Season of the Witch part 13

Even though she was afraid, and remembering that even though she could swim a little, she was not very adept at it yet, Calla was not willing to give up that easily.  Before the creature could go very far from the surface, she kicked out; even though the water forced her to move more slowly, she felt her shoe connect hard with something.  There was a bellow of pain in her ear, and one of the hands started to release her.  She took advantage of it, and wiggled her left arm free of the lasso, sending a concentrated blast of power over her shoulder at whatever had ahold of her.  Much to her relief, despite it not being a lethal or even hurtful blast, it enabled her to break free, clawing her way to the surface.


She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up.  However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again.  Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place.  In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*


Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky.  And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was.  Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.


It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man.  He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands.  Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair.  And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.


After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes.  And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions.  They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now.  And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy.  It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive.  When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.


Drown her!  He had no such intention!  The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship.  He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy.  She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail.  Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked.  He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…


She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel.  He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it.  And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.


Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now.  Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them.  But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.


Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.

*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better.  It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions.  A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs.  Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something.  A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.

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.”

TANSTAV part 35

Chapter 10
All right, so I lied about dying, as you may have realized from the fact that I am still writing this book; however, I do nearly die, which is close enough.  And almost get attacked by leeches in the bargain.

The first thought that entered my head upon feeling the bullet hit me was: Ouch.  It was followed a few seconds later by: He shot me!  And then I felt it explode into two bits, which flew out my shoulders (one of the nastier habits of splatter bullets), thankfully missing my wings.  I looked down, and saw a huge crimson burst spreading across the left side of my stomach, where the bullet had hit.  I lifted my hand to try and staunch the blood flow, but it seemed like time was slowing down.  My hand moved with all the speed of a glacier on the move, and was trembling like I had Parkinson’s disease.  Finally, I pressed it onto the wound, which shot a wave of pain through me.  It was about then that I realized I was falling, my knees collapsing under me.

As I hit the ground, ultimately landing on my back, I caught a glimpse of Calla, her white face covered in horror, screaming my name.

She really is quite fond of me, I remember thinking.  Poor girl.  I hope she doesn't blame herself for this, and that Xen will take care of her.  I wonder what Fleming's doing right now.

With unbearable slowness, I rolled my eyes over in his direction, and saw him staring back at me, with a very nasty grin of triumph.  He lifted the splatter gun, and cocked it at me.  I got the impression that he was going to shoot me again, maybe in the heart this time.  By some miracle, the last bullet had missed it, instead hitting what felt like several other important vital organs.  I stared back at him, wanting to go out bravely.  And then, I saw an angel above Fleming.  She must have been an avenging angel, because she was dive-bombing him.  A gray avenging angel, with furry wings, and red and brown hair.

"You-" the angel screamed, as she landed on Fleming, ripping the splatter gun out of his hand, "-do not touch-" her lavender eyes blazed with fury- "-MY BOYFRIEND!!!!"

Oh, Xen, I love you, I thought, smiling dazedly.  I'm sorry about leaving you like this.

She slammed Fleming really hard in his already-wounded shoulder and arm; he screamed so agonizingly that I almost felt some semblance of pity from him.  Xen was becoming quite vicious, hitting and tearing at him so quick and fast that he obviously couldn't even think about using his magic.  Calla ran across the room, probably to keep her from doing any permanent damage.  Dear Calla; she was so tenderhearted, even for the bad guy.

It was at that moment that Jessup woke up.  He blinked, and then sat up, obviously confused.  It appeared that Fleming's hypnotic hold on him had been broken, probably because he was so distracted at the moment.  The demon looked over at the altercation going on, glanced down on the altar he was on-and then he saw me.  He looked shocked, but then an expression of utter delight lit up his heavy-lidded eyes.

Uh-oh.

Slowly, Jessup got down from the altar, and, neatly sidestepping Xen, who was still trying to kill Fleming, and Calla, who was trying to get her back under control, he came over to my cage.  He pulled open the door, and crouched down by my side.

"Well, well, well!" he purred.  "In a spot of trouble, aren't you, Wormwood?"

"Oh, it’s not that bad," I croaked unconvincingly.

Jessup chuckled.

"It doesn't look like you'll last the night," he said, making polite conversation.

"Yeah, that's what they said about the Star-Spangled Banner," I shot back.  My vision was becoming awfully hazy, which made it hard to see his stupid sideways smirk.

"True, true.  But you're losing an awful lot of lifeblood, Wormwood.  Far more than can be good for you."

He contemplated me for a moment, and then murmured, “There are so many ways I could kill you right now.  I could, perhaps, break your neck, just like this.”  He placed one hand on the top of my head, and the other around my throat.  “I could jerk one hand left, the other right, and snap!  No more you.”  It was an echo of our conversation in his cell; I was sure he was doing it on purpose, as a cruel irony.  My slowly fading pulse got a few extra jumps in; I hoped he didn't notice my fear, as it would only spur him on.  With my luck, he did.

“Or maybe I could just throttle you.”  Both hands became wrapped around my throat, and he squeezed gently.  It was enough to start cutting my breathing off, so by the time he took them away, I was gasping a bit.

“Or, if I got my hands on one of those excellent scalpels our captor must have lying around, I could slit your carotid artery: quick, and efficient-”

“Just pick one already!” I growled.  “I get it, I’m at your mercy, blah, blah, blah!”

Jessup clucked his tongue, and furrowed his eyebrows at me.

“You've always had a mouth that was unable to close once it was opened, Wormwood.  But don’t fear, I’ve already decided your death.  And I intend for it to linger for as long as you’ve got left.”

With that, he stood up, and exited my cage, going into the one containing the leeches.  Grabbing a nearby pair of tongs, he snatched up a couple, and, holding them at arm’s length, began meandering back to me.  Somehow, my companions were so involved in handling Fleming, they noticed nothing.  I tried to move, or cry out, or something, but I was so weak, it was nearly impossible.

Jessup entered the cage, and dangled the leeches over me; they began thrashing around eagerly, obviously smelling my blood.

"These leeches must be enchanted so that they can drink your type of blood," the demon observed.  Since gargoyle blood has a temperature of over 128 degrees Fahrenheit, and gives severe burns to anyone who touches it, except other gargoyles, that did seem like the only plausible explanation.

Jessup suddenly lifted my hand off the hole in my gut.  I was unable to do anything about it, because I was as weak as a baby sparrow.  Dangling the leech-bearing tongs over my wound, he said, "You know, it's almost a shame you're going to die like this.  You were my greatest opponent."

"Just get on with it, you plant-spawn!" I spat.  For a demon, that is one of the worst insults you can call him without resorting to outright cursing.  Apparently there's this old myth in their culture about a demon born from a union between his father and a woman born from a tree (reminiscent of a dryad), and when he was fully grown, he caused 1000 years of destruction of the demons somehow.  So to call a demon plant-spawn (or son/daughter of a plant) is to ask for death.  But since I was dying anyway, I figured I had nothing to lose, and might as well tick him off on my way out.  Jessup lost the smirk; giving me a hate-filled glare, he began to lower the hungry leeches to the wound.

Without warning, he flew backwards, as if a giant hand had smacked him, slamming into the wall.  The tongs (with the leeches still attached, thank goodness) were wrenched by something unseen out of his hand, and zoomed back into the tank.

"Oh, no you don't!" an angry female voice shouted.  To my surprise, I recognized it as Calla!  She marched over, hands clenched into tiny fists.  Then she waved her left hand, and the cage containing the Ghul burst open.  The creature scrambled out in terror, and fled the house.  She let him go, and instead used her power to push Jessup into the cage, which relocked itself.  After that, I didn't see any more of what was happening over there; suddenly Xen was by my side, staring down at me.

With all the willpower I could muster, and the last ounces of strength in my body, I reached up and touched her face, caressing it.

"You're beautiful, my angel," I whispered.

Sniffling, she croaked, "You keep getting yourself into the biggest messes, don't you, Tristan?"

Then, grasping my hand tightly in one of her her own for a moment, she tore open my shirt and quickly began making incisions throughout my chest cavity with her claws.

TANSTAV part 24

Chapter Seven
In the interests of all parties concerned, I make a proposition

The vanished monster in question was a Fonin, by the name of Clarence Whitechapel.  Age 23, brunette, 5'6", 125 pounds, with wings like a golden eagle.  No prior records, no real status in the world, nothing to distinguish him.  Since Senator Skald was 55 years old, rather gray, 8’4", and over 300 pounds, there seemed to be no connection, besides their both having golden-orange eyes, and how much of a connection could that be?  I asked, "Did anyone at your center see anything?  Any clues?"

"A few people did say they saw something, but it sounds crazy."

"What was it?  This could be important."

Greenbriar looked slightly embarrassed, but she said, "They claim that Mr. Whitechapel was sitting in his usual corner, eating lunch, when they saw-saw a black, shadowy figure appear, and grab him by the shoulder.  Then they both vanished."

"Huh."  That didn't sound too crazy to me.  What it sounded like was some kind of teleporter, with a tendency towards clichés.

"What type of shadow?  Like a Reaper?"

"No, not exactly.  It was wearing a hooded cloak, but they said, in the brief glimpse they caught of it, that it looked more substantial than a Reaper, less billowy."

"May I meet these people, and hear it from them?"

"Well, Mr. Wormwood, the fact is, they're afraid that if they come forward, the shadow will come after them next."  Her pale face had chagrin written all over it.

"That's not an unreasonable fear," I said.  She looked surprised.  "Well, since it obviously has the ability to appear out of nowhere and steal people, whatever it is, I'd say their fear is justified.  However, tell these anonymous tippers that if they will tell me exactly what happened, I might be able to capture and subdue it."  Greenbriar nodded.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wormwood.  I shall let you know in a week or so if I have made any progress in convincing them."  With that, she got up and left, closing the door behind her.

When I returned home, I noticed that the light was on (I quickly slipped on my shaded glasses, in order to protect my corneas), and that Calla was examining the portrait hung over the sofa.

"Is this your-" she began to ask.

"Yes, that's my family," I interrupted.  She turned her head in my direction, with a raised eyebrow.  I gathered it was due to the fact that my use of the phrase 'that's my family' was in almost the same tone of voice I would use to say 'that's a pile of rotten, maggoty horse flesh.'

I moseyed over, and she turned back to the picture.  It showed the drawing room of my house back in Tarascogne, Massachusetts (a monster suburb of Boston).  It had two blue velvet curtains hanging from the wall, and a blue-and-gray marbled floor.  Standing before the curtains were my parents, my siblings and I.

"What are their names?"

"These two," I jabbed a claw at the two young female gargoyles on the far left, "are my sisters.  Jeannette and Florence."

Jeannette was wearing a pale lavender kimono with blue flowers.  Her black hair, which she got from Mom, was hanging loosely down over her shoulders.  Florence, standing on her left, had on a knee-length black dress with a golden belt.  A diamond ring sparkled on her left hand, signifying the fact that she had just become engaged to Dominic Valdez, one of the richest gargoyle diplomats in Spain.

Next to them, as I indicated to Calla, was Mom.  She wore a blue gown, and held my youngest brother, Ned, in her arms.  By some strange genetic quirk, Ned had acquired small black curls (which neither of my parents had), and they, coupled with his gray fur, fangs, bat-like wings, and tail, gave him the appearance of a very strange demonic cherub.  To the left of Mom were my younger brother Elijah, my older brother Arthur, and, behind both of them, with one hand clapped possessively on Arthur's shoulder, was dear old Dad.  I involuntarily clenched my jaw at the sight of him.  There he stood, looking self-important and in control, with confidence that he was the master, and we merely his puppets, to jump when he pulled the strings.  And, of course, on the far right of the picture lurked a rebellious sixteen-year-old, scruffy and unkempt when compared to the others, red eyes set in a fierce glare.  That's right, me.  In an attempt to shame me for my facial expression, Dad had the painting set up in my room after its completion.  And for some reason, when I finally left home, I had taken it with me.  I guess it was to make his plan backfire.

"You're the only boy who isn't clean-shaven," Calla remarked.

"I like being a little scruffy," I replied.

"How long ago was this taken?”

"Four years."

"You weren't very tall, then-oh!"  As soon as Calla realized what she'd said, she clapped a hand to her mouth, and turned scarlet.  Her eyes slid fearfully in my direction.  I merely chuckled.

"It's okay, kid.  I was a little slow to reach my growth spurt.  Good observation."

Taking her hand from her mouth, she smiled shyly.  Calla turned her head back to the picture, and said after a moment, "You know, without your goatee, you would probably look a lot like your father."

"Don't remind me," I grumbled.

"Why not?"

"It's... complicated."

"Okay."

I appreciated the fact that she didn't try to grill me for information.  However, her curiosity appealed to me.

Suddenly, Calla threw me completely off-guard by asking, in hesitant tones, "Tristan, why don't you and Xen get married?"

"Wha-how-why-" I stumbled, sounding like an idiot, and being fully aware of that fact.

"Well, you love her.  And I can tell she loves you."  She began to look alarmed.  "Have I asked you a question I shouldn't have?"

"No, no, it's fine!  I just wasn't used to your being that direct."

"I've been curious for a long time.  Sorry, that was too-"

"Calla, there is no harm in asking me questions like that.  I'm not going to hurt you for being curious."  I sighed.  Finally, I said, "We want to.  Nothing would give me greater pleasure.  But I’m waiting to ask her at least until after October."

"What happens then?"

"She turns 20.  That seems a more acceptable age for her to get married at."  Granted, it would still be pretty young, but I already knew she was the one for me, so there seemed to be little need to wait.

"Oh."

There was a slightly awkward silence.  Then I cleared my throat.

"Calla, how would you like to become my assistant?"

TANSTAV part 22

Chapter 6 part 3

Carefully, quietly, I opened the door to her room a crack.  Then, once I remembered that there was no need, since none of the lights were on, I opened it all the way.  I saw Calla lying curled up under the covers, with just her head sticking out.  I slipped in, and approached.  She looked better; the bruises had faded substantially, and her face had become relaxed in sleep, making her look like a little kid.  But she was way too pale, in my opinion; even though gargoyles don't like to go out in the sun, it's perfectly natural for humans to do so, and Calla was practically the color of a sheet of paper.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, there was also the fact that she looked ten pounds underweight, if not twenty.  I also noticed several wet trails down the sides of her face.  Because she was lying down on her back, they had come from the corners of her eyes, trickled down over her ears, and soaked her pillow.  I sighed.  Poor kid.  It seemed a shame to wake her, but this was important.  I tried not to imagine all the possible negative repercussions that could occur.

I reached out, and gently poked her in the shoulder, mindful of my claws.  At once her eyes flew open, and involuntarily met mine for the first time.   The moment they did, one of the strangest experiences of my life occurred.  Thoughts flew into my mind which were not my own; I felt strange alarm, confusion, and sudden horror in my heart.

What's happening?  Where am I?  What-

Oh.  It's him.  The strange man-or gargoyle, I guess-who saved me from-

Oh, no.  No!  Got to stop!  It's too late, but maybe I can convince him it's a mistake!
Why hasn't he tried to break the connection?  Isn't he shocked and disgusted?  He's not even scared!

It was suddenly clear to me what was going on.  I was hearing Calla's thoughts!  And after a moment, I also realized that she was hearing mine!  It was then that her eyes snapped shut; her thoughts and feelings vanished from my mind.  She began trembling violently, hands clutching convulsively at the blanket.  Moisture spilled out from behind her eyelids again.
"Have you always been able to do that?" I asked curiously.

Her eyes fluttered opened again.  She looked in my general direction, bemused.

"You-you don't mind?" she whispered.  Her voice was hoarse with tears.

"Nah, lots of monsters can do stuff like that.  Granted, I don't know of anyone who can trade thoughts with someone else, but heck, there's a first time for everything.  In fact, I think it's kind of cool."

"That's because you don't have it," she whispered.  "I can't control it, and it never turns off.  If I ever look someone in the eye, that happens.  Always.  So I just learned not to do it."

"Well, with me, it doesn't matter."

I placed a hand on her shoulder, and gently shook it.  She flinched slightly at the contact, so I withdrew my hand.  Should have remembered she might not be ready for that.

Then, hesitantly, she looked up into my eyes again.  She seemed less afraid now.  I felt waves of relief emanating from her, and almost something resembling happiness.  Of course, I had to ruin it by thinking, Did her dad know about this?  

Suddenly, my mind was set upon by a memory.  A very vivid, bad one.

A big man, eyes bloodshot and wicked-looking, a bottle clutched in one meaty hand, advancing towards me.

"So there you are, you little freak!  What'd I tell you about going out, huh?!" he barks.
There's nothing to say.  I was here; he just was too drunk to notice.  Maybe better to stay silent.  Silence works, sometimes.  Better than talking back, anyway.

"ANSWER ME!!  Don't just stand there and ignore me, answer me!  And look me in the eye when I'm talking to you!"

No.  Too risky.  Only time that happened, when we shared thoughts, could barely move for days afterwards.  It was after that when he started calling me a freak.  Better just to close eyes, and hope it's over quickly.  Blackness as eyes slide shut, shake head no.  Suddenly, pain as he backhands me to the floor.  Then feel his boot catch me in the ribs; thankfully, not hard enough to crack.  Just enough to bruise, I think.

"I-told-you-to-look-at-me!  Look at me, you freak, look at me, d    n you!"  He's grabbed my throat, hard, and jerked me up again.  Now he's trying to force my eyes open with his free fingers.  It hurts, of course.  I resist, though; what's wrong with me?  Why even bother?  Sooner or later he'll get his way, anyway.

Without warning, a strange feeling, one I have never really experienced, begins in my stomach.  It's a sort of...burning, as if my insides are on fire.  There's a roaring in my ears, and my hands are clenching.  It takes a moment for me to place it; odd, since I've been the brunt of it from another source for so many years.  It's called anger.

"No," I whisper.

"...Excuse me?"  His voice has become quiet.  Normally this would scare me more, since it means there's a storm coming.  But right now, I am far too angry to care.

"No," I say, louder.  "No.  I won't.  You can't make me."  I open my eyes, and suddenly twist myself out of his grasp, and jump away.  Shocked, he mutters something unrepeatable.  This is the first time I have ever defied him, and he's unsure how to react.  But then, like an enraged bull, his instincts take over.  Getting to his feet, he charges, swinging a fist.  I manage to duck.

"Stop it!" I cry.

I don't see his other fist coming.  It catches me right in the eye, knocking me back.

He advances, the bottle on the ground, forgotten.

"You dare talk back to me, you freaky maggot?!  I'll teach you to-"

"No you won't!!"  I've had enough.  I'm not going to take this anymore.  This is the end.
I scream at him, "Go away!  LEAVE ME ALONE!"

With that shriek, I feel something strange and terrible burst out of me.  There's an exploding sound, like ten million cannons going off at once, and something slams into me from above.  Then darkness...

I pulled out of her head (figuratively speaking), jerking my own away.  When I looked back, Calla had hunched into a ball of misery, sobbing hysterically.

"I didn't mean to," I managed to make out.  "I didn't mean to!"

Gently, I put my arms around her shoulders, and just held her.  I decided to hold off on asking her to hold the magic, on the instinct that it would not go well.