by J. P. Rice
I warned, “The Celtic Gods won’t be happy about this.”
She scoffed, “Please. You’re not part of the pantheon. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that the Gods don’t even like you.”
I tried to scare her. “Well, you’ve heard wrong. Example A. Machu Picchu. In fact, they are mulling me as an option to take Maeve’s spot in the pantheon. They won’t take this lightly. They will go to the other pantheons and shut you guys down. None of the Gods really care about your little secret police service. The script would be flipped, and you would be the one on the run.”
“They wouldn’t shut us down. The J.J.E. wouldn’t let that happen. I’m not letting you mess with my head. I’m getting my paperwork in order so I can collect the second they kill you.” She snagged the torch off the wall and squeezed sideways through a small opening in the wall.
As the light faded to black, they left me alone with my thoughts in the darkest room I’d ever been in. The lingering stench of death hung heavy in the thick air. Why hadn’t I thought about her following me out to Seattle? Why didn’t I stay in Hilton Head? Why didn’t that spell work on Owen?
The putrid stench of body odor attacked my nose and I knew it could only mean one wizard. It was hundreds, nay, thousands of years of built-up funk. A specific brand of cumin-dashed pungency that made one go cross-eyed.
The J.J.E.
Firelight illuminated one of the narrow openings in the wall. A hairy arm holding a torch emerged first, followed by a potbelly covered in burgundy robes. A plump face appeared from behind the flames. Reddened cheeks merged into a beard as white as freshly driven snow that fell to the middle of his chest.
Silver hair parted directly in the center cascaded down his back, stopping around his hips. He smiled widely as he eyeballed me creepily.
He tapped his chin with his sausage-shaped index finger as words spilled from his crusty, white lips, “My, my, what have we here? One of the top outlaws on our wanted list. Worry not. You shall receive a fair trial. As Judge, Jury and Executioner, you have my word on that.” His smile melted into his natural frown.
“I should have let you die back at Machu Picchu,” I said.
His angry scowl continued taking form, his cheeks and forehead wrinkling deeply. “Well, you didn’t. Machu Picchu proved one thing to me and the Gods. You were and still are a great danger to everyone including yourself.”
“And yet, I still saved your sorry ass. Why are you trying to piss off the Celtic Gods?” I asked, hoping to spook him.
He gazed around the room, his wandering moss green eyes finally focusing on me. “Oh, I hardly think they shall be offended. I’m fighting the war they are afraid to fight. Likely, they’ll thank me.”
I knew it would be hard to rile up one of the most powerful wizards of all-time, but his calm demeanor put me even more on edge. I said, “I seriously doubt that. And you aren’t fighting a war. You’re taking out your frustrations because I...”
Merlin cut me off. “A wise woman minds her lips and tongue. Regarding all occasions and situations. Wasted advice seeing as you’ll be dead soon.”
I chuckled. “I thought you said I was guaranteed a fair trial.”
“You are. As we converse, my servants are mounting their hides, readying to bring back the witnesses. Most of your victims will be here soon enough. One of them actually works for us. You’ve been accused by more than twenty beings. All the same story. The exact same story and the exact same scars.”
He tapped his bearded chin inquisitively and squinted. “But you say, you didn’t do it. If that were true, your arm would bear not a single scar. Shall we have a see?”
I remained silent, stewing. I didn’t have a defense. They had tied me against the post in all my clothes, including my leather jacket. In their haste, they hadn’t even confiscated my phone and wallet. Still, they would eventually expose my scars for all to see.
“Aahh. Slapped by that cruel mistress known as silence,” he said and paced in front of me. “Oh, what could have been if it weren’t for creatures like you. Magic was only to be used for pure purposes. We were in the midst of striking a deal with the demons to stop using dark forces. Then, Machu Picchu happened. And the never-ending war of magic continued. Dark versus pure.”
Merlin explained it as if I hadn’t been there and saved his ass from being squashed. My father and a slew of Gods from various pantheons were trying to strike a peace deal between the Seelie and Unseelie courts when all hell had broken loose.
He cleared his throat and continued, “I, of course, championed the elimination of dark magic. I put together the original force to combat it.”
I said, “There he is. The high and mighty Merlin. Thanks for the lecture, but you should just go ahead and kill me.”
“I wasn’t quite finished,” he told me as he stared into the flames of his torch. “Pure magic passes through the worthy entity, leaving no everlasting effects. Dark magic on the other hand, latches onto you, polluting your soul for all of eternity. When consumed in abundance, the results can be lethal.”
“Whatever, you fooking hypocrite.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, eyes blinking rapidly.
“Oh, please. You look down on me, but you have demon blood running through your system too.”
Merlin exploded, his baritone voice bouncing off the walls of the small room, “Which is precisely why I understand it to be so dangerous. I fight against the darkness every day.”
He marched up to me with the torch next to his head. His sour, yeasty breath hit me as he opened his mouth and said, “So I am certain that the amount of dark blood coursing through your veins and arteries is an outright danger to society. You can’t control it. I’ve seen and heard the stories of your destruction.”
He was right. I wanted to be good. It just wasn’t in my blood.
I stretched my neck and told him, “Just kill me already. Enough of the song and dance. Then you can run to my mother and tell her all about it.” Brighid oversaw the Supreme Magic Council.
Merlin stared at me coldly, the glossy whites of his eyes reflecting the rippling fire. “But that would be too easy. No. I’m afraid you will have to face the very creatures you stole from. You will be reminded of how awful you truly are before your ultimate demise. Then, your soul will have all of eternity to think about your actions in this life.” He belly laughed demonically.
I wouldn’t grovel before Merlin. It wouldn’t do any good. I stood there tied to a post with my muscles aching and my lips sealed.
Merlin stared at me proudly, like a fourteen-point buck’s head mounted to the wall. I was a trophy to him. He turned on his heel and glided toward the opening in the wall. For an obese man, he was nimble on his feet. The torch disappeared along with Merlin’s robed body, leaving me in darkness again.
Fook that Santa Claus lookalike. Merlin could go straight to hell.
Even though I’d wronged my victims, I couldn’t let them get into my head. I didn’t want to languish as a tortured soul, questioning my worldly motives endlessly. That was exactly what Merlin wanted. I couldn’t let them break me. I had to stand strong and take my medicine.
I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do.
Flickering orange flames appeared through the opening in the wall and a big purple afro followed. What did this bitch want?
As the Huntress entered the room, I noticed a tiny figure behind her. She put her hand on his bald head and guided him close to her side. The faint fire exposed a tiny man in dirt-stained white robes. As I focused on his facial features, my heart nearly stopped.
The Bounty Huntress said, “Judging by your bug eyes, I have a feeling you know this person. Haruki hasn’t forgotten you. That’s for sure. He was your first victim, I believe. The Lightning Mage was looked at as a God among his people because of his magical abilities. He planned to use his gifts to stop the brutal war being waged in Japan. His power was unmatched.”
I interrupted her, “If he was so powerful, how cou
ld a normal person like me defeat them? It beggars belief, no?”
The Huntress clenched her fist and took a step toward me. “How dare you? You know damn well the Morrigan helped you with your first few victims. Yet you stand here acting helpless. She filled you with more dark blood than you could ever control. And still you consider her your friend. She made you into a ticking time bomb, don’t you see?”
I responded, “You talk a lot of shit down here. But when you saw her on the street, you ran like a coward.”
“That will be enough out of you,” she said, taking two more purposeful steps toward me. She reached across her body and backhanded me on my left cheek.
My ears rang in pain as she continued, “When you stole Haruki’s magic, you stole his identity. He went from being considered a deity to being shunned by his own followers. If you were wondering why he hasn’t said a word, it is because he stopped talking after you raped him of his magic. Now he is the sad, pathetic mess you see before you.”
She flexed the fingers of her right hand as if she were debating whether to slap me or punch me. “He never eats, barely sleeps and stares off into the distance wondering what could have been. Look at him. Look at your destruction. Own it. Think about it.”
I couldn’t think about it. I had to remain resolute in my stance. How could I feel bad for someone else when no one gave a shit about me? No. I couldn’t allow my head to go there.
I stared at the wrinkled mess of a man, his face so lined that his dark eyes were barely visible. I remembered the day I had met him. He’d stood with his chin raised, a sign of great pride. Now his head sagged and he stared despondently at the ground.
Before I felt any sympathy for him, I turned away, but the thoughts wouldn’t dissipate. I’d lured Haruki to the lake where the Morrigan was lying in wait. She’d captured him rather easily, but the torture had taken weeks before he’d agreed to give up his magic.
The Morrigan had convinced me that the process was normal in the world of the supernatural. I was so caught up with the prospect of having magic that I hadn’t stopped for a second to consider the consequences. It had taken about fifty years to realize my actions were wrong.
The Huntress went on about Haruki’s struggles in life, occasionally stopping to assault me. I collected a mouthful of blood as she stared at me with a smug look of satisfaction glued to her face. I parted my lips and spat out the liquid, drenching the Huntress’s face in blood. She gasped and stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the sleeves of her elk skin jacket.
“You’ll pay for that,” she promised and grabbed Haruki by the shoulder. She led him out of the room, once again leaving me in darkness.
Another person holding a torch entered the room. I waited for my watering eyes to settle from the sudden rush of light. A short man with a ragged yellow beard to his belly, dull blue eyes and a wind burnt face walked toward me with a stool in his hands. It was the druid named Finchley.
He smiled, and I noticed several missing teeth. The short druid with close-cropped blond hair that bordered on gray walked right up to me. “My, my, my, how the tables have turned. Remember when you had me tied to a post? Remember that? When you and the Morrigan took turns whipping me into submission. Remember those good times? Because I surely haven’t forgotten.”
He turned around and removed his hemp shirt, exposing a back full of grotesque scars. I turned away and closed my eyes.
“Look at it,” he screamed. “Look at your work. Or I will burn you at that stake.”
My neck finally acquiesced, and I faced forward and opened my eyes. He made me look at his mangled body for a solid minute before he put his shirt back on.
Finchley planted the torch in the ground next to him and looked up at me as he spoke, “It had taken me nearly four hundred years to learn that magic. And then in the blink of an eye...” He blew into his open hand. “Just like that. It was gone forever. Never to return.”
It was getting harder not to respond, but this was the best way. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t affecting me emotionally, but I had to fight it off. A confused soul was destined to wander aimlessly, searching for answers that would never come. It was much better to die with peaceful thoughts and a clear mind. My soul would thank me later for that.
The druid extracted two items from his back pants pockets and approached me. As he neared, I saw he was holding two smaller torches. He dug into the crotch of the pants and produced a ball of string. Gross.
Finchley pushed the step stool next to me and tied the two torches to the wide rectangular post on either side of my head. He stepped down and reached into his back pocket, producing a little pack of wooden matches. He struck a match and climbed back up on the stool. He ignited the torches and blew out the match.
If I turned my head in either direction, the flames would ignite my hair. As the warmth kissed my cheeks, it forced to look straight ahead. In silence, the druid began to disrobe. He stepped out of the hemp pants and stood nude, scars painting most of his body. Apparently, he wanted me to see more than just his back.
“All of these are from you.” He pointed to a hideous purple one near his hip. “Remember that one. When you bit and tore away a chunk of my flesh. Never truly healed. Your lips and mouth forever stained with my blood.”
Finchley snapped, “Huh? Do you? Or have you forgotten about my pain and suffering?” He softened his tone. “Sure. You got what you wanted and moved on.”
He spun around, and I fought away tears as I stared at his mangled back with its intersecting avenues of scars. It had been a blur at the time and I hadn’t thought about the aftermath or fallout. I’d felt jilted by life with the disappearance of my husband and I wanted to acquire as much magic as I could by any means necessary.
I closed my eyes and hoped it would all go away.
“You close your eyes, I’ll set your pretty red hair ablaze,” he threatened and screamed, “Look at what you have done. I battle chronic pain in nearly every part of my body. All due to you.”
Finchley softened his tone as tears built up in his eyes. “I pray nearly every day for the Gods to put me out of my misery. Yet the Gods are cruel, though not nearly as cruel as you. Of all the people in all the worlds? Why me?”
I didn’t have an answer. The Morrigan and I operated randomly, leaving it up to chance. I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do.
“Why me?” he shouted.
“Just the luck of the draw,” I lamely explained.
“So I lost my life strictly because of bad luck?” he asked, incredulous and plucked the torch back out of the dirt.
I tried not to respond, but ended up uttering, “We didn’t pick you for any reason other than you had a healthy reserve of magic.”
He gazed at the wall, twisting the torch in his right hand. “The talented have always been persecuted throughout history. Often seen as a threat. But I was a threat to no one. I used my magic benevolently. For the benefit of my family. That was it. And it sickens me to think about what you have used my magic to do. To cause suffering. Despicable.”
He spat in my face, knocked the two tiny torches away from my head and walked out of the room. I took a few shuddering breaths and watched the torches burn away as his spit ran down my nose.
Before the spit on my face evaporated, someone else walked through the opening. An immense bearded man wearing layers of boiled leather protection appeared from behind the flames and approached me purposefully. The Bavarian Warlock. His freckled face leaned toward me and he placed his torch near my head, inspecting me.
His greasy hair swung from side to side as he shook his head and turned to leave. Faster than a tornado, he whipped back around and clocked me in the jaw with a closed fist. I saw spotted lights in my vision, swirling together and streaking left and right.
If those men hadn’t tied my hands behind my back, I would make sure my lower jaw was still hinged. Instead, I pressed my tongue against my teeth, expecting a few to fall out but they
remained in place.
“Hurts, don’t it?” he said and inhaled audibly through his nose, his nostrils flaring.
Even if I could open my mouth, I wasn’t going to. The Morrigan had informed me that a person’s thoughts right before death often accompanied them for the rest of time. And I considered her an authority on the subject. If my mind was manic and confused when I died, it would follow my soul, torturing me for the rest of eternity. Even though I knew my actions were wrong, I had to remain resolute.
I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do.
The warlock pulled a circular silver tin from his pocket and cracked it open, exposing minced tobacco. Using his thumb and forefinger, he grabbed a pinch and stuffed it into his bottom lip. “As bad as that hurts, it’s nothing compared to what you did to me. I regained strength in my muscles, but my brain and heart never recovered. You didn’t steal my magic. You stole my livelihood. It was how I made my money. How I supported my family.”
He sat down in front of me and jammed the torch into the ground. He leaned back on his hands, spat out a big brown wad, and continued in a somber tone, “My wife left me, but you don’t care. I thought she loved me, not the money. Wrong. I became so desperate, I resorted to a life of crime. I was convinced I could buy her back. No better than you, a magical thief. I thought if I could just get some money, she would surely take me back.”
The warlock paused and turned away, fighting back emotion. “The money I stole only got me further away from her. Until one day I stopped and realized that the futile exercise was wearing my soul down to a nub. I purposely got caught hoping the authorities would put me to death. Put me out of my misery.” He faced me, and tears welled up in his eyes. “And I can trace it back to that one fateful day.”
He spat another brown wad near my foot. “My chivalric nature of helping a woman in distress caused all this. By the time I’d realized it wasn’t a real water dragon but only an illusion spell, my fate was sealed. I went from having the greatest life in the world to a vagabond thief, begging to die. I drink to excess every day in an ill effort to forget it all. But the smoking branding iron of memories only sinks deeper into my flesh, sizzling and never allowing me to forget. It’s torture.”
