Season of the Witch part 12

Meanwhile, back in my prison, my luck had started to change for the better.  Not that I had gotten free, or anything as serendipitous as that.  That was too much to hope for.  It also appeared to be too much to hope for that Koschei would ever think to feed me.  And even though I started hearing voices (from down below my prison, somehow-maybe I was on the upper floor of wherever I was), I was unable to call out to them due to the spell on my voice, or in any way make noise that would attract their attention.  And even if I could, who was to say that they weren’t minions of Mr. the Deathless, or something like that?
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.


When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated.  However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage.  And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds.  But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me.  And it was my secret weapon.


See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot.  It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured.  What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils.  That is to say, it gets hotter.  It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else.  And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.


Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours.  But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used).  Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out.  The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one.  Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah.  And Morty, who was more or less family.  I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising.  I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them.  Getting out was far more important.


The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced.  However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head.  Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand.  It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on.  Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost?  I’ll die if I lose more than six pints.  Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit.  Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could.  If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble.  As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached.  And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet.  But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away.  Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.


I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding.  It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting).  I was still trapped in this hellish place of light.  I still had no voice.  I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia.  But at least now I was partially free.  I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…

*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.

The Case of the Lacerated Assistant

Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.

I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing.  Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange.  For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell.  She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could.  At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes.  Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind.  But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.

We had been out late on a case.  It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery.  This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me.  At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out.  We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away.  Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault.  I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal.  But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse.  I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence.  It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how?  There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery.  The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there.  This was all very interesting...

When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells.  She got the fish, and I had most of the chips.  And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.

And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied.  “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it.  It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?”  Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut.  I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve.  And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.

“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!”  Calla flinched.  “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars.  I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly.  But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth.  “Okay.  It’s fine.  Very decent of you.  It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't.  I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her.  “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”

I smiled, a tad grimly.  Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of.  Care to examine me?”  She held out both arms for inspection.  I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over.  Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed).  But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion.  There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.

“Do you remember how you got that?”  I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars.  There are many I’d prefer not to remember.”  She frowned.  “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.”  Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up.  She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it!  I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.”  Realization confirmed the situation.  “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup.  Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”

This revelation was naturally very alarming.  But it did explain a lot.  The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it?  After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death.  Especially when it led to her getting random injuries.  There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt.  Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape.  But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance.  Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone.  He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them.  Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”

Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it.  It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any.  Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other.  And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant.  But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that.  Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic.  It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.

Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced.  “Just what the world needs.  A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people.  He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so.  Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow.  “Sharky?”
Calla blushed.  “It just seemed...appropriate for him.  His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough.  You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now.  He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.”  I thoughtfully munched a chip.  Suddenly a new point came up in my mind.  “When are you going to tell Lars?”

The kid flinched.  “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually.  Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!”  She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm.  I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home.  As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet.  But at some point...”

“Yeah, I know.  There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”