected, why he has mismatched feet, what he’s doing in Galveston, and why I have such a deep personal vendetta against him. Well, I’m tempted not to tell, just to preserve the suspense for a while longer. But I really hate it when writers do stuff like that: they don’t get straight to the point about what they want to say, but have to go off on a tangent and blab on and on about something completely off topic, and you want them to shut up and get on with the plot, but they keep jabbering away about some random thing, until finally you yell at them to-
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
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."
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.
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