by Al K. Line
I kept on going until the lack of fitness gave its lactic acid warning once again. Scanning the park quickly, I knew this was about as good a spot as any to deal with Mr. Squisher and Mr. Nasty Elf. The other park goers were spread out, well away from me, so I stopped and turned, back to the sun. I put my hands on my hips, trying to look calm, cool, and badass, the effect only slightly spoiled by a little dormouse sat on my head and deciding now would be the perfect time to scratch.
Not in the mood, I picked him up and put him back in my breast pocket, ignoring his objections and fastening the popper.
"Quiet, you moaning mouse, or I'll throw you to the troll and you'll be nothing but stinky droppings." There was a muffled shriek of horror that vibrated across my breast. Gotta admit, it felt kinda nice.
Getting my breathing under control as the troll slowed and approached at a more sedate pace, I let my mind empty of everything apart from magic. There was no me, not in the sense of a person with cares, worries, concerns over her future, all of that was gone.
All that remained was a vessel for magic. Strong magic. My magic, access granted via the Pool. It builds inside of me, all the years of training, all the practice, the perfecting of my art. The pain, the bliss, the thrill of the esoteric energy that permeates the Universe and the planes of existence, the reality we see and the endless ones we don't. It gathered inside my body, swirling and churning and feeling more real than the reality before me.
I was white light and I was dark matter, heavy and weightless, good and evil, pure and soiled, and utterly ruthless. I knew without looking that my body was shining, sparks of magic dancing off me, crackling and spitting like I'd split open and a frenzy of wildness would envelop the troll and elf and they would be no more. Which, unless I kept control, could very well happen, at least the me exploding bit. Magic is wild and terrible and dangerous as hell, and it can wreak havoc on your body unless you are adept.
The more you use, the more dangerous it is, so I kept focus, willed it into being in ways I wanted, and as the troll came to a halt, the elf squinting at me, half-blinded by the sun, I reached out into the vastness and took the quickest glimpse I could into the countless timelines that were my possible futures.
Paths split and converged endlessly, into myriad very different futures. Some contained me, many didn't. Some saw me victorious, some saw me dead. Some saw me broken and bleeding, others saw me stomped to mush like the vampire.
But plenty of futures saw me victorious, whole and unharmed. In the blink of an eye I chose one such path, retreating quickly before I was burdened with the Sight, a terrible gift of utter futility if you got too deep. Nobody wants to see their whole future laid out for them—can you imagine how boring that would be?
"Such fun sport," said the elf, voice beautiful, scent intoxicating even from a distance.
I felt its mind reaching for me, to take me and wrap me in the most comfortable blanket ever. To soothe, calm, and entrance me so it could do as it wished. To seduce me. A mental block slammed down like a steel shutter, locking him out, my mind impervious to his nonsense.
"Shut up, you sick freak. You murdered my friend, for no reason."
"This world is dirty, so I'm cleaning it up and having fun doing it."
These damn dark elves, they want what is ours now they are stuck here, and I know for a fact that many parts of the world are close to being under their control. It doesn't take many of them to enthrall a city; they are like vampires with their glamor but multiplied a thousand-fold.
Once they get their evil minds into yours you are lost, theirs to do their bidding, and they are playing havoc with our lives. But we fight back and the only good thing that has come out of it is that us human magic users are no longer held in such contempt as before. Yeah, whoop-de-do, thanks for nothing everyone.
"Not any more, you aren't." I wasn't in the mood for showdown chit-chat and the magic was becoming wild, ready to explode if I didn't release it soon.
The air hummed, the grass burned away, and my body vibrated. I turned in a circle, slow then gaining momentum, spinning with my arms out wide and I was a blur, head snapping around faster and faster, trying to stop myself getting too dizzy as I entered a different place, a different world. A reality where time slowed and I caught snapshots of the troll as the elf goaded it forward, until it was running right at me, intention clear.
Timing it just right, watching the troll like it was wading through air as thick as soup, I flung myself in an upward arc that saw me launch at the elf like a javelin, trajectory perfect.
Arms outstretched, hands brimming with magic, I caught the elf around the throat and we sailed backward, me pushing more and more barbed magic through my hands and inside of him. As we dove toward the ground I saw the understanding in those impossibly beautiful eyes, and watched, transfixed, as a perfect single silver tear trickled as slowly as the Galaxy traverses the Universe itself from the corner of his eye.
We landed with a thud, the wind torn from his lungs as he hit hard with a crunch, me atop him, hands still around his throat, a knee on his breastbone. I squeezed tight, his long and elegant neck bruising beneath my cramped hands oozing malevolent magic that was already fading.
It was enough, and I watched dispassionately as the tear slid across his cheek to the ground and the eyes closed.
Dead. He was dead. It wouldn't bring back my friend, could never right the wrongs the elf had committed, and it gave no sense of satisfaction, it just was what it was—me protecting myself. Selfish, I suppose, but I'd done the best I could as soon as I could. But it was too little, too late.
The magic went away, back to the Pool. Waiting to be called, to make me something else again, take away a little more of who I am and what I am, but I've lived this long and I intend to live a lot longer.
The troll just stood there, shaking its head. It would be a while before it was back to being itself, and who knew what damage had been done. But there was nothing I could do for it, so I left, and went home.
"Oh," I said, turning. "You might want to stomp that elf until it is flat and food for the worms. We don't want the place to be untidy." I studied the troll, knowing my words must have filtered through as it slowly moved, joints stiff but functioning.
They are incredible creatures—silent, always watching, but easy prey for those that would do them harm. Only bonus is they cannot be killed, but I often wonder if maybe that isn't the worst kind of curse imaginable.
I didn't stay to watch. There would be no joy in that, and the morning had been bad enough already.
Home
I needed a rest, and food. Lots and lots of food. Using magic makes many a witch, wizard, sorceress, vampire, even zombies, et al, ravenous. Lucky for me, my tastes are focused on pasta and meat rather than the blood or brains of humans—definite drawback to being one of the undead or immortal human or ex-human beings, depending on your point of view.
Dragging my feet like my boots were full of troll bits, I got to the outskirts of the city, passed through the various communities that spread to fill the abandoned streets, skirted the no-go zones, and made it to the relatively new witch HQ. I had a nice simple semi-detached. Light, airy, spacious, and quiet, the perfect antidote to my often jumbled thoughts and my sometime memory loss.
Meaning I hated it.
The Queen thought it would be a good idea for us to take over one of the vacated streets, and fair enough it may have been for good reason as we were out of favor with many humans and despised by the elves, but when you find segregation anathema it's rather rich to then separate yourself from society and voluntarily make the haters' job easier.
Strangetown, that's what home was renamed when the beasties arrived, and I guess it's apt. Not exactly an imaginative rechristening of the old city, but it stuck.
The house was delightful, the reasoning utterly distasteful. I want to be me, live how I want, not hide and only feel safe surrounded by my sisters and brothers. One end, Queen, other end, the world and it
s problems. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
All the doubt vanished as I opened the door and breathed deeply. Such an intoxicating scent, almost overpowering, and I felt the familiar tingle in my belly and the nervous flutter as I gently closed the door behind me with a soft click.
Home. Peace. Safety—of sorts—and a messed up, totally inappropriate, stupid bubble containing a warped idea of a future happiness I knew could never be.
"You made it," said Zeno Cleave, blinking his oversized, freaky as hell, yet adorable eyes. Voice like a lullaby, making me want to curl up in his lap and listen to him talk until I took my last breath, dying a happy old witch with a smile on my face.
But I didn't, and I was still trying to decide what the hell to do about all this. Trust me, it wasn't easy.
"I made it," I said, smiling weakly and avoiding his gaze. Feeling as glamorous as a potato in a sweating plastic bag, I unlaced my boots and hoped the stink wasn't contaminating his perfect nostrils. I knew I needn't have worried, as apparently my ripe odor is akin to his sweet scent to me, which kind of grosses you out if you think about it. I mean, maybe what I can't get enough of is really the smell of an elf in need of a shower.
When the proverbial hit the fan, endless Strange came to us for help once they found not all humans wanted to turn them into dust, enslave them, or just hate on them. Many of my kind have taken these dispossessed creatures in, our Queen giving over our homes to those in need. Same as many Normal people have. Some of them absolutely adore the more freakish creatures that dwell among us. Takes all sorts. And we sure have that, and then some.
I was given this freaky looking dude and told to like it or lump it.
Then I got the hots for him; then I got obsessed; then I got angry and punched him in the knackers for being so damn sexy. So he cried, and I cried, too, and now we don't touch each other as everything is messed up and he could be gone, whoosh, at any moment. And besides, he's an elf and they are all bad news.
Or that's what we thought, but, as usual, things can never be simple can they? Turns out Zeno is one of the good ones, and they are few and far between. It's not fair though, as elves are like drugs and you aren't yourself around them as they make you feel like you are half in a dream if you let your guard down for a moment. There is no way to truly understand your thoughts or emotions in their presence.
He'd been here for two months now, and it wasn't getting any better. It's the original forbidden fruit, a deadly apple that will bring nothing but trouble, but boy did I want to sink my teeth into his bum and lick him and tickle him and have him do naughty things to me. See, what a mess.
"Pleasant morning?" asked Zeno with a twinkle in his eye.
"Had better, had worse." I tugged off my jacket and flung it onto a chair, but I couldn't even get that right and it landed on the carpet. Dead on my feet, I sank into the sofa like it was a bubble bath.
"Oi!" came the voice of Mack as his head poked out my pocket.
"Sorry, totally forgot." I reached down, dragged my jacket to me, popped the clasp, and Mack stared up at me with what I assumed was anger. It's really hard to read the features of a dormouse—they just always look cute and cuddly no matter how annoyed they are.
"You could have squashed me," he moaned.
"Don't blame me. You could have stayed at home, and anyway, you're the one that picked a bloody dormouse as the 'perfect' way to hide. Idiot."
"We've been through this. I wasn't thinking straight. You try to keep it together when one moment you're tucking into a nice hot bowl of lava that's been simmering for centuries so it's all flavorsome, and the next you find yourself in a pet shop and your head is sticking out through the roof and your horns are dripping with human blood because cashiers happened to be there when you got robbed of your lunch."
"Yeah, yeah," I waved his excuses away, "same old story. If every demon decided the best way out of it was to take up residence in a bloody dormouse then I'd understand, but most of them stayed as they were."
"I thought it would make escaping easier, or... dunno, let me catch my breath and think. I was stressed. How was I to know you can't go swapping back and forth here like you can at home? I've been loads of stuff over the millennia. I was even a god for a while. Not 'God,' but I did all right, did some good work."
I yawned. I'd heard it all before and it gets boring after a while. Especially when you were the one that happened to pick up the little dude after finding him out on the street. Then what do you know, hey, a talking magic mouse that used to be a demon and now you claimed it you are stuck with it, like, for eternity. That's the rules, everyone knows that. He's mine, although it mostly feels like the other way around.
"When you two have quite finished." Zeno lined up my boots neatly close to the front door—elves are obsessed with order—and then moved into the kitchen. I'm sure he wiggled his bum as he went, just to tease.
"Damn, what a morning." I could have slept for a week, eaten a horse, complete with saddle. Would he cook? Would he hell. Apparently elves don't do cooking. They have, I guess you would call them slaves, to do it for them.
"Where's the shopping?" He loomed over me as he put two coffees down on the table. That's the extent of his culinary expertise.
My admiration of his muscles, all seven feet of him, was replaced with a sinking feeling and the realization I was going to be hungry. "I got sidetracked, and chased, by one of you lot."
"So, no food then?"
"No. Like I said, I got—"
"Why do you do this every time? You just had to go to the supermarket and buy supplies." Zeno can be a real pain at times, which makes it easier to halt the lusting thing.
"I told you, I got chased by an elf on a goddamn troll and then I had to kick their ass. So, no shopping." This isn't what I am usually like, it really isn't, but it had been an incredibly stressful morning.
"Where's the vampire, I thought he was coming to lunch?" Zeno ignored my outburst, so maybe I do get stressed sometimes.
"He won't be coming. He got splatted, Zeno. I saw it and was meant to be next."
He sat down next to me, careful to look for Mack first, but he was busy someplace else, probably grabbing some of the coal I need to keep buying. Have you any idea how hard it is to get coal when demons are so mad for it? It's become a damn gangster drug war out there because of it—dodgy looking demons on street corners, pockets bulging with the stuff. It cost more than my cigars.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know. You have to be more careful, Swift, keep away from them." He put an arm on my shoulder so I leaned in, just because I was tired.
"I tried, I really did. The vampire was keen to help some friends out, but we got sidetracked and never got far with it. And I was going to do the shopping afterward until... Ugh, what a mess."
"I understand. So, what are you going to cook? I'm starving." He looked at me expectantly, and if I'd had the energy I would have punched him right in his stupid face.
"You stupid fu—"
"Whoa, joke! It was a joke."
"Not funny." Then it dawned on me—he may have been being lighthearted, but he still expected me to cook.
Then the front of my house exploded.
Time to Move
"For fuck's sake, Mack, what is wrong with you?"
We clambered over the rubble, once I'd found my boots, and stood in the street with numerous witches of varying ages accompanied by various Strange lodgers, all staring at first my house then at Mack. There was a lot of muttering. Witches are experts at it, there are lessons and everything.
Mack, the no longer tiny dormouse-cum-demon, but now the demon-cum-very-large-and-very-red-and-very-scary-looking-demon, all sixteen feet of him, not including tail or horns, said, "Oops."
"Oops!? Look at my house! What the hell were you thinking?" Like my day wasn't bad enough already.
"Sorry, Swift, I thought I was still a dormouse and walked to the door to go through the little gap like I usually do. You know, just chillin', and er—
"
I held up a hand. "I got the rest. The fact half my house is missing explains it." I had to lower my gaze, even though I wanted to burn holes through his red hide with my anger. It was making my neck hurt looking up so high, plus, he had something nasty up his nose—probably coal boogers or something equally unpleasant.
"You're worse than the damn trolls, I swear. Now where am I supposed to live?"
"Don't you compare me to a troll. I've got brains, and I've got rights. I'm a person, you can't treat me like that. Anyway, I can fix it."
Demons, they drive me nuts. "You are not a person, you are an otherworldly demonic creature that eats the damned and defecates them out and does it for eternity. Anyway, there is no way in any kind of hell you can fix this mess." I watched, dumbfounded, as Mack tried to stack the red bricks into a makeshift wall. He stood back, angry slash of a mouth spreading wide revealing more teeth than in a shark museum, inordinately pleased with himself.
I wiggled my eyebrows at him as the dodgy wall collapsed in yet another display of dust. "I liked you better as a dormouse," I said before storming off through the rubble to see what I could salvage.
"She's touchy, isn't she? Needs to chillax." I heard Mack say, voice echoing up and down the street. Him and his damn out-of-date, so-called street talk, he seems utterly oblivious to the fact he sounds like an idiot.
"She's always been a bit of a hot-head," I heard one of the witches say, others agreeing before they went back to their homes with all the walls still standing. Me, hot-headed? Damn cheek. I'll tear their faces off and... Joke. Sort of.
"Hey, hey, isn't anyone going to comment on me not stuck being a dormouse any more?"
I honestly wasn't in the mood for congratulating him, although being referred to as male is just a personal preference and what Mack likes to go by. Truth is, they are all the same between the legs and he is no more a he than a blade of grass is a cabbage, whatever it may like to think.
