Author's Note
Just a few things: first, I have decided to change gargoyle physiology somewhat. Gargoyles no longer turn to stone while sleeping. Now it's only when they die.
Second, this upcoming month is Nanowrimo, and I am planning on participating. This involves writing a 50,000-word novel in just thirty days. To help me keep working on this, I intend to post it here, as soon as I'm done with this one. So keep your eyes peeled, and if possible, please help me feel motivated to keep writing.
Morgan Hartford was walking down the street, on the way to pick up her daughters* from nursery school, when she saw Xen Wormwood sitting at a table outside of a cafe.
Even though her head was buried in her claws, that red hair was recognizable anywhere.
“Xen? Are you okay?”
She jumped a foot when she heard her voice, and quickly glanced up.
“Wha-? Oh. Hi.”
Her face looked normal, not blotchy at all, but her voice had cracked the tiniest bit.
“Tristan isn't back yet?” Morgan sat down across from her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She sighed, running a claw through her hair. “My mom’s here, helping look after Phil. I just-feel very helpless right now. I don’t even know how he’s doing. Or if he’s even alive. I’d like to think he is, since he’s a survivor, but-you know.”
“I think I understand. What if we try to do something to help you feel less useless? Calla could tell us what he's trying to do, and maybe we can find something useful and Calla can think of a way to get the information to him.”
“I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless.” But she sat up straighter, and pulled out her phone. “Maybe Calla can create a scrying glass or something that can help her find him.”
A few minutes later, the reply came back, and she held it out to let Morgan see.
Baba Yaga let me use her glass. I haven’t told her everything, because she might try to stop me from helping, even though that wasn’t strictly speaking in the rules. He’s alive, but looks awful.
Xen sagged against the table in relief.
“There’s one less thing to worry about,” she whispered. Then she typed furiously, Where?
In a forest, it looks like. He’s paying a lot of attention to the hollow trees.
Xen frowned, and rubbed her forehead.
“That sounds familiar…”
“Koschei the Deathless... Hollow trees... He's looking for the soul!”
“Yes!” The frown intensified. “That doesn’t bode well. Maybe he’s planning on using it to bargain for the sword. Anyone who gets the soul could control him with it. Or even kill him.” She tapped her claws agitatedly. “Things are getting serious over there if he’s going that far.”
“It must be. Can you think of any way we could help him?”
“We need to check the library.” And before she could protest, Morgan found herself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the library. It wasn’t until they were there and halfway through their research that she remembered, in horror, that her children were still at the nursery school waiting for her.
“I'll be right back, Xen!”
“What-”
Morgan didn’t stop to explain, just running out as quickly as she could.
Poppy and Rebecca’s teacher, Mrs. Flaversham, was waiting anxiously outside the building.
“There ye are, Mrs. Hartford! The girls have been worried to death! Rebecca’s been thinking ye’ve abandoned them!”
A familiar tearstained face peeked out from the door behind the caorthannach, looking somewhat relieved to see Morgan there.
“Oh, Rebecca, I'm sorry!”
Poppy looked out next. “Momma!” She glanced at Rebecca. “I told you she’d come for us.” But she looked equally relieved that Morgan had finally showed up, skipping out into her arms.
“I was about to take them home myself, but I’m glad you came,” said Mrs. Flaversham, mollified.
“I'm so sorry!” Morgan hugged her children to her, trying to console them. At least Friedrich had an extra hour of school left, so she didn’t have to worry that she’d forgotten him too.
Xen looked very shamefaced when Morgan returned with her little girls.
“Sorry. I forgot that you probably needed to pick them up.”
“It's all right, I forgot too.”
Xen showed her the pile of books she’d picked out. Many of them were old Russian fairy tale books, or just completely in Russian. A few were very ancient-looking, leather texts.
“There’s a lot of contradictory tales about where Koschei’s soul is. In some stories, it’s already been found and destroyed. But we know that’s not true.”
“What’s a koschei?” asked Poppy.
“It’s not a what. It’s a who. Koschei the Deathless is a very bad man who has hidden his soul, and Tristan’s trying to find it,” Xen explained.
Rebecca looked a little perplexed. “If he doesn’t have a soul...then isn’t he dead?”
“I wish.”
“Poppy, how about you take Rebecca to the children's section?”
“Kay.”
Rebecca started to protest, “But-” But Poppy pulled her off.
Xen gave her an unapologetic stare. “It would solve a lot of problems right now if he was dead.” Then she looked horrified. “Did I just say that?”
“You're under stress. It makes sense.”
With a sigh, she went back to looking at the works. “Generally in the stories, if someone is looking for his soul, they need to get the help of some obscure bird or something which somehow knows its location. Two people who actually managed to beat him once, according to this-” she passed over a book- “are Ivan and Marya, centuries ago. Marya used to be a guard over Koschei, until Ivan accidentally set him free, but eventually they beat him together by finding his soul and commanding him never to harm either of them again.” Xen pulled out her phone, sending a text to Calla. “And, of course, the details are hazy on how they actually found his soul. D____t.” Then she glanced at Morgan. “Sorry.”
Morgan put a hand on her shoulder. “It might be in another book somewhere. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
*Besides Poppy, Morgan and Nathan had adopted a troll named Friedrich, and a little golden-haired girl named Rebecca who was half-mage, half-demon. Rebecca’s story is a very interesting one indeed...but it will have to wait for later.
Showing posts with label investigation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label investigation. Show all posts
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Sunday, September 9, 2012
TANSTAV part 23
Chapter 6 part 4
After her bout of hysteria had subsided, I got Calla to eat some soup. Because I was feeling kind of hungry again, I ate some too. We sat at the kitchen table, munching in silence. Then I noticed that Calla was watching me eat, eyebrows furrowed.
“What is it, kid? Expecting me to be slurping it up like a savage jungle beast?”
“No. I-I just noticed that you’re left-handed, like me.”
“Actually, I’m ambidextrous.” I demonstrated by effortlessly switching the spoon to my right hand. “But Xen’s left-handed.”
“Who’s Xen?”
“My...friend. She’ll show up at some point.” I continued, “Getting back to what I was saying, many monsters are left-handed. It’s no big deal to us. It’s probably part of the reason why humans used to think it was such a taboo, and sinful thing; primeval memories associated the two.”
Calla murmured, “I see,” and inhaled a noodle so fast it flipped her on the nose as it went in. She managed a small smile at that.
When we finished, she went back to bed; and, finally admitting defeat, I did too. When I awoke, it was 7 in the morning. Normally, I would have gone to work now; however, Ishida had said that Calla was to be in my care. And, since she was forbidden to leave this apartment, I was unsure if that meant that I had to stay here too. Reluctantly, I called him to find out the exact details of her incarceration.
After about 3 rings, his voice came grumpily through the receiver.
"What is it, Wormwood?"
"Since the girl has to stay here, do I have to too?"
"Huh? What- Oh. Yes. Yes, until further notice, you are temporarily relieved from working with us. Only go out if you can get someone to replace you."
Silently, I punched the air.
"Thanks, Chief."
"My pleasure," he said dryly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."
"Oh, wait! I forgot to add: I got her set up with a psychiatrist. Dr. Higgins. Does she have to stay here for those too?"
"...I'll send a message to Dr. Higgins to make it a house call," he sighed. And with that, he hung up.
For three weeks, I spent most of my time in my apartment. Xen came over as often as possible, in order to help look after her, and every other day, Higgins came for the therapy session. I don't know the exact nature of his treatment, since I usually took those times to go to the station or work on the case, but I do know that soon Calla was looking a lot better. The bruises faded, and having healthy meals made her look less cadaverous. Xen went out shopping for her, and bought her some new clothes, which fit her frame a great deal better. Furthermore, she responded well to the therapy. I think Higgins might have cheated a little, using some kind of spell to calm her nerves, but if it did the trick, I was okay with it. Within two and a half weeks, Calla's serious brown eyes began to lose that haunted look. Not completely, but to an acceptable degree. A few times, I even made her smile. A small, timid one, but a smile nonetheless.
However, while she may have been improving, my case was going nowhere fast. I watched the tape, and it showed zilch. At 8:30 am of that day, Jessup was still in his cell, lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. The list of enemies brought no clues whatsoever, since they all had alibis, and were not known for having any motive for kidnapping that I could find. I brought the magic samples down to the station, and a mage (not Fleming, thankfully) found out that the one outside the senator's house and the one in the elevator had both been used for teleportation. The one in the cell had been a hypnotism spell. That certainly made things suspicious, but it wasn't really concrete evidence. We still couldn't find out who the fragments had come from, and I was sure Jessup wasn't gonna talk. It was possible to use a spell to force the truth from him, but it had the side-effect of shattering the person's mind. As delightful as that would be, it was also highly illegal. Dang it.
Anyway, the three weeks were soon up. Calla went to the police, made her statement, and the case was officially recorded and filed. Since she was a legal adult, and had no known relatives and nowhere to go, I took her back home with me. Well, that’s not the only reason. Our laws have a special clause called the Mercy Clause, installed by President William “Billy” Bones back when he was in office, regarding people who kill in self-defense. If they have true remorse for their actions (we have ways of confirming that), and it’s clear that they hadn't planned to kill the person beforehand, they can avoid time in prison if they can instead be put in the custody of a trusted relative, or the equivalent, to make sure they don’t get into trouble again. As there was no one to fulfill this role, to her knowledge (her mother had left when she was eleven, and she didn't know where she was, and the judge and Ishida preferred to just get this over with, rather than spend time looking for her), I stepped in as her non-official guardian.
Now that she was no longer under house arrest, Calla was allowed to go stay at Xen's place while I went to work. With a small sigh, I headed for the office. It was a Monday, so of course my spirits were already rather low (not to mention it being April, the cruelest month), without the added weight of having no information regarding the senator. I slumped at my desk, and doodled furiously on my legal pad. Suddenly, I heard a knock at my (newly repaired) door.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened, and in came that freaky zealot I'd met in the street!
As soon as we saw each other, I could tell she recognized me. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and for a moment looked as if she were about to beat a hasty retreat. But after a moment, she composed herself, and entered. I, however, was slower to adapt, and gasped "You!" in a strangled tone.
Standing straight at attention, Freaky Zealot Girl said calmly, "Mr. Wormwood, I have a case for you."
I rolled my eyes. Why else would she be here? However, I decided not to comment. Remembering my manners, I said, "Please take a seat, Miss..."
"Greenbriar. Morgan Greenbriar."
Without further ado, Miss Greenbriar sat down in the chair across from me, and said, "I need your help. One of the people I have been caring for at my center has vanished without a trace, and I would like you to find him."
I must admit, my eyes popped slightly. Two people missing within three weeks of each other, in the same city? That sounded too close to be a coincidence.
After her bout of hysteria had subsided, I got Calla to eat some soup. Because I was feeling kind of hungry again, I ate some too. We sat at the kitchen table, munching in silence. Then I noticed that Calla was watching me eat, eyebrows furrowed.
“What is it, kid? Expecting me to be slurping it up like a savage jungle beast?”
“No. I-I just noticed that you’re left-handed, like me.”
“Actually, I’m ambidextrous.” I demonstrated by effortlessly switching the spoon to my right hand. “But Xen’s left-handed.”
“Who’s Xen?”
“My...friend. She’ll show up at some point.” I continued, “Getting back to what I was saying, many monsters are left-handed. It’s no big deal to us. It’s probably part of the reason why humans used to think it was such a taboo, and sinful thing; primeval memories associated the two.”
Calla murmured, “I see,” and inhaled a noodle so fast it flipped her on the nose as it went in. She managed a small smile at that.
When we finished, she went back to bed; and, finally admitting defeat, I did too. When I awoke, it was 7 in the morning. Normally, I would have gone to work now; however, Ishida had said that Calla was to be in my care. And, since she was forbidden to leave this apartment, I was unsure if that meant that I had to stay here too. Reluctantly, I called him to find out the exact details of her incarceration.
After about 3 rings, his voice came grumpily through the receiver.
"What is it, Wormwood?"
"Since the girl has to stay here, do I have to too?"
"Huh? What- Oh. Yes. Yes, until further notice, you are temporarily relieved from working with us. Only go out if you can get someone to replace you."
Silently, I punched the air.
"Thanks, Chief."
"My pleasure," he said dryly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."
"Oh, wait! I forgot to add: I got her set up with a psychiatrist. Dr. Higgins. Does she have to stay here for those too?"
"...I'll send a message to Dr. Higgins to make it a house call," he sighed. And with that, he hung up.
For three weeks, I spent most of my time in my apartment. Xen came over as often as possible, in order to help look after her, and every other day, Higgins came for the therapy session. I don't know the exact nature of his treatment, since I usually took those times to go to the station or work on the case, but I do know that soon Calla was looking a lot better. The bruises faded, and having healthy meals made her look less cadaverous. Xen went out shopping for her, and bought her some new clothes, which fit her frame a great deal better. Furthermore, she responded well to the therapy. I think Higgins might have cheated a little, using some kind of spell to calm her nerves, but if it did the trick, I was okay with it. Within two and a half weeks, Calla's serious brown eyes began to lose that haunted look. Not completely, but to an acceptable degree. A few times, I even made her smile. A small, timid one, but a smile nonetheless.
However, while she may have been improving, my case was going nowhere fast. I watched the tape, and it showed zilch. At 8:30 am of that day, Jessup was still in his cell, lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. The list of enemies brought no clues whatsoever, since they all had alibis, and were not known for having any motive for kidnapping that I could find. I brought the magic samples down to the station, and a mage (not Fleming, thankfully) found out that the one outside the senator's house and the one in the elevator had both been used for teleportation. The one in the cell had been a hypnotism spell. That certainly made things suspicious, but it wasn't really concrete evidence. We still couldn't find out who the fragments had come from, and I was sure Jessup wasn't gonna talk. It was possible to use a spell to force the truth from him, but it had the side-effect of shattering the person's mind. As delightful as that would be, it was also highly illegal. Dang it.
Anyway, the three weeks were soon up. Calla went to the police, made her statement, and the case was officially recorded and filed. Since she was a legal adult, and had no known relatives and nowhere to go, I took her back home with me. Well, that’s not the only reason. Our laws have a special clause called the Mercy Clause, installed by President William “Billy” Bones back when he was in office, regarding people who kill in self-defense. If they have true remorse for their actions (we have ways of confirming that), and it’s clear that they hadn't planned to kill the person beforehand, they can avoid time in prison if they can instead be put in the custody of a trusted relative, or the equivalent, to make sure they don’t get into trouble again. As there was no one to fulfill this role, to her knowledge (her mother had left when she was eleven, and she didn't know where she was, and the judge and Ishida preferred to just get this over with, rather than spend time looking for her), I stepped in as her non-official guardian.
Now that she was no longer under house arrest, Calla was allowed to go stay at Xen's place while I went to work. With a small sigh, I headed for the office. It was a Monday, so of course my spirits were already rather low (not to mention it being April, the cruelest month), without the added weight of having no information regarding the senator. I slumped at my desk, and doodled furiously on my legal pad. Suddenly, I heard a knock at my (newly repaired) door.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened, and in came that freaky zealot I'd met in the street!
As soon as we saw each other, I could tell she recognized me. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and for a moment looked as if she were about to beat a hasty retreat. But after a moment, she composed herself, and entered. I, however, was slower to adapt, and gasped "You!" in a strangled tone.
Standing straight at attention, Freaky Zealot Girl said calmly, "Mr. Wormwood, I have a case for you."
I rolled my eyes. Why else would she be here? However, I decided not to comment. Remembering my manners, I said, "Please take a seat, Miss..."
"Greenbriar. Morgan Greenbriar."
Without further ado, Miss Greenbriar sat down in the chair across from me, and said, "I need your help. One of the people I have been caring for at my center has vanished without a trace, and I would like you to find him."
I must admit, my eyes popped slightly. Two people missing within three weeks of each other, in the same city? That sounded too close to be a coincidence.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
TANSTAV part 18
Chapter 5 part 4
"Nice outfit," I said as I slid the door shut behind me. "It really brings out your eyes."
The outfit in question was a loose-fitting, unflattering gray jumpsuit, the attire of all prisoners, so my comment could only be described as sarcastic. Jessup recognized me at once, of course. For a brief moment, his expression darkened in anger, and his hands clenched, as if they would love to be wrapped around my throat. But I knew I was safe. I could see the pale blue lines of the spell holding him in place, gripping his wrists and ankles. There was no chance of his getting loose. And even if he did, well, I wouldn't mind a good scrap with him.
However, Jessup was just as quick to regain his composure. His face relaxed into its typical sardonic expression: eyes drooping lazily, mouth curled upwards into a sideways smirk, one eyebrow half raised.
"Well, if it isn't Detective Wormwood," he murmured in his soft, silky tones. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Oh, just thought I'd drop in, see how life is treating you, maybe bring some news of the outside world," I replied.
"I'm honored."
I came closer, looking Jessup over just as closely as he was scrutinizing me. Prison life had made him a great deal thinner, and he’d lost a bit of muscle, but he was still in comparatively good condition. I suddenly jabbed him in the leg with one claw. Flesh and blood, and cloth. He really was there; no illusion. So how had he gotten out of the cell and back in? Had he even left? It was possible to make molds of feet. Maybe the tracks had been faked?
Jessup was smirking.
"Trying to see if I'm really here? You're getting too paranoid, Wormwood."
A sudden impulse led me to ask, "You won't mind, will you, if I have a look at the bottoms of your feet?"
Jessup looked startled by this; however, since he is an expert liar and actor, I took his expression cum grano salis (for you non-Latin speakers, that means "with a grain of salt". I took a course of that in high school too; it was required in order to graduate).
"What?"
"You heard me." Without further ado, I crouched down and began to inspect them. Sure enough, in the cleft of his hoof, I found a blade of grass. Retrieving my tweezers, I tugged it free, placing it in a ready baggie. On his claw, I found traces of earth, which I added to the baggie. Standing up, I waved it under Jessup's aristocratic nose.
"Care to explain these?"
The demon shrugged as best he could with the restraints.
"I'm a criminal, not a horticulturist."
Rolling my eyes, I placed it in my pocket, with the other baggies. As I looked down, I saw- another piece of black and red magic! It was lying just below Jessup. Was the magic coming from him? That didn't make sense; he didn't have any magic powers, except a small ability to make people do what he wanted, and it wasn’t as effective if they knew about it. I bagged the magic, and then demanded, "How have you been getting out?"
Jessup smirked again, and said snidely, "You're the detective. You figure it out."
I flapped my wings, lifting myself into the air until I was eye to eye with the demon. This took a little effort, since I am only 5'9", and he was about two feet off the ground already.
"I will, Jessup. And when I do, maybe the higher-ups will reconsider whether or not you deserve the death penalty." With that, I floated to the floor, turned away, and left.
At least, that was my plan. I did the floating-down and turning-around part perfectly, but before I could do the leaving part, Jessup's query of "How's your girlfriend doing?" stopped me in my tracks.
"Nice outfit," I said as I slid the door shut behind me. "It really brings out your eyes."
The outfit in question was a loose-fitting, unflattering gray jumpsuit, the attire of all prisoners, so my comment could only be described as sarcastic. Jessup recognized me at once, of course. For a brief moment, his expression darkened in anger, and his hands clenched, as if they would love to be wrapped around my throat. But I knew I was safe. I could see the pale blue lines of the spell holding him in place, gripping his wrists and ankles. There was no chance of his getting loose. And even if he did, well, I wouldn't mind a good scrap with him.
However, Jessup was just as quick to regain his composure. His face relaxed into its typical sardonic expression: eyes drooping lazily, mouth curled upwards into a sideways smirk, one eyebrow half raised.
"Well, if it isn't Detective Wormwood," he murmured in his soft, silky tones. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Oh, just thought I'd drop in, see how life is treating you, maybe bring some news of the outside world," I replied.
"I'm honored."
I came closer, looking Jessup over just as closely as he was scrutinizing me. Prison life had made him a great deal thinner, and he’d lost a bit of muscle, but he was still in comparatively good condition. I suddenly jabbed him in the leg with one claw. Flesh and blood, and cloth. He really was there; no illusion. So how had he gotten out of the cell and back in? Had he even left? It was possible to make molds of feet. Maybe the tracks had been faked?
Jessup was smirking.
"Trying to see if I'm really here? You're getting too paranoid, Wormwood."
A sudden impulse led me to ask, "You won't mind, will you, if I have a look at the bottoms of your feet?"
Jessup looked startled by this; however, since he is an expert liar and actor, I took his expression cum grano salis (for you non-Latin speakers, that means "with a grain of salt". I took a course of that in high school too; it was required in order to graduate).
"What?"
"You heard me." Without further ado, I crouched down and began to inspect them. Sure enough, in the cleft of his hoof, I found a blade of grass. Retrieving my tweezers, I tugged it free, placing it in a ready baggie. On his claw, I found traces of earth, which I added to the baggie. Standing up, I waved it under Jessup's aristocratic nose.
"Care to explain these?"
The demon shrugged as best he could with the restraints.
"I'm a criminal, not a horticulturist."
Rolling my eyes, I placed it in my pocket, with the other baggies. As I looked down, I saw- another piece of black and red magic! It was lying just below Jessup. Was the magic coming from him? That didn't make sense; he didn't have any magic powers, except a small ability to make people do what he wanted, and it wasn’t as effective if they knew about it. I bagged the magic, and then demanded, "How have you been getting out?"
Jessup smirked again, and said snidely, "You're the detective. You figure it out."
I flapped my wings, lifting myself into the air until I was eye to eye with the demon. This took a little effort, since I am only 5'9", and he was about two feet off the ground already.
"I will, Jessup. And when I do, maybe the higher-ups will reconsider whether or not you deserve the death penalty." With that, I floated to the floor, turned away, and left.
At least, that was my plan. I did the floating-down and turning-around part perfectly, but before I could do the leaving part, Jessup's query of "How's your girlfriend doing?" stopped me in my tracks.
Monday, July 23, 2012
TANSTAV part 16
Chapter 5 part 2
This time, thankfully, I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down, though not without effort. Not only did I do it because the food had been made by Xen, but also because it would not be practical or sensible to allow the only nourishment I'd had all day to come up again. This was no time to disregard my health. I feel through the mirror to the ground, and lay curled in a ball, arms wrapped around my stomach, in paroxysms of agony until the convulsions finally ceased. It seemed like an eternity to me, but was probably only two minutes, give or take. My stomach gave one last lurch, trying to dislodge the food, and finally gave up. I pulled myself up, swallowed with difficulty, and wiped the sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt like I'd been giving a thrashing by a pair of hired goons with heavy sticks (I know what that feels like from a personal experience, which I would prefer not to go into right now, if it's all the same to you). Figuratively speaking, I pulled myself together. A couple of months ago, I actually had to see that happen. Bjorn, one of the trolls I work with often, came through one of the teleport mirrors wrong, or else it malfunctioned, because his arms and legs came through first, and the rest showed up afterwards. It was singularly icky, if you must know. We thought he was going to die, but Harper spit him back together, and soon he was good as new. However, we all gained an intense, irreparable mistrust of that particular mirror, and since then have avoided it like the plague.
I was at the very foot of Chernabog Prison. It was set on a giant, black rock, way out on the water, shrouded in spells of concealment and repellency to humans. To me, they looked like thick black clouds, with flashes of aura belonging to different mages who had worked to construct the spells. The castle itself looked every bit as forbidding and creepy as the mirror image had been. Undaunted, I stepped up to the iron, magically enhanced gate, lifted the knocker (which was shaped like an imp’s face) and banged twice. A slit above the knocker-way above the knocker-opened, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes peered out.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
"PASSWORD?" a voice rumbled.
Since when is there a password? I wondered. Then I realized what he (I guessed it was a he) meant. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the wallet Morty had given me, extracted a crisp 100-dollar bill, and held it up to the slot. A pair of meaty fingers the color of curdled milk (tipped with blood red nails) somehow reached through, plucked the bill from my claws, and then retreated inside. The slit slammed shut. I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, creaking ominously, the prison door opened, revealing the guard to be an enormous ogre. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, slightly grimy, with a nametag that said "Flavius" on it. At his belt he carried a club, one of those enchanted kinds that would electrocute whoever it was pointed at; very useful for subduing unruly inmates. Flavius waved the bill at me, and made a slightly mocking bow.
"ENTER, AND OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
I stepped through the doorway, and felt a chill run through my body. That had to be the air spirit that checked for concealed weapons. I held still until it stopped. The ogre looked pleased by my cooperation. When a disembodied voice whispered, "All clear," he gestured for me to follow him. I did. We were in the opening hallway, which was lined on either side with rows upon rows of statues and suits of armor, all armed to the teeth. I conjectured that they were designed to come to life and attack, in the case of an invasion or a prison breakout. Very cliché, but usually effective. The ceiling seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens. Even with my night vision, I was barely able to make it out. It looked very blank and cheerless, just like the rest of this place. Everything was made out of either stone or metal. Cold, lifeless objects. The place had a general air of wickedness and corruption, with overlying confinement and neglect. I wanted out, and as soon as conveniently possible.
We finally made it to the front desk, where there sat an imp woman with short, curly hair pulled into an untidy bun. Imps come mostly in black, but her skin was a sickly green. At most she had to be 4 feet tall, with beady red eyes, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose. Her fingers were covered with warts, and her right hand was missing the pinky. Looked to me as if it had been bitten off some time in the past, though what did it could be any number of creatures; it had probably been something small, judging by the size of the scar, with very sharp, pointy teeth.
"What is your business?" she demanded in a high, yet businesslike tone.
"My name is Tristan Wormwood. I'm a detective. I want to visit a prisoner," I replied.
"Did you obtain and fill out the appropriate paperwork? You need the blue form, the green form, the red form, the-"
I pulled out another 100-dollar bill, and laid it on the desk. The imp looked down her nose at me, with some difficulty, since she had to look up in order to do so.
"Do you think, Mr. Wormwood, that I am susceptible to bribery?"
I added two more bills. Instantly she became more compliant.
"Which prisoner is it that you want to visit?" She gave me what I supposed was an ingratiating smile, exposing a fine set of tiny fangs; I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to bite off her finger. But I decided that was silly.
"Desmond Jessup. If it's quite convenient."
Both imp and ogre gasped. They gave each other nervous, darting glances, before looking back at me.
"Why him?" asked the receptionist in a strangled tone. I gave both her and Flavius another bill.
"He is still here, isn't he?" I probed.
"Of course he is!" The imp's indignation looked genuine. "He's just more...dangerous than the rest. He needs to be restrained first, and if you wish to speak with him privately, in his cell, it will cost you extra."
"Oh, I don't mind." Understanding why Morty had given me this wallet, and wondering how I would ever be able to pay him back, I handed her two more bills. The receptionist produced a ring of keys, and selected one. It had the number 10642 on it. She handed it over, and nodded to the ogre.
"Flavius will bring you there, and wait outside until you have finished. Have a nice day."
"Thanks."
With that, Flavius and I went to a nearby service elevator, and Flavius, with some difficulty (they weren't custom-made for fingers his size), pressed the button for the 10th floor.
This time, thankfully, I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down, though not without effort. Not only did I do it because the food had been made by Xen, but also because it would not be practical or sensible to allow the only nourishment I'd had all day to come up again. This was no time to disregard my health. I feel through the mirror to the ground, and lay curled in a ball, arms wrapped around my stomach, in paroxysms of agony until the convulsions finally ceased. It seemed like an eternity to me, but was probably only two minutes, give or take. My stomach gave one last lurch, trying to dislodge the food, and finally gave up. I pulled myself up, swallowed with difficulty, and wiped the sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt like I'd been giving a thrashing by a pair of hired goons with heavy sticks (I know what that feels like from a personal experience, which I would prefer not to go into right now, if it's all the same to you). Figuratively speaking, I pulled myself together. A couple of months ago, I actually had to see that happen. Bjorn, one of the trolls I work with often, came through one of the teleport mirrors wrong, or else it malfunctioned, because his arms and legs came through first, and the rest showed up afterwards. It was singularly icky, if you must know. We thought he was going to die, but Harper spit him back together, and soon he was good as new. However, we all gained an intense, irreparable mistrust of that particular mirror, and since then have avoided it like the plague.
I was at the very foot of Chernabog Prison. It was set on a giant, black rock, way out on the water, shrouded in spells of concealment and repellency to humans. To me, they looked like thick black clouds, with flashes of aura belonging to different mages who had worked to construct the spells. The castle itself looked every bit as forbidding and creepy as the mirror image had been. Undaunted, I stepped up to the iron, magically enhanced gate, lifted the knocker (which was shaped like an imp’s face) and banged twice. A slit above the knocker-way above the knocker-opened, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes peered out.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
"PASSWORD?" a voice rumbled.
Since when is there a password? I wondered. Then I realized what he (I guessed it was a he) meant. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the wallet Morty had given me, extracted a crisp 100-dollar bill, and held it up to the slot. A pair of meaty fingers the color of curdled milk (tipped with blood red nails) somehow reached through, plucked the bill from my claws, and then retreated inside. The slit slammed shut. I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, creaking ominously, the prison door opened, revealing the guard to be an enormous ogre. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, slightly grimy, with a nametag that said "Flavius" on it. At his belt he carried a club, one of those enchanted kinds that would electrocute whoever it was pointed at; very useful for subduing unruly inmates. Flavius waved the bill at me, and made a slightly mocking bow.
"ENTER, AND OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
I stepped through the doorway, and felt a chill run through my body. That had to be the air spirit that checked for concealed weapons. I held still until it stopped. The ogre looked pleased by my cooperation. When a disembodied voice whispered, "All clear," he gestured for me to follow him. I did. We were in the opening hallway, which was lined on either side with rows upon rows of statues and suits of armor, all armed to the teeth. I conjectured that they were designed to come to life and attack, in the case of an invasion or a prison breakout. Very cliché, but usually effective. The ceiling seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens. Even with my night vision, I was barely able to make it out. It looked very blank and cheerless, just like the rest of this place. Everything was made out of either stone or metal. Cold, lifeless objects. The place had a general air of wickedness and corruption, with overlying confinement and neglect. I wanted out, and as soon as conveniently possible.
We finally made it to the front desk, where there sat an imp woman with short, curly hair pulled into an untidy bun. Imps come mostly in black, but her skin was a sickly green. At most she had to be 4 feet tall, with beady red eyes, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose. Her fingers were covered with warts, and her right hand was missing the pinky. Looked to me as if it had been bitten off some time in the past, though what did it could be any number of creatures; it had probably been something small, judging by the size of the scar, with very sharp, pointy teeth.
"What is your business?" she demanded in a high, yet businesslike tone.
"My name is Tristan Wormwood. I'm a detective. I want to visit a prisoner," I replied.
"Did you obtain and fill out the appropriate paperwork? You need the blue form, the green form, the red form, the-"
I pulled out another 100-dollar bill, and laid it on the desk. The imp looked down her nose at me, with some difficulty, since she had to look up in order to do so.
"Do you think, Mr. Wormwood, that I am susceptible to bribery?"
I added two more bills. Instantly she became more compliant.
"Which prisoner is it that you want to visit?" She gave me what I supposed was an ingratiating smile, exposing a fine set of tiny fangs; I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to bite off her finger. But I decided that was silly.
"Desmond Jessup. If it's quite convenient."
Both imp and ogre gasped. They gave each other nervous, darting glances, before looking back at me.
"Why him?" asked the receptionist in a strangled tone. I gave both her and Flavius another bill.
"He is still here, isn't he?" I probed.
"Of course he is!" The imp's indignation looked genuine. "He's just more...dangerous than the rest. He needs to be restrained first, and if you wish to speak with him privately, in his cell, it will cost you extra."
"Oh, I don't mind." Understanding why Morty had given me this wallet, and wondering how I would ever be able to pay him back, I handed her two more bills. The receptionist produced a ring of keys, and selected one. It had the number 10642 on it. She handed it over, and nodded to the ogre.
"Flavius will bring you there, and wait outside until you have finished. Have a nice day."
"Thanks."
With that, Flavius and I went to a nearby service elevator, and Flavius, with some difficulty (they weren't custom-made for fingers his size), pressed the button for the 10th floor.
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.
Monday, July 2, 2012
TANSTAV part 12
Chapter Four part 2
"Who are you?" the troll lady inquired in Jotun.
"Tristan Wormwood, detective; your brother sent me here to look for your husband." I just barely avoided another vicious jab for my eyes by the flamingo I was holding.
Mrs. Skald's enormous hand flew to her mouth. Then she snapped at the pernicious, plastic birds, "Go back to your places! This is a guest!" I released them, and they reluctantly did as they were told, giving me a few parting hisses. Then, in what seemed to me to be a very hurried manner, she brought me inside, closing and bolting the front door behind her.
"What's the rush?" I asked.
"Nobody outside you and our family knows Gunnar is missing. We would prefer to keep it that way. He hates being in the papers."
I gave the hallway a cursory glance. The house was as large on the inside as on the outside. It was also unnaturally tidy, looking as if it had been swept, mopped, and dusted almost every day since it had first been inhabited. It reminded me of another place, one I would prefer to forget. I shoved the memory away, and ordered myself to concentrate. I looked at the gold-framed pictures on the walls, the fancy glass chandelier on the ceiling, and other such obvious displays of wealth.
"Does your desire for anonymity have anything to do with the fact that your husband is a senator, Mrs. Skald?"
The woman looked surprised.
"How on earth did you know that?"
Managing to keep my eyes from rolling, I said, "His picture is on the wall; I recognize him from the newspapers."
Her eyes strayed to the photograph I meant, and then she rumbled with soft (for a troll) laughter.
"Oh, yes. I should have realized."
I was being expected to find a missing politician. It was all I could do not to express my disgust. Don't get me wrong, I know that not all politicians are bloodsucking, greedy, unscrupulous rats. At least, I’ve heard they aren't. But, as I have mentioned, I have bad experience concerning politicians. I was not overly enthusiastic about having to retrieve one, especially since he was probably just off with another woman, or something. Though why he would leave so early in the morning, and leaving behind one of his slippers, was beyond me, unless it was just an oversight.
Mrs. Skald and I sat down in a pair of fancy armchairs in the living room. The fabric was red velvet, with golden threads woven in so as to create a pretty, swirling pattern over the furniture.
"When was the last time you saw your husband?" I asked as I made myself comfortable.
"Early this morning. We got up at the usual time, and as I fixed breakfast, he went outside to get the paper. I saw him going down the path through that window-" she indicated which one- "-and I remember turning my head to glance at the clock. I was worried that he would miss his appointment with his secretary. When I turned around again- Gunnar was gone."
She choked down a sob, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. I got up, and went into the kitchen.
"Where exactly were you standing?" I asked.
"By the stove-right there, I think," she sniffled. I stood where she had indicated. I scanned the area- there was a frying pan still on the stove, with pieces of bacon and eggs on it, burned to ashes. I presumed they had been forgotten due to the sudden disappearance of Senator Skald. That confirmed that she was probably being truthful. I looked up, towards the window she had mentioned. I could see the cement path-and the stupid flamingos-very clearly. I returned to the living room.
"Did-does Senator Skald have any enemies?" I asked, reseating myself.
"He does have some political rivals, but-"
"Anyone who'd want to harm him?"
"Well, you could examine his list."
"What list?"
"He made one of all the people he didn't like, or who didn't like him. It was his enemies list. He kept it in his study; I'll go get it."
Hmm, an enemies list. I rather liked the sound of that. I don’t have that many enemies, but there are a few people who hate my guts. With some of them, the feeling’s mutual. I decided that I would have to write one for myself. You never know when it might come in handy.
Just in case, I accompanied Mrs. Skald upstairs. I was taking no chances on her destroying evidence, or something like that. But the troll lady didn't seem to have that intention. Either she was innocent, she had a more sinister plot planned, or she was just stupid. Regardless of which it was, Mrs. Skald gave me the list. It was on ordinary paper, written by numerous utensils, proving he'd added to it at different times of life. And, of course, it was in Jotun. But I can read that, so it was no problem. I sealed it in another baggie, which I stowed in another pocket, bid Mrs. Skald goodbye, and left, being sure to stay on the concrete path, and trying to ignore the flamingos, who glared at me as I passed by. I had two more calls to make before I could go home: Doctor Higgins's place, and Galveston, Texas, home of the most securely guarded prison of the monster world.
"Who are you?" the troll lady inquired in Jotun.
"Tristan Wormwood, detective; your brother sent me here to look for your husband." I just barely avoided another vicious jab for my eyes by the flamingo I was holding.
Mrs. Skald's enormous hand flew to her mouth. Then she snapped at the pernicious, plastic birds, "Go back to your places! This is a guest!" I released them, and they reluctantly did as they were told, giving me a few parting hisses. Then, in what seemed to me to be a very hurried manner, she brought me inside, closing and bolting the front door behind her.
"What's the rush?" I asked.
"Nobody outside you and our family knows Gunnar is missing. We would prefer to keep it that way. He hates being in the papers."
I gave the hallway a cursory glance. The house was as large on the inside as on the outside. It was also unnaturally tidy, looking as if it had been swept, mopped, and dusted almost every day since it had first been inhabited. It reminded me of another place, one I would prefer to forget. I shoved the memory away, and ordered myself to concentrate. I looked at the gold-framed pictures on the walls, the fancy glass chandelier on the ceiling, and other such obvious displays of wealth.
"Does your desire for anonymity have anything to do with the fact that your husband is a senator, Mrs. Skald?"
The woman looked surprised.
"How on earth did you know that?"
Managing to keep my eyes from rolling, I said, "His picture is on the wall; I recognize him from the newspapers."
Her eyes strayed to the photograph I meant, and then she rumbled with soft (for a troll) laughter.
"Oh, yes. I should have realized."
I was being expected to find a missing politician. It was all I could do not to express my disgust. Don't get me wrong, I know that not all politicians are bloodsucking, greedy, unscrupulous rats. At least, I’ve heard they aren't. But, as I have mentioned, I have bad experience concerning politicians. I was not overly enthusiastic about having to retrieve one, especially since he was probably just off with another woman, or something. Though why he would leave so early in the morning, and leaving behind one of his slippers, was beyond me, unless it was just an oversight.
Mrs. Skald and I sat down in a pair of fancy armchairs in the living room. The fabric was red velvet, with golden threads woven in so as to create a pretty, swirling pattern over the furniture.
"When was the last time you saw your husband?" I asked as I made myself comfortable.
"Early this morning. We got up at the usual time, and as I fixed breakfast, he went outside to get the paper. I saw him going down the path through that window-" she indicated which one- "-and I remember turning my head to glance at the clock. I was worried that he would miss his appointment with his secretary. When I turned around again- Gunnar was gone."
She choked down a sob, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. I got up, and went into the kitchen.
"Where exactly were you standing?" I asked.
"By the stove-right there, I think," she sniffled. I stood where she had indicated. I scanned the area- there was a frying pan still on the stove, with pieces of bacon and eggs on it, burned to ashes. I presumed they had been forgotten due to the sudden disappearance of Senator Skald. That confirmed that she was probably being truthful. I looked up, towards the window she had mentioned. I could see the cement path-and the stupid flamingos-very clearly. I returned to the living room.
"Did-does Senator Skald have any enemies?" I asked, reseating myself.
"He does have some political rivals, but-"
"Anyone who'd want to harm him?"
"Well, you could examine his list."
"What list?"
"He made one of all the people he didn't like, or who didn't like him. It was his enemies list. He kept it in his study; I'll go get it."
Hmm, an enemies list. I rather liked the sound of that. I don’t have that many enemies, but there are a few people who hate my guts. With some of them, the feeling’s mutual. I decided that I would have to write one for myself. You never know when it might come in handy.
Just in case, I accompanied Mrs. Skald upstairs. I was taking no chances on her destroying evidence, or something like that. But the troll lady didn't seem to have that intention. Either she was innocent, she had a more sinister plot planned, or she was just stupid. Regardless of which it was, Mrs. Skald gave me the list. It was on ordinary paper, written by numerous utensils, proving he'd added to it at different times of life. And, of course, it was in Jotun. But I can read that, so it was no problem. I sealed it in another baggie, which I stowed in another pocket, bid Mrs. Skald goodbye, and left, being sure to stay on the concrete path, and trying to ignore the flamingos, who glared at me as I passed by. I had two more calls to make before I could go home: Doctor Higgins's place, and Galveston, Texas, home of the most securely guarded prison of the monster world.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
TANSTAV part 11
Chapter Four
I have some clues, a suspect, and a therapist appointment for Calla (to say nothing of getting attacked by flamingos)
As I traveled to the address I’d been given, I asked myself, How could someone have kidnapped a troll, anyway? At least, in the method Mr. Jorgensen described? Because it sounded like whoever had done it had been using magic. Sorry, that’s kind of a ‘duh!’ statement; whoever it was had definitely been using magic. Trolls, despite not having any powers of their own most of the time, have the inherited trait of being resistant to any magic used against them. I’m serious; you can’t put any kind of spell on them, because it’ll just bounce off or something. Besides that, trolls are really big, and powerful, so anyone who tried to capture one would probably wind up with his head torn off. And yet someone had managed to kidnap one? I’d have to see if I could smell any chloroform or potions on the scene to show how he’d been subdued.
I found the homestead of Gunnar Skald, Mr. Jorgensen's brother-in-law. It was in one of the nicer districts of town, which made sense, since Jorgensen was rich enough to afford expandable pockets. It was 3 stories tall, with 12 windows on the front of the house, a neatly-cut lawn with two pink, plastic flamingos on it, and a sign with the words HOME SWEET HOME on the front door. All nice and normal, almost human. Except, of course, that the house was twice the size of a human house, the better to accommodate trolls, HOME SWEET HOME was written in Jotun, and the flamingos had fangs. And one of them had a piece of cloth dangling from its beak. I concluded that they were magically enchanted to guard the house against trespassers. My suspicions were confirmed when they simultaneously raised their heads and hissed at me as I approached. I held up my hands defensively, to show that I meant no harm. However, their beady black eyes still watched me with clear suspicion.
As I came close to the area where the newspaper was typically thrown, I scanned the ground. I surmised that, as protection from the territorial flamingos, the newspaper monster probably tried to land it on the sidewalk, and as far away from them as possible, so I checked at the very edge of the lawn. There was no newspaper there, but presumably it had already been taken indoors. I felt some annoyance at the removal of evidence from the crime scene, but decided to let it go, considering that I had been guilty of the same thing earlier. I could smell grass, troll (which is best described as a combination of mountains and grizzly bear), the very faint whiff of newspaper, proving my deduction correct, and- At the same moment as I recognized the smell, my eyes caught two other clues that distracted me from it. Floating in the air was some magical residue. Unlike Calla's, it was red shot with black, and very oily in nature. Quickly I pulled out one of my magically enhanced baggies, and ensnared it. It beat against the plastic walls for a moment, and then sagged limply to the bottom. Odd.
The other piece of evidence was just as interesting, and I crouched on my haunches to examine it better as I stuffed the baggie in my pants pocket. It was a set of footprints in the grass that started close to the sidewalk, and then vanished. The tracks were oddly unmatched; the left was that of a cloven hoof, and the right shaped like the claws of some bird of prey.
As soon as I saw that, my hands clenched themselves into fists, and my vision became tinged with red. I knew who those tracks belonged to, all too well. So he was involved! Funny, I would have thought a petty kidnapping was beneath him, but hey, who can fathom the mind of a felon? Pulling myself together, I gave them closer scrutiny. The footprints were several hours old; I would place them at about the time of day when Mr. Skald had disappeared. That was certainly incriminating. I reached out a hand to touch the tracks, in order to see if I could learn anything else, such as how he could have been there, anyway- and was immediately set upon by those bleeping-bleep-of-a-bleep flamingos!
Let me just say that I think it is very wrong of people to keep magic attack flamingos. It is not only inconvenient and obnoxious, but it is just plain rude! The stupid things completely misunderstood my intentions, and, assuming that I was attempting to desecrate their lawn, they began trying to peck my eyes out! Of course, I began defending myself, gouging and slicing, but it is very hard to destroy plastic enchanted flamingos that keep healing themselves. Finally, as a last resort, I pulled myself to my feet, and, hands over my head, I ran like heck across the lawn, with the blighted creatures right behind me. When I reached the front door, I slammed a fist against the doorbell, and then promptly turned and grabbed one bird around the neck, and used my foot to pin the other to the ground by the throat, thus halting the attack. The one in my hand squirmed furiously, stabbing again and again at my unprotected throat. Its metal legs were braced against my chest, and I could feel some burning pain there. Regardless, I hung on for dear life. Finally, the door opened, revealing a maternal female troll, about 7’11”, with long gray fur, and red-rimmed, orange eyes. Her gigantic ring finger had a gold wedding ring on it.
"Mrs. Skald, I presume?" I panted.
As I traveled to the address I’d been given, I asked myself, How could someone have kidnapped a troll, anyway? At least, in the method Mr. Jorgensen described? Because it sounded like whoever had done it had been using magic. Sorry, that’s kind of a ‘duh!’ statement; whoever it was had definitely been using magic. Trolls, despite not having any powers of their own most of the time, have the inherited trait of being resistant to any magic used against them. I’m serious; you can’t put any kind of spell on them, because it’ll just bounce off or something. Besides that, trolls are really big, and powerful, so anyone who tried to capture one would probably wind up with his head torn off. And yet someone had managed to kidnap one? I’d have to see if I could smell any chloroform or potions on the scene to show how he’d been subdued.
I found the homestead of Gunnar Skald, Mr. Jorgensen's brother-in-law. It was in one of the nicer districts of town, which made sense, since Jorgensen was rich enough to afford expandable pockets. It was 3 stories tall, with 12 windows on the front of the house, a neatly-cut lawn with two pink, plastic flamingos on it, and a sign with the words HOME SWEET HOME on the front door. All nice and normal, almost human. Except, of course, that the house was twice the size of a human house, the better to accommodate trolls, HOME SWEET HOME was written in Jotun, and the flamingos had fangs. And one of them had a piece of cloth dangling from its beak. I concluded that they were magically enchanted to guard the house against trespassers. My suspicions were confirmed when they simultaneously raised their heads and hissed at me as I approached. I held up my hands defensively, to show that I meant no harm. However, their beady black eyes still watched me with clear suspicion.
As I came close to the area where the newspaper was typically thrown, I scanned the ground. I surmised that, as protection from the territorial flamingos, the newspaper monster probably tried to land it on the sidewalk, and as far away from them as possible, so I checked at the very edge of the lawn. There was no newspaper there, but presumably it had already been taken indoors. I felt some annoyance at the removal of evidence from the crime scene, but decided to let it go, considering that I had been guilty of the same thing earlier. I could smell grass, troll (which is best described as a combination of mountains and grizzly bear), the very faint whiff of newspaper, proving my deduction correct, and- At the same moment as I recognized the smell, my eyes caught two other clues that distracted me from it. Floating in the air was some magical residue. Unlike Calla's, it was red shot with black, and very oily in nature. Quickly I pulled out one of my magically enhanced baggies, and ensnared it. It beat against the plastic walls for a moment, and then sagged limply to the bottom. Odd.
The other piece of evidence was just as interesting, and I crouched on my haunches to examine it better as I stuffed the baggie in my pants pocket. It was a set of footprints in the grass that started close to the sidewalk, and then vanished. The tracks were oddly unmatched; the left was that of a cloven hoof, and the right shaped like the claws of some bird of prey.
As soon as I saw that, my hands clenched themselves into fists, and my vision became tinged with red. I knew who those tracks belonged to, all too well. So he was involved! Funny, I would have thought a petty kidnapping was beneath him, but hey, who can fathom the mind of a felon? Pulling myself together, I gave them closer scrutiny. The footprints were several hours old; I would place them at about the time of day when Mr. Skald had disappeared. That was certainly incriminating. I reached out a hand to touch the tracks, in order to see if I could learn anything else, such as how he could have been there, anyway- and was immediately set upon by those bleeping-bleep-of-a-bleep flamingos!
Let me just say that I think it is very wrong of people to keep magic attack flamingos. It is not only inconvenient and obnoxious, but it is just plain rude! The stupid things completely misunderstood my intentions, and, assuming that I was attempting to desecrate their lawn, they began trying to peck my eyes out! Of course, I began defending myself, gouging and slicing, but it is very hard to destroy plastic enchanted flamingos that keep healing themselves. Finally, as a last resort, I pulled myself to my feet, and, hands over my head, I ran like heck across the lawn, with the blighted creatures right behind me. When I reached the front door, I slammed a fist against the doorbell, and then promptly turned and grabbed one bird around the neck, and used my foot to pin the other to the ground by the throat, thus halting the attack. The one in my hand squirmed furiously, stabbing again and again at my unprotected throat. Its metal legs were braced against my chest, and I could feel some burning pain there. Regardless, I hung on for dear life. Finally, the door opened, revealing a maternal female troll, about 7’11”, with long gray fur, and red-rimmed, orange eyes. Her gigantic ring finger had a gold wedding ring on it.
"Mrs. Skald, I presume?" I panted.
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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