by M. D. Massey
“Don’t worry, sug,” she said, resting a hand on my hairy, misshapen chest. “I know how to wait my turn.”
Author’s Note
The next story occurs sometime during Book 8 in The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series. There are few spoilers for the main series in this second Blood Bound novelette, but if you haven’t yet read past Book 4, you might want to hold off on reading Prince Mark’s Price until you do.
Prince Mark’s Price
In which the wizard Crowley does a good deed, but purely for selfish reasons…
13
Crowley couldn’t say exactly why he’d taken up his comic collecting hobby, but he certainly remembered when it had started. A few months back, his vintage Jaguar convertible had been in the shop—it was always in the shop, but he so loved the car that he couldn’t bear to part with it. Without suitable transportation, the shadow wizard had been forced to ask his annoyingly upbeat acquaintance for a ride to the grocery store so he could purchase raw meat for his familiar, the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, and a sufficient volume of wine and spirits to get him through the weekend.
Of course, the mage could’ve sent a shadow golem to retrieve a few articles of sustenance for him, but shadow golems were stupid—and they tended to steal souls when left unattended for extended periods of time. Plus, it would have certainly brought back the wrong magazine, like Country Home, or Better Homes and Gardens, or Magnolia, a publication founded by that unbearably positive and kind, nouveau riche couple from Texas—and Crowley simply couldn’t have that. So, he’d swallowed his pride then called to request that the druid pick him up at his domicile and drive him to the store.
“Can do, Crowster. But, I gotta run a few errands while we’re out. Nothing major—just making a beer run, plus I have to pick up a gift for Hemi’s birthday at the comic shop.”
“I really don’t—”
“Nonsense, it’s no problem at all. Pick you up in thirty minutes.”
Click.
Sigh.
Thus, Crowley had been introduced to those venerable American institutions of commerce, the convenience store and the comic book shop. Granted, he’d seen a convenience store before, but he’d never actually walked into one. The wizard preferred to pay at the pump using Speedpass, both because it was more sanitary and because it reminded him of a character from a science fiction film he’d once watched with Belladonna.
Needless to say, he was not impressed by the convenience store.
But as for the comic book shop, well—that had been another matter entirely. The place was a wreck, with no discernible rhyme or reason regarding how the various shelves and displays were laid out. It smelled like mildew, cat urine, and male teenage funk, and it was so poorly lit that the mage was forced to cast a vision-enhancing cantrip in order to read the fine print on the periodical covers.
In short, it was disgusting. But oh, the wonders that place held.
Despite the unhygienic conditions inside the shop, from the moment he cracked open an issue of Batman: Detective Comics, Crowley was hooked. Here was a character he could relate to—one dark, mysterious, and tragic, all at once. Yet at the same time, the detective evidenced a capacity for kindness and heroism that absolutely fascinated Crowley, as all such virtuous human motivations baffled him.
As a changeling prince, one of the few kidnapped humans fortunate enough to become a ward in servitude to a royal family in Underhill, he’d been raised as fae. Although the fae could display an intensity of emotion to match that of any human, they were altogether motivated by self-interest and nothing more. Such characteristics as empathy, compassion, and generosity were nearly unheard of, and generally were only evident in a select few of the fae’s forebears, the Tuatha Dé Danann. And admittedly, even the best of the Celtic gods were mercurial and predisposed to acts of capriciousness that would make the average human sociopath gasp.
Being raised by monsters among monsters, it was no wonder that Crowley had possessed no moral compass to speak of when he’d first left Underhill. When he’d finally emerged from that harsh, cruel place, sent to Earth to do the bidding of his adoptive mother, he’d been as cold and heartless as any fae, his thoughts and motivations as alien as any other denizen of Tír na nÓg. It was only after several trips to Earth, necessarily rubbing elbows with humans in order to complete his assigned tasks, that he’d become fascinated by their ways.
What motivated one human to help another they barely knew? How could they sacrifice themselves in service to causes that brought them no political advancement or monetary gain? Why did they do things like feed the poor, nurse injured animals back to health, or look after their enfeebled elderly? All-in-all, humans were a mystery to him—one that occupied his thoughts both day and night.
This had ultimately led him to question his captors’ infallibility, and his loyalty to them as well. Against the advice of his adoptive mother, he soon developed relationships with humans in order to learn more about them. Finally, he fell in love with a human woman, discovering emotions within that he never realized he possessed.
Then the druid had bested him—through sheer luck, no less—and his adoptive father had refused him succor as punishment for his failure. That was the last straw, and when Crowley finally turned his back on the fae, he’d done so for good. Although his decision meant he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, at least he was finally free.
But that decision had led to even greater and more perplexing challenges. Now, he had to learn how to live among his own people—a race so foreign to him he may as well have been visiting Earth from a distant galaxy. And he craved human contact, no matter how he tried to deny it. These were urges he did not fully understand, and they most certainly explained why comic book stories of antiheroes and villains, tragedy and saviors, moral dilemmas and clear-cut choices appealed to him so.
Although he’d be hard-pressed to put it into words, Crowley was learning to be human by reading comics. That was why he was currently browsing the aisles of a disgustingly unsanitary comic book store, looking for original copies of Detective Comics #575–578. Sure, he could read them online, but the digital versions simply didn’t appeal to Crowley. They denied him of the sensory experience that made printed comics so uniquely enjoyable.
No, he preferred to purchase them here, at his chosen comic book store. Distasteful and banal as it was, nobody bothered him in this place, because the owner could care less about such trivial human concerns as being helpful and providing a positive customer experience. Crowley had visited other, tidier shops, but unfortunately they had employees who spoke to him—and that was something he simply could not abide. For that reason alone, Prince Mark’s had become his favorite place to find new comics to read.
Thus, this was now his comic book store. And if the owner had something dark, evil, and magical hidden in the basement, it was none of Crowley’s concern. All he cared about was finding his damned comic books.
14
If there was one thing Theo loved, it was going to Prince Mark’s. Prince Mark’s, also known as Prince Mark’s Comic & Game Emporium, was the one place where he could escape from his life. Escape from being bullied at school, from being ignored by his shitty stepmother (who only paid attention to him when his dad was in town), and from living in a new town where he had very few friends and virtually no social skills that would allow him to change that situation.
It was no wonder that Theo wasn’t very popular. Being the new kid was hard enough, but what made it even harder was that he really didn’t stand out for being exceptional at anything at all. He wasn’t very good at sports—although he had taken up karate recently—but he could barely catch a ball, never mind dribble, throw a spiral, or run a lay-up. As for schoolwork, he was bright but uninterested, and thus made mediocre grades. And where girls were concerned? Well, Theo was even more awkward around them than he was around everyone else.
But at Prince Mark’s, Theo could be somebody else. T
here, no one cared about whether you could dunk, or if you got to second base with Molly Steward (everyone said she was a slut, but Theo had always thought she was very nice), or if you were in the National Honor Society. Those things mattered little to the denizens of Pflugerville’s one and only comic book store. No, the only thing the kids at Prince Mark’s cared about was, did you know comics?
If you did, you were in. Knowing your shit when it came to comic books was a ticket to the cool kid’s group for sure. And Theo wanted in that group more than he wanted anything else in life, or perhaps ever. Even more than he wanted his parents to get back together, although he would be ashamed to admit it. Because really, he just wanted to fit in somewhere for once in his life.
There was a group of older kids at Prince Mark’s that got to hang out in the basement, where the owner, Richard, supposedly had all this cool stuff stashed. The basement entrance was hidden by a purple curtain, directly behind the front counter where Richard was almost permanently ensconced. Theo couldn’t remember a time when he’d entered the comic shop when the owner wasn’t sitting like a hawk behind the cash register, reading some obscure graphic novel like SCUD or Technopriests.
If the rumors were true, it was no wonder that Richard guarded the basement door like a sphinx. Beyond that velvet drape were said to be treasures beyond imagining: ultra-rare comic books, medieval weapons, and a gaming table full of set props and painted miniatures that was said to be as big as Jimmy Seacamp’s bedroom. But Theo hadn’t been invited to hang out in the basement yet. In fact, he feared he’d never be invited behind the purple curtain, ever.
A month back, he’d been well on his way to earning admittance to the august company of cool kids who hung out at Prince Mark’s. Richard was known to ignore kids who shopped there, but it was said that if you came around often enough, and long enough, eventually he’d test you. He’d start by asking you questions about the comics you liked, why you liked them, and so on; and if he liked what he heard, he’d start asking you about obscure comic book trivia. Pass Richard’s tests, and like that, you’d be in like Flynn.
Weeks ago, Richard started asking Theo questions when he’d come in to pick up the latest issues of his favorite series. When Richard noticed an issue of Moon Knight in the stack, he asked Theo who he thought would win in a fight between Batman and Moon Knight. The young man replied a bit too quickly, saying that obviously they could never fight, since one character was from the DC universe and the other from the Marvel universe.
This had earned him a deep frown from his inquisitor.
But when Theo followed up by saying it would depend on Marc Spector’s psychological stability at the time, and whether the moon was full or not, he received a grunt and a nod of grudging respect. The next time Theo came into the store, the boy felt Richard watching him as he perused the stacks. As he was leaving, the store owner stopped him on his way out.
“Some of the older kids have a D&D campaign going on Thursday nights, in the room in back. You should come.”
Theo gave a nod and said he’d consider it, barely keeping his cool as he walked out the door. But as soon as he was down the block, he screamed his lungs out, laughing and jumping up and down like a madman. People stared, but he didn’t care. He was on his way into the cool kid’s group.
That was, until the fateful night when he showed up to the game. Rhone, the de facto leader of the group, had at first tried to turn him away. But when he heard that Richard had invited Theo, he quickly relented.
“Alright, you can stay and play. The group needs a cleric anyway, since Rob is out with the flu. But you’ll have to roll a character from scratch—no re-rolls, either. Sheets are over there. Write it up so we can get started.”
Theo pulled his dice from his bag, along with some Xeroxed sheets of paper and a pencil. “I have my own.”
“Fine.” Rhone turned back to the table to resume scheming with the rest of the party on how they were going to take out an ogre that was guarding the entrance to the dungeon. As an afterthought, he called to Theo over his shoulder. “No cheating, kid—trust us, we’ll know.”
Theo didn’t cheat when he rolled his character, and that was a fact. But when he rolled three natural eighteens, a seventeen, a fourteen, and a ten, well—it was pretty much a given that the cool kids wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t realize it at the time, and simply figured they’d think it was boss that he’d rolled such good stats.
Instead, they’d branded him a cheater and banned him from the gaming room for life. Now he was a pariah, an outcast at Prince Mark’s. But Theo had a plan, one that would almost guarantee that the cool kids would have to accept him back into their clique.
All he had to do was sneak past the purple curtain to do it.
15
Crowley noticed the child lurking just out of sight because he was clearly trying not to be noticed, and that immediately drew the wizard’s attention. It was habit for him to perceive anything that didn’t want to be seen, because so many hidden things in Underhill could kill you.
His mother’s assassins were also known to disguise themselves as innocuous-looking humans, especially since the direct approach to capturing him had proven to be lethal to the first few retrieval teams she’d sent. Lugh knew how many little old ladies, blind beggars, and Boy Scouts the mage had incinerated, eviscerated, dismembered, and otherwise disposed of in gruesome and ruthless ways lately. Of course, they hid in order to take the wizard unawares, and also because the sight of a tall, dark, brooding man with facial scars attacking an elderly woman tended to draw a crowd. And as far as his adoptive mother was concerned, the more trouble she could cause for her former ward, the better.
In fact, it had cost the shadow mage a small fortune in gold to pay off Maeve’s fixers, since Fuamnach’s killers had become more and more brazen with every attempt. When they’d first come after him they’d done it in secret, waiting until he was alone before they attacked. But now they were past that, and the kid gloves were off.
Generally speaking, Crowley could neutralize the odd witness without injuring them too badly, but mind magic wasn’t his strong suit. And after he’d flubbed a mind-wipe, Maeve had insisted that he call professional help to clean up after each clash with Fuamnach’s people. Personally, he couldn’t see why Maeve had been upset. So he’d accidentally caused a fifty-two-year-old stockbroker to mentally revert back to age ten—it wasn’t like he’d killed the man, after all.
Or, worse, allowed a witness to blab on social media about magic and elves and the like. That was the cardinal sin, and it could easily result in Crowley falling from the good graces of Queen Maeve. If that ever happened, he’d have to move away from Belladonna—and that simply wouldn’t do. No, he’d gladly pay well for help in cleaning up his messes because he liked this city, and he had very good reason to stay.
Still, he’d prefer to avoid making a scene here if he could manage it. The child looked harmless enough—a chubby, blank-faced boy with thick glasses, a huge afro, and too-large feet that likely made him clumsier than that oaf of a druid apprentice who called himself Crowley’s “frenemy.” But looks could be deceiving, so the mage kept an eye on him, ready to pull the child into a lonely alcove or restroom and terminate with prejudice, should he reveal himself to be an actual threat.
Surprisingly, the more the wizard watched the boy, the more it became clear that he wasn’t interested in Crowley at all. He was instead monitoring the fat slob of a man who owned the store. Why he was so fascinated by the slovenly cretin was not quite clear, as the fellow was a boor with the personal hygiene habits of an alcoholic hagfish. He smelled of beer and sausage and unwashed skin, he almost always had the remnants of his last meal in his beard and mustache, and he sometimes broke wind while customers were in the store.
On top of all that, he leered at the teenage girls who occasionally visited the shop. Crowley was exceptionally prejudiced against adults who were attracted to children, for reasons that were, shall we say, personal
to him. More than once the mage had considered disintegrating the man on principle. The comic shop would close if he did, and that had stayed his hand—but he revisited the decision from time to time, especially when the man engaged in public eructation.
As for the boy, the mage became convinced he was no threat at all and decided to pay him no mind. He was just a child, after all, and children constantly did things that made absolutely no sense to Crowley. So, he went back to flipping through back issues of Batman and Moon Knight, dismissing the matter entirely.
That was, until the ruckus started.
At first Crowley thought it was gunfire, but then he recognized the sound. Someone had fired off a package of fireworks directly in front of the store, close enough to rattle the door and shake the front glass. A childish prank, no more, and nothing that concerned the wizard. However, it attracted the attention of the store owner, who jumped off his stool and hobbled around the counter to see what had caused the racket.
No sooner had the store owner exited the door than the boy darted out of his hiding place, heading for the front of the store. Initially, the wizard thought he was headed for the cash register—a petty thief in the making, for sure. Or perhaps he meant to steal one of the rare collectibles that the owner kept on display behind the counter. Either way, it was none of Crowley’s business, and he only noted the child’s actions out of habit.
But when the boy took a sharp left turn to duck behind that garish curtain, bypassing the register and merchandise both, Crowley’s curiosity was piqued. To his eyes, the draped doorway stood out as plain as day, but to the other people who entered the store it may as well have been invisible. That’s because someone had cast a strong look-away, forget-me spell on that section of wall, presumably because the owner kept something hidden in the basement that was not meant for public consumption.
