Writing Tool For Your Fight Scenes.

It’s the year 2166, and people haven’t changed much. They still eat, they still sleep, there’s not been a robot apocalypse yet, and they dream. But above all this, they still desire the best for their children. That’s why, for the past century, humans have been genetically engineered. Heavily. Rather than trust the hand of fate to decide what your child looks like, what their features and their faults are, they’d rather entrust it to a Genotypist, an expert at gene therapy and study.

It’s common practice for those with them to have their ovaries removed entirely, frozen in stasis until a suitable time. Undesirable pregnancies have reached such a low that it dips below the margin of error for most studies.

But my parents, and their parents, and my grandparents (basically since the invention and legalization of the Genotypist’s trade) have forgone all that. In a world where most are conceived in a test tube, they decided to go the ‘natural’ way, and me and my little sister were born. I love my parents, but sometimes (especially when I put on my glasses, reliant as I am on them) I wish they had maybe at least consulted a Genotypist.

I remember elementary school. The other kids weren’t so bad; they were a little in awe of me, to be honest, as children tend to be of anything different. Their parents, however, were a different story. They were scared of me, I think – which is odd to say, having been five years old or so at the time. Maybe they were afraid of what I represented – the scary old days in which children died at young ages from illness, that children were born with diseases. The chance of me eventually being killed by one genetic factor or another made me a liability. They told their children to avoid me, to not interact – and I grew up with no one. Well, next to no one.

My sister was born when I was four, and I made it my sworn duty to be her friend, because I knew that it would seem the world was against her. And, maybe it was. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could spare her my heartache.

But still, I had a life of my own. The only other ‘organic’ my age was another boy, whose parents couldn’t afford the procedure – a rare thing in this day and age of ‘prosperity’, where people would go on the bare minimum for months just to pay for the procedure. He was the only one unafraid of me – a fact I continue to appreciate.

Middle school was where things got worse – the kids were old enough to understand why their parents hated me, and that I was different – and different was bad. I suppose that I took that to heart – I couldn’t deal with quite that level of hate, so I rejected them all in turn. My only connection to life was twofold – my sister and my only friend. Even my parents weren’t spared my rage.

I was kind of an edgy little shit. I got into fights. I vandalized a few things. I got a record. I have to give credit to my parents for putting up with me through that stage of my life.

Anyway, though, I got expelled. Something about picking five fights in a single semester made the principal unwilling to keep me around. Bizarre, really. But I wound up getting shipped out to another school, a few miles away from everyone I knew, and that’s kind of shit.

I was on the bus, sitting in the back with headphones on, when he sat next to me. I was surprised anyone would – not least of all because I tend to dress like leather and black cloth had an orgy. He was about my age – which was fitting, I suppose. Not like there was much variance of age here, save the fifty-something bus driver. Pulling down the headphones, he waved awkwardly. “Hi, I’m Nicholas.”

Thinking it through in my head, I internally figure I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I offer my hand. “James.”

He shook my hand. “Charmed,” he smiled. He was kind of adorable, in a slightly dorky way. Brown hair, kind of scrawny. Dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. And what kind of kid wears leather dress-shoes to school?

“So, James, what brings you to our school? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Life,” I sighed dramatically. Gods I hate myself in hindsight.

Nicholas laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine, James.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” I began. I was ready for a story, and the bus drive was taking what seemed like eternity. It’s not like I could just go back to my headphones and ignore him after he’d been kind enough to introduce himself.

“Well, I’m sixteen, I’ve got two older sisters and a younger brother, and I’m an Aquarius – that what you want to hear?”

“Just maybe. So, tell me – why is it you sat next to me, rather than by the other students you seem to know so well?”

“Well, I’m not exactly popular,” he said, looking around at the others on the bus. “I haven’t got any friends, really. My only friend was a kid named Will, but he transferred out last year. And,” he began to whisper conspiratorially, “They say you… that you’re…”

“That I’m what,” I ask, leaning back a little, hoping to avoid whatever little bombshell he felt inclined to drop.

“That you’re… organic?”

I sigh. How in the hell can I never escape that? I hadn’t even met anyone from the school and they already knew my birth status. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“That’s… wow. So… like… you were…?”

I could see the question forming in his mind. “Yes, I was conceived the ‘old-fashioned’ way. Same as everyone was two centuries ago.”

“That’s weird.”

I scoffed a little under my breath. “So, you afraid of me now?”

“Not really.”

I looked at him, a little surprised. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m a little weirded out by your birth status, but I’m not, like, going to hold it against you. It’s not your fault.”

I rolled my eyes. Another one of these. People who thought I was some kind of sub-human creature, worthy of pity for my status. Like an ape in a zoo. People would be kind enough, I supposed, if I let them sit there and talk at me and feed me bananas, but once I open my mouth, the illusion is scattered. I’m different. I’m a threat.

“What’s not my fault? That my parents fucked and nine months later I popped out? Where do you think, your entire family came from, a few generations back? Maybe most don’t do it that way anymore, but I’m not going to put up with your goddamned, patronizing bullshit. I’m just as human as you.”

He went silent then, a little numb, and then he began. “I’m… sorry…”

He looked like someone had deflated him a little bit. I suppose I had been harsh on him. But I’d dealt with this all my life – it’s not like he asked to be born the way he was, either. “I’m sorry too.”

“So… let’s start over a little. What’s your life like?”

“Got a sister. Anya. Brilliant girl. And, I’m a Cancer. That what you looking for?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

In about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the school and disembarked. The school was a fancy, shiny new building. My parents had paid through the nose to get me here, I guess. I looked at my schedule. “Do you have Mr. Shall too?”

I looked at my homeroom class. Sure enough, Shall. “Yeah”

“I can show you to his room. He’s the biology teacher. They say his grandfather helped found the science of Genotyping.”

“And he teaches at a high school?”

“Well, his entire family can’t be rich and famous.”

I went to the class, following behind Nicholas, finally sitting at a paired table next to him. Mr. Shall was a burly man in his early forties, dressed in a dress-shirt and tie. He began class with a simple set of words. “I understand that there’s someone new here,” he said, standing up. “I’d like to give him a chance to introduce himself. James, if you would?”

I walked up to the front of the class. “Hi, the name’s James. Nice to meet you.”

I shuffled back to my seat, and we began. He handed out sheets of paper, on which was written a simple timeline going back a couple hundred years. “As you know, Genotyping began in the mid-twenty first century. Zhou Wang Wei wrote the first book on the subject in 2041, a treatise that was translated for western audiences two years later. His western counterpart was John Van Compf, who developed some of the medical equipment used in the field. The basics were simple – but the execution took years of hard work.”

He continued like this for what seemed like hours, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. “And now, there’s next to no children born organically anymore. Why is that, do you think? Who would turn down the medical procedure that can give them ‘ideal’ children? That can make perfect humans, medically speaking. Why risk it?”

A girl near the front raised her hand. “Maybe they’re afraid of it? Of society progressing?”

Shall shook his head a little. “No, Amy. Progress isn’t some measurable thing – what’s a way forward for some is often the way backwards for others. James,” he said, gesturing to me, “Why do you think people don’t hire a Genotypist?”

I looked up at him, and he winked at me. God damn it, the man knew. I stood up. “Maybe they think it’s not right to alter people with machines. After all, didn’t Darwin himself write that diversity is in the best interest for people? Isn’t Genotyping just a way to reduce that diversity? Sure, we might still have variance in eye color, hair color, skin color, but we’re still getting rid of genetic diversity in other ways. Maybe it’s going to come back and bite us.”

Shall nodded. “As good a reason as any.”

A boy across the room shot up. “But, if that happens, won’t the Genotypists figure out a way to save us? If a gene we removed is the secret to saving us, then why don’t we just add it in on the next generation? It’s better off we make the procedure mandatory; that way organics don’t wind up infecting us all with some kind of disease.”

Shall shook his head again. “Sit down, Michael. That’s hardly the – “

Nicholas looked at me, and began to whisper, “James, you’re crying.”

I felt my face with one hand. Indeed, I was. I was also gripping my pencil with such an extraordinary grip that I was surprised it didn’t break. Then, of course, it did. The snap drew attention from the surrounding students, and I used that to my advantage. Rising to my feet again, I spoke. “That’s bullshit. Do you really think that’s progress? Forcing people you don’t like to be like you isn’t ‘progress’, it isn’t ‘safety’. You’re just afraid.” I began to whisper then, “God damn it, I just want to live. Is that so hard?”

I sat down, and was silent the rest of the class.

In the future where Babies mass produced in genetic labs are normal , you are the only “ organic ” in your high school class. It’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to introduce yourself.

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?

He stood on the lip of the platform, ready to jump down onto the tracks. His backpack lay beside him, and tears flowed down his face.

It was true. A fortnight ago he would not have believed – much less suspected – the truth, and now, looking back, he wondered what had gone so wrong that he deserved this. He looked down in his hand at the opened locket, and read again what was on the sheet of paper his mother had left in it, as if the rereading would make the words change their meaning or disappear.

Daelyn

You are too young now to know the truth, for the sooner you know the sooner the men who I have entrusted you to will turn on you.

The truth of your father is that he is not of this world; he is the Blue Flame, the spirit of the east, known to the church as Lucifer.

I have sealed this locket, in the hopes when you are old enough, you can read this and escape.

I know not what Father Lye has told you over the years about me or your father, but know he is your enemy, and will kill you if you know the truth. He could barely be restrained from killing you as a newborn, and now that I am dying – for that is what is happening – this could be the only chance for you to know the truth and be able to escape.

Trust no one, question everything.

Yours in eternity,

Mom

Where was he supposed to go? If this was true, and he was the son of Lucifer (the de- the dev-, he could not think the words), what could he do? He was the antichrist, a being meant to bring destruction and end the world. What could he do but try to subvert that fate?

And what better way to subvert that fate than to die?

He stared down at the tracks, as he heard the train approaching. Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and he put his right foot out and –

Was dragged backwards, rather than falling forward. The train passed by, loudly and quickly, until he was left with his erstwhile and relatively unwanted savior.

“What? Who?”

He turned around and saw an old lady, dressed in a brown overcoat and large, ludicrously decorated floral hat. With gray hair and green eyes, she was the perfect caricature of what an old lady should look like. “You looked like you needed some help. Those tracks are dangerous, you know.” She spoke with a curious accent. Greek, maybe?

“Thank you,” he stated, and began to walk away.

“Oh come back, dear boy. I want a word with you.”

He paused, turned on his heel, and walked back to her. She walked up to him, and embraced him in a hug.

“There, there boy. It will be alright.”

She patted his back and then whispered the final words.

“Your father is watching over you.”

She leaned back, and he looked into her eyes. Except now, they were not eyes, but rather black circles dancing with flames. She smiled again, this time an unnerving sight.

“My name is Alecto, child of the blue flame.”

She handed him a letter, written on thick parchment and sealed with wax in the image of a goat’s head.

“His advice for you, and a couple tips on who to go to, to help control your powers. Good luck, little cousin.”

You’ve spent your whole life despising your very existence, until finally you decide to end it. You stand at the edge of a train platform and prepare to step of when and old woman pulls you back and says…

Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.

For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.

“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”

Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”

“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.

“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.

Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.

But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.

“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”

“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”

“Got it.”

Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.

She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.

She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.

They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”

The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.

Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”

They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.

She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.

Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.

But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.

Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.

“Yes, there is.”

“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.

“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.

“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.

“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”

Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”

“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”

Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.

“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.

Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”

Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.

“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”

Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”

Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”

“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”

“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”

“F… fuck you…”

He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.

--- Present Day ---

They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”

The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”

They continued on their way.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”

“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”

She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.

It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.

--- Present Day ---

The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.

“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.

“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”

Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”

They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.

Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.

“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.

“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”

“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.

They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”

The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”

Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”

He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”

He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”

Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.

“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”

Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”

Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”

Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.

Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”

Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.

He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.

“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.

A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.

“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.

Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.

The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”

Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.

They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.

“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”

“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.

Story Shard 543

You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.

What is an Unreliable Narrator? And How to Write One.

An unreliable narrator is a storytelling technique where the narrator's credibility or truthfulness is questionable. The narrator either intentionally or unintentionally provides a distorted or biased account of the events, characters, or situations in the story. This narrative approach can add complexity, suspense, and intrigue to your writing. Here's how you can create an unreliable narrator:

1. Establish a motive: Determine why the narrator is unreliable. It could be due to personal bias, mental instability, deception, or a hidden agenda. Develop their backstory, motivations, and beliefs to understand why they might present a skewed version of events.

2. Use subjective language: Incorporate language and descriptions that reflect the narrator's personal viewpoint and biases. Their opinions, emotions, and interpretations should color their narration, influencing how readers perceive the story.

3. Include contradictions and inconsistencies: Allow the narrator to make contradictory statements or present conflicting information. This creates doubt and keeps the readers engaged as they try to unravel the truth.

4. Reveal information selectively: The unreliable narrator might withhold or reveal information strategically, manipulating the readers' understanding of the story. This can create suspense and surprise as readers discover hidden truths.

5. Showcase unreliable perceptions: Explore how the narrator's perceptions and interpretations of events differ from reality. They may misinterpret actions, misremember details, or even hallucinate. These discrepancies add depth to the character and raise doubts about their reliability.

6. Use other characters as contrasting sources: Introduce other characters who present alternative perspectives or contradict the narrator's version of events. This contrast allows readers to question the reliability of the narrator and form their own interpretations.

7. Employ narrative techniques: Experiment with techniques like foreshadowing, symbolism, or unreliable memory to emphasize the narrator's unreliability. These devices can help blur the line between truth and fiction, leaving readers intrigued and uncertain.

8. Provide hints and clues: Drop subtle hints or clues throughout the story that suggest the narrator's unreliability. This allows readers to piece together the truth gradually and encourages them to engage actively with the narrative.

@oopsprompts

You’ll understand when you’re older.

I am twice your age.

Life is a fickle thing.

One day, you’re a ten-year-old boy, playing in a park. It’s near dark, sure. You shouldn’t be there, sure. But your house is across the street, and anyone could hear you shout. Playing on rusted swings and waiting for the call from your mother to come home and have dinner, bathe, and head to bed.

But destiny, it seems, has other plans for you. Destiny, it seems, plans for the man… no, the creature… dressed in black and hiding its face to attack you. To rip open your throat and drink deep of your blood and leave your body – little more than a lifeless corpse – behind for your mother to find not long later.

Without a chance to scream, or cry, or do little more than gasp as you die.

But destiny is not finished with you; for within your fragile husk of a form a few drops of blood remain, and your heart beats still. Weak, but enough to allow a strange change to occur. The change, of course, kills you first, so as when you’re found, your ears are death to your mother’s screams, to the ambulance, to the morgue. A closed-casket funeral in a funeral home barely worth remembering.

Indeed, your body sleeps for a long while, before the curse goes to work, knitting flesh and repairing bone. Within time, you awaken, coughing up the dust that had settled into your lungs, opening your eyes in the dark, six feet underground. Screaming and crying, beating your way into the lid of your coffin until it breaks with your unholy strength.

Crawling your way through the dirt, until you find yourself in the darkened night, a ghoulish sight. A gravedigger spots you on your way, runs over to you, trying to assess the situation. His death is quick and decisive, his neck broken and his blood drained as you come to terms with the situation.

Leaving his corpse behind, you flee into the night. For thirty years, you hide from your former life, learning as you go, learning to drink as you need to survive, and finding kinship with small clans – groups of interrelated vampires who have learned to survive on the bare minimum in the modern world.

I survive.

I watched. I watched as my mother and father came to terms with their grief; indeed their love perhaps kept them both sane. Ten years later, they have another child, a daughter this time. For nineteen years I watched, kept an eye on my sister, first out of jealousy, but soon for a sense of the life I could have had. From a distance I watched as she played in the same parks, this time with my father nearby at nearly all times. I watched as she went to school, all the way from elementary to high school.

She was nineteen, and I watched from the shadows as something from a nightmare I once had returned.

She was walking alone at night, from the community college she had been going to – an easy way to save money that she could use when transferring later on. I saw it then – a creature whose form seemed a distant memory. I was a distance off, shrouded from view with both shadow and a mild illusion.

The creature to whom I owed my existence.

I had learned in my time, of the different types of vampires.

The wandering clans of vampires were the most common – survival works best in groups, after all. They fed as necessary, typically, and murdered rarely if at all. Their desire for blood was tempered with a sentiment that could probably be called humanity.

Then there are the sedentary vampires – usually loners, and in big cities, these creatures feed as sparingly as possible – but are more often killers.

Then, there are those who vampires call ghouls. They are vampires who murder with each feeding, who travel from place to place and kill as they please. Though one only needs a couple pints of blood every couple of weeks to keep going, these creatures feast and over time, become more bestial. Their fangs – which every vampire possesses, one of the few actually true legends – become elongated and larger, their other teeth fall out and are replaced with pointed hooks. Their skin becomes more and more pallid, and hair begins to fall out. They regenerate health at a rate that makes death through typical injury next to impossible, but their weaknesses are more pronounced as well.

An average vampire can go out in sunlight, but it causes weakness with overexposure, akin to heatstroke but can only be cured with blood. One who goes out for eight hours a day, sometimes called Lifers, would have to drink a pint of blood every couple of days to maintain their charade of normalcy. Lifers are notorious for turning into ghouls, because of their tendency to overfeed.

A ghoul cannot go out in sunlight for more than a couple minutes without their cells degrading and the resultant failings resulting in death.

An average vampire is capable of entering the dwellings of whomever they please – they aren’t bound by the superstitions of men, and do not require invitations.

Ghouls were cursed in ancient days to never be able to enter a home without an invitation. To do so results in madness and death.

Vampires can use their limited magical abilities to remove recent memories from the mind of a mortal, knock them unconscious, and even heal wounds to a limited degree. Making one go unnoticed by mortals took little will.

Ghouls’ magical abilities bleed from them like a noxious gas. Mortals in their presence are often paralyzed with fear.

This was clearly a ghoul, and a familiar one at that. After the initial trauma of the transformation, I had done my research. I found others like me, learned the basics of my abilities, and learned self-control. But I sought my sire – for knowledge or revenge, I had known naught. I found his trail – of a sort – after almost a half-decade.

Called by some tabloids as ‘New Jack’ – for his brutal methods of murder – he went randomly across the US killing as he pleased. I was among his casualties. I regretted my first kill – but I learned to live with it. But Jack exulted in his murders. He wandered far and wide in his kills, far enough that few even believed his existence.

But here he was.

I watched him stalking my sister, at a safe distance of almost a block and a half. But he was nearby, and I knew a vampire with his abilities would be able to cross that distance in less than a second.

I watched, as she was listening to music on her phone. I don’t think she had noticed. Then, he stopped. He lifted his head and sniffed the air like a hound. He did this for a few seconds, then darted out of sight. I couldn’t see him, so I kept an eye on my sister until she had gotten a distance away. I was about to follow at length, when I heard the guttural growl in my ear.

“Hail, kinsman…” I felt my heart stop – or rather, the illusion of it stopping in terror, because it hadn’t beaten in nearly two decades. I turned quickly, trying to bring my arm down into his neck, sever his throat quickly. Maybe it would have been enough to get away.

He caught my arm in a crossblock near-instantly, and I heard a repetitive growling noise. He was laughing. “Well met, child. It has been too long since I have had the thrill of meeting another of my kind.”

He paused for a second, “I think they try to avoid me! It’s rather disappointing, to be frank.”

He sniffed closely at me. Though I was immune to whatever magical effects the ghoul possessed, I was still paralyzed in fear. I could barely move into an almost defensive stance.

“You smell… familiar. Have we met before?”

I was at a loss for words. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that even if my life had been so thoroughly altered by his presence, he may not even be aware I existed. He had, by my count, almost four hundred kills, perhaps more, in the past two decades.

“Or perhaps I met your sire? Tell me boy, who made you? Was it a clan? Or perhaps a wanderer – or maybe a ghoul like me?”

“I – I don’t-“ I was stuttering, trying for an answer that wouldn’t reek of suspicion, but was coming up blank.

“Ah, well. What does it matter?” The ghoul chuckled. “What were you doing here, stalking my prey, boy? Or perhaps this one is yours?”

“She’s….” I composed myself. If he didn’t recognize me, this could very well be an excellent opportunity. “Yes, she’s mine. I’ve been hunting her for a long while now, and I don’t take very well to ghouls attempting to horn in on my targets.”

The ghoul raised his hands in front of his torso as if in surrender. His hands were weatherworn and long-fingernailed. “I meant no offense, child. After all, one such as I can understand and enjoy the thrill of the hunt, and know what it’s like to lose your prey to another.”

He lowered one hand and closed the other, save for the pointer finger. “But if I may… suggest a mutually beneficial decision?”

I decided to raise an eyebrow as if in skepticism. It’d work better than outright hostility. I knew it was only by chance he hadn’t already killed me. “Go on.”

“I am… hamstrung… it seems, by my state. I cannot follow her, though together, we could lure her out and feed together. After all, your vengeance would normally put you at risk of becoming like me, and we couldn’t have that. So if you draw her out, you could drink your fill, and I’ll finish the job. We both have our prey, and we both leave in peace, never to see one another again. I’ll avoid this city, for I know it is your… territory.”

My mind was racing. If I took his offer, my odds of being able to protect my sister were greater, than if I said no, and he killed me as well. But all the same there were little odds of being able to put him down without her death. And that was truly unacceptable. My family had already lost one member to this monster. I wouldn’t let them lose another, even at the cost of my own life.

“By all means, I can wait. I’ll give you two days to decide, but after that I expect an answer. After all, I can wait to feed, but an ally… those take time to make. You can find me at night in the old railcar. Don’t disappoint me.”

And with that, he was gone.

Looking around for any sign of him, I turned quickly and then fell into a kneeling position. I was hyperventilating, an odd vestige of a mortal habit, as I didn’t normally breathe.

I had very few options. So I had to decide.

My odds were slim, of being able to defeat Jack, at least not without help. The wandering clans wouldn’t help me, even if they were near enough to get within two days. While killing a ghoul is permitted, direct interference was bad form, especially if he hadn’t broken one of their laws. Speaking of magical laws, there are a couple I should probably make you aware of.

Rule the first:

No mortal can know of a magical creature, be they fae, undead, or construct. To do so is to break the veil, and is punishable by death.

Rule the second:

While mortal death is permitted, slaying another immortal outside of your niche – a fancy term for species, or specifically clan, if you are a vampire or werewolf – is punishable by death.

The second rule wasn’t much of an issue, but the first… there were only a couple was around it.

-

The next day, I dressed in a grey hoodie and sunglasses, simple garb meant to disguise my appearance and protect me – somewhat – from the sun as I followed my sister into the city. She had the day off, and was stopping in where she worked to pick up her paycheck. I had her schedule memorized, and had no intention of letting her slip away.

I followed her, listening carefully to her conversation with her friend on the phone. She was discussing a soon-to-be arriving movie. Something to do with scifi. I don’t particularly know. When she had hung up, and was in a secluded enough part of town, I swept up close to her and dropped my illusion – she would be able to notice me. I moved faster than the human eye could process to be a few feet in front of her and facing her. She stopped suddenly, as one would, I suppose, if another were to appear in front of you, and began to speak. “Are you lost, kid? Where are your parents-“

I lowered my hood and took off the cheap plastic sunglasses I was wearing underneath. I looked up at her. She gasped a little.

Though I figured my parents didn’t talk much about it, I had figured she’d known who I was. Maybe seen a few pictures of me, and had asked my parents. I had even broken into their house a couple times to see what changes they had made. For a while, they hid my existence, but eventually, they displayed my pictures openly. They had learned to cope in a way that didn’t require blocking me out. I suppose that meant I was truly dead to them.

I put a finger to my lips as if to gesture silence, but then I layered my voice with magic and said a single word. “Sleep.”

She fell unconscious and I caught her before she hit the ground. Moving quickly, I took her to a nearby place where I’d often hidden. A darkened, abandoned motel. I had figured a way in long ago, and continued to be a very capable lockpicker. Laying her on a sofa that I had once-upon-a-time rescued from a curb, I waited for her to awaken.

I lit some candles, trying to be considerate of her mortal senses. After all, most weren’t as acute as mine.

My plan was simple – I would explain the situation, that a ghoul was hunting after her and that I could only beat him with her help, or rather, her cooperation – and there was only one way I could do that.

My only option was to make her a member of the vampire race – of a sort. While the only way to become a vampire was much the same as mine – drink blood until the target is near death, and let the transformation take hold. The creation of thralls, on the other hand, was something of a different sort. Feeding a target a few drops of your blood ushers in a different transformation – making the target bonded to you, and making it so that you can ‘break the veil’ as it were.

I watched her as she slept. It was strange, but as a creature that didn’t really require sleep, save for maybe the occasional hibernation of sorts, it was cathartic. She looked like mother, dirty blonde hair, similar facial features. I looked more like father, but I was young. My hair was darker, a brown.

After a few hours, she finally stirred.

She stirred slowly, stretched, and raised herself into an upright position. She yawned, then looked around. “Where am I-?”

She looked over and saw me, sitting across from her. “So… I suppose I owe you a bit of an explanation.”

She got up and started backing away from me.

“Amelie, please, let me explain.”

“No, you’re – Richard – you’re supposed to be dead – how do you look exactly like when – I saw the pictures – I even tracked down the paper with your obituary. How are you here? Are you a… ghost?”

She almost whispered the last word as if it was the weirdest idea.

“No, I’m not a ghost. For a start, they’re kind of a bunch of assholes.”

“But you’re not… you’re not?”

“I haven’t been alive since June fourth, 1987. It’s true, I am undead.”

She seemed confused by this.

“I’m a vampire, Amelie.”

“What? But that’s impossible. Vampires don’t exist.”

“Yes, well, you were the one who was willing to assume I was a ghost. So, please, keep up and treat all breaks in reality equally.”

“So are you… gonna kill me?”

She was whispering the last bit, and I shook my head in response.

“Actually, quite the opposite. I’m but to go into details, I’m going to need you do something that you aren’t going to really like, but believe me, it’s necessary.”

I bit into my own wrist and offered it to her. She stared blankly. I shook my wrist. “Drink, girl.”

“But, won’t I become a vampire?”

“For g-“ I cough a little bit, being incapable of saying any variation on the name of… well… whatever it is,” ‘s sake, if it were that easy, I’d be dead instead right about now. Once you drink the blood, you’re going to be a part of my world, it’s true, but you’ll still age. You’ll still be able to live your life. Trust me when I say it’s better than the alternative.”

She looked into my eyes. We had the same eyes, I now realized. “If you’re lying to me, kid, and I turn into a vampire, I’m going to use whatever superpowers I get to tear you a new asshole.”

“Yes, well, if I were lying, I’d admit I’d deserve it.”

She leaned over and put her lips to the wound on my wrist and drank a couple drops. I willed the wound shut.

Wiping her lips, she looked back at me and began – “So what happens n-ah!”

She stopped gripping her head. I suppose it hurts, to have your world change like that. The transformation isn’t as extreme as one of a vampire, but she was changing. Her senses a little more acute. Her mind a little sharper.

It only took about a half an hour before she was done gripping her head and crying, which I do feel guilty for, but it was the only way to keep her alive, I told myself. When she awoke again, she ran over to the empty kitchen area, with a sink and a mirror. Looking at her reflection, she opened her mouth and looked at her teeth.

“For the love of…” I stopped, looked up, and then looked back at my sister, “Amelie, what on earth are you doing?”

“Checking for fangs, asshole.”

“I told you that I wouldn’t turn you into a vampire!”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me that it would hurt like a bitch, whatever you did!”

“We didn’t have time.”

She turned back to me, apparently satisfied. “So, why did you do this now? You know my name, so I guess you’ve been following me for a while.”

“Well, yes and no…”

“Bullshit.”

I stopped and looked at her. She had pulled out a pack of gum and was unwrapping a piece.

“What – what do you mean?”

“You do the same thing my – our dad does, when he lies, I mean. You both look off into the middle-distance and fidget your hands.”

“Well… um… I,” this was awkward.

“Well, apart from you stalking us, what else have you done with your time? What’s being a vampire like, I guess?”

I shrugged. “It kinda sucks, but then again, I was only like ten when I was turned, so…”

“You don’t really look ten. I mean, sure, you look pretty close to the photos, but you’ve definitely aged a bit. You look… maybe thirteen?”

I laughed a little. “Oh, thank god, I look like I’m on the cusp of puberty. That’s a relief.”

“Vampires do age slowly until they look somewhere between late twenties, early thirties. But judging by this rate, I’m going to look like I need an adult until I’m in my eighties. Great. Just fucking great.”

“Hey, watch your fucking mouth, you little shit.”

“I’m the older brother, I should be lecturing you, little shit.”

“Yeah, well, who’s the one who’s actually been to high school?”

“Low blow.”

She continued chewing her gum and shrugged.

“All’s fair in war.”

She came back to the couch and sat down. “So, why’d you do all this? I’m guessing you had your own little weird non-interference policy until now.”

“Well, it’s the person who… who killed me. He’s back. And I need your help to kill him.”

“Why my help?”

“Well… it’s kind of because he’s after you now.”

She bolted upright. “Wait, what the fuck? Why is he after me? Is it something you did?”

I thought for a second. Maybe he had misunderstood why I was following her in the first right, and thought it would be fun to interfere.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, well, this is great. I have finals in a couple weeks, you know. I can’t just go around killing all my little –“

“- older,” I chimed in

“-brother’s enemies.”

At this juncture, her phone began to ring. She drew it from her jacket pocket and looked at the ID. I got a glimpse. It was David.

“Now isn’t the time to answer calls from your boyfr-“

She had already answered the phone. “Oh, hi, Davy. How’s it going?”

I could hear the other end too, but I blocked it out for the sake of her privacy.

I waited out the remainder of their conversation, listening to them talk about going to a movie on the weekend, you know, typical couple-ish stuff. Needless to say, I was sickened. After she hung up, I began again.

“Yeesh, what was that about?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” She winked knowingly.

“I am literally twice your age.”

“Well, all’s the same. No more interruptions.”

“I’m going to need your help to take out Jack –“

“Jack’s the one after me?”

“Well, I’ve taken to calling him Jack. He’s a ghoul, kind of like a vampire serial killer.”

“So what’s his actual name?”

“Well, I don’t know. None of the clans I’ve talked to know who he is.”

“Clans?”

“Wandering vampire families. If I could’ve gotten one of them to help, I wouldn’t have dragged you into all this. But anyway, the problem is that Jack is… well… not going to be easy to kill.”

“Well, how can you kill a vampire? Stakes?”

“Well, shoving a piece of wood would definitely hurt, but ghouls are made of stronger stuff. We’d need a couple things. A silver dagger consecrated by a priest, a holy book once owned by a saint, and probably enough ashwood stakes to shish-kebab a small army.”

“Okay, where do we get that?”

“Meet me at 1211 Harker street tonight. I don’t think that Jack is following me, but if he is, we shouldn’t stay together long.”

“1211 Harker street… isn’t that the one place belonging to that crazy old lady?”

“Well, she’s actually a nature spirit, a member of the fae. Kind of lucky to have her around, really.”

“Any other surprising revelations for me?”

“Yeah, the president is a moleperson.”

“What? Really?”

“No, I just don’t like him.”

This began as a response to a writing prompt, but it’s deviated enough from the premise to post without it.

She was walking down the crowded street to her secret laboratory, a street with merchant stalls and strange smells from the Yggdras caravans who brought great foreign cuisine and creatures for those whose purses were heavier than their heads.

She was not such a one.

She was a Dravidii, the caste of those magical metal-smiths who could make clockwork golems; strange entities of bronze, steam and the mystic chemical of aether that granted them life. But this science was not without flaw or risk; to create a clockwork golem could take years of effort, effort which could be wasted if a single part was out of order or the incantation to bind the will of the creator to metal and aether.

And this art is expensive, so she kept moving, ignoring the temptations of the sights and sounds; to a mind such as hers it was almost torture, for inquisitiveness was her favor and her foible, her birthright and her curse. Such is the flawed nature of the Dravidii.

Closing her eyes and focusing on her destination, she took a second to gather herself and, opening her eyes anew, she struck forward.

That is, until thirty seconds later, when she heard a voice emerging from a thickly perfumed stall to her right. A Yggdras woman dressed in a thick shawl that did little to hide her figure, holding an amulet in her right hand and a dagger in her left, was speaking to her. “Come here, Ivana.”

Dumbstruck by both the woman and by the woman’s knowledge of her name, she stepped towards the stall. “For fifty dras, this master-crafted amulet could be yours.”

Ivana looked at the amulet for a few seconds, sizing it up. It was definitely of Dravidii make, a net of bronze around a core of aether. She had never seen anything like it, and it was indeed finely wrought. To own it would be to own a piece of not just beauty, but power. Who knows what secrets it could contain. What she could learn from its workings.

Wide-eyed and a little mesmerized, she broke her gaze long enough to look down at herself.

She saw her formal clothing, plain and cheap as it was – with what little flair a Dravidii could add to it. Glued-on gears on her simple cap, some red cloth wrapped around her waist as a garnish for her belt on simple brown trousers, a matching, threadbare coat – fifty dras would be enough to starve her for another week or two, and she wasn’t sure she could make it through that. Not again.

As the thoughts whirred through her head like the bronze gears of her project, she finally came to her decision. Closing her eyes, she shook her head no, and turned on her heels to return to her path.

“Wait, girl.”

She turned back to the woman, who had taken a half-step towards her and outstretched a hand. Upon Ivana looking back, she regained composure. Whispering a little under her breath in a foreign tongue, the Yggdras woman began again, “I was rude. I apologize.”

Cocking a single eyebrow, Ivana stood silently. She had some inkling of what this was about; it was rumored that some Yggdras had the second sight, the ability to perceive some wisp of the future before it occurred. Each caste had their own magic, after all – the Dravidii the ability to bend metal to their will, the Yggdras the ability to perceive the future – but each must hone their ability, and not all had it to the extent of others.

“Learning the name of another to attempt to sell them a bauble is hardly a fair tactic,” said Ivana, somewhat feigning annoyance. Who knew, maybe she could get a discount.

The Yggdras woman nodded. “Let me offer you two things then.”

This time the raised eyebrow went a little higher. An offer freely made by a Yggdras merchant was a rare thing, after all.

“I offer you this bauble,” she said, taking three steps to stand in front of Ivana, and handing it to her. “And this,” she said, leaning forward, so that their lips brushed together into a subtle kiss.

Ivana blushed at this, and began stammering a little, “I… not… my…”

Putting the bauble into her coat pocket, she looked down at her feet, managed to mumble a quick thanks, and began off on her way at double-pace, without looking back at the (now, very confused) Yggdras.

She made it to her destination, after turning down an alleyway and about hallway towards the end, opening a hidden door with the touch of a button, disguised as an outwardly-pointed brick.

Entering the facility, she looked around, taking stock of her equipment and checking for changes. Her chair at the worktable was as she had left it, and the half-built golem lay on the table there, each finely-made piece interlocking to form a frame. Sitting herself down at the table, she leaned back and let out a heavy and self-exasperated sigh. She probably could’ve handled the merchant with a bit more tact, after all. Pulling out the bauble, she was surprised to see a bit of paper wrapped around it.

Extracting the paper, she found that it had writing on it. Reading it, she found it said only two things.

My name is Yvi, if you wondered

And beneath that, somewhat hastily scrawled as if done quickly out of embarrassment.

Dinner?

Looking down at her worktable, and her half-finished project, she weighed her options. Awkward as she was, she was loathe to turn down the opportunity to repay Yvi for both the gift… and (blushing at the thought anew) the kiss.

She looked at the bauble again, and began to work. The easiest way to clear her mind, after all, she supposed. Maybe the answer would be written plain in gears and screws.

Tinkering with the bauble, she found it had no catch or secrets, it simply existed as a finely-wrought artpiece. She knew it hid secrets, but how to gain them was a mystery. So, she fixed a chain to the amulet, and put it around her neck. Where better to keep it safe, after all.

She began anew on her golem, using her abilities to work bronze into proper shape, attach metal ligaments, wire the ‘nerves’ of the thing, and test the steam capacity, all the while, reminiscing of the history of this place, and of her family.

Her father had been a Vanis, whose abilities were charm and manipulation, but who had honestly fallen for her mother, a Dravidii that she had taken after moreso than her frankly foppish father. Her mother had been a clockwork golem-maker as well, working alongside her brother, Ivana’s uncle.

Her father had wandered into her mother’s shop one day, and began asking questions about how one makes a clockwork golem. Her brother had been intent on kicking the wayfarer out of the shop, despite his pretty features, but she was honestly transfixed by the curiosity she found in his eyes. He would show up daily, listening to her for hours about how the art of golem-building was partly a magical and partly a physical craft; a body could be made to the letter from a blueprint, but without the binding of a Dravidii’s will to the metal, there was no hope of it ever coming alive.

Ivana’s father returned day after day until he finally worked up the courage to ask her mother out to dinner. From there, a romance quickly blossomed. Ivana’s mother’s parents were long-since dead, so her brother, Ivana’s uncle, stepped in at a couple points to ensure Ivana’s mother’s fair treatment. And indeed, her father treated her well, though Ivana’s uncle would oft boast over dinner about almost breaking the fop’s nose a couple times to set him straight.

A year later, he proposed. A year after that, Ivana was born. But the pregnancy was hard on her mother – she never quite recovered her full health after, and bout after bout of illness took their toll, and finally her life by the time Ivana was eleven. Her father tried to comfort her, but Ivana spent the days in her mother’s study, until her father realized what he must do. Entrusting Ivana to her uncle, Ivana learned the art her mother had so cherished – the art of making a golem.

Now it had been eight years, and Ivana was building her third golem. Among countless basic prototypes, she had made two working complex golems – not the basic toys she could sell for fifteen dras apiece to collectors and children, but those golems worth thousands upon thousands of dras, whose very worth could spare her from the poverty that had surely claimed her mother’s life, as plain as any illness.

Her uncle had left some year and a half ago, to find his own way, entrusting his secret workshop and business to Ivana. He had given her a few dras, and told her she could make her own way, and that he would return when he had finished his journey.

She had not heard from him since. She lived a lonely life, either spending her time here or at a rented room in a nearby inn. The owner charged her harshly, but fairly enough for a nearby stay to work. In truth, she had probably spent more nights sleeping in the workshop in her uncle’s old chair than at the inn, but she was close to a breakthrough.

A golem that could pass for a human. She had been in correspondence with her grandfather on her father’s side, and had gained insight into illusion and charm, those coveted abilities that those of Vanis blood possess. Though she did not have the blood – taking after her mother so she did – she managed to come up with a rudimentary formula to grant the golem a likeness of humanity, if done in conjunction with the proper aetheric mix and focals.

She spent the day working on the golem, but the breakthrough was not coming to her. It seemed she had reached an impasse, a block that hours at the table could not fix. Sighing in exasperated fashion, she got up. It was time to go back to the inn, rather than try to finish this work that seemed to be trying to evade her.

She left the workshop and looked up and down the alley. She saw nothing, save a couple boys standing at the end of the alley. Walking towards them, she began to try to ask them where their parents were, until one of the boys ran towards her. As he did, she caught a better look at him. No older than eight, he was a speedy little creature, running up, jumping up and catching her newly-gained amulet by the bauble and tearing it loose, without breaking stride, and running.

Surprised and knocked aside, Ivana began to run after the boy, who was laughing at his newly-invented game of keep-away. Running down the alleyway and into the now-empty street, he looked back and bellowed, “You’ll never catch me!”

That is, just as a heeled shoe stretched out from the shadows beyond the edge of the alley, tripping him and bowling him flat.

“Gavroche, Gavroche, Gavroche,” cooed Yvi. “I thought mum had taught you not to take things that don’t belong to you,” she said as she leaned down, grabbed the amulet, and walked back towards Ivana.

“I was just playing,” said Gavroche, reddening at Yvi’s interference, whether from embarrassment or anger one could not tell.

“Sure you were, Gav, sure,” said Yvi, handing the amulet back to Yvi. “I’d like to apologize for little Gav’s actions. Our mother tried to raise him better,” she said, glaring sharply back at the boy who had barely managed to get back up into a sitting position, rubbing a skinned knee.

Looking back at Ivana and cracking a smile, she spoke again, this time in a cheerier tone, “In light of recent discoveries of the terrors that walk the night, allow me to walk you to your home.”

Wandering down the street towards the inn, they found themselves talking about their lives, a wonderful pastime for those with as interesting lives as these two, even if they did not know it themselves.

“I’m sorry about Gav. He’s been like that ever since pa died last spring. He’s been trying to earn enough money to help mum keep the house, as have I, but he’s young. Not too much work out there for him, and little of it honest.”

Ivana rubbed her hands together, to keep the could out. “It’s okay. It’s not like I had the thing that long, or that it would cost me anything if he had taken it, I suppose.”

Yvi laughed a little. Looking at her again, Ivana saw that the woman she had seen earlier wasn’t much older than herself – maybe a couple months, but most of the show at the stall had been simple makeup and legerdemain, to make her seem older and wiser.

“So, how did you wind up in a secret workshop in the middle of an abandoned alley?” asked Yvi.

Ivana was temporarily thrown, which seemed to be happening a lot that day. “I – it’s not – ummm… please don’t tell my uncle that you know that it exists?”

Yvi laughed. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, and I’ll make sure Gav doesn’t tell anyone either. But I’m fairly certain half the town knows it exists – neither you nor your uncle are very subtle, you know.”

Ivana shrugged. It was a fair criticism.

Before either had known it, they had reached the inn, and Ivana turned to speak. “This is where we go our separate ways, I think,” she spoke softly, not really wanting to leave.

Yvi quickly grabbed Ivana’s hands in her own. They were warm, which was odd enough, given the season. “You never answered my question.”

Ivana looked at her blankly.

Yvi sighed. “Dinner, Ivana.”

Ivana remembered the note and blushed. “I… may… be…?”

Yvi turned aside a little and muttered, “Well, it’s better than a no…” before turning back to Ivana.

“You have never once in your life been asked out on a date before, have you?”

“Well… no...,” said Ivana, blushing a shade redder than crimson. Most of the local boys were scared of her uncle, with good reason, and she’d never been asked by a girl before – or been confident enough to ask another.

“Well, I guess I should go,” said Yvi suddenly, turning to return the way she had came.

“Wait! Yvi…,” Ivana shouted, and then got a little quieter. Taking a deep breath, and then letting the words stream out in a single uninterrupted stream, “Would-you-like-to-go-out-to-dinner-with-me-please?”

Out of breath and blushing redder as the conversation wore on, Ivana began to hyperventilate as subtly as she could manage (which is to say, not very subtly at all).

Yvi laughed. “Of course, silly girl. Meet me at my stall tomorrow at twilight, and don’t you dare be late.”

She then ran off into the night, and Ivana, finally, saw the family resemblance between Yvi and the little rogue, Gavroche.

The sky cried its own tears that night when the police went to work. The dark was deep as pooled ink, and the voices terse and strict. None took pleasure that night, the nature of their business sapping them of all joy. I suppose that’s why I was called.

I arrived at the scene from the shadows, appearing (as I tend) from the shadows. For what I am is not quite human – but not quite beyond human, either. Magic is my knowledge and my trade; and my magic is very particular.

Dressed as I was in a black trenchcoat and dark gray hood, I supposed I made an enigmatic and rather ludicrous figure crossing the wet grass. I reached the edge of the cordoned-off area, when I was waylaid by one of the officers. “Sir, this is a crime scene,” he said, him being a rather burly white man with fairly obvious anger issues.

“Step aside,” I began, impatient as I was to begin. I do not appreciate being treated as such, especially when I am summoned.

“Raphael, it’s him. He’s my consultant,” came a voice from behind him.

“This guy is your consultant? He looks like an extra from one of those bad superhero movies. What? Couldn’t get in on the Blade series and decided to fight crime instead?”

Bored of his banter, I pushed the man aside as gently as I cared (which was not very much) and continued to the detective. She was young, I suppose, for the role of detective, but I am not a good judge of such things. Brown hair, green eyes. Hispanic. She was probably quite attractive, to people like Raphael, but I am not concerned with such earthly matters.

I looked down at the scene. Three dead. Two adults, a man and a woman. The man, white and in his early thirties. The cause of death was, in all likelihood, the fact that his chest had been eviscerated by perhaps an animal. The woman, also white, was likewise aged and damaged. They were dressed in day-to-day clothing – jeans and t-shirts. Lying between them, as though they had died trying to save her, was a young girl. Going by her features, she was these two’s child. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth opened in a scream that probably ended when she did.

I was looking down at them when the detective spoke. “What do you see, Miyeteth?”

I looked at her, before speaking. My voice sounded like a rasp even to my ears, unaccustomed as I am to the utterances of English. “I see a girl and her parents. The three were killed by something… malicious. Perhaps even evil. Perhaps even… inhuman.”

“Quit playing around. There are no tracks leading to or away from here. Whatever did this could only have been human.”

I stared at her for a couple seconds. “I know why you called me here, Camila. I do not raise the dead on a whim. Violating the laws of nature is not a careless act.”

“Miyeteth, you owe my family a great debt. The number of times we’ve turned a blind eye to your very existence is proof of that enough.  Do it.”

I crouched next to the father’s body. “Send your men away. This is not for the eyes of mortals. You may stay, but I ask that you do not interrupt me.”

She went over to the police officers, and said something to them. They all went, organized, down the hill to investigate other areas further. I put my hand onto the father’s head, and began the words. I began the acclamation.

“In the names of Akraziel, Azrael, and Uriel, I command thee to return to this form. I command thee to return alone. I command thee to follow my voice and return.”

The body spasmed as the soul returned. His eyes opened. “Where am I ? What happened? Eliza? Rachel?”

I put one of my fingers to his mouth. “Silence, son of Adam. Who attacked you?”

“I don’t… where’s my wife? My daughter? Eliza? Rachel?”

He tried to move, but I uttered a single phrase in Enochian. “Noasmi Teloc.”

He lay still, and moved no more.

I went over to the mother. I repeated the acclamation. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to draw in breath. It didn’t work – nothing can restore such life to the dead. “Speak to me, Eliza. Who did this to you.”

“I knew him – he was our friend – but he wasn’t – he was something – he killed me. I died. Where’s Rachel? What happened to Rachel?”

I repeated the phrase. “Noasmi Teloc. Be at peace, Eliza.”

I moved to the third. As I placed my hand over the young girl’s face, I found myself taking a deep breath. I was steeling myself to do this, for this was a line even I do not like to cross. “In the names of –“

“Wait!” said Camila. She looked scared. Maybe even… saddened? She took her time to draw breath, and calmed herself. “Do it.”

I finished the acclamation. The girl awakened with a gasp. “Where’s mommy? Where’s daddy?”

I held her close as I spoke to her. “Do not worry, Rachel. Tell me who did this to you, so that I can see it done right.”

“It was Uncle James. But it wasn’t him – he changed. He was like a big dog – but angry. So angry. He took daddy first, then mommy… then me. Am I…?”

I looked into her eyes. Blue, like sapphire. “Noasmi Teloc.”

She went limp in my arms. “I don’t think this is your case anymore, Camila. This is not a human killer. Honor the agreement I made with your grandfather. Give it to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the power to sweep this under the rug. We have to investigate.”

“Very well. Delay your people as much as you can. I’ll find the killer, but I warn you he will not be alive when you come to claim him.”

I headed off into the night, fading into shadow. Within moments I had returned to my erstwhile, earthly abode. Which is to say, a crowded apartment filled with books. The bedroom had been converted into a study – after all, I don’t sleep – and I began to search my books. I knew that I had to find the killer – and that there were two basic ways I could do this.

One is to summon the spirit of the deceased into a pendant so that they could lead me to their killer. Think of it like a homing beacon – the act of murder inherently links the deceased to their victim, to the extent that it can be magically quantified, and traced.

The second was a bit less direct. The description the girl had given described a Werewolf, which, strictly speaking, do not exist. They are a Hollywood invention, like about everything else. But, their myth came from somewhere. Demons bound to flesh can have all sorts of effects, and shapechanging – both partially and fully – can be a result. And specific demons have specific modes of operation.

Desperate as I was to avoid calling upon the dead more than I absolutely had to, I began to plunge into my books for information on demons who used a wolf-motif. Within a couple hours I found four. Two were obviously not the case, as they had been expelled rather recently. They couldn’t have returned. But of the two, one worried me. Because it wasn’t really a ‘demon’, it was a fallen angel. Ulnniel, child of Lucifer and one of his concubines, was a being of death and depravity – whose hatred for family was only outstripped by his hatred of children.

I had found our killer. But now I needed to track him. I read deeper onto the subject of Ulnniel. His true name was polysyllabic and difficult to pronounce, as they tend to be, I suppose, and committing it to this paper is foolhardy as it would just set fire to itself anyway.

But I managed to devise a method of tracking. I would not summon those poor spirits again – for they had earned whatever blessings may come to them or whatever punishment awaits them. I had learned the hard way not to delay, and had for centuries been focusing on keeping the knowledge I found hoarded away from mortals.

The tracking method involved the true name written onto a map and then with acetone poured onto it, with an incantation spoken. It would destroy basically all the map except the point where he would be.

I did it, chanted the incantation, and there it was. Easy as a peach. I left to head to the location.

But when I got there, something was… amiss. I was atop a building, looking down at a patch of land that had been turned into a garden of sorts. In the center stood a man dressed in a hoodie, leather jacket and jeans. “I can hear you, brother,” he shouted. “Come out, Miyeteth. Face your death with some dignity.”

I could see his face even from here. His face had once been a human’s – probably similar to the male victim. But his face was twisted, wolf-like. A permanent snarl. The beginnings of horns had begun to emerge through the skin on his forehead. “Miyeteth – It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I thought you were dead. I’d like to make that the truth.”

I jumped down, using my abilities to slow my descent so that I landed thirty or so feet behind him. Ulnniel laughed at my appearance. “Why so human, brother? What, didn’t feel like changing the appearance? So unlike you-“

“Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

Fire burst from my open palm to try and claim Ulnniel. He jumped out of the way, and I merely left a scorched patch of grass.

Ulnniel growled. “You aren’t Miyeteth – you are something else. Who are you? You are not a mortal – nor an angel.”

He raised one hand and spoke an incantation. A sword appeared in his hand, a twisted thing of black steel and blood, an evil thing, capable of doing much harm.

He charged at me. I spoke an incantation. My weapon appeared likewise – a golden spear tipped with platinum. I dodged out of the way and readied myself for combat.

“Who are you? What are you? An abomination, perhaps? No… my brother is part of you – both within and without. Hmmm…”

Ulnniel clapped his hands. “A conjurer you are! You fused my brother’s body with yours in some damned ritual. Clever. But it ends now.”

He charged and I tried to roll to the side, but he knew my trick and adjusted his blow. Driving his sword triumphantly through my side, he laughed. “Die, fool. Let your blood drip away for eternity.”

But he was close now. Too close for him to dodge as I spoke the words again, this time with my hand on his chest. “Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

He screamed as he was blasted backwards by grey fire. I pulled his sword out, its metal hissing as it touched angelic flesh. He was immobilized. I walked to his form, and drove my spear into his chest. He screamed louder, as his very being was eradicated by the angelic weapon. The child of hell breathed no more.

I waved a hand over the body, and spoke a simple incantation. Its formed returned to human proportions, and I searched its pockets. I found a piece of paper, on which a few words had been written around a pentagram. This was how Ulnniel had been summoned. The humans sought to do what none other had – truly bind an angel.

I looked down at my form. I suppose I am not truly Miyeteth – I was born, in some form, on the twentieth of July, 1592. A rich child of a noble family, I had sought unholy knowledge. I found love – my wife died shortly after our marriage, and I sought to use my research to bring her back. I failed. I bound a son of Azrael to myself – Miyeteth. His knowledge and entity subsumed my mortal entity, and I became this. Perhaps an abomination. Perhaps something else.

I picked up the body and dropped it on the stairs of the precinct of a certain detective I knew. I had some people to track down – and some knowledge to claim.

You’re a necromancer who secretly helps the police by bringing back murder victims and interviewing them.

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

I woke up with a splitting headache, lying in bed next to the devil himself.

Wait, that may sound weird to an outside observer.

You see, a couple weeks ago, I met the devil himself at a ‘con, and, assuming he was just a cute (and dedicated) cosplayer, I asked him on a date. On the date, he told me what he ‘really’ was.

That was it, until last night, when I came home and found he’d broken into my apartment, helped himself to a couple of my beers, and was watching ‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians’. He was apparently on the run from his brothers, the archangels Michael and Raphael.

So, we did shots. Lots, and lots, and lots of shots. I lost count after about four. I checked under the blanket and breathed a sigh of relief. I was not naked. I looked over at him. He was shirtless, but save for that, he was clothed. I got up, and walked over to the full-length mirror. I was disheveled, and my lower lip was cut – as if…

“Morning,” said Lucifer, getting up and stretching, ruffling his black curls as he scratched his head. “Did you sleep well?”

I turned back to him and pointed to my lip. “Did you do this?”

He smiled, mischief flashing in his eyes. “You are a very naughty drunk, Adam.”

I moved to my shirt to the side a little bit, exposing a small, mouth-shaped bruise on my collarbone.

“And you aren’t exactly an angel yourself,” was the retort I saw fit to utter, and his smile was almost radiant.

“Well, I think my brothers would be inclined to agree. Breakfast? Do you know a place around here that we can get it? Somewhere out of the way?”

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I looked kind of awful.

“Let me shower first.”

Lucifer nodded. “Probably a good idea?”

“What about you, do you… shower?”

He chuckled a little bit. “Unless you’re offering to share, not really.”

“Not really.”

“Well,” he sighed (he’s very emotive, for a being who supposedly punishes the damned), “I guess I’ll have to see to myself, then,” and he waved his hand over his body, and his form seemed to shimmer. His clothes changed into a rather simple set of garb – a hoody over a t-shirt and jeans, with sneakers. He looked like he had showered, shaved and dried.

Shaking my head, I went into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, I looked into the mirror. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

I heard a muffled sound from my room. “Me, if you’re lucky!”

After I had finished showering, I returned to the living room to find him watching the news. He switched it off as I entered the room, and walked over to the door. “So, you have any idea where you want to go?”

“There’s a good IHOP near here. You do eat, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I do, sort of. I can imbibe any mortal faire you please, up to and including liquor. I’m capable of becoming drunk, but I can end my inebriation in an instant if I need to. It’s a handy angelic trait. I enjoy these things, because they’re so…,” he shrugged, “Human, I guess.”

“And… sex?”

“Same thing, really.”

“Okay. Am I driving, then?”

He seemed glad for the change of subject, “Probably for the best. I can’t drive.”

“You can’t drive? You’re the devil for Christ’s sake.”

“Hey, I teleport everywhere. Occasionally I get a chauffeur. I’ve never had to.”

“Cars have existed for nearly a century and a half!”

“And I’m over a half a million years old! Cut me a little slack, please.”

It was my turn to sigh, this time walking to the door and nursing my headache a bit more. Maybe it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe it was just his personality.

When we got into my car (a beaten 1999 Ford Taurus, a dark shade of green and rusting through in spots), I asked him another question. “Is there anything I can call you other than Lucifer? It seems a tad bit…”

“… excessive?”

“Kind of. I mean, most people hear Lucifer and they think… I don’t’ know, goat’s head, human body, caduceus?”

“Sadly enough I left my caduceus in Hell. It was a fun little prop for a while, but once people start expecting things, it gets boring quick. I’ve never dealt well with expectations.”

“So, are there any that you like?”

“Satan?”

“Same problem.”

“Sammael? Lilith liked that one.”

“No, too… Aramaic.”

“Old scratch?”

“Too folksy.”

“Iblis? It’s not my name, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I feel like that’s appropriation somewhere along the line.”

“The French called me Voland for a while, does that work?”

“You have absolutely no clue how human names work, do you?”

“I mean, no,” he seemed a little offended. “You do realize I’ve had more names than you’ve had days on this planet, right?”

“Alright. Luci it is.”

“Luci? Am I a demon or a cartoon character?”

“How do you know about Charlie Brown but you don’t know how to drive?”

“Hell gets cable, not gasoline.”

I began to drive, and he watched out the window. Not like a sullen teenager, more like a child on their way to Disneyworld. He was caught somewhere between obvious excitement and a deep, internal reverie. I noticed his eyes were now green.

“You… don’t get out much… do you?”

He shook his head. “A couple days a decade, typically. I try to keep up with current events – I remember it took Machiavelli half a century to teach me about his contemporaries. Boy, you should have heard what he said about them…”

“Why don’t you….”

“… come to the world more often? Typically, because Michael has taken a liking to beating me up and throwing me back into Hell. Heaven views it as a prison break, usually. The last time I was allowed on the surface was to hunt down another rogue angel. That was the last time that I saw Raphael, too.”

“When was that?”

“About a thousand years ago, I spent six years on the surface.”

“How long do you plan on staying this time?”

“Forever. I left Iblis in charge, he can take care of things for as long as I need him to. He relishes it, poor bloke.”

“What, and you don’t?”

“Don’t get me wrong. It can be fun, for a few thousand years. Getting vengeance for those hurt by the damned, a righteous anger that can’t be sated. But it’s poisonous; you can lose yourself. Also, ruling over the ‘inhabitants’ of Hell can be good too. Some of them have wonderful personalities. Unfortunately, even that gets old. I created Hell, what seems like an eternity ago. From nothingness. John Milton almost got it right. But the problem was, that no matter what I did, I couldn’t recreate home. And maybe ruling in Hell isn’t as good as serving in Heaven was.”

“Can you ever go back?”

He smiled, a wistful expression. He seemed unbearably old then, like an old man who had seen too much of life. “Ta lonsh calz zonrensg, babalon adrpan.”

I heard a sound like thunder from the clear sky.

“As the exalted above have decreed, the wicked are cast down. Until the end of days, I am cast out of Heaven.  I suppose someone like me doesn’t get a redemption arc.”

As he finished that little diatribe, I pulled into the parking lot of the IHOP. I got out of the car, and he followed. “Do they have chocolate chip pancakes here?”

“What are you, twelve?”

“On a scale of one to ten, yes I am.”

“Pride goeth before the fall,” I responded.

“Not as much as you’d think.”

When we got inside, we were met by a server. She had brown hair, a pierced lip, and seemed happy enough to serve us. “Booth for two, please.”

“Right this way,” she said, leading us both to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, next to the bathroom. She handed us a pair of laminated menus. “Can I start you off with something to drink today?”

I looked at Lucifer, who was staring intensely at the menu, and I guessed I would be the one to speak first. “Water for me. Luci?”

He looked up like I’d interrupted some deep meditation, rather than a decision over what to have for breakfast. “Umm… I’ll take a hot cocoa.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, but he either didn’t notice or feigned ignorance. When the waitress stepped aside, I whispered to him, “Hot cocoa?”

“I have a sweet tooth.”

“Clearly.”

As we waited for the waitress to return with our drinks, I began to ask questions. “So, Michael and Raphael. What do they look like?”

He arched his fingers in front of his face and focused for a second. The waitress arrived with our drinks while he pondered an answer. Taking a sip from his cocoa, he began. “You have to realize that our earthly forms are not our only forms. I’ve taken a particular many forms over my remarkably long life, and this is just one I picked up in ancient Greece.”

He took another drink. “So I suppose that Michael and Raphael could look like anyone. But they won’t. They like specific forms.’

“So what will they choose?”

“Michael is a lot like me, ashamed though he is to admit it. He likes younger forms. Typically androgynous. He is very much an Aryan – blonde hair, blue eyes, the like. He typically goes for lithe but muscular frames. He dislikes facial hair. He’ll stand out in a crowd – he’s vain, he likes to be pretty and he likes to be the center of attention. You’ll see him coming a mile off.”

“And Raphael?”

“He’s a little bit more varied. He likes to look smart, so expect him to look bookish. He likes older forms – middle aged men with grey hair and beards, typically he chooses to look more Arabic, with darker, weather-worn skin. He picked up that tendency in the eighth century or so.”

“Okay. Are you sure they won’t try to disguise themselves better?”

“Nah. I’m the one in the family who got the gift for illusions; they know I’ll spot them regardless. Their goal is to hunt me down like hounds chasing a rabbit, rather than try and sneak up on me.”

The waitress came back, this time with a small notepad. “Can I get your orders?”

“I’ll take the chocolate chip pancakes. And another cocoa.”

She took my order and then went back to turn it in to the kitchen. Within a few minutes she was back with his pancakes and my omelet, and he poured syrup on his food and began to wolf it down. “For someone who doesn’t need to eat, you sure like to.”

He began to speak with his mouth full, then paused, swallowed, and repeated. “I don’t get this kind of luxury very often. In Hell, we have our feasts and the like, but it’s all so much protein. Demons love beef and pork and the like, but we never get the sweet stuff.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” I said, as sarcastic as I could muster.

He had near-finished his plate when he looked alert and then dodged under the table.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down and saw him next to my right knee. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Shh. Door.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw two men entering. One was blonde-haired, blue-eyed and young. The other was a middle-eastern man with gray hair and glasses. Both were dressed in matching suits and long coats of wool.

“Are they…?”

“Yes!” he whispered, “Now quiet!”

I watched as he grabbed my fork off the table and jabbed it into his thumb, drawing blood. “What the fu-“

He put his finger to his mouth again and made eye contact. He began to draw on the ground in his blood. I watched as the two men talked to our waitress, and watched her point over to our corner. Goddamnit. The two made meaningful eye contact, and began to walk over, reaching into their coats and pulling out silvery… somethings. They looked like blades, but blades typically don’t blur like you’re watching them through some kind of smeared lens.

They walked over to the table, and began to speak. First it was that strange, guttural tongue which Lucifer had spoken in the car. Then, it was English. “Come out, little brother. We would have words with you.”

Lucifer climbed out from under the table with his hands raised, “Come now, boys, we don’t have to do this right now. I was just having lunch with my boyfr-“

Michael grabbed him by the throat and drew him close. “Quiet, you fool. Had it been my way we would have turned this pitiful city into a burnt-out pillar of salt rather than see you walk here. Your very presence befouls this world.”

Raphael put his hand on Michael’s arm, moving it away. “Not here, Michael,” he said, in accentless English. “We must try to keep a low profile.”

Michael moved his hand away from Lucifer’s neck, and nodded at me. “What about the boy, Raphael. He knows too much, I would suspect.”

Lucifer glanced at me. I recognized the look. It was fear. “He knows nothing. Let him be.”

Michael scoffed. “As if I would trust you to tell me anything, brother.”

Raphael looked at me. His eyes were pale, like ice. “Tell me true. Who are you?”

I couldn’t break eye contact. I was frozen. It felt like the truth was being pulled from me, extracted more thoroughly than torture ever could. “My name is Adam Drakeson.”

With that, he looked at Lucifer, then back at me. “And what has Lucifer told you?”

“That you are angels. That he is Satan. That you wish to send him back to Hell.”

Michael scoffed. “The basics.”

As he went to lift Lucifer into the air again, I got up and tried to stop him. It was mostly an unconscious thing, but I got to my feet and grabbed his arm. I don’t know what I thought I could do, but I do remember him backhanding me back into the booth. It felt like I’d been hit by a small bus.

At this the occupants of the nearby tables became agitated. A man, middle-aged and dressed in simple, everyday clothing got up and went over to him. “Sir, please, this is a restaurant, you shouldn’t –“

Michael looked at him, his eyes blazing pure blue, with no visible iris, pupil or schlera. “Know your place, pond scum.”

The man was blasted across the room, out a window. “Raphael! Wipe the human’s memory, then let’s be on our way.”

Raphael leaned towards me and made eye contact. “Forget whatever Lucifer has told you. Forget Lucifer. Forget us. Forget everything that has been changed because of him. Forget.”

I felt like someone was tugging on the inside of my skull, like my brain was being fed on, eviscerated, reduced. But, inexplicably, it faded. I forgot nothing. I remembered everything. Lucifer was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Raphael snapped.

“It won’t work, brother. I warded his mind against illusions and alterations the day I met him. You won’t be able to do anything to him.”

Michael laughed, a haughty, hollow sound. “Nothing? I could always kill him. A corpse has no memories.”

Lucifer laughed back, this time shifting form, almost imperceptibly to me. His horns grew back. His eyes glowed red. The laugh became a cacophony of voices, the voice of legion. “Babalon ziltar zien!”

From beneath the table there came a groaning, screaming, as whatever he had drawn beneath it came to life. The table was destroyed as a portal opened, of black and red and shadow and death. Screams echoed as a creature emerged. Dressed in black robes, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. It had black scales, lizardlike features, with two curling ram’s horns. It carried with it two stone tablets. As it appeared, Raphael dived with his blade to strike it. It said a word, and Raphael was disarmed, his blade flying out of his hand and to the ground. “Fugio memet, coeles viventem.”

Raphael screamed as in a flash, he disappeared. Michael dropped Lucifer and went to strike the creature, but it spoke again, and this time, black, tarlike tentacles emerged from the portal to grab him. “Unhand me, infernal creature!”

It dragged him closer to the pit, and the creature looked at Lucifer. “Debitum solvit.”

Lucifer nodded, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me towards the exit. “Time to go, I think.”

“I’m not the kind of person who gets a redemption arc.”