creativewriting

Grey

A Hero/Villain Piece

In which a new, recurring side character is introduced: The Sidekick.

“So it comes to this,” the Villain sneered. Defiance flashed in their bruised eyes as they glared at the Hero from their knees. They took a deep breath, refusing to grimace as their ribs creaked. The Hero could hit hard when they wanted to. And if they were properly motivated. The Villain relished the satisfaction of a job well done, despite the pain. They had finally found the Hero’s weakness. At the cost of a few broken ribs and ruined coat, sure, but they knew how to plan for the future now. 

“Doesn’t it always?” The Hero asked. They looked impassively down at their nemesis. Blood covered the Villain’s face and stained their once impeccably white shirt. The sleeves were torn at the shoulder, soot and dirt was smeared across their chest, and their pants were ripped at the knees, their boots scuffed beyond repair. The remains of their coat lay in tatters around them, the fabric little more than threads. 

“Well, yes. But I’m usually the one standing over you crowing my victory.”

The Hero ignored the Villain’s jape, and turned to look at the wall behind them.

“Are you alright?” They called.

“Y… yes!” Came the quavery reply. From around the corner appeared the Hero’s Sidekick. They were battered and shaky on their feet, but at least they were alive. 

Seeing them, the Villain laughed, a harsh, maniacal cackle that frayed the Hero’s nerves. They’d heard that laugh too many times, and it never boded well.

“Stay where you are,” the Hero barked as the Sidekick approached.

“But they’re-”

“DO WHAT I SAY!” The Hero’s voice took on a quality that surprised the Villain. The Hero sounded… Frightened? Furious? That was interesting.

With a look that mirrored the Villain’s sentiment, the Sidekick stopped just out of reach. They wrapped their arms around their torso, shielding the cuts and bruises the Villain knew were visible through their thin, ripped shirt. After all, the Villain had inflicted them personally. 

Silence filled the warehouse, the sounds of the night-enshrouded city reaching the trio as if through a fog. It was one of the Villain’s favorite locations in the city. Just central enough to run the risk of getting caught, but just far enough out of the way that it was unlikely for screaming to be heard.

“I’m surprised,” the Villain rasped, breaking the relative silence. “I didn’t expect you to actually try to kill me.” They coughed, spitting a gob of bloody phlegm on the ground, disgusted with their mortality.

“You changed the rules when you brought them into this,” the Hero said, jerking their head at their Sidekick. “It was supposed to be just you and me. No one else.”

“Oh my darling Hero, such naiveté. It was never just about us.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can you say it was only ever about us with an entire city out there?” If it didn’t hurt so much the Villain would have gestured to encompass the surrounding metropolis. As it was, they sat up a little straighter, staring the Hero in the eyes. “It’s always been about them.” The Villain nodded at the Sidekick, who flinched as if they’d been struck. “About how they perceive us. How we affect them.”

“It’s not. You’re wrong,” the Hero whispered, anger flickering in their eyes. The cuts on their knuckles cracked open as they clenched their hands; blood trickled down their fingers.

“Am I?” The Villain laughed again, coughed, and sagged back onto their heels, supporting themself with an arm braced on the ground. Monologging was difficult with broken ribs. “Tell me, my Hero. When has anyone from the city ever asked about you, personally?”

The Hero’s silence was answer enough.

“Exactly. You see, it was never about us. It’s always been about our game, and what that game brings to news feeds and conversations. They don’t care about us. Hero, Villain. It makes no difference. We’re just actors to them, never mind that we live and walk among them. Even your lovely fragile Sidekick over there thinks so. Look at how they adore you, worship you, as if you’re nothing but an idol.”

“Then why did you bring them into this?” The Hero asked, eyes flicking to their Sidekick. They watched the exchange with rapt attention, proving the Villain’s point.

A satisfied smile crept across the Villain’s face.

“The game was growing stale. The masses’ attention was wavering. It was time to bring in a new player.”

Without warning, the Hero drew a gun from an inner pocket and leveled it at the Villains’ chest. Their carefully neutral visage cracked, their face filled with loathing.

The Villain’s eyes widened in fear for but a second before they schooled their own expression into unconcerned indifference. But the Hero saw the fear. Had they been looking anywhere but the Villain’s face, they would have missed it.

“Oh come on, really?” The Villain taunted. “Since when-“

“Since you made it personal.”

The Villain shrugged, the movement coming across as nervous rather than nonchalant. “It’s always been personal, my dear. Why do you think I chose you? Why I chose them?”

“Why?”

“You’re interesting. More interesting than other Heroes I’ve broken in the past. You’re resilient in a way that I admire. You remind me of me.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

The Villain chuckled. “We’ll see, my dear. We’ll see.”

The Hero didn’t say anything, but kept the gun leveled at the Villain. The Sidekick looked from one to the other, trepidation and confusion etched on their young face. 

“Go on then, do it!” The Villain surged to their feet so the barrel of the gun was inches from their chest. “You don’t have what it takes, do you? To kill someone in cold blood? Not unless you’re defending yourself or someone you love.” The Villain spat, ’love’ sounding like it burned their tongue. 

An ugly sneer contorted the Hero’s face as they struggled to keep their hand from shaking. They swallowed, and the Sidekick pressed a hand to their mouth, their eyes riveted on the Hero. 

After tense moment the Hero lowered the gun, never breaking eye contact with the Villain. 

“I knew you couldn’t do-“ the Villain’s taunt morphed into an agonized scream as the Hero shot them in the leg, the crack of gunfire echoing through the warehouse with deafening violence. The Villain fell back to their knees with another scream as their leg buckled.

“Oh my god!” The Sidekick yelled in horror.

The Hero glared down at the Villain. An unexpected, not wholly unwanted sense of pleasure bloomed through them as the as Villain writhed in pain at their feet for once. 

“You talk too much,” they said, failing to suppress an ironic smile.

“That’s no reason to shoot me!” The Villain groaned, holding their bleeding, mutilated thigh with a white knuckled grip. 

Chuckling, the Hero crouched down and took the Villain’s jaw between their fingers, pressing the barrel of the gun lightly against the Villain’s cheek. Their pleasure only grew to see genuine fear and doubt cross the Villain’s face. 

“Perhaps not,” the Hero said, their voice icy. “But kidnapping and torturing my Sidekick is.”

The Villain growled, and jerked their head away. The Hero let them, standing in a fluid movement. 

“You said the game was growing stale,” the Hero continued. “But you’re not the only one who can change the rules.”

With a turn the Villain reluctantly appreciated, the Hero strode away.

“Come on,” the Hero said as they neared their Sidekick, gently taking their arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“But what about them?” The Sidekick asked, looking back at the Villain as they headed for the nearest door.

“Them?” The Hero looked over their shoulder, eyebrows raised.

The Villain snarled, lost their balance, and fell on their side with a grunt, blood oozing between their fingers to stain the concrete beneath them. “Don’t worry about them. Let’s go.”

The Hero and Sidekick were at the door when the Villain spoke up.

“Don’t leave me here, damn it!” They cried, desperation and pain tingeing their voice.

“You’ll be fine.” The Hero waved a dismissive hand, turning their back on their nemesis. “You always are, aren’t you? I’ll be disappointed if you don’t make a miraculous recovery.”

Without looking back the Hero guided their Sidekick outside, the Villain’s enraged, pained scream echoing after them. 

***

Fifteen minutes later the Villain staggered to their feet, leaving a trail of bloody bootprints in their wake.

Reaching the nearest wall, they sagged against it for support while they caught their breath. Their… everything fucking hurt, but their other injuries were pale trivialities compared to searing pain of the bullet wound.

With a grunt, the Villain pushed themself off the wall and kept going. As much as they wished they could call death and destruction down upon the city in petty vengeance, they knew that revenge was a dish best served cold and well prepared. 

Looking at the door through which the Hero had left, a satisfied chuckle shook itself from the Villain. 

During the Hero’s righteously indignant exit, they failed to remember their Sidekick. The Hero had been so determined to have the final word that they didn’t notice the youth glance back at the Villain, didn’t notice the look of reluctant, misplaced sympathy filling their eyes.

Oh, yes. The Villain thought. This time revenge is going to be sweeter than your cries of pain, my dear.

“You want to play that game, do you?” The Villain hissed, fear and pain replaced by furious determination.” They took another hobbling step forward and fell to their hands and knees with a strangled cry. Gritting their teeth, the Villain forced themselves to their feet, to take another step. A glint caught their eye, and the they reached down to retrieve a steel pipe. It was thin, if a little heavy. It would have to do for now. “Fine, we’ll play that game.” The Villain took an experimental step, using the pipe as a cane. They didn’t fall. “And before we’re finished, you’ll wish you had killed me when you had the chance.” 

Harbinger

A Hero/Villain piece.

The Villain sat back in their chair, swirling their wine with a practiced hand. The fifteen year old bottle of Syrah they had opened for the evening was perfect. They held the glass to their nose, inhaling deeply. They smiled, took a sip. The flavor started with dark fruits, predominantly blackberry. Rolling the wine on their tongue, the profile turned smoky, and as they swallowed the sip ended with a strong, full-mouthed cherry flavor that had them shivering. 

They sighed with pleasure. The grandfather clock in their entryway chimed eleven times.

“You know,” they said, addressing the rim of their glass as the last reverberations faded. “If you weren’t so damn rude, I’d offer to share.” 

“Who’s to say I want to share anything with you?” Came the response. 

Looking through the crystal clear glass, the Villain raised a sardonic eyebrow at the Hero, handcuffed to a chair opposite them. Faded bruises covered the Hero’s forearms, a scabbed cut marred their left cheek, and their hair, while clean, was a mussed tangle. Hidden under their shirt, a deep cut and other bruises covered the Hero’s torso.

“Considering the fact that we’ve been sharing the same residence for nigh on a fortnight, I would expect you to be a little less abrasive.” The Villain took another sip of wine, never taking their eyes off the Hero.

The Hero snorted and raised their hands, the chain between them clinking before drawing taut. 

“Says the person who chains their house guests to chairs.”

“As I have told you every day since your arrival, it’s for your own good.” 

Scoffing, the Hero slumped and winced as their shoulders shifted. 

“You were the one who sought me, remember?” The Villain’s eyes flicked over the Hero’s features, their posture, the way their hair fell into their face.

The Hero glared at the Villain. 

“That doesn’t-“ they began.

“But it does,” The Villain interrupted, voice sharp. The Hero fell into a sulky silence . “Let’s see,” the Villain continued. “As I remember, it was a cold and rainy night.” 

Rolling their eyes, the Hero resigned themselves to yet another monologue. 

“And I was just sitting down to a perfectly cooked rib-eye and French potatoes when someone knocked on my door. Pounded, more like. Intrigued, I got up, answered the door. And who of all people was standing there, dripping blood on my new doormat?

“I was not dripping blood.”

“You clearly hadn’t seen yourself,” the Villain lilted. “You passed out without so much as a ‘hello, may I come in?’ the instant the door opened. If I say you were dripping blood, you were dripping blood. A lot of it.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with-“

“My dear, it has everything to do with this story. Bloodied as you were, I had little choice in the matter but to take you in. Clearly something had gone wrong. Otherwise why would you, my nemesis, seek my house in the middle of the night?”

The Hero gave the Villain a peeved look. 

“Alright, yes. Fine. I was in a scrape and needed somewhere to lay low.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you came to me, the person you’ve yet to bring to justice.”

“I… Well you still haven’t explained why you cuffed me to a chair the instant I woke up and tried to leave.”

The Villain threw back their head and barked a laugh before taking another generous sip of their wine. 

“Darling, it is because you tried to leave that I cuffed you to a chair. You think I’m just going to let my favored nemesis leave after staining some of my best towels without having a bit of fun? Besides, I didn’t want you undoing my stitching handiwork.”

Even as the Hero rolled their eyes, they knew the Villain’s stitching was impeccable. They weren’t about to admit it though. 

“Well then. Why don’t you let me go since you say I am so rude and a burden? The cut is healed, you took the stitches out two days ago.”

The Villain sniffed. They stood, poured themselves more wine, and settled back in their chair with a sigh. 

“Point the first: I never said you are a burden, just rude. And point the second…” Their grin was wicked. “I will let you go when I tire of your company.”

Heart rate increasing, the Hero edged their chair away from the Villain. Yes, they had helped the Hero, but that didn’t mean they were to be trusted.

“Oh please, I’m not going to gut you,” the Villain said, throwing a leg over a knee, shoes gleaming in the low light. “At least not yet. Now why the hell did you come to me?”

The Hero’s jaw worked for a moment, trying to form the words to respond. The sudden shift in tone, from convivial to interrogative, had thrown them. 

“I… A job took a turn.”

The Villain quirked a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Fine. I was jumped. Outnumbered, taken off guard!” The Hero huffed, flustered by the unwavering stare. They hated that stare, and the Villain knew it. “I tried running, tried using my power, but I didn’t want to hurt the civs. One of the thugs knifed me in the side before I–“

“Did you use your power then?” The Villain’s calm voice was tinged with excitement.

“Yes. If I hadn’t the bastards would  have gutted me in that damn alley.”

“Kill anyone?”

The silence that followed was answer enough for the Villain. They started laughing. First quietly, barely a chuckle. A moment later they were laughing uncontrollably, the wine glass shaking in their hand. 

“This isn’t a laughing matter!” The Hero, struggling against their cuffs. 

“Oh but it is!” The Villain gasped. They were shaking so hard they barely managed to set their glass down without shattering it on the side table. “The fact that you killed a few thugs, even in self-defense… Tell me. Did you enjoy it?” 

Defiance flashed in the Hero’s eyes, but the Villain caught something in the Hero’s expression that paused their laughter.

“You did, didn’t you? You enjoyed watching the fuckers die by your hand, by your power.”

“I didn’t!” The Hero protested, despite knowing it was pointless. In truth, they had enjoyed it. The sense of righteous vindication gave them enough energy to make it out of the alley and to the Villain’s front door.

“Only a Hero would say something like that, denying they enjoyed giving the Villains their own back.” The Villain fell into another fit of cackles. The longer they laughed, the more concerned the Hero became. They’d never seen the Villain lose control like this, and it was more terrifying than any level-headed threat they made in the past.

In another few moments the Villain had regained their composure. 

“You have no idea how proud I am of you.” They said, fighting a grin. 

When the Hero didn’t say anything the Villain stood, unfolding from the chair like a flower. 

“I’m glad you came to me,” they said, stalking towards the Hero. “And not those saps at the hospital. Do you know why?”

“No. And I’m not sure I want to know.” The Hero strained against the handcuffs. Despite everything, they hadn’t worried about their safety – hadn’t felt threatened –  for nearly two weeks. Now they weren’t so sure. Fear coursed through their limbs with the realization they were completely at the Villain’s mercy. 

The Villain stopped a foot from the Hero. They crouched and took the Hero’s jaw between their well manicured fingers. “I told you I’ve kept you here for your own good, though you don’t believe me.”

The Hero grunted, jerking their head back. The Villain dug their fingers in, forcing the Hero to look them in the eye. “I did so because I don’t want you running off and getting yourself killed.” They leaned in, brushing their lips against the shell of the Hero’s ear. “That’s my job, darling. And when I undertake a job, I assure it’s properly done. None of these half assed attempts that leave you two-thirds dead and bleeding out on my imported Persian rugs.”

The Hero shuddered.

“Then why help me at all?” They whispered. Even though the Villain patched them up, they still weren’t strong enough to do anything useful. Like fight back, or escape. 

“Because, my lovely,” The Villain murmured. They pressed a kiss to the Hero’s temple. “When the Heroes fall, no matter how far, the game gets so, so much more interesting. When I let you go I want you to remember this conversation.”

The Hero shuddered. 

“I want you to know,” the Villain continued in a lover’s whisper, “that when we meet again as foes, I’ll know if you hold back. Do you want to know what I’ll do then?”

“What?” The Hero’s voice was rough with fear and something else they didn’t want to recognize. 

“I’ll make sure you and your cadre of Heroes never hold back again.”

The Villain pulled the Hero’s face closer to their own, mouths a breath apart. Before the Hero could sneer or resist, the Villain brushed their lips to theirs in a kiss before whisking back to their chair.

“You are free to go.” The Villain said, back facing the Hero, hand resting on their chair. They spoke as if they hadn’t just threatened the Hero with a kiss. “You’ll find the key to the handcuffs in your front pocket.”

As the Hero tried to processed what just happened, the Villain strode across the room and into their bedroom, closing the door quietly behind them. 

“What the fuck was that?” The Hero whispered. 

When the Villain didn’t return and the only sound in the apartment was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway, the Hero groped in their pocket. The key was there. Wasting no time they undid the cuffs. Standing, joints creaking and popping in protest, they crept to the front door. They were about to unlock it and slip away when they noticed their coat, bloodstains gone, hanging on a coat rack. Their boots, cleaned and polished to a shine, stood beneath them. Shaking their head the Hero slid into the familiar embrace of their coat, tugged their boots on, and came to a sudden decision. Tiptoeing back to the living room they splashed wine into the Villain’s empty glass. They took a sip and were pleasantly surprised. 

It was delicious. 

The Hero finished the pour, rueing the fact they hadn’t been more polite, corked the wine bottle and slid into an inner pocket. It was the least the Villain owed them for keeping them chained to a chair for the better part of two weeks. 

Finding a notepad in a drawer, they scribbled a missive and left it unsigned. Satisfied, they made their way back to the entryway just as the clock chimed twelve thirty. As they opened the door, the Hero cast one look back at the room before slipping silently into the misty night. 

***

The Villain emerged from their room late the next morning, clad in a satin dressing gown. Entering the living room they weren’t surprised to see the chair vacated, the handcuffs laying where they’d fallen, but they felt an annoying twinge of disappointment. 

Irritated at the sentiment, they shrugged off the feeling and retrieved their glass. They noticed the half-full bottle of Syrah was missing the same moment they noticed the notepad, placed more or less exactly where the bottle had been. Intrigued, they picked it up.

Best wine I’ve had in years. Thanks for “sharing” the rest. 

A smirk crept across the Villain’s face. 

“I’ll make a Villain of you yet, my darling Hero. Just give me time.”

With a chuckle they padded to the kitchen, mind already working on the next phase of their plans. 

Cravings

The restaurant was busy. Not busy enough for serving team to be frantic, but busy enough to maintain a constant hum of vague conversation and the clinking of cutlery on porcelain.

Valeria –the raven-haired woman in the little black dress and red heels at table thirty-four – was bored. She had only agreed to come on this thrice-cursed date because she was bored. Not that she’d admit it to anyone, but she missed the courting scene. Unfortunately courting had changed a great deal since the 1650’s.

As is the case with most solitary, long-lived people, she wished she’d cancelled and stayed home in her bathrobe to mope about the state of modern men with a box of popsicles, ketchup potato chips, and Spanish soap operas. Besides, going out only brought her closer to succumbing to her one, insatiable craving. She inhaled deeply; the smell of so much fresh blood, the pressure of so many pulses just out of reach, was maddening

She eyed her date – a man in his early thirties with thick brown curls named Calvin – and wondered what in the 9 circles of hell convinced her to say yes when he asked her out at a bar a week ago. Considering his relative attractiveness and decent grooming, she agreed, excited at the prospect of a man taking the initiative for the first time in months. She’d also just eaten and was in a rare gregarious state and acquiesced to his request for a ‘pleasant evening out’ willingly.

Presently, however, Cal was rambling about sashimi or caviar or something and Valeria was having a hard time paying attention. He had shaved before coming and cut himself on the corner of his jaw. The scab was still there, a dark red dot on his light brown skin. The only thing Valeria could think of was how his collar pressed into the skin of his neck. Oh, how she wanted to run her nails down his throat and back and…

Cal paused and took a drink of the 2010 Napa Merlot they’d split. The lull snapped her out of her daydream. She caught the movement of his hand and glass to his lips, and Valeria didn’t bother trying to not stare at Adam’s apple as it bobbed with each swallow.

What the hell. She was on a date, for Darkness’s sake.

Wrapping a curl of raven-black hair around a finger, mischief glinting in her red-brown eyes, Valeria ran the toe of her stiletto up his leg as he took another sip.

Cal jerked back, spilling wine over his chin and down his neck, barely missing his cerulean-blue tie. Valeria’s tongue flicked absently over her dark red lips, eying the way the Merlot dribbled towards his too-white collar. A little blood on that collar would certainly take his sex appeal to another level.

“Oh! Damn me.” Calvin laughed. Valeria’s heart lurched at the nervousness in his laugh, the way his shoulders tensed. “I can’t be trusted to wear white without getting something on it.”

Forget sex appeal. All this hunk of man flesh was good for was eating. And she was denied even that pleasure by the presence of nosy strangers who would call the cops or do something equally stupid, and she wasn’t in a mood for violence… She was just hungry. She couldn’t help that she had special dietary needs.

Wiping the wine from his chin with a grey napkin, Cal shattered the illusion of a bloody throat. Valeria sat back, arms folded over her stomach, and pouted, running her tongue over the teeth that were slowly sinking back into her gums.

“Have you been here before?” he asked, folding his hands under his chin in another attempt to start a conversation.

“Yeah. Once.” She tapped absently on the tabletop with a sharp, onyx nail. They’d ordered twenty minutes ago, and there was no sign of their skinny waiter and she was getting bored. Well… more bored.

“How was it?” he asked, missing her hint that she wasn’t interested in talking. “When you mentioned you liked nice places, I figured I’d try here since I haven’t been here myself. Does it live up to the reviews?”

She hummed noncommittally, shrugged an exposed shoulder. After a beat, during which Cal rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat twice, he smiled awkwardly and asked her if she knew anything about potato farming. Valeria said no, she didn’t, and had to resist banging her head on the table when Calvin started talking again. It seemed like he was afraid that something interesting would happen if he was quiet for too long.

A moment later something interesting did happen. Valeria sensed something off.  It wasn’t much, hardly more than an increased heart rate. Cal’s heart was beating fast, yes, but that was to be expected. She’s worn this dress for exactly that reason. This was something else. Something with a desperation that made her want to bare her fangs and start ripping throats out.

Turning, aware of how her breasts pressed against the fabric of her dress, Valeria scanned the restaurant. It took her a moment to locate the source, the ambient ebb and flow of blood obscuring the panic, but she soon found the source.

A young woman, maybe 23, was sitting with her arms folded defensively over her chest, glaring at her date. The man wasn’t getting the message and kept reaching across the table for her. Valeria couldn’t hear what he was saying but judging by the girl’s posture and the growing aggression of the man it wasn’t good. As she watched the man, a typical god’s-gift-to-humanity type, grabbed the girl’s wrist, jerking her hand towards him, nails digging into the soft underside of her forearm. The neighboring diners were beginning to notice, yet none of them moved to intervene. Even the waiters skirted around the table, afraid of interrupting something.

Valeria’s eyes narrowed. With a fluid motion she stood, hand resting on her wine glass.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment?” she said, cutting Cal off. “I have some… business to attend to.”

He closed his mouth and sat back in his chair, brushing his hair back from his forehead with a sigh.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m boring you. It’s just been so long since…”

 Valeria didn’t hear the rest of his apology as she made her way towards the confrontation, glass in hand. As she approached, she heard the boorish man growling at the girl as she tried to pry his fingers from around her wrist:

“Stop being such a coy little bitch, won’t you? I asked you out because…”

In three more strides Valeria was looming over him, a dangerous smile on her face. He broke off and sneered up at her. The girl’s look of desperate hope was enough of a plea for Valeria.

“What do you want?” the man asked loudly, his voice carrying through the circle of silence that had surrounded their table. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of som…”

He never got to finish. The instant his attention was off the girl Valeria splashed the entire glass of wine on his face and chest, making sure to soak as much of his designer shirt as possible.

“What the fuck, lady!? What sort of psycho bitch are you?”

The people surrounding them gaped. Two waiters stopped and looked at each other, eyes wide.

Valeria bared her teeth in a not-so-pleasant smile.

“You have a little something…” she pointed to the general area of his chest, the red wine soaking into the white fabric. The sight nearly sent her over the edge then and there. She shuddered, quelling her rising bloodlust.

With a snort and mumbled profanities, the man stood and stormed off for the restroom. The girl sat absolutely still, staring after him with round, glossy eyes. Like a rabbit before the…

No… Not her. Valeria though, shaking her head to banish the thought. She rested a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. The poor thing was quivering uncontrollably.

“You deserve better than him, sweetheart,” Valeria said bluntly, glaring after the man.

The girl blinked up at her. Then her face broke into a wide grin.

“Thank you! You don’t know… oh thank you!” she gushed, standing and gathering her things. She stuffed the entire basket of breadsticks into her purse and downed the rst of her drink in a massive gulp. “He wouldn’t leave me alone and I felt like if…”

“If you said yes, he’d eventually leave you alone. I know.”

“Yeah. But… thank you again…” the girl gave Valeria a brief hug before scurrying away. Then she turned, her doll face contorted in thought.

“But what about the tab? I don’t have enough-”

“Don’t worry, pet. It’ll be taken care of.”

Valeria’s smile was genuine this time.

With another shaky grin, the girl vanished out the doors, her scarf dragging behind her. Valeria ignored the questioning, judgmental gazes of the restaurant’s patrons as she returned to her table, not a hair out of place.

Calvin gaped are her as she poured the rest of the bottle of Merlot into her glass

“What… why… why did you do that?”

She gave him with a pointed look and drank half of the wine before answering.

“Some men are assholes and deserve their own given back to them.”

“I just… that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do,” Cal said, staring at her with awe. Taken off guard by his compliment, Valeria took another sip of her wine. She was spared from saying anything else by the arrival of their meal.

“Fettuccini e Vongole in la Salsa Bianca for the gentleman,” the pretty waitress said, placing a plate of perfectly steamed clams and pasta before the Calvin. “And La Bistecca Fiorentina, extra rare, for the lady.” She gave Valeria an appreciative nod before bustling off.

Cal began eating immediately, though his gaze was fixed on Valeria, a new appreciation shining in his brown eyes. Valeria poked at her steak. The plate was covered in warm blood, pepper floating on the surface. The meat itself was brown on the outside and hot all the way through, the middle a dark red, perfectly rare. She sighed: just a little too done for her taste.

Alright. Who was she kidding? Her steak was a lot too done. Raw would have been preferable, but she knew all she’d have received were skeptical eyebrows, a promise to ‘see what we can do,’ and a steak cooked beyond palatability.

How she missed the days when the word vampire struck terror into the hearts of mortals. How any fool who dared wander into her lands was up for grabs, and fresh blood was as common as blackened gum smears on the sidewalks were today.

She finished her wine. At least that was still more or less the same.

One day. One day she was going to treat herself.

But not today. The humans were enjoying themselves too much for her to ruin their evening with a blood bath. They were so sensitive these days.

Oh well. A partially rare steak would have to do for now.

And maybe… Valeria looked at Cal, considering him in a new light. It wasn’t common for a man to commend her brashness and fuck all attitude. Perhaps chivalry wasn’t dead after all.

She grinned at him and took a bite of her stake, fighting the shudder as the burned meat stuck in her throat. Cal returned the grin before flipping oil on his shirt.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. He dabbed at the spot, succeeding only in making it worse. Valeria laughed at his sheepish expression, mind wandering back to a dark corner.

Just maybe the night would have a happy ending after all.

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It’s cold. Not as cold as it was, but cold enough to warrant a jacket, a pair of sturdy boots, gloves. Spring is coming, but winter has yet to let go of the waking world.

Fog embraces the mountains like a lover. It fills the valleys with haze, trailing up the gullies and between the trees with thin, reaching fingers. The snow has melted but for the mountain tops and shadowed places. A breath of wind stirs the air, sighing through the trees – pine, fur, spruce, hawthorn, oak, ash, birch, and willow – bringing with it the smell of the distant ocean and rain. The great gorge is visible through the trees to the west, the solitary peak of Holdo shrouded in snow flurries in the south. 

Blue-grey clouds fill the gorge, the rest of the sky a slate grey that presses upon the senses, bringing the world in close. A storm is coming, the promise of rain tinting everything blue. 

All this combined brings her to life; wakens the muse. She has been waiting. Waiting for her fingers to wake up, for her mind to escape from the prison of vagueness and brevity. 

She lives. 

Ghost 1

The beginning of something that may or may not continue. Title pending.

The sun shone incongruously. Had Laila been in charge, it would rain all day every day, but particularly today. There was something offensive about the way the light played on the spring leaves, of how the birds warbled and sang in the trees. 

Laila huffed and went back to tying her herb bundles. She ignored the weight of the pale eyes she knew were watching her. They were always watching her. Had been watching her since that night, 9 months ago, when she’d failed the one thing she’d sworn to do: heal and preserve.

Jonash had been an old friend of hers, shared childhood memories binding them more tightly than blood. As with all people they had drifted as they’d gotten older, but never far enough away to truly forget about each other. She was accepted to the University of Science in the city, and he had joined the city watch.

Then the war came. She left for the battle fields as a healer, he a soldier. They had been in the same regiment, and spent many hours in each other’s company when they were able. When the war ended, Laila returned to the city and established a healer’s den with her commission and repute as a savior of many. Jonash remained with the watch for a month before wanderlust got the better of him, and he departed the city to become a member of the Ranger’s Guild. 

Months, then years passed, and still they kept in touch.

Until his replies had grown shorter and distant. Until he’d stopped replying all together.

Laila, accepting his absence with a stoic heart, was content with the fact that he had finally met someone else and moved on. 

And then he appeared on her doorstep in the middle night, bleeding and with an expression that frightened her. He swore at her in a language she didn’t know before falling at her feet, pale with blood loss and pain. She’d done everything she knew to do, even resorting to using what little magic she possessed. 

It wasn’t enough. 

After four hours of her trying desperately to save her friend, she held his head when he died. She closed his light blue eyes, unnerved by the hatred and fear she saw there. As she took her hands away something cold ran up her arms and through her body, leaving her feeling clammy and unclean. When she turned she came face to face with Jonash’s ghost. She screamed once before noticing that he was yelling and gesticulating at her. But he made no noise. He charged her, hands outstretched to strangle her, but they, and then the rest of his incorporeal body, passed through her entirely, leaving her retching on the floor. For some reason his spirit had remained, unable to leave the plain of the living. The ghost tried to leave and made it as far as the front doorstep before being pulled back as if on a string. He tried the window with the same results. 

Laila tried everything she could to communicate and free Jonash, but it was all in vain. The priests had never heard of such a condition, the scientists wanted to study him, and the mages’ spells and incantations only hurt Jonash, much to their irritation. Magic always succeeded when science failed. Or so they had believed. 

And so 9 months had passed. Jonash was invisible to all but Laila and those gifted with the Sight. And as he was unable to influence the world around him in any way, all he could do was stand around and watch Laila. 

“If you’re done staring at my ass, maybe you could stand in the door and deter people from coming in?” Laila said. She had too much to get done today to be interrupted with petty calls about impotence and spots. 

She was met with what she called a sulky silence, and threw a rueful smile over her shoulder at the ghost. Jonash looked up from examining his fingernails and drifted to the door, rolling his eyes. Though Laila struggled with the fact that she had failed to save her friend, she was glad that his ghost wasn’t covered in blood and gore. He looked as she assumed he had before receiving the injuries.

No sooner had he taken up his post at the door did someone gasp with surprise at walking through a ghost. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m closed today!” Laila called.

“How the hell can a healer be closed?” Came the disgruntled response. 

“Unless you or a loved one is bleeding profusely, has a broken bone, or is dying, please come back tomorrow.”

The voice on the other side of the door muttered something. Jonash stepped back through the door to shrug, expression as confused as Laila’s was annoyed. 

“If you let me in, I can help you!”

Laila rolled her eyes heavenward and prayed for strength. 

“When I want an assistant, I will post a listing at the University,” she said, thinking the person at the door was a hopeful student. 

“No, not with that. But I could help you if you nee… No! I can help you with the other thing!”

Laila paused, glancing at Jonash. The ghost shrugged again and leaned against the wall. At some point he’d regained enough solidity to control what he fell through. 

“May as well see what the child has to say?” He mouthed.

Laila stuck her tongue out at him. 

“What do you mean, ‘the other thing’?” She asked.

The voice on the other side of the door dropped to a murmur. The speaker was clearly pressed up agains the lock: “I can’t speak of it out here, but I think I have a solution to your… mutual problem.”

A glimmer of hope sprang up in Laila’s chest. 

“Fine. But make sure no one sees you come in.”

She went to the door and unlocked it. She and Jonash watched, bemused, as a youth slipped through the door with a furtive look that befit a noisy thief. 

“Thank you,” he said, brushing himself off. He looked around a moment before his gaze snagged on Jonash. The ghost flashed a nasty smile at the lad, who blanched and turned away quickly. 

“You can see him?” Laila asked, surprised. The lad didn’t look like a seer, let alone a mage or a priest. 

“Of course I can,” the lad said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, you said that. But how? And why?”

The lad sketched a bow, sweeping the floor with his hat. 

“Clearly I have some explaining to do.” 

Jonash mouthed “Clearly,” and reached out and punched the lad in the back, his hand appearing in his stomach folded in a rude gesture.

“If you could refrain from messing with my internal organs, I thank you,” The lad said, suppressing a shudder. Laila just raised her brows in invitation for him to continue. “To answer your questions, my lady,” he said, readjusting his hat. “I am Arthur Marín, and I believe I have a solution to your ghostly prob-”

“You said that before. But I don’t understand how you can s-“ 

“-lem. And I can see your Jonash because I am a necromancer.”