Clez: Welcome to chapter 2. This one was mostly Raven's work. Pretty much all of it is hers actually, hehe.
Sethoz – Thanks for the review. First one to review, you were. Ooh! Buttons! *takes bags, and hands one to Raven* Very kind. Thank you once again.
Raven: *eats some of the buttons* Yeah, Sethoz, what Clez said. And the rest of you, see? You review, you get brownie points from me! And once you get lots of brownie points, you get… uh… you get… brownies! Yes, you get brownies! So, now, go review and brownies you shall get!
CHAPTER 2
"James Skinner!"
Vicky lifted her son out from his seat as Lizzy scrambled to get the books he had been sitting on out of the way. Tomato soup dripped off the edge of the dinner table and onto the floor and the seat.
Skinner laughed, earning him a glare from his wife. Somehow or another, James had been able to upset his bowl and spill soup all over the place, including the back wall. The white was splattered with the runny red liquid, and Skinner winced when he realised that he would be stuck helping Vicky scrub it off later.
"Lizzy, go get the paper towels," Vicky told her daughter, who left the books at a clean spot on the table. "Rodney, hold James." She handed him the young child, and Skinner cried out in surprise when he felt the wetness on his lap, holding his son up by the armpits. The soup had gotten onto James' diaper.
"Vicky!" Skinner called, "He's got soup on his diaper!" He entered the kitchen and set the boy on the raised kiddie seat that James' godmother had made when the boy had been born. Sloane was a vampire, and her history with the Skinners went back over ten years. He heard the doorbell ring.
"What?!" He heard his wife say as he ducked into the hallway. He shook his head and chuckled. Dinner accidents happened almost every night in the Skinner household.
Reaching the door, he pulled it open. There was a man standing in the porch, dressed in dark robes, a hood drawn up to hide his features. Skinner tensed; this couldn't be good, since the only time he knew people to wear robes and hoods was on grim business.
He just looked at the man — it could have been a woman; Skinner knew how independent they could be, ever since he met Vicky —, waiting for him to speak. He waited, and his patience paid off, but Skinner's green and purple eyes widened when he finally did speak.
"Hello, father."
There was silence.
"Who are you?" Skinner said, finally finding his voice. A son? he thought. I've done my fair share of stupid things, but I've my own morals. Good ones, at that.
"Amelia Emmeline Watson," the figure said, raising his head slightly, but not enough to let Skinner see his face. His heart fell. Skinner knew the name well. It had been a name he'd made himself forget.
"What about her?" Skinner asked warily. They still stood at the doorway.
"Dad?" Lizzy's voice called from inside the house. "Is everything okay? Mum's says she's going to turn you into a frying pan if you don't come in and help her clean up now."
"We've a visitor, Liz," Skinner called back, his purple-green eyes not leaving their mysterious visitor. "Tell your mum that, will you?"
"Okay." Skinner heard his daughter's footsteps as she went back into the kitchen.
"What about Amelia?" Skinner asked, looking at where he thought the person's eyes were. In truth, he had one question he knew he should ask; he didn't want to push it, though. This is was too much for him to digest.
"It doesn't matter," the figure said. "But something else does. Will you listen to me?"
"I will," Skinner told him, "if you give me a name."
"Di'markiir," he said, pulling down his hood. Skinner blinked when he saw that he had hair, so light a blonde it was white, and eyes that were full indigo orbs. "Laire Di'markiir."
"You want me to call the League?!" Skinner got up from his seat in the cosy living room of their house. He began to pace. The newspaper he had been reading earlier sat on the small table at the side. "I can't do that! I don't have the authority."
"You can," Laire said, following Skinner — his father — with his solid cobalt eyes. "You know where they stay, where they work. You can contact them."
"That's not the point, Mr. Di'markiir," Vicky said from her seat on the armrest of the chair Skinner had been seated on. "He doesn't have the official clearance."
"Then who does?" Laire asked her, looking at her directly. Inwardly, Vicky frowned. Laire couldn't have been older than twenty, but she had noticed his attire; she had no doubt he came from the realm of magicks. And the hard edge to his eyes, funny as they were — they suggested he had lived a hard life. She recognised that edge; her husband used to have it, and still did. "We need the League, Mrs. Skinner. They may be our only hope."
"Who are 'we'?" Lizzy asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was eighteen this year, and becoming more like her mother everyday. She had been allowed to sit in, while her little brother slept in a crib at the corner of the room. James — who was better known as Jim to the League members — was checked on every so often by his mother. "You keep saying 'we'."
"You wouldn't understand," Laire told the young woman whom he refused to acknowledge as his sister. Rodney Skinner had had one whirlwind night of passion with his mother, Amelia Watson — and then he had stolen the invisibility potion and disappeared, literally, from her life. Nine months later, he was born. "All you need to know is that it's of great importance."
Vicky let the frown appear on her face. "We can't help you if you don't tell us why you need the League."
Laire thought it over. We need the League, he thought. "Assemble the League," he said, looking Skinner in the eye, "and I'll tell you then."
