English 205 Final Project

Originally, this assignment was limited to a 9 page maximum and needed to show setting, internal and external conflict, and a bunch of other stuff.

Anyway, I need to do a revision of it by next Tuesday, the revision can have as many pages as I want. There is a notable lack of internal conflict in this story, among other flaws. To all of my readers, I'd like as much input from you on improvements as possible. I know the ending is wonky, so suggestions there are very appreciated.

Note: Anne Marie's name and likeness are used, but her powers and goals are very different. Consider this "fanon" as far as she's concerned.

Thanks very much for your help, guys.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

Unlucky

by Andrew Blatt

Most people don’t believe me when I tell them I’m psychic. I can’t say I blame them. In fact, I’m always a little suspicious of people who do believe me right off the bat. That said, I’m being 100% serious when I say that’s what I am.

Not professionally, of course. I’ve never met a genuine psychic who made money from his or her “gift.” Unlike some of the frauds, I can find my own car in a parking lot. Most of my clairvoyance, though, is the ability to see my immediate future. I know you’re thinking that that sounds great, but it’s not. See, to go along with that little edge, I have terrible luck. So when I stare into the infinite maw of Probability, all I see is how much my life is going to suck in about five minutes.

I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Gregory Hallen. As I’ve mentioned I’m a psychic by nature, though not by profession. I’m pretty much always between jobs, a side effect of the bad luck. Doesn’t bother me too much, though. I can always see what’ll give me the best results during an interview, so getting new jobs isn’t much of a problem.

When you’re psychic, seeing things like ghosts isn’t supposed to be a big deal. Somehow, I never quite got to that point. I think that the restless dead make me uncomfortable because they throw off my predictions. I can’t read anything about the future when ghosts are involved. Once you get used to a life with no surprises, even if that life isn't all that great, surprises start to make you very uncomfortable.

Which is why I'm never quite as happy to see my dad as one might expect.

"Hello, Greg." My old man's voice is slow and melancholy. Not because he's dead, though. He's sounded like that for as long as I can remember.

I jump slightly in my chair, then put down my paper and turn to face my father.

"Hi, Dad. What can I do for you today?"

These visits are starting to get out of hand. Before, it was unusual for me to encounter a ghost more than once every two or three years. Even after Dad died, he would just drop in twice a year; once on my birthday, once on his. Simple, little things. But this is the third time Dad's been here this month.

But he shrugs it off like it's nothing. "Just wanted to see how you're doing, Greg. I worry about you a lot. I worry about your mom, too, but she can't see me."

Uh oh. Looks like Dad's going to work himself into a ramble if I don't do something.

"Look, Dad, something must be up. You've visited me more in these few weeks than you have in all the rest of the four years since you died. I know you. You don't get that sentimental. And you know that you being around tends to gum up the one single talent I have."

Dad's trapped. Everything I've just said is pretty much spot on, so there's no use in him arguing it. He sighs and looks at me with an unfamiliar expression. After a moment, I realize that it's pride.

"I always knew you were smarter than we gave you credit for," he says to me. Great. That makes me feel just wonderful.

"Right, whatever." This is becoming irritating. "Look, Dad, if this is something I can help with, tell me. If not, you need to let me get back to my life. Birthdays are still fine, but you can't just hang around the living all the time. We're both supposed to be moving on."

Dad shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't really changed any of his mannerisms since his death. It's somewhat unnerving. People are supposed to be different after they die.

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe. There's been some sort of plague or something. Something is killing psychics and no one can tell what it is."

Something killing psychics? That seems strange. "But," say, frowning. "Wouldn't we be able to see it coming? That's kinda what we do. My life's kinda shitty, but I'm not usually in any sort of mortal danger."

My dad grimaces. "That's the problem. Whatever it is, it's striking without warning. I guess I just want to tell you to be careful. Don't rely too much on your 'gift.' Keep your eyes open in the present, too."

As much as I hate to admit it, his frequent visits have been forcing me to ease off reliance on reading the future. Whether he realizes this or not is a matter of speculation. Still, I'm glad he decided to warn me.

"Thanks Dad. I'll keep on my toes."

"Love you, Greg," he say as he fades from view.

Funny, he rarely said that when he was alive.

The futures I can see slowly become relevant again. The thing about my clairvoyance is that it doesn't stop when I'm dealing with ghosts. If that were the case, I'd still know when they were around from the "blackout." Instead, timelines and futures with the ghosts in them just never show up.

That's when it hits me.

This malevolent presence hunting down psychics, it must be ghostly in nature. It's the only thing that really fits. And Dad probably knew that, but couldn't tell me. There seem to be a lot of very strange and arbitrary rules governing the behavior of the dead, one of which seems to be a restriction against telling any living being what exactly the rules are.

Right. Sorry about that. I seem to have inherited my father's legendary ability to ramble ever since I hit my thirties. So where were we? Right, my potentially looming death.

So far I'm betting it's another ghost, obviously a malevolent one. Though to be honest, I've never heard of a ghost outright killing anyone, which always led me to believe that they couldn't. The number of murders who would prefer not to be stopped by death is not a small number, let me tell you. But I've faced down the spirits of serial killers and saints alike, finding them equally unable to touch me.

This is turning out to be a great day so far.

I do know someone who might be able to help me solve this little mystery. After all, that's what she does. So I take the bus downtown and end up at the offices of one Miss Anne Marie Thompson, private investigator.

I raise my hand to knock on her door, but am interrupted by Anne Marie's voice.

"Come on in, Greg."

Did I mention she's a psychic, too? I know what you're thinking. But we're the only two in this town. It's only natural that we'd know each other, right?

I open the door and close it behind me. Anne Marie's office is small and sparse. Three sets of filing cabinets, a desk, and two chairs are the only furnishings she has. The air in here is think and smells heavily of nicotine. Sitting behind the desk is Anne Marie herself, smoking a cigarette.

At thirty-two, Anne Marie is quite a looker. She is, like me, average height. Her dad was a boxer, so she learned and used his training regimen, which keeps her in shape and ready to kick the ass of the punks she usually ends up chasing down. She keeps her dirty-blonde hair just short of shoulder length. You'd think two thirty-something, single psychics would have hooked up at some point, right? You'd be right, though that was a while ago. Back when we were still twenty-somethings.

"So, Greg," she says, blowing blue smoke into the ceiling fan. "What brings you to me today?"

Interaction between two psychics has an effect similar to, yet totally different from, interaction with ghosts. Similar in that our talents will be largely useless in our interactions with each other. Different in that I can see futures with Anne Marie in them, they're just fuzzy and constantly shifting. It's much less unsettling.

"I got a visit from my Dad today," I say, dropping into the seat across from her and placing my feet on the desk. "He had some rather downer news for me."

"Just so we're clear, this is your dead dad we're talking about, right?" She's got the same apathetic edge to her voice as always. But her eyes tell me she's interested despite the act.

"Yes, my dead dad."

"Okay, so what was this news?"

I take down my feet and lean in, resting my elbows on the desk. "He says there's been a slew of psychic killings lately. That none of them saw it coming. Heard anything about it?"

Anne Marie shakes her head. "I've been out of town the last couple of weeks. I read about a couple of deaths, but I didn't think it was anything connected. Any ideas who's responsible?"

"I was thinking a ghost, actually."

She frowns. "That'd fit the bill nicely, except I don't know of any way a ghost could kill someone. And the couple of deaths I did hear about sounded pretty gruesome."

I shrug. "I figure that's your job. You're the investigator. Do you think you can do a bit of digging? It'd be in your best interests, too."

Another long drag on the cigarette. "Yeah, I'll look into it. It's a pretty small crowd we're dealing with, so I should know something by evening. I'll call you around six."

With my hand on the doorknob I turn back to Anne Marie. "Hey, be careful, okay?"

She smiles at me. "You too, Greg."

And with that, I'm gone. While I'm in town I collect my unemployment check then head home to wait for Anne Marie's call.

The phone rings at 6:14. I pick it up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Greg? It's Anne Marie."

"Did you manage to dig up anything useful?"

"I've got a few leads, yeah. And I think I have a good idea of who our mysterious
psychic-killer is. Can you meet me at that old warehouse on the south side of town? Do you know which one I'm talking about?"

"The one that closed down in '93?"

"That's the one."

"Sure. When do you want me to be there?"

"Head on over now. I'll meet you there." Click.

And that's the end of that conversation. I pull on a coat and head out. The warehouse is close enough for me to walk. Besides, it's a pretty nice night and I could use the exercise.

When I get there, Anne Marie is outside, waiting for me. She tosses me a flashlight.

"You're going to need that. The power's been off in there for quite a long time."

I nod and she leads the way into the old warehouse.

"So Anne Marie, what do you expect to find here?" I look around the warehouse, moving my flashlight along the walls and ceiling, turning my body around slowly. When I turn back to face Anne Marie, I find myself staring down the business end of a revolver.

"I expected to find answers."

The future becomes staticky and unreadable. Each decision that Anne Marie or I considers alters the possible futures. The end result is like watching pay-per-view channels that you haven't paid for. The pictures are distorted and scrambled.

So I stop reading the future. The sudden clarity of Anne Marie's second sight disorients her just enough for me to duck behind a huge cable spool, left over from better days of this warehouse's operation. I start to comb the threads of time as soon as I'm hidden, effectively jamming both Anne Marie and I.

"Why are you doing this, Anne Marie?" I run from one spool to the next, staying low and fast. Anne Marie squeezes off two shots, the second one just barely missing my right foot..

"We're not meant to be, Greg!" The frustration and pain in her voice is completely different from the casual savoir-faire that she usually projects.

"What do you mean?" Another mad dash for a piece of broken and rusted industrial machinery. Another two shots, this time both of them going wild.

"This so-called 'gift' has never helped anyone. It's brought both of us hardship and bad luck. The best we can manage to do is take advantage of other people with it. It's been the same for every other psychic I've talked to. We're a cancer on the world, Greg. I've decided to be the chemo."

She's raving. I don't know what got her to this point, but there doesn't seem to be any bringing her back. She is right about one thing, though. We psychics have terrible luck. And two psychics in one place is a recipe for tragic improbabilities. I glance above Anne-Marie. Through the gloom and shadows I can make out the shape of an old iron beam hanging from a rusted chain suspended on a old, broken down crane right above her. And I know what's going to happen.

The future suddenly crystallizes for both of us. There's no static because there's only one path to be taken.

The chain snaps. The sound of the beam hitting the ground is unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Its magnitude only serves to accentuate and reinforce the finality entailed by its fall.

I get up and brush the dust off of coat. I make my way over to the beam, picking up my abandoned flashlight on the way. There's no sign of Anne Marie whatsoever. I shake my head and walk out into the pleasant air of the night. I always manage to have the wrong response to really serious events. This is no exception. For all my wanting to feel remorse, sadness, anything really, I can only manage one thought.

Looks like there's only one psychic in town now.

ENG 205 Short Story

So here's a short story I wrote for English 205. It's an alternate prologue for the book I'm working on. Whether I'll use this one or the one I wrote first or something totally different, only time will tell.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

Liar
by Andrew Blatt

My name is Allan and I’m a liar.

I remember the first time I told a lie. What it was is irrelevant, the important part is the feeling. It was a rush, sweeter and more profound than any sensation or drug I’ve experienced before or since. And like any drug, it’s never been quite as good as that first time. And yet I was still hooked.

Enough of that, now that it’s established that I’m a liar, you know the most important thing about me. And that’s that I’ll lie to you. Don’t worry, I’m convincing and I’ll try to be entertaining.

Anyway, her name was Emily and she was beautiful. She was in high school, I was in college. I majored in English. Not great for job prospects, but great for dating a certain kind of high school girl. Guys who are English majors are good with words. Most of my male peers were liars like me, though none quite of my caliber.

Now, let’s play a game of spot the lie:

It’s a full moon on a mild Indiana night in late May. Two moonlit silhouettes—one man-shaped, one girl-shaped—make their way through a sparsely wooded park. The trees here are thin enough to let in the moonbeams, but thick enough to hide the two of them from the prying eyes of Parks Department Security.

She stops him and looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

“I have something I need to say.” She chokes on her words, hesitates.

He knows what she wants to say, what she should say. She’s finally decided to take the advice of her friends and parents. To free herself from this older boy, whose intentions, they say, cannot be wholly pure.

And he knows how to stop her.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got something on my mind, too.” He smiles at her nervously in the silver light of the moon. His façade is perfect.

The relief she feels is immediately visible on her face. Maybe he’ll want to break it off first? She’s young, unused to such difficult emotional decisions. Breaking up is easier to think about than to do.

“I know it hasn’t been too long since we’ve been together.” Punctuate the comment with a pause, a deep breath. “But I can’t pretend any longer.” Another beat, let her anticipation build.

“I love you.”

And now their positions are reversed. She’s hooked, instantly. She’ll stand by him right up until he discards her. And when he does, she’ll be left feeling jaded, cynical, and used.

Did you find it?

Those of you who guessed “I love you” receive one point. Those of you who thought the whole story was a fabrication receive ten points. Those of you who realize that nothing I say is wholly fact or fiction, you win.

I’m trying to change, though. Not because I feel guilty, but because I don’t. I’ve hurt so many people. I’ve broken hearts and ruined friendships, and never felt any guilt or shame.
Like any drug, after a while, the high gets further from you. After a while you do it because you have to, not because you want to.

So I’m getting help. I’ve started therapy. That’s what all this is. I’m supposed to write down how my problem has affected and shaped my life. My doctor says this journal will be a map of my road to recovery. I think she’s full of shit, but I’m paying to see her, so it’d be pretty stupid of me to just ignore her suggestions.

She says I can lie in here as long as I tell the truth eventually, but that once something’s in here, I can’t change it. I guess we’ll see how it works out.

New Project

If you're tired of reading Andrew Blatt makes a poor attempt at writing like Neil Gaiman, perhaps you'd like my newest project, a collaboration with the Alchemist that we're referring to as "Mid-World Writings" among other things. This is our attempt at telling a story within the setting for Stephen King's Dark Tower series. What this means to you is now you can read good stuff by the Alchemist and you can start reading Andrew Blatt makes a poor attempt at writing like Neil Gaiman writing like Stephen King.

Hoorah!

-The Drewcifer

Villanelle on the Craft: A Personal Confession

Look! Another 205 poem! Enjoy!

Villanelle on the Craft: A Personal Confession

by Andrew Blatt

I wrote this poem using golden ink.
And though it shouldn’t matter much at all,
It makes it easier for me to think.

Sometimes it decides will I float or sink,
Whether words will flow or slow to a crawl.
I wrote this poem using golden ink.

It takes my reasoning mind to the brink.
My science and my art locked in a brawl.
I find that that is just the way I think.

It has to fit into some kind of link,
Like black for fact or auburn for the Fall.
I wrote this poem using golden ink.

With the proper pen and the proper ink,
I can write stories great and stories small.
A consequence of the way that I think.

Kaleidoscope worlds where chairs and lamps think,
Strange worlds where the fish rule over us all,
I wrote this poem using golden ink.
And that made it much easier to think.

ENG 205 Poem #3

I didn't post the second poem I wrote for class because, quite frankly, it sucked a lot. Here's poem number three. The assignment was to go somewhere or remember going somewhere and think about how we felt. Then to end with abstraction.

Yeah, I know. But what can one do?
-The Drewcifer

Poem:

Class is over and I start my
walk, my real day. I hop on a bus
to take me to Earhart, my place of
employment, but I get there
early.

I don’t clock in for my shift
yet. I’m not that kind of person.
But I do find upstairs the sort of
creative nexus
I’ve been looking for
for days.

I glance at the clock and see I have
forty minutes. That’s fine, that’s
enough.

I set the alarm and
get out my notebook and
get out pen and
start to write.

for a little while i’m trapped in a world
of my own creation where i can see
anything at all or
nothing if i choose
or rather if that’s what is chosen
after an eternity spent in faerie rings
and dragon fire there’s a

shrill beeping as my alarm alerts me
that it’s time to go to work.
I pack up my stuff and head down
to the locker room where my
uniform sits,
unthinking and mundane.
And I clock in and get to work.
But,

sometimes i can slip into
my worlds for just a moment
or two
and dreams of everything and nothing
pass before my eyes

Creative Writing

I'm in English 205: Intro to Creative Writing this semester. I figured I might as well post what I write for the class, since I'm going to have to do about a poem a week it looks like.
-The Drewcifer

Poem:

"Giraffe"

Giraffes are tall but
have small tails,
not tall tales.

When I was young
We learned the story
of a giant with
an ox and axe.

My roommate plays
Guitar, and well. His
weapon of choice: An ax,
white and electric.

Eclectic is how
this poem feels.
As I stretch my literary muscles
like the neck
of a
Giraffe

More News!

It's November 2. Yesterday I set up a blog and an account for National Novel Writing Month.

For the month of november, I'll be trying my damnedest to write 50,000 words of a book centered on the activities of Jacob Absolom, Stephen's father. The book is set when Jacob is a young man, several years before Stephen's birth. The proposed named of the book is Solomon.

A link to the blog I'll be posting chapters to can be found here.

Wish me luck!

News and updates

You may have already noticed the addition of my Purdue webspace to my sidebar. As anyone who reads this site knows, the Words of the Drewcifer updates very rarely and erratically. Furthermore, finding a fully developed story on here is something of a crapshoot.

The purdue website, More Words of the Drewcifer, is a new project of mine. It is my outlet for telling a complete and ongoing story. A new chapter of "Aldain" is posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. As of this post, 10 chapters have been posted. Furthermore, every Sunday I check in and tell you how work on the Solomon Saga is progressing. If you like my writing, I strongly urge you to check it out.

That said, this site is not being abandoned. It will not be posted to often, but it wasn't really in the first place. Just because I have a goal and a focused writing project doesn't mean that random writes won't come out of my head sometimes.

Happiness

My hands and notebook smell of ink. My mind is alive, writing even when I have no pen, no paper. Is this what it feels like? Hopefully I don't fly in such a way as to stall. But I'm not that high yet. A fall will cause a few bruises, a couple of scrapes. I'll get back in that flying machine if that happens.

My hands and notebook smell of ink.
-The Drewcifer

I'm Ready!

Saturday I was genuinely useful as one of the only veterans who decided to show up for dinner shift. It felt surprisingly awesome to clean a jillion things.

I kind of feel like just writing something beautiful, so I'm gonna try it.

-The Drewcifer

Writey:

By the time you read this, I'll no longer love you.

Falling in love is easy for me. Falling out is even easier.

To know nothing but uncertainty is my apparent destiny. Oscillation and indecision are my anchors, my grounds. And yet don't think I'm unhappy. I'm not. My life is good, though too much of my time is spent worrying about it ending. Cessation scares me as much as continuation. Eternity fills my eyes with tears, my stomach with bile, and my heart with a longing for my parents.

Sometimes you just want someone to hug you and say it's going to be okay, even though you know they're lying.

Sometimes I think the loneliness is what gets to me. When I've got someone there beside me, it's easier to cope with Infinity. Lady Ifni's a cruel bitch to those who try to ken her.

But I'm not unhappy. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm a genuinely happy person. I don't think that makes it to the page as much as it should. I don't cry after breakups because I'm bad at being sad.

By the time you're gone, I'll love you again. Chasing what I can't have. It's a common curse.

My words are my only chance. They're the only way I can keep living and my continual resistance to them, to learning to use them, to flailing away at something else, does a disservice to everything I am or ever will be. The scientist in me will have to get his fill from elective courses, Scientific American, Science, and Nature. I just don't see any other way.

I've come to a strange compulsion that if I go to Japan someday, everything will be okay. Funnily enough, from what I understand that's exactly the way a lot of Japanese kids and adolescents feel about America. Intellectually, I know it's not a realistic expectation, but god damn it, I'm gonna try.

My parents teach. My Aunt teaches. My Uncle teaches. My cousins teach. My Great-Aunt taught. My Grandfather taught. Teaching is in my blood.

"And all I taste is blood between my teeth."

-Andrew

----------------
Now playing: Jack's Mannequin - I'm Ready
via FoxyTunes

Sweet Death

This story is dedicated to Kyle A. DeJute.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

A sweet death. That was the most she could do for him at this point. A sick sense of nostalgia washed over Amelia as she shushed her dying lover. Gently, oh so gently. Finger pressed silently to her lips, she drew the razor blade across his throat.

She shuddered at a remembered feeling as his remaining life leaked from his neck. Guilt, mingled with arousal, mixed with more guilt caused by the arousal. Another shudder as she relived all the times she'd done this before. All the men and women she had truly loved during their last moments on this Earth.

Amelia stood and closed her eyes as she sucked on her blood-soaked fingers. She shook with silent pleasure as the taste filled her, savoring the fear, pain, and relief imparted to the blood by those precious final beats of the heart.

When she opened her eyes, she nearly gagged. Amelia was back asleep, only Alison Meyers was here to deal with the current situation

Before her lay a man, mutilated from the waist down. The skin and, when possible, muscle had been meticulously peeled back and used to pin him to the ground with steel stakes, spread-eagle. Great care had been taken to ensure no major blood vessels had been breached. While his torso was untouched, his arms had undergone a treatment similar to his legs. They too were filleted and staked down.

Trees to provide shade, care to avoid unnecessary blood loss. Whoever had done this clearly meant for this man to suffer for a long time. Until Amelia had intervened.

Alison wasn’t sure where Amelia came from, or when exactly she became aware that she, Alison, was two women. It had been a gradual thing. All she knew was that Amelia knew how to find people They were torturing and free them. Invariably, Amelia loved them, kissed them goodnight, and sent Alison back out to deal with the real world.

Alison got out her notebook and recorded the position, method of torture, location, and so on. She concluded her entry with Amelia’s method of dispatch. That was how the two of them worked. Amelia found them and freed them. Alison observed and looked for clues.

The scariest thing, reflected Alison as she made the long walk home in the fading afternoon sun, was the feeling she got that They were watching her. That They knew how she and Amelia were interfering with Their plans. And They didn’t like it either. How long would They let her continue? How long before They would strip her flesh and leave her to die?

Alison shook her head to clear the thought. She allowed mundanity to distract her. What would she have for dinner? Something vegetarian. No meat after what she’d just seen.

Alison walked into her apartment, flicked on the lights, and made her way into the kitchenette. After the first few times Amelia had come out, she had learned that forcing herself back into normalcy as soon as possible was key to staying sane.

Alison retrieved some carrots and celery from the fridge and laid them out flat on the cutting board. As she reached for the knife rack, she noticed one of the knives was missing from its place. Odd. She must’ve put it in the washer or something. No matter, she had what she needed for now.

She chopped up the carrots and celery, tossed them in a bowl with some grapes and lettuce, and called the whole thing a salad. Feeling no need to impress, her salad became a finger food as she sat on the sofa and turned on the news. Alison never knew how long she’d been Amelia. Memories only crossed over from the time Amelia found one of Their victims until she put Alison back in charge, never the actual search process.

She watched the news with half-interest, munching on her salad. Already the ghastly memory was starting to fade.

The newswoman’s face changed to a more serious expression for her next segment.

“In other news, police are still searching for Albert Craig, a local man who has been missing for three days. Craig, 27, was reported missing Tuesday. . .” And so on. The report continued, and a picture of the man was shown.

Alison was utterly unsurprised to find that the man in question was, in fact, the very same man Amelia had freed from Them only a few hours ago.

That meant she’d probably been gone for a little less than three days herself. Amelia was uncannily prompt about knowing when a victim had been taken.

She glanced at her page-a-day calendar to confirm.

Five days. She’d been Amelia for almost five days. Before he even went missing.

No. Please. No.

Dread seized Alison, like ice through her heart. She stood on unsteady legs and made her way to the counter, where she'd placed her purse when she came in.

No. Please.

Slowly, she reached into her purse, already knowing what she’d find.

There it was; the missing knife. A long, thin, sharp blade: A fillet knife. And it was caked with dried blood.

Oh God no.

Please.

No.

I Shall Draw Power From the Bones of the Dead

1.

From the Journal of Stephen Absalom

When I was younger I had a single prophetic moment. Touring a museum with my friends, marveling at the remains of the great beasts of the past, I spoke without thinking.

“One day, I will draw power from the bones of the dead.”

I was a little stunned, I'd meant to comment on the majesty and power of the beasts, but had instead said that. I shrugged it off, but never fully forgot it.

Growing up, Stephen was vaguely aware that his father, Jacob, was an exceptionally cruel and uncompromising man. Despite this, Jacob had always been a kind and good father to Stephen and so Stephen didn't mind too much. Jacob was a magician, specifically a demonologist: gaining power by binding demons and bending their souls and wills to his. Cruel people are the only ones who make it very far in that line of work.

Given his reputation and methods, Jacob made many enemies. Stephen watched assassin after assassin assault his father and be utterly destroyed. He, like many children, thought his father was the most powerful man in the world. Unlike many children, there were likely times when he was right. When Stephen was seventeen, however, his father proved to be vulnerable after all.

A group of assassins, both magical and mundane, assaulted Jacob in his home. A combination of luck and preparedness allowed them to succeed where others had failed.

Jacob gave Stephen instructions to run. And run fast. In the meantime he sacrificed himself to destroy most of the attackers.

Unfortunately, two of the assailants had followed Stephen out of the house and were therefore not destroyed by the explosive death-throes of the magician.

Stephen did as his father told him. He ran. He ran as fast as he could for as long as he could. Seeing the two men close behind him only further motivated him.

He ended up in a graveyard. Headstones, ancient and faded, littered the ground, blocking his path, causing him to stumble. Eventually, he fell fully flat.

The two men closed in on him. Both were of average height, though one was noticeably buffer than the other. The leaner man pulled out a switchblade, the blade emerging with a thwick as he advanced on Stephen. He smirked a little as he stared down at the boy.

“It's nothing personal, kid. You just had the wrong daddy.”

Staring death in the face Stephen remembered his words from many years ago. He reached out with his mind, feeling the bones below him.

Come to me, he thought. Lend me your strength for a while.

Tiny black tendrils emerged from the grave beneath Stephen, gently caressing his face and body. They crept up and snaked into his eyes turning them a pitch black color.

Meanwhile the thugs were not reacting well to this. They both took a step back as this transformation suddenly affected their supposedly helpless quarry.

“What's he doing Joe?” asked the bigger one, visibly nervous.

“I don't know!” the smaller man responded. “But I think I'm gonna kill him before he pulls off some trick he learned from daddy.”

The lean man, Joe, lunged. Stephen raised his arm, tendrils of blackness snaked outward, intertwining and forming a point. Joe impaled himself on this structure as tendrils issued from Stephen's other hand and plucked the knife from his assailant's hand and brought it to his own.

The spearlike growth retracted into the darkness now swirling around Stephen. The boy rose and stepped over to Joe and looked down at him. He raised his hand to point at the remaining attacker, who was just beginning to run away. Inky tendrils emerged sinuously from around Stephen's arm and ensnared the bulky man, snaking around his neck and slowly squeezing the life out of him.

Stephen spoke to the rapidly dying Joe. “It's nothing personal. You just tried to kill the wrong kid.” And he reached down and slit the assassin's throat with his own blade.

For Time Out of Mind

I wrote me a poem. This was written during my Chemistry lecture. I had listened to the first half of The Hush Sound's second album: Like Vines. I was not listening to them when I wrote this, but some of their style and imagery was an influence. Here goes nothing.

For Time Out of Mind

I wept in darkness for time out of mind
I knew no light, forgot my sight
The world was blank and frightening
Then I saw her there, a light, a flare
I knew illumination once more
I knew what I'd lost once more
Like a beacon was she
I approached fearfully
And I bathed in light eternal glorious
Wonderful, awful, Glorious and terrifying
My atrophied eyes begged for mercy
But I was enthralled and terrified
My world of darkness was there still
She knelt, hands folded and praying
Holy and good
Holy and good and utterly terrifying
The light she channeled showed my every sin
revealed and reflected, exposed
My revelation was complete
The darkness was mine, the darkness was me
The light I rejected
My eyes I destroyed
I fled
As I'd fled before, this time knowing
No saying I'd wandered, no claim of unintendedness
And yet
No matter how I ran, still shone she bright
The only light in darkness
And she sang a song
A sweet psalm
A melody of forgiveness
An aria of grace
My ears nearly bled at the sounding soft song
The whispers of madness and self-centered sobs
Were all they had known
For time out of mind
The price was so steep
Too deep
More than my means
The price was nothing
Freely given, never earned
The light reached out and kissed me
As it touched my skin, my sin started to burn
I screamed and I writhed
Emerged from the ash
My body and soul
Purged clean at last
I tremblingly stepped towards my beacon
My Goddess
She rose Right and Regal
Beneficent, beautiful
Again I wept, as long I had
For time out of mind.

I haven't written in a while

My family home here in Kokomo seems to have a detrimental effect on my ability to write. I felt like doing a little cast page for the Graphic Novel project I've been working on with Whitney. So, a brief and spoiler-free cast list follows. This may get a little repetitive since I'll be including some general terms as well as specifics. As I write this it seems to become more of an explanation of how the supernatural order of this world is organized. Which is good, I think.
-The Drewcifer

Warden Angel: Often shortened simply to "Warden." An angel charged with policing the actions of Outsiders on Earth. Technically both angels and demons are capable of holding the position of Warden.

Demon Hunter/Demon Slayer: A mortal agent of an angelic Warden. These individuals have lives steeped in violence and pain. Many of them are only good at causing death. As such, they find salvation by directing their killing towards a righteous purpose. Well versed in the Celestial Edicts and merciless when dealing with those who break them, Demon Hunters are rightly feared by unsavory Outsiders. Because of the energies their bodies are infused with, Demon Hunters are capable of living forever if not killed.

Outsiders: A collective term for any supernatural creature that walks the Earth, especially ones the the Wardens and Demon Slayers are charged with policing. This includes Demons, Chimeras, and others. The Fae are, to some extent, considered Outsiders. However, they lie outside the jurisdiction of both Heaven and Hell. Since Outsider is generally a term reserved for those bound by the Celestial Edicts, the Fae are often considered to be in a category all their own.

Celestial Edicts: The laws and regulations that govern creatures of both Heaven and Hell. Contrary to what most mortals will believe upon first learning the of their existence, the Edicts do not favor angels over demons, nor do demons disobey the Edicts. The Edicts are distinct from the Laws of Heaven. The Laws of Heaven include relevant portions of the Celestial Edicts, but have many rules and regulations not covered in the Edicts. It is for rebelling against these laws that angels are cast out of Heaven and become demons.

Chimera: A subclass of Outsider, specifically a supernatural creature of limited intelligence. Though smarter than normal mortal animals, these creatures cannot be called sentient. Feral Chimera which are discovered by Demon Slayers are generally executed on the spot, to prevent them from potentially harming a mortal. All Chimera are bestial, though not all are quadrupedal. More intelligent Outsiders will sometimes create or import them as pets. According to the Edicts, both the Chimera and its owner are responsible for any breeches of the Edicts the Chimera may commit.

Fae: The Faeries, Fairies, Fair Folk, and many other names. These creatures are as varied as they are mysterious. Not fully bound by the Celestial Edicts, yet not fully outside of them, the Fae add a chaotic and unpredictable aspect to anything they are involved with.

Meriel: Meriel is an angel. A servant of God, Adonai, the Name, or whatever euphemism is your favorite. She is one of several (but relatively few) Wardens: angels charged with policing the actions of Outsiders on Earth. She began delegating this duty near the beginning of the first century CE. Demon Slayers sponsored by Meriel take on names which are ordinal forms of latin numbers (Primus, Secundus, Tertius, etc). She is currently on her sixth hunter.

Sextus: Meriel's current Demon Slayer. His past is shrouded in mystery, even more so than your average Demon Slayer. He wears a half mask that conceals the right half of his face at all times. His sword is chained to his wrist, and there are various locks on his clothing. All-in-all more unusual than even his peers, who are a strange lot to begin with. The power he wields manifests itself as golden motes which coalesce into different shapes and structures as he desires.

Quintus: The previous hunter employed by Meriel. After a series of complicated events, he has resigned his mantle as a Demon Slayer, preferring to retire to a quiet life, though he still struggles with a certain darkness he picked up during his career as a slayer. Quintus's power manifest as "soulfire," blue flame which burns only that which Quintus desires it to. Though he has retired, Meriel still keeps a wary eye on Quintus. She regards him as something of a loose cannon.

Harlequenne: A Fae, sublcass Pixie. This mischievous trickster hangs out with Sextus. No one is sure why.

Anne-Marie Thompson: A Private Investigator and an "Interpreter"-class psychic. Anne-Marie has second sight that allows her to distinguish Outsiders from normal mortals. She helps Sextus gather information and identify Edict-breakers. She is also in love with Sextus.

I'm all kinds of ironic

I have a new writing playlist called "Iris Wynter." Naturally, the first thing I wrote with it playing had nothing to do with Iris. The beginning of this story was inspired by a picture from DeviantArt. Linky
-The Drewcifer
Playlist:


Vikingman 4:03 Rodrigo y Gabriela
PPA 4:14 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Love Addict 2:52 Family Force 5
Replace Me 3:34 Family Force 5
Silas Denver [Dead or Alive Bounties Mix] 1:52 Andrew Blatt
Tank! 3:29 Seatbelts
Mountain of God 3:54 Third Day
Satori 5:04 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Masked Madman 4:43 Andrew Blatt
Furious 4:03 Z-Trip
Lose Urself 3:10 Family Force 5
Bright Lights 3:54 Matchbox Twenty
Kremlin Dusk 5:13 Utada Hikaru
About Face 2:51 Z-Trip
Take Two Copies 4:24 Z-Trip
Fun With Strums 2:03 Andrew Blatt
Broken (Featuring Amy Lee) 4:18 Seether & Amy Lee
Softer 1:24 Andrew Blatt
Orion 7:44 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Necromancer 2:15 Andrew Blatt
Daisy 4:18 Switchfoot
Diablo Rojo 4:56 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Session 2:24 Linkin Park
Kyur4 Th Ich (Chairman Hahn) 2:32 Linkin Park
3rd Gear 3:52 Z-Trip
Stop the Future 2:06 Epoxies
Follow the Leader 2:18 Andrew Blatt
Silas Denver [Reno Gun Control Mix] 1:16 Andrew Blatt
Stairway to Heaven 4:44 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Juan Loco 3:27 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Cure for the Itch 2:37 Linkin Park
Tamacun 3:25 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Ixtapa 5:14 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Suddenly 3:35 Superchick
Instabilities 0:21 Andrew Blatt

Story:

Sweat ran down my face and into my eyes as a I ran, footfalls clattering loudly on the wooden planks of the bridge. My breathing was growing ragged, phlegm was starting to block my airways. My legs were alternating between feeling like fire and just plain not feeling. I'd never been this exhausted in my life. But if I stopped, I'd die.

It's funny how well that can motivate you.

I didn't have time to even glance over my shoulder, but I didn't need to. The sound of footsteps behind me was still audible over my own, and I could tell that if something didn't change, and soon, they'd catch up to me.

My eyes darted around, but my head stayed immobile. The river wasn't very far below me, but I was too tired to swim now. It might have been feasible before I'd gone with running, but I was pretty much landbound now. I'd rolled the dice on that one. Time would tell if it came up eleven or snake eyes. Right now it was feeling like the latter.

Still, I could feel something tugging at me, urging me to just follow the bridge. That little voice in my head had saved me many times before this so I wasn't about to start ignoring it.

The bridge curved up ahead, disapearing into trees. I ignored the fact that I couldn't see, breathe, or even run properly and pushed harder. Something told me that if could make it around that bend, I'd be okay.

My company wasn't slowing down either. That fear of death was working wonders for my stamina, but I still wondered what was driving my pursuer.

I rounded the curve and found the energy for one last sprint. I emerged from trees to find myself staring at a graveyard.

Bingo.

I stepped onto a grave and turned. Apparently my little boost had actually allowed me to actually pull a bit further ahead. My attacker came into view, pushing through the trees. He was obviously surprised that I had chosen to stop; so much so that he actually stopped for a split second. Then, of course, he smirked. They always smirk.

"So, you finally decided to stop running. That will make things easier." As he gloated, I got a good look at the man who had been chasing me. He was unlike what I was used to dealing with. Normally I get threatened and chased by the suit-and-shades type. Nameless agents of a nameless agency, that sort of shit. This guy was something new. White polo shirt and nice slacks. Looked like he should be golfing, not chasing innocent young men.

Okay, so maybe I'm not as innocent as I like to pretend, but certainly killing me is a bit much.

The man continued with his little speech. "You've caused my master quite a bit of headache, Stephen Absolom. I don't know what it is you do, or how you do it, but I do know that Lambda wants you dead. And what Lambda wants, he gets."

So far, not so scary. The guy looked like he'd have a hard time roughing up a seventh grader. That's when the air around him got all fucked up. Darklike, shades of red and black surrounded his body. Suddenly there it wasn't a dude in a polo shirt standing in front of me. No, it was what looked like a genuine, grade-A demon standing there.

He had the whole look down. Burning red eyes, body looking like it was made of shadow. Huge wings of fire and darkness sprouting from his back, the whole shebang.

But he had made two fatal mistakes. The first was that he let me catch my breath. My lack of concern must have been pretty apparent on my face, because he actually commented on it.

"What are you smirking about? You've killed six of our people already. I'm not just going to kill you. I'm going to make you suffer. You have nothing to smile about."

Right about then I allowed myself a full-fledged smirk. I felt I deserved it. He was right. I'd killed every man that Lambda had sent after me so far. And that was why none of them knew how I'd killed them.

The second mistake he had made was letting me catch my breath in a graveyard.

Now it was my turn to make the weird shit happen. Tendrils of black energy flowed from the grave to my fingers. Dark lines traced themselves in my eyes until my eyes were completely black. Thick fog began to creep into the area and dark clouds blotted out the sun. The only light came from the fires of my oppoent's wings and aura.

I spoke to this poor, doomed man. "Lambda still doesn't know the source of my power, and you're not going to tell him. But you're going to find out right before you die."

Translucent black tentacles sprouted from the ground beneath him, snaking their way up his body and binding his wings and limbs. The look of terror on his face, even in that demonic form, was unmistakable.

I spoke to him for the last time. "I draw power from the bones of the dead." I allowed the full meaning and implication of my words to sink in before I squeezed the life out of him. Afterwards, when he reverted back to a normal human shape, I beat him over the head a few times and buried him. Just to be sure.

Yeah. I'm not as innocent as I like to pretend.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Is dead. But, as we know from Slaughterhouse-Five, he continues to be alive throughout time. However, from our limited and human perception of 4th dimensional movement, his personal time line has ended.

Kurt Vonnegut, Junior is a man I respect as an author, as an Indiana native, and as a person. His works, of which I have not read nearly enough, have astounded and troubled me, in the best way possible. I'm not even sure what to write concerning this. I suppose I can just sum it up in his words.

So it goes.

My talent. . .

. . .is nothing to write home about. I've discovered the ability to imply sex very effectively without overtly mentioning it. Check it!

Cynthia sighed. “That was incredible.”

Arthur smiled to himself. “I’m not sure I believe you. I mean, isn’t that what a woman’s supposed to say?”

Cynthia stuck out her tongue at him and giggled. “Don’t let those other girls who lie ruin my reputation.” She put on her best innocent face. “I’m just an honest soul, you know that.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to laugh. “Well I can’t really argue with that.” He paused for a moment, then “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah, I am too.”

The newlyweds fell asleep, exhausted, holding each other closely.

Seriously?

I wrote something and I'm going to post it.

What's that, jaded and cynical ex-reader? You don't believe me?

Well I did. It's not very long though.

What do you mean you bet it's not very good either? Well, yeah, I guess you're right.

Whatever. Writing:

Not like this, thought Timothy. Please don’t let it end like this.

His breathing was labored and it was becoming painful to draw breath, but he kept running. What choice did he have? To stop was to die. And he was beginning to suspect that running was just delaying the inevitable.

He heard footsteps behind him, getting louder, closer, despite his desperate attempts to escape.

Finally, his body could not continue. Adrenaline can only carry one so far. He turned, somewhat vindicated in his own mind by the fact that he would at least face his death as it came.

John Brighton had been on the force for several years now, but crime scenes like this still made him feel a little queasy. Maybe that was a good thing. He figured if the victims he encountered ever went from being people to just corpses, it was time for him to find another line of work.

Machine of Death

I saw that Ryan North and Company were doing something with this in a newspost on Dinosaur Comics some time ago, but I just today looked at it.

What is it, you ask, faithful and often disappointed reader? It is the Death Machine. And this site describes the rules and soforth for submitting stories based on the premise of said machine.

Problem is, I just got around to reading the site today. Early submission deadline is March 31st. That's not long from here. But I'm going to try.

Belladonna (Revised)

I'm posting this new edited version of "Belladonna." I think most of the changes have been for the better. Mad props to Jennybean, who helped critique the original draft.

Story:

Avalon was not going to be happy about this.

Lotus swore again under his breath. This was not his lucky day. He was pinned down by mortals and the bastards were pretty ingenious. They all had iron spikes with them for hand-to-hand combat and horseshoes to hurt him from a distance. Judging from his interaction with them so far, Lotus would be willing to bet they won competitions.

First the Changeling fiasco, now mortals who knew fairies all too well. He was beginning to think that something more proactive than fate was involved in his current trouble. For starters, he wasn't sure how they had detected him in the first place. He looked like any other man, though he was a tad on the short side. Blond hair was common enough for people in this part of the world. A tattoo of a bright pink Indian Lotus on the back of his left hand was unusual, but certainly no giveaway. The pale pink eyes were problematic, but mirrored sunglasses took care of that.

Just when Lotus thought things could not get any worse, they did. As he peeked from behind the corner to try and get a look at their positions, an iron nail whizzed past his head.

Fuck.

Well apparently they didn't need him alive. This was somewhat comforting since it meant that he wouldn't need to feel so bad about what he was going to do next.

Lotus closed his eyes and reached into his coat. He let his fingers play along the entirety of his guns for a moment, forming a tactile mental image before he committed, firmly clutching the handgrips of the two handguns.

Iron may be a fairy's enemy, but Lotus was quite aware that blued steel could be a fairy's best friend. His pistols had gotten him out of worse scrapes than this. Well, maybe not. He wasn't sure exactly where this fell on the badness magnitude scale. But he was reasonably sure he had gotten out of something at least as bad, if not worse than, this current scrape, with the aid of said pistols.

He drew the guns and shut his eyes for a moment, focusing all the magic he could muster. The humans didn't know it, but the spell would make it so that time was going a bit faster for him than it was for them. Or maybe it would slow down time on their end. The specifics were unimportant; the end result was the same.

He came from around the corner, popping a round into the head of each mortal before the first horseshoe was even close to touching him. Which was fortunate, as he had just enough time to duck before the spell ran out and several nails and horseshoes flew through the space where his torso had been moments earlier.

Lotus stood up and examined each human. Dead, for sure. He shook his head. It was a pity. He could remember a time when the Fair Folk were afforded the respect they deserved. Now, it seemed, they had to fight for it.

He put the guns away and walked out of the building and into the twilight. He had a baby to find.

---

Lotus knew what he needed to do to get the child back. He was, however, a tad reluctant to do it. Tracking magic was not especially difficult but it was a rare gift. Not many fairies had the focus or the attention span required to learn it.

Lotus knew one of those rare fey who could track, and do it well. And the fairy in question would help him; he owed Lotus a favor. Among the Gentry, favors were as valid a currency as gold. He'd been hoping to save this favor for something a bit more dire, but he really didn't have any other options.

Lotus flipped open his cell phone and dialed. After three rings, the voice of an elderly-sounding man piped through it.

"Hello?" inquired the voice on the other end.

"Cú," said Lotus. "Good to hear from you, old friend."

The troll's voice brightened at the sound of his elfish friend's voice.

"Kamal? What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long." Lotus had always wondered why Cú insisted on using his Hindi name, but the quirk was one he had come to appreciate.

"Listen, Cú, I need your help, and quickly. Can you meet me at the usual place within the hour?"

The troll coughed twice before answering. "Of course, Kamal. I'd be glad to." And the line was dead.

Lotus put the phone away and started walking. The "usual place" was an all-night diner a few blocks from his current location. He and Cú had met there several times over the years.

Cú was already there when Lotus arrived. This was surprising since Lotus was almost certain that he, Lotus, had been substantially closer to the restaurant when he called. Lotus had a brief conversation with the hostess on duty, which mostly consisted of pointing to a waving Cú, before walking over and having a seat across the table from his friend.

The troll produced a pack of cigarettes and proffered it to Lotus.

"No thanks, Cú. Human poisons aren't my scene."

Cú shrugged as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Suit yourself," he said, exhaling smoke. "I trust you're going to be calling in that favor I owe you. Otherwise you would have chatted a bit more over the phone, I think."

Lotus was beginning to open his mouth to speak when Cú held up a hand for silence. "Do not answer yet, our waitress approaches."

Sure enough, the waitress walked over and greeted them, bestowing a glass of water and napkinful of silverware on each of them as she did. Each fairy ordered a coffee and they waited for her to walk away before they resumed speaking.

"Yes I need to call in my favor," said Lotus, a touch of regret in his voice. "And yes, it's urgent. I pulled a Changeling switch, but I've managed to lose the human infant now. If I don't get him back before sunup, I'm in trouble."

Cú nodded, and took another drag on the cigarette before speaking. "So you need me to track the child, right? Find out where whoever snatched your baby has taken it?"

"Yeah, something like that," Lotus confirmed. "I have the kid's blanket. I knew you needed a personal item of his." Lotus was reaching into his jacket when Cú raised his index finger in a near-universal "wait" gesture. Once again, the waitress was upon them. She set down their coffees, asked if she could get them anything else, was assured that she could not, and went on her way.

Lotus took the blanket from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Cú.

Cú sniffed the blanket, looked at it from all angles, ran a finger over it. Finally, he apparently decided that it passed inspection.

"I can use this," he said. "Good work. Now, Kamal, you'll be accompanying me while we track. This is your fight. I'll get you there, but you take over after that. Am I understood?"

Lotus nodded. "Sure thing, Cú. And I know being back by sunup is an even bigger issue for you than me, so I'll try not to slow you down too much."

The troll took another drag from the cigarette and grinned at the elf. "I expect that's true."

---

Lotus was cursing quietly but profusely. He was doing his absolute best to keep up with Cú, but it was getting difficult. Trudging through a wet forest at night, following nothing that even resembled a path, was not Lotus's idea of the perfect evening. He couldn't even do the minor magic it would take to traverse effortlessly and without trace through the forest. The time-manipulation had really taken it out of him. There was a reason that time flowed at a pretty consistent rate. The riverbed of time had definitely become a canyon by now and diverting its course, even for a few moments, was exceptionally difficult.

Lotus was shaken out of his reflection by Cú suddenly stopping.

"Tread carefully, Kamal," he breathed. "We're getting very close to your child. In fact, you should probably be able to see it if you look around. Your eyes are better than mine."

Lotus had taken off his sunglasses once they had started into the woods. Away from humans, there wasn't much point in them. Pale pink eyes scanned the wood ahead of him, the moonlight providing all the illumination he needed to see. He spotted something near the base of a large tree around 20 meters away. Undergrowth obscured the thing, but he pointed at it. Cú looked and focused his tracking magics for a moment, then nodded. Together, they began making their way towards the child.

There was a very small clear area when they got close to the tree. Sure enough, there was a basket with a sleeping human baby in it at the base.

Something is wrong here, thought Lotus. From across centuries, the voice of his sensei rang in the back of his mind. "Remember Lotus, you musn't mistake an object's reflection for the object itself."

Lotus was, to the best of his knowledge, the first and only Zen Buddhist fairy. He had traveled East many years ago and his sensei's teachings always seemed to help him when he least expected it.

Lotus held up a hand, stopping Cú from approaching the child further.

"That," he said. "Is not the child. It's a glamour."

There was laughter from the higher branches of the tree. Lotus looked up and saw exactly what he hoped he wouldn't. Standing on a branch, holding the basket with the real child, was another fairy. She was an elf like Lotus and he knew her well.

"Nightshade," he said, shaking his head. "I should have known." Lotus couldn't prevent a rueful smile from creeping onto his face.

Cú looked from Lotus back to Nightshade, surprise apparent on his face.

"This is Belladonna?" he asked in mild awe. "She is as beautiful as her name would imply."

"And as deadly," agreed Lotus. His voice suddenly took on a cold and impersonal aspect as he spoke again to Cú. "Cú, I thank you for your assistance. You have fulfilled your debt to me and your presence is no longer required."

Cú was transfixed. He had never seen the Unseelie Court's most deadly assassin and Lotus seemed to have prior dealings with her. This was about to get interesting; he had no intention of leaving.

"Actually, Kamal--"

"I said you can go now, Cú."

Something in Lotus's voice made Cú reluctant to press the issue. So he shrugged and cast a spell, fading from sight into the Otherworld.

Lotus looked up at Nightshade. "Now that we're alone, do you want to come down and discuss this like two mature fairies?"

Nightshade laughed maliciously. "If you'd like to pretend that's what we are then I'll humor you, Lotus."
Nightshade leapt from branch and landed effortlessly. Now that she was on the same level as he, Lotus could get his first good look at her in three years.

She hadn't changed much. She still had her long, shiny black hair; large eyes that were a deep purple shade most people mistook for black or dark brown. She was about Lotus's height, maybe a tad shorter. In short, she was still everything that Lotus dreamed about: Beautiful, sexy, and extremely deadly.

"Nightshade," he said. "I know why you're doing this. Can we perhaps come to an agreement?"

Nightshade sniffed contemptuously at Lotus. "Your precious baby boy will please my lords to no end. I see no reason for me to give him back to you."

Lotus was pretty sure he had a solution to this, but again, he was very reluctant to go through with it. The problem was largely in the origin of Nightshade's enmity. Three years ago, Lotus had come out on top in a conflict between the two of them. Long story short, he won her servitude. She was bound to his service for a year and a day. Nightshade was a very proud fairy, and she hated every single second of her subservience. In her opinion, no one was superior to her, and being forced to serve him was a blow from which her pride still had not fully recovered.

The elfs stared each other down for what seemed an eternity.

Lotus sighed. There was only one way to set this right. To win back Nightshade's favor. (And oh how very sweet her favor was, he thought, reflecting on their pre-conflict days.)

"Listen, Nightshade," he said. "Just let me take the babe back to Avalon. If you do, beginning tomorrow at sundown, I will be bound to your service."

Nightshade grinned wickedly; it made Lotus shudder, for a variety of reasons. "And how long shall this service last?"

Lotus sighed again. "The traditional span. A year and a day shall I be bound to your whim."

Nightshade was satisfied. "I have your word that if I let you take this babe back tonight, you will be mine starting tomorrow at sundown. For a year and a day?"

Lotus nodded. "To those terms, I pledge my word."

Nightshade's grin grew wider still. She handed him the babe. And then she did something she had not done in almost four years. She kissed Lotus, deeply and passionately. Then she winked at him and disappeared.

After recovering from that shock, Lotus looked down at the baby and shook his head. "You have no idea what I've gone through because of you tonight, little one."

The babe slept on, content and oblivious. Lotus had a feeling it would be a long year.