by Al K. Line
I ran left away from Pepper and pinned myself against the wall, waiting.
I knew Boris, and he might be huge and tough, but he was also impatient. Plus, one more thing. He didn't like the dark.
Naked, just my hat on, I held my breath.
Sure enough, a few moments later he risked it and the table with my clothes and the duffel burst with light. Boris was highlighted with his hand on the bag's zipper, already recoiling with shock and pain as the magic wards protected what was mine, at least for a while.
He screamed in horror as his arm melted up to the elbow, flesh stripped away and bone shining in myriad colors as the magic did what I'd set it to do. Protect my stuff. He shot randomly, discharging the gun.
Once spent, I used the dying light to get to the table where Boris was now kneeling on the floor, arm little but bone and goop up to the shoulder, body slick with sweat and already deep in the throes of shock.
"You better get a doctor to see to that," I said, voice cold, no pity for the man that would have seen me dead.
"Go fu—"
Something slammed into the side of Boris' head and with a dull thud like a tree falling in a damp, mossy forest he toppled sideways, head split open and no longer worrying about his arm. Or anything else for that matter.
"You took your bloody time," I said to Sasha.
"And you're shriveled," she said staring down at my naked torso.
"Hey, it's the cold, all right? Come on, let's go."
"Where's Pepper?"
"Pepper's dead. Pepper is very, very dead."
I dressed quickly, Sasha silent beside me. She normally never stopped talking, but she was none too keen on what she called my "dirty business." With wand in pocket, hat on head, and mysterious bag slung over shoulder, I followed the glittering, swinging hips of Sasha up out of the cellar of Boris' bar, through the back door, and into daylight.
Death, A Real Inconvenience
There are many ways to die, and I've experienced a few. Trust me, one is more than enough.
Death number one was at the hands of Sasha, the beautiful—in an odd way—woman by my side. No, I don't hold it against her. She did me a favor. Some fae are skilled with potions and the old nice dress trick and pumpkins and whatnot—yes, you can go to the ball—others, like Sasha, have slightly darker, and less jolly arts. Are less inclined to turn rags into a nice sparkly gown, more inclined to send a swarm of chattering beasties after you from the Nolands.
She was about as dark as they came while still remaining on the right side of the Code, and it's a fine line she trod. Trust me, I know. I wibbled and wobbled across the tightrope between what's okay and what isn't myself.
Sasha came into my life at a critical moment. Namely, I was in a bit of a bind with let's just say an angry ex-owner of a certain object I'd reclaimed from him. He was less than impressed with my skills at sneaking and general thievery.
Sasha was bound to him and, gal of action that she was, took the opportunity to sever those ties in a very final way. She killed him, freeing herself, and then took it upon herself to do me a favor in return for my help. She gave me my first glimpse of the afterlife. She killed me, sending me into the first state of death.
It's not as bad as you might imagine, and there are certainly worse things, like state number two, which I have also experienced, but the first time is always the worst, and I have to admit it came as somewhat of a shock.
As I stared at the body of the dead guy, Sasha with a wicked grin on her face, she said she owed me a favor for allowing her a chance to gain her freedom.
I joked—only because I was nervous—saying to think nothing of it as long as she promised not to stop me taking back what I'd been paid to reclaim, but not ending up like the guy on the floor would be nice. She just smirked, her face lighting up like an angel's. How about immortality, or at least a taster of it? she'd asked me. Would I like to live forever? Die and come back, all that kind of thing?
I told her in no uncertain words that there was no way was I gonna be turned into a freaky vampire, but she tilted her head and laughed. A wild, free, dangerous laugh that made me smile but also sent shivers down my spine.
Silly little man, she'd said. No, nothing like that. No blood cravings, just the real deal. Regeneration without the side-effects. Magical, pure, untainted by any dark corruption. A taste of what it was to be fae.
And, like an idiot—I was younger then, rather wild if I'm honest—I said, sure, that sounded like fun.
So she killed me.
I thought she'd been joking. She was deadly serious.
One minute I was alive and rather surprised by the turn of events, the next I was very dead and having this oddball conversation with an imaginary Death just to stop myself going mad. I was back and gasping for air almost immediately, but it still felt like an eternity.
"What did you do?" I asked. She just shrugged her beautiful shoulders and smiled, making a zipper motion across her mouth.
It was only many weeks later that I found out she was my faery godmother. I know, right? Who'da thunk it?
The main drawback to having a faery godmother is that they're flaky as hell, or maybe it was just mine. I don't know, I have nothing to compare it to. Sasha came and went as she pleased, and mostly she pleased to stay away and let me get stabbed or hit or shot or slashed, sometimes all three in succession. Once, all at the same time. Occasionally, if I was lucky, the order changed just to mix it up and keep me on my toes.
All my deaths since the first had been different, not quite the final passing like the original should have been, but more akin to an advance screening of what the real thing would be like. I went, passed over, but the instant I died my body was already hard at work repairing the damage. As long as it wasn't my brain, then I could return, body healed so fast it was almost like it never happened.
But there were limits to this stuff, and one day I knew I'd find out what they were. I asked Sasha once how many goes I had at this thing called life. How many rebirths was I granted. She focused on me in a peculiar way and said, "I can't tell you that, Arthur. If you knew how many chances you had you'd get complacent. Take it for granted. Each death might be the final one. You may have one chance, you may have ten. All I can tell you is that one day you will die and never return. Keep that in mind."
So I tried not to be complacent and get myself killed. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes not. Think of it as Russian roulette, you can't go far wrong with that analogy. Rest assured, it's scary every damn time. I wouldn't recommend dying even once; it messes with your head something terrible.
Not wanting to hang around, I followed Sasha to her car and hopped in.
I also closed my eyes.
Sasha was, without doubt, the worst driver in the history of motoring. She refused to acknowledge other vehicles, believed stop lights were meant for mortals only, and speed limits were guidelines for people not in any kind of hurry, not actual rules to adhere to.
At least you got where you wanted to go quickly.
"Are you going to explain why you let some lowlifes capture you and steal your bag? I thought you were a good criminal? One that always delivered?"
"I am," I protested. "I'll have you know I have an impeccable record. Um, apart from that one time back east, and, er, there were a few issues several years ago but I was having problems with my hat and my magic was wonky. Oh, and there was the time that—Watch out!"
"You should be a better bad guy, Arthur. Not get caught or killed quite so often."
I don't think Sasha really understood the concept of being a criminal. She thought of it more as me getting into little scrapes and generally having fun. Although, to be fair, she was rather vague about the whole death thing, not really understanding what it was, or what she did to me when she gave me my gift.
"I try my best," I mumbled, feeling rather put out. I did pretty well, better than most. I was still alive for one, and that was more than most in our world could say.
Sash
a kept her eyes on me as we sailed through the junction and were almost sideswiped, but, as usual, the other vehicles just bounced off us like we had an invisible forcefield around us, which was exactly what we did have.
Perks of being a faery, I guess.
Heading Home
I needed to change, and I needed to rest and get my magical strength back before I even attempted to deliver what I'd been paid to deliver.
All good enough reasons, but they were excuses. I felt utterly betrayed, in a daze but trying to stay strong and act the hard man. Putting a brave face on it for Sasha as she would get wild if I acted too sad, but Pepper's betrayal cut deeper than I ever thought it would have.
How could he do that to me?
We'd been buddies for almost three years now, and he'd been an irregular, but mostly welcome, part of my life. I knew he was a man of rather questionable character, but then weren't we all? What I hadn't believed was that he'd betray me. There are criminals, and then there are dirty criminals, and those that would betray their own, their friends, their partners, they were about as unclean as you could get.
We'd done several jobs together, me getting in touch if I needed his help, or him hearing about it and calling me, checking to see if I needed assistance. Before then I'd mostly worked solo, but there was something about the skinny guy I found endearing. We hit it off, in a strange, and yes, maybe often one-sided way. But that's just the way the dice roll sometimes. You have a main guy and you have a sidekick. He gave off that kind of vibe and we fell into our roles easily.
I did jobs, he tagged along. He was one of those characters involved in lots of dodgy dealings in our world. A face. This underground world wasn't large, and the magical underground even smaller, so we all knew each other if not by birthday then at least by name or reputation. What can I say? I liked him.
And he'd planned to screw me over if possible and take the bag and sell it to someone. Meaning, there was somebody out there who really, really wanted it. They'd also got to Boris, so they weren't being subtle. Boris was more of an opportunist and would take anything if he thought he could get away with it, and often even if he wasn't sure.
Now all these guys were dead, my clothes were scorched, wet, and generally messed up, my hat was a little battered after Mike's attempts to take it off my head, and my soul was weeping even if my eyes weren't.
"You coming in? Have a stroll, get some fresh air?" I asked Sasha as she pulled up a discreet distance from my front door like usual. I knew her answer but it was polite to ask.
She turned her nose up and said, "No. Dirty. Why can't you live somewhere clean instead of somewhere so nasty."
I sighed, not in the mood for this argument yet again. "Sasha, my dear godmother, I will be forever grateful to you for the gifts you have bestowed on me, for the help you have just given me and the help you have provided in the past on many occasions, but when will you get it into your thick skull that it's not dirt, it's called the bloody countryside."
There was silence. Terrible, long silence. I braced myself, fearing the worst, and then it happened. Sasha's eyes were wet and I was feeling all kinds of nasty. "There's no need to shout," she croaked, the tears really flowing now.
I pulled a tissue out of the glove box and dabbed at her beautiful, oversized, and peculiarly shaped eyes. Like elongated tear drops, golden and deep, hinting at the magic she contained.
"Sorry, sorry it's been a stressful time lately. Look, I like my home, and it's just the countryside."
"But there's mud," said Sasha, adamant and now beginning to get on my nerves. But she was crying, and I went to pieces when women cried. It's not fair, shouldn't be allowed.
Keeping my calm, knowing it would do neither of us any good to argue, and still grateful for her help, I said, "Thanks for everything. You okay now?"
Sasha sniffed and shook her head, her salon-fresh locks tumbling around her shoulders like liquid gold. I looked away as it never paid to stare at her too long. I got urges, and having urges for your faery godmother feels wrong on so many levels. Motes of faery dust glittered in the interior of the Jeep, fading away before they touched anything.
"I'm okay. Be careful, Arthur, you know what you're like when you get upset. You humans and your deaths. So inconvenient."
"Tell me about it." I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. My lips tingled and everything felt better in the world for the contact with such a beautiful, otherworldly creature as Sasha, and I guess as I leaned back I had a goofy look on my face.
"Idiot," she said, smiling and batting at me as I held out my hand. She took it anyway, and I gave it a squeeze, her slender fingers easily wrapping around my admittedly rather bony digits.
"Love you," I said, and hopped out.
"Love you, too," she replied, and I know she meant it. "Say hello to George for me, and remind her we're having a girls' day out next week."
"Will do."
I grabbed the bag of mystery, the cause of so much death in such a short time, and closed the door.
Sasha backed away and was gone in a screech of tires.
For a while I was lost deep in thought, and when I came back to myself I was already feeling more relaxed for the change of scene from the city to home. I opened the latch on the four-bar gate and stomped through the cobbled courtyard of my home.
Maybe she was right. It was very muddy.
But this was England, and it was muddy everywhere that wasn't paved over.
May there be more mud and less concrete, that was my motto. Or it would be if I bothered with such things.
I dodged chickens, waved at the sheep—who ignored me as usual—and threw Sally a bucket of scraps which she snuffled then munched on contentedly.
Ah, there's nothing like home, except magic, that's pretty damn cool, too.
"Stupid," I moaned, slamming my palm into my forehead. Why hadn't I asked her what was in the bag? She would have known. Sasha knew everything, and sometimes she even shared that information.
Oh well, time for coffee.
Home
Company is fine and all, in limited doses, but there's nothing like closing the door to your own private world and knowing you're safe. As the door clicked shut with a satisfying thud, thud, thud, and I spied the dusty baseball bat in the corner, I felt a sense of comfort that allowed me to relax.
Plus the wards, mustn't forget the wards.
My home of many years was not what many expected, the few that were invited. Some were downright surprised by the way I lived, somehow it seeming at odds—to them—with the way I behaved when in the midst of one underground issue or other.
Screw them. Their loss.
People who spent their whole lives in the city, in concrete jungles where they pounded pavements, lived in sterile interiors, hardly ever spent time in their garden or visited the parks, they were so out of touch with the reality of existence it was no wonder the population was so crazed.
I saw it in their eyes. A madness creeping over them year after year, a tension that would find release in the worst way possible. It was there, the knowledge that something was wrong, a piece missing. Life wasn't quite right but they didn't know what the issue was or what they could do to change things.
I could have told them, but they wouldn't listen, so I kept quiet and left them to it. But one day, one stressful day the same as so many others, somebody would bump into them on a busy street, or someone would cut them off on the road and they'd lose the plot. Tip over the edge and go wild. Rant and rave and react in a way that seemed entirely misplaced, but in reality was the outpouring of tension built over countless years, finally releasing in an explosion of violence, or a complete mental breakdown.
So, yeah, not wanting any of that, I guess you could call me a smallholder. Except I didn't have cows, they were too much trouble and who had the time?
I rose early—if I'd even gone to bed—fed the chickens, collected eggs, tended sheep, even had a donkey named Marjorie. Had pigs, grew my own v
egetables, and was mostly self-sufficient in all the basics.
That's not to say I didn't go to the supermarket and buy ice cream or wine, or countless other goodies that made life enjoyable, but most of what I put in my body was organic and home grown.
A wizard needs to look after his health, but that's not really the reason. I needed the connection to the natural world in order to channel magic, and I needed the exercise. Physical exertion on a daily basis to allow me to at least try to sleep at night.
I'd lived in many places and been many people over the years before I finally settled on being the man I should have been all along—no easy thing to find yourself in the modern world. This life, with occasional hard physical labor, was the only way I could get my rest, so important for all things magical.
A true insomniac, if I didn't have all this to keep me busy then I'd be an utter zombie, prowling around all night and half dead. It was bad enough anyway—many nights sleep eluded me completely and in the dark hours I returned to the city, more often than not awake when most others slept.
But not those in my world, they thrived in the quiet hours, under the cover of darkness.
Maybe this was why I was who I was, a criminal, because the underworld worked when the good guys were wrapped up tight in their beds.
But it was damn nice to be home.
My home was large, the property extensive. A proper farm. Animals running about, barns and mud and a massive, ancient building that dated back to the sixteen hundreds in parts, with several additions over the years.
From the outside it was quaint and traditional, on the inside it was slightly different.
It was full of small, comfortable rooms, exposed beams and rough, traditionally lime-plastered walls. Nice, but it always felt like it was missing something and I couldn't relax, felt too claustrophobic.
So after I bought the farm and spent a few years living in the cramped rooms, I had a brainwave one day and got the contractors in.
The end result was a mix of old and new downstairs, while the upstairs remained mostly original. More bedrooms than were needed, two en-suite, and lacking much in the way of modernization. The house was awesome. I did a grand job even if I do say so myself.
