Emily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2019-12-22 03:37 pm
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2019-12-22 03:37 pm
Entry tags:
tumblr prompts { 2020 } prompt-a-palooza
Basically, I've been saving a bunch of writing prompts and when I went to clean out my likes and I've decided to write something for each of them at some point in 2020. Probably after I do the next draft of Paladin? Don't know yet!
Anyway, prompts will be linked with the fics, feel free to track if you're interested, IDK who is even following my journal anymore but enjoy.
#001 ~ going corporate ~ original ~ 2,345
Valencia Simon's truest problem in life is that she never knows when to say no to a challenge.
If you ask, she would likely say something along the lines of “hiring the wrong help” or “being too smart for her own good” but neither of those things is entirely accurate. She could have evaded this whole situation if she had said one word.
“No.”
You see, five years earlier, Valencia attended a private function for first-tier alchemists held by the Willowrock Council of Alchemists, a governing body that Valencia does her best to avoid, except for when they have an open bar and free food. The first hour or so had featured long pitches about why these alchemists should hitch their wagon to the Council, the power and influence it could provide, and Valencia could honestly care less. She was a woman who valued her independence, and while she was an alchemist of consummate skill, she wasn’t looking to change the world with it.
Going corporate, so to speak, would require constant innovation and invention, and Valencia doesn’t want to put that kind of cap on her inspiration. Besides, she isn’t exactly known for dangerous concoctions. So in the second half of the evening, she avoided the recruiters coming around to press the flesh in a dark corner table with a flight of whiskeys and Doctor Abernathy Rhodes, having an intense debate about the true nature of power.
“No, no, no. That’s not how power works.” Valencia waves her hand as she reaches for another one of the tasting glasses, swirling the amber-colored liquid inside. Already two drinks in when the flight arrived, she’s reached the point where she’s flirting more than she’s trying to argue. Abernathy, the handsome devil that he is, seems more than willing to let her. “People assume that the reason alchemists aren’t going scorched earth on everything around them is that true power doesn’t come without the combination of rare and powerful ingredients, but that isn’t the case.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Abernathy raises an eyebrow. “It seems to me like we’d be much more likely to literally implode through the power of our arrogance if the materials were much more easily available.”
“See, it’s the arrogance that’s the problem. Alchemists assume it too. But in reality, it’s the little things that give you power.” She takes a sip of the whiskey with a contented hum, before raising an eyebrow at him. “It’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean, so to speak.”
Abernathy laughs as he reaches for his glass. He’s younger than her, by a decade at least, but it’s never said that Valencia doesn’t have an ego worth stroking. She wouldn’t be an alchemist of her caliber if she didn’t.
“Are you serious, or are you just flirting with me right now?”
Valencia raises an eyebrow. “Can’t I do both?”
“I never said I didn’t welcome it,” he teases, but there’s still a seriousness to his demeanor, a sign that the wheels in his head are spinning. It’s honestly one of the things she likes the most about him – that sharp mind. “But have you done it?”
“Brewed it? No.”
“But you could?”
She shrugs. “Alchemy is time, effort, and ingredients. Given enough of the above, anyone could do anything.”
“Would you be willing to try?”
Valencia raises an eyebrow at him, putting the glass down and taking him in more seriously, trying to consider the weight of his words. “Are you trying to lead me to my own implosion, Abe?”
He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Of course not. Just trying to see how willing you are to put your money where your mouth is.”
Maybe it’s the whiskey. Perhaps it’s the handsome attention. Or maybe it’s merely the fact that once a question is posed, Valencia has never been good at turning away from it until she had an answer. The sensible side of her knows she could say no. She should shake her head and walk away and never know what sort of power lies in the simplest of items. But Valencia Simon isn’t the kind of woman who’s good at walking away from a challenging proposition.
“Yeah. I could make it work.”
Five years later, Valencia is in the middle of her lunch when something explodes in the garage.
It’s not a small explosion, a quiet little boom that is sure to be missed by the neighbors and anyone who might happen to be walking by. It’s a big boom, the kind of boom that rocks the walls of the house with a worrisome force. She hears the sound of picture frames dropping to the ground, as well as a vase smashing in the dining room, and she can’t help but wince.
“Everything okay in there, Buddy?”
There’s no response. Valencia sighs, before lowering her sandwich back to the plate and weaving through the kitchen and laundry room, down into the garage. As she hits the bottom of the stairs, the door only opens an inch before something heavy presses back against it, slamming it closed again.
“Don’t come in.”
“Buddy? What happened?”
“Can’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Mom be mad.”
Valencia takes a deep breath before trying to calm down. Her beloved lab assistant Buddy, a construct she crafted from stone and clay to help lift heavy things and protect her work, is dumb as the box of rocks used to craft him. But at the end of the day, if he’s the one standing between her and answers, she knows she’s going to have to play the game.
“I won’t be mad.”
“Mom promise.”
“I promise I will not be mad. Now, will you please tell me what’s going on?”
The door slowly inches open, and Buddy’s disjointly angled face appears in the space. “I gave Luna wrong milk.”
“Wrong … milk?”
The door opens the rest of the way, and Buddy steps aside so Valencia can see the ruined remains of what once was her laboratory. Her cauldrons and lab tables and all flipped, leading to unregulated alchemical mixtures pouring all over the floor. Her fridge where she stored old incomplete concoctions as well as treats for her golden-eyed Chartreux, Luna has fallen into its side, contents open and falling onto the floor. Some of them are standard bottles of milk, but the one that’s currently sitting in Buddy’s hand is not milk. That’s a potion that should have been nowhere near anyone, let alone a creature of the feline persuasion.
Note: When you accept ill-advised, whiskey-soaked challenges from a handsome man at a fancy party, don’t store the results somewhere where your dimwitted lab assistant can get to it.
She’s been working on the potion Abernathy tasked her with on and off for the past five years. Occasionally, she’ll rework the recipe and make a new batch, storing the old ones in her fridge for later, but it’s mostly been a backburner project. Something Valencia works on when her brain is idling, and she doesn’t have more important projects to consider. She’s rewritten the recipe over twenty times in the process, each showing a little more promise than the last, but she still hasn’t struck gold.
Her eyes quickly scan the outskirts of the room, and for the most part, it doesn’t seem like her ceiling is covered in cat innards. Which means Luna … survived somehow? Valencia’s eyes move to her folding garage door, and the giant hole blasted in it.
“Buddy? Where’s Luna?”
Buddy says nothing, only raises his arm and points in the direction of the empty hole.
“Hoo boy.”
She rests her hands on her hips for a moment before assessing the situation around her. While finding Luna is a priority – cats should never be left too long to their own devices outdoors, especially ones that have been supercharged by alchemical arrogance. Still, the more pressing concern is the mixing potions that are currently covering the floor. Without the proper protective gear, she knows she shouldn’t move through it, but her suit is now on the other side of the garage floor.
“Alright, let’s get this cleaned up. Can you go get me my hazard suit?”
Buddy nods before lumbering off across the concrete floor, feet dragging through the swirling, colorful liquids. Valencia sighs as she leans against the door, already strategizing her best options for getting this cleaned up quickly when her phone buzzes in her pocket. She fishes it out to see a text from Abernathy.
Turn on the news.
She frowns, before making her way up the stairs and into the living room. Picking the remote up off the coffee table, she turns on the TV and flips to the latest news channel.
“Citizens of Gattling City were shocked today when a massive feline creature began charging through the streets of the city …”
And there, in full color, was Luna. Only Luna was now the size of a bus, with sabertooth-esque teeth and sharp claws to match. She’s currently batting around a police car that happened to get in her way like she would play with one of her catnip toys, clearly not seeing how this was any different than her typical day-to-day.
Her phone buzzes again. Doesn’t that look like your cat?
“Balls.”
Upsides: The potion has a time limit. Valencia was at least smart enough not to make an all-powerful potion that will be something permanent. It lasts an hour at max. Based on the timing of the explosion, she’s willing to guess that she has roughly forty-five minutes to follow the path of destruction left in Luna’s wake to find her before she turns back to normal and becomes a vulnerable cat again. She also has to clean up the garage.
Double balls.
She weighs her options for two minutes before going back to her text messages and shooting one off to Abernathy.
I need a favor.
Valencia hopes that she’s not going to regret this later.
“Buddy! We’re going on a trip.”
It takes them fifteen minutes to make it from her house to the center of town, where Luna has settled on top of a small two-story building that she has deemed Her Spot. She seems unbothered by everything that’s happening, even the occasional bullets that deflect off her newer, tougher hide. Good to know that the dogwood was working.
She climbs out of her car and starts to make her way closer, but before she can get too far, an officer steps in to block her path.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to stay back.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Valencia tries to duck under his arm, and he moves to block her path again.
“Ma’am—”
“You don’t understand. That’s my cat.”
The officer blinks, stunned. “I’m sorry. That’s your what?”
“My cat.” She ducks under his arm while he’s processing that information, and turning to head past the police line and into the middle of the street. She stops a reasonable distance from the building and cups her mouth with her hands as she shouts. “Luna! You know you shouldn’t be up there! Get down now.”
Luna’s head lolls to the side, towards the sound of her owner’s voice, and her mouth opens. Police flinch around them, almost as though they’re expecting some terrible attack when all that happens is an overly dramatic yawn.
“Luna.” And out comes the “Mom” voice. She has no children; she has to make use of it somehow. “Down. Now.”
The cat slowly raises onto her feet, and the building creaks momentarily under the weight. Then, Luna stretches one foot down, briefly tapping against the side of the building as though to test the distance before jumping and landing hard in the middle of the street. Valencia stumbles backward, arms windmilling as she regains her balance, only to stumbling again as Luna shoves her head against her side as an aggressive sign of affection.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Valencia sighs as she brushes a hand against the top of her head. “I love you too.”
“Ma’am?” One of the officers asks her. “All due respect, but what the hell is going on?”
“Long story, you’re all probably going to forget later,” Valencia sighs as she pets her massive cat. “But don’t worry. It’ll all be over in about—” She glances down at her watch to check the time. “—twenty minutes.”
The officer looks uncertain but faced with the creature that had been previously terrorizing the city sitting calmly, purring away, they decide that it’s probably best just to let Valencia do her thing.
“Smart boy,” Valencia murmurs, before settling in to wait out her power potion.
About an hour later, Buddy pulls their minivan to a stop in front of the house. Luna’s in the backseat, contentedly sleeping in her cat carrier, and Valencia’s garage looks like it never had a hole in it. She exhales slowly, relieved that Abernathy and his contacts at the Council came through.
“Alright, Buddy. Let’s have a calm rest of the day. What do you think?”
“Okay.”
Buddy goes climbing out of the car and collects Luna from the back seat, while Valencia makes her way up to the front door and unlocks it. The entryway is dark, and everything is quiet – just the way she wants to end her day.
As she steps forward and rounds the corner into the living room, there’s a click! A light in the room goes on, and she sees Abernathy, sitting comfortably in one of her comfortable chairs.
“Hi, Val.”
“Abe.” She rests her hands on her hips. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about this favor you owe me.” He gestures to the seat across from him with a sigh. “Or rather, that you owe the Council.”
She closes her eyes, head tipping back to the ceiling. “Balls.”
And she was having such a good day.
#002 ~ reading is fundamental ~ original ~ 1,220
Shelley Romano takes one last look in the mirror as she waits in the lobby of the Carver Institute. Technically what she’s looking in is not a mirror – it’s part of the reflective copper sign that announces where she is and what she’s doing there. Still, Shelley’s been waiting at least twenty minutes at this point, so much so that if she were to break rank and run to the bathroom to use an actual mirror, that would likely be the moment that Robert Carver would descend from on high to escort her to her new job as a lead archivist. She doesn’t want to make him wait.
The security guard at the front desk is judging her. She honestly couldn’t care less.
To say a position at the Carver Institute is her dream job would be an understatement. To say she’s been working for this, her entire career seems like not quite enough. As far as Shelley’s concerned, there’s only been one job, always one job, that promised to be the most fulfilling but also the most exclusive. And now that the job is hers, nothing is going to stop her from making the best first impression she can.
She checks her teeth, as well as her hair and makeup, smooths down her clothing to make sure it’s falling correctly. She takes a deep breath and stares down the portions of her reflection that she can see with a firm nod.
“You got this. You got this. You got this. You have absolutely got this.”
“I would say so,” the security guard quips from the front desk. “From what I’ve heard, you already have the job.”
Shelley turns and eyes him curiously, trying to see what his game was. He’s leaning back at his desk, one leg crossed over the other, as he flips through a magazine, without taking time to read the actual words. He’s young, maybe about her age, with dark hair that runs a little longer than your typical male cut. He’s dressed in the Carver Institute uniform and is far more casual than what she would expect from an establishment of this standard.
“You don’t think I can do it?” She raises an eyebrow.
He glances up at her before shaking his head. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You were implying it.” She takes a step closer, before leaning over the desk to raise an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that I have a Master's in Library studies, have curated some of the most varied and meaningful collections in this city, and speak five languages. I think I can handle a collection of Mr. Carver’s caliber.”
“Yeah. Sure, you are. But I’ve also worked here for three years,” the guard smirks up at her. “And I’ve outlasted four archivists with just as many qualifications as you, if not more. So forgive me if I have some doubts.”
There’s something about that statement that startles her. She’s not sure why anyone would give up a job like this so quickly. Is Robert Carver that terrible an employer? Is there some dark secret lurking in the archives? Does any of that matter when you’re questioning your dream job?
Shelley decides that the answer to that is no.
“Well, let me tell you –” She leans over and looks at the guard’s nametag. “—Reggie, I am not so easily dissuaded. I am here for any challenge that Mr. Carver might throw at me. And! I’m tougher than I look.”
Reggie’s eyebrows go up before he clears his throat. Her brow furrows in confusion before she senses a pair of eyes boring into the back of her shoulders.
“That is quite the relief, Ms. Romero. I would hate for my board to have hired someone without the fortitude to perform the job.”
She swallows hard, taking a moment to compose herself before she turns to face the man behind her. An older man, Robert Carver, dresses like her grandfather, in well-worn suits and a warm smile. For the most part, he seems to be amused by her antics, but she doesn’t know how long that will last.
“Mr. Carver,” she smiles before extending a hand to him. “It’s so nice to meet you finally. I would have hoped that we could have met during the interview process, but the board seemed against that.”
“I would have as well, but my board is often afraid I’d scare prospective hires away.”
His voice seems warm and teasing, but it’s hard to tell if he’s kidding or not. Shelley decides to take it as a joke and smiles as she nods. “As I was saying to my new friend, Reggie, I don’t scare that easy.”
“Good.” He waves his hand, gesturing for her to follow him. “Please, follow me.”
She scrambles to grab her things, before throwing the strap of her shoulder bag over her head as she shuffles forward to keep up with him. He waves a keycard in front of the elevator, before stepping on and holding the door open for her. She slips in quickly, sliding into the empty spot next to him with a smile.
“Ready to get started?” he asks as the door closes.
“I was born ready, sir.”
The first thing that strikes her as strange is that there is no fiction section.
Everything is sorted by author, by topic first, and then alphabetized by author, but no distinction made between non-fiction and fiction. It’s a strange and bizarre setup, but if that’s the way Robert wants to keep his collection, then that’s how she’ll keep it. The library is so massive that she can barely walk from one end to another day-to-day, but she’s working her way through, learning the locations of each of the collections. One day, she’s wandering towards some of the rarer finds, and the subject’s she’s not as well versed in, and a particular title catches her eye:
The Call of CthulYOU: How to Tap into Your Inner Eldritch Horror for Fun and Profit.
“What?”
She doesn’t recognize that she said anything out loud at first. Instead, she’s immediately reaching for the volume, tugging it off the shelf and going to read the back. It reads like a standard self-help text, one that she’d seen on any bookstore across the country. It’s the way that they were offering help that threw her, and she didn’t know how to process it.
She flips it onto its spine, going to crack it open and read further when a pale hand comes out of the shadows and snaps it closed again.
“You really don’t want to do that.”
Shelly looks up to meet the cold eyes of Lucy, Robert Carver’s assistant, and Shelley immediately concedes the book to her without a second thought. She takes a step back before looking down at the book again.
“What kind of library is this?”
Lucy smiles, soft and mysterious as always, before tucking the volume back into place. “Maybe we should get coffee. We have … a lot to discuss.”
Shelley doesn’t know what else to do but follow and hope that the answer somehow makes sense. For the first time since she’s started this job, she thinks she might be in over her head.
#003 ~ brand new moral code got made reluctant renegade ~ fam game ~ 1,456
The first time Nicholas Lammel dies, he’s barely twenty.
He spends most of his days crawling his way through school, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do with the rest of his life. If he had any say in the matter, he would continue to party, wasting the years away in a haze of alcohol and drugs until he finds himself in an unceremonious early grave. It’s expected of him. It’s what Isabelle expects of him, even though she won’t admit it. The sheltered, immensely religious girl he’s managed to seduce into his bed is a melancholy woman, one who doesn’t get her expectations high on the off chance that she might be disappointed.
He asks her why one time, and her reaction is simple.
“Those who aren’t overjoyed can’t despair.”
He doesn’t understand what that means until the day he dies. The blown tire sends them spiraling across a highway into the beaming headlights of an oncoming tractor-trailer, and he doesn’t remember much after that. Part of him thinks he heard Isabelle screaming. Part of him remembers her begging, pleading with a force he didn’t understand to fix this.
All he does remember; all he knows fully in his heart to be true is a woman with long dark hair, bound in chains. She leans towards his broken body, brushing a cold hand against his face, and murmurs, softly:
“She wishes me to save you.” The woman tips her head to the side. “Do you wish the same?”
“Yes.” Foolish as he is, he never truly wanted to die. He wants to live, to be in the world, and to live on his terms. However, he has a feeling that that particular want may be dwindling as he stays here, speaking to this beautifully dangerous woman. “I want to live.”
“My help doesn’t come without a cost,” she states, her dark hair curling softly around her face before fading into smoke. “Are you willing to pay it? Will you pledge me your life? Will you die for me?”
“Again?” The quip comes too quickly, and part of him flinches, knowing he might have just made a mistake. But instead, she laughs, deep and throaty.
“Sure. Again.”
He takes a deep breath before nodding, desperate for the breath of the life that lays on the other side. “Yes. I would die for you.”
“Good,” she grins, before leaning in and kissing him softly.
It was simultaneously both the highest high he’s ever ridden and the most soul-crushing low he’s ever hit. He knew without having to ask that his life isn’t his anymore. But, he’s more than willing to give it all away for her.
“Live,” she whispers as she pulls back.
“Who are you?” he asks, but she’s already gone.
The next moment, he’s gasping back to life, and he finds himself surrounded by candles and other ritual items. His eyes turn wildly to land on Isabelle, and she swallows hard before speaking.
“Shar says only the first one is free. Anything after that will be harder.”
Nicholas doesn’t even bother to ask what any of that means. He only leans in to kiss her, cupping her face in her hands and pulling her down onto the altar with him. He can feel the relief and joy in her kiss, the impatient way she tugs at his clothing to enjoy the solace of him being alive, for now.
When they finish, sprawled out on the floor with him tracing shapes against her bare skin, he learns all about her goddess, Shar. How she feeds on despair and desolation, and it all begins to make sense. If he was her joy, then losing him is the most painful anguish. He can’t help but feel the same for her, how if she were ever to leave his side, the pain would be immeasurable—what a delicious offering of pain to the goddess they now both served.
All they had to do was follow her call.
“So, what do we do now?” Isabelle asks, rolling over to face him. “Go back to school and pretend like this never happened?”
Nicholas nods, before leaning back and tucking one arm behind his head. “I think I know a fantastic way to serve her.”
The second time he dies, coming back isn’t relatively so easy.
He wakes up in the dark and cold, and his body feels like it can’t quite keep up. His limbs are stiff and aching, forcing his movements to be shambling and slow. He groans as he pushes up from the altar, one arm dragging behind him in its uselessness, and he looks over at Isabelle with a frown.
She’s his wife now, and she’s always promised to bring him back, no matter what. She doesn’t look as broken as she had the first time he returned from the dead, but he knows her well enough to see the sadness. She doesn’t want to lose him any more than he wants to lose her. She’s his one anchor in this world, and he won’t allow himself any other distractions or opportunities for despair.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, trying to move towards her but not feeling steady on his feet.
“Resurrections with her aren’t free,” she replies, moving closer and placing a hand against his shoulder gently. “If you want to be at your full capabilities, you need to take the life force from something else.”
It’s in that moment that his ears alert him to the sounds of a struggle. He turns to face Isabelle, and over her shoulder, he sees a tall, broad man, the knight of Selune he was squaring off with – the one who killed him. She tips her head to the side and grins in response.
“I thought it would be poetic justice to take it from the man who stole your life.”
He grins as he leans back against her, dragging one of his stiff, cold hands over hers. “I do like the way you think, my love.”
She smiles in return, before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Lean back, and I will make you a whole man again. I promise.”
As he leans back and closes his eyes, he can’t wait to feel the power of life coursing through his veins again. And once that’s done, he will destroy the whole set of them, offering them to his goddess, like a tray of sweets.
He’s lost track of the number of times he’s died and come back since.
He and Isabelle are not frequently together anymore, but he can still feel their bond. She has her work for the goddess to attend to, and he doesn’t want to keep her from it with their idle projects. He can’t help but be frustrated at the way Ric had fallen apart – though maybe it didn’t. Perhaps the return of his conscience had lasted far longer than he thought it had.
He’ll have to find out before he kills him.
Nicholas awakes on the cold, gray slab, the darkness coalescing around him. He turns and sees the flaming fire of Isabelle’s hair and holds up a hand to reach for hers. “You came.”
“I always will.” She leans in to press a kiss to his fingers. “Though I must admit I am ill-prepared. There have been many unforeseen complications.”
Nicholas rolls his eyes. “Ric and his merry little band?”
“I can’t say I know what you see in that boy,” Isabelle states, and Lammel waves a hand.
“It was a long term gamble that fell apart, thanks to Selune’s intervention. I very much intend to finish it, but first, I have to get me to feeling like myself again.”
Isabelle nods, before looking over the ritual room. “I could go obtain some sacrifices. Bring you back to your full strength.”
He shakes his head before pushing himself into a sitting position. “No, no. I know which ones I want. But we’ll have to act before they can get their guard up.”
Isabelle raises an eyebrow. “Going after those that stole you from me?”
Nicholas grins as he leans in to kiss her. “Why mess with tradition.”
She smirks, before kissing him back. “Alright. Then we better move quickly. I’ll be sure the team is ready.”
“Good.” He reaches for her hand before pulling her in close. “And my love, do remember – you are always the greatest joy I have.”
She smiles in return, squeezing his hand. “And you are mine.”
Nicholas slides off the slab and begins to shuffle after her, a determined look setting over his face. Time to pay back what was so graciously given.
#004 ~ leto & aiden ~ original ~ 1,510
“Hey, Leto? Dr. Sorenson is asking for you to deal with a VIP patient.”
Leto Torrence lifts her head from her pillow with a groan, before turning to face the nurse at the door. Miranda Wallace raises an eyebrow at her in return, before offering her a teasing smile.
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt your nap with that wonderful news?” Leto immediately flips her the bird, and Miranda laughs. “Better put that sauce away before you get to Sorenson. He’s not going to want to hear it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Leto sighs as she gets to her feet. She glances in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t look a mess, before turning to Miranda. She starts to pull her hair up into a high ponytail as she speaks. “Tell me about the patient.”
“Ever heard of Aiden Wellington?”
“The diamond heir?”
“That’s the one. Wellington came in with a head injury after a car accident, and since his family gives mega-money to the hospital, Sorenson wants the best on the case.” They round the corner past the nurse’s station, and Miranda reaches for the file to hand her. “Lucky you.”
“Is that sarcasm or a genuine sentiment? I can’t tell.” Leto raises an eyebrow at her curiously over the edge of her rounded glasses.
“Oh, totally genuine. You haven’t seen the patient yet.” But the conversation ends there as the back of their department supervisor, Doctor Sorenson, materializes in the hallway. Taking one last glance at the file and smoothing herself down, she steps closer with a bright smile.
“You wanted to see me, Dr. Sorenson?”
“Yes,” the older man offers a broad smile. “Dr. Torrence, I’d like you to meet Aiden Wellington. Mr. Wellington, she’ll be handling your case, but I’m a phone call away if you have any trouble.”
Leto turns to face the man on the gurney and offers him a wide smile as she takes him in. A nasty gash cuts across his forehead, though the bleeding seems to have slowed for now. He’s handsome that much is true, but Leto’s immunity to good looks and charm kicked in somewhere in high school. She places the file on one of the nearby tables before making her way closer.
“Hi, Mr. Wellington. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Aiden. Just a little fender bender,” he says, flashing her a charming smile that she assumes usually means he gets his way. “No need to fuss, I’m sure I’m fine.”
“Well, let’s just check you out to make sure.” She moves to the head of the bed so that she can get a better look at the gash on his head. That’s her most significant concern at the moment. “Can you tell me what happened in the crash?”
Aiden sighs. “I was sober if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Wellington.”
“Aiden.”
“I’m simply trying to assess if there might be anything more to this head injury.”
He sighs again, before nodding as he removes his hand to let her assess the wound. “I was on my way to a gala event, and I was waiting at a red light. The light turned green, we started to move forward, and I guess the person coming up behind me didn’t realize how slow we were moving because he slammed right into me. Head hit the steering wheel, but honestly, I’m fine.”
“I’m sure.” She looks over the wound. Not too deep, probably just bleeding because head wounds bleed, not because of any underlying problem. “Let’s get this stitched up. Are you feeling any chest pain or bruising from the seat belt.”
“A little, but nothing terrible.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
A salacious grin crosses his face. “Are you asking me to get topless, Dr. Torrence?”
She rolls her eyes slightly. “No, Mr. Wellington.”
“Aiden.”
“Mr. Wellington. Is it okay if I check your ribs?”
“By all means, Dr. Torrence.”
She leans forward, pressing lightly across his torso, to be safe. “Does any of this hurt?”
“A little sore.”
“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst?”
“Two?”
“Okay.” She pulls back before going to find a suture kit in one of the nearby cabinets. “I do want to send you up for a CT scan just to be on the safe side with that head injury, but I think if that comes back clear, you should be good to go.”
Aiden groans. “Do I really need a CT scan?”
“It’s out of an abundance of caution, it’s true, but head wounds are tricky. I would feel much more confident about releasing you if we had the scan.”
As she returns with the suture kit, Aiden reaches over and takes her arm gently. Her body tenses, and she looks up to meet his eyes as he speaks slowly and deliberately.
“I don’t think it’s needed. You really can send me home now.”
She blinks in surprise, her brow wrinkling in confusion as she pulls back. “Excuse me?”
He seems equally surprised by her response, and he leans back, brow furrowing in confusion. “Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I’m sure.” Her tone becomes flatter and much less friendly, feeling a little uncertain about being alone in the room with him. There’s a flash of relief as Miranda steps into the room.
“What are we looking at, Doc?”
“We need to send Mr. Wellington up for a CT, but as long as that comes back clear, he’s free to be released.”
“Fantastic.” She reaches for the tablet on the bedside table as Leto gets to work on the sutures. “I’ll put the order in and see what the wait looks like.”
“Thank you,” Leto singsongs. She gets to work, trying not to make eye contact with Aiden in the process. As Miranda slips back out the door, Aiden turns to face her again.
“I am sorry. That behavior is unacceptable. I just don’t want to be stuck here all night.”
“I understand,” Leto nods, before finishing up the sutures and stepping away. “Though with your bankroll, I’m sure you’ll get through quickly. If you need anything else, feel free to page one of the nurses.”
“Dr. Torrence … ”
“Have a good night, Mr. Wellington.” With that, she flees the room before he could say anything else, trying to avoid the strange creeping feeling in the back of her mind that something was just different about him.
Five hours later, Leto makes her way out of the hospital, tired from a long night on her feet. All she wants to go is go home, take a shower and collapse into bed, but as per usual, the Fates have other plans. As heads to her car, a man rises off the nearby bench, calling after her.
“Doctor Torrence!”
She recognizes the voice instantly, stiffening as her steps come to a stop. She glances over her shoulder, noting the security guards at the doors, and the other doctors getting some fresh air or having a smoke on their break. She then turns to face Aiden, straightening as she tries to hold on to her resolve.
“Mr. Wellington. I released you four hours ago.”
“You did. I waited. And that sounds far creepier than I intend it to be, but I just wanted to apologize.”
“You did apologize.”
“Apologize again.” He sighs. “I guess it’s just been … a long time since someone’s been immune to my charms. Or my bankroll. I honestly did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that you did.” She sighs. “I’ve already accepted your previous apology. Can I just … go home?”
“Yes. Of course. I … I was hoping we might be able to get to know each other better. If you were interested? Maybe have a cup of coffee?”
“If I say no, will you be stalking me to my house now?”
He laughs, as though she was making some joke rather than asking a serious question. When he realizes she wasn’t kidding, his face sobers, and he shakes his head. “No, of course. If you say no, then we go our separate ways here. You never have to see me again.”
For some reason, there’s something about him that makes her way to say yes. Part of her that’s curious and wants to take him apart, try to find the answers to why there’s something about him that bugs her. But that doesn’t seem like a safe option, so she takes a step back.
“I think I’d rather not, Mr. Wellington.”
“I understand.” He nods, and then steps aside, as promised. “Have a good night, Doctor Torrence.”
She nods again, sparing him one last glance over her shoulder before nodding. “You, too.” She makes her way out to her car, sliding into the driver’s seat and taking a deep, calming breath. She isn’t sure what it is about Aiden Wellington that gets under her skin, but she desperately wants to find out.
#005 ~ ride the wave ~ original ~ 2,014
Addie wakes up on her fifteenth birthday, and she doesn’t feel any different.
It’s disappointing.
While she knows that a tiny percentage of the newly powered spring to life on the day of their fifteenth birthday, launching themselves into the world with the awareness of the hurdles they’re going to have to overcome in the three years before their eighteenth birthday. Addie had hoped to be one of those kids. She would see the end goal in sight and know precisely which parts of herself she had to work on in the years moving forward. But she wakes up the morning of her birthday and … nothing. No rampant destruction and no immediate understanding of her new abilities – nothing.
Boo.
She knows that the odds were slim. Most of the newly powered don’t manifest until later when a strong emotional reaction triggers their power. It’s usually explosive and embarrassing, and it’s the last thing that Addie needs. Being the center of attention is never her favorite thing, especially for reasons beyond her control.
Guess she’s just going to have to try and keep herself together.
With a heavy sigh, she shoves the blankets off her legs and stumbles her way through getting ready for school. She dresses, brushes her teeth, and works her way through her routine with the hope that she might be able to make it to school without any ridiculous displays from her family. It’s not that she doesn’t love them and doesn’t want to celebrate her birthday, but until she knows what power is at her disposal.
Her mother seems to sense as much. She’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, flashing Addie a half-smile as she descends. “Anything?”
Addie shakes her head. “Not yet.”
Her mom offers her a soft smile before leaning in to kiss the top of her head. “Don’t stress about it too much. It’ll show up when it’s ready to.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Addie grumbles, and her mother laughs before pulling her into a warm hug.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think.”
Addie closes her eyes, leaning into her mother’s shoulder with a soft sigh. “I hope you’re right.”
“We’ll celebrate tonight, okay? Big dinner, lots of cake. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” Addie nods. She can’t predict what her mood will be when she returns, but maybe nothing will happen at school, and she’ll be able to relax enough to enjoy it.
Mornings at Henry Hudson High School are always an exercise in organized chaos. Each student has their destination in mind, weaving their way through the hallways to try and hit their locker before making their way off to their first class of the day, and they bounce off each other like wayward ping-pong balls as a result. Saying hello to their friends, finding their boyfriend or girlfriend before the first period, and even stopping by the cafeteria for breakfast has its flow and pattern, a routine that Addie has learned to navigate well enough over time, creating habits and pathways of her own.
Specifically, she’s learned that if she wants to avoid Matt Mullsen, the bully who currently has decided to set his sights on her, she needs to be careful. She avoids the main gym hallway and weaves her way through the art classes instead, listening in on early morning band rehearsals as she winds her way to her locker, resting just outside her first-period Geometry class. She spins the dial on autopilot, only to be startled as a gaggle of balloons burst forth from their enclosed metal container to pummel her in the face on their quest for freedom.
Addie sputters in surprise, taking a step back, only to feel another pair of hands spring onto her shoulders, holding her in place.
“Happy Birthday!”
Something inside her relaxes when she hears the familiar voice, and she shakes her head before turning on her heel to face Maisie Henry, her best friend. Maisie’s long curly hair framed her face like a collection of bouncy tendrils, and her bright smile had this way of instantly making her day better.
“How did you get the balloons into my locker?”
“Magic.” Maisie brings her bright blue painted nails up in front of her face, wiggling her fingers as she draws them out and away from her. “Or, more accurately, I bribed your brother to fish your locker combination out of your desk at home, where you always keep it and give it to me.”
“You should have stuck with magic. Way more mysterious.” Addie shakes her head before pulling her best friend in for a warm hug. “But thank you.”
“Always. You know that you are my favorite person to celebrate.” Maisie pulls back when the hug breaks before reaching down to grab the balloons' ends to drag them down from the ceiling. “How’s it been so far? Did you get birthday pancakes?”
“God, no. I haven’t had the nerve to eat.”
Maisie raises an eyebrow curiously before tipping her head to the side. “I take it that’s a no on the new power shenanigans?”
Addie shakes her head. “Nope. Nothing yet. And I feel like the longer I go without it, the more it’s just going to become a pit of existential dread, waiting to swallow me whole.” Addie hops up into the air, trying to grab hold of a ribbon herself and pulling the balloon down to meet her. “But these were a lovely distraction. Though I don’t know what I’m going to do with them until I get home.”
“We can stick them in Brandon’s car. I don’t think he’ll care.”
Addie thinks that, yes, her older, cooler brother absolutely will care. But then again, she also knows that if he helped Maisie get her locker combination, he likely realizes that he brought this on himself.
“He has Gym first period. We should probably find him there if we want to grab his keys.”
Maisie nods, gathering the last of the balloons into her hand, before wrapping a free arm around her best friend’s shoulders. “To the brother mobile!”
Addie also didn’t know who designed the contrived maze that the high school has become, but she’s willing to bet that he wasn’t planning it for expedient movement. Hallways awkwardly cut across each other at strange angles, making it difficult to see who’s coming at you or where you might be going. Still, under the shiny reflections of the hall lights in her birthday balloons, she’s starting to think that this might be a good day.
Until Matt Mullsen and his goons step into their path.
Matt Mullsen looks like he’s stepped through the screen of her television from a CW teen drama, straight into the real world. Handsome with classic teen heartthrob looks, he’s likely the crush of many girls in Addie’s class. Those girls haven’t known Matt since kindergarten. If they did, they would realize that his looks are where the pleasantries end.
He’s been making her life hell since middle school, and as much as Addie would love for him to stop, she also knows that there’s not much she can do. Matt’s parents are major donors to the school. The administrators christened the football field in honor of his family, and when it comes to the teachers, he effortlessly turns on the charm. Complaining will not get her anywhere, so she does her best to grin and bear it, bottling the anger deep, deep down. It’s safer there, for everyone.
“Whatcha got there, Addie?” He reaches up to snatch the cluster of balloons away from her, and Addie jerks backward on instinct, holding the balloons out of reach. It is not easy, as he’s taller than her with longer arms, but a few steps backward manage to give her some distance.
“Why do you care, Matt?” Maisie eyes him, hands on her hips in response.
“Wasn’t talking to you, Maisie,” Matt rolls his eyes before turning to his chosen prey again. “I was talking to Addie.”
“Nothing,” she fires back, hoping that he’ll leave it alone. Much to her not-surprise, he doesn’t.
“Are these birthday balloons?” His grin is malicious, clearly enjoying the discomfort that he’s inflicting on her. “Is it your birthday? How old are you now?”
“Fifteen.” Addie takes another step backward as he tries to swipe for them again. She can feel the pressure building, the white-hot anger that threatens to explode, wishing he would leave her alone, but he never does.
For a second, Matt falters when she says fifteen, recognizing the implications in that statement, but recovers just as quickly. He was already fifteen himself, but his powers hadn’t manifested. At least not in any way that’s obvious.
“Fifteen, huh? Any new superpowers you want to tell us about?” He swipes for the balloons again, and she dodges too, this time stumbling into Maisie as she tries to get away.
“God, Matt, could you just leave her alone for one day?” Maisie huffs, hands on her hips. “It’s her birthday.”
“Yeah,” Matt grins, as he swipes again, this time managing to catch the ribbons in his hands and yanking upwards. “I wanted to give her an extra special gift.”
One of the other strange features of the high school’s architecture is the gymnasium, whose ceilings rise so that the room is at least two stories tall. This space guarantees that should there be a need to have all four classes in the same space for an assembly; they have the freedom to do it. The downside is that the hallway directly next to the gym is equally tall, leading up to an open rafter space similar to the gym itself. It’s primarily a downside when your local bully has stolen your birthday balloons and releasing them into the sky. All Addie could do is watch as her birthday gift from her lovely, thoughtful best friend slips from her grasp and drifts up over your head, far out of reach.
Silence fills the hallway before another smirk crosses Matt’s face.
“Guess your power isn’t flight or something, huh?”
Addie barely hears him. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears as white-hot anger courses through her. Her blood feels like it’s boiling, her face turning red with anger as she tries to contain what is likely the last straw. She even hears a rumbling around her and doesn’t recognize that it exists outside of herself until someone else speaks.
“Uh, guys?” Maisie frowns. “Do you hear that?”
BOOM!
The wall explodes behind Matt and his crew as a wave of rushing water floods into the hallway from what used to be the showers of the boys' locker room. Various jocks trying to shower off after early morning practice scramble to cover themselves with now waterlogged towels as they knocked off their feet and carried into the hallway on the wave of water that came out of nowhere. The tide turns, rocketing down the hallway at a speed that should be impossible to wash Matt and his crew off their feet and send them careening down the hallway towards them.
“Addie, look out!”
Maisie grabs her arm, yanking her out of the way of the incoming wall of water. The jolt snaps Addie out of her stupor, and they turn to run, finding the next intersecting hallway and darting out of the way. The water continues to move past them but seems to lose some of its momenta, beaching Matt and his friends somewhere near the next batch of lockers before retreating.
Addie’s hands are shaking as she takes a breath, coming back into the real world, and glancing at her friend in confusion. “What was that?”
“I … I don’t know. It’s like the water had a mind of its own. Unless …”
Maisie turns, looking at Addie again, concerned, and it only takes a few seconds for Addie’s eyes to widen in sudden realization.
“Oh, God,” she gasps, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Did I do that?”
#006 ~ handle with care ~ original ~ 1,983
“Vela?”
She can already tell by the tone in Arden’s voice that what the other woman is about to say, Vela isn’t going to like. She kicks her legs over the side of her bunk. Pulling away from the warm body next to her, she heads to the door. The body gives an answering grumble in return, before rolling over and shifting to face the wall. She sighs longingly at the broad shoulders she’s leaving behind, before cracking the door open with a scowl.
“This better be important.”
Arden holds up her hands in an apology. “Sorry. I know you only tapped out an hour ago, but we’ve got another one.”
Immediately, the distaste drains from Vela’s face, turning into something more akin to concern. “Are you sure?”
Arden nods. “Something’s fucking with the scanners, so we’re pretty sure that’s a yes, but we couldn’t open it without your confirmation.”
Vela nods, running a hand through her hair before glancing down at the rest of her. She’s half-dressed, having essentially just shucked her pants and anything else that would be uncomfortable to sleep in before collapsing into bed.
“I need pants. Just … give me fifteen to get myself together, and I’ll be right there.”
Arden nods. “I’ll have it pulled from deployment and moved to a waiting room.”
“Thanks, Arden. And could you drum up some caffeine while you’re at it? I feel like this is going to be a long night.”
“You got it, boss.”
Vela nods and closes the door behind her, before turning back to the rest of the room. Space is tight, just enough room for a desk, a dresser, and a bunk, but it’s enough for her and her partner to make it work. She moves over to the place where she dropped her pants the night before and is yanking them up over her hips when she hears the voice behind her.
“Another one? Are they sure?”
Cassius’ warm brown eyes look over at her with concern as he watches her get dressed again, gathering her essentials to move about the ship. She doesn’t meet his eyes, knowing that if she does, he stands a chance of talking her back into bed and letting the matter wait until morning. But this, if it is what Arden thinks it is, is too important to wait.
“They want me to confirm, which means they’re as sure as they’re going to get.”
Cassius frowns, before kicking his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his clothes. “You know, I wish these assholes would respect the rules.”
“You and me both,” Vela replies, running a hand through her curly hair to have it look a little less unkempt. “Trust me; I would much rather be sleeping right now.”
“Would you?” he teases. “Or would you rather be doing other things and only pretend to be sleeping?”
She snorts in response, before turning and giving him a quick kiss. “Ask me again once we have her acclimated, and we’ll see.”
He laughs, before pulling open the door to the hallway and gesturing for her to move ahead of him. She does, stepping out onto the gangplank and making her way through the interior catwalks to the central area of the ship.
Anyone else, if they had only walked from Vela’s room onto the catwalks, would think that they had walked into a warehouse rather than a moving vessel. After working her way up through various upgrades and other jobs, this ship moves so smoothly through space that most people within don’t even feel it, which is an asset when it comes to situations like this.
It also turns the path to her bunk into a dangerous, wild twist of catwalks without worrying about someone dying trying to get to her in the process.
She and Cassius take the last set of stairs down to the ground floor. A good chunk of their crew waits for their commands. They flank an oblong white box, made of plastic, but as she gets closer, she can already feel the flare of magic that surrounds it.
Magic is not uncommon on the shipments they carry. Most members of the arcane guilds want to make sure their shipments arrive untampered with, but they can also use them to disguise the cargo, trying to ship contraband through the carriers who won’t ship those things.
In Vela’s personal experience, that usually means a girl in a box.
“Who shipped it?”
“The name is Hamish Battlebrand,” Justine sighs, pushing up from her crouching position to make her way closer. “But I searched and he’s not a real guy. So probably someone we’ve banned in the past who thought they could slip their way through the cracks. Asshole.”
“Indeed,” Vela agrees, before making her way closer and running her hands over the magical shield above it. She can feel the crackle of arcane power beneath her fingers, and she frowns in response. “Whoever they are, they’re strong. This spellwork is going to take some doing, as they probably have an alarm spell built-in.”
“Anything we can do?” Arden asks, one arm folded across her stomach. She’s delicately teasing a manicured fingernail, watching Vela’s every move as she examines the case. She’s the newest to the crew, rescued very recently, so she’s still learning the ropes of handling these types of issues. In all honesty, there’s not much Arden can do. She doesn’t have the magical skill to undo the wards, nor does she have the wherewithal to handle what will come after. But that doesn’t mean that she can’t be useful.
“Go get some clothes. Something loose fitting. And check in the med bay to see if we have any anti-nausea meds.”
Arden nods, before stepping back and heading into the bowls of the ship. The rest of them don’t leave, but instead, take a step back and give Vela room to work as she sets to work.
Taking apart the wards on a box like this one is delicate work, more akin to disarming a bomb than picking a lock. One wrong move on the wrong ward and the protection could destroy everything within, rather than hurt the people trying to attack it. If there’s anything Vela’s learned over the years, is that some masters of the arcane or mad scientists would prefer the package lost than risk someone else getting their hands on it. And with cargo as delicate as this, that is a risk that Vela couldn’t take lightly. Not when she’s seen the result of when you’re not careful.
She closes her eyes, resting her hands on the top of the box, but this time she pushes through the top layer of magic to the locks that rest below. Arcane symbols wind around the exterior of her arms, almost like the tumbler lock of a [FIND THAT WORD FOR THE FANCY STORAGE THING]. Cassius comes up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders gently and adding his power to her own.
“Where are we going?” he asks. Vela opens her mind’s eye and allows the spell to welcome her. She stands in a field of flowers; all the scents are cloying and sweet. Vela knows she’s smelled it somewhere before, but Vela couldn’t quite put a name on the most dominant scent, and that seems to be the clue Vela needs. The flowers tempt her to indulge and bask in their blissful scents. Still, she stays focused on the goal.
“A field of flowers.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s a soft floral scent, but sweet. Maybe honeysuckle?” One hand leaves her shoulder, moving to the dials that wind around her arms, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing here that matches that. It’s too short a word.”
She takes another breath, trying to find the notes that she’s missing, the thing that would make it more distinctive. She focuses on the small white flowers, taking in their shape, and suddenly it hits her. “Tuberose.”
Both hands leave this time, spinning the dials winding around her arms until all the letters fall into place, and the spell dissolves around her, freeing the first arm. She relaxes some, as step one of the process is complete. But there’s still one more ward left to break.
She sinks back into the vision again, and this time she finds herself in a more humid setting. She can’t make out the trees to be anything more distinctive, but this particular adventure isn’t about the plants. It’s about the animals. A pair of golden eyes hover before her, distinct and animalistic in shape. She tries to pull back and see more, but aside from the humidity of the space, she can’t see as much.
“It’s animal eyes. It’s humid, but I can’t see anything more than that.”
“Humid climates, it could be a jungle. Describe the eyes.”
“Feline, I think. Gold with slim pupils.”
“Jaguar?”
She takes another moment to stare before shaking her head. “No, it’s too small for that. Jungle cat.”
Cassius moves over, starting to turn the dials on her arm, and for a moment, things begin to feel too tight, but not entirely sliding into place. Still, Cassius gives it one final twist, and the dials disintegrate, falling apart next to her. The spell snaps her back into place on the ship, and she watches as the top of the container lifts and pushes back, and the room begins to fill with mist.
Vela pushes up onto her feet, before peering over into the container. Curled up on her side, completely naked, is a girl. She has long blond hair that curls neatly around her shoulders. Glittering arcane tattoos, similar to Vela’s own that curl around her wrists, cover her deep brown skin. With the box open, the girl slowly begins to come to, and Vela reaches forward and places a hand against her shoulder gently. The girl jerks away, trying to get away from the touch, and Vela holds up her hands and retreats.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
The girl’s violet eyes spin around the room, taking in the cargo hold of the ship, and then realizing that she isn’t wearing anything. She pulls her legs into her chest to cover herself, and Arden steps up, offering her a long, loose-fitting dress. The girl takes it and starts to try to stand to put it on, but she wobbles, as her legs can’t hold her quite yet. Vela reaches out, arms extended in an offering, and the girl catches herself, letting her weight fall forward into Vela.
“It’s alright. I know things are terrible now, but everything will be alright.”
The girl nods. Vela can feel the tears dotting her shirt as the girl slowly takes one step out of the box, then another. Justine steps up from the back and helps get her quickly into the dress. Vela then pulls back to look her in the eyes, so that she can make sure that the girl sees and understands her.
“We’re going to take you to our medical bay, alright? So the ship’s medic can have a look at you.”
Her mouth works once or twice before she manages to get out a raspy question. “Where am I?”
“You’re on the Hellion. We’re a shipment vessel.”
“How did you get me?”
“Someone tried to ship you through our services.” Vela makes a face. “We have a strict no-girls-in-boxes policy, so when my crew suspected you might be one, we let you out.” Vela reaches up, before brushing a thumb against the girl’s cheek to wipe the tears away. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Idira.” The girl swallows hard. “You won’t give me back to him, will you?”
Vela shakes her head as she turns to escort her to the med bay. “No, love. You’ll never have to see him again.”
#007 ~ reflections ~ original ~ 1,711
Lightning flashes, brightening the elegant sitting room in the Sorensons elegant home shortly before thunder rattles the windows. The summer storm had come on suddenly, quashing the outdoor adventures the three ladies had had for their June afternoon, leaving them playing Bridge by candlelight. Unsuccessfully, that is, as Bridge is always better with four.
Bessie Sorenson tucks a stray strand of her brunette hair behind her ear as she gets up to light a few additional candles to adjust to the darkness. “It sounds like a bad one,” she frowns as she lights a match, holding it close to the candelabra. “We might be stuck here a while.”
“Then perhaps, we should do something more enjoyable.” Ada flashes her friends a grin as she lowers her cards. The look is conspiratorial, and Bessie instantly knows that this will be something beyond their everyday activities.
Charlotte also raises an eyebrow. “That’s your up to something face.”
“I have a face for that?” Ada laughs. “I never realized.”
“What are you getting at, Ada?” Bessie sighs as she comes back to the table. “Another parlor game you learned in Chicago?”
“Perhaps.” Ada turns to Bessie with a curious look. “Do you have a hand mirror?”
“Of course I do.” Vanity is the pride of every upper-class woman; therefore, they must be able to look at themselves at all times. Bessie’s mother has been buying them for her since she was a young girl, and while most of them have become broken at some time or other, she does have a lovely silver framed one that she did love. “Why?”
“When I was in Chicago, the women there taught me this ritual. They say that if you walk backward up the stairs while holding a candle and a mirror while reciting an incantation, you’ll see the face of your future husband in the mirror.”
Intrigued, Charlotte leans forward curiously. “And it works?”
“Charlotte,” Bessie scolds gently. “It sounds dangerous.”
“Hardly. We’ll look out for each other, won’t we, Charlotte?” Ada tosses her blond hair over her shoulder. “All you have to do is invoke Mary, and she’ll tell you your future.”
“Mary?” Bessie pushes the issue. It isn’t that she’s superstitious so much as having the uncanny ability not to tell the whole story. “Mary who?” Silence falls between the group for a moment, and Ada’s voice comes again, this time more firmly. “Ada.”
“Bloody Mary,” Ada admits sullenly. “You summon Bloody Mary.”
“Bloody Mary?” Bessie rolls her eyes. “Not that I believe in such things, but you want to invoke a ghost to learn the future?”
“It’s just a game, Bess. You don’t have to play if you do not wish.”
“No, you just wish to use my mirror and accidentally kill yourselves on my family’s stairs.”
“Oh, come on, Bess. It’ll be fun.” Well-meaning Charlotte flashes her a warm, well-meaning smile. “What harm could it do?”
Bessie, knowing she’s outnumbered and outsmarted, sighs heavily before getting to her feet. “Fine. I’ll go get the mirror.”
Ada claps her hands together happily. “Trust me, Bessie. Once you see your future husband, you won’t regret it.”
“Believe me,” Bessie mutters softly. “I already do.”
It takes ten minutes to fetch the mirror in question, as well as a candle that was easier to hold than the decorative candelabras in the parlor. Tipping the thicker candle towards the ones already lit, Bessie watches the quick flair as the wick catches before turning and holding it and the mirror off to the two girls in front of her.
“So? Who would like to go first?”
Both women seem apprehensive at the suggestion, and Bessie raises an eyebrow in return. “Oh, no. It’s not going to be me.” She eyes the two of them before turning and pointing the handle of the mirror at Ada. “It’s your game. Might as well show us how it’s done.”
Ada purses her lips at the suggestion before she finds her nerve and straightens her shoulders to take the mirror. “Right. Of course.” The free hand reaches out to take the candle before Ada leads the way to the Sorensons’ ornate front staircase. Long skirts swirl against the marble floor before she turns her back to the stairs and holding up her two tokens.
“Please be sure I won’t fall.”
Bessie opens her mouth to tell her that the best way not to fall is not to play this silly game at all, but Charlotte senses her impending need to be contrary and silences her with a look. Bessie sighs instead before offering something slightly more constructive. “Pick up your skirts, so you don’t trip backward.”
Before setting the candle on the end of the handrail, Ada looks down before reaching down and scooping her long skirt up in her hand, revealing some ankle but clearing her shoes for her inevitable backward rise. Once the material was secure in her fist, she picks up the candle again and takes a deep breath. Then, Ada lifts one foot and steps up onto the bottom step. Once that goes without any additional harm, she takes another.
“Bloody Mary.” Another step up the stairs punctuates each phrase. “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Please show me the face of the one I will love most.” She repeats the incantation again and again as she makes her way up the stairs until she reaches the top and lets out a delighted laugh. The smile stays bright on her face as she begins to sweep her way back downstairs again.
“Oh, girls, you should have seen him. He’s divine.” She reaches the bottom and twirls in place, snuffing out the candle in the process. Bessie fights the urge to roll her eyes before taking the candle and making her way over to light it again.
“I’m glad you’re so pleased with your invisible suitor.” She returns to the entryway before thrusting the candle in Charlotte’s direction. “You’re next.”
“What?” Charlotte falters before blushing in surprise. “Oh, no. I couldn’t go next.”
“It’s nothing, Charlotte.” Ada eggs her on as she passes the other woman the mirror. “You’ll see. Go.”
Before repeating the process, Charlotte nods, gathering her skirts and making her slow, backward trek up the stairs. Her hand trembles slightly with the candle, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead on the mirror in her hand.
“Bloody Mary,” she begins, her voice softer and far less sure than Ada’s, almost as though she’s trying to be sure that she gets every word entirely correct. “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Please show me the face of the one I will love most.”
Charlotte repeats the words again and again until she reaches the top, and a smile brightens her features. It seems to almost lend it more credence at the moment, as Ada is more likely to play up the situation to prove that she’s correct, but Charlotte wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the type to lie, which means she likely saw something. Whether it was an optical illusion or actually, the face of her true love is unclear.
Charlotte floats down to the other two. “He had the kindest eyes,” Charlotte replies, holding out the mirror to Bessie as she does. “I hope I meet him soon.”
“I hope you do too,” Bessie nods. If anyone deserved to be a mother and in a happy marriage, it was Charlotte. She was the kindest and most warm-hearted of the three of them, and Bessie only wanted the best for her.
Bessie then looks between the two of them and sighs as she takes the mirror. “I guess this means it’s my turn, then?”
Ada nods before waving one hand to the stairs. “To the top with you.”
Scooping her skirts in her hand, she takes the candle and makes her way to the foot of the stairs. The cold ledge of the bottom step digs onto her ankle, and she keeps track of the feeling, knowing that it will be the key to her not falling. Bessie going last means there can’t be any chance of her falling on her face.
“Bloody Mary,” she begins as she begins taking a step up towards her destination. “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Please show me the face of the one I will love most.”
The thunder rattles the house again, catching Bessie by surprise and almost causing her to stumble. The hand with the candle reaches out to grab the banister as she begins to lose her balance. She pauses in her trek, bidding her heart rate to slow, and her breathing to calm, and Ada looks up at her, concerned, from the foot of the stairs.
“You alright, Bess?”
Bessie nods before straightening again. “Yes, I’m fine. It just caught me by surprise.”
A dark shape hovers in the corner of the mirror, but by the time she brings it up again, the form is gone. Bessie attributes it to one of her dress folds while she was catching her balance and tries again.
“Bloody Mary,” she begins again; this time, her voice slightly less sure of itself. She takes another step, continuing her ascent and repeating her plea. “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Show me the face of the one I will love most.”
She glances away, briefly, when she reaches the top of the stairs to make sure she was steady at the top. When her eyes return to the mirror again, she sees a reflection staring back at her, but it isn’t hers. The woman had deep black hair parted down the middle and held back in a low bun. Her face was thin and long, but not unbecoming – or it wouldn’t have been, were it not for the deep, dark circles under her eyes. She stares back at her intently, and Bessie sees her mouth move as though to speak.
“Help me.”
Wind whips around her, blowing out the candle as a scream tears through her. The mirror slips from her fingers, falling onto the solid stair and shattering into several large pieces as a result. The world begins to swirl, and Bessie stumbles before everything fades to darkness, and she tumbles to the ground.
Such a shame about her favorite mirror.
#008 ~ the taste of adventure ~ original ~ 1,814
If this meal doesn’t finish with a bang, Kennedy Wilson has half a mind to ask for her money back.
Not that the meal hasn’t been edible. It’s been fine. It’s been meh. It hasn’t been a meal worthy of a five-star Michelin review, and she intends to indicate as much when she writes her scathing review later. The only path to redemption is if this dessert is phenomenal. A tiramisu of the highest caliber. Something that is so melt-in-her-mouth delicious that she can at least feel confident in saying that it’s a good place to take your date for a sweet treat at the end of the night.
And if it is, she will. She always prides herself on being honest as a critic. She’s tough, but she’s fair. The toughness is a natural side effect of having tried so many delicious dishes over her years in being a critic in New York City. When you find yourself surrounded by culinary excellence, you can’t help but hold those who don’t quite make the bar to a higher standard. But the beauty of New York City is that not everything is about the meal.
Sometimes you need something to tide you over or something sweet to go with your nightcap. There’s nothing wrong with an establishment that caters to those needs.
She makes a show of seeming like she’s texting as she takes her notes on her meal, waiting for the waiter to arrive with the final course. Being a Michelin restaurant reviewer comes with a certain amount of secrecy. If she even suspects a restaurant being aware of her identity, she has to leave the region, and the East Coast is her home. She wants nothing more to stay and continuing to sample their fine cuisine for many years to come. So she plays the part of a working woman having a late dinner, taking advantage of the camouflage it provides and allowing her to blend into the role.
If her email is full of notes for her to accumulate into a hopefully enticing restaurant review at a later date at the end of the night, but her cover remains intact, then she’s done her job.
The waiter sweeps over, placing the plate down in front of her, with the delicate square of dessert. “Your tiramisu. And a fresh pot of coffee. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, that’s all for now. Thank you.”
She waits until the waiter leaves, giving herself a moment to take in the dessert's plating and general appearance. She may even take a few snapshots for her “foodstagram,” just in case. Honestly, Instagram becoming a sea of beautiful dishes likely only made her job more manageable over the years.
It’s the best thing Instagram’s ever done for her.
Placing her phone back down on the table, she picks up her fork, delicately separating the right corner of the dessert from the rest of it, feeling her fork move through smoothly. She scoops up the bite, studies it, and then carries the forkful into her mouth.
And then, she moans. The espresso explodes on her tongue, met with the light creaminess of the mascarpone, combined with ladyfingers that are flavorful but not too soggy. It’s every bit the perfect dessert and scrumptious flavors that she had desired from the rest of her meal. It hits the spot in a way she hadn’t expected, and she can’t help but go in for a second bite immediately, not even bothering to break up the two with a sip of her coffee. While this dessert deserved savoring, the pace that savoring entails is often in the eye of the beholder.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone enjoy a dessert that much.”
The soft, distinctly male voice draws her attention, and she finds herself looking up. New York is the city of a thousand accents, made up of people from all over the world, but it’s not so often that one of those accents – in this case, a French one, is directed towards her. She offers him a small smile before swallowing and reaching for her coffee cup, clearing her mouth just enough that she can speak without making a fool of herself.
“I highly recommend the tiramisu.”
“I would believe it.” The man was breathtakingly handsome. Tall and well-built, with dark hair and a chiseled jaw. He looks like he’s walked off a GQ cover, and if she weren’t here on business, she would be more than happy to sit and flirt. He reaches over with one hand, letting it rest on the back of the empty chair in front of her. “May I?”
She glances around the room, trying to gauge the numbers of empty tables, and the restaurant does seem packed. It wouldn’t hurt to share a table, at least while she finishes her dessert. “Yes, of course.”
He nods and moves to sit, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does. “I don’t intend to take up too much of your time. Attend to business quickly, and move on, yes?”
There’s something about the phrase that strikes her as odd, but she does her best not to let it show. She couldn’t let herself be outed. Might as well play along and see what her new friend is trying to imply. “Of course. I think it would be best for everyone.”
“Good.” He reaches into his pocket, eyeing her dessert as he does. “Though I must admit, I am tempted. Would you mind if I took a bite?”
All of this is incredibly overfamiliar and only proving to confuse Kennedy more, but she nods instead, pushing the plate forward so that he could take a bite. Maybe people are overly familiar in France. That does seem to go with the aesthetic. She’s never been, as much as she’s always wanted to go, but she could imagine that the French are people who sit in cafes, sharing desserts with strangers. Why not play into the fantasy?
Especially with one so handsome.
He picks up the fork on his side of the table before scooping off another bite in one firm swoop. He brings the dessert to his mouth and tastes, his eyes closing in delight at the flavor. He’s even more handsome when he’s enraptured, and while this is the most unorthodox assignment Kennedy’s ever had, she’s certainly not mad at it.
“See what I mean?” she grins. “Highly recommended.”
“I’m glad I took your word for it,” he nods before placing his fork down and reaching for his smartphone again. “But we should probably get down to business. Do you have the information?”
She tries not to look confused. Is this some game? Does she win a prize if she plays along? Is this the result of someone trying to fish out her identity? Swallowing hard, she takes another bite of the tiramisu, then nods.
Yes, she has the information he seeks. Hopefully, he’ll elaborate so she can catch herself before too long.
“Fantastic. We do thank you for your work. I know this was difficult for you.”
Is it? Her work generally means going to delicious restaurants and eating yummy food. Not all that huge a sacrifice. “Not as much as you think,” she says, trying her best not to look confused. “Forgive me, but what is it that you needed?”
The man’s brow furrows, studying her again, truly taking her in. It’s not the same as a man appraising her before deciding whether or not to hit on her. This assessment was different like he was looking for clues that she was who he thought she was supposed to be. He then glances over the rest of the room and starts to rise to his feet.
“I’m sorry. I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“Maybe?” she frowns, confused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
“Everything alright here?”
The waiter comes to the head of the table, blocking the Frenchman’s escape. Not the same waiter she’s had the entire evening. This waiter is a short, blond woman with closely cropped hair and sharp, searching eyes. One arm has a white towel draped over it.
“Do I need to bring another menu?”
“No, thank you,” the Frenchman says with a small smile. “I was just leaving.”
“Are you sure?” As the waitress turns to face him more, Kennedy can see through the gap under the towel, revealing what is very clearly the butt end of a handgun. Kennedy’s eyes narrow in confusion, unable to stop the shock at the idea that her waitress is currently packing and can barely contain herself from reacting as the waitress moves the towel to press against the Frenchman’s side, holding him in place. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
“What are you doing?” Kennedy asks, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her.
“Nothing you need to be concerned about, lady. Just two colleagues who need to work out a little business.”
Kennedy’s eyes meet the Frenchman’s. He seems eerily calm, as though this is something he’s been expecting, but given that she knows what’s under that towel, she can’t just let him get marched out of the restaurant to be shot by this mysterious blond. So she does the only thing she can think to do, waiting until the blond looks away from her to scan the rest of the room.
“I do need something.”
She grabs the handle of the coffee pot, twists the top, and throws the hopefully still-hot contents into the blond’s face.
The woman screams in pain, stumbling away from her quarry as she tries to recover. The Frenchman reacts quickly, reaching for the wrist, holding the gun, and twisting. In her shock, Blondie drops the weapon, and he recovers it before reaching forward and taking Kennedy’s hand, turning to pull her after him.
“Run.”
Kennedy doesn’t think twice. Running in heels has always been awkward for her, but she could move in life or death situations if she had to. Kennedy clutches her purse as he whips her out and follows him on the path to the door. She does her best to keep pace – it’s not easy when he’s taller than she is – but she does her best, and eventually, they round the corner, and he opens the door to a sedan parked on one of the side streets.
“Get in.”
This demand is the part where she should probably think twice, but she doesn’t. She follows her gut and slides into the seat, and the Frenchman slams the door behind her. A few seconds later, he slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and takes off into the streets of New York City.
It won’t be until the adrenaline’s faded, and she takes stock of the situation that she’ll realize that she left her phone behind.
#009 ~ death becomes her ~ original ~ 2,243
Death courts her like a madman, determined to have what isn’t his to claim.
Not that Harper realizes it’s Death, at first. She doesn’t know him as anything other than Dylan, the guy who just won’t let go. She first meets him at a coffee stand while getting her nursing degree. Harper, the overworked college student, was half-wild with the all-nighter from the night before, and they had a pleasant conversation about comic books and movies that took the pressure off for five minutes. It was nice to make a friend, and Dylan was a good friend. He had been for years. That is until the fateful day came:
“Hey, Harper. Would you want to go on a date with me sometime?”
It’s their last day of senior year, and she almost sees it coming. If there is any day for him to shoot his shot, it’s this one. She knows that. But she still hopes that it won’t happen; she’s never been good at hiding her reactions. The disappointment is evident on her face because she knows that this is the moment their relationship has to change.
“I’m sorry, Dylan. I don’t see you that way.”
His disappointment is straightforward too. Harper crushes the poor guy’s heart, and she doesn’t know how to make that better. Does she say she’s a lesbian? (She’s not, she’s bi, but she doesn’t think that’s going to make it better.) Does she try the old “It’s not you, it’s me” line? None of those seem like genuinely viable options, so she sticks with the truth, for better or worse.
“You’re a great guy, but it’s just not there for me.”
Dylan nods slowly, his face calculating as he watches her. “Not right now, it isn’t. But do you ever think that could change?”
Harper knows in her gut that the answer is no. There’s a plateau to her attraction, and while she enjoys his company, there’s no attraction there. But she takes the opportunity to soften the blow. (This is her first mistake.)
“I don’t know. Never say never, you know? But for me, right now, this isn’t it.”
Dylan nods and seems resolved, reading that answer; however, he wants to. “Okay. Okay, I get it. But we can still be friends, right? I don’t want to lose that. You mean so much to me, Harper.”
“Yeah,” she nods as she takes a step closer to pull him into a hug. “Yeah, of course. You mean a lot to me too.”
She thinks that this is the last day they’ll see each other. They’ll become those old college friends on Facebook as she moves back home to start a job, and he heads off to do whatever it is he’s going to do. They’ll end this on good terms, and that will be that. This conversation quashes the issue, and they can move on with their lives.
And then, out of nowhere, on her first day at St. Regis Hospital, there he is. He flashes her a smile and hands her a cup with her favorite coffee order. “Hey, Harper. Long time no see.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m working in the finance department. Now we can work buddies, buddy.” He holds out the cup to her again, and she takes it on autopilot. This event triggers so many red flags she doesn’t know where to start, but she swallows it down, trying to convince herself that she’s overreacting. Dylan is a nice guy, but he isn’t a Nice Guy. It’s just a fun coincidence. And why would having her friend here be a bad thing?
“Great,” she says, flashing him a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be working here?”
He shrugs. “Wanted it to be a surprise. Plus, I wasn’t sure how you’d react with the whole asking you out thing.”
See? Self-aware of how creepy that would sound. He’s well-meaning. This is fine. Harper nods again before taking a long sip of her coffee and closing her eyes when it’s precise to her specifications. He always did know how to get her great coffee.
“Then I’m glad you’re here. This will be fun, us working together.”
“Yeah,” Dylan grins. “Yeah, it will.”
It’s three years before he asks her out again. They’re hanging out on her couch, watching movies as a way to decompress after a long week of work, and he turns to face her again. His face resolute, almost as though he’s bracing himself for another rejection, but he tries anyway. You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, or something similar to that.
“Hey, Harper? I was just wondering – any chance things have changed? Would you like to go out with me?”
It’s the question she’s been dreading, and she swallows hard. This time, at least, she has an excuse at the ready. Dylan’s timing is just a little off.
“I’m sorry, Dylan, but I just started seeing someone.”
His face falls. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It’s new. We were still feeling things out, but I like him.” And she does. Tom is sweet and kind, and different from most guys she’s met in the past. He could be the one, maybe – it’s too early to commit to that the label truly, but she likes the feel of spending her life with him, one way or another. She knows she’s hurting Dylan, but she’s going to follow her heart. And right now, her heart is taking her to Tom.
“Oh,” Dylan swallows hard before turning back to the TV again. “I’m happy for you.”
“I’m sorry. I still feel the same way I did in college.”
“No, no. I understand. It’s okay.” Dylan keeps his eyes dead ahead, fingers gripping the remote tightly. “I just wish you would have told me.”
“I was working up to it? I mean, nothing’s official yet.”
Another qualification she probably shouldn’t have given him. Another false hope meant to soften the blow of the rejection. She knows that she should probably stop doing that and sever it, once and for all, but she can’t bring herself to do that.
Dylan is her best friend.
The claim seems to have it’s intended effect. Dylan’s mask softens, and he nods in agreement. “So. Do you like this movie? Maybe we should switch it up?”
And with that, the topic dies, and they move on with their lives. And about six months later, just before things are about to get serious, Tom dies in a car accident. The blow is harsh and swift, and it knocks the legs out from under her. For days, it almost feels like her heart will never recover.
(His parents find the ring in his apartment as they’re cleaning it out and give it to her. She still wears it on a chain around her neck, trying to keep him close to her heart, even as she heals and moves on.)
She does recover, though. She dates again, and none of them are Dylan. The men and women make her happy and make her laugh, but none of them provide Tom's anchoring power. Still, it’s good to put herself back out there again, and along the way, Dylan asks her out a few more times, and she keeps telling him no, needing to lean on him as her best friend and nothing more.
And then, she meets Clarissa.
Clarissa is not someone she would have ever considered being her type. While Harper is traditional and regimented, someone who does her best to live within the rules and society's typical scripts, Clarissa is a freer spirit. She runs a homeopathic healing shop, practices Wicca, lives her life in vibrant color and wild abandon, and Harper loves her with everything she is. Clarissa’s warmth flows through her, and while she doesn’t understand all of her eccentric practices, something is comforting about someone who wants to heal as much as she does.
Harper’s going to marry her. She knows it in her gut, knows it from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and she hasn’t felt this good since Tom. She didn’t think she would ever feel this good after Tom again. That bounce in her step carries her from hospital after a long shift, ready to take her home to the warmth of Clarissa’s arms when a set of footsteps comes up behind her.
“Hey, Harper! Wait up!”
Just like that, her entire mood drops. If the pattern holds, Dylan and Harper are quickly approaching that time when Dylan would try to ask her out again. She doesn’t want to go through it, but she can’t just ignore him. He’s her best friend. She lets her head drop for a moment before taking a breath and turning to face him again.
“Hey, Dylan. What’s up?”
“Look, I was just wondering –”
She cuts him off before he can even finish, holding up her hand and standing firm. “No, Dylan. The answer’s no.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
She raises an eyebrow at him. “Were you going to ask me out again?” His face drops, and he looks away, an expression that very much indicates “yes.” “I’m sorry, Dylan. But it’s never going to happen.”
“You said, never say never.”
“Yeah, when I was twenty-one and had no idea what my life could be. But now … now I’m older, and I can’t keep softening the blow for you. I’m in love with someone else, and I’m going to marry them. I’m sorry, I love you, but not like that. It’s never going to be like that.”
“Never?” Dylan’s face is turning red, his fists clenching at his sides. He seems like he might explode. “So that’s it? All that time that I put in was for nothing.”
“All that time you put in?” Harper recoils like he slapped her. “Is that all our friendship was to you? Working me over until I finally caved and said yes to you?”
“You kept dating those douchebags. What else could I do but hope one day you would come to your senses. No one will love you like I do, Harper. No one.”
“Yeah, and honestly, that’s a good thing,” Harper fires back, hurt and angry. She turns on her heels and continues heading back to her car. She gets about halfway there when he shouts after her again.
“So there was never any way? Any scenario where we might have been together.”
“I don’t know, Dylan.” She turns to face him, throwing her hands up in the air at the prospect. “Maybe. Maybe if you were the last person on Earth, but that’s not going to happen, so … leave it alone.”
Dylan stares daggers into her back as she continues to leave, and as she reaches her car, he shouts back at her. “We’ll see about that.”
She doesn’t know what it means. If she had, maybe she would have been more scared.
The night before is a blur of wine and rage. She spends most of it venting about Dylan, and Clarissa is certainly kind about it. She is displeased that Harper keeps this friend close, continually harassing her, but Harper hadn’t seen it for what it was at the time. But by the time she goes to sleep, Harper feels better about the situation, at least until Clarissa rouses her the next morning.
“Harper! Harper, wake up!”
Clarissa’s hand is on her shoulder, shaking her awake. Harper sits up with a groan, feeling the pulse of her hangover behind her eyes.
“What?” she grumbles, keeping her eyes closed and away from the light as she sits up. “What’s wrong?”
“Look.”
Harper doesn’t want to look. Looking means light, and light is not her friend right now. Still, she braces herself for the discomfort and turns in the direction that Clarissa is pointing. She sees the news report on the muted television, with the headline reading MYSTERY ILLNESS SWEEPS NEW YORK CITY.
“What?”
Harper reaches out to take the remote from her girlfriend and clicking the button on the side to unmute the TV.
“—Hospitals are overwhelmed this morning, and doctors are currently asking that if you are showing any symptoms to quarantine yourself in your homes. At the moment, all we know about this mystery illness is that it is fast-spreading and incredibly deadly. Please keep yourselves safe, and we will update you as soon as we know more.”
“Did you see anything like this at the hospital last night?” Clarissa’s concern is intense, and she’s looking her over as though to see if there’s any sign of illness. Harper shakes her head.
“No, not at all. I … everything was fine. The infected must have started coming in after I finished my shift.”
That seems to relax Clarissa somewhat. At least Harper wasn’t exposed. But there’s something about this that doesn’t coincide with anything she knows about infectious diseases. She’s by no means an expert, but if the numbers they keep flashing on the screen are any indication, it’s too fast. Diseases need time to incubate. This is unnatural.
She reaches for her phone, checking for any texts or calls from the hospital, and there are. But sitting at the top of them is one text from Dylan that says two words:
Game on.
#010 ~ family business ~ original ~ 1,876
“Jesus, Stella.”
Asher groans as he stumbles backward, feeling the right hook that Stella delivered to his face. Stella smirks as she hops back, fists still raised to anticipate the blow that will likely follow. Asher rubs at the soreness in his jaw before shaking his head to clear the stars from his eyes. They were only sparring, so theoretically, they should be taking it easy on each other, but Asher knows from experience that for Stella, practice doesn’t mean shit if it doesn’t prepare you for the eventualities of the field.
“Could you not with the face?”
“Or what?” she grins. “Are you worried I’ve permanently disfigured your handsome features?”
He rolls his eyes before bringing himself up again. “Sorry, I thought this was a sparring session.”
“Sparring-schmarring,” she teases. “Gotta keep you on your toes. Now, are you gonna pay me back or what?”
Asher grins before sending himself flying towards his twin sister, taking advantage of his weight and size on her to try and throw her off balance. You may be smaller and lither than a freight train, but a freight train is still a freight train.
Stella ducks the first blow, bringing up her fists to catch him under the ribs. The first fist hits, but he arcs away from the second. Then, he drops down and tries to catch her at her ankles with a leg sweep. The first foot comes up, but the second isn’t quite fast enough, tripping over the edge of his leg and sending her stumbling backward. Her arms windmill as she tries to regain her balance, and he grins at her.
“How’s that for keeping you on your toes?”
She laughs, something delightfully manic, before heading in to charge at him again. Stella has always been the more violent of the two. Asher would be more than happy to stick with hacking and charm to get him by in the field, as much as it would be to his detriment, but Stella has always craved violence. She liked the idea that she knew multiple ways to kill a man, and if you pissed her off enough, there’s still the chance that she would give you a sneak preview. There’s no one he would rather have watching his back in the field, even if the innocent sparring offer is something he’s going to regret later.
Her fists came flying, forcing to bring up his arms to keep her away from his face again. Left, right, left-right, until one of her hands find his shoulders, and he catches a glimpse of her knee coming up towards the delicate region that no man wants to take a blow to, sparring or not. His hands come down quickly, catching her knee and pushing it backward, away from him.
“Low blow.”
“But you caught it. Not bad, brother.”
He rolls his eyes, and as she comes at him again, he grabs hold of her arm as he evades, twisting it back over his shoulder as his body slides between them. Shifting her weight over his back, he throws her down onto the mat, hearing her connect with a satisfying smack.
He looks down at her with a smirk as he holds her in place. “You done yet?”
Stella’s eyes flash up at him, and what happens next is a flurry of limbs; one catches him under the shoulder, the other wraps around his neck, and she rolls him quickly into place on the mat, one arm extended above his head and held tightly in her firm grasp.
As though to reinforce that she is still going easy on him, even if it doesn’t feel easy.
He smacks the mat twice, tapping out, and she grins before releasing him. “You’re getting better.”
“I’ll take it,” he grumbles as he rolls up, making his way over and grabbing the water bottles they stashed nearby. “Ever going to let me win?”
“Only if you earn it,” she smirks before settling comfortably on the mat and starting to stretch out her sweaty limbs. “I’m not kidding, though. You are getting better.”
“Only because you work me half to death.”
Stella smirks as she falls forward, stretching her arms out over her extended leg and catching the arch of her foot. Years of gymnastics only seemed to add to her agility as a fighter, rather than detract from it. Asher couldn’t help but be jealous. “Look, as much as I appreciate your keen, scientific mind and head for computers, it’s better if you know how to protect yourself. Then I don’t have to be distracted by trying to protect you.”
“No, no, I get it,” Asher nods, taking another swallow of water. “I just wish that it came a little more naturally.”
“It will. You’ll get there.”
“Agents Grayden?”
Whatever response Asher had to his sister’s concerns dies before he can say it, as they both turn to face their immediate superior, Agent Hayden Wallstone. In his fifties, the graying man appraises each of them as though he might regret what he’s about to say, but orders are orders, and therefore he has to tell them. It’s not the first time he’s worn that expression when giving the twins a mission, and it probably won’t be the last.
When things go wrong, the Grayden twins tend to make quite the splash.
“Sir?” Stella asks, pulling herself to her feet with a frown. “Is there something wrong?”
“You’re being called up for a mission.” Wallstone glances between the two of them. “Clean up and report to the briefing room at oh-seven-thirty.”
Asher’s eyes float to the clock ticking away above their superior officer’s head. Ten to seven. That isn’t a lot of time to get mission-presentable, but they’d be able to make it work. “Yes, sir,” he nods before going to gather his things from the training room floor.
“Any clue what this mission is about?” Stella asks curiously. She likes to be prepared, as her brain isn’t a walking encyclopedia of information. Asher inherited that particular talent, allowing him to walk into any briefing with the requisite knowledge to sound impressive. Stella, on the other hand, needs to do her homework.
“Unfortunately, that’s above my paygrade,” Wallstone responds, and suddenly the looming regret makes sense. If the Graydens were deploying on a mission that was too need-to-know for their boss to know it, it makes sense that he would be feeling resentful. “You’ll find out when you get to the briefing.”
Stella and Asher share a curious look, already wondering what this could mean, before nodding their agreement. “Yes, sir,” Asher nods. “We’ll be there.”
Wallstone nods before stepping out of the room, leaving the twins contemplating what all of this might mean. Stella frowns before glancing at her brother. “Do you think—”
“I don’t know,” Asher replies. “Meet you at the door in twenty?”
Stella nods before turning and disappearing into the women’s locker room.
Thirty minutes later, about ten minutes early for their scheduled briefing, the twins are sitting comfortably in the chairs outside the door, dressed like the consummate agents they were born to be. Asher fiddles with his tie restlessly and periodically check his watch while Stella scrolls her phone, looking for any hints in the international news as to what this may entail.
Most of the time, the agency wants them to get ahead of any traumatizing world events. That’s their goal, after all, to protect people who may fall through the cracks. But sometimes those cracks did happen, and they have to be reactive rather than proactive. Stella frowns as she keeps scrolling, before shaking her head as she pulls back to look at her brother.
“Nothing too concerning. Though I’m not sure what it is we’re supposed to be looking for.”
“It’ll be fine,” Asher nods before reaching over to rest a hand on her shoulder. “It probably means we’re getting something new.”
New assignments were personally Asher’s favorite. Lots of new information to uncover. On the other hand, Stella liked to retread familiar territory, where she could get the lay of the land and have an idea of what they may encounter. Caution versus curiosity was a blend that worked well for them as a team, and Asher had yet to hear any complaints from their superiors.
The door opens, and Fallon Heder, the assistant to the agency head, pokes her head out and gestures for them to come forward. “Grayden and Grayden? You’re up.”
The twins rise from their seats and head into the briefing room, taking seats on the opposite side of the table from the agency's chief. Jasper Hills was a gruff older man, who some joked might have been born in a suit from how he handled himself in it, but he seemed more tired than bitter or angry. He weighs the world on his shoulders, knowing about the varying threats the world had to offer and cursed with the struggle of trying to figure out how to deal with them. Jasper glances over at the twins as they take their seats, and he shifts to lean forward, folding his hands in front of himself.
“So,” he begins slowly, drumming his fingers lightly on the desk. “I’m going to assume you know why you’re here.”
“You have a mission for us, sir,” Asher begins, not wanting to assume too much. But when he sees the resolved look on his face, he becomes more concerned that it may be what Stella was thinking earlier. He hopes that it isn’t, and the intelligence will prove different, but odds are starting to inch in Stella’s favor.
She, wisely, keeps her mouth shut. It’s better to wait than assume in this particular circumstance. Before reaching for the clicker and changing the view on the projected screen from the agency’s logo to an image of an older woman, Jasper sighs, with graying silver hair and impeccable makeup.
“Our contacts recently sighted Lila Valbrond just outside of Turkmenistan. We’ve received word from our informants that she’s been reaching out to her contacts asking for a particular set of gear.” The clicker sounds again, and a long list of very damning evidence appears on the screen in the place of the woman’s picture. “We think she’s planning another regime change.”
Stella and Asher look at each other with concern before turning back to Jasper again. He regards them both seriously, as though he doesn’t want to ask this of them, but unfortunately, they don’t have many options.
“I know this is your grandmother, and family business can make things complicated. But you’re the only ones who can get close enough. We can’t let her destabilize another region. It’s only going to make things worse, and many people will die in the process. I only ask that you be honest with me on whether or not you’re ready to take this case.”
Stella and Asher glance at each other again, but they both already know what the answer will be. Even though this is their grandmother, they know what she’s doing is wrong and dangerous. They need to put a stop to her once and for all.
They nod and say, simultaneously:
“We’re in.”
#011 ~ and don't you come back ~ original ~ 1,320
People packed themselves into the Garrison so entirely that there’s barely any room to breathe.
From one side of the bar to the other, it’s people as far as the eye can see. That’s not an uncommon happening at the bar on Eagles’ game night. The room is a sea of green and white, and the clientele is rowdy and excited, pounding lightly on tables and shouting their praise from various portions of the room. If Cassie hadn’t known at least three-quarters of the patrons since she was old enough to bus tables, she might have felt a little cramped or even claustrophobic, but if anything, these familiar sights and sounds make the bar feel like home.
“Hey, Cass! Can we get another round of beers over here?”
“Sure thing, Manny, just give me a minute.” Cassie glances over at her mother, off settling the tab of another customer to her left. She pulls out bottles from the fridge under the bar and passes two off to the bar's customers. “You’d think the Eagles won the playoffs or something.”
Madeline Miller laughs as she slams the cash door closed. “They only went to the Superbowl a couple of years back. You would think they’d know better by now.”
“Easy there, Maddie,” Bodie Wellington spoke up from his usual stool in front of the bar. As one of the regulars, and an avid Eagles fan with deep superstitions. “I won’t have you slandering the boys in my presence. That’s bad luck.”
“Sorry, Bodie,” Madeline grins as she grabs him another beer. “But would you rather I talk out my ass saying they’re going to win and jinx it?”
Bodie considers as he takes a long pull from his beer, and he shakes his head. “No, you’re probably right. Shit talk is better than getting my hopes too high.”
“Smart man,” Madeline winks at him, and Cassie laughs before shaking her head and taking the beers over to one of the back tables.
The Garrison is her mother’s baby, having built it from scratch in the southernmost reaches of New Jersey, where there’s often nothing for miles but highway and the Pine Barrens. Remote and isolated, Cassie never really understood how they managed to get so many people night after night, but Cassie also doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It allows her and her mother to support themselves, and for them, that’s enough. It keeps their tiny little family together, which is a lot more than most people have.
Sometimes the men around the bar ask her about college or moving out to one of the nearby cities and making her friends, but Cassie never honestly considered it. She wanted to be with her mother, so her mother is where she’ll stay.
By the time they reach the end of the fourth quarter, the customers start to trickle out, heading back to their homes, families, and wives. Bodie is still sitting on his stool, counting out cash for the beers and food he bought throughout the evening, but Madeline isn’t rushing him. Cassie’s making her way between tables in the back, collecting the remains of drinks and food plates to run back to the dishwasher.
Bodie pays the last of his tab, and Madeline counts it out before glancing over to her daughter. “Hey, Cass, I’m going to run this up to the cash box. You good to finish closing up.”
“You got it,” Cassie grins with a mock salute, before getting back to work.
“You want me to hang out here with you?” Bodie asks, turning on the stool to face her.
“Don’t you have a wife to go home to?” Cassie asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I do,” Bodie admits. “But it’s unclear if she’s ready for me to be home.”
Cassie laughs, before waving him off. “Go home, Bodie. Maybe the Eagles luck will rub off on you.”
Bodie laughs before waving and heading out to the door. Cassie’s not watching him leave, but she hears the soft jingle of the bells on the door as it opens and closes, leaving the entirety of the bar in silence. Cassie goes back to work, gathering the various dishes around her until the bin is full before running them to the dishwasher in the back. As she’s loading them all into the massive machine, she hears the soft jingle of the door again, and she frowns, before making her way back out to the space behind the bar.
“You forget something, Bode?” She stops short when she sees who it is, eyes widening in confusion, as this is not a man she knows. He's more rugged, about six feet tall than the blue-collar workers that feature their usual clientele. His hair is a salt and pepper blend, and he has a scruffy growth of stubble on his chin. He’s dressed in flannel and denim, but that’s the only typical thing about him. She swallows hard before putting on her best smile. “Sorry, sir. We’re closed.”
“I’m not here for a drink.” He firmly states as he looks her over. There’s something hungry about his gaze – but not in the way she’d typically expect. She’s twenty-one years old, and she knows the ways a man’s eyes go hungry when they see an attractive girl. But this is different. This moment is like she’s water and he’s stuck in a desert, only he doesn’t want to devour her so much as treasure her.
“I understand, but we’re still closed. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”
“Madeline will understand.”
“Well, she’s not here right now. I am. As I said, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.” She does her best to keep her voice firm, but she doesn’t move out from behind the bar. Whoever this man is, he’s undoubtedly putting her on guard, and she doesn’t know how to combat that. She’s about to force the issue and threaten to call the police when her mother’s voice carries into the room from the stairwell.
“I gotta say, even when the Eagles win, we still do well. I’m certainly not –”
The cashbox hits the floor with a heavy clang, and Madeline’s eyes become fixed on the man on the other side of the room. When he looks at her, there’s something equally hungry as there was for Cassie, but this is different. This hunger is the one that Cassie is used to, and she’s grateful that not to be the target.
“Hey, Maddie.”
“Jack,” she manages to spit out. “What are you doing here?”
He glances over to Cassie like she’s trying to assess what she might know. “I was in the area. I thought we could talk.”
“You agreed to stay gone. You said you wouldn’t come back until …” Madeline’s voice trails off, and she glances between him and Cassie, before moving to her daughter’s side. She wraps her arms around Cassie, pulling her in close and squeezing her tightly. “No. It can’t be time already.”
Jack’s face fell slightly, before nodding. “I’m sorry, but it is. We agreed, Maddie.”
“She’s too young.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re going to care.”
Cassie gently pushes herself away from her mother, extracting herself from her mother’s arms before glancing between the two of them. “What are you both talking about? Mom, who is this guy?”
Madeline glances between Jack and her daughter before swallowing hard. “Cassie, this is Jack Riverstone.” There’s another long pause, almost as though she doesn’t quite want to fill in this blank, but she does anyway. “He’s your father.”
Cassie stumbles backward, the words hitting her like a pile of bricks. She reaches to grip the shelf as her vision begins to swim in front of her. Somehow, her voice manages to remain calm as she states:
“Oh. Is that all?”
But after that, everything turns to darkness as she passes out onto the floor.
#012 ~ returning to fate ~ original ~ 1,174
The swamp smells like rotting vegetation and stale water. It’s the last place that Prince Ferdinand, Crown Prince of Jordania, wants to be, but it’s where he must go to see this through. He doesn’t know how else to turn the tables. He doesn’t know how else to break himself free of the mess his parents have caused.
In a land where prophecy is king, his parents sought the Soothsayer before he was even born. They traveled for months, watching his mother’s belly swell as they trekked across these same marshlands to the Soothsayer’s front door to ask for her to scry their precious child’s future.
Make him strong, his mother had whispered. Make him brave. Make him live a long, healthy life. For me, please.
And because the will of the Soothsayer is binding, because once she weaves their wishes into the future, nothing can unbind them. Ferdinand used to think it was funny to see the way swords would splinter, and bullets would deflect like they couldn’t seem to find their target because it wasn’t time yet. The Soothsayer foresaw it, and therefore it must be true.
But now, years into a war that he doesn’t know how to win without some sacrifice, he knows that it’s time for him to begin again. It’s time for the freedom to return to his life. To strip away the armor of a prophecy he never wanted and made this sacrifice the only way he knows how.
Finishing his trudge through the marsh, he steps up onto the wooden porch, before knocking lightly. Sounds of shuffling echo from within, and the door tears open, revealing an old woman on the other side. Long gray hair tangles around her shoulders, dipping lower and lower until it almost reaches the floor. Old, gnarled hands curl around the edge of the doorframe to hold herself steady. She wears bright, colorful designs, embroidered with golden thread.
“Your Highness,” she says slowly, her voice cracked and garbled. “What a surprise.”
“Lady Soothsayer,” he bows deeply, showing her the respect she deserves. “I am sorry to bother you like this, but I have a problem that only you can solve.”
The Soothsayer studies him curiously, before stepping back and gesturing for him to come inside. He does, stooping slightly to avoid colliding with the ceiling. Her home is somewhat scattered, covered in various tokens and trinkets. Sitting in the middle of the room is a low table and a pair of chairs.
“Please, sit. Can I make you some tea?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” He does have an urgent matter to discuss, but he still has manners. It only takes a few moments to shuffle around the exterior of the room, fixing a tea kettle and setting it on the stove to heat before moving back to the table.
“What can I do for you?”
“I do not know if this is possible, but I have to ask. Is it possible to undo a prophecy?”
The old woman raises an eyebrow curiously. “Undoing a prophecy to cheat in war is generally frowned upon, Your Highness. And as it stands, I can only undo the prophecies I have woven myself.”
“I know.” He straightens his shoulders, trying to look every bit as kingly as expected. “The prophecy I wish to undo is my own.”
Her eyes widen, surprised, and she reaches to brush the scraggly gray hair away from her face so that she gazes more accurately on the man in front of her. “You wish to undo the protection your parents gave you?”
“It is not protection.” Ferdinand doesn’t know what it is, but it certainly isn’t protection. “I have watched good people, brave people, die in my stead because I couldn’t. I have been reckless and careless with the lives of others because I didn’t know better, but I knew that it couldn’t hurt me.”
He lifts his chin, doing his best to look kingly in the face of his request.
“It isn’t fair. I am the one who’s cheating, and I need it to end.”
The tea kettle sings, and the Soothsayer gets up to fix the two cups of tea, before coming back and placing one of them in front of the prince. She then moves to sit, reach for a pipe, light it, and take a long drag.
“This takes away all your protections, you understand. You could walk out of this hut and become lunch for a crocodile, and there would be nothing I could do for you.”
“It’s a risk I willingly take.”
“And you’re going back to war, you realize. You may never live to be king.”
“Maybe not. But I would rather be a king that my people could be proud of, who takes the same risks as every other person on that battlefield than cheat my way to a long life.”
The Soothsayer considers the answer, blowing a small smoke ring in response. “And those people – you consider them worth dying for?”
“I do. Those soldiers are the truest, bravest people I have ever met, and I will lead them into battle gladly, knowing it could be my doom. But the one thing I cannot survive, cannot abide, is if any more of them die for me.” He swallows a long sip of his tea. “I know my parents gave me this armor to protect me, and I love them for it. But I don’t think they saw the consequences.”
The Soothsayer smiles, and there’s a tired sadness to it, almost as though Ferdinand has said the thing that no one ever says. “None of them ever do.”
“Please, Lady Soothsayer,” he moves around the table, kneeling next to her and taking one hand and his. “Divest me of this circumvention of destiny. I am ready to leave my life in the hands of Fate once again.”
The Soothsayer pats one hand over his gently, before nodding. “Should you survive this mess you’ve created, Prince, I think you will make a magnificent king.”
The prince smiles, before bowing his head, prepared to have the blessing removed. The Soothsayer’s hands leave him, and he can sense the shadows of them moving over his head, the long, gnarled fingers hooking into the remains of her spell. He feels the tear of the fabric around him, the remains of his planned destiny dissolving around him like pleases of torn flax.
He can already sense the difference. His armor is a little heavier, but his heart is lighter. He gets to his feet and smiles.
“Thank you, Lady. You have done me a great service.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that just yet. You haven’t seen how this ends yet.” She teases him gently as she walks him to the door.
“I haven’t. And I’m glad not to.” He steps out the door, and the Soothsayer reaches her hand out for his arm, before offering a small smile.
“Oh, and Your Highness?” Her eyes light with a kind, teasing gesture. “Do watch out for crocodiles.”
#013 ~ freedom ~ original ~ 2,170
The one upside to my predicament is that every ten years, I get to reinvent myself.
“What do you think?” I ask, looking at myself in the mirror positioned on the back wall. Long dark hair hangs in lazy curls around my shoulders, and makeup covers my face designed to make me look older than I physically am. But, after a certain point, there’s only so much that contouring can do, and I eventually return to Carson. “Am I more of a Madison or a Taylor?”
Carson’s warm brown eyes lift from the paperwork in front of him and study me carefully. It’s after hours. The tattoo parlor closed hours ago to make room for his more shady clientele. Carson’s been providing me with new identities for decades now. We made friends in the early seventies, and he’s been my hook up ever since. I’ve had five different names and five other lives, and while he isn’t any closer to understanding what it is I’m going through, he’s the closest thing I have to a true friend.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when he eventually dies, but that’s a bone for me and his pack-a-day habit to pick later.
“Personally? I don’t think you’re blond enough or wear enough pink for either of those options.”
“I could go blond,” I protest, trying to imagine myself with platinum locks to offset the hipster-grunge look that’s done well for me in this particular decade. “I’ve never been a blond. It might be fun to try.” The benefit of having all the time in the world is that I can try everything. Nothing is permanent. Nothing ever was designed to be.
Except for me – but that isn’t so much design as an unfortunate accident.
Carson snatches my phone off the counter to go through the list of baby names I’m scrolling through from 1999, my new birth year to be a newly minted twenty-one-year-old. I look a little young for twenty-one – a side effect of only being seventeen when a spell preserved me for all eternity against my will – but I could pass if I managed my makeup well. What I couldn’t do is pass for is thirty, by any means, and my old identity, Brittany Folsom, is starting to push that with her 1989 birth year.
“Olivia.”
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Olivia?”
“It’s classic. Maybe you could try being a competent professional instead of a lawless heathen.”
I gasp dramatically, one hand moving to my chest as though the heartlessness of his words has shot me. Having too much responsibility isn’t always a good thing, depending on how quickly I may need to disappear at times. Also, corporate life is smothering. I would never.
Still, Olivia isn’t wrong, as far as names go. I try it out a few times. “Olivia. She sounds rich, honestly. Olivia, Olivia, Olivia …” My eyes land on the concert poster on the other end of the room. “Manson?”
Carson glances over his shoulder to follow my eye line and laughs. “At least it’s not ‘Marilyn’ or ‘Charlie’?”
I shrug. “It’s good enough for me.” I scribble the name into the name field and give one last glance over my information before passing the clipboard back to him. “That should be everything. Half now, half when you’re done?”
“You know me so well.”
I pull out my wallet, counting out the necessary cash from my recently emptied bank account before handing it over to him. “Give me a call when it’s done.” I shut down my phone number last, likely a few weeks after activating “Olivia’s” new burner phone. I’ve already given my two weeks’ notice at my job as well as my apartment. And soon, I’ll be in a new city, becoming someone completely different.”
“It’s going to be a shame to see Brittany go,” Carson comments as he looks everything over. “I liked her a lot.”
I glance back at him as I reach the door before giving him a small smile. “Who knows? You might like Olivia even more.”
New York City suffers a quiet drizzle, the kind of rain where it’s as though Mother Nature can’t decide if it wants to start a downpour or not. Some people might call it a misting. I think of it as being indecisive. My heavy boots thud against the sidewalk as I quickly make my way through the streets, heading down to the subway so I can take the L train back to my apartment. It’s a quiet night – there are people still buzzing about as it’s not quite midnight yet, but not the crowds of travelers and tourists that make navigating the streets a nightmare.
Not that I’m ever uptown during the day much anymore, but I also remember when Times Square used to be a wretched hive of scum and villainy, as Obi-Wan Kenobi would likely put it. People like me, who wanted shady things done for nefarious reasons, could much more easily come and go. Now, it’s all clean and tourist-friendly, which makes daytime escapades a lot more complicated.
As I come up to the corner, I see the pedestrian signal changes from “DON’T WALK” to “WALK,” and the woman with a roller board and I begin to make our way across the street. She walks fast, pulling ahead of me as she has somewhere to be, which I didn’t blame her. I keep walking at my usual pace, which is why I see it before she does.
Even a packed town like New York City always has someone who drives like a maniac. People would love to blame maniac drivers in some regions of the country – New Jersey, Massachusetts, etc. But I’ve been around long enough to know that they are everywhere. They drive with reckless abandon, like they have to save the world or something, and take much care in where they’re going.
I don’t know anything about this driver. Maybe he genuinely had somewhere to be. Maybe his wife was giving birth, and he needed to get to a hospital. All I know is that a pair of blinding white headlights rounds the corner, and Rollerboard ahead of me isn’t moving fast enough. She sees the light, turning towards it like a deer in the headlights, and then she freezes.
If she doesn’t move, he’ll kill her. That’s irreparable. There’s no coming back from something like that. So, instead, I decide to do the noble thing. I choose to let him kill me instead.
I charge forward, without even thinking. I tip my shoulder and slam all of my weight into the woman’s back. It sends her flying into the clear part of the crosswalk. I’m not fast enough to clear myself from the same danger, however. The lights bear down on me, and the last thing I hear before the grill strikes me in the chest is the sound of her suitcase crunching under his tires.
This is going to hurt.
Once upon a time, a girl grew up in the region that you now call England. It was a lovely, green, slightly damp place, and she loved it very dearly. She also loved a boy very dearly, and he loved her.
His name was Halifax.
He was a fledgling wizard, still coming into his power. He wooed her with colorful design and making lights dance in the sky, and whispered the wonders of the world in her ear every night as he lulled her off to sleep. She dreamt of places beyond their home, areas that they would hopefully someday finish together. However, the one magical secret he never told her was the bond of her family’s blood to the land.
See, she was the daughter of Chieftan, the descendant of one who had made a pack with an unknown entity many decades earlier. That great-great-great-great-grandfather sold her for power and security without even blinking an eye, and on her seventeenth birthday, that deal came due. She was to die to maintain their connection to the land and secure their power for many more decades until another daughter came along, and they could use her to reinforce the pact.
Halifax told her that there were particular rules to this specific trial and that he would find her a way out of it, only his way out wasn’t a “way” at all. He found the loophole in the contract. To seal the pact, the eldest daughter of the current chieftain had to die. If her body did not rest in the heart of the green hills forever, the deal would be broken. So he made it so that the girl couldn’t die, preserving her precisely as she was forever and eternity.
Once upon a time, that girl used to be me.
I say “used to be” because centuries twisted and turn you, and were it not for my reflection in the mirror, I wouldn’t even remember what her appearance. Cosmetic changes don’t even stick. I can’t dye my hair or get a tattoo because while it would last, for a time, the next time I died, everything would revert to the girl I used to be.
And it's as that girl that I awaken to the worried face of Halifax hanging over me.
“Hello, my love.”
Good. Halifax is learning not to call me by that name anymore. Still, I sigh as I swing my legs over the edge of the shale rock. I always see Halifax every time I awaken. The curse he put on me, to save my life, wasn’t without consequences. If he wished for me to live forever, then he needed to witness every time I bore the brunt of this curse – even long after he died.
Then again, alive and dead tend to be somewhat flexible terms in the land of magic. It’s all about where to reside, rather than the actual status of your soul.
“Halifax.” I stretch out my back, trying to relieve myself of the soreness that shouldn’t matter because I’m dead, albeit only temporarily. “I was hit by a truck.”
He flinches, but it saves him from having to ask me how I died. That is part of the curse too. Then he looks confused. “What is a truck?”
Explaining modern transportation to a man who didn’t live to see the Industrial revolution is always a little harder than it sounds. I pause, trying to figure out the best analogy. “It’s a metal wagon that propels itself forward with an engine. It can go very fast, which is why it can easily kill people.”
Halifax nods as though he understands, but he indeed doesn’t. And I don’t blame him. He never had to see the world grow and change before his eyes. He only finds himself with the glimpses that I can give him.
“But I saved someone’s life,” I continue with a small smile. “So, it was worth it.”
A small smile crosses his face. “It’s good to see that your selflessness hasn’t left you.”
I shake my head. “You made me unkillable. I might as well do something good with it.”
Halifax nods before reaching forward and taking me by the shoulders. “We don’t have much time. I don’t know how quickly you would heal, and while I would love for you to tell me more, there are more pressing matters.”
I frown, unsure of what could be more pressing given that he’s dead and all. He has ample time for research and learning new things, and he’s had centuries to do so, but it’s been ages since he’s spoken to me with this much urgency. Something must be wrong.
“What is it?”
“I think I’ve found a way to break the curse.”
For a moment, I feel like my legs are about to come out from under me. My knees feel like jelly, and I try to steady myself on Halifax’s shoulders. I could escape this frozen moment, be free of a life I’ve been trapped in for centuries, finally. Finally, he’s found a way to correct his mistake.
“I could kiss you.”
“And I would very much love that, but time is of the essence.” He holds me steady, looking deeply into my eyes. “I’ve been doing my research, and it seems as though it all goes back to the demon you evaded all those years ago.”
“What do I have to do, Halifax?” I can feel the darkness starting to creep around the corner of my eyes, meaning I wasn’t sure if I would have the time. That kind of darkness means I’m returning to the real world, and I needed him to spit it out quickly.
“First, I need you to go back to –”
My hands scrambled for his shoulders as the darkness came for me dragging me downwards and back into the real world.
Unfortunately, before I can hear any more than that, I wake up.
#014 ~ strangers in the night ~ original ~ 1,511
Someday, when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight.
The traditional standard sounds tinny on the old car radio, but the voice was still as smooth and comforting as ever. There’s something about the Golden Age crooner that takes Theresa back to a place of safety, long days in her Italian grandmother’s apartment as she cooked, singing slightly off-key over the lines. She closes her eyes as she leans back against the seat, taking in the song for a moment, before glancing over to her partner with a smirk.
“Didn’t take you for a Sinatra fan, Michaelson,” Theresa Castinetti teases as her partner drives them through the early morning traffic in New York. Usually, on these car trips, her ears will be treated to something a little more modern, sometimes edging towards hip-hop, rather than classic standards. Theresa assumes it’s because he’s trying to keep up with his kids in terms of the hip new music group, but she would never dare to say so out loud.
“I am a man of incredibly varied tastes, Castinetti.” He smirks at her over the lip of his morning coffee, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives. “Also, Frank had the car yesterday.”
She laughs at the mention of Jordan’s husband, who is the softer touch of the two. “Okay, that makes a little more sense.”
The gentle jabs come naturally at this hour of the morning when their brains attempt to rev into gear. Getting a call to come to check out a body in the wee hours of the morning is never a fun time for any detective, but going with Jordan at least helped things feel a little more comfortable and familiar. They don’t know much about the body at this point, so they’re just trying to get their brains going enough to be effective on the scene.
They hit the middle of its second chorus when Jordan pulls to a stop around the corner from the crime scene. The early hour of the morning means that while it’s hasn’t reached the peak park challenges you can find in New York City, but given that this is a more residential area, there are still a fair amount of cars taking up convenient street stops. Heat floods around her as they step from the air-conditioned car to the summer streets of the city, and a brisk walk up the sidewalk to the door takes them to the next pocket of air conditioning. There, a uniform greets them with a nod.
“Castinetti and Michaelson?”
“That’s us,” She nods. “Where’s the body?”
“Eighth floor.” The uniform waves them in, handing them each a pair of gloves as they head to the elevator. “Neighbor checked in on her when they hadn’t seen her in a few days. As such, things are a little … ripe.”
Michaelson makes a face. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Have we hit the bloat yet?” Theresa follows up.
Michaelson makes a more prominent face. “Why do you always ask that?”
Theresa raises an eyebrow. “Would you like to walk into a bloated body unprepared?”
The uniform laughs. “Not quite, but if the vic’s neighbor hadn’t been so vigilant, we might have been. Also, the air conditioning was running, so that likely helped too.”
“So not quite keeping a body on ice, but not letting us walk into a hot steaming mess. What a considerate killer.” The elevator doors ding, then open, leaving the empty car for the two detectives to enter. Theresa slides inside before nodding to the uniform with a smile. “Thanks for the update.”
The uniform gives them a quick salute before nodding. “Anytime, Detective.”
As the doors close, Michaelson leans back against the back wall. “The usual? You take the body; I’ll handle the canvas?”
She laughs. “Trying to avoid a bloating body, Jordan?”
He grins. “Look, I have a spotless ‘Never Puked at a Crime Scene’ record. I’m not looking to break it.”
Theresa shakes her head. “Yeah, I’ve got the body. Go, do your thing.”
“Perfect.”
The elevator dings again, and Theresa and Jordan both step off into the long hallway full of cops and crime scene technicians. She spots the medical examiner’s assistant, Sandra Dourmet, filling out some of the chain of custody paperwork, while another uniform stands nearby, carrying bags of potential evidence. The sunny blond glances up at the sound of footsteps, and when she sees Theresa, she gives her a wave and a grin.
“Hey, Resa. Just head on in. Dr. Thomas is in there waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Sandy.” Theresa turns to head into the apartment, indicated to see the medical examiner, Dr. Beau Thomas crouched over the corpse in question, examining her as best he can. Theresa knocks lightly on the nearby wall to get his attention. “Anything interesting?”
“Meet Hillary Beauchamp.” Beau glances up, flashing her a bright, warm smile as he does, the kind that generally makes her insides feel molten whenever she sees it. “She was exsanguinated.”
Theresa’s brow furrows in response as her eyes glance around the rest of the room. The body indeed has the pale pallor of something deprived of its blood before it’s death, but for a crime scene where the victim bled to death, there’s a distinct lack of blood. “You’re sure?”
Beau nods, before waving one hand for her to come closer. Theresa moves to crouch down next to him, taking in each indication on the corpse. “I’m not sure of the how’s yet – or more to the fact where all the blood went, but see these long cuts here?” He indicates the long, deep cuts on each wrist – the kind that would lead you to assume suicide, were it not for the other oddities of the crime scene.
“Yep.”
“This was what contributed to the COD. Pretty much gives away that they bled out and slowly. Which begs the question – where’s the blood?”
“Maybe it was a suicide,” Theresa theorizes. “And whoever found the body, moved her here out of misplaced denial or wanting to protect the deceased?”
“A solid theory, but that doesn’t explain this.” He then inches down to the other end of the body, gently lifting one of the girl’s ankles to show deep, vibrant lividity lines around them, as though they were bound. “Haven’t figured these out yet, but you usually don’t tie yourself up if you’re going to kill yourself.”
“True.”
“I’ll have more for you once I finish the actual autopsy, but yeah. Agreed.” He pushes up to his feet, stretching his back out and cracking his neck as he gets back into a less awkward position. “You want your usual few minutes with her?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Beau.”
“Anytime,” he grins. “I’ll be out front, just let me know when you’re done.”
Theresa waits until the front door closes behind him before taking a deep breath and turning to face the corpse again. It always seemed to work better in a quiet room, as well as in the context of the crime scene, and once everything settles, she closes her eyes before reaching out to put her gloved hand against the cold skin of the corpse.
Sometimes these visions are natural, like floating through the final moments of someone’s life with ease. Others drag her under like a lead weight and threaten to take her further than she wants to go. This vision is the latter and immediately drags her down into the darkness. When she opens her eyes again, everything is upside down.
Literally.
It takes her a second to make sense of it all. She can feel the body aches and the throbbing of pain coming from her wrists as they dangle over her head. She blinks again and tries to tip her head down to see what’s going on below her, but the head won’t move. Everything feels weighted and heavy, but out of the corner of her eye, she can hear the soft sound of humming.
“You’re lovely,” a rough voice begins to sing from somewhere out of view. “Never ever change. Keep that precious charm. Won’t you please arrange it, cuz I love you. And the way you look tonight.”
Footsteps sound from somewhere nearby, before a large, heavy hand grabs her by the hair, lifting her head. She catches a glimpse of what looks like a steel bucket below, full of frothing, dark red liquid. Then, the world spins, and she finds herself facing a masked face.
“See you soon, Detective Castinetti.”
And with that, everything goes dark.
She’s rushed back into the real world again, and falls backward, away from the body with a gasp. She can feel her heart racing, trying to make up for the shock that just occurred. She sits, doing her best to catch her breath, before glancing down at the body in front of her.
She has a powerful feeling that this isn’t going to be the only body.
#015 ~ love and marriage ~ original ~ 1,470
“Your name is Toni Cartonelli?”
Toni feels like she’s on the spot, trying to answer a question she both knows the answer to and doesn’t all at the same time. She squints at the man in front of her – Owen Warren, a detective on his way to becoming chief of police if he plays his cards right, currently overly invested in her name.
She hadn’t known what to expect of this little low-key get together. A girlfriend told her that it was the place where the less conspicuous members of the LGBT community that run in the same circles – journalists, politicians, cops – could get together and be themselves without running the risk of their relationships becoming cannon fodder.
Toni is new in town. She’s not out to anyone, and she’s still trying to gauge the vibe of it. Outings like this are helping, but the way Owen is looking at her makes her start to think that maybe she was getting the wrong idea.
“Antonia Cartonelli, yeah,” she nods, squinting at him for a moment. “Why?”
“No, nothing wrong just … an odd coincidence, I guess.” Before she can interrogate what that means any further, he speaks up and holds up a finger. “Do you want to have dinner? My place. I’ll cook.”
It doesn’t sound like a date. From the impression Owen had given her, he is very gay, and while he’s been slightly awkward, he hasn’t been terrible. It would be good to make some friends where she could be herself. The silence must make him think that she has the wrong idea; he quickly follows up with:
“My boyfriend will be there.”
Yep. Definitely not a date. Toni nods eagerly. “Yeah, sure. Sounds like fun.”
Two weeks and a couple of bottles of wine later, Owen is sitting across from her at his dining room table, and he blurts out this humdinger of a question:
“We should get married.”
Toni blinks. Then she looks from him to his partner, oddly enough named Tony, and back to Owen. “Owen – I’m a lesbian.”
“No, I know.”
“And I thought you were gay?”
“I am. Very gay. But I’m also a cop.” He pauses as he tries to recover. “I’m not marrying you, but I am marrying you.”
Tony runs a hand over his eyes, tipping his head back towards the couch. He doesn’t seem angry that his partner is proposing this hair-brained scheme, and that’s the first clue that she has that’s she’s missing something. “I know we keep things on the down-low, but I think the department has sounded pretty progressive –”
“No, no, no.” Owen waves his hands as he tries to start over. “My boyfriend’s name Antonio Cartonelli. He also goes by Tony.”
Toni straightens, confused, and she glances over at Tony with a frown. “Seriously?”
Tony shrugs. “Cartonelli is a very common name in Italy.”
“Huh.” She pauses for a moment, trying to connect the dots. “Okay, so … Antonio could look kind of like Antonia if you squinted, but I’m still not sure why you need a beard.”
“Tony here is set to inherit the Sarbonella crime family. Long story, very complicated, but the current don has no children, and he’s named Tony his heir.”
Then it all clicks into place. The confusion lifts from Toni’s features as she does. The next chief of police, falling in love with and marrying the local mob outfit's head? That’s not likely to go over well with his superiors.
“Oh.” She nods. “You don’t need me to be your beard because you’re gay. You need me to be your beard because he’s a criminal.”
Owen grins, bringing up his hands - one finger lands on his nose, and the other points to her like they’re playing a game of charades. “Now you’re getting it.”
Tony leans forward, placing his hands over hers with a more serious look on his face, almost as though he’s the only one in the room who understands the weight of this suggestion. Probably because he’s the only one who does, what they’re committing to isn’t fraud exactly, but it might do a lot of damage in the long run.
“You don’t have to go along with this crazy plan. We won’t be mad at you if you decide to change your mind.”
Toni nods as well, squeezing his hands. She weighs her options. Toni’s not currently seeing anyone, still settling into a new place, and highly doubts they’re going to keep her from doing her thing. She’s not the one who’s married.
It might be fun for a while. Until one of the pair figures out what they want because there’s no way that they can keep careening down the path they’re on. “Let me think about it.” She’s surprised she’s sober enough not just to yell out yes, but she’s proud of herself for keeping it together all the same.
“Of course,” Owen nods. “But I appreciate you entertaining it at all.”
The door to the hospital room creaks open, and a dark-haired head pokes his way through, flashing Owen a soft smile. It’s far past visiting hours. Owen’s half asleep and drugged up, so on instinct, the first thing he does is smile. Tony’s so pretty. So pretty and so dangerous, and for some reason in his screwed-up man brain, one doesn’t happen to preclude the other.
“Hey, baby,” Tony sighs as he makes his way into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Good,” Owen grins up at him. The meds are starting to wear off, but he’s still in that soft, loopy space. “Bullet didn’t hit anything important. Just my leg.”
“I think your legs are pretty important,” Tony murmurs, leaning in to kiss the top of his head. “I think all of you are important.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Owen sighs, his head leaning into his husband’s attentions. Toni, his wife on paper, has already stopped in, for the sake of appearances. Tony being here is welcome but worrisome, and their relationship is a secret for a reason. Tony’s the up and coming heir to the Cartonelli mob family, and Owen was just made chief of police. They are two paths that could not afford to intersect. Once Tony comes into his own as heir, they have plans to try and make things better, but until they, they needed to be careful.
“I am your husband,” Tony murmurs, running his fingers through Owen’s hair. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a long, wrapped tube that Owen knows in an instance.
“Is that a sub?” he frowns as he tries to sit up more.
“Yep. It’s your favorite. Stickball special with extra banana peppers.” Tony makes a face like that is not how you should treat a good sandwich. Owen knows Tony’s feelings on these things, but Tony brought it to him anyway. Tony brought Owen his favorite sandwich with no griping or complaining, or without him even having to ask.
Owen may be drugged, but he’s not stupid.
“What did you do?”
Tony raises his eyebrows with a frown. “What are you talking about?”
“This isn’t a love sandwich. This sandwich is an apology sandwich.” He squints at his husband with the suspicion that’s come with being the Chief of Police. “What did you do?”
Tony tips his head backward before holding up his hands placatingly. “I was aiming for the guy on top of you.”
“You shot me.”
Tony hushes Owen quickly, glancing back over his shoulder to ensure the nurses didn’t hear them. “It wasn’t personal. I just … I missed. And I’m so sorry.” Tony reaches forward and nudges the sandwich closer to him. “But I brought you a ‘please forgive me’ sandwich. Out of the depth of my love for you.”
Owen rolls his eyes before pushing up to study the sandwich again. “They won’t let me eat that.”
“The hospital doesn’t have to know.”
“If I get sick, they’ll know. And I don’t want to get sick over this sandwich. I’ll never be able to eat it again.”
Tony sighs before reaching over to tuck the sandwich into his pocket. “I’ll leave it in the fridge for you for when you come home.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I shot you.”
Owen grumbles before looking at his husband. “Did you make it out, okay?”
Tony nods. “Yeah. Everyone was fine. No one died.”
Owen nods again before tugging on his husband’s shirt to pull him in closer. “I love you. But you need to go before someone sees you.”
Tony nods as he leans in and kisses him deeply. “I love you too. And I’ll see you when you get home.”
#016 ~ the stages of grief ~ original ~ 728
Shockingly, the house is well-maintained.
Caleb isn’t entirely sure why that surprises him; his father was always a meticulous person who cared for his property well. The fact that this surprising house that no one in his family knew existed until the executor read his will is as well cared for like everything else he owned shouldn’t catch him off guard, but still, it does.
Ezra doesn’t want anything to do with it. Ezra wants it sold, and the funds split between them since Henry left it to all three of them. Caleb doesn’t seem to think that that’s what his dad would have wanted, but since he’s the youngest, home on spring break instead of out partying with his friends on a sunny beach far away, Caleb’s the one who’s set with the task.
Maybe you can do more for them than I could had been next to the clause, explaining for them to take care of the house. Caleb doesn’t truly understand what that means until he opens the door.
The first thing that strikes him is the television's sound, followed by the scent of cleaning spray. Signs of life appear where they shouldn’t be, and he almost walks out, thinking he has the wrong house, before someone steps into the entryway.
He’s tall, with square shoulders and an easy-going smile. He also happens to be the most beautiful man Caleb had ever seen. This moment could be his bi awakening because he didn’t realize he was into men, but he would one hundred percent do this guy if given a chance. The feelings come on so hard and fast that he finds himself blushing and doing his best to adjust his backpack in front of him strategically.
“Hi,” the man smiles, and Caleb doesn’t know what to do.
“Uh, hi. I’m … Caleb.” Good job, dumbass. Excellent introduction. “I think I might have the wrong house.” He turns to go almost immediately.
The man squints before reaching out to take his arm. “Wait, wait. Henry’s son, Caleb?”
Caleb blinks in surprise before turning to face him again. “You knew my dad?”
“Yeah. Henry owns our house.”
So that settles that. Caleb is in the right place. Taking a deep breath, he looks around the rest of his house. “Right. I guess I … didn’t realize people were living here.”
The man extends his hands to his side and wiggles his fingers. “Surprise. So I guess you’re here to meet the tenants?”
“Uh.” His mouth gapes before slowly shaking his head. “I’m here to sell it.”
The man’s face falls immediately, confusion coloring his features. “What?”
“My dad, he, uh. He left it to my siblings and me. They want to sell it off.” He should not be the one here, telling them this, but here we are. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m sorry, what did he just say.” A second voice enters the fray from the stairs. This guy is built like a linebacker and is red in the face like he’s ready to start a fight. “He can’t just kick us out of our fucking house.”
“Dude, dude.” The first man steps between the two of them, cutting Angry Guy off at the pass. “He didn’t know we were here.”
“Yeah. About that. Who are you, exactly?”
“That’s … a bit complicated. But we also … can’t exactly go. Your dad was helping us work on it, but basically, we’re stuck here.”
Caleb frowns as he glances between the two of them. “What do you mean you’re stuck here?”
The first man looks sympathetic, almost as though he doesn’t want to break it to him this way, but he doesn’t have much choice. “We’re ghosts, Caleb. We’re haunting this house.”
Caleb glances between the two of them, eyes widening in confusion before shaking his head and backing up. “Nope.”
“Nope?” The first man looks confused.
“Nope. I’m not doing this today.” Caleb shakes his head again and turns to head back out the door. “Fuck this shit. I’m out.”
The first man’s eyes roll up towards the ceiling as Caleb storms out, slamming the door behind him. The second shakes his head as he goes to follow after him.
“Nice going, dick-for-brains.” He wrenches the door open and watches as Caleb storms back to his car. “This is why we let Pride do all the talking.”
#017 ~ no astronomical phenomenon could ever stop me ~ original ~ 1,021
As Jodie made her way from one end of the compound to the other, she can feel the pressure coming down harder and harder against her shoulders. It’s a subtle thing at first, just a little bit of force pulling her closer and closer to the ground as she goes, until it’s almost impossible to move her feet, and she groans as she makes her way over to the intercom panel. Her fingers glance against the screen, pulling up the requisite information, and she finds the gravity regulator, resting comfortably at eighty-eight percent.
Grumbling, she pushes a few buttons, opening a compound wide channel before announcing: “How many times have I told you, kids, to stop turning up the gravity? It stays at sixty-eight percent; if you don’t like it, put on a weight jacket.”
She twists the dial back down to sixty-eight after, feeling some of the weightlessness return to her feet again. Not enough to take her off the ground. She’s too heavy for that – but enough to relieve some of the strain on her limbs. Being on a mass that has considerably less gravity than Earth has made things awkward. They spent months trying to determine the perfect status for most people in the house.
But the little ones always tend to float a little bit farther than the adults.
As she makes her way around the corner to one of the family rooms, she pauses and sticks her head in the door to check on Jacqueline and Marty.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, mom,” they grumble as they look up at her. Marty is the smallest of their little pack, and he hovers just slightly above the ground as he walks to her.
“We’re sorry. We were playing a game and didn’t realize you were home.” He throws his arms around her waist as a pouty act of contrition, and she sighs before reaching down to run her hands through his curly hair.
“I know, sweetheart. But still – it’s safer to wear weight jackets. Messing around with gravity could cause some dangerous side effects.”
“I know,” Marty sighs before pulling away from her. “Will dinner be ready soon?”
“I’m just about to go check on your father now. Better clean up, to be on the safe side.”
Marty nods, pulling away from her and heading to clean up his toys, goading his sister into helping. Jodie watches them for a moment longer, enjoying the normalcy, before turning and walking in search of her husband. He’s also not that hard to find, standing in the kitchen and preparing the family meal. Smiling, she comes up behind him and wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
“Hey, you,” Martin murmurs, lifting one of her hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “How was work?”
She sighs, trying to determine where to start. She waits a little too long because her husband winces.
“That bad?”
“There’s a project they want me to head.” He pulls away, turning to face her so that he can get a good look at her face in the process.
“Good project or bad project?”
“Good in terms of my career.”
“But?”
“Bad in terms of my ability to be here.”
“Ah.” He nods slowly, letting his hands rest against the side of her waist, pulling her in closer. “As in you’ll be traveling or as in you’ll just be pulling a lot of late nights.”
“The former. The bosses want me to go back down to Earth and monitor the growth of the extraterrestrial life forms we’ve discovered. See if they can grow better in a place where we can better control the climate.”
“You can’t control the climate here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow curiously, and she shakes her head.
“Not enough, true sunlight.”
“I see.” He rubs her arms gently. “Do you want to go?”
She lets the silence speak for her again. “I feel terrible because I dragged you all up here with me because of my job. Now the kids are in school, and … it doesn’t feel right to drag them out and force them to go back to readjusting to Earth.”
Martin reaches for one of the carrots he was cutting, holding it out for her to pop into her mouth. She takes it, chewing on the sweet, carrot texture as she waits for him to work through his thoughts. Jodie knows she can’t just uproot her family every time her job changes, but she also knows that being away from them is too hard.
One day, she’ll have to sacrifice something for her job in favor of her family, and maybe today is that day.
“How much time do you have to think about it?”
“About a week?” She shrugs. “They didn’t give me a definitive time table. It’s still in the early planning stages because we have to make sure they’ll have the lab space back home.”
Martin nods before pulling her in closer and wrapping his arms around her. “Then I suggest you don’t think about it for now.” He kisses her. “Stay in tonight, enjoy dinner with your family, and sleep on it. Maybe the options will seem more transparent in the morning.
Jodie smiles as she leans in to kiss him back, winding her arms around his neck. “You know, I think that sounds like a fantastic idea.”
“Good,” he smiles in return before giving her another piece of carrot. “Go, make sure the kids are ready. Dinner needs in ten minutes.”
She smirks as she leans in closer. “Sure I can’t entice you into something else for ten minutes?”
He laughs before kissing the top of her head. “Now, now, Dr. Miller. No dessert before dinner. You might ruin your appetite.”
Jodie laughs as she heads back to the hallway, poking her head out to shout after the kids. “Kids! Come set the table.” She then turns around to her husband. “I’m gonna hold you to that dessert comment.”
Martin grins as he turns back to the stove. “I would expect nothing less.”
#018 ~ it smelled like turpentine; it looked like india ink ~ original ~ 740
The farmer’s market is the perfect place to begin testing.
It’s early on Saturday as she makes her way out, the small, palm-sized device fitting neatly in her hand. Famers and other growers around the county have made their way to a small, crowded patch of land to try and sell their wares to those who wish to take advantage of the fresh fruit and vegetables. Typically Amelia is a fan of such places, having swung by on more than one occasion to pick up fresh produce for her home cooking, but today she needs to look at it from behind the scientist’s objective screen.
She’s here to test her device—nothing more, nothing less.
… Okay, maybe if she’s successful, she’ll pick up an order of sticky buns from one of the bakers on the other side of the lot, but that’s the only distraction she’ll allow herself!
Adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she keeps her eyes on her phone screen, scrolling through the results as she gets them. To combat food waste, she tried to find a way to give people a more objective way of confirming whether or not fresh food is truly bad or merely unappealing to see. While there have been various means of trying to combat it over the years, many options require a buy-in, possibly more than it’s worth to them.
Amelia set out to build a device that could combat that. A simple, inexpensive piece of technology that could scan produce or any other food for disease or rot and give people more confidence in what they’re buying. There doesn’t even need to be a lot of math involved. Green means go, yellow means safe, but eat within a few days, and red does not touch. It’s such a simple design; she’s surprised that someone hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“Pleased to discover that it even works from a distance,” she dictates into her phone, keeping her distance from the crowds and booths so as not to upset or concern the other guests or the sellers. “Clear readings from at least five feet away. Also, mostly yellow and green.”
It’s good to know that the sellers here want to keep her business as much as she wants to give it to them.
About an hour later, she finishes making her way through all the stalls and is pleased with the results. As she finalizes her notes in text form, she sweeps back around again, stopping at the green vendors to pick up her produce for the week, as well as the sticky buns she promised herself. It’s at that last particular vendor that she catches sight of a booth she hadn’t seen earlier. A woman is standing in the front, offering samples to people as they pass by.
Amelia takes her sticky buns with a smile before sliding her purse back onto her shoulder and beginning to make her way back out to the street. As she passes by the strange booth, the woman leans forward, holding the plate of odd-looking fruit out to her.
“Free sample? They’re delicious. Perfect for someone with a sweet tooth.”
She nods to the box of sticky buns, and Amelia admits she’s curious for the moment. But, if she’s going to have sticky buns, she will have to be reserved, and eating strange fruit doesn’t always seem to be the smart way to go. It also doesn’t help that her phone is vibrating furiously in her pocket. Amelia shakes her head before stepping away from the woman with a small smile.
“So sorry, but not today.”
The woman nods, disappointed by the denial but not trying to impede Amelia any further. Amelia moves away, heading back towards her car and opening the door to put her sticky buns and groceries down in the front seat. She then fishes out her phone to see what all the hullaballoo is.
She opens the screen to find the still open app for her device and data still incoming. The screen is flashing red, indicating clear danger, and she frowns before clicking through to the data screen to see what triggered it from the sample offer. She then stares at the words with a small amount of disbelief.
STATUS: DANGEROUS
REASON: 100% CHANCE OF ANCIENT CURSE
Amelia glances back over her shoulder towards the farmer’s market and can’t help but squint.
“What the hell.”
#019 ~ winning capitalism ~ original ~ 1,406
Stephanie Alvarez steps out of the chilly D.C. winter to the warmth of the Bureau of Capitalism. The lobby is full of people, all in varying stages of professional dress, chatting idly with each other as they wait. Adjusting the laptop bag on her shoulder, she wanders further into the room, eyes roaming each of the faces in search of familiar ones. She knows she’s not the only accountant tapped from her firm for the government’s year-end round-up.
She’s never actually participated in the “Christmas Rush,” as her boss likes to call it. Her stomach flutters with a funny rush of nerves and excitement as she looks around the room, picking out the veterans, some camped out on the corners already looking exhausted. Newbies seem to have the same jittery excitement she did, chatting with new colleagues, albeit temporarily, or old friends, depending. She’s wandering over to one of the surprisingly empty couches nearby when she hears her name break over the crowd.
“Steph!”
She turns to see her colleague, Andy Monroe, stumbling over some people nearby to fall into place next to her. His long brown hair falls in front of his face as he sits before glancing up with a grin.
“This place is crazy, right?”
“I can’t believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many accountants in one place.” She leans back on the couch next to her. “Are you nervous at all?”
“Nah,” he smirks as he lounges easily on the couch. “It’s not us who needs to worry. It’s the people we’re auditing.”
“Fair point. I guess I don’t want to make a mistake that might ruin someone’s life, you know?”
“These people are too rich to have their lives ruined.” Andy shakes his head like someone in the Bureau uniform appears in the front of the room. “No matter what we do, they’ll be fine.”
Stephanie isn’t so sure, but the concern disappears as the woman holds up a megaphone and brings it to her lips.
“Good morning, accountants! We are so happy that you could all join us to calculate the winners for this year’s round of Capitalism! As you check-in, you’ll be split into groups by name, and given the introductory tour, as well as shown to the rooms where you’ll be working for the next three weeks. Now, we have a lot to do. Please step forward as you hear your name, starting with the A’s.”
Andy smirks as he nudges her forward. “Guess you better get up there.”
“I’ll try and find you for lunch, okay?” She holds up her closed fist for a fist bump, and he obliges her.
“You got it.”
After saying her goodbyes, she makes her way to the front of the room, approaching one of the workers standing there with a clipboard. The woman, “GAIL” written on her name tag in large bold letters, appraises her before glancing down again. “Name?”
“Alvarez. Stephanie.”
Gail nods, before paging through a collection of lanyards on one arm until she finds the one with Stephanie’s name on it. “This is your security badge and identification. It must be visible while in the building at all times.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She takes the lanyard and throws it over her head. Gail then shoves a manila envelope into her hands.
“That is your onboarding paperwork. While you’re technically working for your employer, this is for our record-keeping to make sure we’re billing them for the correct number of hours.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
Gail shakes her head, gesturing with her pen to the small gaggle of folks gathering with the introductory speaker. “Have at it.”
Stephanie nods as she makes her way over, falling in step next to the rest of the A’s. The original speaker has a nametag that reads “JUDY.” She gives them all a smile when the whole group is together.
“Alrighty then. If you’ll all follow me, we’ll get started.”
The group heads down the hallway to the left, leading in a large circle around the entirety of the building. The first few rooms Judy points out are things like the bathroom or the cafeteria, and Stephanie takes note for herself, but that eventually transitions into something more museum-like as they move towards the first exhibit. The large, ornate portrait features a tall, young man in a suit that seems a little awkward on him, shaking hands with one of the former presidents.
“This is Milton Waller, the originator of the Capitalism program. It’s through his careful planning and data work that we were able to create the program that funds a good portion of our social outreach programs today. Who knew that it would take a young visionary to realize that the answer was as simple as gamifying Capitalism.”
Judy takes a few steps further into the room, before gesturing to the opposite wall, where another large portrait is featured, this time of a bald man who looks equal parts baffled and pained.
“On your left, you’ll see Jeff Bezos, the first Winner of Capitalism in 2025. Through the funds we gained in that first year, we were able to fully fund a housing program that took millions of people off the street and gave them homes of their own.”
They follow through some of the next few rooms, highlighting the first few winners who donated so much wealth to the Capitalism program. All the stories inspire, especially the good the money does, and Stephanie finds herself more energized for the task ahead.
Eventually, Judy herds them into a small workspace, lined with desks and computers for them to get started. “Just pick a seat anywhere,” Judy nods as she waves them all in. “Then, we’ll go over the rules and regulations, as well as our expectations.” It takes a few minutes for them to settle into place, eyes turned attentively to the woman at the front of the room.
“Now, I know you have something daunting in front of you so that I won’t waste too much of your time. You will be responsible for auditing the top corporations in the country. Whoever has accumulated the most wealth will be crowned the winner, but I don’t want you to be concerned about where the client falls on our leaderboard. All we ask of you is correct, accurate numbers.”
It seems simple enough. Go through the profits and make sure that the numbers add up accordingly. Stephanie nods as she rolls her shoulders, settling in to get comfortable.
“What we need for your candidate to be marked as processed and qualify for the leaderboard is simple. We need the amount of their excess wealth, in dollars, that they currently have in their possession. They are allowed certain exemptions – donations to charity, within reason. They keep enough money to successfully run their business and pay their employees at their current salaries. So factor their costs, and whatever is in excess is their number. Whoever has the largest pot at the end of the audit process will be the winner and then donate it to our public programs.”
One of the other accountants raises their hand, and Judy nods to them in acknowledgment. “What about offshore accounts?”
“Yes, those illegal accounts were a problem initially, but most know that that’s not something they can hide from us. If you think something is off with the money flow, bring it to our attention, and we’ll get our agents on it. Same, if you suspect they’re not paying their fair share of the tax bracket, they’ll be penalized for that as well.”
The accountant nods, and Stephanie glances around the room for a moment before raising her hand. “Will the companies be aware of who’s working on what?”
Judy shakes her head. “No, and if any of them approach you, I need you to let us know immediately. Bribery and outside influence are against the rules, and they will be penalized for that as well. Any other questions?” The room falls silent, and she nods. “Good. Then I will leave you to your work. Good luck, and if you run into any trouble, do let us know.”
She leaves the room to attend to the next group, and Stephanie turns to face her computer again. She takes a deep breath, then reaches forward to press the power button on the side.
“Here we go,” she murmurs to herself. “On your mark, get set – math.”
#020 ~ as we rest here alone like notes on a page ~ original ~ 1,058
Jamie had never put much stock in past lives.
She’s sure that there are people out there who profit from those who believe in that metaphysical nonsense, who want to think that this life is a second chance to fix what they couldn’t fix before, because after all, what’s the point of life if they couldn’t. She’s seen the offers as she wanders through the streets on her way home from work, toting the skills of experts who could read into your past life and repressed memories, see what you did wrong last time, and tell you how to change yourself now so as not to repeat the cycle. As far as she’s concerned, it’s a pretty heavy crock of bullshit.
Then Apollo 22 set down on Mars, and a collective shiver went down the world’s spine.
Jamie still remembers the way it made her skin crawl, this forced feeling that someone was touching something they weren’t supposed to, disturbing something they shouldn’t have disturbed. It doesn’t make any sense, because even if it were what the psychics were claiming, how could this have happened?
They say that when you shiver, it means that someone’s stepped on your past life’s grave. Jamie never believed in that sort of thing, but how does that work. How did her past life live on Mars if she’s spent her entire life on Earth?
And how did all of them feel it all at once?
She’s currently burrowed herself in her office at the University of Cincinnati, stacks of books on the various interpretations of past lives over the years. Her archaeology skills are limited in this particular form of research, and she’s not sure she believes, exactly. Still, she can briefly entertain the notion, at least for now, until she understands the why and how.
A short knock raps on her door, and her head pops up from the paper with a frown. She pauses to adjust the glasses on her nose before pushing up and straightening her desk, putting the offending texts away for later.
“Yes?”
The door opens, and two men in suits make their way inside. One has the stature of an academic, hunched shoulders and worn patches on the elbows and other suits’ areas. The other has the size of an agent, broad square shoulders, eyes scanning the rest of the room as though threads were hiding in her preciously preserved fossils and relics.
“Dr. Adder,” the academic begins, holding a hand out to her. “My name is Dr. Anthony Muller. I work for NASA.”
Nagging familiarities about the man click into place with that introduction. “You’re the man in charge of the Apollo 22 mission.”
“Yes,” he smiles, relieved. “And this is Agent Cordon from the FBI.”
The FBI is a little more worrisome. She glances between the two men as she shakes Muller’s hand, hoping she seems more curious than concerned. “What can I do for you, boys?”
“If you’re familiar with who I am, I take it you’re familiar with what happened after Apollo 22 touched down?”
“I experienced it, same as everyone else, if that’s what you mean.” She gestures for the two men to sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Muller takes her up on the offer; Cordon doesn’t. “I’m curious what you think this has to do with me.”
“You’re not in trouble if that’s what you’re worried about.” Muller holds up his hands in a placating gesture, while the look Cordon gives her silently adds a yet to that statement. “I’m a big fan of your work. I just finished reading your paper about the discovery you made in Death Valley.”
“Really?” Muller certainly knows how to flatter. “Then I’m glad someone enjoyed it. But it still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, in my office.”
Muller sighs. “I’m sure you, like us, have a lot of questions about what happened on Mars that would generate that kind of reaction. The metaphysics of past lives are complicated, from what we understand, but we didn’t think that they were interplanetary.”
Jamie raises an eyebrow. “You believe in past lives, Dr. Muller?”
“I’m open to anything. Especially if it’s something that might lead to a discovery unlike any we’ve ever seen.”
Jamie straightens in her chair as she starts to connect the dots on what he’s saying. “Wait. You’re not …”
“As I said, I’m a big fan of your work.” He leans forward, clearly invested. “And I would love for you to run this project.”
Jamie pushes her glasses up her nose again as she leans in closer. “Let me get this straight. You want me to run an archaeological dig on Mars to try and find the collective past lives of the human race.”
“Think about it this way,” he says with a small shrug. “Whatever’s up there, it’s gotta be pretty cool, right?”
She’s finding it hard to argue with that line of thinking. Jamie’s eyes float up to Cordon, raising an eyebrow at him. “So what do you get out of all of this?”
“Just here for security, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh.” Jamie runs a hand through her hair, her brain spinning with the possibilities. “You know I’m not an astronaut. I’m not going to be able to hop a ride to Mars on the next flight.”
“We have time to get you up to speed, but I think you’ll be just fine.” Muller’s hand goes into his pocket and pulls out a card, reaching forward and placing it down on her desk. “Think about it. And give me a call when you have an answer.”
She nods in agreement, and she can’t guarantee her answer will be yes. But she can’t deny something is intriguing about the opportunity. She reaches for the card, pulling it into her chest so that she can study it, before looking up at the two men as they go to exit her office.
“Hey, Cordon. What do you think about past lives?”
Cordon turns back to look at her as he reaches to pull out his sunglasses, and he shrugs. “I’ve got enough troubles in my life, ma’am. I prefer to stick with this one.”
She smiles as he disappears out of the room, and she turns her chair to face the windows. “I think I like you already.”
#021 ~ life, take 2 ~ original ~ 1,201
Twenty years.
Twenty fucking years.
It’s the phrase that keeps repeating through Maisie’s head as she stands in the rain, stranded alongside Route 287, watching the cars roll past, one after the other. Moving towards shelter has become complicated, with the increasing pitfalls and divots in the land beneath her feet. She’s inching closer and closer to the shoulder of the road, trying to find her way to the steadier ground, but she also doesn’t want to get too close, where there’s a chance a car that can’t see her might hit her. Not that she particularly cares.
In reality, she had done this to herself, though she doubts anyone would blame her. When your spouse of twenty years comes clean about how he’s leaving you for a long term affair he’s been having with your best friend, it’s hard to focus on anything else or have an urge to move forward. Twenty years of her life wasted, down the drain. Two relationships, gone. She feels the ground crumbling under her, and she doesn’t know how to move forward.
So she forced herself out of the car and started walking. She was bound to found somewhere to stop eventually.
Maisie can’t help but focus on all the things she had to give up to keep this relationship with the man she thought she loved. No kids. No career. No … nothing. Her life amounts to nothing now.
What a fucking waste.
She’s finally found her way to the shoulder, and as she does, her heel catches on a crack in the pavement, snapping under the force. She tumbles forward, pitching to the pavement and landing hard. While she does manage to get her hands under herself to protect her face, she can feel the pain radiating through her. Part of her wishes that she had stayed on the grass. While she’d be muddy, she’d at least have had a soft landing.
As she struggles to her feet, a pair of headlights pass her, pulling over on the shoulder. The driver’s side door opens, and a woman approaches, pulling her hood up over her head to protect her hair.
“Oh my god, are you okay?”
The woman seems about her age, maybe a little younger. She has a kind face and holds out a hand to Maisie to help her to her feet. Maisie takes it, nodding as the other woman lifts her.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. My heel broke.”
“What are you even doing out here?”
“That is a very long story. But thank you for stopping. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense.” The woman waves with one hand as she steadies Maisie with the other. “My name’s Lucy. Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“No, I insist.” Lucy squeezes her hand before leading Maisie back towards her car. “I didn’t have anything better to do tonight. Why don’t we get you in the car, get you a glass of wine, and you can tell me all about it.”
Maisie doesn’t know what it is about this woman, but honestly, the offer to talk is a nice one. She nods in agreement, following her to the car and letting out a sigh of relief when she sinks into the warm, dry car.
“I’m Maisie, by the way. Sorry for getting water everywhere.”
“Oh, don’t you even worry about it. Now, I think there’s a bar up here somewhere that we could pull into …”
Maisie starts to nod in agreement before she has a brilliant, fantastic idea for a much better option. “Actually, how do you feel about milkshakes?”
There’s a groan, an actual groan that Maisie would deny if anyone ever asked her as she bit down into the soft roll, and her mouth fills with the savory flavors of the hot dog with the works. Two milkshakes were resting in the cupholders as they sat in the drive-in at Sonic. Lucy laughs as she prepares to dive into her hot dog, and Maisie shakes her head as she swallows.
“You don’t understand. I haven’t had a hot dog in twenty-five years.”
Lucy raises an eyebrow. “You’re kidding?”
She shakes her head. “My husband was against fast food of any kind. Thought it was disgusting. He insisted I home cook every night.”
“Did he ever volunteer to cook?” Maisie raises an eyebrow at Lucy in return, and she throws her head back and laughs. “Right, of course. Who am I kidding?”
“You’re a housewife, Maze,” Maisie replies, mimicking her husband’s gruff voice. “What the hell else do you have to do all day?”
Lucy shakes her head. “Ungrateful.”
“Indeed,” Maisie says, before taking another bite of her hot dog. “But he’s gone now. So I can eat whatever the fuck I want.”
Lucy’s face softens as she reaches forward to place a hand on Maisie’s shoulder gently. “I’m so sorry, hun. You are having a hell of a night.”
Maisie grabs her milkshake and shakes her head. “I just … I know everyone I know is going to tell me to forget him. But forgetting him isn’t going to be the problem. Tom is forgettable enough as it is.”
“He certainly sounds like it.”
“But … all the things I gave up because I thought I loved him. I had a career when we met. I wanted kids! And now … now the best years of my life are gone, and I have to start over while he loses nothing.”
“So, what do you want?”
The question shouldn’t seem as ominous as it does, but there’s something about it that rubs Maisie the wrong way. She takes a long drag on her milkshake, trying to think about what it is she did want. It’s easy to condemn what he did to her. That is indefensible. But thinking about her next steps are more laborious.
“I don’t know.”
“No, you do know.” Lucy shifts in the driver’s seat as she turns to face Maisie more. “Don’t think logically about this. It’s not going to do you any good right now. But if you could ask for anything, no matter how realistic, what would it be?”
Maybe it’s the milkshake going to her head. Perhaps it’s the needing to vent of it all. But when the wheels in her head start spinning, and she thinks about what she wants, only one thing comes to mind.
“I want my choices back. I want the last quarter of a century back.”
Lucy's mouth curls at the corner, and there’s still something about it that rubs Maisie wrong, but she shakes it off when Lucy reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card.
“I think I know just the thing. When you wake up tomorrow, call me. Then we’ll start getting the best years of your life back.”
Maisie raises an eyebrow curiously because she’s not entirely sure what this means in the grand scheme of things. But she takes the card, tucking it into her purse with a nod.
“Okay.”
Lucy smiles before putting the car in reverse and starting to pull out of the parking lot. “Okay. Let’s get you home.”
#022 ~ come and knock on my door ~ original ~ 1,174
It’s the doorways that get him.
It’s not to say he’s not charming enough to get past them. He generally is, most of the time. Simon has this ability to put most people at ease, and it only seems to be heightened by his unnatural vampire charisma. He can get invited into people’s homes without a second thought, breeze into their comfort zones for better or for worse, and most of the time, people don’t think twice about inviting him inside.
But those precious few that trip up their words or don’t say it in precisely those terms. The ones looking for vampires for their ends and want to know who they are inviting into their homes are a valid concern and annoying. Those are the people that get him into trouble and leave him stranded at their doorway, not allowing him any further access.
Yes, doorways are the things that have him sulking on the couch of their lavish home, pondering to himself in the middle of the day.
“Why so, pensive?” Hermoine asks, making her way closer and perching on the edge of the couch. “You’re never one to have too much on your mind.”
Simon looks up at her with a frown. “I’m trying to get around the need to be invited.”
The other woman raises an eyebrow in return, picking up her glass of blood-red liquid in the process. She likely bled one of the cabana boys not too long ago for her mid-afternoon snack. “Why not just compel them?”
“I thought the idea was to fly under the radar,” Simon challenges, raising an eyebrow at her in return. “Compulsion only gets us so far, and there are ways to prevent against that.”
“True, I suppose.” She tips her head to the side. “But still, you have enough charm to get around it, if you put your mind to it.”
“I suppose.” He reaches for the glass, taking a drink himself as he thinks. “But there has to be an easier way. Something we could convince the masses to do that would buy us an opportunity.”
Hermione leans forward, draping herself against the back of the couch as she considers. “What did you have in mind?”
He glances over to her with a smile before resting his chin in his hand. “What if the ‘welcome’ was right at the door?”
Hermione can’t help but ask, the curious creature that she is. “What did you have in mind?”
The heavy mat hits the cement in front of their home with a heavy flop against the stone. Simon steps back, revealing a neatly tailored mat with a phrase embroidered across the front in heavy block letters:
WELCOME. COME ON IN.
Simon looks back at her with a grin, holding out his hands in front like some display. “Eh? What do you think?”
Hermione seems skeptical, resting her arm on his shoulders as she studies it. “It certainly doesn’t go with the décor.”
Simon shrugs. “It only has to stay until the trend picks up.”
“How do we know it will work?”
“Well, would you like to take a stroll and find out?”
He offers Hermione his arm, and she takes it with a nod, letting him lead the way through their winding neighborhood. The starlight twinkles off the blond highlights in her otherwise dark hair, and she looks regal in a way he doesn’t always appreciate. Her eyes tip up to the sky, and she smiles.
“It is a lovely night.”
“It is,” he nods. “Only a few more of these before winter comes.”
Hermione shivers on his arm, using it to tuck herself in closer. “What did you have in mind for winter? Maybe taking a plane out to California? The days may not be any longer, but at least they’re still warm.”
“I think that sounds like a fantastic idea, but I want to make sure this little idea of mine catches on first.”
She sighs. “You and your projects. Always having to keep yourself busy.”
Simon shrugs as he stops in front of one of the nearby homes. The door is closed, but sitting on the front stoop is one of Simon’s ridiculous mats. He makes sure she notices before rapping lightly on the door. A few moments later, old Mrs. McCready pulls open the door, glancing between the two of them.
“Oh, hello.”
“Hello, ma’am. We live just up the road and are wondering what that divine scent is coming from your cottage?”
“Oh, I’m just making pies for the upcoming festival. That’s so kind of you to notice.”
“They just smell so divine,” Hermione nods, playing along. “How could we not?”
“Would you like to have a piece?” The older woman smiles. “Plenty to go round still on the test pie.”
“That’s so kind of you. We would love some.”
Hermione also nods her agreement, waiting for the moment of opportunity as the older woman steps back, holding the door open. It’s an apparent nonverbal sign for “come in,” but under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be enough, and they’d have to dance around things some more. But Simon holds up his hand, gesturing for Hermione to take the lead.
“Ladies first.”
Hermione eyes him carefully, unsure, before stepping up and making her way to the open doorway. She watches with wonder as her footsteps through the threshold without hindrance, almost as though she were an average human. She passes through to the other side before glancing back at Simon with a curious expression.
Simon lifts his eyebrows to say “told you so” before stepping through himself into the kitchen. Mrs. McCready closes the door before gesturing for them to follow her to the kitchen. Hermione retakes Simon’s arm and pulls him in close.
“It’s like magic.”
“Not at all,” Simon smiles. “Just a loophole.”
Mrs. McCready fixes them both two slices of pie, placing them down in front of the two vampires. “There you are. Hope you enjoy it.”
“Why, thank you,” Simon nods. “This looks delicious.”
Hermione can’t help but grin as her fangs drop and her eyes darken. “And honestly, so do you.”
The older woman starts, but she doesn’t stand a chance, as the vampires are on her before she can scream.
Once they finish with the McCready family, they saunter their way outside again, and Hermione stoops to pick up the welcome mat. Simon raises an eyebrow at her curiously, and she shrugs. “You want them to catch on, after all. And we don’t want to leave any clues.”
“Fair point,” he nods before looping his arm in hers again. “I truly do think California will be lovely this time of year, once we plant the appropriate seeds here.”
Hermione studies the map curiously as they walk. “Do you think it will catch on?”
Simon nods, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “It’s like any good trend, darling. Put it in the right hands, and it will catch on like wildfire.”