Posts tagged fantasy
She didn’t used to, back when life was simple, but now she can hear it. The scraping of chains on stone and the hiss and dripping of venom into a bowl. And, just above it, the gentle hum of very powerful runes, keeping everything together.
How do you protect something that you can’t see?
How do you keep things away from it?
(Source: runeskin.dreamwidth.org)
By the time she scrambled to the Thirsty Coyote, most of her endurance flown to the wind, Red was feeling the burn of repairing five broken bones and numerous bullet holes. They weren’t a problem—she was tough, if anything—but they were taking longer to heal. The weapons in question had probably been tempered with silver; Jogi seemed like that kind of psychopath.
Eastwind, in his old man guise, stared at her and then poured her a rum and coke without saying anything. She pulled herself onto a stool, grimacing as a bullet popped out of her collar bone. She could feel the bones meld back together, the dull and familiar flaring heat.
“Rough night,” Red sighed, gulping down some of her drink. “Has my mother been here?”
“Nope.” Eastwind looked her over thoughtfully. “Seekers?”
“Ex-Seeker. Very nasty piece of work called Sayed Jogi. Heard of him?”
“Yeah, him I’ve heard of.”
Red snorted, flexing her right hand; it was taking forever to mend. That was the nice part of having some fae blood, though. Eventually, it would mend.
“Bastard got to my object before I did—again. I have half a mind to put a bullet in his brain just for kicks. Humans. The audacity of them.”
Eastwind chuckled. “I’ve been saying that all of my life. You should find your mom, though. Get your next job sorted out. Jogi’ll keep—or someone else will kill him.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
“I don’t see why you’re worrying,” Red murmured, gritting her teeth as she re-located one of her fingers. Her guns lay on the bed, lamplight glinting off them, along with the rest of her ‘toys.’
Mme Voclaine gave her a look of sheer disbelief, tempered with exasperation.
“Okay, okay, so he beat me up a little.” She sighed. “I’m going to get that sonofabitch this time. You know me; I don’t admit defeat.”
“Sweetie, if you play your cards wrong, that human monster“—she barely choked out the words—“could kill you.”
Red, putting one of her guns into its holster, grinned at her mother. “He wishes. I got sloppy. That damned ex-Seeker hasn’t got a real chance.”
“Maybe we should withdraw—”
“No.”
Silence reigned for a long moment. Voclain stared at her daughter, the disbelief returning. Red shook her head slowly.
“Just… let me work, mother. Stop worrying.” She squinted. “Did something happen at the shop? Why are you so…”
“Nothing happened at the shop,” Voclain sighed. “Just… be careful. You’ve heard what he does to fae that get in his way.”
Red grinned, confidence oozing out of every pore. “Relax. I’m gonna put a hole in his shoulder, and his liver, and his head… and his left palm, just to make sure.”
She didn’t.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
“Get out of here,” she snapped at the crow, who was doing his best to try and beg for a piece of her sandwich. Fortescue was having none of it. She was tired, hungry and cold. Not even the meager tea she’d managed to brew was warming her up.
The crow tilted his head at her, as if saying, You don’t really mean it. You’d love to give me a piece of your food.
“Go away,” Fortescue hissed. She opened her palm to him, flat, and he scooted forward, expecting to be fed. Instead, a plume of blue-violet fire spewed forward and he cawed in fright. A second later and he was in the air, cawing angrily.
“Serves you right.”
It was a particularly tedious stakeout. Nicholas Irons was wanted for crimes that he hadn’t yet carried out—but had planned. Crimes that the Council had decided were crimes, and the Council really knew best in this case. But, as usual, Fortescue was the bloodhound required to sniff out the wanted person and bring him back. And so here she was, perched on a rooftop across from Irons’ flat, watching for signs of activity.
At her ankles, her Alram, Jasmine, circled with a low growl.
“Just stay out of the way,” Fortescue told her. “I don’t require you to fight my battles for me.”
She reached down and petted the black cat’s head. Cringed. It felt like petting a skeleton with some skin on it. But that was just how things were.
“Fucking Council,” she muttered.
Movement caught her eye. The front windows of Irons’ flat had lit up, and a figure was pulling back some of the curtains. Tall. Definitely male. It was time to go.
“Stay here,” she told Jasmine, before taking a few steps back and judging the distance between roofs. The width of one street. Not too bad. She lunged forward into the night air, picturing the other rooftop and willing the shapes of her body to pass through the air. Her fingers warmed as she landed, soundlessly, where she had intended. It was old magic, but she was good at it.
It was easier still to unlock the roof access door—just a wave of her hand, a mumbled word—and descend into the warmer corridor below, taking the stairs to the door of Irons’ flat. She paused, taking a moment to steady herself. She’d researched him: Irons was good with a sidearm, and he’d been trained in physical combat. She would need to take him down with surprise.
Fortescue said a string of words she knew well, and immediately melded into the shadows—as though she’d willed herself to melt into thin air. Grabbing hold of the shadows, as though they were handfuls of rope, she slid around Irons’ door and entered the flat. It was illuminated well and sparsely decorated with furniture. A non-magical assassin would have had a rough time.
Irons was still by the window, looking out. She grabbed more handfuls of shadow and skirted the room. To the naked or unpracticed eye, none of the shadows moved, but a skilled eye might have seen her fumble slightly with the shadow of the curtains. Fortescue cursed in her head, but her target—all she could see was his back—didn’t seem to notice.
As soon as she reached his own shadow, Fortescue leaped into action, tackling Irons to the floor with a mumbled charm that would prevent him from being able to move his limbs. They fell back, she on top, and she placed her hand around his throat in preparation to completely knock him out—
“Whatthehellisgoingonohgodswhoareyou!” squeaked her target.
This time, Fortescue did curse aloud, in a language only a few knew: Malsi, the language of the halfbred.
It wasn’t Irons at all. It was a man who looked almost identical, especially from the back. But his nose, his cheeks and his eyes were different.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked him roughly.
“M-McGoverns, ma’am, I—” He stopped, looked at her. Realization dawned on his face. “You’re a…”
“Shut up,” she muttered, resentful. A long stakeout for nothing. Irons had slipped into hiding, then, perhaps. “Wait. What are you doing here?”
“I’m not proud, ma’am, but I’m… well, I’m housebreaking,” McGoverns admitted.
Fortescue laughed harshly. “You’re the worse one I’ve ever seen. Do you often open the windows and let people get a good look at you?”
“They’re fine velvet, if you please, and I was going to—”
“Shut. Up. I don’t need this right now,” she said, not particularly caring about letting her anger impact more-innocent targets. “I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to run as fast as you can away from here. If you talk about what’s happened, I’ll find you. Being prosecuted for housebreaking will seem like a trifle in comparison. Do you understand me?”
McGoverns nodded frantically, eyes wider.
Good. He’d worked out what she was. That was mostly bad, but it had its bonuses in intimidation. Fortescue muttered a few more words—a curse to let her know if he did talk. Then she jumped to her feet and banished her charm.
“Go,” she said shortly.
He vanished like smoke, running like a man who had a panther or enraged monster on his heels.
Fortescue murmured a few more curses, this time in her own language, and then with a wave of her hand turned off the lights and re-drew the curtains. It was back to square one.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
It wasn’t like Fortescue didn’t have somewhere to be. At least three invitations for Christmas had been extended towards her—four, if you counted one that had been more for politeness than anything else (she didn’t).
But she hated the holiday. Always had. She hated the way it presumed over the other religions, like it was somehow better for pretending that it hadn’t stolen its traditions. She hated the way that you were intimidated into giving other people gifts, like that meant that you loved them.
And so, seven o’clock had rolled around, and she was still in her dirty townhouse with her feet up, sipping a gin and tonic. Classical music—not carols—was filtered in through the speakers in the walls. The townhouse looked at least two hundred years old on the inside, with the exception of the gadgets that Fortescue clung to like creature comforts. Music-players being a key weakness.
A knock on the door—deliberate, not drunken and lost—filtered through the haze of a day spent drinking. She scowled and reached over the side of her giant leather armchair, fingers closing around a mirror. The mirror’s twin was on the outside of her door. In hers, she saw the face of a very familiar and round man.
“Uncle,” she murmured, as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth.
Swinging an arm up, she unlocked and opened the door without moving, sending invisible energies through her fingers.
“Where’s my niece? Skulking on Christmas Day?” he declared, walking inside. “For shame!”
Her uncle, Radolphus Fortescue, was her only living relative, but they only saw each other a few days per year. She couldn’t stand him, and he, himself, was a busy man, tending to the government. In truth, they were both government employees, but Imperium would never officially recognize the Black Council as being government-sponsored and staffed. Her uncle thought she worked for the patent offices.
“I’m really not in the mood, Uncle,” she sighed.
“Bethmora, do you have any idea what I had to go through to figure out where you were skulking?” Her uncle, dressed in red and black Christmas finery, sat down on the leather sofa opposite her chair. His cheeks were red from the northern winter. “For shame, my girl!”
Fortescue waved a vague hand. “You know I hate Christmas. I always have. For you to expect differently, every year, is more than a little worrying.”
“Something about the presumptuous nature of the festivities, if I remember correctly.”
“Among other things.” She glanced at her side table. “Well. Can I mix you a drink?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’ve had plenty before coming here. Kept me nice and warm!” Her uncle laughed. “I’ve come here both to wish you a Merry Christmas”—she groaned—“even if you don’t celebrate it, and for a… more complicated purpose. To tell you the truth, the sherries were for liquid courage.”
Raising an eyebrow, Fortescue lurched from her armchair, unsteadily, and mixed herself another drink. “Oh?”
“Yes. I got word that the…”
He trailed off, mid-sentence, behind her back. New drink in hand, she turned and let out a gusty sigh at what she saw. A scrawny black cat, her Alram, was sitting in the middle of the room, its luminous eyes on her uncle. It was barely a cat anymore.
“What on earth has happened to your familiar? What have you done to her?” Her uncle, still flushed, demanded.
“Jasmine’s taken some burdens for me.” Fortescue returned, just as unsteadily, to her chair. “Remember when you gave her to me? My ninth birthday, wasn’t it?”
Her uncle shook his head. “You’ve made her an Alram, Bethmora. That’s what I came about. I heard you go to a particular… meeting, if you get my drift. A special… group.”
Warning flags went up in Fortescue’s mind. This wasn’t information her uncle was supposed to know. Any more and she would have to…
She swallowed.
“Forget it,” she murmured.
“Then it’s true.”
Her temper flared. “Forget what you heard, you idiot.”
Jasmine climbed into her lap, barely weighing more than the air she displaced. Her uncle, visibly saddened and horrified, stared at his feet for a few minutes. Fortescue had another fortifying sip of her drink.
“Your mother’s shop,” he said, after his silence. “I went by on the way. You’ve kept it the way it looked when she…”
Fortescue rubbed at her forehead, pawed at it with her free hand. “She loved that place. Anyway, it makes a nice little hiding spot.”
Her uncle stood up, with less grace than she had. Jasmine yowled at him, like a tiny banshee, and rushed out of the room.
“Fucking cat,” Fortescue muttered. “Birds are more reliable.”
“Birds can’t take as much. Was that it? Was that why she had some use for you?” He grimaced. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know.” He lurched for the door.
She waved a hand and opened it again, not looking at him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, pausing at the threshold.
“Happy New Year,” she sighed.
And then he was gone, and she waved her hand again to close the door after him. She drained the rest of her drink, which tasted much more sour than before.
“Miserable bastard.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
It was late, the moon casting a spotlight on the roof of the inn. Nerje, running his thick, black fingernails through his hair, sat down and pulled his stolen treasure out of his pocket—a roll, leftover from dinner. His mother, the owner of the inn, would have been cross if she’d known he was eating this late at night. But Nerje always got hungry right before he went to bed. He was growing, by leaps and bounds these days.
He was glad to be growing. He’d always been the scrawny kid, the one everyone made fun of; the kid no one wanted to touch, for fear they might break him. But now that he was finally gaining some height, perhaps they’d listen to him more. Maybe they’d bully him a little less.
Biting into the roll, Nerje, with his other hand, ran his fingers through his hair again, feeling his scalp. Daerys—another Tiefling—had told him that his cousin had grown horns during his growth spurt. Horns made you a badass, Daerys had insisted, and maybe Nerje would grow some too. No one would mess with you if you had horns.
Nothing seemed to be developing yet, but Nerje wasn’t about to lose hope. He wanted the whole nine yards of his demonic heritage—the scales, the wings, a tail, hooves. It was too bad that that stuff never came in later. You were born with it, or you didn’t have it. With wings, or hooves and a tail, none of the neighborhood bullies would feel like picking on him, surely. He could just look at them, and they’d run as fast as their legs could carry them.
“Nerje!”
He groaned. His mother? This late? “I’m on the roof!”
“Get in bed! Now! I won’t say it again!”
Something had woken her. A nightmare, maybe. She’d had more and more of those, lately. Probably about when his father had been taken out and beaten to death—when the town had been convinced of his guilt in a murder case. Law had never seemed right to him, after that. It was just a bunch of idiots trying to control you for their own purposes. Or trying to kill you, like father.
“Okay!” he called down, stuffing the last of the roll in his mouth.
He was going to make a name for himself. He was going to make those stupid guards cower in their boots, one day. They’d beg him not to hurt their families, or to mess up their reputation with the leader of the guard—or, worse, the king himself. He’d take tea with the king, someday, and the king would look forward to his visits. One day.
But first, he needed to get tall.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
They exited the coffee shop, where Quinn’s motorcycle—a fancy, souped-up Harley that looked right out of a steampunk convention—was waiting. Devica clung to Quinn’s back as they rode, Quinn’s cat (Alastair, was it?) curled around the woman’s shoulders. Against the other woman’s objections, Devica made her drive back to her apartment.
“Clarence retrieved all of your information of note,” Quinn said, dismounting and following her up the three flights of stairs.
“I keep the best stuff out of my computer.” Devica unlocked her door quickly, despite the fact that her hands were shaking a little. “Are you kidding? Some people here have the ‘I can get your digital information with the twitch of my fingers’ power.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “And breaking in isn’t easier?”
“Well—”
About to say that she moved quite a bit to prevent breaking and entering, Devica’s breath was knocked from her throat by a punch to her solar plexus. Making a hissing noise, she dropped to the floor of her entryway. A man, dressed in black, stood poised over her. And then, all of the sudden, the man was flying back and slammed into the wall. Six arrows pinned him there.
Devica looked up to see Quinn standing with a bow where her grey umbrella had been, expression tight and grim.
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Quinn growled. “We haven’t even been introduced, yet.”
Devica coughed, standing up and moving so that Quinn was in between she and her attacker. “Who the hell is that?”
“Don’t recognize them? I don’t, either. I’m practically a tourist on your world, remember? …Clarence, see what you can—”
Suddenly, the man in black—face obscured by a hood and leather mask—broke free of the arrows, with a pained yell. He rushed the two women, still yelling. Devica let out a yell of her own as Quinn pushed her back onto the stairwell, getting out of the charge’s way.
Quinn, between a rock and a hard place, slammed her bow across the man’s face. He let out a surprised yelp, and, with a snarl, Alastair lept onto the man’s shoulder and dug his claws in with an almost-demonic hiss. The man’s reaction was much stronger this time—a shout of pain, as he whirled to dislodge the cat.
It didn’t work. Quinn surged forward while he was distracted, sucker-punching the man and knocking him to the floor.
“You’re feisty,” she snapped, pinning him with her weight. “What the hell were you doing in her apartment? And if you say, ‘I’d rather die,’ keep in mind that it will be prolonged and you won’t enjoy it—”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she closed it with a rough hand.
“I wasn’t finished. If you say some kind of devoted plug and then swallow a cyanide capsule, I’ll make an example out of you. Everyone will know what kind of underwear you have on. And if you keep silent, I’m going to start hitting you until you talk and let my cat pee in your eyes. He’ll do it, too. Capiche?”
Looking slightly more intimidated, the stranger opened his mouth again. “The messenger must not be stopped. He must be allowed to make the deal!”
Quinn growled. “Gods be damned, I forgot about fancy riddles. Look, if you’re talking about Vrole, it’s my duty to bring him back. And I’m going to. There’s nothing you can do about it, pajama ninja… and oh dammit, did you just suck down a cyanide capsule in addition to the fancy riddle?”
He had indeed gone limp under her. Devica, feeling more confused than ever, pushed by them to check her apartment for damages. But he hadn’t touched anything, from the looks of it.
Quinn wandered into the main room with a sigh. “Know of any tall poles around here?”
“You’re going to prank a dead man? I thought you were kidding!”
She smiled slightly. “Old habits die hard. And I’ve lost respect for those who are blindly loyal, especially to organizations.”
Devica shook her head and threw up her hands. “I wash my hands of that. I won’t let myself be troubled by having named the poor guy’s pole—”
“No worries, Clarence just found one anyway.” She raised an eyebrow at Devica. “You’re religious, aren’t you? Respect for the dead, all that?”
“I’ve got the usual Los Angeles religion. Spirituality.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Quinn chuckled, going back into the entrance hall. “Grab your stuff. Take your time. I’ll be right back after I humiliate this idiot’s choices in life.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
“Do I look like I’ve escaped from an insane asylum?” Quinn’s eyes went to her clothes, and then her hands. She glanced up with a quick smile at Devica. “Maybe it does. I’m missing the strait jacket, though. If they’d thrown me in an insane asylum, long ago, there would be strait jackets involved.”
Her comment was almost the opposite of comforting, but Devica appreciated the apparent honesty. She was in the business of information; she was used to people fighting over even the smallest fragments of a word. Honesty was something relatively new.
“Okay, so you’re not an escaped mental patient—which I’m glad to hear, by the way,” she added wryly. “I’m supposed to believe that story you just told me? It was pretty outlandish.”
Quinn smiled again, just as quick. “Maybe. But you seem smart. And I know you’ve got a lot of outlandish floating around in your head, about your world. It’s more than what it looks like, right? People are more than what they seem. I’ve been here before, I’ve seen things that I know you’re aware of. So let’s toss out the mental circling and the testing—you need my help. And I possibly need yours.”
“Just possibly?”
“I’m resourceful,” she objected, with a note of pride. “But seriously, someone mentioned that you were on the case, and after seeing your files, I’d much rather work with you. You know the layout of the city, the best spots for information. It will take less time if we—you know—team up.”
Devica looked to Quinn’s cat, who was staring at Devica with a thoroughly unnerving expression. It was irritation, there was no doubt about it.
“Okay,” Devica said slowly, “I’ll do it. But just because I want to see what the hell you are, exactly. Now what do you think my current task is?”
“I told you. You’re looking for a strange, grey creature. I know who it is.” Quinn lifted her arm over to the other side of the table, gesturing that Devica look to her watch. A moment later, a picture of the unknown thing appeared in the face. “Vrole Tal’uath. He’s a universe-hopper, just like me. But unlike me, he’s on the wrong end of universal discipline. Keeps stealing technology and messing up timelines.”
I’m going to have a headache later from all this jargon, Devica thought. “So what’s this organization like? The one that polices all of you.”
“Right now, I’m representing them as an LRHE. Licensed Reality Hopping Enforcer.” She chuckled a little, retracting her arm to her side. “I used to do it a lot more, with a group of friends. Then I stopped and traveled with… someone else. Now I’m doing this on my own.” Her expression fell for a moment, before she sternly cleared it. “Anyway, Vrole is my responsibility right now.”
Devica resisted the urge to ask about the ‘someone else.’ Another time, maybe. “And what is he, this Vrole? Is he a, uh, Changeling? …if you know what those are.”
“Clarence is keeping me up to speed from your files,” Quinn noted with a quiet laugh. “No, he’s not. Well… kind of. He’s my kind of a changeling. They’re very different in most respects. But he can change his appearance at will. And right now, he’s stalking your friend because your friend has big things ahead of them. I’m not sure if Vrole intends to disrupt those things, or make them larger.”
“So what do we do?”
“Call your friend. Have him meet us. Then I’ll take down Vrole and arrest him for the LRHE.”
“It’s gonna go just like that?” Devica asked doubtfully.
“No,” Quinn chortled, a grin spreading onto her face. “It never does.”
“…great.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
Two strong cups of coffee—very, very strong—later, and a trip to a local diner that Devica frequented more often in the AM hours, Devica felt more alive and less like a square of sentient cardboard. She sat opposite from her strange benefactor, in a booth upholstered in red velvet. Quinn Riddle was quite easily sucking down a chocolate milkshake, her scrawny and slightly alarming cat sitting on the table. Devica didn’t appreciate how its solid black, soulless eyes kept drifting to her. Quinn had just finished telling her a rather outlandish-sounding story. A story that was apparently her life.
“So,” Devica murmured slowly, “you’re from a different universe, and traveled to a different universe by accident, and you used to work for an organization that polices universe-travel. And now you’re doing a bit of detective work for them, since you’ve split from your boyfriend. And your cat… thinks he’s a black man, but he didn’t used to. And… you can’t die permanently. Did I forget anything big?”
Quinn, finishing the last of her milkshake, smiled and sat back in the booth. “No, that’s pretty much it. I know it’s a lot to take in.”
“It’s, ah, more than that.” Devica eyed her skeptically. “How do I know you haven’t escaped from an insane asylum recently? You’re very kind, which I appreciate, but still.”
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
