by Hunter Blain
The soldier looked at him with pain filled eyes and gaping mouth. “Y-yes ma’lord,” he stammered.
He reached in his satchel, pulled out a piece of deer skin and tentatively grabbed the handle with it. With a twist and a pull, the door fell open and steam rushed to escape, wafting over the soldier. He took several steps back while waving his hands in front of his face less he be consumed by the cloud. A light breeze brought the acrid smell of seared flesh.
I stood watching, not wanting to believe, as the vapor dissipated. Inside was a lump of scalded flesh in a fetal position. It had my mother’s dress on.
My mouth tried to say the words, “the wind,” but nothing came out. Tears brimmed and fell down my dirty cheeks, creating streaks through the blood and dirt. Snot bubbled out of my nose. My heart sank as what I was seeing took hold. I sobbed, painfully. My body jerked with every breath. The stranger moved his hand from my shoulder and wrapped his arm around my face. My sobs of heartache were muffled by his sleeve at the crook of his arm. I was vaguely aware of the smell of decrepit dirt filling my nose, but that was a distant thought in my reeling mind.
“That was not the wind you heard,” Ulric purred into my ear, just above a whisper. “It was her screams of anguish through the brazen bull. They roasted your mother alive, John.”
Centuries later, in a decimated library in Nazi occupied France, I found a book on what is now known as medieval tortures. I read through it with a knotted stomach, jaws squeezing, and blurry eyes. A fire is built under the bull, causing the bronze to slowly heat. Flesh bubbles and splits. Meat separates from bone. It takes several minutes for the person to go into shock. Several mortal lifetimes later, the pain felt as fresh as a gaping wound that refused to heal.
With Ulric still holding me, my vision sharpened and all I could focus on was the commander who killed my family. I felt my teeth clinch and my breaths came in ragged shudders.
“I’m... going… to… kill… ye,” I said between furious, body-wrenching sobs.
“So, you accept my proposal, then?” Ulric said with a smile in his voice.
“Aye, aye a thousand times, aye!” I growled. “I will laugh into tha’ fiends face as he dies. Then he can burn in Hell.”
“Then let us begin.”
Still looking out the window, I felt his breath on my neck.
“Now, this might hurt a little,” he purred and then an explosion of fire pierced my neck. The burning spread down my side and up my head. I stayed focused on my nemesis as my vision blackened around the edges. My heart drummed erratically, trying to pump blood that was quickly diminishing. My breathing became shallow as darkness enveloped my sight. Everything went still as my heart stopped.
Chapter 5
Now
Valenta’s Saloon was only a handful of blocks away from the church and closer still to my resting place. Its convenience was only rivaled by the fact that the saloon is a hub that caters to the super natural elements of Houston. It sits on a street nestled between dilapidated buildings that used to sell cars or give massages. A single, flickering security bulb illuminated the weed infested parking lot which contained cars of varying cost and rarity. I was confident that most were unlocked considering no one would dare touch a car in Valenta’s parking lot. When this rare occurrence would happen in the past, the patrons would find the thieves, but the police never did.
As I pushed past the saloon style doors, I surveyed the room. It was emptier than usual with only a few supes occupying a table in the back corner. I couldn’t see past their glamour, but I could smell that they were of the troll family. Trolls were notoriously difficult to kill because of their healing factor. Though not as fast or as efficient as my own, they could have a limb removed and, as long as they didn’t lose it, could sew the pieces back together and it would heal back within hours.
Normally I would keep my eye on their ilk, but Val’s Saloon was neutral grounds to all supes. Anyone who would violate the agreement would be dealt with by any and all without consequence.
I walked past the threshold and made my way toward the bar.
The room was a big square, with Val’s actual bar taking up one full side. There were tables spread throughout that were made from various woods of varying ages. Val would never admit it, but it had been said that his bar was taken straight from Val Halla itself where the fallen would enjoy their drinks for free. Not a lot of profit to be made.
The chairs matched the wood of their respective tables. No one knows how old Valenta is, so my theory is that he has been the proprietor of a saloon or some apropos variant over the centuries. As the business grew, he would keep the old furniture and make new ones himself. I’ve seen him whittling away behind the bar and took notice of his efficiency with a blade. When I first met Val, I was my usual witty borderline standoffish self and made a “your mom” joke to him. Without taking his eyes off me, he pulled up a raw piece of wood from a pile just under the bar, and took his pocket knife to it with unparalleled craftsmanship. Within less than a minute, a nice sharp stake was placed on the bar right in front of me, the message was clear. He motioned for me to pick it up, which I did hesitantly. My eyes were drawn to a carving of a man with strikingly similar characteristics to myself being impaled in the chest by the hooded personification of Death. I was quick to apologize and explain my particular sense of humor. We’ve been good ever since.
“Hey Val, did your bar get bigger or are you serving clam chowder again?” I asked the man standing behind the counter as I approached, motioning to the empty seats.
“Fuck’n smartass,” the man responded with a thick southern drawl. Valenta was a man of average height and thick muscle hidden underneath long, flannel sleeves that were slightly rolled up just above the wrist. His hair was the same light brown color as his eyes, which hid a world of confidence, age, and wisdom behind them. Every time I saw him, I swear he had a different style of facial hair. This time it was a handle bar moustache leading up to mutton chops.
“Summoning your inner Wyatt Earp?” I joked while stroking my own lavish face muscle known as a beard.
“Breaks up the monotony of existence, son,” he responded without looking up from the glass he was cleaning. This was one of my favorite things about Val, he was OCD when it came to cleanliness. I brought it up to him one time and his response was “Next to godliness.”
Moving on I inquired, “Seriously though, why’s the place deader than Fantastic Four’s sequel?”
Looking up from his duties, he stared into my eyes with an impossibly more serious expression and said, “There’s been chatter, John. One of them Hell zealots…”
“Hell-lots!” I interrupted excitedly, fisting the air at my pun.
Without missing a beat, Val picked up where he left off, “…is going to be successful in open’n the doorway to the pits below. Somethen’s commen, and supes are gettin’ while the gettin’s good.”
To scare supernaturals is no easy feat. An image of Father Thomes flashed in my mind; he mentioned the surplus of summonings as of late. They were on the precipice of getting out of hand. My blood ran cold…er.
“What’s your little birdies say about this chatter?” I asked with feign confidence, fearing that I already knew the answer.
“The prophecy boy. The final showdown at the OK Corral between above and below,” he said grimly, shaking his head. His attention had refocused on his glass, which was now clean. He picked up another and held it up to one of the dim lights, inspecting it for imperfections left by the industrial washer.
“Then where the fuck is everyone running too?!” I all but cried out in frustration. “Hoboken, New Jersey?”
“There are more planes than these three, boy,” he matter-o-factly reminded me.
The pit dropped from my stomach. “You mean, they are freaking hiding in those planes because they think it’s safer?! Val, what the hell is coming?”
“Exactly,” he said. “I ‘magen the Fae are have’n a heyday with the surplus of inve
ntory. Now, what’ll you have, son?”
After a moment of searching his eyes, I sighed and said, “Give me a Bloody Jack, and make it a double.”
While Val mixed the enchanted Jack with a fresh bag of blood from the local clinic where he had connections, my mind drifted to the horrors Ulric had informed me of in regards to the other planes. He had made sure to implant a healthy respect bordering on fear of the Fae court in particular. They were a crafty lot, as beautiful as they were fierce. Their intelligence was rivaled only by their cunning. Ulric had told me a story about a man lost in a forest during a particularly harsh winter storm who begged the gods for a fire to keep him warm. It wasn’t a god who answered. The most beautiful woman the man had ever seen appeared beside him, and asked, “If I give you warmth, will you return the favor?” To which the man vivaciously shook his head in agreement.
With a wave of her hand on the kindling the man had stacked, she started a roaring fire that provided him with enough warmth to survive the night.
In the morning, it was said that she had skinned the man to make a coat to return the favor. Word is a member of Fae royalty still walks around with her man-coat to this day. I vaguely wonder if PETA would have a problem with that.
There were lesser Fae, like the trolls in the corner, who were just straight barbaric in their approach. I much preferred them over anyone in the courts.
Returning my train of thought to its tracks, I asked Val, “Any specifics about the prophecy I should know?”
Shaking his head, he said “I’ve told you ‘bout as much as I know. Cept there was one thing. Legend has it that there are documents, scrolls of some sort, that share insight into what’s comin’. Maybe even how to prevent it.”
“Let me guess,” I said rolling my eyes, “no one knows where they are.”
“Bingo,” he said, sliding my drink across the bar. He poured a shot of home brewed whiskey for himself, held his glass up and said, “Salud.”
“To the end of creation,” I responded, clinking my glass to his before taking a delicious sip. Blood removed from a living body and kept cold isn’t the same as straight from the tap, but it does help sate the cravings, similar to putting aloe vera on a sunburn; or so I’ve been told. I don’t get in the sun much.
As I enjoyed my drink and let myself relax, I said to Val, “This is a little above my paygrade, isn’t it? Maybe I should let this go and sit back.”
“Th’only thing necessary for the triumph o’ evil, is fer good men t’do nothen,” Val responded.
At that, the front door slammed open followed by a gust of wind that swirled throughout the saloon, knocking over glasses and sending napkins flying into a vortex.
Val simply covered his drink with his palm while I rushed to shoot it down my throat, spilling enough of it to warrant another dry-cleaning bill. Luckily, I know a guy.
In walked Captain Dickhead himself followed by a small entourage of hired goons.
Nathanial Locke stood around 6’4” with long, sinewy limbs, and liked to shop at Hot Topic. I guess black was his color as it is hard to be the head of the supes criminal organization while wearing pink. The dark suit he had on was probably from the Victorian era, complete with black frills spilling out everywhere; but someone should tell him that it’s a two-button world now. The black mask he wore was outlined in pure gold, going from his greasy hairline down to his upper lip, and then continued down both sides of his mouth to his jaw line. Only his lips and cleanly-shaven chin showed.
The word around town was he had sustained severe burns from his predecessor, leading him to plan his rise to power. No one knows for sure what happened to his old boss, but what is known garnered him respect from even the most powerful of supes. Last I heard, his boss’ soul was locked in a special place in Hell, just for him, that Locke could visit anytime. No one was sure how he managed to do it, but the speculation was Locke worked for the Devil himself.
Nathanial’s piercing eyes quickly locked onto me as I tried to dab up my drink from my lap.
“Jonathan,” he drawled, letting the last syllable hang in the air a moment longer than necessary.
“It’s just John. If I had a birth certificate, it would not have the added letters, Nathan Locke the wizard,” I retorted while I kept my eyes on my drink.
“I,” he paused for emphasis, “am a warlock and you will address me as such.”
At that, two goons started spilling in around him, their intentions clear. They were enormous caricatures that looked like they belonged in a Looney Toons episode, complete with ashen gray suites that barely fit over their bulging frames. The electronic lights from the outside world were blotted out of existence as the men stood shoulder to shoulder just behind their master.
Valenta spoke up with unquestioned authority, “Hold it right there, boys. Y’know the rules. An’ know the consequences o’ breaking them rules,” he stared at them intently.
The goons balked at this and looked at their leader for guidance.
“A simple misunderstanding,” Nathanial said, waving his hand dismissively.
His entourage visibly relaxed but maintained their posts. Their gaze returned to me.
Finally turning to look at him I asked “What do you want, Nathan?”
“Just as your certificate would have fewer letters, mine would contain more. But you already knew this,” he calmly spoke while checking his nails for dirt. “But enough formalities. I am here to deliver a message.”
“Please leave a message after the ‘fuck off.’ I replied without hesitation, turning back to Val. He gives me a look that says, “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
“Jonathan...,” he started.
“Fuck off.”
“My employer wants you to stay out of what is coming,” he started. It was clear he was waiting for me to come back with a witty retort. I just turned and stared at him in answer.
Nathanial continued, “He is willing to pay you quite well for your, let’s say, neutrality.”
“And what, exactly, is coming?” I asked, eyes squinting at Locke.
“What did I just say?” He turned to one of his henchmen and asked again, “Seriously, what did I just say?”
The henchmen shifted uncomfortably and said in a gruff, cavernous voice, “You told him he will be paid to be dumb.”
“Is that what you get paid to do, big boy?” He shoots, he scores. The furrow on the goon’s ample brow turned into the Mariana trench. He bared his teeth and clenched his ham hocks.
Trying to press the issue, I swivel in the chair to face him directly and smile a toothy smile.
“John. Stop, now,” Valenta commands. “The rules apply t’all parties.”
I put a little effort and ask the chair to continue slowly turning until I am facing the bar again, my smile now a comical frown. I rub at invisible tears with my fists. “My business is my own, Locke,” I said while motioning for another drink. “But here’s the ironic thing; now I’m definitely going to go all balls deep into whatever this is, just to piss you off. So, take care now, bye, bye, then.”
The air grows chill and a breath stealing wall of sub-zero air barrels through the saloon. Patches of frost grow on the bar and walls like an accelerated bacteria growth. The lights dimmed and then flickered out. The patrons in the corner stood, their chairs skittering across the floor, and retreated to the furthest wall. Frost started growing on the tip of my nose. I cross my eyes to look at it.
A booming voice erupted, piercing the dim and birthing light back into the saloon. “Enough!” Bulbs bloomed back into life and for a moment, threaten to explode before receding to normality.
My eyes uncrossed to see Valenta with eyes glowing white—gaze intent on Locke who had a quizzical look of astonishment on his face. He let his expression fall back into neutrality.
“My employer will be very disappointed,” Locke said coldly.
The cold air retreated like stepping out of a cool, early morning bedroom into a bathroom with a hot shower runnin
g, filling the air with comforting warmth. The accumulated frost melted. Water dripped off my nose and I shifted my eyes to the mirror on the wall to see that the doorway was clear. The doors were swinging open and closed like a pendulum, until their diminishing movement ceased.
Valenta broke my focus and said, “Damnit boy. One o’ these days I’m not gonna be able to protect ya. Y’know what them muscles were, don’t ya?”
“Ogres,” I stated, blankly. “How the hades does Locke have Fae on his payroll?”
“Y’think only the three planes are interested in this war, John? The Fae have a stake in the outcome as well. It’s clear t’me which side they are bet’n on, waltzing in here with the likes of Nathanial Locke. Y’just pissed off more than you can drink there, boy.”
“Take it easy there, Bear Grylles. I (maybe) have some (kinda) friends I can (hopefully) count on (probably not). But first, ANOTHER!” I threw down the glass and to my dismay, it didn’t break. It simply bounced off the ground and rolled to a stop under a table.
My look of confusion prompts Valenta to say, “Upgraded since the last time. More expensive but damn near unbreakable. Your sense of humor’s shared by only you. However,” he chuckles before continuing, “your face is pretty damn funny right now, boy.” He pours me a drink in a new glass as I look at him in appreciation.
Chapter 6
Ireland, 1480
I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel. There was an overwhelming sense of nothing, floating in a starless abyss that was my black universe. Panic and serenity fought for dominance. In my sensory deprivation, time seemed to stand still, or to not even exist. After a lifetime in an indeterminant eternity, I felt myself beginning to lose grip on my sanity. Was this what happens when we die, an expanse of unending nothing?
In the distance, a brilliant spec appeared and began to grow, beckoning me to it. The closer I drifted, the more I yearned for the light. It spread over me, promising happiness and wellbeing. I closed my eyes as the light that was warming my skin became blinding.
