Disclaimers: A submission for the Academy of Bards Halloween Challenge. Thanks to the Bardic Circle and especially, Extra, Ann, and Claudia. I have no connection with Xena:Warrior Princess.

Seeing Things

by Kamouraskan

To be fair, I really have only myself to blame that I'm still alive.

Everything started off well. Father Rod's church door was a massive wooden deal, but it was only locked, so when I kicked the sucker in, the deadbolt was still useable. That meant I could still bar the door behind me once I got inside. All of the lights were off, and I left them that way. I like darkness; I've got great night vision, and it's what I work best in. What might have seemed like an oppressively gloomy and ancient building to normal people was sort of comforting to me. I managed to use my hands to feel my way along the pews and stay safely clear of all the altars until I could bolt the side doors as well.

And I don't want to exaggerate the risk. It wasn't like I had to worry about bursting into flames if I got too near a cross. After all, I'd been there twice before with Father Rod, before he was turned into chop suey. But I admit that being inside a church can be a little irritating, sort of like a light spray of hail on my hands and face whenever I got close to anything blessed. But for once that was good, because it meant that this place was properly sanctified and would keep the others out while I did what I had to do.

But now I had to figure out how to do it. What I was there for.

You see, I had to figure out how to chop off my own head with my sword. And the church was the one safe place where I knew nothing could get at me before I died.

Usually, I plot things out to the final detail. That wouldn't work on this little project. My mind isn't always a fine and private place at the best of times, and if my plans had leaked out of my skull, I'd have ended up looking like Father Rod, only less peaceful. And I was damned if I was going to let them take a part of me before I went.

Well, obviously I was damned anyway. It's just an expression.

I was even a little sorry I was probably going to mess up Father Rod's nice little 19th Century church with buckets of gore. Plus, tomorrow's tabloids would probably be filled with the suicide of one of the last people he'd counselled. But he wasn't like he was completely innocent. He'd started the whole thing in the first place by trying to 'reach' me. I mean, if my family thought I was nuts, he was really crazy to think that finding a conscience in one of my kind could lead to any other conclusion.

Now as sharp as my blade was, I still needed some momentum to make a thorough, clean cut. I know from experience how sturdy the throat and back of the spine are, exactly how tough they are to sever. I paced around the musty place for a bit, toying with a few ideas, feeling like the weight of the ceiling way up above me was on my shoulders. I wondered if God might pass by and approve.

Finally I figured that instead of swinging the blade at my throat, I should swing myself onto the blade. At the base of the church bell tower, there was an alcove with a bench at its base, and the hollow was just a bit less wide than the length of my sword. I was able to wedge my sword nice and firm into the gap between the blocks above the bench, right where the pull rope for the church bell dangled. The corridor was a good twenty feet across, which was more than enough momentum if I swung on the rope from the opposite side and struck the blade with my neck just right.

I would like to note, that all this engineering was done with my usual clear-eyed approach to solving any problem.

Figure you have a nearly six foot long object, that being me, and it must be struck at a perfect ninety-degree angle about a foot below the top, remembering to allow for pendulum drop. You take your indelible ink pen to mark the rope for position of target and grip. Make a few test runs, keep the hands up high, make sure dark straggly hair is in a ponytail in the back so's not to deaden impact… and it looked like we had a winner.

And that's why I was crouched high up in the miniature Gothic upper window of the church tower when they came along. I was all ready to jump.

Now, I can usually tell when Scrypes are nearby; there's a sort of whispering, rustling sound in my mind, like a voice trying to tell me something. I didn't need this message though. I was all set in mind and body to jump, and for some reason I couldn't ignore the whispers and stupidly looked outside through the leaded panes.

The only illumination I had was a streetlight on the far side of the church graveyard, which presumably was why these guys had picked such a desolate spot. At first, from my perspective, it was hard to see details. But even a norm would have felt the evil right off.

And it wasn't just the nearby strewn-about gravestones or the full moon above that framed the scene. It was the sour taste of malevolent anticipation that flew alongside and above the group. There were maybe a dozen human shapes in the gang herding three rightly scared young girls along the uneven path that ran alongside the church. They were all dressed casually for a warm summer's night, but I could see when they stopped under the tree outside my window, that a few of them had more than just clothes on their backs. Three of the gang were carrying, as I call it, and there were at least a dozen more free Scrypes flapping about in the air above them, waiting. Though my vision is a little different from anyone else's, even I can only see Scrypes as sort of lined shadows. But the three leading the group were obviously pretty well embedded; they must have been carrying their dragons for a few years now. The wings of the Scrypes were comfortably wrapped around their scalp and foreheads, and by the way their bodies were so close, I knew that the talons were buried deep in their backs right into the spine. It had probably been years since they could have told the difference between their own thoughts and the whispers of the Scrypes.

The kids following the leaders looked almost as nervous as the girls, and they were also right to feel like that. They probably thought whatever was planned was just some rite of initiation, and it was. But it was for the Scrypes, unseen by their eyes and flapping about their heads, who were waiting to take them. Scrypes need that participation in evil, done by a free will, to take a host. And a Scrype without a host is a starving Scrype.

So why should I get involved? You might think that it was Father Rod's talks with me. About how 'I'd known evil, so I could fight evil.' But that's a crock. Maybe I'd considered it for a bit, but only because he was the first person over twenty who'd ever listened to me and not tried to get me back on my meds. Well, first other than Grouch, but that's another story.

No, what moved me, what stopped me from getting on with my own pressing business, was the, what can you call it, other than innocence? radiating from the girls, and one in particular. See, Scrypes can smell, taste that kind of innocence. They use most humans like they were cigarette filters, drawing the worst from them, through them and then usually tossing them away. But to break or corrupt innocence; that's what they live for.

It's also how they breed.

The girls might have feared pain or death and the gangbangers, but while they were used and hurt, there would be psychic eggs laid inside of them, and I couldn't let that happen. I mean, what was the point of making sure they couldn't get me, if right outside a dozen more of my kind were being created?

Despite that, I'd still successfully fought the urge to crash through the glass, when she stepped forward. The moonlight reflected off her light coloured hair and there was a bit of the moonlight shining about her; nice and clean, with a purity that you don't see often, sort of radiating from her. But even though I couldn't hear through the glass what she was saying, I saw the intent in her gestures. She was offering to trade herself in exchange for the others. From my seat, she didn't look like she was stupid enough to think that she had anything to bargain with. Maybe she thought they would respect her for the offer. But self-sacrifice would just have the Scrypes salivating even more. True nobility really is that rare a treat for them.

My parents dropped big bucks to pay shrinks to tell me that Scrypes weren't real, but at times like this I can't believe that others can't see them as well. Sure, the girls' attention was focused on the smirking, jeering goons that were slowly closing the noose around them, but on some level they had to feel the flapping circle of hell above them. Had to be aware of the dripping ooze that the Scrypes excreted when they were getting ready to merge with humans.

None of them heard me slip down, unbolt and open the door of the church. It was easily covered by the taunts and the anticipation every player was feeding into the air. But I carry a few of my own shadows and my own anticipation was also building. So when I got close enough, all the heads turned in my direction. Without me having to say anything, I had their full attention. I'm not that bad looking, and I was carrying a sword.

"Hello, boys," I drawled, letting them see my teeth. "Busy night?"

The one carrying the biggest Scrype on his back returned my grin on his piggy face and drawled, "Looks like it's getting busier all the time."

"I don't think it's the kind of busy you want." I drew my sword and held it up at an angle as if I was measuring its length, while what I was actually doing was catching a bit of the ooze that was drizzling from the swarm above us. Whatever the stuff is, it seems to let the Scrypes slip partly into this dimension or plane or whatever it is that separates us, and I needed some on the sword in order to touch them.

The kids that were still not carrying drew back at the sight of my steel. That allowed me to move through the breach they made and into the circle in front of the girls. I wasn't worried about any of them pulling a gun; their kind doesn't like guns. Too fast. They prefer a dull blade or a baseball bat in a fight.

Pigface looked at the sword, then at me. "There's ten of us. You must be nuts."

"I've been told that a few times," I admitted cheerfully. I pointed the blade at him. "Maybe we could start with a little one on one?"
There was a move from one of the Scrype carriers beside me, but my jacket dagger was already in his chest before his knife even left its sheath. It's not easy to use your left hand to get a blade exactly between and through the ribs and into the heart, but I used to practice a lot. It's neater than you'd think, because when you pull the blade out, if you're fast enough on the withdraw and it's thin enough, there's hardly any blood as the ribs close down on the wound. And the victim's dead before he hits the ground. It's one of my little tricks and impressive enough that it had at least five of the kids already about to turn and run.

The Scrype on the dead kid's back began to try to extract itself, but it was still tripping on the death of its host to move too fast. I tried to make a thrust look like a casual swing of the sword and filleted it before it could extract itself and fly away. Though I enjoyed doing it, the death of one of their kind set the Scrypes above us off. They began swooping down in groups of two and three, until they noticed that my sword thrusts had cut their numbers in half. In shock that a human blade could affect them at all, the survivors withdrew to roost in the tree above and let their human hosts deal with me.

While I was busy at what must have looked like swinging wildly at the air, I'd completely forgotten about the victims I was supposedly rescuing. Fortunately, the blonde who had offered herself was more on the ball. She grabbed a largish branch from the ground and was swinging it at anybody who came close. She snatched another one up and tossed it to one of the other girls. With a final, frightened glance at me, and then to the body on the ground, half the crew beat it.

With a sneer and as much dignity as he could muster, Piggy backed off too, shrugged and swaggered away with his friend, leaving their boy dead at my feet. There were no sirens that I could hear, so I waited until I was sure they had left the churchyard.

While I waited, the blonde said something to her friends and then confidently approached me. She was out of breath, but what was really distracting was that as she walked forward, she kept looking over or actually at, my shoulder. I knew there was nothing there, but something about it was really pissing me off. She gave me a huge grin and in a clear and cheerful voice said, "Peace be with you."

Well, how do you reply to that? And what was even more exasperating was that she seemed to be expecting some sort of response.

Well, when I clearly didn't know what the other half of the code phrase was, she looked a bit perplexed and asked, "You don't know, do you?"

Irritated, I shook my head. "There's lots I don't know. What in particular is it now?"

She continued to grin and answered, "That you were sent here by God, and are one of his Chosen."

Right. I had to laugh out loud. "How can you tell? It must be the way I simply glow with goodness?"

She took my sarcasm seriously it seemed, and pointed to my right. She spoke with urgent fervour. "No. I can see you don't believe, but right there, on your shoulder, is one of God's angels. An angel on your shoulder, singing God's love and His plan for you."

Well, she got me for a minute. I actually looked. Of course there was nothing. At least nothing I could see. "An angel?" I asked. "You can see angels?"

"I see them all the time. They're everywhere. There are even some in the tree." She pointed at the branches above joyously, but all I saw were the remaining beady eyed little bastards still grinning down at us. I pulled her away and said, "You think those are angels? Those miniature pterodactyls with scum dripping from them? That's your idea of an angel?"

She shook her head with what I suppose you'd call 'infinite patience', and if Grouch hadn't shown up when he did, I might have bopped her one on principle.

But he did show. He strolled up casually, like he was on his way to some important speech and wanted to meet some local kids before being elected to mayor or something. He was always cool, even in his other forms. We went way back, but how far, how many lives, I wasn't sure. He was physically older than me, and he had been the first kid I knew with a Scrype. It was now so embedded that there was just a small rise along his backbone to show that it even existed. He was also always heavily built enough that even when we were kids, no one ever made fun of his upmarket way of speaking. He stopped just far away enough for his back to be outlined in silhouette before he spoke. "Paula, my love. Have you been assaulting a few of my poor lads?"

Inside, I was trying to stop my heart from pounding out of my chest. Outside, I coolly saluted him ironically with my sword. "They were yours?" I asked.

He spread his hands in a casual gesture. "Everything around here is mine."

"Not quite everything," I countered, holding my blade at the ready.

He absorbed that for a moment before asking, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"That's your decision."

He chuckled, and the sound echoed for a moment. I didn't join in. "No, I don't think so." He walked a bit closer, but still only the streetlamp behind him defined his shape. "This is a bit of luck, you know. I'm putting a team together near by the old homestead. I was thinking that your house would make a great little stronghold. Maybe we could talk there, what do you say to that?"

I tried to match his indifference, but even I could hear the tension in my voice when I replied, "Leave my family alone, Grouch."

"As I said, that isn't my decision. You know I want you. One way or another. And… I'll even give you a few days to figure it out. Today is Thursday, shouldn't take you long to get to Fairfield, right? Let's say your Mom's on Saturday evening. Seven o'clock." Like he was making an appointment.

Like usual when he was involved, I was freezing up. I couldn't think of anything to do or say in reply, so he just threw me a mocking smile before turning away and disappearing into the night. There was noxious flutter of wings from the trees as his flock followed him.

I realized I'd been holding my breath for a long time, and let it out. My mind was racing a mile a minute trying to work out my options, when the last thing I needed tugged at my shoulder. It was the blonde, of course. Eyes filled with glory hallelujah and God only knows what else. "Fairfield? That's in SoCal, isn't it? How do you usually go that way? Train, fly…"

"Don't even think about it," I said as coldly as I could. Which is usually enough to freeze the mouth off most. Not this one.

"Take me with you," she insisted.

I just snorted and pushed her away. "Right."

She grabbed hold of my arm again and continued to wheedle. "No, I'm serious. I'm supposed to go with you. I know these things."

I pried off the arm and held it, squeezing just below the torture threshold. We locked our eyes until hers began to squeeze shut in pain. "You're serious?" I asked. "That's nice. 'Cause you don't want to see me get serious. And you sure as Hell don't want to see me mad." And I dropped the arm, turned and left her. Left her and my deathtrap behind.

I was stupid enough to think that I'd never have to worry about either of those ever again.