Hey guys! It's LLC here! Now, before you start yelling at me about starting ANOTHER story, let me explain; I had this posted under another pen name, as a sequal to another story.. Well, I deleted said story, cause it sucked, revamped this one as a standalone, and have reposted it here. So, enjoy!
November 19, 2027. 11:48 pm.
The apartment complex in uptown San Francisco was still and peaceful at this ungodly hour, as it almost always was. The majority of it's tenants were over age thirty, some with families, young children, other's living normal lives with wives, husbands, partners. A handful lived alone, by choice or by circumstance, either mourning their loss of companionship or thoroughly celebrating their independence.
Chris Halliwell fell into the later group.
At age 23 (well, not yet. Give him ten minutes) Chris had been on his own for only a few months. Even with lavish scholarships, college was expensive as Hell, and the Halliwell family just wasn't financially equipped to pay for lodging AND tuition.
But Chris, an art major in his senior year, had finally landed a steady job with reasonably good pay, and through word of mouth, he was quickly becoming one of the campuses most sought-after realists. Meaning he was finally able to move out of Halliwell manor.
His apartment was really nothing to crow about. One bedroom, one bath, living area and kitchenette. No washing machine, a cold draft through the east window and the residnt Crazy Cat lady living directly above him. The wallpaper hadn't been in style since 2006. He furnished it with his own bed, an end table, a Goodwill sofa, dresser and desk, and a thrift-store table with one leg shorter than the other's that needed to be propped up with cardboard. But it was his, he was paying for it with his own money, earned from doing the one thing he loved most in life.
Just yesterday, his mother had marveled at how easily that elusive Normal Life had embraced him, something she's sought herself for decades.
But in Chris's eyes, normal was highly over rated.
Who wanted to be normal when you could be a witch? Was always Chris's view.
Unlike every one of their cousins, who, like Piper, yearned to be "normal," Wyatt and Chris had embraced their magical heritage with open arms. They chosingly studied books on demonology, spirits, modern Wicca and ancient Witchcraft as often as they did Geometry and History (or rather, as often as they SHOULD have studied geometry and history). Each brother could rattle off the names of every demon in the Book of Shadows, along with their powers, level and method of vanquish. Wyatt would spend hours mixing up new potions and Chris would write spells to imcrease their potency.
And it had paid off.
Every magical being, good or evil, came to know the Halliwell name for more than the Charmed Ones; a warlock need only mention "the brothers" for every one of his minions to go pale and anxious. The Elders had many a times voiced their sorrow that Piper hadn't produced one more child; a new Power of Three to rival their own heritage. They's tried every tactic too. An entire legion of Elders had spent months, poring over ancient text and leather bound tomes, seeking our any prophesy that mentioned "three", claiming that it "defiantly" pertains to the boys, and that Piper "Most certainly" must conceive another witch, to fulfill their "destiny", and prevent the world from "losing it's core balance".
Piper just gave them the finger.
Their mother and father had always been secretly proud of their own pride in their ancestry. Piper ould whine outwardly, saying they were spending too much time researching, but she never reinforced her words with actions. She'd encouraged them, actually.
To a person speaking with Chris in class, or glancing over his new apartment, he WOULD seem perfectly normal. College undergrad, average apartment, nice job; just a regular Joe.
Ha, Chris thought wryly. Regular Joe my ass.
You would have to look close tp find anything unusual, or know Chris for years. The Halliwell children had been taught for years how to keep themselves a secret.
The silver pentagram necklace his mother had given him for his 16th birthday was tucked under his shirt in public. The triquetra tattoo on his lower back was hidden with long t-shirts. Neither where terribly weird in San Francisco, but the less things people notice you for, the better. Two of the four drawers in his dresser had false bottoms, safely concealing his candles, crystals, Athame and hand-written spells. His books of witchcraft were cleverly disguised with dust jackets labeling them with mundane titles such as "Advances in wheat farming in the 1800's" and "The Extended History of Bells". In the kitchen cabinets, masquerading as garlic salt and Parsley flakes where powdered gremlin skulls and mandrake extract.
Yes, the only thing that drw attention to Chris were his art skills.
All throughout school, he'd drag himself through algebra and PE by looking forward to art class. And though he was never one to brag, or be big-headed, he was damn good at it.
Realismis almost a lost art form. Everyone loves abstract, serialism. But even the most avid lover of modern art would stare and gawk at one of Chris's drawings.
He worked almost exclusively in colored pencil; Prismacolor, though he also did a bit of graphite. He had proffesors dote on his art when he was still a high school freshman, exclaiming how lifelike it looked, how real.
Chris's thing was extreme close ups of objects; an eye, a basketball swishing through a frayed net, and people. Customers would pay Chris an excess of three hundred dollars or more to do their portraits.
Which was where the little crossbreed was now; sitting up in his living room, the radio turned low, with a piece of Black core board on the table, and an assortment of colored pencils strewn over the couch. Peach, orange, burnt orange, yellow, yellow-orange, burnt sienna, terra cotta, white rose, carnation pink, taffy pink, pink salmon. Cinnamon; all these blended and mixed to form the perfect skin tone for the little twin girls he had been hired to draw. A photo was clipped to the top of his drawing, reminding him a bit of his own cousins, Aunt Phoebe's girls.
He scrutinized the shadow he'd just added to one childs chin; it looked too dark, too smeared. He reached for his eraser, and had to stifle a yawn, stretching his jaw. Scrubbing a weary hand over his eyes, he snuck a glance at the clock; four till midnight.
Wait...
Midnight! It was midnight already?
Chris lowered his work, and smiled slightly to himself.
They said that the older you got, the less you cared about birthdays, the less important they became, especially after 21. But Chris, ever the optimist, loved any day that was out of the ordinary for the Halliwell Family. Birthdays fell under that group.
His birthday was on a Sunday this year, so he had no classes. He planned, like every year, to have lunch with his brother at his favorite café, spend the afternoon with his friends, and head over to the manor for a family dinner, complete with eight screaming, squealing cousins, all girls, all under 16.
Chris chuckled at the thought. Every family event, Wyatt and Chris would comically curse whatever star they were born under, for making them the only boys in a distinctly feminine household. Even the cat was a girl.
It made sense, though. Wyatt and Chris were the only boys born into the Warren line for centauries, and it would probably stay that way.
11:58
Picking up his pencils, packing them away into a metal case, Chris thought about how he'd look forward to his birthday for months when he was a child. As soon as school started in August he'd tick off each day on the calendar with a flourish of red Crayola. And the night before, no matter how little or tired he was, he'd try to stay up till midnight, then not go to bed until midnight that night, to get his full 24-hours worth of birthday.
As he got older, staying up will midnight, even on his birthday, was common place. Tonight was no different.
At least, not for another 45 seconds.
AS Chris stood to tuck his supplies into a cabinet, he stopped himself abruptly, as a dizzy spell passed through him, forcing his to reach out for the couch for support.
'Gotta stop skipping meals, Chris,' he chastised himself, bringing himself to his feet once more. Perhaps he'd make himself sandwich or something...
But he never made it that far. As the green rimmed clock on the fall struck twelve exactly, Chris became so overcome with vertigo that he was rendered to his knees. Clenching his fingers into the carpet, as though to anchor his wildly spinning body to the floor, Chris lowered his head, taking several deep breathes, hoping for the dizziness to pass.
And it did.
As Chris collapsed in a dead faint on the living room floor.
---
"Et tu, Chris? Of all the people to betray me."
Wyatt, clad in black from head to toe, his hair wild and frizzed, glared at Chris with a stare to make his breath hitch.
"I didn't go back to betray you, Wyatt," Chris argued, suddenly very aware of how Wyatt's height towered above his own tall frame. "I went back to save you."
"Save me?" Wyatt scoffed. "From what?"
"From whatever evil it was that turned you," Chris replied coldly, forcing his gaze to match his brother's .
Wyatt sighed impatiently. "That's always been your problem Chris," he continued condescendingly. "Caught in the old Good-vs-Evil maras I'm so passed that. It's all about power, it's a simple as that."
"And whoever has the most power wins, is that it?" the younger witch asked sarcastically.
"That's. it". Wyatt replied evenly. "That's why I keep this...museum intact. To show everyone the power to which I was born and that which I posses."
"Too bad the rest of the city isn't fairing as well as your little shrine here." Chris's patience was quickly wearing.
Wyatt was quiet for a beat, before he said softly, "You know, if anyone else tried what you tried, I'd kill them on the spot. But you?" his gaze flickered over Bianca, and he smiled ferally. "I've forgiven Bianca, and I can forgive you too, IF you promise never to cross me again."
Chris laughed, "I think you know me better than that!"
"I thought you said you could talk some sense into him?" Wyatt demanded of the petite young woman, and Chris's anger flared.
"Leave her out of this!"
And he instantly regretted his outburst.
Wyatt raised his left hand calmly, clenching it into a fist as he glowered at his little brother.
"Pardon me?"
Chris could feel his throat tighten against his will, cutting off his already unsteady breathing. Clawing at his throat, he futilely attempted to force the hands around his neck.
It started getting dark as Chris was brought to his knees.
He couldn't speak, but he looked pleadingly up at Wyatt, who met him with a steely gaze that held no pity.
And with a dismissive flick of his wrist, Wyatt carelessly sent his baby brother crashing across the room...
---
Gasping for breath Chris awoke with a panic clenching his chest.
Wyatt; Good God, Wyatt!
He shakily pushed himself up to his knees, shaking all over, sheathed in a cold sweat as though he'd broken a fever. Getting his breathing under control, he searched for the clock, which read 12:05.
'Gods, how could such a nightmare be packed into five minutes?' Chris pondered, testing to see if his legs could hold him.
They did.
And it WAS a night mare, of course. Wyatt wasn't...he'd never...would he?
"No!" Chris assured himself out loud, then laughed at his ridiculous imagination. How could he even think out doubting himself like that? Lord, he needed to eat something...
Wyatt was good, always has been, always would be. He knew what premonitions felt like, and this definitely wasn't one.
'All this overtime work is really gettin' to you Chris,' he thought, as he went to fix himself a snack .Keep it up and people are going to start thinking you're nuts!
---
A bit short, but I usually so make short first chapters for teasers. Please drop a review! Even if it's just a Good Job or I like or even You suck! (Ok, maybe not a You suck...)
Lottsa love,
LLC