The place positively reeked of magic. It reminded me of being in the forest, or in the presence of Mayor Bodmin: it was covered in older magic, the sort that had been around since probably the dawn of time, and would still be here long after I finally became a statue for good. It wasn’t evil-magic is not good or evil, even the kinds that are forbidden, like blood magic. But it was extremely strong, and if someone wanted to use it for evil...just thinking about it made my fur stand on end. This was why the most powerful monsters-alchemists, sorcerers, elder dragons, sidhe, certain types of demons-all freaked out us more garden-variety monsters. It was people like them who had caused major problems in the past, setting themselves up as gods, exacting horrible punishments on anyone who disagreed with them, and in general causing havoc. Don’t get me wrong, any monster with a mind to can cause havoc; case in point, Desmond Jessup. And we try not to actually discriminate against them, since it was discrimination that drove all of us into hiding, and we know how that feels. But among those monsters history and mythology consider to be bad...these were the Big Bads. So it’s hard not to be wary of them, and in many cases that wariness is justified.
Speak of the devil, as I removed my sunglasses the spell dissipated, and I finally got a good look at the witch herself, who was sitting at an old wooden table in the center of the room. I’d seen her once before, years ago at a diplomatic party that my dad dragged us to in St. Petersburg. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t changed a bit. Still a tall, skinny old woman dressed like a traditional Russian grandmother: old black dress, dark gray shawl, blood red head scarf fastened with a brooch shaped like a skull (the skull is not necessarily traditional)-just how people imagine she looks. Her gray-and-white hair hung underneath the scarf in two long curtains, framing her pale face. Burning red eyes, a long icepick of a nose, and a thin-lipped mouth filled with sharp iron teeth (which seem awfully impractical to me) finished up the ensemble.
The hut, I saw, was a mess. Dust covered the floor, the table, the enormous wardrobe in the corner, the spare chairs, the enormous stone fireplace, the giant mortar and pestle over in the opposite corner-basically everywhere and everything. A tall black sunflower grew in one corner of the room; the ground around it was littered with fallen petals. There were spills and crumbs everywhere, in many interesting hues. Remembering the stories I’d read about Baba Yaga, I wondered if she was going to force us to clean for her. I hoped not.
“Welcome,” she said with a smile that she probably thought looked benevolent. “Who is your lovely companion?”
As if you didn’t know.
“My assistant, Calla Gardiner.” She probably expected me to bow or something; well, good luck with that. Even if I was on my best behavior at the moment, that didn’t mean I was going to go that far. I just stood there as Calla joined me, standing at my side.
“Hello,” she said softly, nodding to the witch while avoiding her eyes.
Baba Yaga made a gesture with an emaciated hand, and two extra chairs appeared at the table.
“Please, sit.”
After a cursory glance confirmed that they were safe, we sat down.
As soon as Calla was in her chair, the witch suddenly reached out and pinched her arm gently. I had to remember Xen’s warning not to start anything so that I wouldn’t swat her hand away.
“Hardly any flesh,” she said in an almost disappointed tone. Her nose twitched, and I remembered that she was reputed to have an exceptional sense of smell.
Calla flinched away. “Sorry. I don’t gain weight easily.”
Baba Yaga withdrew her hand, before abruptly saying, “You are a very interesting person, Miss Gardiner.”
“Am I?” my assistant asked. She glanced up at the witch, unnerved at how closely she was being stared at.
“You have the blood of the vurdalaki in your veins.”
“The-” Then Calla realized who she was referring to, and nodded with a timid smile. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“In all my years, I have never met someone who has bonded with one. Most fascinating.”
Mentally I cursed; it appeared that Calla didn’t even need to demonstrate her eye powers to be interesting to her.
Baba Yaga went on, “And if I did, I would not expect them to have a soul so...relatively unstained. Even though there is blood on yours, it’s hardly as much as I would expect.”
Any ease Calla had been feeling vanished; her face went white, and her heart rate increased at the mention of the one life she had taken. I felt a rush of anger that the witch would dredge up that old wound, and decided to intervene.
“What’s the issue?” I interrupted.
Baba Yaga looked disappointed at my butting in, but she just gave a small nod and said, “There is something I need you to retrieve for me. It is a sword being kept in the home of Koschei the Deathless.”
If Baba Yaga was Russia’s most powerful witch, then Koschei was its most powerful sorcerer. Legends said that he’d extracted his own soul from his body, and put it where nobody, human, animal, monster or Reaper, could ever find it-making himself basically immortal. He was well-versed in the magical arts, and exceedingly rich. And since he was so powerful, it only followed that he and Baba Yaga would become bitter enemies, constantly squabbling over treasures and territory. In a way, it was a blessing, because if they ever decided to work together, they would probably think to try to leave Russia and take over the world. At least this way they were just holed up in one country.
She dragged me out here to become a part of her petty squabble with Mr. the Deathless?! Heck no, babushka, I am not your errand boy!
I didn’t say that, of course. Instead I asked, “Did he steal it from you?”
Baba Yaga gave me a scornful look at the implication that anyone would be able to steal from her. “Of course not.”
“Has the sword in any way, shape or form been your legal property before coming into his possession?”
She finally realized what I was getting at; her red eyes narrowed into slits, and a slight angry hiss came from her mouth. But she tried to calm down again, and said in a reasonable tone, “You don’t understand. This is not just any sword. It is the sword Kladenets, which gives untold power to whoever wields it. If Koschei has it, think of what he might be able to do.”
And that’s better than you having it, how? I’m not sure which of you is worse, but I don’t need to get involved in this. It’s not my country.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but this job is not in my jurisdiction. If the sword is not your property, then I can’t do anything.”
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Season of the Witch part 3
Usually, Calla does what I ask her to; not just because I’m basically her boss, but because she trusts my judgement and likes to keep me happy. I sometimes worry about this, due to the danger of her forfeiting her own happiness as a result, but in general, I don’t have to worry about her disagreeing with or disobeying me. So when I got up from where I had been crouched, squinting in the sudden morning sunlight (wherever I was, it was about ten hours ahead of the time back home), gagging and doing my best to keep down my dinner, and saw Calla getting up behind me, looking dazed...for a moment I was a little nonplussed.
After a moment of staring at her, I spluttered, “What the h-”
“I didn’t come here on purpose, I swear!” she interjected, holding her arms up placatingly, “I was just sitting there, and I think it pulled me in!”
Fact: Calla is well-known for her honesty. She’s almost too afraid to lie. Ever.
Fact: She also does not willingly throw herself into danger for a stupid reason, such as doing it on a whim. There was no reason for her to come with me, and more than enough reason not to.
Fact: Baba Yaga probably has sources that could have told her about Calla; she very well might know about her already, and created that spell to make sure she came too, willingly or not.
Fact: there is a smell of extra magic in the air, and a few fragments on the ground which must have come from the portal-none of them belong to my assistant.
Conclusion: This is Baba Yaga’s fault. Not Calla’s.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. I got it out, and saw that it was a text from Xen.
The portal sucked Calla in with you-is she with you now?
Yeah, she’s here.
Going to try to send her home?
Debating that now.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, put on my protective sunglasses, put my phone away, and then asked, “How’re your portal opening skills?”
Calla winced. “Not very good, I’m afraid.”
I shouldn’t even have to ask. Of course she’ll have lousy portal skills. But even if she had them, the old bat would probably have some other way of ensuring that she stays here.
I sighed. “Okay. Then, despite my wishes, it looks like you’re coming with me.”
Calla looked at me apprehensively. “Are you-sure?”
I straightened my tie, and texted Xen, Going to just roll with it, and keep her with me. “I’d rather it were otherwise. Sorry, I do. But Baba Yaga obviously wants to meet you.”
“Okay.” Brushing a twig out of her hair, Calla came to stand by my side. However, she was caught off guard when I abruptly turned toward her.
“Before we go anywhere, we need to establish some ground rules about when we get to Baba Yaga’s hut.” I held up a claw. “One: if at all possible, avoid looking her in the eyes. Just don’t. Or any of her minions, if such there should be. There’s a very, very slight possibility that she doesn’t know about that power yet, and so much the better for us if she doesn’t. Two (I held up a second claw): don’t touch anything unless you see me touch it first, and you’re absolutely sure it’s safe.”
Calla seemed about to say something, but paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“I-I was thinking that those criteria don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”
She looked down, blushing, but also trying to smother a giggle. I made a miffed hmph noise, but conceded the point.
“Three (I held up a third claw): don’t eat anything unless absolutely sure it’s safe. It’s a lot like rule two, and in fact can probably be considered a part of it. But a fundamental rule of adventures seems to be having things come in threes, and that includes rules that the protagonists need to follow if they want to stay safe. And besides, Baba Yaga claims that she’s no longer in the habit of eating children, but I’m not sure I trust her enough to believe that. Got it?”
Calla gulped a bit when I mentioned eating children, but merely said, “Don’t look her in the eyes, don’t touch anything, and don’t eat anything.”
“Good girl.”
The hut was just a clearing away, surrounded by larch and ash trees. It was made out of black wood, and despite being small, appeared much bigger, due to its standing on an enormous, gangly pair of chicken legs. The side facing us had a set of steps attached leading up to a door, with two windows right above it, so that it looked kind of like they were wide, staring eyes. On either side of the door were trees of some kind, which almost appeared to be growing out of the wood; gnarled, wild, twisted things that gave the house an even more freakish appearance than before. The hut was surrounded by a fence made out of bones, with skulls placed on the tops of the posts for decoration. As we got closer, I saw that the fence was just two skulls short of a full set-but based on what I knew, it was enchanted so that it always had at least one missing, depending on how many people showed up here, as an unspoken threat. All in all, I was sure that the whole kaboodle was specifically designed to scare the willies out of small Russian children.
I glanced down at Calla, to see how she was handling this. She was examining the house with a critical eye (the other one was impressed by it).
“Well, what do you think, kid?” I waved a claw at the place.
She chewed her lip for a second, then looked around, as if to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard. “It seems...it’s a little...ostentatious.”
I chuckled. Calla gave a nervous giggle in reply. Then she asked, more seriously, “Xen called her a witch. Was that just intended as an insult? Because even if it was, it also sounded like she was calling her by a title. Shouldn’t she be a mage or alchemist? Or-or even sorceress?”
“Well, she probably is one of those, but she goes by the title of witch. And she’s so powerful that nobody argues with her about it.”
I straightened my shirt, actually tucking it in, and smoothed back my hair a bit-though leaving it just messy enough to be rebellious. Show time.
We strode into the yard, marching up the dirt path until we got to the house. I idly wondered if my next action would be taking a liberty, since Baba Yaga was probably the only one allowed to do it, but I reached out and scratched gently at one of the legs. As I did, I chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
The house stirred in a way that seemed almost surprised, but then, as I took a step back, it slowly bent its knees, until the stairs were just a hop away.
I glanced at Calla, pleased.
“Wow; that worked.”
I jumped onto the first step, giving the kid a hand up. Though the stairs looked old and creaked when we stepped on them, they were quite sturdy. We started to ascend them, when out of the blue the house began to rise again. Of course there were no handrails, so we both lost our balance quite quickly. I fell forward, landing on the hard wooden stairs, but Calla started to fall back, looking about to go over the edge-fortunately, she created a lasso that wound itself around the tree to the left of the door, and even though it bent and creaked dangerously, she was able to pull herself safely into balance.
As soon as the house, Izbushka, was standing up straight, Calla sat down hard on the steps, taking deep breaths to calm herself; I could hear her heart racing. Mine wasn’t going that slowly either, so I had to join her in trying to relax, even though the fall wouldn’t have been able to hurt me.
“Stupid house,” I muttered.
“Careful,” Calla reminded me, “she might hear you.”
I was tempted to say, “Let her,” before pouring a larger torrent of abuse on both the house and the witch. However, that would in all likelihood tempt fate to arrange things so that Baba Yaga would be standing right behind me and listening to everything I said, leading to an embarrassing (if not downright fatal) moment. So I just shut my trap, and stood up.
“You all right?”
“I’m still a little shaky,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I’m hurt at all.”
“Good. That’s good.” I offered her a claw up after giving her a minute or two to recover. “Ready to meet her?”
Calla stood, taking a deep breath. “What if she offers me something to eat? Won’t it be rude not to accept it?”
“Try to discreetly use a spell, sense if there’s anything wrong with it. Same if she offers for you to touch anything, or sit down, or anything like that.”
“Okay. Then let’s go.”
We climbed up the remaining steps, which creaked ominously beneath our feet. The door’s knocker, I saw up close, was shaped like a golden skull and crossbones. There was a deep blue aura hanging around it, making me suspect that it was alive, and maybe would try to bite me or something if I touched it. So I avoided it, and just pounded my fist (though gently-I didn’t want to break the wood) on the door. At the third knock, fitting with the universal theme of three being the most important number ever, the door slowly and ominously opened. It was dark inside, and I suspected that there was a spell present, because even with my nocturnal eyes I couldn’t see a thing.
“Come in, Chernobyl,” an aged woman’s voice with a thick Russian accent croaked.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and then stepped into the witch’s house.
After a moment of staring at her, I spluttered, “What the h-”
“I didn’t come here on purpose, I swear!” she interjected, holding her arms up placatingly, “I was just sitting there, and I think it pulled me in!”
Fact: Calla is well-known for her honesty. She’s almost too afraid to lie. Ever.
Fact: She also does not willingly throw herself into danger for a stupid reason, such as doing it on a whim. There was no reason for her to come with me, and more than enough reason not to.
Fact: Baba Yaga probably has sources that could have told her about Calla; she very well might know about her already, and created that spell to make sure she came too, willingly or not.
Fact: there is a smell of extra magic in the air, and a few fragments on the ground which must have come from the portal-none of them belong to my assistant.
Conclusion: This is Baba Yaga’s fault. Not Calla’s.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. I got it out, and saw that it was a text from Xen.
The portal sucked Calla in with you-is she with you now?
Yeah, she’s here.
Going to try to send her home?
Debating that now.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, put on my protective sunglasses, put my phone away, and then asked, “How’re your portal opening skills?”
Calla winced. “Not very good, I’m afraid.”
I shouldn’t even have to ask. Of course she’ll have lousy portal skills. But even if she had them, the old bat would probably have some other way of ensuring that she stays here.
I sighed. “Okay. Then, despite my wishes, it looks like you’re coming with me.”
Calla looked at me apprehensively. “Are you-sure?”
I straightened my tie, and texted Xen, Going to just roll with it, and keep her with me. “I’d rather it were otherwise. Sorry, I do. But Baba Yaga obviously wants to meet you.”
“Okay.” Brushing a twig out of her hair, Calla came to stand by my side. However, she was caught off guard when I abruptly turned toward her.
“Before we go anywhere, we need to establish some ground rules about when we get to Baba Yaga’s hut.” I held up a claw. “One: if at all possible, avoid looking her in the eyes. Just don’t. Or any of her minions, if such there should be. There’s a very, very slight possibility that she doesn’t know about that power yet, and so much the better for us if she doesn’t. Two (I held up a second claw): don’t touch anything unless you see me touch it first, and you’re absolutely sure it’s safe.”
Calla seemed about to say something, but paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“I-I was thinking that those criteria don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”
She looked down, blushing, but also trying to smother a giggle. I made a miffed hmph noise, but conceded the point.
“Three (I held up a third claw): don’t eat anything unless absolutely sure it’s safe. It’s a lot like rule two, and in fact can probably be considered a part of it. But a fundamental rule of adventures seems to be having things come in threes, and that includes rules that the protagonists need to follow if they want to stay safe. And besides, Baba Yaga claims that she’s no longer in the habit of eating children, but I’m not sure I trust her enough to believe that. Got it?”
Calla gulped a bit when I mentioned eating children, but merely said, “Don’t look her in the eyes, don’t touch anything, and don’t eat anything.”
“Good girl.”
The hut was just a clearing away, surrounded by larch and ash trees. It was made out of black wood, and despite being small, appeared much bigger, due to its standing on an enormous, gangly pair of chicken legs. The side facing us had a set of steps attached leading up to a door, with two windows right above it, so that it looked kind of like they were wide, staring eyes. On either side of the door were trees of some kind, which almost appeared to be growing out of the wood; gnarled, wild, twisted things that gave the house an even more freakish appearance than before. The hut was surrounded by a fence made out of bones, with skulls placed on the tops of the posts for decoration. As we got closer, I saw that the fence was just two skulls short of a full set-but based on what I knew, it was enchanted so that it always had at least one missing, depending on how many people showed up here, as an unspoken threat. All in all, I was sure that the whole kaboodle was specifically designed to scare the willies out of small Russian children.
I glanced down at Calla, to see how she was handling this. She was examining the house with a critical eye (the other one was impressed by it).
“Well, what do you think, kid?” I waved a claw at the place.
She chewed her lip for a second, then looked around, as if to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard. “It seems...it’s a little...ostentatious.”
I chuckled. Calla gave a nervous giggle in reply. Then she asked, more seriously, “Xen called her a witch. Was that just intended as an insult? Because even if it was, it also sounded like she was calling her by a title. Shouldn’t she be a mage or alchemist? Or-or even sorceress?”
“Well, she probably is one of those, but she goes by the title of witch. And she’s so powerful that nobody argues with her about it.”
I straightened my shirt, actually tucking it in, and smoothed back my hair a bit-though leaving it just messy enough to be rebellious. Show time.
We strode into the yard, marching up the dirt path until we got to the house. I idly wondered if my next action would be taking a liberty, since Baba Yaga was probably the only one allowed to do it, but I reached out and scratched gently at one of the legs. As I did, I chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
The house stirred in a way that seemed almost surprised, but then, as I took a step back, it slowly bent its knees, until the stairs were just a hop away.
I glanced at Calla, pleased.
“Wow; that worked.”
I jumped onto the first step, giving the kid a hand up. Though the stairs looked old and creaked when we stepped on them, they were quite sturdy. We started to ascend them, when out of the blue the house began to rise again. Of course there were no handrails, so we both lost our balance quite quickly. I fell forward, landing on the hard wooden stairs, but Calla started to fall back, looking about to go over the edge-fortunately, she created a lasso that wound itself around the tree to the left of the door, and even though it bent and creaked dangerously, she was able to pull herself safely into balance.
As soon as the house, Izbushka, was standing up straight, Calla sat down hard on the steps, taking deep breaths to calm herself; I could hear her heart racing. Mine wasn’t going that slowly either, so I had to join her in trying to relax, even though the fall wouldn’t have been able to hurt me.
“Stupid house,” I muttered.
“Careful,” Calla reminded me, “she might hear you.”
I was tempted to say, “Let her,” before pouring a larger torrent of abuse on both the house and the witch. However, that would in all likelihood tempt fate to arrange things so that Baba Yaga would be standing right behind me and listening to everything I said, leading to an embarrassing (if not downright fatal) moment. So I just shut my trap, and stood up.
“You all right?”
“I’m still a little shaky,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I’m hurt at all.”
“Good. That’s good.” I offered her a claw up after giving her a minute or two to recover. “Ready to meet her?”
Calla stood, taking a deep breath. “What if she offers me something to eat? Won’t it be rude not to accept it?”
“Try to discreetly use a spell, sense if there’s anything wrong with it. Same if she offers for you to touch anything, or sit down, or anything like that.”
“Okay. Then let’s go.”
We climbed up the remaining steps, which creaked ominously beneath our feet. The door’s knocker, I saw up close, was shaped like a golden skull and crossbones. There was a deep blue aura hanging around it, making me suspect that it was alive, and maybe would try to bite me or something if I touched it. So I avoided it, and just pounded my fist (though gently-I didn’t want to break the wood) on the door. At the third knock, fitting with the universal theme of three being the most important number ever, the door slowly and ominously opened. It was dark inside, and I suspected that there was a spell present, because even with my nocturnal eyes I couldn’t see a thing.
“Come in, Chernobyl,” an aged woman’s voice with a thick Russian accent croaked.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and then stepped into the witch’s house.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Season of the Witch part 2
Calla’s eyebrows scrunched together, and then raised. “She’s real too?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s real, powerful, and dangerous.”
“And she-and she wants you to come solve a case for her?”
“That’s not exactly what she says, but-oh, here.” Xen passed her the letter. For those of you readers who are irritably wishing for me to just say what’s in it already, you may read along with Calla.
Dear Chernobyl,
I need your help. You must come to my cottage at once; this letter, when burned, will open a gateway. Time is of the essence, so I suggest you do it soon.
I await your arrival.
Typically for her, the note was not signed. I sighed. As much as I knew that I didn’t trust the old witch, Xen was right about my curiosity being piqued. If she claimed to need my help, then it had to be something big. Maybe. People with that level of power can afford to obsess over extremely petty things; just read the ancient Greek myths sometime. Nevertheless, the idea that it could be important meant that I really, really wanted to go and find out.
“Why does she call you Chernobyl?” Calla asked, passing the letter back to me.
“It’s Russian for Wormwood.”
“Whoa, really?” My assistant chuckled. “That’s kind of appropriate, actually.”
“Very funny.” I smiled as I went to the cupboard, and grabbed the matchbox. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. It depends on what she wants.”
“Why can’t she just come here?”
“It’s complicated, kid.”
“Do you have to go now?” Xen gave me a slightly pleading look. I immediately felt guilty; even though she was used to my job taking me off into dangerous situations on short notice, it definitely wasn’t easy on her. Especially now that we also had a baby to look after.
I set down the matchbox, and put my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Should I wait until tomorrow?”
After hugging me back for a second, Xen placed her palms on my chest, gently but firmly pushing me away.
“She’ll probably just get cranky and retaliate somehow. You’d better strike while the iron is hot.”
“Xen-”
“I’m fine,” she lied. Seeing my expression, she amended, “Okay, I’m not fine, but that’s not important at the moment. Go see what the old witch wants.”
My heart stung, even though I knew she was trying to do what was best at the moment, and I promised myself that I’d do something about it the first chance I got.
“Should I-” Calla began.
I quickly jumped in, turning and pointing a decisive claw at her.
“You are definitely not coming.”
Calla looked both confused and hurt, and I regretted the abruptness in which I had spoken.
“Why not?” she whispered. It sounded almost like she was about to cry; maybe a bit of an overreaction, but she just wasn’t used to me talking to her like that.
I slowly crossed to the other side of the table and plucked Phil out of his seat, cleaning him off as I explained.
“Sorry I said it like that, kid. I didn’t-it’s not that I wouldn’t want your company. But I don’t think it would be safe for you. Baba Yaga has this bad habit of collecting rare and interesting objects. And to her, that includes people. I think that if she knew about your eyes, she would all too happily add you to that collection. It seems a lot easier in the long run if you just sit this one out.”
The hurt was still there, but now that she better understood the situation, it had faded somewhat. Calla nodded.
“Okay.”
“If I need your help, I’ll text you.” I extracted the washcloth from between Phil’s fangs, and handed him to Xen.
“Okay.” My assistant sat down, combing her hair with a few fingers.
I kissed my wife goodbye, trying not to think that I was like Hector just before he went back outside the walls of Troy.
“I’ll let you know what happens, okay?”
“Okay. And try not to start another international incident, would you? We don’t need Russian spies as well as British ones persecuting us.”
“You kidding? Baba Yaga won’t need to hire any flunkies to persecute me, she’ll just-”
A claw covered my mouth.
“Try not to start anything. Capisce?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Thank you.” She lowered her claw, and kissed me once more for luck. Then I struck a match, and set the letter on fire. Instantly it began to glow, and the ashes formed a portal which sucked me up, up, up and away…
“Oh, yeah. She’s real, powerful, and dangerous.”
“And she-and she wants you to come solve a case for her?”
“That’s not exactly what she says, but-oh, here.” Xen passed her the letter. For those of you readers who are irritably wishing for me to just say what’s in it already, you may read along with Calla.
Dear Chernobyl,
I need your help. You must come to my cottage at once; this letter, when burned, will open a gateway. Time is of the essence, so I suggest you do it soon.
I await your arrival.
Typically for her, the note was not signed. I sighed. As much as I knew that I didn’t trust the old witch, Xen was right about my curiosity being piqued. If she claimed to need my help, then it had to be something big. Maybe. People with that level of power can afford to obsess over extremely petty things; just read the ancient Greek myths sometime. Nevertheless, the idea that it could be important meant that I really, really wanted to go and find out.
“Why does she call you Chernobyl?” Calla asked, passing the letter back to me.
“It’s Russian for Wormwood.”
“Whoa, really?” My assistant chuckled. “That’s kind of appropriate, actually.”
“Very funny.” I smiled as I went to the cupboard, and grabbed the matchbox. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. It depends on what she wants.”
“Why can’t she just come here?”
“It’s complicated, kid.”
“Do you have to go now?” Xen gave me a slightly pleading look. I immediately felt guilty; even though she was used to my job taking me off into dangerous situations on short notice, it definitely wasn’t easy on her. Especially now that we also had a baby to look after.
I set down the matchbox, and put my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Should I wait until tomorrow?”
After hugging me back for a second, Xen placed her palms on my chest, gently but firmly pushing me away.
“She’ll probably just get cranky and retaliate somehow. You’d better strike while the iron is hot.”
“Xen-”
“I’m fine,” she lied. Seeing my expression, she amended, “Okay, I’m not fine, but that’s not important at the moment. Go see what the old witch wants.”
My heart stung, even though I knew she was trying to do what was best at the moment, and I promised myself that I’d do something about it the first chance I got.
“Should I-” Calla began.
I quickly jumped in, turning and pointing a decisive claw at her.
“You are definitely not coming.”
Calla looked both confused and hurt, and I regretted the abruptness in which I had spoken.
“Why not?” she whispered. It sounded almost like she was about to cry; maybe a bit of an overreaction, but she just wasn’t used to me talking to her like that.
I slowly crossed to the other side of the table and plucked Phil out of his seat, cleaning him off as I explained.
“Sorry I said it like that, kid. I didn’t-it’s not that I wouldn’t want your company. But I don’t think it would be safe for you. Baba Yaga has this bad habit of collecting rare and interesting objects. And to her, that includes people. I think that if she knew about your eyes, she would all too happily add you to that collection. It seems a lot easier in the long run if you just sit this one out.”
The hurt was still there, but now that she better understood the situation, it had faded somewhat. Calla nodded.
“Okay.”
“If I need your help, I’ll text you.” I extracted the washcloth from between Phil’s fangs, and handed him to Xen.
“Okay.” My assistant sat down, combing her hair with a few fingers.
I kissed my wife goodbye, trying not to think that I was like Hector just before he went back outside the walls of Troy.
“I’ll let you know what happens, okay?”
“Okay. And try not to start another international incident, would you? We don’t need Russian spies as well as British ones persecuting us.”
“You kidding? Baba Yaga won’t need to hire any flunkies to persecute me, she’ll just-”
A claw covered my mouth.
“Try not to start anything. Capisce?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Thank you.” She lowered her claw, and kissed me once more for luck. Then I struck a match, and set the letter on fire. Instantly it began to glow, and the ashes formed a portal which sucked me up, up, up and away…
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Agony of de Feet
We interrupt this program in order for the author to discuss some of the risks involved in playing the game Murder in the Dark.
Last night, in order to celebrate my roommate's birthday, some of the people in my ward and I gathered at a house (belonging to someone I will refer to as Skater Boy, in order to protect his identity) to play the aforementioned Murder in the Dark. This version is far more advanced than you might know of: there can be more than one murderer, who kills someone by pretending to slit their throat, and the players can go upstairs as far as the attic, or down into the basement; if they find someone who admits to being dead, then they have to flip on a light and yell "Body!", and everyone comes running, before we hold a trial to determine who the murderer was. It's kind of like the movie Clue.
Well, in the first round of this particular game, I chose a card marking me as a murderer. There was at least one other person out there who was also a murderer, so I was hesitant to get close to anyone. At some point, I was creeping into a corner, and ran into someone. My knee-jerk reaction was to think, "Oh shoot, it's the other murderer! Well, he (I suspected it was a he) isn't going to get me!" So I just ran away, into Skater Boy's living room. Now, the thing you need to know about his living room is that there's this little step down into it, which the architects somehow thought would be a good idea to have. In my panic I completely forgot about it, and as I stumbled, I heard-or felt, I'm not sure which-a distinct popping noise in my right ankle, accompanied by mildly agonizing pain.
I crouched there on the floor for several minutes, quietly hissing and trying to collect myself. Eventually the pain subsided somewhat, and I got up and continued the game, even running up and down flights of stairs a few times (in my defense, I thought it was just some kind of bruising, and therefore nothing serious). However, by the time the game finally ended and we went home (there were several rounds), I was sure that there was something seriously wrong. So I talked to one of my other roommates, who is in the nursing program, and therefore useful for this sort of thing, allowing her to inspect the injury. And guess what? For what I think is the first time ever, I have succeeded in spraining my ankle!
The outside edge is all swollen, and it hurts to turn it certain directions, much less put weight on it. Rachel (my roommate-I don't know that I need to protect her identity) got me to take ibuprofen to help; loath as I am to resort to medicine, there are times when it is a necessary evil. Apparently I need to keep taking ibuprofen every 4-6 hours, keep it elevated as much as possible, and maybe put a cold pack on it (though I discovered that hot water also kind of helps alleviate the pain). I also am going to have some trouble getting to and from campus, unless I can continue to find nice people willing to give me a ride, like I did this morning. I know it's small potatoes compared to what I could be going through, but it was kind of a lousy ending to what had been a very lousy Monday.
Last night, in order to celebrate my roommate's birthday, some of the people in my ward and I gathered at a house (belonging to someone I will refer to as Skater Boy, in order to protect his identity) to play the aforementioned Murder in the Dark. This version is far more advanced than you might know of: there can be more than one murderer, who kills someone by pretending to slit their throat, and the players can go upstairs as far as the attic, or down into the basement; if they find someone who admits to being dead, then they have to flip on a light and yell "Body!", and everyone comes running, before we hold a trial to determine who the murderer was. It's kind of like the movie Clue.
Well, in the first round of this particular game, I chose a card marking me as a murderer. There was at least one other person out there who was also a murderer, so I was hesitant to get close to anyone. At some point, I was creeping into a corner, and ran into someone. My knee-jerk reaction was to think, "Oh shoot, it's the other murderer! Well, he (I suspected it was a he) isn't going to get me!" So I just ran away, into Skater Boy's living room. Now, the thing you need to know about his living room is that there's this little step down into it, which the architects somehow thought would be a good idea to have. In my panic I completely forgot about it, and as I stumbled, I heard-or felt, I'm not sure which-a distinct popping noise in my right ankle, accompanied by mildly agonizing pain.
I crouched there on the floor for several minutes, quietly hissing and trying to collect myself. Eventually the pain subsided somewhat, and I got up and continued the game, even running up and down flights of stairs a few times (in my defense, I thought it was just some kind of bruising, and therefore nothing serious). However, by the time the game finally ended and we went home (there were several rounds), I was sure that there was something seriously wrong. So I talked to one of my other roommates, who is in the nursing program, and therefore useful for this sort of thing, allowing her to inspect the injury. And guess what? For what I think is the first time ever, I have succeeded in spraining my ankle!
The outside edge is all swollen, and it hurts to turn it certain directions, much less put weight on it. Rachel (my roommate-I don't know that I need to protect her identity) got me to take ibuprofen to help; loath as I am to resort to medicine, there are times when it is a necessary evil. Apparently I need to keep taking ibuprofen every 4-6 hours, keep it elevated as much as possible, and maybe put a cold pack on it (though I discovered that hot water also kind of helps alleviate the pain). I also am going to have some trouble getting to and from campus, unless I can continue to find nice people willing to give me a ride, like I did this morning. I know it's small potatoes compared to what I could be going through, but it was kind of a lousy ending to what had been a very lousy Monday.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
In Russia, it's the Season of the Witch
I should have had a sense of foreboding when I saw the letter for me on the table next to my dinner plate. I should have known the nerve-wracking horrors it would create for me and Calla. As it was, all I saw was a black envelope with my name written on it in bright white letters, and a seal on the front that looked as though it were made out of clotted human blood. Now, if it had been just a plain white envelope, then I would have had cause for alarm; those generally mean trouble. As it was, when I saw it I just thought it might be a prank letter from Morty or something, and so picked it up with no cause for alarm at first. Then I got a close look at the seal, and began to feel some misgivings; there was a picture of what appeared to be a mortar, with a pestle and a broomstick crossed in front of it. That reminded me of something, something important…
Then I opened the letter, and after scanning it, gave my assessment of the situation.
“Oh, heck no!”
I flung the letter back down onto the tabletop, prompting startled looks from Xen, Calla, and Phil. They jerked up from their respective dining activities and gave me the looks of frightened meerkats, attempting to assess if there was danger here.
“Sorry,” I said, picking up the letter from where it had landed in the gravy. As I pulled it out, it turned as clean and fresh as before. Typical.
“Who’s it from?” Xen asked, cleaning food off Phil’s face.
“Someone very important, especially in Russia.”
Looking very interested now, Calla asked, “One of the former czars?”
“Bigger.”
“Prime Minister?” Xen asked.
“Bigger.”
“Russia! Russia!” Phil proclaimed, evidently liking the sound of that. I smiled at the delighted way in which he said it, and at more evidence of his being an early talker, feeling some of my sudden black mood dissipate at his adorableness (even with gravy and pieces of shredded beef all over his face). Meanwhile, I noticed that Xen’s eyes were lit with both clarity and alarm.
“Her? She wants your help?”
“Indeedy-do.” I handed over the letter for her to see; she took it in curious claws, and read through it.
“What would she need from you? No offense, but she doesn’t seem like she’d need anyone or anything. Least of all a detective.”
“Yeah, I know. Do you think I should find out?”
“Even though you’re being cranky about it, I know you’re curious. So you probably should, if you’re to have any peace.”
“Sorry, but who are you talking about?” Calla piped up.
I cleared my throat, and then asked, “Kid, have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”
Then I opened the letter, and after scanning it, gave my assessment of the situation.
“Oh, heck no!”
I flung the letter back down onto the tabletop, prompting startled looks from Xen, Calla, and Phil. They jerked up from their respective dining activities and gave me the looks of frightened meerkats, attempting to assess if there was danger here.
“Sorry,” I said, picking up the letter from where it had landed in the gravy. As I pulled it out, it turned as clean and fresh as before. Typical.
“Who’s it from?” Xen asked, cleaning food off Phil’s face.
“Someone very important, especially in Russia.”
Looking very interested now, Calla asked, “One of the former czars?”
“Bigger.”
“Prime Minister?” Xen asked.
“Bigger.”
“Russia! Russia!” Phil proclaimed, evidently liking the sound of that. I smiled at the delighted way in which he said it, and at more evidence of his being an early talker, feeling some of my sudden black mood dissipate at his adorableness (even with gravy and pieces of shredded beef all over his face). Meanwhile, I noticed that Xen’s eyes were lit with both clarity and alarm.
“Her? She wants your help?”
“Indeedy-do.” I handed over the letter for her to see; she took it in curious claws, and read through it.
“What would she need from you? No offense, but she doesn’t seem like she’d need anyone or anything. Least of all a detective.”
“Yeah, I know. Do you think I should find out?”
“Even though you’re being cranky about it, I know you’re curious. So you probably should, if you’re to have any peace.”
“Sorry, but who are you talking about?” Calla piped up.
I cleared my throat, and then asked, “Kid, have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
The Real Monster in Sleepy Hollow
Today I was watching Disney's The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad. It's a fun movie, including the lovely narration of famous old-time actors Basil Rathbone and Bing Crosby. I can remember enjoying it when I was a kid, though the part with the Headless Horseman creeped me out a little. But watching it now, as a legal adult of 21, I notice that I've started watching it with a more critical eye.
My main example is the latter part of the show, which is based on Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Watching it now, I've realized that I really don't like Katrina. Ichabod's not that great of a person either, since he's incessantly greedy and just seems to be trying to win her heart so he can have her money, but Katrina is so...mean. She emotionally manipulates every guy around her, and plays on both Brom and Ichabod's affection for her so she can make Brom jealous, all for her own entertainment. To me, that's just insensitive, and even a little cruel. Of course, since Katrina is the only child of the richest man in the Hollow, and probably extremely spoiled, it well may be that she doesn't know any better. Or she's just selfish and doesn't care about other people's feelings, honest or otherwise.
Some of you may be saying, "Dude, it's just a movie! Relax!" Or shaking your heads and thinking that I just don't understand the concept of flirting, or whatever. But I think that the most horrible monster in Sleepy Hollow is not the Headless Horseman. After all, he can only make you lose your head. But, in the words of Bing Crosby himself, "When you have met that little coquette Katrina, you lose your heart."
My main example is the latter part of the show, which is based on Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Watching it now, I've realized that I really don't like Katrina. Ichabod's not that great of a person either, since he's incessantly greedy and just seems to be trying to win her heart so he can have her money, but Katrina is so...mean. She emotionally manipulates every guy around her, and plays on both Brom and Ichabod's affection for her so she can make Brom jealous, all for her own entertainment. To me, that's just insensitive, and even a little cruel. Of course, since Katrina is the only child of the richest man in the Hollow, and probably extremely spoiled, it well may be that she doesn't know any better. Or she's just selfish and doesn't care about other people's feelings, honest or otherwise.
Some of you may be saying, "Dude, it's just a movie! Relax!" Or shaking your heads and thinking that I just don't understand the concept of flirting, or whatever. But I think that the most horrible monster in Sleepy Hollow is not the Headless Horseman. After all, he can only make you lose your head. But, in the words of Bing Crosby himself, "When you have met that little coquette Katrina, you lose your heart."
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
The Case of the Lacerated Assistant
Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.
I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange. For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell. She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could. At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes. Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind. But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.
We had been out late on a case. It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery. This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me. At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out. We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away. Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault. I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal. But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse. I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence. It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how? There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery. The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there. This was all very interesting...
When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells. She got the fish, and I had most of the chips. And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.
And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied. “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?” Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut. I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve. And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.
“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!” Calla flinched. “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars. I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly. But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth. “Okay. It’s fine. Very decent of you. It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't. I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her. “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”
I smiled, a tad grimly. Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of. Care to examine me?” She held out both arms for inspection. I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over. Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed). But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion. There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.
“Do you remember how you got that?” I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars. There are many I’d prefer not to remember.” She frowned. “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.” Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up. She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it! I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.” Realization confirmed the situation. “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup. Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”
This revelation was naturally very alarming. But it did explain a lot. The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it? After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death. Especially when it led to her getting random injuries. There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt. Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape. But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance. Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone. He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them. Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”
Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it. It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any. Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other. And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant. But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that. Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic. It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.
Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced. “Just what the world needs. A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people. He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so. Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sharky?”
Calla blushed. “It just seemed...appropriate for him. His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough. You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now. He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.” I thoughtfully munched a chip. Suddenly a new point came up in my mind. “When are you going to tell Lars?”
The kid flinched. “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually. Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!” She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm. I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home. As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet. But at some point...”
“Yeah, I know. There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”
I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange. For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell. She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could. At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes. Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind. But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.
We had been out late on a case. It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery. This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me. At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out. We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away. Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault. I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal. But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse. I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence. It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how? There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery. The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there. This was all very interesting...
When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells. She got the fish, and I had most of the chips. And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.
And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied. “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?” Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut. I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve. And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.
“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!” Calla flinched. “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars. I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly. But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth. “Okay. It’s fine. Very decent of you. It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't. I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her. “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”
I smiled, a tad grimly. Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of. Care to examine me?” She held out both arms for inspection. I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over. Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed). But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion. There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.
“Do you remember how you got that?” I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars. There are many I’d prefer not to remember.” She frowned. “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.” Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up. She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it! I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.” Realization confirmed the situation. “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup. Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”
This revelation was naturally very alarming. But it did explain a lot. The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it? After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death. Especially when it led to her getting random injuries. There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt. Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape. But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance. Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone. He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them. Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”
Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it. It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any. Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other. And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant. But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that. Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic. It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.
Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced. “Just what the world needs. A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people. He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so. Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sharky?”
Calla blushed. “It just seemed...appropriate for him. His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough. You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now. He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.” I thoughtfully munched a chip. Suddenly a new point came up in my mind. “When are you going to tell Lars?”
The kid flinched. “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually. Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!” She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm. I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home. As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet. But at some point...”
“Yeah, I know. There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”
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