Here goes nothing:
Hell Week
The week or so after Halloween is always the
busiest, requiring the most cleanup.
People believe it’s the day when the “spirit” world and the human world
are closest, the veil between the supernatural and natural thinnest. They’re wrong, of course, that would be the
summer and winter solstices, but they’re not that far off. Magic comes through belief and will alongside
natural energy and ability, so most of the monsters from stories and nightmares
are able to take out beliefs and charge themselves for one long night of
fun. For the most part they leave humans
alone, but there are always a few who manage to get themselves into
trouble. That’s where I come in. I take care of all the monsters running from
the law, and also the ones who get hurt over the course of the night. Sometimes I get paid to clean up messes,
too. Regardless of what I’m doing or
what I’m protecting, this week- dubbed “hell week” by others- is always my
busiest and most profitable. This year I
had managed to scrounge up enough cash to last me another three months of rent
if I didn’t spend any on food or gas.
My name is Karrin Storm. You may have heard of my family before. In some circles the name alone carries enough
power to strike fear into the heart of a vampire priestess. In my family, though, I’m a bit of a black
sheep. I was disowned when I was
eighteen, a little under two years ago, but I haven’t seen my family since I
turned sixteen and left for good. Let’s
just say our political views are on different ends of the spectrum.
Basically, I’m a wizard. We’re actually called Tricksters- it dates
back to a court fool who the queen of the time loved. He could perform real magic and they had an
affair and blah, blah, blah. You don’t
care about ancient history, and neither do I.
I’m writing this because I need to. I need someone else to know, to share in my
adventures, as crazy as they are, and know that there is a shadow world hidden
just beneath the surface. I need someone
in the future to look back at these books and know that I- Karrin Storm,
daughter of Larissa Storm and Gabriel Benson, granddaughter of Benjamin Storm
and Amelia Rone- left a mark on society.
I know how my story ends. I
didn’t know it at the time, but when the events of this book happened, they
would be life changing. I want someone
to know why I ended up the way I did, and how it happened.
This is my story:
It’s a cool, fall day in the suburbs of the
windy city. The breeze rustles against
the trees, all in their different forms of decay. Some are mere skeletons with only a dead
leaves clinging on my a thread while others still think it’s summer and are in
full coats of green armor. I’m not tall,
but the branches on this particular sidewalk hang low enough that I can reach
up and brush my fingers gently over their undersides.
Back at my little town-house I have my own
familiar- a tree that I had grown from a sapling. It was still rather young, but it was
beautiful. Were it a normal tree it
would be ready for winter by now, but seeing as it was my tree, it wouldn’t ever be shedding its leaves.
The Starbucks I’m heading towards is my
favorite. There isn’t a particular
reason it’s my favorite, but I’ve been going there for almost two years now and
I find it hard to break habits. There’s
nothing wrong with this one, so why change?
Under my arm I have a library book clenched
tightly. Some contemporary love
story. I hadn’t started it yet, but give
me a day or so and it’d be returned already.
I’m a book whore, really, going from one story to the next in a matter
of hours. I get a lot of free time in my
profession, so it makes sense that I’d constantly need stimulation.
Like all Tricksters I crave newness. It’s the fault of our particular magic. We need some kind of idea or creativity to be
in us all the time. It’s hard to not
imagine. I love television, it’s so
vibrant, but I can’t pay for cable.
Books are the next best thing, and there are so many more of them.
Approaching my Starbucks I notice something
is off. There isn’t anyone there. No one at all. I stop in front of the door and peer into the
darkened and closed off shop. A frown
tugs down the corners of my mouth and in my head I give a little whimper. The sign on the front door just says
CLOSED. No explanation given in the least.
I imagine kicking the door with my foot. It’s a childish thought, but who cares what
you think. My toe would hurt, if I
kicked hard enough, and a scuff mark might appear. I look down at where I would kick. Disappointed I realize there is no scuff mark
and my toe doesn’t hurt.
Turning away I continue down the street. There’s another Starbucks in two blocks. I think they were trying to do a block apart
thing at some point, but I don’t live in the heart of the city so that doesn’t
really work.
I send out a little wish that the next one
won’t be closed. Luckily, the wish is
either small enough, or unneeded, that it works. I smile to myself and nearly skip inside. The warm smell of coffee permeates the
air. It’s thick and rich. The flavors, like chocolate and vanilla, are
also running around the room. This must
be what heaven smells like.
At the counter I order something hot, with a
lot of caffeine, and too many sweet things.
I love it. It’s thick and rich
and I mentally jot down what it’s called.
With my luck it’s a seasonal drink that won’t be here next time.
Taking a seat near the window so I can people
watch I crack open my book. It still has
clean pages and smells like the bookstore so it must be new. The type is in a dark ink, fresh, and the
pages invite me in. I take a sip of my
drink. When I say sip I don’t mean that
sissy slurping noise people make, you know the swisp noise. I take a heart
swallow of it, even though it’s hot. I
can’t stand that noise.
Another important thing about Tricksters:
we’re a little sensitive. We can’t help
it. We get angry easily and have super
senses that make the normal world sharper- and more annoying. I can hear a lot better than a normal human,
see a lot farther, smell a lot more, taste the secret ingredients and feel the
grains in wood. I hate it. It comes in handy on the job, but it makes
socializing with people- normal people- difficult. Tricksters aren’t the only ones in this
boat. Any Turned creature has the same
problems. I guess that’s why I get along
better with them.
It also has something to do with the fact
that normal humans are very, very clumsy.
“Hey!” I push the book out of the way
first. It’s the only thing I manage to
save. The idiot guy was rushing past me
and knocked my whole drink over. It
splashes onto my shirt, pants and the chair.
It’ll stain. Of course, I’m
wearing white.
“Sorry,” the stranger says, but he continues
to rush onward, not even sparing me a parting look. Angrily I send out a wish that’ll he trip and
fall. It doesn’t work.
The store manager rushes from the back. She takes one look at me, promises a full
refund, and apologizes profusely. I’m
really glad about the refund, I could use it, and tell her it’s OK. “I don’t like this shirt that much anyway,”
we both know it’s a lie. You don’t wear
a shirt you don’t like out in public.
You sleep in it, or wear it around the house.
I go to the bathroom and attempt to clean
up. I check the two stalls, pushing them
open, to see if anyone is there.
Empty. I pull my shirt of an
attempt a Trick. It’s a relatively
simple one. I tie the shirt into a false
knot and then pull. When I “undue” the
knot with the pull, it should come out clean and fresh. It doesn’t.
Nothing at all happens. I swear
under my breath. Hell week has been over
for two days and I’m still pretty drained.
I dunk the shirt in the sink a couple times
instead. It helps, but not by a
lot. It still looks like crap. And there’s nothing I can do for my pants.
I walk back out and take the refund. The manager apologizes again, but as soon as
I’m gone I’m sure she won’t care. I make
it all the way back to my town house when I realize I left the book. I change quickly and leave again. That’s when I fall over the vampire who’s
decided to take up residence on my doormat.
The palms of my hands and my knees graze the
ground, ripping them open. The vampire
leaps up from his half dead position, a feral expression across his face, and
his fangs bared. Dammit, he’s half
rabid.
Normally the sun is powerful enough to hurt
any vampire. This one had to be at least
two hundred since it wasn’t taking much of an effect. If he were that old it would also mean that
it took him longer to become rabid. He
hadn’t eaten in, probably, three, four days.
A younger vamp would be dead.
This one tried to twist his features to
something of a smile, but his wild nature was taking over. I got to my feet quickly. He stared at me. I was bleeding. “Dammit!” I said out loud. I sent out a wish that my Tricks would be
back, and, grabbing a pencil out of my pocket- I’m always stocked up on pencils
and pens- I stab him in the chest.
Humans were right when they said that you
need a wooden stake to kill a vampire. A
pencil wouldn’t normally cut it, especially one that isn’t blessed, but for a
Trickster, the pencil can become a stake in the middle of the actual
staking. My wish worked, and the pencil
changed.
I didn’t kill him. In fact, I didn’t even paralyze him. I just slowed him down. A lot.
He was old, but he was also starving.
The vamp hissed at me from his position crouched on his knees. I turned my head quickly, making sure no one
was watching. Just because I couldn’t
see them, though, didn’t mean they weren’t there. I hoped the month old glamour I had bought on
my home was still working. I needed to
renew it badly, but I hadn’t had the cash or a suitable baby to trade.
I’m just kidding about the baby, by the
way. I would never do that. As much as I needed the fairies, I didn’t
traffic human beings. I’d actually been
friends with an anti-changeling fairy one time.
I think he got eaten by a ghoul.
That, or the other fairies killed him and made it look like a ghoul did
it. Either way, I hadn’t talked to him
in ages.
I shoved the vamp into my place, getting the
front carpet even dirtier than it already was- my vacuum cleaner was broken-
and kicked him a couple of times for good measure. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get him to my
spare room, where I kept all the “guests”, I had to lock him up where he
lay. Where he wouldn’t be laying for
much longer because he was pulling the stake from his chest.
I turned to the vase next to me. I didn’t have garlic, but I had the next best
thing- Holy Water. Holy Water blessed by
a Bishop, no less. Powerful stuff. I pulled the flowers out- wolfsbane, in case
there were werewolves- and poured the water over his face. He screamed.
I winced. I really hoped that glamour was holding up.
I hurried to the closet down the hall. The vamp was on the edge of unconsciousness,
but I wasn’t sure how long he’d stay down.
I grabbed a length of rope and, while I was tying it up, Tricked
it. He wouldn’t be able to get out of it
now. I watched him as he recovered,
hissing and spitting. He struggled
against the binds, but they didn’t give.
I thanked the higher powers and went to the garage.
In the garage I keep a fridge stocked with
everything a recovering Supernatural might need, especially blood. I had all types, all stolen from various
blood banks, and grabbed a couple of each for my newest guest. I didn’t know what would help him heal
fastest, it was always the vamps original blood type, so I made sure I had each
of them.
When I returned he had managed to pull out
the stake. I shuddered to think of what
it might be like to have to do that to yourself. I could never. I feared pain, actually. Just the thought of breaking an arm or a leg
made me crazy. I was accustom to
throwing myself out there while on the job, but so far I had come out mainly
unscathed. While I was working I
normally had a lot of Tricks protecting me and a bit of adrenaline keeping me
moving. The combination made the fear go
away for the time being. Right now,
though, I was still recovering my magic and the adrenaline alone wouldn’t do
it.
“Bitch,” he snarled. At least that’s what I think he said. He was more animal then human, or vampire,
right now.
I sat across from him on the floor, far
enough away he couldn’t get me easily, but close enough to react to any new
complications. I tossed him a blood
bag. He bit into it like a cat into its
prey. Blood sprayed every which way and
he devoured as much as he could before falling onto his front and licking at the
floor.
Once I had found this disgusting. Well, this particular action I still thought
was disgusting, but blood drinking in general.
I had grown used to it, being a donor myself, rather often.
The one bag didn’t sate his hunger. It made him hungrier. I tossed him another bag. He managed to suck more of it out and spill
less, but it still was a mess. I
sighed. I hated cleaning out
bloodstains. Impossible, really, without
magic.
After the second bag was empty he had managed
to calm down slightly. He panted
heavily. I tossed him another. This time he didn’t let any of it get away
and drank it a little more politely.
After the fourth bag I thought he was ready to talk.
“Who are you?” I asked. He stared at the bag I held in my hands. “Tell me your name and you get it.”
His gaze never left the food. “Owen.”
I gave it to him.
“Untie me,” he said when he finished.
“Yeah, not happening. Sorry.
I’ll take that stake out,” I offered.
He let me. I needed to make sure
I could trust him.
After two more bags he began the conversation
on his own.
“My name is Owen. You’re the Trickster? The Storm girl?”
I nod.
“I need your help.”
“I’m already helping you.”
“And I thank you for that,” his voice had a
rather patrician tone to it. Someone old
and of noble birth. I wondered where he
had come from. “I’ll reimburse you for
all the blood I have taken,” he looked around him at the mess of my front room
and hallway, “and for the damages I have caused. But I need your help beyond that. If you would untie me, I will tell you, but I
prefer to speak civilly, on equal ground.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing,” I
gestured at the restraints. “I don’t
exactly trust you won’t rip out my throat.”
“I give you my promise,” he said.
For some Supernaturals this means a lot. With vamps it varies. Sometimes they take their promises seriously,
other times not. It depends on who the
vampire was when they were alive.
I believe Owen for whatever reason. Maybe it was his age, or rank, or something
else. But I untied him and we went to my
kitchen. It’s small, with a tiny table
that only houses two chairs. I give him
the other two packets of blood. He opens
one and takes a sip but doesn’t devour it right away. Already he was getting control of himself.
“Something was stolen from me,” he
begins. I take a spare pad of paper out
of the cabinet and take notes. “I’m also
being chased by several people. A
hunter, whose name I don’t know, and the rest of my clan.”
“What’d you do? Need help hiding?”
“I stole something from them.”
“Same thing that was stolen from you.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t need a hiding place?”
He shakes his head. “I have a safe house nearby. I might, however, need to stay the night, if
that’s alright,” he looks a little sheepish when he asks.
“It’s fine, but it’ll cost you extra.”
“Of course.
I assume you need to be paid up front.
A deposit at least,” he pushes a stack of money at me.
I don’t normally ask my clients to do this,
but I’m not going to turn him down.
“What exactly am I looking for?”
“You’ll take the job,” he doesn’t seem
surprised. Or happy. Indifferent, really.
“Yes.”
“I stole a very powerful artifact. One of the twelve bloodstones.”
I gape at him: “What?!”
No comments:
Post a Comment