Black Magic - The White Lion And The Obsidian Drake
Black Magic - The Alternate Pages: The White Lion And The Obsidian Drake
An alternate chapter by Joseph Raszagal
It's dark outside. VERY dark. One might even go as far as to argue that it's unnaturally dark. But with a sensitive pair of feline eyes like mine, capable of piercing through even the blackest of lightless voids, certainly I could manage to find my way through the shady haze and emerge unscathed, right? Wrong. It's levels of brashness and haste like that that get little kitties like me killed and left festering in the sizzling afternoon sun for the crows to peck at. In the world that I live in, jumping the gun when your foes are unknown in both strength and number is a surefire way to get your stomach slashed open and your insides dumped out onto the ground. Through the foggy windows the most I can see are the surrounding shadows collectively laughing at me, mocking me for losing track of the time. Though motionless, something about them feels sentient and alive; a deep, impenetrable darkness with a mind of its own and a thirst for the living. Quickly checking my pulse I confirm that, yes, I am still among the living and I'd much rather keep things that way. I can't go home now, I can't go out there, not unless I fancy the idea of ending up a gory, mutilated mound of pulp splattered across the asphalt; a bloody pile of albino lion confetti and shrapnel. Needless to say, I don't.
"Good job, Marcus, you've fucked yourself once again." I growl indignantly to myself as my tail lashes back and forth behind me. A couple of young hyena's prancing their way back over to the heavily spiked punchbowl, their fourth time tonight, notice the tension in my rigid stance and steer clear of me, opting to carve a wobbly, stumbly path through a small crowd of otters instead. "And this time Dominic isn't here to bail your ass out; you must really love the adrenaline pumping, stomach churning thrill of danger, huh?"
Oh, sarcasm, you know me so well.
I'd made the mistake of staying out past midnight even though I had promised myself several times that I wouldn't; I guess the delicious allure of partying, drinking, and most of all, fucking, was just too tantalizing for me to refuse. So, I couldn't keep a promise, not even to myself. What's new? We've all done it before, we've all failed to meet our own expectations at least once. It just so happens that I seem to do so more often than not. Normally the possibility of a dangerous outcome due to my own idiocy and ineptitude wasn't as considerable, but looking back on all of the things that Midnight City had become famous for within the past few months, the words "ghoul" and "vampire" immediately popping into the forefront of my mind, I guess I should have seen it coming. And by that vague, interchangeable "it" I do of course mean something generally bad, undesirable, and more than likely capable of dismembering me. "It" is always, always, ALWAYS capable of dismembering me; trust me, things just wouldn't be the same otherwise.
But in all fairness and all honesty, two things that always seem to bite me in the ass one way or another, I only have myself to blame. I should have prepared myself, I should have expanded my safety net a bit deeper into the city's magical underground, I should have brushed up a tad more on my own apprentice-level spellcasting, and I DAMN sure shouldn't have gone out to get laid on the night of a full fucking moon! Way to go, me! Was getting it on with that wolf and having him fill me brim really worth it? As drool inducing and pants tightening as those recent memories were and still are, the act itself having unfolded less than an hour ago, the answer to that question is still the same; a resounding "no". And considering how poorly I just worded that, possibly making my prior choice of sex over safety sound excellent rather than idiotic, you might be wondering as to why I feel that I shouldn't have indulged my already overly active libido. If so, then I'm sorry for confusing you; it really was the wrong decision and, as we all know from experience, there's always a hefty price to be paid for making the wrong call.
I'm just hoping that later on tonight, that price doesn't amount to my throat and that the collectors seeking payment won't want to slit it as compensation.
You see, anyone with a fair amount of knowledge in the study of the arcane arts knows that there are certain events in this world, certain days and dates, that are famed for the powerful effects that they have upon the planet's natural energies and the strange phenomenons that often occur as a result. One of these phenomenons is an immense increase in the potency of all forms of magic during said day or date. Sometimes these results merit results of their own as well; increase the base level magic in any one particular area and you'll also likely increase the amount of magical creatures inhabiting that area; it attracts them like a beacon. While this might not sound too dangerous at first, faeries and pixies being fairly harmless sorts, you'd do well to remember that a whole host of far less adorable things are considered "magical creatures" too; imps, goblins, basilisks, nagas, minotaurs, screamers, whisps, and ogres, just to name a few. While some of these critters can be peaceably negotiated with, a majority of them would likely offer you a battle ax to the cranium before ever sitting down for a friendly chat and a cup of coco. But I'm getting off track here. Among the most powerful and unpredictable of these events is the night of a full moon, which might I add also comes with the added bonus of occurring dozens of times throughout the year. Some other noteworthy ones include Halloween, Saint Patrick's Day, Easter, Friday the 13th, both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and the first day of the new year. In fact, why don't we add birthdays to that little list too? Why, you ask? Well, for magicians like me, a well scheduled birthday can be the deciding factor between kicking ass and getting our magical asses kicked. Just think about it, your birthday is the day in which you were born, the day that your whole life began; could there possibly be a better day for any one of us than that? I might be a wimp of a wizard, but even the big boys would shy away from a fight with me if they saw a birthday cake in my paws and frosting on my lips.
But I digress, I WAS talking about the bad days, not the good ones.
So hey, if you really have a sudden urge to spit in Death's face or something, you can try your hand at wandering down a darkened alley, all alone, during a solar or lunar eclipse; that'll prove you have some brass balls, provided of course that they're still attached to you after the hobgoblins get finished sinking their seven inch long, serrated claws into your flesh. Basically, what I've been trying to say this whole time is that if you're wise to the workings of the supernatural world, and trust me when I tell you that I am, or I'm supposed to be anyway, you tend to mark these particularly important days on your calendar so that you can head on home before nightfall and practice your skills at assuming the fetal position beneath the safety of your bed. Cowardly? You're damn right. Effective? Well, I'm not dead yet.
"Yet." That's the key word in that last sentence. I'm not under my bed right now. I'm not locked in my car, in my garage, ready to peel out of there at the drop of a hat. I'm not hiding in the cramped confines of a kitchen closet somewhere, feebly holding a broomstick betwixt my paws, ready to thwap whatever monstrosity comes stampeding through the house to rip the paper-thin closet door from its hinges and pull me inside-out like a crusty gym sock. No, like the yutz that I am, I'm at a rave; I'm more than a little drunk, as hard as a rock after reminiscing about that lovely length of wolf that had spent a good half hour impaling me, and then there's the opium, which somehow found its way into my system without me even knowing it, and that sure as fucking Hell isn't helping my current situation any! Suffice to say, my sixth sense is going completely bonkers and I'm really wanting to somehow avoid the gigantic truckload of finely aged manure that's absolutely certain to hit the fan, stuck on its highest possible setting, at the worst moment imaginable, thereby covering me in a thick layer of sticky, smelly disaster.
So, understandably terrified, I start to chant an anxious mantra to myself, "Get away from the front door, get away from the windows, get away from anything even remotely entrance-like."
Carefully leveeing my options, I pivot around on my heels and silently debate whether I should stay inside, behind walls of wood, brick, and bodies, or make a sudden break for my car. I could outpace almost anything in my overhauled Ford Probe and speedily seek refuge in the hallowed halls of any one of the many sanctuaries dotting Midnight's massive cityscape. Although uglier than a Picasso painting, the old girl has the horsepower of a Saturn 5 rocket and can zip down the city's streets like a fleeting ray of light; there aren't many things that can catch up to me in time to end my days so long as I have a full tank of gas and a thermos of piping hot coffee to keep me awake. However, with the current distance between me and my ticket to freedom more than two blocks, some 900 feet of lonely, open sidewalk, let's just say that I'm more than a little hesitant to poke my alabaster head outside and take a look around. Even at a dead sprint, it'd be an open invitation for all sorts of nasty creatures to come dashing out of the woodwork; I'd be like an all-you-can-eat buffet that forces the crowd of zombified fat guys surrounding it to chase it down before going buck-wild on its brains, and boy-oh-boy, doesn't that sound like a recipe for success? Okay, I'll admit, that's actually a pretty poor comparison, especially considering how very few buffet-frequenting fatasses can run a marathon and take home the gold. I say that because I'm absolutely certain that the cavalcade of things creeping around outside could at the very least take home the silver on a slow, lackadaisical Tuesday. So, with that uplifting thought weighing heavily in my mind, I nod my head in affirmation of my choice, pace nervously over to one of the many couches, one currently absent of any reproductive processes, and plop my butt down. It's safer inside, amongst all the other party goers; there's just no arguing with that logic. Throngs of furs and humans alike, all thrashing and dancing about to the thumping beat of the bass drum, a veritable forest of cocaine fueled dancers moshing together as their techno-inspired ambiance permeates the atmosphere; they'll protect me, they'll mask my presence. They will... won't they? Ha, who the fuck do I think I'm fooling? Whatever's coming, and I KNOW something is, it'll rip right through them in the space of a single heartbeat and smash my face in like a baseball bat rending a rotten pumpkin. "It happened so fast, he never even saw it coming." That'll be the bold fonted headline in all of tomorrow's newspapers as dozens of young English boys jump up onto their milk crates, 1800s style, to announce to the masses the explicit details surrounding how I met my untimely demise at the hands, paws, or claws of whatever creature has been stalking me mere millimeters beyond the veil of darkness outside.
Still, with some amazing options like "go out there like a dumbass and face it head-on" and that old gem "wait there, dipshit, for it to come and get you" at least waiting on my fat duff meant I might get laid again. Oh, humor, if nothing else at least you'll keep me alive.
Feeling more and more vulnerable over time, I reach into my pants pocket and wrap my fingers around the polished ebony of my wand. Now, I know what some of you must be thinking, "A fucking wand? What, are you Harry Potter or something?" If only. Harry Potter's every bit of 15 years old and yet he has a spell that simply kills whatever he aims it at. See target, point stick, say words, laugh as target gets dead. If I had that little number stashed away in my bag of tricks do you think I'd be as terrified as I am right now? Hell no. I'd march right out there with my chest puffed out and chin raised high, a swagger in my step like I own the damn place, and I'd blast every abomination that dared to slither into my peripheral vision all the way back to the motherfucking Stone Age. But, seeing as how I'm not lightning bolt boy and I don't have an incantated curse that makes things die, no questions asked, I need every last advantage that I can get my grubby little paws on and a piddly, little wand is among the most advantageous advantages there are. A wand is a powerful tool; it focuses and coalesces the magic being sent through it, taking a spell that's potentially dangerous to its caster and transforming it into something much more manageable. As an amateur practitioner, I NEED a tool to focus my attacks; I don't want to try frying a horde of goblins out of self-defense and accidentally end up roasting myself as well, do I? No, no, and no. Fortunately, as long as I never forget to bring my magical second-in-command with me, I won't have to. A wand can turn a roaring river of flame into a condensed jet of fire or a bellowing tempest into a razor-thin, razor-sharp blade of wind. I mean, sure, a skilled magician could instead substitute a staff, a cane, or even a sword if they really wanted to, but just try carrying any one of those weighty, cumbersome things around with you in the crowded urban sprawl of a modern day city and you'll suddenly see the beauty and practicality of an easily concealed wand.
Gripping the piece of wood tight enough to break it, I let out a heavy sigh and force myself to relax as a friendly face comes into view, worming his way through the crowd to get to me.
"You look like you just drank a stroke, aneurysm, and heart attack smoothie." Remarks Horus as he just barely makes it past a pack of horny huskies and their new "friend", a drunk snow leopard just two drinks shy of getting date-raped into next week. A tall falcon that I'd misspent a majority of my ignorant youth alongside, loitering for hours upon hours in front of many a used bookstore, Horus had been a primary factor in my ending up at this party tonight. His plan, or perhaps battle strategy, was to get out of the dorm and enjoy himself as much as possible before next week's finals stripped him of all of his free time. However, being both my childhood friend and current roommate, Horus had been granted a bit more insight into the ways of the magical world than most blissfully unaware norms and he'd since learned to take my bad moods seriously as they'd saved his feathery ass from certain doom more times than he could count on both talons. "Something's wrong, something has to be. Every time you tense up like this, something really bad happens."
"Define the word bad." I murmur, mostly as a sarcastic aside to myself.
My general definition of the word, roughly translated, has a lot to do with how depressingly straight this attractive avian is. Always within an arm's reach but at the same time so very far away. Sill, I suppose I can't give him too much flack about it; unlike most of the barbaric, club-swinging jocks and pompous, self-absorbed preps that we'd slogged through school with, Horus actually had the courage to admit that he sometimes wondered what it would be like to experiment with those of his same sex. When he finally decided to take a crack at it, he chose me out of the comfort of familiarity, and I'd be a liar if I tried to say that I wasn't absolutely thrilled at the prospect. I mean, c'mon, he's a fucking stud if there ever was one and he wasn't any less hot those three, maybe four years ago. But, needless to say, after giving it a whirl a couple of times and quietly debating with himself over his own sexual identity, Big Bird made up his mind and decided to stick to women from then on. What REALLY amazed me was how little time he'd spent afterwards being awkward around me and avoiding me. Most straights that give cocksucking a try, only to find out that it's not quite their cup of tea, just break things off with the person that they'd experimented with; ducking their calls and whatnot for a few months. That's probably the biggest danger when experimenting with childhood friends; you can damage what you thought to be an unbreakable bond beyond repair by taking advantage of their uncertainty and coaxing them into intimate physical relations that they're just not ready for. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I've done it more than once; I've hurt several friends by thinking with my dick rather than my brain and through no amount of heartfelt apologies was I ever able to earn back their trust.
But not with Horus; he didn't once let the fact that we'd shared a bed thrice get in the way of our friendship. That's just the kind of guy he is.
Maybe that's why I don't tease him about it. Well, very much anyway. I'll admit, I do every once in a great while, but can you honestly say that you wouldn't; can you say it with a straight face? He sucked me off with "Basket Case" by Greenday playing in the background. That was the first and only blowjob he ever gave! That's the kind of past that you just don't let someone bury.
With what must be the hearing of a bat, my falcon friend scratches the feathery ruff of his chin and replies, "You're probably expecting an extra vague definition."
"If you're feeling really generous, you can make it one that I can turn into a sex pun without much effort. That'd be very much appreciated."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, God, have I become THAT predictable?"
"That depends. You do know that there's a difference between becoming predictable and pretty much having always BEEN predictable, right?"
Waving a dismissive paw at him, I reply, "Details, dear boy, details."
"Sure, sure, just dodge the question by dismissing it outright." Retorts Horus, though with no less of a chuckle in his tone. "So, did'ja have fun with that wolf I watched you head upstairs with a while ago? It was pretty obvious that you planned on getting laid tonight, but for WHATEVER odd reason something in my gut told me you might wait more than half an hour before giving into your second brain. C'mon, man, we were only here for 20 minutes, tops."
"What was I supposed to do? Time is money, man, and sitting around wasting it just isn't possible with my budget." I smirk with the biggest, toothiest grin in the world. "And you bet your ass I had fun. It was great, you should have been there."
"Nah, not really my scene. I'm a giver, not a taker." He answers, practically stepping on a landmine with his spectacular choice of words.
"Who's to say you couldn't have given and I couldn't have taken? In fact, Neil probably wouldn't have objected to being in the middle of a sandwich, if that's what you're into anyway."
"Hey, you know what I meant, jackass. I'm as straight as a ramp."
"Then pick your words more carefully; there're plenty of queers out there who much prefer the charity of giving over receiving. Also, what kind of ramp are we talking about? If it's a loading ramp then I might know of a place where you can put that package of yours; it's a pretty tight fit but it'll keep your parcel nice and warm and it's nothing that a bit of muscle can't fix."
Shaking his head, the falcon rolls his eyes and sighs, "Damn it, I did it again. I walked right into that one, er, those ones."
"You can walk right into me any day, babe."
"Ah, fuck!"
"Name the time and place, sugar."
Holding out his palms in defeat, Horus turns his head away and laughs, "No, no no, I concede. You win, I lose.If I go and grab us a couple of drinks will you promise to carry on a civilized, PG-13 conversation with me when I get back?"
Pouting melodramatically, I whine, "Awww, do I have to? I feel like a character from a Disney Channel original movie if I go seven minutes without cursing."
"Want me to tell you about last night with Erika?" Returns the bird with a victorious glint in his eyes. "I have a few pictures of it on my phone too."
Scratching my scalp and averting my eyes, I sigh, "Hmmm... You seem to have cornered me with that one. No?"
"What's the matter, all outta witty retorts and clever comebacks?" Snickers Horus as he hops up from his seat and stretches. "Did I stump the unstumpable, Marcus Windbloom?"
"Yeah, yeah, rub it in." I grimace, still pouting like a seven year old. Horus always made for a good opponent when it came to needless, juvenile bickering. "Now why don't you go and make yourself useful and fetch those drinks that you promised. I'll be here bragging silently to myself about how I won the argument."
Wagging his finger at me like some kind of scolding teacher or parent, he strolls off into the forest of bodies saying something along the lines of, "You'd better be thinking innocent thoughts while I'm gone, things involving stuff like your Psychology paper that's due or our income tax returns!"
"I will not be silenced!" I shout with a raised fist, my best impression of an oppression fighting revolutionary, as the tan and brown hawk fades from sight into the sweaty jungle of ravers.
Reclining back into the torn up cushions of the comfy couch, I exhale an enormous breath that simply must have been trapped somewhere else inside of me other than my lungs, somehow, and I take a brief moment to marvel at how easily Horus had calmed me down. A few minutes ago I was on the edge of the edge of my seat, a melted candle burnt all the way down to the stick, so-to-speak, but now all of a sudden I'm feeling fine. Okay, maybe not "fine", but a whole Hell of a lot closer to fine than I had been feeling before; maybe even a bit better than I'd felt right after my raunchy romp with that wolf. That's right, talking to Horus had eased my frazzled nerves even more than twenty minutes of hot, sweaty sex. And, if anything, that just goes to show how much power truly good friends have over your temperament and mood; you can be down in the deepest reaches of the dumps and it'll still be well within their power to pull you up, dust you off, and put a smile on your face. I'm a lucky lion, that's for sure. Whether or not I'll ever have him in my bed again, I'll always have him as a friend, and that's definitely something to be proud of.
"Now to fix myself up before he gets back with those drinks." I mutter, popping my knuckles and cracking my neck. "After all, I can guarantee that the last thing I really need is another glass full of opiates... Well, I can only assume that that's where they came from anyway."
Reaching into my pocket, the one not containing my wand, I fetch a small satchel of powder. Think smelling salts, but a bit more potent. This particular medicine isn't meant for waking you up, no, it's meant for SOBERING you up.
Yeah, I know, I'll be damned if there's a single thing in this world that magic can't do.
Making sure that no one's watching, as I'd rather not have a whole group of druggies come slouching their way over to me, asking for a hit of whatever it is that I'm snorting, I judge that the coast is indeed clear and take in a big whiff. Then I brace myself. Why? Well, remember that old proverb, "the pain is only a part of the healing"? The same can be said of this stuff. There's no such thing as a miracle drug, not even in the world of magic. If you want something to happen, then there has to be a trade off; there has to be a price. If I want to throw a fireball at something, I have to expend my own energy as fuel for the spell. If I want to sober up faster than my body is normally capable of, I have to endure a brief moment of intense, excruciating pain.
Is it worth it? That's debatable. Does it come in handy? Definitely.
"We got kind of off track back there." Sighs Horus as he trots back over to the couch with a couple of cups in his talons, fortunately missing my millisecond long wince of severe agony. Judging by the color, or colors, of the liquid, or liquids, in them, I could only guess as to how many times they'd been spiked and how many alcohols had been used. Or hallucinogens, can't forget those. Sniffing curiously at mine as he hands it over to me, I reel back with a flinch of nausea as something almost gasoline scented penetrates my sensitive nose and stabs directly into my brain.
I knew it. Cherry flavored kerosene.
Having tempted fate enough in one night, I opt to set mine aside and ignore it. Horus instead takes a sip before making the final decision on whether or not to abandon his. Big mistake, birdy. After making the most comical face I've ever seen, the disgusted hawk follows my example and puts his down as well.
"Off track, right." I murmur, trying to avoid the subject as weakly as possible.
"Yeah, though maybe not in a bad way. You're looking better now, but that doesn't change the fact that something was clearly bothering you before. Care to explain?"
"Not really. My mind's been focused on something bad all night and talking to you finally got my mind off of it. C'mon, man, don't do this to me; I just started feeling better, so let me drink my rocket fuel, or pretend to at least, and forget all about it."
"I'm glad that I was able to help, really, but we both know what happens every time you get all dark and gloomy. Sorry, Marc, but I'm not gonna let this drop. Hell, it might be dangerous for me to do that."
"Damn it."
Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. The one time I'm ready to just die in "willful ignorance", my asshole friend feels obligated to do the right thing and forces me to face the facts. You see, despite all of the mind altering, affecting, and addling substances that had been and no longer were swirling around in my system, I still knew without a shadow of a doubt that something utterly terrible was mere moments away from happening to this place and everyone in it. I also knew that whatever was about to happen, something predictably demonstrative and cataclysmic no doubt, I was the only one who could do a single thing at all to stop it.
Pondering quietly to himself for a few seconds, Horus opens his eyes and questions with a cringe, "Remember the explosion at the high school a few years back?"
"Yeah, how could I forget?" I answer, trying to hide my equal discomfort. "We were talking about our elective courses when suddenly, BAM! , everything and everyone goes completely bananas. Ten faculty members and six students died."
"But RIGHT before it happened you went as stiff as a board and your fur stood straight up on end." Continues the hawk. "You looked hilarious, like a puffball Pomeranian, but something about it just wasn't funny; something felt wrong about how quickly you'd gone from complete boredom to utter terror."
Rubbing my forehead with one paw, I grumble, "I don't want to scare you or anything, but I've felt bad all night long; more or less like I did the day of the explosion."
"Seriously?"
"Man, I shouldn't have even come to this party in the first place."
"Does it have anything to do with all of that hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo you're always going on and on about?"
"It has everything to do with that."
"Great, then this is all way over my head, isn't it?"
"Pretty much. Hell, it's way over MY head. Usually I rely on Dominic when these kinds of things happen, but he's been gone for over a month now. Alan and Kris too. We're on our own and it's still two whole seasons until Lady Luck starts doling out the Christmas miracles."
"So, what are we supposed to do?" Questions Horus as his anxiety gradually begins to match my own.
Feeling a sensation similar to all of the blood in my body being instantaneously replaced with ice water, I reply in a near whisper, "We improvise."
KA-FUCKING-BOOM!
All Hell breaks loose. The music stops, the lights shut off, and the thunderous sound of fracturing, splintering wood breaks the sudden silence with all of the subtlety of an Alaskan avalanche. A wave of people comes rushing in from the direction of the kitchen, the back door no doubt, and stampedes haphazardly towards the front of the house. Mammals, reptiles, amphibians, and avians alike all surge out through the front door and windows like a sentient mudslide, chaotically trampling dozens of others in the process and leaving their broken bodies behind to whatever horrendous fate awaits them. A gnarled club comes crashing through one of the flimsy walls separating the kitchen and the living room, though "tree trunk" more accurately describes this monstrous cudgel, and I feast my eyes upon the ghastly, olive green form of a cave troll as it pushes its way through the rest of the dividing barrier by force; fallen bricks crumbling to dust as two massive, leathery feet come crunching down upon them. Yes, you heard me right, a fucking cave troll; all 12 feet and two tons of it. Then, as though that weren't enough, the hysterical giggling of a pack of pyre imps echoes from close behind the green behemoth; fire breathing, searing-clawed reinforcements that aren't even remotely necessary, especially considering the creature that they're backing up.
You have got to be fucking kidding me! Even if I WAS getting paid, which regretfully I'm not, it wouldn't be enough for this! No amount of payment would be enough for this! And, really, that's saying something, because I'm not Dominic; when I'm on a job I charge extra for surprises like these.
Thinking quickly, I grab an extremely startled Horus and pull him to the ground just moments before the beast's ugly, misshapen head whips around and locks onto our previous location. Now hidden on the floor on the other side of the couch, I place a paw over my feathery friend's beak and give him the kind of glare that says "shut the fuck up" without actually having to say it.
"I'm only going to say this once, so listen up, alright?" I whisper while looking under the couch at the troll's gigantic feet, making sure to keep a VERY close eye on him. "I'm not sure how, but I'm going to grab Shrek's attention, maybe through song or interpretative dance, and I'm going to lure him out of the house. The little things behind him probably won't be able to keep up, so I'm going to have to leave the task of dispatching them to you. They might be small, but their claws are white hot and they can breathe fire, so approaching them is a big no-no."
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?" Protests Horus in reply, his words muffled by the silencing power of my still-in-place paw.
Pointing at the closet, I quietly answer, "My jacket's in the closet. My gun's in my jacket. It's fully loaded and there's even an extra clip. Put two and two together, smart guy."
"Bullets can actually kill them? Didn't you just say that they breathe fire?" Questions the bird in confusion, still quieted by my grip around his talkative beak.
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, "If I could get to my jacket in time, a few well aimed bullets could kill the Frisch's Big Boy over there. Now, no more talking. Once I've evacuated the premises with tall, dark, and terrifying hot on my trail, get to my Glock as fast as you can and unleash some iron on the pack of whelplings prowling about."
With those directions given and Horus's chances of survival dramatically increased, I spring up from my position on the floor and dash across the room at top speed, the whole time making sure to scream like a goddamn banshee so that the troll's crimson, beady-eyed focus only has me to zero in on. The 22 year old hawk, being a fairly intelligent chap, obeys his orders and doesn't budge a single inch. Thank God. Alright, Marcus, now it's time for a plan; time for you to draft up some sort of strategy in less than four seconds. No, wait, make that two seconds! Or was it one second?! Sonuvabitch! Realizing how little time I've got, I try to maintain my cool and keep my sporadic, scattered wits about me as the troll cranes its neck back and roars, seemingly all for the sake of making me shit and piss myself. However, as I'm currently devoid of either liquid or solid excrement, my pants remain unsoiled, but for how long? Not wanting to answer that particular question, I rejoice for a split-second as my mental gears FINALLY spin into motion, allowing me to grab the nearest chair, a folding steel number, which I immediately throw it at the creature. Smirking at me or perhaps gawking at me out of sheer disbelief, it's pretty hard to tell whichever expression means whatever emotion with a face that resembles a gravel peppered pile of mud, the moss-colored juggernaut casually slaps the chair aside with one finger and howls bloody murder at me again; louder this time and with far more spittle. Lovely. So, feeling ballsy for whatever unexplainable reason, I stand my ground and roar back at the thing, utilizing the strong set of lungs that my species has been using to command respect with in the heart of the vast African savanna for ages upon ages prior. This only makes the troll even angrier, which is clearly evident as it ducks its head, spreads its piano-width shoulders, and charges at me like some kind of steroid fed, mutant football player. Swiveling around, I proceed to sprint out the open door and show off all of the years I'd spent as the shining star of my school's track and field team, not to mention my brief stint on the soccer team.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the full extent of my plan; piss off the monster, hope it doesn't notice my accomplice, and have it follow me. Frankly, I'm amazed that I'd been able to concoct even that much with the minuscule amount of time I'd been alloted. But so long as the monster did indeed fail to notice Horus along the way, it had been a complete success, however hastily put together it had been notwithstanding. Dashing down the eerily empty street, something that should have bothered me at the time but failed to register in my mind for whatever reason, I look back behind me and catch sight of what appears to be a patchwork fusion between The Incredible Hulk and Solomon Grundy blitzing vehemently after me; the kind of scene that highly paid Hollywood producers see and then stretch out into an entire, feature-length movie. Okay, so Plan A was indeed a success. Time to get to work on Plan B, the one that ends in me somehow killing the beast and not dying in the process. That's going to be a tricky one.
At the very least, I avoided getting into a preternatural battle with a former bedmate playing possum in the background. Trust me, I've been there before; it's a messed up scenario and you really don't want to try it out for yourself.
Pulling my trusty wand from my pocket, I spiral around on the tips of my toes, aim the tip at the giant's over-sized feet, and shout, " CRUMBLE!"
Instantaneously, what was once hardened asphalt and concrete dissolves into a puddle of finely grained sand and the enormous troll, at full momentum, comes tumbling down like a condemned building after receiving the finishing blow from a wrecking ball. The ground beneath it is imprinted like a piece of plaster and cracks as the massive, muscular frame impacts with all of the force of a speeding locomotive. Furious to have been bested by what is comparably a kitten, another enraged bellow escapes the creature's grotesque mouth. Fumbling through my repertoire of spells, I struggle to come up with something, anything, that could possibly have the punch needed to put this cave-dwelling demon out of its misery. Luckily, before the troll manages to get itself back up and off of the cold ground, I come up with a few winners and quickly circle around to its flank. A gigantic arm flails in my general direction but I jump back in the nick of time and dodge it before the hefty limb has a chance to smash my ribcage.
One strike, that's all this thing needs to clock me out for good. But that opportunity just came and went and everybody knows that Mr. Opportunity only knocks once. Now he's knocking at my door.
"I can't play fair if I want to walk away from this one fully intact." I sneer, tightening my grip on the piece of ebony that was, for all intensive purposes, assisting in deciding my fate.
And then the game changes. Gunshots ring out.
Like a church bell or a gong, the seven hellishly loud and violent shots command the attention of everyone around, everyone that can hear them. At exactly the same time, both the troll and I turn our heads in the direction of the party house where, presumably, Horus has finished off the pyre imps without getting finished off himself.
The troll then proceeds to blow my mind by completely ignoring me and taking a single, though nonetheless intimidatingly hulking step towards the house, the gun, and the hawk holding the gun. If you're counting, those are three things that I DON'T want this enormous bastard anywhere near. Now, I've fought a fair amount of trolls before, never alone and without reinforcements, but still, I've tangled with enough of them to build the foundations of a general understanding of their characteristics and tenancies. At least that's what I thought. Never before had a short attention span been something for me to consider while battling these monsters, but hey, I suppose I've never encountered them in the suburbs of a large city, a place absolutely rife with distractions. Fortunately, with a big lummox like this, the most I'll probably have to do is challenge its superiority with another roar and its attention, however dim and displaceable, will be mine all mine again.
Hehe, and what a roar I've got in store. If he found my first one a bit weak, which is arguably unfair given the supernatural lungs I'm competing with, then I'm sure he'll appreciate this one quite a bit more.
" SONICBOOM!" I bellow just before sucking in an expending chest-full of air and then releasing a thundercrack that an astronaut on the moon could probably hear.
If I had the time to explain in detail how this audio assault somehow failed to rupture my own eardrums, the eardrums at the epicenter of the blast mind you, then I'd have taken that time to quickly learn a new spell, test it out once or twice, hone it, then kill the goddamn troll with it. Seriously. If I knew why certain magics, for unexplainable reasons, didn't effect their wielders, I'd be swimming in an above ground pool full of rare, Spanish gold for making a world-changing breakthrough in the field of arcane theory.
However, the same cannot be said of the Jolly Green Giant's ears. Oh no, they're far from immune. This is immediately evident as it falls to one knee, cupping its ears with both gigantic hands, and howls in a mixture of anger and pain. After a second or two of resting there, literally frothing at the mouth with rage, the behemoth takes to its feet and charges at me once again. But this time I'm ready. Rolling to the side as it steamrolls past me at the speed of sound, I hop back up, stick the landing, receive a perfect 10 from all of the judges, and take aim. The tip of my wand glows bright green like the flame produced by a piece of copper as I chant a few inaudible words under my breath.
" NATURE'S GRIP!" I shout, aiming down at the ground at exactly the last moment, launching the bright viridian spark into the asphalt, the concrete underneath it, and the polluted soil underneath that.
Much to the troll's surprise, nothing happens. Well, to be more accurate, nothing happens at FIRST. I won't lie, green magic isn't exactly my expertise, my forte. The only sign showing that my spell had any effect at all is the soft, nearly silent sound of something cracking; almost faint enough to be confused with the snap, crackle, pop of a certain cereal. Then, a second later, the innocently light snapping, crackling, and popping that I gave birth to suddenly escalates into a much louder, much angrier stone splitting sound. Though dimmer than a wet match in a dark cave, the gargantuan Goliath to my David apparently has enough intelligence to know when something is clearly wrong. Looking down at the ground with what is probably confusion in its eyes, the hulking monster watches as several huge spiderwebs of cracks, faults, and fractures form in the once pristine surface, ruining it completely, and spread in every direction beneath us. That's when it all comes to a climax. From those billions of tiny, insignificant cracks erupts a veritable forest of thick vines, a massive wall of lush, green life. But wait, it gets better. The vines are sentient and, further more, they're under my command. From the center of the dense jungle that I've just summoned, I smirk like the haughty, arrogant bastard that I am.
I've won.
"Ensnare the cave troll!" I order as casually exit the miniature forest and approach the beast.
The vines waste no time and move with the speed and precision of a thousand deadly vipers, coiling around the troll's arms, legs, ankles, wrists, and neck, tightening the moment they feel any resistance mounted. For what it's worth, the troll put up a decent fight, but as I close my eyes and solidify my focus, the spell I'm piecing together steadily coming into view in the darkness of my mind, he could have gained the strength of 20 supertrolls and it wouldn't save him now.
Clenching my fist tight enough to put grooves in the tool its gripping, I point my ebony wand at my true target once more and slow my breathing. Trailing my aim up to the creature's gnarled, vine-shackled face, I feel all of the energy I've gathered surge through me and collect at the wand's very tip. In my mind, the spell has become crystal clear, a bright flash of light and power great enough to split the sky and char the land. In order for an amateur like me to pull of something of this magnitude, everything that I have in me must go into it as fuel. All of my strength, all of my stamina, and all of my determination.
So, with everything that I'm capable of, I yell at the top of my lungs, " THUNDER LANCE!"
The effect is instantaneous. Absolutely all of the energy drains from my body, every last drop siphoned into the spell, as a bolt of white lightning leaps from the tip of my wand and smashes into the troll's crooked nose. The vines that I had called forth evaporate instantaneously, having been magical constructs manifested by my will and kept in creation through a steady supply of my energy. Without that energy, that link, they vanish as though they'd never even been there to begin with. Sparks fly every which way and the creature's beastly body falls with a "thud" to the ground and trembles violently for several seconds before going limp and lifeless. It doesn't scream. It doesn't thrash about. It's already dead. Scary and intimidating it may well have been, but withstanding a magically fueled thunder bolt to the face is a wholly different bowl of fruit. Lifting myself up off of the ground somehow, I stagger over towards a stop sign and throw a majority of my weight against it RIGHT as my knees buckle beneath the cumbersome burden that is my body. My every following breath huffs and puffs out of my throat as though I'd just taken first place in two, maybe three triathlons. Everything hurts. Things that hadn't been involved in what had just happened hurt.
"That'll... teach you to tangle with Professor X... without your helmet on..." I mutter triumphantly.
But then the icy chill returns to my veins and shocks the grogginess from my system. Adrenaline courses through me and brings me back to my feet faster than I would have thought possible, like the sudden burst of nitrous into a car's engine that briefly supercharges it just before overheating puts it out of commission for good. Only one thing drags me from fatigue's doorstep like that. Fear. Pure, unbridled, unfiltered fear. I'm not done, that's clear to me now. But what's left for me to be afraid of, what's left for me to fight? After smashing a cave troll across the face with Thor's hammer, what else could possibly remain to trip my supernatural alarms and send me back into to attack mode?
"That's interesting, you don't often see cave trolls bumbling about in the mortal realm." Spoke a silky smooth voice from just behind me.
Oh sweet Jesus Christ, Buddha, Krishna, Ganesh, Amaterasu, Odin, God in Heaven...
If you're confused as to why I'm in such a drastic state of mind-numbing panic and terror, then please allow me to explain. First of all, I WAS alone. Now I'm NOT. This occurred in less than 20 seconds and the only time anything like that ever happens is when something otherworldly is at play; unexpected guests are one thing, but unexpected supernatural guests are another. Seldom does something from the other side teleport right behind you just to have a friendly conversation and trade phone numbers. This fact is only strengthened by the subsequently following fact that whoever or whatever was behind me not only possessed the sentience to speak in complete sentences, but also referred to our current location as "the mortal realm". Given that most creatures capable of speech AND magic are either friendly or neutral towards all of humankind and anthrokind, there are few that I can name off the top of my head that are also capable of sending these terrible shivers down my spine.
Though few, I don't exaggerate in any way when I say that they're all bad news; the baddest news there is.
At a leisurely pace, the owner of the voice comes strolling out from behind me and into my line of sight, confirming my every instinctive fear. What appears to be an ordinary human, a young man with viridian eyes and short brown hair, is no doubt much more. Shortly thereafter, his entourage comes silently padding out from the concealing veil of shadows in the opposite direction, two lupine anthropomorphs that, like their friend, I had failed to notice entirely. Although it's a bit more of a challenge to discern vampirism when dealing with a couple of dogs and their natural canine fangs, I only need a single peripheral glance at the human's flawless ivory teeth to conclude that they are indeed undead blood-suckers and that I am indeed fucked, screwed, boned, and doomed beyond all redemption. Without so much as enunciating another word, not even the courtesy of a single syllable, they close in around me like a ring of vultures circling their prey and look down upon me, literally licking their lips.
Fan-fucking-tastic, so this is how I'm going to go. Scratch the earlier newspaper headline; I won't be getting tomorrow's front page with a death like this. No, I'll have a small column detailing yet another ritualistic homicide and the misguided youth victimized by the unknown serial killer. After all, draining someone of their blood is probably a fairly simple procedure, even for someone without a nifty pair of pointy fangs, and I'll bet there have been more than a few psychos out there willing to try it too, so who'll be the wiser once my fluidless body is found? Even if all signs point towards a legitimate vampire attack, it's not like the police will really pursue something from that angle; it sounds freaking crazy to anyone who doesn't already KNOW the TRUTH. The detectives will struggle to find a clue as to who my murderer is and, in a few short months, with nothing at all to go on the case will turn cold and it'll get shelved.
What a great legacy to leave behind.
"Try not to struggle, boy, it will only make the initial sting that much more painful." Rumbles one of the dogs as their human buddy kneels down next to me and restrains both of my arms behind my back with far more strength than his slender frame looks capable of.
"Don't worry, I'm fairly certain that he enjoys getting held down." Laughs green eyes, his snide voice no less sweet and melodious.
And that's when it hits me. The kind of bravery that only surfaces once you've accepted death. I wasn't the deer stuck petrified in the headlights, I was the deer standing his ground, cracking his knuckles, and daring that motherfucking car to hit me. Seeing as how I'm completely and utterly fucked, what's the real point in fearing these guys? Sure, they can kill me at the drop of a hat, but with the way I am now, in this god-awful condition, they could kill me at the drop of a feather during a windstorm. With a big, dumb grin stretching across my muzzle, I just do what comes natural to me in most other, albeit less dangerous situations, and let my inner smartass take over.
Looking straight into that deadly, deadly human's gorgeous set of eyes, I lie right through my teeth, "Sorry, Jade, it's only fun if I've got a martini in my paw and I'm diggin' the guy. I'm not diggin' you, so just drink me dry and get it the Hell over with, no theatrics."
Mama didn't raise no wuss. She might have raised a queer and her husband may have thought that the two words somehow correlated, but she most certainly knew better, left his ass in a cloud of dust, and raised me to stick my chin out whenever push came to shove.
Now, having suffered a large number of beatings during my adolescent years, what with gays ranking pretty highly among the most unpopular groups of all time for whatever reason, I've learned how to take a hit and maintain my composure. But with that said, Clover-Eyes doesn't quite "hit" me so much as he just "bludgeons" me in the gut with his stainless steel fist. Once. Twice. Three goddamn times. During the third hit I'm kind of just staring in shock as his arm blurs towards me like a illusion fading in and out of reality; the strike itself way, WAY too fast for me to see. Then, all of a sudden, my whole chest erupts into a fiery, searing pain unlike any other I've ever experienced in my entire life. Christ on a cracker, I had no idea that being a vampire gave that great a physical bonus! What the Hell was I thinking?! In a millisecond I'm already curled up into a little ball, hacking and wheezing, wrapping both arms around my stomach in a pathetic attempt to fight back the pain. My stomach fells like some kind of incendiary device went off inside of it and from the taste of the vomit in my maw, bitter and distinctly bloody, I really do have to wonder exactly how he got the bomb down my throat and into my now obliterated intestines without my knowing it.
If anything, looking up and seeing his fucking smile is probably what's keeping me from crying. It's surprising, the things that pride and petty anger can do.
"Is... that... a-all... you've... g-got...?" I gasp in between gags.
No words. Instead he just scowls at me and rears his arm back in preparation for yet another blindingly fast blow. This is it then, this is the strike that will end my miserable, little life. For all of my tough talk and strutting, I'm not even a fraction of the big man that I so often pose as. I guess maybe mama did raise a wuss, she just wasn't open to admitting it. So, with what I know is in store for me, I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Someone laughs haughtily. Someone else echoes that laugh. Fucking bastards. But then, rather than an explosive pain coursing its way through my chest and a clenched fist breaking through my ribcage like a piece of wet cardboard, my senses meet with something else, something different. A sound? My ears flick as the flapping of a large pair of wings beats the air somewhere high above me, the gentle breeze generated by them coming down and wafting through my dirty, bloodstained fur. Much like the laughter, suddenly there's a scream, and then another, and then another. None of these shouts sound as though they're coming from someone who'll make it to their next meal in one piece. For all I know, they ARE someone or something's next meal. A wide variety of derogatives and expletives are exchanged between the human vamp and this mysterious newcomer, most of which I can tell are insulting via their tone even though they're being shouted vehemently in languages that I'm unfamiliar with. After a few more snide remarks, the unsheathing of a sword splits the night air and effectively silences limes-for-eyes. I gulp down a nervous breath, uncertain as to who the sword belongs to; if the vampire drew the blade as has simply grown tired of talking, or if this unknown intruder is on the assault instead. Then, practically dying from the anticipation of it all rather the profuse bleeding, I receive my answer as my ears are treated to the grotesque sound of a sharp cutting edge shearing a body in half and the vampire's terrified scream as the two parts to his former whole fall to the ground with separate "thumps".
Now I open my eyes.
Standing above me, surrounded by the dismembered limbs of the vampires whom had taunted, teased, and tried to kill me, is a freaking dragon. His dark, obsidian hide makes it difficult for me to distinguish his features during the dark of night, but as a cat it doesn't take long for my eyes to readjust once they're open again. At least six feet tall with golden eyes, bright and burning, he outstretches a single claw and waits patiently for me to take it before gently pulling me to my feet. Well, that was probably his plan anyway. About halfway up, I groan hoarsely in pain and fall right back down. The dark drake drops down onto his knees in response and, without wasting any time at all, tears my shirt down the middle and places an open palm against my chest. To summarize this, it hurts in ways that I don't think I can even describe, but what can I really do? He just killed, effortlessly it would seem, the three undead monsters that were going to kill me. Now he's either going to try to help me by examining my injuries or he's going to say "fuck it" and eat me. Taking his claw back, he scratches at his chin for a moment while thinking to himself, then snaps his fingers as an idea dawns upon him. Reaching into a small pouch affixed to the rather practical military belt at his waist, the dragon pulls out a satchel that very closely resembles the one I keep my "sobering powder" in. Dipping two clawed fingers inside, they soon reemerge covered in a thick paste of some kind which he immediately applies to my battered and broken chest.
"This will help the healing, but only a little." States the tall drake, returning to the tiny pouch for a bit more. "What this stuff is really for is the numbing effect; it's REALLY good at that."
In between thinking about how glad I am that he does indeed speak English, I notice that what he'd just said is true. My chest is already completely sensationless.
"This can't be a good day for you." Adds the dragon with a smirk. "First a troll and then vampires? Damn."
"Y-you're a dragon." I manage at long last.
No, I'm not proud. He's trying to carry on an actual conversation and here I am, still awed by his presence, saying something as stupid as that. Goddammit.
"Are we really going to go down that route?" He asks with a shake of his head.
Slapping myself in the face, I reply, "No, no, I'm still just kind of overwhelmed. Imps, a troll, and vampires, actually. And no, this is definitely not my night; I think this is probably one of the worst ones I've had in years."
"AerosIngeir." Says the dragon with a nod as he tries for round two and gives me his claw yet again. "Firarn AerosIngeir. You?"
"Marcus Windbloom." I answer, taking his claw and actually making it to my feet this time.
And now that I'm standing upright, I finally have a decent view of him. Wow. Dressed in a plain pair of bluejeans and a gray t-shirt adorned with a self-made "Laura Stevenson and the Cans" logo, his simple clothing undermines almost everything else about him as he removes a ragged washcloth from the pack at his hip and uses it to casually wipe the blood away from his two broadswords, one of which had the distinct pleasure of snicker-snacking that green-eyed motherfucker in half. At the very least, he wore a black cloak to better conceal himself, the dark fabric blending perfectly with his onyx scales. From underneath those clothes, a muscular frame bulges out just enough to clearly display his strength without giving him that blocky, LEGO-like appearance sported by oh so many professional weightlifters. Jutting out from his back are the wings I heard beating at the air when he arrived, the webbing colored a deep, dark scarlet and their span some 16 feet or more. His tail, black like the starless sky, curls around his feet to meet me; he can tell I'm looking him over. To that I smile. Lastly are his horns, long and ivory white, stretching from his temples upward and then curving back behind his head to meet the small braid keeping his medium length hair in order.
God damn, if only he'd have arrived at the party an hour earlier; I can only imagine what an actual dragon must be like in bed.
"See anything you like?" Questions Firarn with a grin.
"You do NOT want me to answer that, hun." I retort, adjusting my pants for obvious reasons.
"You just did, actually, but a compliment's a compliment and I'm not really one to limit my options." He laughs back, still wiping down his weapons.
Though my sex drive would normally urge me to act upon that last comment with great gusto, what with slabs of beef like this hard to come by in my general line of work, I quickly find myself distracted by the low thrum of power pulsing through the sword currently in Firarn's claws. Somewhere around three feet long with a cerulean hue to the strange metal making up the blade, the thing that I actually find most interesting is the thin veil of mist constantly enveloping it. Understandably, this strikes me as somewhat odd, as does the other broadsword once it's unsheathed for cleaning and polishing. Much like its counterpart, its sister-sword, this blade spans somewhere close to three feet long and has a very light, very faint coloration imbued into the metal; vermillion this time. Interestingly, when held into the light of a nearby lamppost, no shadow is cast.
While my libido does work hard to make sure he's heard when he wants to be, few things grab a wizard's attention quite like an exquisitely made magical artifact.
"First it's me, now you're checking out Attis and Cybelle." Chuckles Firarn, shaking his head. "That kid and his sister were the same way; these two always turn heads."
Catching the reference immediately, I whip my head around and inquire, "Kid and his sister?"
"Dominic Christopher and... his sister. Never got her name."
"Dominic and Beck have been gone for fucking months now. Do you know where they are, where they've been?"
"Sure do. I was actually supposed to go and rendezvous with them when I got sidetracked by all of the shit happening here."
"Can you give them a message for me and tell 'em to get the Hell back here as soon as they're able? The whole city is going ballistic and I'm just not skilled enough to handle everything by myself. Sure, it means I get more jobs and therefore more money, but it also means I get more shots at dying. That ain't cool."
Sheathing both weapons and turning to face the moon, full and menacing in the black sky, the dark dragon answers, "Trust me, they know how dire things are and they're working to set things right as we speak. And it's not just them. A bunch of crazies from the Badlands that I've worked with a couple of times are on the job too; a wind wolf, an earth bat, and a psychotic demoness. If there's a team on the face of this Earth or the other Earth capable of handling this situation it's them. The best thing that you can do is head to a hospital as soon as possible, pretend that you fell down the meanest staircase in existence, and wish the whole lot of us luck."
Scratching my head with one paw, I reply, "Deal?"
"Damn right." Smirks Firarn as he spreads his wings wide. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a whole truckload of asses to save; they're no doubt knee-deep in something awful without me there."
With another flap and a swirling gust of wind, I watch in awe as he steadily rises into the air and flies off into the unlit horizon. I'm not one for poetry, but the stunning sight certainly spoke volumes of it, that's for damn sure. I can only hope to see him again and on a more leisurely day. Catching up me in between steps back out through the door, which had suffered a catastrophic structural failure due to the troll that had barreled through it, Horus wastes no time and interrogates me as to what had happened, why it had happened, and why my gun didn't hold more bullets. Suffice to say, the second clip was a necessity in the end. To him, the explanation that I struggle to give makes little sense, but I have faith that so long as he continues to pal around with me, he'll understand eventually, whether he likes it or not. Poor him, eh?