by Xenia Melzer
“I think it has to do with conditioning.” Declan took a sip of his espresso. “Even though society has evolved, and we’re taught that brute strength does not solve all problems, that there are other ways to deal with things, we still like our heroes to have certain attributes. Look at all the superhero films cropping up at the moment. Not one of the actors is ugly. The hero is a concept removed from reality, a role model we know we can never fully embrace, which is probably one of the reasons why heroes like Corum die in the end.”
“It does make one feel better, doesn’t it? Knowing that they end just like everybody else or even worse.” Mavis looked contemplative. “It’s as if we need to balance the perfection we crave and attribute to them. It’s a bit like having a shiny car and getting it dirty on purpose now and then, just to prove a point.”
“Yes. You’re right. But that still doesn’t explain why even I feel my nonexistent ovaries throbbing when I see Jason Momoa on screen.” Amber sounded a bit frustrated.
“Does your hole twitch as well?” Jon looked at her with a serious expression.
In any other circumstances, this question would have been considered rude, but they all were close and it was a known fact—at least for paranormals—that banshees were asexual and non-binary. They referred to themselves as females simply out of tradition. Banshees all looked more or less alike—small, about five foot four, with a fragile build that belied their strength, delicate features and long, white hair. Many of them, like Amber, tried to individualize their looks by cutting and dying their hair, wearing expressive clothes or jewelry and getting tattoos and piercings.
“Yes.” She shuddered. “I usually don’t have any sex drive at all, and it’s not like I want Jason Momoa, the man. It’s more a general longing that somehow translates into something sexual—which is kind of weird, come to think of it.”
“Not as weird as you may think. In a wolf pack, the strongest wolf gets his pick and the weaker ones, especially the omegas, consider it a prize to be chosen. Their rank is directly linked to the status of their mate. Humans are the same, just like most other species. And even though banshees are a different breed, you have spent enough time around for some of it to rub off.” Declan smiled, showing all his perfectly white teeth.
“I agree with Declan. Cultural interference is a stronger force than many think. And the concept of the hero is universal. It’s only natural for a certain image to persevere. As far as I know, there are no stories about famous banshee heroes, are there?” Maribell stole a sip from Mavis’ cup of tea. The gesture had Sammy smiling. If he ever found his special someone, he hoped he would be as happy and content with him as Maribell and Mavis so obviously were.
Amber’s snort pried him from his daydreaming. “We’re the ones to tell the hero he’s on his last adventure. We don’t go on stupid quests ourselves. It’s hard enough being there at the right moment for the person to hear our scream.”
“I can’t imagine what that feels like—hearing the banshee’s scream, knowing what it means and still carrying on.” Jon sighed. “I guess that’s why I’m not a hero.”
“You’re too intelligent to be one.” Emilia grinned. “Being a hero requires having no imagination whatsoever. Otherwise, they wouldn’t do their heroing stuff and instead hide under the covers. Because, contrary to the saying that only overcoming your fear makes you a true hero, I think it’s better to not have any fears in the first place. Corum is a good example for that. Even though some of his adversaries are downright frightening, the author never dwells on him being afraid. He’s too busy killing things—just like Beowulf, come to think of it.”
“Yes, he’s a good example, his mind set firmly on the task, no matter how much bloodshed it requires.” Jon took another cookie. “And the bloodshed is always described in great detail, as if the amount of blood and gore makes the deed even more heroic.”
“You have a point here. Archaic heroes have little to offer in regard to personal growth—if we discount them becoming more battle-hardened with every adventure. Take Hercules… The only thing not directly linked to his strength that he ever did was choosing between the two women who represented the two paths his life could take. He actively chose to be a hero, just like Corum actively chose to follow the call of that Celtic tribe after he had survived so many tasks. Moorcock has him do it out of boredom, which would fit nicely with Emilia’s theory. Somebody without imagination has a hard time doing nothing.” Declan stretched his long legs. The others nodded their consent to this analysis. When it appeared that nobody had anything to add, Sammy summed up their discussion.
“So, we agree that heroes are sexually attractive, even to an asexual species, because brute strength still has a certain appeal in our sophisticated society. They’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to mindlessly pursue dangerous situations that normal people would never attempt. And they have to die in some way or another because a happily ever after is not what we deign to let them have. Anything else?” Sammy looked around. The discussions in the group tended to get off track more often than not and he was proud how well they had managed to stay on the topic for the evening, even though the book had just been the catalyst for a broader subject.
Declan yawned. “No. Not from me. Though we could try and find some essays about the concept of the hero and include them in another discussion.”
The others nodded eagerly. Sammy loved those moments, when they decided to delve deeper into a topic, to discuss it in earnest, almost as if they were attending a class in college.
“I’m going to find some essays. Perhaps we can start our next meeting by defining the different types of heroes? How does that sound?”
“Perfect, dear. Maribell and I will see what we can find on witch heroes, though I think there aren’t that many.” Mavis started gathering the empty cups.
Jon got up to help her. “Could you make apple pie next time?” he asked shyly.
Maribell, who had been sitting next to him, patted his leg. “Of course, dear. As long as you promise not to forget to eat your brains.”
Sammy turned around quickly to hide his chuckle. It wasn’t funny, really, but listening to Maribell scolding Jon about his eating habits like a concerned grandmother would do with her grandchild felt so normal—provided he ignored the content. Jon was the first zombie Sammy had met, and apparently, they could eat like normal people, but they needed some brain tissue now and then, just like vampires needed blood. When he was sitting in front of his computer, Jon tended to forget about eating and a zombie in need of brain was not a sight for people with a weak stomach.
“I won’t. I promise!” Jon sounded like an eager puppy. “I have a reminder programmed into my computer and a standing order with Larry, the butcher on Main Street. Oh, and Sammy is my backup should the alarm not work.”
“Very good. Apple pie it is.” Maribell looked at the cups Mavis had gathered on a tray. She furrowed her forehead in concentration and, in the blink of an eye, the cups were all clean.
“I love that trick!” Declan chuckled. “You really don’t want to come over to my place and do the housework? I pay well!”
Mavis tsked at her fellow witch. “No, we don’t. Strictly speaking, it’s cheating, and we only do it here because we don’t want to leave Sammy with all the dirty dishes on top of everything else. He works too much.”
Sammy held his hands up. “It’s fine, Mavis. I love my work, and since my apartment is right above the shop, I don’t have a long way home.”
“Still, I’m worried about you, dear. When was the last time you had a nice boy over for some sexual release?”
And that right there was the problem with being friends with paranormal people. They tended to be very outspoken about bodily needs. Sammy’s ears heated up. Being questioned about his love life—or the lack of it—by a woman who could have been his grandmother was disturbing enough. Seeing the adventurous gleam in her eyes and knowing that she had probably more action
between the sheets than him was just sad. The pity in the eyes of the others wasn’t helping either.
“You know I’m picky. I can’t just bring myself to invite some random guy over Grindr solely for the purpose of having sex, not to mention that I’d have to drive over to Helena to meet because most people don’t even know where Beaconville is.”
“We could always drive you. Stay close, to make sure the guy behaves.” Declan shrugged.
“Wonderful. Now I feel like a prostitute with his pimps. No, I want my man to woo me properly. You know, dates before sex.”
Declan snorted. “You’re hopelessly romantic.”
“Leave him be. It’s okay for him to wait until he meets his Mr. Darcy.” Emilia winked at Sammy, alluding to the best book ever. “And he has two healthy hands and the Internet. The relief part should be covered.”
Sammy buried his beet-red face in his hands. If having friends meant suffering through comments like this, he wondered if staying a loner would have been so bad.
“Can we please talk about something else? The weather maybe? And, just for the record, I don’t watch porn. I don’t want to get strange ideas.”
“Oh man, I’m not sure if this is sad or cute. Maribell is right. You need a boyfriend. Just work is no fun.” Amber slipped into her black coat. It was April and the temperatures still dropped during the night.
“Easier said than done. I’m working on it, okay?” Sammy sank into Maribell’s hug. She smelled of chocolate, a flowery perfume and, very faintly, of a strange herb he had come to associate with her. After Sammy had hugged all the females, Declan gave him a firm handshake and reassured him once more that he and Troy would be more than willing to help him out should he decide to go for Grindr, which he was determined not to do.
Jon waved at them all before he disappeared through the back door that led down to the cellar. He wasn’t big on touching, because the body warmth of others always reminded him that he was no longer alive. Sammy found it sad and would have loved to help Jon, but the zombie seemed to have found some balance in his life that Sammy didn’t want to upset.
When his friends were all gone, he closed the shop’s front door and started cleaning up. Thanks to Maribell, he only had to put the cups back on the nineteenth-century hanging shelf and clean the coffeemaker. On his way to the stairs that would lead him to his apartment, Sammy found the trash he had meant to take out earlier in the day then forgotten. After a short internal debate, he sighed, picked it up and went to the back door.
The dumpster loomed like an alien monster in the small back alley that looked shady, even during daylight. Sammy gulped. He wasn’t easily frightened, but the way the shadows seemed to move in the semi-brightness of the single lightbulb over the door had him hurrying to the dumpster. After he had disposed of the sack, Sammy was headed straight back for the door and the warm safety of the house, when he suddenly heard something. It sounded like a cat going through the trash in search of leftovers and the rats that fed on the leftovers. Sammy shuddered. Some of the street cats in Beaconville were small, mean killing machines and he always tried to stay on their good side. Not interfering when one of them was on the hunt was part of the plan. He reached for the door handle, recognized a presence behind him that was most definitely not a cat, felt something soft and horrible-smelling being pressed against his nose then…nothing.
Chapter Two
“Damn it, Dre! Would you mind paying attention? We’re playing a serious game here and, thanks to you, I just got blown up with a plasma grenade!”
Barion, Dre’s younger brother, gave him a vicious jab with his elbow. Dre didn’t retaliate, because he deserved it, for one thing, and second, he was distracted by an all-too-familiar tingling at the back of his skull.
“Sorry, little bro. Seems like someone is trying to summon me—again!”
Barion groaned. “Damn. The same idiots from last time?”
“Feels like it. They’ve been doing this all week. I’m getting tired of it.”
A mischievous gleam appeared in Barion’s eyes. “You gonna take care of them?”
Dre pressed the pause button on his controller, freezing the battleships on the one-hundred-ten-inch flat-screen Barion had bought only a week before. Dre was sure the thing was worth a fortune, but, as a demon prince, his brother could easily afford it. Demons were not as big on hoarding as dragons, but they weren’t exactly poor either.
“I think I have to. This is getting on my nerves, and who knows what they will come up with next?”
Barion rolled his eyes. “Whoever thought it was a good idea giving humans just enough information that they are able to call us should be roasted alive.”
“Good luck with that one. Father is convinced it was Great-Uncle Corriwyn, and he’s fireproof…like all of us, moron!”
Barion whined. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he was bored and thought it would be funny. And he had fun—still has. He answers every summoning he gets, just to mess with the humans. Damn old man should have gotten himself a mate and children at some point.”
The tingling got stronger and Dre wondered what kind of spell the humans were using this time. It was a widely believed myth that demons could be summoned and controlled by a human with the right spells and magic circles. It was a belief that was very false. For one thing, only a true witch had the means to infuse a magic circle with enough power to actually force a demon to appear. And if she wanted to do more than just have a stare-off with a pissed demon, she had to be a member of one of the five witch clans. That narrowed the amount of people who actually did have the means to control a demon to less than two hundred. As for truly mastering a demon? He knew of three who could probably pull it off, and they had other, easier means to get what they wanted.
All ordinary humans could do was the equivalent of a phone call—or prank call, to be precise. Mostly, demons simply ignored the summoning, unless they were bored, like Uncle Corriwyn, or pissed, like Dre was. As far as he could tell, the same group of humans had been trying to reach him at least six times during the past one-and-a-half weeks. That much he could sense through the weak bond caused by the ineffective spells they were using. He got up from the bright orange leather couch that Barion thought was the latest in fashion—and who was he to argue with his hip younger brother? Dre let his knuckles crack while he contemplated how to go about this. Barion watched him with interest.
“Are you going full demon on them? I’d love to see that!”
“Shut up. I don’t need comments from the peanut gallery.”
Dre pulled his black silk shirt over his head. There was no need to destroy a perfectly nice item of clothing. Then he closed his eyes and allowed his true form to burst through the thin veneer that hid it. He stretched from six foot seven to over eight foot tall. The silver hair that fell down his back turned into a broad stripe of silver scales that went from his head down to his ass. Dre unfolded his wings and knocked over a vase on the windowsill across the room.
“Hey, watch it!” Barion dove forward to catch the vase before it shattered on the ground. Since one of his talents was time-bending, he’d easily managed it.
Dre held up his hands to look at the beautiful silver patterns swirling over the red skin. His fangs prodded his lower lip and the claws on his toes made a clacking sound on the hardwood floor.
“Don’t you dare get any scratches in that wood, Dre! I mean it! Do you have any idea how long it took me to find the perfect planks for this room?”
Barion sounded almost hysterical, which had Dre resuming most of his human form within seconds. Nothing took the fun out of changing like the whining of an annoying little brother.
“You asked me if I’d go all demon on them.”
“Yeah, but I meant outside! Not here, where you act like a bull in a china store. You know it took me ages to get the house the way I wanted it.”
Dre sighed. Even though ‘house’ was a misleading term for the huge villa Barion had
bought in the Carpathians, he knew how much work his little brother had dedicated to make the formerly run-down building splendid again. It was a little over the top for his own taste—he preferred the cozy cottage he had bought in Cornwall some three hundred years before—but Barion loved his new home and Dre would rather bite off his tongue than make his little brother sad.
“Sorry, Barion. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go outside. See you tomorrow?”
Barion was still clutching the vase to his chest. “Yeah. See you tomorrow. Don’t overdo it.”
“Nah. I’m just going to give them a scare. I don’t feel like bloodshed today.”
Dre grinned at his brother before he made a cut into reality with one of the claws on his hands and stepped between space and time to follow the summoning.
* * * *
When Dre reappeared in a small, stinking room somewhere in the US, he was glad he hadn’t remembered to revert completely back to his demon form, because there was no way his wings would have fit in the place without knocking the—he squinted—remaining windows out. When he looked down at the floor where pieces of tile still stuck to the concrete that was full of disturbingly wide cracks, he wondered at which level they were and how long it would take until his weight became too much for the groaning structure beneath his feet.
“We have summoned thee, Demon Dresalantion, to do our bidding until we decide to release you again.”
The high-pitched, slightly quivering voice reminded Dre why he had come to this obvious dump in the first place. He turned around to look at the five humans who had summoned him. Unfortunately, the one standing in the front chose that exact moment to throw something at him, and out of reflex, Dre reared back, which made the floor creak in a way that had him contemplating returning to Barion immediately. But, no, he was a freaking demon prince and would deal with these puny humans in a way they would never forget, buildings on the verge of collapsing be damned. He touched some of the white powder clinging to his chest, brought it to his mouth and tasted it. Salt, of course—because salt was such a good weapon against evil. He barely managed not to roll his eyes, though this one was not on Uncle Corriwyn. Somebody else had come up with that bullshit. All salt did was make meals tastier—or inedible, depending on how much of it one used. Dre looked at the humans more closely. There were five of them, and their height made him wonder if they were already grown-up. Their faces were hidden behind masks that looked like those Dre had seen in pictures showing members of the Ku Klux Klan, only the fabric wasn’t white. The figure in the front was wearing black, which would have been mildly impressive if it weren’t clearly terrycloth from a contour sheet. Two others were wearing a very dark blue linen that was so badly crinkled that it looked as if they had a spider’s web on their faces. The last two humans kept to the back, and when Dre saw their hoods, he knew why. One had a Wonder Woman print on it, the other a colorful flower pattern that had last been in style in the seventies. Dre tried not to laugh, but it was an impossible task. His guffaw echoed through whatever abandoned building they were in, while tears streamed down his cheeks. He had to give it to Corriwyn. Humans were a source of great entertainment.
