by C Bilici
She hadn’t seen this side of the house on her last visit. It was essentially the front of the isolated property. Wherever it was, they were well and truly in the country. It was calm and serene. The exact opposite of the past night.
She was furious that such a decision had been made for her. Fenton had tried to rationalise it for her.
“You have an important decision to make,” he’d said.
“Yeah, on whether I want to be Stacey the Umbra slayer or not.” She wasn’t sure he got the reference, but it was plain he was in no joking mood.
“On whether you want to be a player or a spectator.”
“Pretty sure that’s the same thing I just said,” she’d mumbled.
“No. It’s not. There are those of us that know what is happening in the world, and those that are blissfully unaware, sleeping soundly at night none the wiser. We’re the former. That was a push that we had no choice on.”
“Yeah, no shit.” She’d tried her best not to think of the home and the people she’d lost, pushed it out of her mind. Confusing herself with emotion hadn’t helped.
“What comes after is. You can sit by and watch, let others carry you. There’s no shame in that. This is no easy life.”
“Then why do you make it sound so shameful?”
He smiled. “I do this so others don’t have to. I do this so people don’t have to go through what we have.” There was a hardness in his face that spoke of other reasons, but he hadn’t elaborated. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a normal, easy life,” he said instead, his face softening. “None of us Wards would choose this life if it weren’t necessary, believe me.”
“The hard life of the player, huh?” He’d nodded solemnly. “You know, I know a sales pitch when I hear one. I’ve taken one of those free stress tests. Fool me once…”
Fenton had simply smiled at her, a lopsided smirk that either said he thought she wasn’t as stupid as his initial assessment, or that he had taken one of those tests too. She wasn’t sure as he seemed constantly stressed and would have made a good mark, if not candidate. She still wasn’t sure these Wards weren’t a cult too, though.
She’d tossed and turned all through the night weighing it all up. The different bed and house the least of the things on her mind, but contributing to her insomnia no less. Could she pretend after all that had happened, even if Jasper and Paul were fine, that none of it existed?
Maybe for a little while.
What if they were traumatised for life, though? Or worse. Was there any way that she could lead a so-called normal life after any of this?
She’d come to the conclusion that there was no real decision to make. For her it was foregone conclusion. She wasn’t a watcher, she was a doer. As she’d washed her face after rising, she thought she’d seen the same hard edge to her face that she had seen on Fenton’s when he had spoken of the decision. It was the same underlying look that all the Wards in the Enclave had.
Fenton joined her outside now with his own coffee and looked at her in surprise before averting his eyes from her bare thighs.
“Checking out my morning wood?”
Fenton’s eyes rolled and he took a sip of his coffee, head shaking.
“Drink up,” she said, now serious. “We have a job to do.”
He gave her a nod.
“So what’s next?”
He fished out his cigarette case and lighter and lit up, offering her his last one, which she took gratefully. She’d not had one all night through all her stress and had about chewed the edges of her fingers off.
He puffed and sipped his coffee. “You need what every apprentice needs. The right tools to start your new job.”
She nodded several times, then pulled a face. “As long as you don’t try to tattoo me with your spunk, I’m fine with that. I have several tatts already,” she pulled up the overlarge shirts sleeve and revealed a number of them over the length of skin. “I know what I’m in for. But your spud juice…” She shuddered.
He shook his head, first in disgust, then in argument. “I told you last night. You have no real idea what you’re in for. Being a penniless soldier in a secret war is no easy task. You will in effect be ostracising yourself from society, unable to see your family or friends.”
“Whatevs. As long as I get Jas and Paul back. They’ll always have my back.”
She knew they would join her as Wards, and that comforted her. Like her, they’d be unable to turn their backs on the knowledge of this hidden world.
“So, tatt me up!”
“Before I encountered the Umbra, I had never even entertained the idea of getting a tattoo. But believe me when I say, these tattoos will be an entirely different experience altogether.”
“I don’t think you get it. I don’t care if they sting like I’m pissing glass shards and I become the stinky crazy cat lady. If that’s what I need, then that’s what I need.”
He nodded. “OK. But, before you can be marked with sigils, you need to decide on the symbols you will use, and assign intent to those symbols. Only then will they be sigils. Then, before we can even start marking you, you will need life tokens and ink. Once all of that is complete, we can begin the real training as we search.”
“Gee, is that all?” She took a drag of the smoke shaking her head. “I had no idea it would be so fucking simple. How about we go on a scavenger hunt while we’re at it as well?”
“We both have our work cut out for us, so please, save the sarcasm. I, for example, need to start investigating why the Umbra are so interested in you.” He lifted his own cigarette to his lips, scratching his chin with his thumb in thought as he inhaled.
“I thought Despina’s people were doing that.”
“They’ll be handling their own investigation.”
“You don’t think they can handle it, do you?”
Fenton smiled.
“Well, I’m way ahead of you on the symbols. I already know what I am going to use. But…” She looked into her coffee cup, fidgeting her feet on the balustrade which rocked her body side to side.
“But?” Fenton prompted.
Her fidgeting was obviously annoying him.
“I need something from my flat.” She looked up when he didn’t say anything. “A notebook. From Jasper’s room.”
“What’s in it?”
“It’s her sketchbook. There’s a bunch of symbols and runes or something in there. Some sort of artistic research she was doing. And sketches. One’s for a tattoo she was designing for me.” He looked at her again. “I need it. That’s what I want.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Stacey frowned. “Well ain’t you just the bad ass!” she said, affecting an American accent. “Speaking of which, stop staring at mine.” The man scowled at her. “I thought you would have put up more of a fight,” she continued when she didn’t get a rise from him. “I’m talking about the notebook, not my arse, by the way.”
“Yes, I understood that. And I would have fought if not for the fact that Despina was sending a crew to clean up and investigate your home. It should be Umbra free by now.”
Her face lit up. “Great!”
“But you still can’t come.” Her expression became dour. “Until we know more about why they want you, you’re safest here.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place isn’t exactly Fort Knox. What makes this any safer?”
He crooked his finger at her to follow him. Her coffee mug thudded as she put it down to follow him onto the dewy grass, which pricked at her bare feet. She’d steal some clean socks from him later so she could put her boots back on. She couldn’t face the day without at least clean socks, and it didn’t seem like he used them often.
He stood facing the house and she before him.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
“Open your mouth and close your eyes, and Fenton will give you a big surpr—”
“Just close them.”
&nb
sp; She did as he said. A wet sound and scrape made her cringe. She felt the wet pads of his thumbs on her eyelids and detected a hint of a coffee smell over morning breath.
“That’s so fuckin’ gross.”
“Hold still.” His fingers closed on the sides of her skull, thumbs still pressed on her eyes.
Stacey held still, but not from his words. A strange glow filtered through the thin skin of her eyelids as he made soft circles on her eyeballs. He made five or six passes over them before turning her around.
“Open them.”
She looked around, her eyes prickling strangely, before her gaze was drawn to the top of the building. Godfrey towered over the house, chains spreading in all directions across the property above him. “The fuck? What’s he doing here?”
“He’s not. Only a part of him is. Or more correctly, an extension of his power, and it’s been here the whole time. This place is shielded by that power, so you have nothing to worry about. The only way they could get here would be if they, or someone they’d infected, physically came here. And no one comes here.”
“Never?” she said, incredulous.
“Not once in twenty years. Not by any conventional means in any case.”
She nodded slowly, still fearful she would be discovered alone and powerless.
“While I’m gone, you will get started on your life tokens and ink. You’ll find jars and containers in the cupboard in the back room, and a pot big enough to boil them in the kitchen.”
“Right. I’ll get onto making my Umbra jam. As soon as you’re gone.”
She already knew what her key ingredients would be and had no intention of retrieving them with him present.
He must have noticed her trepidation. “You will get over any bashfulness you might have in time. I certainly did. And I’ll teach you how to mix the ink when I get back.”
“Okay. One last question though.”
“What? Only the one?” He stood waiting.
“You said you’d sworn never to take on an apprentice. Why? Why now? And why me?”
“That’s three.” She stood expectant. “I’m not a people person.”
Stacey raised her eyebrows. “Nooo. Do tell.”
“Let’s just leave it at that. I have my reasons. As to why now, and you. Necessity, pure and simple.”
She nodded slowly, smirking. “Yeah, not satisfied with any of those answers. Admit it. It’s because you’re hot for me.”
“Ms. Trampler I assure you—”
She started to wiggle her rear side to side and remembered she’d not worn a bra under the shirt as she felt their tips rubbing on the coarse material and brought her hands to the shirts lapels and took hold of them leant forward just enough to give her breasts a shake.
“You want my body, you want my body,” she sang as she danced.
“Are you quite finished?” She stopped moving about and saw a red heat of anger on his face. “Is everything a joke to you? Your lovers were taken and who knows what has or is happening to them as we speak. Your friends, dead. Your workplace, destroyed. And here you stand dancing about like a six year old who’s had too many sweets.”
She straightened and stared at him. “Yes,” she said simply.
“Yes what?”
“Everything is a joke to me. That’s how I cope.” He looked like he was going to talk but she beat him to it. “Remember that abortion I told you about? I was fifteen. The first thing I did when I got home before crying for weeks was crack a joke to my mum.” Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the day but she held those back for after he had departed also.
His anger seemed to soften and he stood in silence. He looked like he couldn’t decide what to say.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tell me where to find this notebook.”
* * *
Stacey stood over the stove and watched the pot, trying to reduce her sadness and anger by guessing what the jars had previously contained — jam, Nutella, pickled onion — before remembering what he now used them for. She didn’t want to associate them with food any longer. She told herself they’d been thoroughly washed and boiled many times over as she scrubbed her hands clean.
It wasn’t too hard to believe given what she’d seen of his home and fastidious nature. The place was meticulous and spotless apart from some dust. Although that could be because he was hardly here and it was a country home.
After she’d given him the description and location of the notebook he’d left abruptly. Seeing him disappear from the outside was completely different to what she had expected. She thought she would see him fall into the ground, maybe a flash of light, or a whoosh of air. He was simply there one moment and gone the next with nothing to show for the passage. As if he were a mirage and had never been there to begin with.
After drying her hands, she stared and listened to the sounds of the stove and the pots rumble as the water built in temperature. She was suddenly aware of how quiet it was and walked about the place looking for a TV or radio. There was neither.
“What is he, fucking Amish?”
She went back into the room where she’d found the containers, a study of some sort, and looked around.
There was a desk with paper strewn about, notebooks and photos. Some of them looked like they dated back to centuries ago and gave the whole thing the look of belonging to a movie archaeologist rather than some mystic, wizard warrior. Rooting around inside the battered, wooden wardrobe that had held the containers, she found Fenton’s tattoo gear, but not much else of interest. As she closed its door, she caught her reflection in a large, full-length mirror on the wall. It stood in front of a stool and a low coffee table. That had to be where he did all of his tattoo work.
Stacey wondered if many Wards were as solitary. From those that she’d seen in the Enclave, she doubted it. How much harder would it be for him without someone helping? There had to be a good reason.
She averted her eyes from herself and turned to the desk.
The top drawer held pedestrian objects like masking tape, pens, scissors.
“Nary a wand in sight.”
The next drawer down proved more fruitful as a zip lock bag full of tobacco, filters, and papers came into view.
“Jackpot!”
Setting them out on the coffee table by the mirror, she sat on the stool with her back to the reflective glass and rolled a handful. Back in the kitchen, she held one in the blue gas flame of the stove, and wondered how he got gas here if no one ever came
“I wonder when the hot, Ward gas deliveryman comes?”
She resumed her earlier seating position outside and slowly smoked, enjoying the rich, deep blend. She figured she’d better enjoy something before it all potentially blew up in her face. Then, try as she might, she could not think what other ingredients to use to make her ink. It all just felt too surreal. Instead, as she smoked, she tried to imagine where the tobacco had come from. Images of Wards in distant and exotic lands growing and trading the stuff at the market she’d seen in the Enclave for potatoes or moonshine filled her head.
“Or potato moonshine.” She laughed at her own joke and smirked.
A moneyless society that worked for the good of humanity without their knowing it. Or even knowing there was something they needed saving from. Not a bad calling in life for her, as they went.
But at what cost? Tammy was gone. And Justin. Perhaps Paul and Jasper.
Their band Pussy Whipped Cream was supposed to be their ticket. At least that was the dream.
“Shit!”
Charlie had never shown for practice either. Could she be gone, too?
Stacey couldn’t enjoy the smoke anymore. It tasted bitter and cloyed in the back of her throat, threatened to choke her at any moment. That, or it was the tears she had been holding back.
With a last pull on the smoke, she stood and tossed the butt as hard as she could in self-loathing.
The jars had been boiling long enough.
“Time to get busy.�
�
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FENTON LEANT INTO the back of Stacey’s hatchback, still parked at Ianka’s club, and poked around for some of the items she’d requested. The hard guitar case sat atop a mess of things and he huffed in frustration.
Something struck his rear and he stood, rubbing the sting away. He smiled.
“Your arse is too hard, Fenton,” Ianka said, shaking her hand. She had struck him hard.
“Are apologies in order?”
Ianka gave him a grin. “Another visit? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He filled her in on the events after their last trip to the club.
“I’d really like to see this place for myself,” Ianka commanded, holding out her hand for him to take.
He obliged her. Ianka looked about the place, unimpressed. “So, you’ve finally taken on an apprentice,” Ianka said as Fenton went to Jasper’s room for the notebook, where Stacey said it would be. “How times change.”
“It’s not here,” Fenton said, changing the subject.
“I never really understood why you refused to. But you never speak about it.” Ianka’s mouth turned down as she saw more of the place. “Despina’s men cleaned this place, you say?”
Every item in the place was roughly stashed. There were books on shelves stacked vertically and upside-down, underwear in desk drawers. Broken items filled the small bin in the kitchen.
“I think the Umbra must have turned the place over.”
“Why on earth would they do that? They’re animals.”
“I told you about the one leading the attack. Something’s changed.”
Ianka gave a noncommittal hum.
They re-entered Jasper’s room to search thoroughly.
“What did you say your apprentice did as a profession again, exactly?” Ianka asked, pulling out a container from under the missing girl’s bed. It was full of sex toys as well as other odds and ends.
“Kindergarten teacher.” He dropped to the floor to examine the box. Using a clothes hanger found under the bed also, he pushed around dildos, and things he had no name for. No notebook. He foraged through piles of other items shoved in the space, head hitting the wooden slats when Ianka’s hand crept up his shorts.
