Age Fifteen
My opponent and I keep our eyes locked on each other. A blink, or even a glance away on either of our parts will result in instant punishment from the other. At some signal that I never consciously register, we both lunge forward.
I slap her jab downward and try to punch over the top of it with the same hand. My opponent isn't sloppy enough for that to work though, so I meet a solid block instead. My straight hits the same block, and a dipped elbow catches my hook. I slip around her return straight and dance back, throwing out another jab just to keep her honest.
"So you're coming tonight." Sarah says it like a fact, and it says something that I find the verbal battle more difficult than the physical one. More dangerous too.
"Sarah..." I most certainly do not whine, and then try to distract her by reengaging. She sweeps my push kick aside and tries to counter, which I slap offline as well, and fall onto my forward leg into a straight that actually lands. She, of course, punishes me for that victory by spinning with the blow and kneeing me in my exposed side before I can recover.
"Don't 'Sarah' me." She does my whine pretty well. Not that I do that, "You need more friends than just me." She feints a wheel kick that turns into a push kick that I slip and use to dump her on her ass. I dive after her, turning the match into a grapple, "This will help with that." She manages to get out as she fights to get me into her guard, while I lay across her body and try to lock something in on her opposite arm.
"The hell it will and the hell I do," I grunt, as we squirm back and forth. "I'm happy as is, so why does everybody insist on changing things." She manages to twist out from under me, and then dives on top of me in an effort to take my back. Lucky for me, spinning onto my back is a quicker action, and she ends up diving into my guard. I lock my ankles behind her back, get her in a plum hold, and begin to lightly slap her head. It's what we do in practice instead of punching, as rapid, repeated blows to the side and back of the head tend to lose you sparring partners, "My social life isn't broken. Stop trying to fix it."
Sarah snorts and somehow manages to get an arm in the way of my slaps, pop the plum hold off the back of her head, and plant a knee in my thigh, forcing my guard open. Suddenly neither of us have the breath to keep arguing.
The two of us are pretty evenly matched, so our spars usually are either inconclusive or come down to points. Something that neither of us are very fond of. Her, because she wants a win, not a technicality. Me, because I'm trying to learn how to fight and points meant shit to a stray devil. Not that I've seen another one since that day when I was eight.
This is our second bout. She won the first one by knocking the wind out of me with a rising hook that somehow hits like a pile driver no matter how little effort she puts into it. When she actually drove the thing with muscle, I've seen her bounce heavy bags. I manage to take the second bout, though, with a soft technique that has her landing on her back hard enough that she just decided to lay there for a minute.
###
"I'll see you when you're done with your interview!" Sarah says, as she tries to squeeze the life out of me. She is still a hugger. She waves at me, which I return, as she jogs down the street towards the bus, and moments later I'm alone on the sidewalk.
I take a deep breath and check myself over again. I'm wearing a nice blouse tucked into a pair of slacks and covered by a nice enough jacket. My hair is damp and twisted up into a bun, as I'd actually used the shower at the gym for a change. Normally I try to stay out of there because as it turns out, I do in fact still like girls. Changing rooms are just embarrassing for a lot of reasons.
My parents think that I'm going to an interview for my first job. In a way I am, but really what I'm doing is far more important. Goal four, get allies. The first step of getting allies is getting a reputation for being somebody that people want to ally with. For that reason, I once again find myself standing outside a martial arts class, looking at the front of the used/antique book store that I've looked at plenty, but haven't set foot in since I was seven.
With another fortifying breath, I adjust my backpack and stride across the street. The door opens with the ring of a bell, revealing the entry area of the store looking exactly like I remember it. Open area leading to the stacks, bargain bin on the right, counter on the left, and... a goth girl only a few years older than me sitting behind it, reading a book.
The girl glances up from her book as I enter. "Gotta leave your bag with me, cutie," she says with a smile, "Can't let you take it with you into the stacks."
I blink, "You know, that's the second time you've told me almost exactly that." I take the backpack off my shoulder, setting it on the counter.
Her smile gets even wider at that, "I'm surprised you remember me. You were quite little at the time. Did you find your magic?" Her tone is playful, and she's clearly teasing me.
"I'm surprised you recognize me, like you said I was very small at the time. And actually," I hesitate for a moment. She might or might not know about the supernatural, or she might not be willing to introduce me to her boss, or her boss might not be willing to help. I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. I really don't have very many options. My only ins with the supernatural are a devil flyer I really don't want to use and this book shop. It really isn't a very hard choice, "that's what I was hoping to talk to somebody here about. I don't suppose that your boss or the owner is in?"
Her expression immediately becomes more withdrawn and wary. "That would depend on who you represent, and what that conversation would be about." I don't miss that one of her hands has slipped under the counter.
I try not to show how much my heartbeat has just sped up. I'm sure I feel a bead of sweat rolling down the back of my neck though, so I'm not sure how well I do. "I don't represent anybody," I say levelly, not moving my gaze away from her, and I just hope she isn't some supernatural that would take that as a challenge. I'm sure she is something, she doesn't look like she's aged a day, but non-hostile would be nice. "And mostly I was hoping that they could help put me in touch with some people."
She blinks, the suspicion fading some and being replaced by growing surprise, "Who told you to come here, then?"
"Nobody," I sigh. I have a feeling I know where this is going, and it's going to be embarrassing.
"Then how did you know to come here?" Suspicion is beginning to fade into incredulity, which is fair. My answer is completely ridiculous.
"Honestly?" I'm blushing, one hand half covering my face, "I take classes across the street, and happened to notice a large number of unusually beautiful, and improbably stacked women coming in and out of this place."
She pauses for a moment, as if waiting for me to continue, "That's it?" At my embarrassed nod she dissolves into hyena like laughter. I just groan and wait for her to get it out of her system.
Sooner than I would have expected she gets her laughter under control, "You have no idea who I am, do you?" I shake my head, "That either makes you stupidly brave, or confidently dumb. Which is it?"
I just sigh, "Neither." She opens her mouth, probably to lay into me, given her frown, but I keep going, "It's desperation. I literally have no contacts with the supernatural. Nothing. How would I find out who you are? I have nobody to ask. Nobody to tell me that I should ask. Until just now, I thought you were the teenage hired help. At some point, I'm going to have to take a risk on somebody I know nothing about. Might as well be the cute goth girl who was nice to me when I was little." I finish with a shrug. At this point, I'm standing in front of her counter looking down and fidgeting with my hands behind my back. My blush has faded to a faint pink tone, and I'm only just avoiding tripping over my own tongue.
After a few moments of silence I look up and find the girl gazing at me with an expression that was fluctuating between sympathetic and impressed, "So you took the necessary risk." The girl sighs and stands. She moves around the counter, flips the sign on the door to 'Closed' and waves me to follow her into the back, "All right. kid. Let's see what you've got."
###
The first time I'd been here I had tried to head straight into the back where the antique books are supposed to be kept. As a seven year old, I had unsurprisingly been denied entry, not that I had tried too hard. Now, though, the goth girl, who I really need a name for, leads me straight through. The door opens to a hallway that seems pretty standard, carpet, wood paneling. It looks like any other high end office building I've ever been in. There are a couple of doorways on either side of the hall and it ended in a T intersection.
My guide opens the second door on the right and lets me into a well appointed conference room. The large table seems to be a single, solid piece of wood and the chairs are rich leather. The back wall of the room is occupied by a glass case that was filled with books and other artifacts. I'm sure they would be very impressive if I had any idea what they are.
My host takes a chair, leaning back to study me. After a moment of intense scrutiny, during which I do my best not to squirm and to meet her gaze evenly, she speaks, sitting forward again, "All right kid, you want my help. What do you want, and why should I care?"
I try to suppress a wince at the blunt second question, though it's pretty much what I expected. But first, "Um... since you brought it up earlier, who are you? I mean, I can't just keep calling you 'cute goth girl'." Flattery might not get me anywhere, but it never hurts. Especially when it's true.
She smirks at me and nods approvingly, "My name is Caitríona, but you can call me Cait, dealer in rare and arcane books. Now, your pitch?"
I take a deep breath. Right, presentation time, "What I want is contact with the supernatural community. Both for information, and to sell my magic." If you can call it that, "Aside from having few options, I also figure that as a... as somebody who already sells to the supernatural community, you'd know who I should talk to." I calm down as I talk, I can do this. As it turns out, those practice interviews with mom and Sarah actually help, even if the questions I'd practiced with have nothing to do with my actual interview. "As for what's in it for you, I was thinking that I could offer you a commission, either a percentage of profits or service on the house, so to speak."
Cait's nodding along as I speak, an expression of polite interest never leaving her face, "All that sounds good, and even doable. Depending on what you have to offer, of course." Of course. "So what magic did you figure out? What can you do with it, and why do you think, at fifteen, you're good enough for it to be worth selling?"
"Well, in one sense I'm not sure. Not having anything to compare it to and all. I came with the assumption that I'd be making a demonstration, and then you'd tell me if I was wasting both of our time or not." Cait nods, which makes me feel like a weight has just come off my chest. Now to deal with the other weights, "As for what I can do," Another fortifying breath and I go for broke, "Basically anything."
Cait stares at me in silence, before a single eyebrow creeps upwards, "Anything." She has a remarkable dead pan.
I nod, "Anything. Within the limits of the time I have, the space available, and what I can figure out."
"You're going to need to explain that." Cait leans forward and for the first time she really looks inhuman. Formerly pale skin gains a luminous shine. Her eyes glow, their blue color turning from a nice sky to something impossible. Her black painted lips pull back to expose unnaturally sharp teeth. Really, I'm starting to wonder if the goth look is actually makeup at all. A cool autumn breeze blows through the room, which is impressive since there are no windows and it's late spring outside.
You know, in this moment, it occurs to me that if she decides that I am wasting her time, I might not get out of here.
I nod quickly and try to hide my trembling hands. Hurriedly reaching into my backpack, I pull out my Script dictionary and drop it onto the table with a thud. She leans forward to look at the book and makes a small sound of surprise, "You bought this from me." I nod, "You actually got it to work?" She sounds doubtful, but I nod again, "What have you done?"
I swallow, "Um, I've set up wards around my house that work by intent." That was tricky, the mailman was more than a little confused for a couple of weeks, "I've reinforced the structure of the house. Theoretically, it'll be invulnerable until the script burns out." I'd used paint in various places around the house to achieve the effect. Normally, I think, it would be limited by the amount of power I have to feed into the effect. With my Script to draw ambient power, it comes down to how much energy the paint can channel before it starts to boil, "I've set traps." That racoon was never going to rummage through our trash again, scared the crap out of him, "Made things grow." Explaining to mom where the new six foot tall rose bush had come from took some doing, "And once, called down lightning." All of that and none of it really combat applicable. The lightning especially, until I figured out how to activate a Script from 'over there'. Standing inches away from a lightning strike isn't fun. Really cool though, once I could see again and my hearing recovered.
Cait began my recitation stoic and more than a little hostile. As I talk, though, she goes from hostile to incredulous, then to shocked, and finally settles on stunned. As I finish she just stares at me for a moment, once again looking like nothing more than a goth teen. Finally she shakes her head and makes a gesture with her off hand. My ears pop as something in the room changes. I look at her and she shrugs, "Truth spell. If you'd lied, you'd have glowed."
"So does that mean you believe me?" I can't take much more of these ups and downs. I'm already exhausted.
"It means I believe that you believe what you're telling me. But extraordinary claims and all that." Cait stands and heads towards the back wall, opens one of the display cases and returns with a box. It's made of wood and stone, and covered in what I think are Futhark runes. I examine the box for a moment before looking up at her in question. She just waves at the box, "Open it."
The first thing I try is just opening the box. It doesn't open when I try and really, I don't expect it to. I just don't want to be that person, the one that misses the obvious solution because I assume the answer has to be supernatural. I get a giggle from Cait though, so I take that as a win.
Right.
Open the magic box. I've never even thought of using my Script to pick locks! Probably because it's never come up, but still!
I take a deep breath to center myself. Okay, start at the beginning. What do I know?
Magic box, locked with Norse runes.
...That's it.
That's also known as not nearly enough. So there's the first problem.
I look up at her again, "Can I use this table? Or is there somewhere else you'd like me to work?" Cait just waves me on, so with a nod I get to work. I've found over the last seven years of working with Script that while almost anything would do, bone chalk works best for written Script.
Fishing a stick out of my backpack, I go to work. The first thing to do is an analysis Script. I realized pretty quickly that the more detail I put into the descriptions of what I want, the better the Script works. So I quickly worked out a general Script to tell me about things. The trick with it is limiting the information to what I want to know. The first time I tried it was on a random pebble. I knocked myself out with the headache brought on by having my brain filled with everything that could be known about the pebble right down to its subatomic structure and including its entire history. I was lucky that the piece of paper I'd written the Script on burned itself up ending it, or I might have seriously hurt myself.
Mom wasn't thrilled to find me passed out on the floor, next to some ash, and bleeding from my nose. It's taken me a lot of fast talking to convince her that I wasn't 'on the drugs'.
Fortunately, I've had a lot of practice since then and I know how to limit the information now. In this case all I want to know is how the magic holding it closed works, and what it's made from.
It takes maybe twenty minutes to draw the whole thing out, and I work pretty quickly. Which goes to show how many symbols are included in even the simplest Scripts. Not that anything is really 'simple' in Script. Once the Script is finished, it takes the form of two circles. One I put the box in, that's where the Script would look for what to scan. I sat myself down in the other, where the Script would dump the information into whatever brain was there.
With another quick look over it to make sure I haven't missed anything, I start the next step. I pull the tiniest pen knife I could find and set it against my thumb. Before I can press though, I'm interrupted by Cait's, "Really?"
Glancing up at her, I find her looking very amused at my tiny knife. I give a slightly embarrassed shrug, "It's easy to carry without attracting attention, and is about as non-threatening as a sharp object can be." She's still smiling but waves me to keep going, so I nick my thumb, producing just enough blood to start the Script, and press it against the place where this Script's story starts. Then I begin to sing, and as I sing light follows along the Script symbols keeping pace with me.
I'm a terrible singer, but it's necessary, and I've found that Script responds better to singing than to chanting. So singing it is. This is why, for all the skill I've gained with the World Script, none of it would help me in a fight. Because if you want Script to work, you have to sing or chant along with what you write. On some level it makes sense to me, that for a story to mean or do anything it has to be told. Really, I have no clue why or how though, I just know that if you don't have the verbal component the results are unpredictable and often explosive.
The song and the story finish and the knowledge floods into my mind. I quickly learn two things. First, the box is granite, and old granite at that, but otherwise there's nothing special about the material. Second, I still know nothing about magic.
What I see when the Script tells me about the runes is a mess of colored lines and shining auras that layer over, and wrap around the box. What any of that means, however, I have no clue. I lean back on my hands and study the box again. I need to know what the hell those runes are doing to the box!
...
I'm an idiot.
I look up to where Cait is still watching me with great interest, "I don't suppose I could consult a reference?"
Cait looks amused but nods, "Sure."
I scoot off of the table and dash back down the hallway into the main store again. It takes me only a few minutes to find what I'm after. When I return, it's with the rune book that I'd looked at but decided against the last time I was here. Cait looks surprised and still amused, but I just plop myself down in a chair, pull the box close, and start looking up the runes.
One thing that working with Script and its dictionary taught me was to look things up quickly, and patience when 'quickly' turns out to be relative. And it is. It takes me almost half an hour to find all the runes with any degree of certainty. I can't do what has been done to the box, not with runes anyway, but I don't really need to. What I can do is find the meanings of individual runes and make some educated guesses.
There are runes for protection, resistance, locking, and a couple of other things that added together, keep anything from even touching the box. There doesn't seem to be anything done to the box itself, however. That matches up with what my analysis Script had shown, auras and lines of color wrapped around the box, but nothing actually entered it's substance.
Which... does suggest a solution, "Um... Is the box itself important? Or do you just want what's inside of it?"
Cait frowns, watching me. She had retaken her chair and seems content enough just to watch me work, "I said that I wanted you to open it. Destroying the box is not opening it."
I hiss under my breath and look back at the box. After a moments thought I look back up at her, "So your only objection is that I need to open the box?" I ask carefully, "Not that the box might be damaged?"
The supernatural woman narrows her eyes at me, but slowly nods, "I don't see how you're going to get at the box through the magic to damage it, but I suppose that minimal damage would be acceptable."
I nod. Plan set, I pull my Script dictionary and set to work. I take my time finding the symbols that I want, as I'm playing with something that I've never really considered touching before. Once I've found the exact symbols I want, I pull a washcloth and squirt bottle out of my backpack and set to cleaning the last Script off the table. Once I'm sure that my work surface is clean, I grab my bone chalk again and set to writing out my new Script.
Unlike my analysis Script, what I'm working on now is mostly new. Not just new symbols, but something I've never tried before, so I keep having to go back and correct sections as I get further. Twice I even have to start over from the beginning as I realize that a mistake earlier has changed the context of what I'm trying to describe later. All the while I practice the pronunciation of the new symbols. It takes several hours before I'm finished, and in spite of how big the table is, the Script almost didn't fit.
The box went in its place, a final check, and I'm ready to go. I bite my thumb to start it bleeding again, press it to its place and begin to sing again. The Script lights up as before, following my song. When it finishes, I start again from the beginning. The glow brightens as I go through it again. Then again. On the third pass through the Script, its light brightening each time, the box begins to be affected. Grains of sand and dust begin falling from the front of the box. Slowly, as I continue to sing through the Script again, the stone around the locking rune begins to dissolve. Finally, on the ninth time through the Script, the last bit of the locking rune finally vanishes and I stop singing.
I lean forward, and with a finger, flip the lid of the box open, the force that held it shut gone. With a groan I drop back into a chair, exhausted, and look up at Cait, "Well?"
Cait looks mildly stunned. She leans forward and draws a finger across one of the lines of the Script. The once white symbols have turned black, the power running through the chalk having burned it away, and in the process burned the symbol into the table.
I wince and start to open my mouth to apologize, but she waves me off before I can even begin to croak out a sound, "Well I have to say I'm impressed. What did you do? I've thrown everything I can think of at that box and never gotten anywhere."
I sigh, try to talk, choke, try again, and manage to scrape out some words this time, "I uh... I didn't understand the magic, but it didn't really matter as none of it affected the box itself. The runes created a shell around it that prevented harm, but that's it. The only exception was the locking rune. So I very carefully targeted the stone that made up the rune and, uh, intensified entropy on it. So it decayed until the rune was gone. Once the rune was gone, the box wasn't locked any more so..." I wave a hand at the stone box on the table.
Cait smiles broadly, "Like I said, I'm impressed. I think we can work something out."
I sit upright in spite of my exhaustion, "Thank y..." Cait holds up a hand stopping me mid-word.
"Before you finish that, I should introduce myself again. Like I said, my name is Caitríona, or Cait. However in the past, I was known as Caitsidhe."
I blink, then blink again as my tired brain runs through that and catches the import, "Sidhe? As in Fae? Don't thank them, rings of toadstools, that kind of fae?"
Cait nods with a grin, "You're rather knowledgeable for somebody that has no contact with the supernatural."
I shrug, "I have no contacts, but I clearly know the supernatural is there. I don't know how much is reliable, but I studied whatever I could." It's true, even if the two statements aren't actually connected. Most of my mythological studies happened in my old life, so I really wasn't sure if any of it was accurate.
"Well then. I think we can help each other. I'll take ten percent or a single task like this for every job I get you," Cait says, leaning forward, "It'll take a couple of days to find some people, and you'll probably have to do the first few for free, or at least a reduced price. Just so you have some people to vouch that you know what you're doing. It'll help you build a reputation."
I smile at the last word. Reputation is exactly what I'm after, the money is secondary. Seeing that we're done, I quickly repack my bag, taking special care with my Script dictionary. Finishing, I offer my hand, and smile more when she takes it, "T... I'm grea... I'm glad we could work something out, and very happy you were willing to hear me out and help."
Cait's smile got even bigger, "I, as well...?"
She trails off and it takes me a moment to realize that through all of this I'd never actually given her my name, "Ericka Rhostana."
"Ericka. Rhostana." She lets go of my hand and leads me towards the front of the store, "I think your name will end up being one to watch for. Just do me a favor and don't join the devils." Her face screws up in disgust, "And no matter what they say, don't trust those Evil Pieces of theirs. Or their intentions."
Were I somebody else I might have asked why, but I've seen a noble devil in action. And they'll never convince me that Evil Pieces don't plant some sort of control mechanism in the people they are used on. So I just nod in agreement, which seems to make her happy.
"Come back on Sunday and we'll get started," she says before ushering me out the door and shutting it behind me.
While I'd been inside for my interview the sun had gone down, leaving me to enjoy the late spring evening. Maybe I can just head straight home. I'm tired and Sarah, as much as I love her, is exhausting. Her friends are worse.
I idly take out my phone to turn the sound back on and discover that I've missed a few things. My mother had sent a message an hour ago to check in on how the interview was going. My dad sent a message saying that he would be available in the next hour to give me a ride two hours ago.
And Sarah has sent six messages and a picture of her pouting.
I sigh. That... Well I guess I have no choice really. I'm going to have to go to something infinitely more dangerous and terrifying than the supernatural job interview with a sidhe of the fae.
I'm going to a sleepover.
###
Sarah lives in a nice neighborhood in a well maintained house with two upper floors and a basement. Her mother is a nice woman who's obsessed with gardening, and it shows. Even in the dark, as I move up the walk through the front garden, the sheer effort put into the landscaping is obvious.
Before I even reach the front step, the door is flung open and a familiar black haired missile takes me around the middle and lifts me into the air, "You came!" Sarah squeals, shaking me back and forth, "You weren't responding to my texts so I thought you might have decided to ditch me and gone home!"
"I thought about it," I tell her looking down, hanging somewhat limply as she continues to hold me up, arms wrapped around my hips. She looks up at me and starts pouting again, "Except that pout is hard to argue with." I quirk an eyebrow at her, "Yes. That one. Now put me down." Sarah giggles, sets me on my feet, and drags me into her house.
When we'd started high school we both stopped going to gymnastics. It's not that we didn't like it. It's more that we were at the age where if we wanted to keep going to the same gym, everything was going to start being about competitions and getting ready for them. Neither of us are interested in that aspect of things so we found other places that would let us continue with what we did want without the aspects that we didn't.
I found parkour. Not only is roof running a thrill, but it taught me how to climb. Parkour keeps me in shape the same way gymnastics had, and lets me keep a lot of the same skills when I'm just having fun with it, instead of actively going somewhere. I can also see it being a useful boost to my mobility in the future.
Sarah found cheerleading.
The rest of the girls are Sarah's friends from the cheer squad and have been going strong for an hour or more already. Fortunately, I get there just in time for food. Pizza is devoured in huge quantities, movies are gathered, and all of us get changed for bed so we can lock ourselves in the basement until morning.
My sleepwear, when I bothered with any, are a pair of cotton shorts and a large t-shirt. The others... Well, I'm not sure if Sarah doesn't know I'm gay. Knows I'm gay and is punishing me for something. Or knows I'm gay and trying to help. While my sleepwear tends towards loose and covering, these girls, while still comfortable, are clearly showing off and having some sort of competition. Tight t-shirts, well fitted flannel pants, tight barely there shorts, or just panties. It's all I can do to keep my blush under control whenever I look at them, which I try not to do in any obvious fashion.
We have action movies, rom-coms, and horror films. The rest of the girls shriek and cling to each other during the jump scares. I, on the other hand, sit curled up on the other end of the couch, away from the pile. Since the stray devil, horror movies haven't really done it for me. The fake stuff isn't really scary after seeing the real thing. The human mind can't really grasp exactly how horrifying the supernatural can be without seeing it first hand.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Sarah watching me, looking worried. I try to smile reassuringly at her, but that just seems to make her more concerned. How exactly she can look grumpy from under a pile of cute girls, I have no idea. Well, other than that she would care more if they were cute boys.
Eventually we take a break from the movies, and quickly the conversation devolves into the inevitable discussion about boys. I stage a tactical retreat to the far side of the room and try to lose myself in my sketchbook. I have nothing to contribute to that conversation. Honestly, some part of me is afraid that if I hang around, my orientation will come out. Then I'll end up trapped in a room for the night with a group of irrationally paranoid, homophobic, teenage girls. Now that would make a scary horror movie. It would have a niche audience, but I certainly find the idea terrifying.
Unfortunately, Sarah refuses to let me hide in peace. She leaves the other girls to their discussion after a short while, and comes in my direction still looking concerned. I sigh as I see her head my way, and set my book aside.
Both Sarah and I have grown into the promise we'd shown when we first met. She as a teenager is devastatingly pretty and well on her way to beautiful. Shimmering waves of long black hair, deep blue eyes, a figure that curved in all the right places, with just the right amount of muscle tone. Really, I'm very glad that I met her as early as I had. Because if I had first encountered her after the Westermark cut off, I'd be incapacitated by the size of the crush I'd have on her. As it is, I could just appreciate the aesthetics and be glad she's my friend.
If I keep telling myself that long enough I may even start to believe it.
I, on the other hand, am just as plain as I expected to be. The best I'd ever achieved as a child had been cute, and that was more about behavior than appearance. My brown, not quite auburn hair is shoulder length, and that's only because I couldn't convince mom to let me cut it shorter. My build takes after my father's, all arms and legs, just with my mother's height. I'm only saved from looking like I'm made out of toothpicks by the unreasonable amount of muscle I have for a fifteen year old girl. Which also does me no favors, I've been assured. My features are almost painfully plain, and while I know my size, I've never actually needed a bra.
Sarah opens the conversation in typical Sarah fashion by setting herself in my lap. Really glad for the Westermarck Effect. "So why are you pouting over here?" she asks, smiling at me.
I just glare at her. "I'm not pouting," I tell her flatly.
"Hiding then." Damn girl's smile doesn't waver in the least under my glare. Fear me, dammit!
"I'm not hiding either. I'm in plain view. I just don't have anything to add to that conversation," I say and wave a hand at where the other girls are still gossiping.
"Really? Nothing?" Sarah wheedles, "Nobody caught your eye? Come on, you can tell me!"
"Nobody. I keep myself pretty busy in case you haven't noticed. I have little time for, and less interest in, boys." I can't quite hide all of the disgust I feel when I think about being 'involved' with one of the male gender.
"That's what I'm worried about. You work yourself too hard." I look up at Sarah to find that her smile has finally disappeared, "You need more friends. I'd say you need hobbies, but I'm well aware that the only time you take breaks is when you're injured or when I make you. So you need more people who can make you take breaks."
"I have hobbies!" I object, ignoring her comments about my schedule. She's right, and we both know it, so I see no point in discussing it, "I draw, and..."
"Drawing isn't a hobby," Sarah interrupts me flatly, "I don't know why it's not, but you have the same look on your face when you're drawing that you do when we spar. And don't try to claim that martial arts are a hobby for you, either." She's glaring at me now, which is something I've actually never seen before. Not pointed at me anyway. "Ericka, I'm worried about you. You work yourself constantly. If you're not training physically you're practicing something else. Even if what it is escapes me, I can see it. I don't know what you're afraid of," she holds up a hand to silence me when I go to interrupt, "and I won't pry, right now, but you need to have some fun or I'm afraid that you'll do something bad to yourself. Please just try to have some fun tonight? That was the whole reason I set this up. Please? For me?"
I blink up at her. She'd done this just so I'd stop training for an evening? I... really don't know how to respond to that. With a sigh, I hug the irritating ravenette, "Fine. I'll try to... to unwind a bit. Just for you."
"Great!" she chirps, hugging me back, "besides, it's not like you don't actually have anything to contribute." She looks at me conspiratorially and tightens her hold on me as I'm seized with the sudden urge to flee, "I've seen you watch Sandra. And I have it on good authority that Madison thinks you're cute~."
"What?!" I whisper-shriek and look up at Sarah wide eyed. Sandra hadn't been invited, but Madison is right over there with the others. My face turns bright red.
My captor smirks at me, "What? You thought I didn't know? Come on, I know you better than you know yourself." Sometimes I worry that's true, "So relax, I wouldn't have invited anybody who would take your orientation badly. Come socialize some and you'll see. Maybe you'll make a friend, or even more~." Sarah singsongs the last word and I frown up at her.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm prickly, anti-social, abrasive, and not nearly attractive enough to make up for it," I tell Sarah flatly. The attitude is something that I actually cultivate deliberately, "Nobody's going to have a crush on me."
"That's something else we'll work on. You're not nearly as unattractive as you seem to think you are." It's hard to argue with a girl that looks like Sarah while she's sitting in your lap. I'm determined to try anyway. Just as soon as she let me get a word in, "If you'd just let me take you shopping we could give you a makeover," Oh god, no, "and you'd get a girl in no time flat." Sarah is just getting ready to start wheedling, a tactic against which my defense has historically been poor, when I'm saved by the rest of the sleepover.
"Sarah!" The aforementioned Madison calls from where the others are, "Cynthia is claiming she can do a freestanding handstand longer than the rest of us. We're doing a contest, come on! Ericka can judge!"
Sarah looks down at me and raises an eyebrow. I hesitate for a moment, then shake my head, pushing her off my lap as I stand, "Judge hell. I'm going to have to teach you lot how to hold a handstand." Sarah whoops and bounces off the floor to lead me back over to the group.
Maybe some fun wouldn't go amiss. Really, I do have fun with my training. There's no way I would have been able to keep it up for as long as I have, at the intensity I have, if I didn't enjoy it. But some more conventional fun might be good too. I don't want to be completely clueless when I finally get to the point where I can slow down some. So I'll give this a try.
However, no matter what Sarah thinks, I'm not going to be ending the night with any new friends, and especially no girlfriend. I'm still planning to leave this reality just as soon as I figure out how, and I'll probably never be coming back. I don't need to get attached to people I'm just going to leave.
I already have no idea how I'm going to leave Sarah or my parents, and that's hard enough.
###
Sunday finds me, for the third time, standing in front of the nameless book store. I've spent most of the day before looking up everything I could on Caitsidhe. Or cat sith, nothing to do with Star Wars, and found depressingly little. There's a quick almost... tongue twister, about the death of the king of cats, and some references to them being both protectors and breath eaters. On Sidhe in general, there's somewhat more. Basically, I'm glad to have settled on a price for Cait's services before we ended the negotiations two nights ago, because owing a debt to fae of any kind is just a terrible idea.
Otherwise, there's a lot of conflicting material. Cold iron is the general solution to fae, unless they're a red cap, or a brownie, or... it's generally just better to look up whatever you're dealing with specifically. Assuming that anything I found on the internet is at all accurate.
Which isn't something I'm willing to take on faith, even beyond the normal skepticism of internet sources.
Cait meets me at the door before I can even think about knocking and waves me in, immediately leading me towards the back. "So I worked fast and found three jobs. You'll have to do them for free to prove to the community that you know your stuff. Lucky for you, they're still paying me a finders fee so you don't have to worry about that."
"Okay," I nod along as she leads me into the back hallway, and to the first door on the left this time. Inside is a dirt floor and a ring of mushrooms. I stop dead upon seeing it and look askance at Cait.
The cat fae smirks at me in a highly appropriate fashion and nods approvingly, "Yes that's what you think it is, but don't worry about it. You're a guest, as long as you stick with me, go where I go, and stay on the path you'll be fine."
That sounds like a lot of caveats, "I don't suppose I can just hang onto you to make this easier?"
"What, like holding my hand?" Her smile is positively wicked now.
I roll my eyes, "Or hang onto the back of your shirt, or your belt, or you could grow a tail and I can hang onto that."
"You want to hang onto my tail?" She draws herself up looking affronted.
I raise an eyebrow at her, "Isn't that what the spot on the end of cat tails are for? So kittens have something easy to follow when being led places?"
"Are you calling yourself my kitten?" She's grinning at me again. The woman has more different kinds of smiles than I've ever seen on a single person before. This one seems almost pleased.
"You are older than I am," I point out. I figure the thing about women and age doesn't matter when the woman in question doesn't age, and age only brings power. I'm still not asking though, I'm not quite that confident.
"True enough." With that, Cait grabs my shoulder and pushes me so that we step together into the faerie trode.
###
The moment I cross the ring of mushrooms, I'm somewhere else. There's no real transition I can describe, one moment I'm in a dirt floored room in the back of a bookstore, then next I'm... somewhere else.
Beneath my feet is a path of shimmering silver sand. The path is wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder if they're friendly, and the sand of the path makes a chiming sound as I step on it. Cait, of course, doesn't make any sound at all. On either side of the path I can just make out tree trunks and branches overhead. The trunks of the trees are black and shiny like obsidian, and the few leaves I can see are bright like emeralds. Past the trees, the sky is too black and the stars too bright. Surrounding us is a thick white fog. Nothing ahead of us, or behind, or past the very edges of the closest tree trunks, but swirling white mist. I can't even see the path past a foot or so.
Almost on reflex my hand snaps up and grips the back of Cait's shirt. It would be too easy for the path to turn out from under my feet without my noticing until it's already too late. I don't really want to know what would happen to me then.
Cait looks over at me and smiles gently. A moment later, a black tail with an orange tip smacks me in the face. Cait laughs at my expression, but I grab onto the offered appendage without a word.
The moment I have a good grip Cait starts ahead, and I dutifully follow behind. At first I try to watch my surroundings, try to see past the trees, or watch where the path goes. What I see, when I see anything through the mist, is a nonsensical Escheresque nightmare that makes my head pound and my stomach churn.
I quickly decide that my feet are the most interesting thing out here, "So how can you tell where we're going?" I ask after an indeterminate amount of time.
I think she looks back at me, but I refuse to look up to check. After a moment though, Cait answers, "Well, I don't have trouble seeing like you do. The Lords and Ladies of Faerie don't like mortal guests. So there are illusions laid everywhere that affect only them."
"So to you, it's a clear day and a straight road?"
"Well, I don't see the mist, and I'm used to the geometry here."
Suddenly I'm glad that I can't see more. The silence is getting to me though, so I keep talking, "What are these jobs you found for me?"
"First, you're going to grow some trees. There's a grove of dryads that are trying to set up a new grove that they can move to, but that can take anywhere from decades to centuries depending on the tree."
"But I can speed up the growth so that they have what they need now," I nod. The rapid growth Script isn't hard, and won't have to be adjusted much for trees instead of rose bushes. But, "I'm going to need something to write on," I tell her.
Cait just nods and keeps going, "Second, there's an orphanage that needs you to get rid of a Tulpa."
"A what?" That's one I've never heard of before.
"A Tulpa. It's a spirit made by collective, focused thought or belief," Cait explains. "Most boogeymen are Tulpa, and that's probably what you're dealing with here." How the fuck? This one would take some thought. Spirits aren't anything that I've dealt with before and haven't really thought of dealing with before. Not to mention, how do you get rid of something that's dreamed up and so can probably be dreamed up again?
Before I can get too lost in trying to figure Tulpa out, Cait continues, "Third is a mage society that wants help securing a vault." Well, that would be easy enough at least.
Some bit of genre savviness warns me that I might have just screwed myself with that thought.
###
We reemerge into the real world, stepping out of another ring of mushrooms, this one somewhere in the middle of a redwood forest. Ferns and duff cover the ground and there are no signs of civilization as far as the eye can see.
Which granted, with the dense forest, isn't very far.
It occurs to me at that moment that I have no idea where I am. Nor do I have a way to get home without Cait. That's something I'll have to fix as quickly as possible. Though the only way I can think of to teleport with Script would be very slow to write out, and easy to get wrong. Something else to work on then, in my copious free time.
It's another twenty minute hike to the dryad grove.
The dryads are waiting for us when we arrive, six of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Their skin is the color of redwood, their hair is a deep green, their eyes a tawny yellow, and rose red lips stretch in welcoming smiles. Devils might be lush seductresses, but the dryads are svelte and athletic natural beauties. Which honestly has always appealed to me more.
And they're entirely naked.
I don't know why this surprises me, but it does.
They descend on Cait and me in a giggling swarm of welcoming hugs and introductions. Getting hugged by a dryad is something that I'll think about later. By myself. Anyone thinking of them as simple fertility spirits, or taking their giggling and enthusiasm for stupidity, is in for a nasty surprise, however. I can see it in their eyes, sharp and watching. They're nature spirits, and anybody who thinks nature is all sweetness and light has never seen National Geographic. They are as much predator as prey.
After the dryads finish welcoming us, they show us the grove to be, a large clearing in the tree cover filled with ferns and dappled sunlight. In the center of the clearing is a massive redwood stump. Eight feet tall and maybe twelve feet across. The clearing had apparently been made when this tree had been cut down. Arranged in an almost perfect circle around the stump are twelve little redwood saplings.
This might be easier than I thought.
I had thought that either I'd have to struggle to find a way to target all the trees to be grown at once, or have to redo the Script as many times as it took to grow each tree individually. But I grew up in California and so know more than I really need to about redwoods. Some species of redwood, instead of reproducing by seed, spread by sending out runner roots. Roots that after they travel a certain distance sprout upwards into a brand new tree. Redwoods usually do this when a larger tree dies. Like when it has been cut down. So all the new saplings are still connected to each other through the central stump, which will make targeting them all at once much easier.
Finishing the brief tour I turn to the girls, fighting to keep my gaze above their necks, and ask the important question, "So what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Well," One, I think her name was Edinia, presses her athletic form into my side "we can't inhabit trees until they reach a certain size. Caitríona said you could make things... grow quickly." Ooookay. This is going to be a problem. How the hell did she make that innuendo? I don't even know what she's insinuating and I'm already red.
And now they're giggling at me.
I regain my composure by force of will, "I've had success with rose bushes before, but I don't see much trouble adjusting to growing trees." I manage to keep my voice steady even as they celebrate by bouncing up and down clapping their hands, "It's... um... the best place for me to do this would be the central stump," I say pointing and struggling to look in that direction, "if the top is smooth?"
They nod, Edinia especially rubbing her cheek against my shoulder, her very red lips spread into a smile, "Oh yes," she coos, "once we heard what you could do for us," Script, she's talking about my Script, "we made sure you'd have a good place to work from."
I wrench my focus away from the dryad cuddled up to me with a swallow, and nod, "Right. I'd best get to work then."
I step away from Edinia, who responds with a pout, and do just that. Step one is measuring the distance from the center of the stump to each of the saplings and recording the distance for reference later. This takes help from a dryad, one of them holding my measuring tape in place while I hold the other end to the saplings.
Once that's done, it takes some time with the Script Dictionary to figure out how to adjust my grow Script to work on redwoods. This takes more time than it really should have as the dryads insist on being involved in every detail, because they want to shape the growth of their trees slightly. That part actually helps, as they know their trees very well and remind me of several things I would have missed. They also tell me how the absent dryads of their grove would like their trees. Apparently about half of them have stayed behind to protect the old grove until they have someplace else to move to.
What doesn't help is that they insist on draping themselves all over me as we work. One pressing into my back, one leaning into each of my sides, and one snuggles into my lap. The rest are sitting close and leaning closer, frequently reaching out to touch me with hands, or laying their heads on whatever bit of me is available.
"You're very tense," the dryad at my back says, and starts rubbing my shoulders. My eyes unfocus at the impromptu massage, "Too tense, you should let us help you relax." I've actually started to agree when what she's probably implying registers.
I blush and stammer before freeing myself, not at all reluctantly, from the dryad pile. An action that earned much vocal disapproval and pouting. I get on top of the stump easily enough. A running start and, parkour for the win, find myself on the smooth almost polished surface of the top of the stump. Pacing out the area I have to work with and planning out how things will lay only takes another few minutes. Then finally, I can get started on the Script itself.
Bone chalk goes onto the wood like a dream, and I quickly lose myself in my writing. I identify the trees to be affected by distance from the central point, and how they are still connected to the stump I'm using for my work. How each tree is supposed to be, what it's to look like and how much it's to grow are all described to each individual dryad's specification. I mark out a place for me to stand without interfering, the Script to draw in energy, and end with where the Script story begins.
A last check over everything and I'm ready. A nick to my thumb and pressing it to the start, I begin to sing. And as I sing, the trees grow. The trunks widen and grow upwards. Branches sprout and stretch out from the trunks, bark thickens and toughens. Roots, something I would have forgotten about completely if not for the dryads, snake downwards. All of this is powered by the ambient energy drawn through my Script, so all the nutrients in the soil are still waiting there to be used. As the trees reach their full growth, their branches start to meet each other over my head, my song and Script weaving them together to make a roof over the open center of the clearing.
I'm panting as I finish. Rocking back on my heels I set my hands on my hips and turn to take in the results of my work.
Only to be taken off my feet as I'm tackled by a horde of grateful dryads. I'm laughing and about to shoo them off me, only for soft lips to crash into mine. I manage to push the first dryad away to try and escape, or apologize, or ask for more, I'm not really sure, but the first dryad's lips and tongue are quickly replaced by another's. I might have lost some time at that point, and probably would have been there a lot longer if not for Cait pulling me out from under them.
All I really remember of my trip back to the faerie trode is Edenia calling after us that I'm welcome to come back and be a guest of their grove any time.
I don't say anything on our way through Faerie because I'm too embarrassed for words at how the dryads had gotten to me.
Cait giggling the whole way doesn't help either.
###
The orphanage is a very large Victorian building, three stories high, and sitting in a very nice suburb of... somewhere. I still don't know where I am, but at least in civilization I could find out and find a way home if I need to.
We're met at the door by an elderly woman who's slender and tall. Her iron grey hair is done up in a severe bun that goes well with her perfect posture. I expect her to be stern from the look of her, but that goes away almost immediately when she sees us. A warm smile blooms across her face and she pulls Cait into a hug. A hug that the fae returns enthusiastically.
They talk happily to each other for several minutes in a language that I don't recognize. Eventually, I cough quietly into one hand, reminding them I'm here. The two straighten up quickly.
As soon as they're composed, Cait introduces us, "Mrs. O'Mera, this is Ericka. I think she can solve your Tulpa problem. Ericka this is Mrs. O'Mera." I'm getting the impression that this woman doesn't actually have a first name.
I step forward and hold out a hand, which Mrs. O'Mera shakes with a grip like iron, "Well, then, dear, thank you for coming. Let me show you the problem." Her accent is interesting. Very faint, whatever it is, but given how familiar she and Cait are acting, I'm betting on something native to the British Isles that isn't English. More than that I'm not willing to speculate.
The interior of the building is very clean. Spotless hardwood floors with old faded carpets that look pretty good, even if they are ancient. Antique chairs and tables are scattered along the hallways and staged in rooms in a manner that makes me wonder if they're meant to be used. Mostly though, the place feels empty. Our footsteps and conversation echo through the well preserved house.
Mrs. O'Mera speaks softly to Cait during the brief trip, but addresses me again as we reach a long hallway with three doors in it at the far end. One on each side and one straight ahead.
"These are the little one's dorms," the older woman explains, "boys on the left, girls on the right. The door at the end leads to an old boiler room. It still holds some of the heating for this wing of the house. It's old enough that it makes noises that can sound like something other than just pipes. The other part of it is that, because of the ventilation that the old boiler required," Just then the door jerks and rattles in its frame, sounding very much like something is trying to get out. Or just remind everybody that it's there, "that happens.
"The story started like most such things do. Older children trying to scare younger ones. The tale goes that the house is an orphanage because the original family that lived here had a child, Oliver, who was so bad they had no choice but to lock him up." The woman points at the door to indicate where the fictional child had been held, "The couple then took in other children to soothe their guilt about what they had done to theirs.
"Of course, Oliver was still there and quickly began banging on the door," the door in question rattles again, "jealous of the children that his parents now paid attention to instead of him. One night the boy got out of the boiler room, stalked the halls and found the worst behaved child in the orphanage and dragged that child back into his prison with him.
"What happened to the kidnapped child is never defined clearly, but the implication is that Oliver ate the child he took. Oliver taking him in the first place was because he thought that's what happened to very bad children. Just as his parents did to him. From that point forward, Oliver's parents took the worst behaving child in the orphanage and gave them to Oliver to keep him quiet, and protect the other children. Of course, if nobody is that bad often enough, somebody gets sent in anyway. Or that's the story."
I listen to the tale as I watch the door bang and rattle at distressingly appropriate points in the narrative. "So the collective belief in this story congealed together into an actual being mirroring the fictional Oliver?" I ask, making sure I have the idea straight.
"Indeed. We had never really given much credence to the story of course, we know the actual history of the house. You can never get rid of this sort of thing entirely, and as such stories go, this one was pretty harmless," Mrs. O'Mera explains. "But then about two weeks ago Samira, one of our volunteer caretakers and in fact one of our former residents, woke to the sound of screaming. She came running, of course, and arrived just in time to see something dragging a boy out of the dorm, and towards the open boiler room door. The thing fled into the boiler room upon being seen, the door slamming shut behind it. Since then we've had five more attacks."
"And you can't just bar the door because that would encourage belief and make the thing stronger," I sigh, looking down the hallway at the door. "So I think I can get rid of it, but I'll need a couple of things. And you're going to need to have the kids see it go, or they'll just dream it back into existence. If they see it go, they'll believe it's gone, so...?" I shrug. It's the only solution I have for how to get rid of a monster with belief based re-spawning.
Cait nods at me from behind Mrs. O'Mera, who looks thoughtful, "I can see why you say that, and I suppose if you're certain what you do will work, it can be arranged."
I wince, "Honestly ma'am, I have no idea. I'm pretty sure what I have in mind will work, but I've never dealt with a Tulpa before. I can only try, but if the belief that made it in the first place doesn't go away," I shrug again, "I can't imagine that you won't get another one pretty quickly."
The old caretaker sighs, "Very well. What do you need?"
"Well... A picture of the Tulpa would be nice, what the story calls the thing, as I doubt it's Oliver, and if it has any weaknesses. Anything that according to the story hurts it more than usual."
"We do have a picture as it happens. Samira needed something to prove to the rest of us that this was actually happening. And no, they don't call it Oliver. Bloody Olly does have a sensitivity to light after spending so much time in a dark room, you understand." Mrs. O'Mera smiles for a moment before her face falls. As though she's used to finding the story amusing, and suddenly can't. To be fair, the story probably had been amusing to the caretakers here for quite some time. Right up until the story came to life and started trying to drag off their charges.
The picture is surprisingly clear. Taken with a flash polaroid, it shows a figure maybe the size of a very skinny seven year old. However it's an indistinct black, the edges of the figure are fuzzy and blend into the shadows. It has no face, just a pair of glowing yellow eyes. It has a hunched posture that does something to disguise its overly long limbs and that its fingers are more like claws, but not nearly enough. Overall, it's a very effective boogeyman and not something that I'd want in my closet.
With all the information I think I'll need, I get to work. The main Script goes on the floor in front of the boiler room door. This acts first as the trap. Using a description of Bloody Olly derived from the picture, and symbols as close as I can get to its name, I create a circle that will trap the Tulpa, and hopefully only the Tulpa, in place. Next come other Scripts on the walls and ceiling that will create natural sunlight, and will be triggered once the trap goes off. The last part of the trap is in the original circle. Once the Tulpa is illuminated and weakened, the Script will drain away any energy in the circle, hopefully unraveling the Tulpa. And not doing too much damage while freezing the floor.
An application of blood and song activates the trap. "There," I say turning to Mrs. O'Mera, "that will keep until activated, and hopefully take care of your Olly problem." My head is beginning to hurt, and my throat definitely is. Activating Script takes a lot of focus, and I've never done more than one Script in a day before. It's beginning to wear on me, and I have one more to do.
Fortunately, it's the one I expect to be easy. Wards are something I've had a lot of practice with, warding and rewarding my home and room.
Mrs. O'Mera takes pity on me and insists that Cait and I stay for lunch.
The food is excellent and Mrs. O'Mera takes the opportunity to tell me stories about Cait. Cait is a changeling, as it turns out. One of the fae that's left behind in the place of a child that the fae rescued from an abusive home, left behind specifically to punish the abusive parents. After Cait successfully drove her abusive foster parents insane, she was placed in Mrs. O'Meara's orphanage. Which was how they met, and how Cait ended up with a much better opinion of humanity than most changelings have. A good enough opinion that she decided to stick around rather than returning to Faerie. I get the impression that there's more to Cait's story, but either Mrs. O'Mera doesn't know or isn't telling, and I feel no need to pry.
Fed and with an opportunity to rest, I feel much better by the time Cait and I set off to our last stop for the day.
###
This time Cait starts talking almost as soon as we move onto Faerie's paths, "This next group is a little unusual. They're extremely reclusive, and are only letting you in because I vouched for you. What you do will reflect on me, so don't fuck up."
I swallow and can feel my hand sweating where I grip Cait's tail, "No pressure then."
Cait continues as though I haven't spoken, which doesn't fill me with confidence, "They're descended from a native American tribe, and dedicated to hunting various native American monsters."
"Skinshifters, and Wendigos?" I ask, naming the only two American native monsters I know of.
Cait nods, "Exactly. Those and a lot of other things you've never heard of. Some of them you won't know because they're just that uncommon, others because knowledge of them has been deliberately suppressed. You ready?" she asks, looking back at me.
God dammit, after that talk I'm nervous as hell. I nod anyway, though, and Cait takes us out of Faerie.
We arrive in a dirt floored room very similar to the one we left from in the book store. A large man of native American descent is waiting for us. He's dressed in a nice business suit with a bolo tie and his long hair is pulled back into a ponytail much like mine is. I don't think bonding over hairstyles will work, though, given his very serious expression.
"I am the shaman in charge of this facility," he introduces himself, not offering a hand to shake or any greeting at all as he leads us out of the room. "There are no names here, Miss Rhostana," except for mine apparently, "you will address us by position." I glance at Cait but she shakes her head, so I decide not to ask.
He leads us through a few hallways as he explains what they want from me, "We have an opportunity to capture a very elusive monster. One that has never successfully been killed, studied, or even held before." His voice is even but I can hear a hint of excitement in his tone, "Its power," whatever that is, is probably another thing I won't be told. Or told why I won't be told, "can only be stopped by wood. However it has more than enough physical strength to smash any hardwood to splinters."
"Which is where I come in," I say, nodding. It's something I can definitely do. The front door to my house can probably take an RPG at least once before it gives. With something better to work with I can make it even tougher and last longer under pressure.
"Indeed," the shaman nods, opening a set of double doors to reveal an expansive warehouse-like room. It's entirely empty save for a large, steel banded wooden box, big enough to hold two grizzly bears comfortably. "The wood is iron wood and almost a foot thick. The banding is an inch thick and three inches wide." And this, apparently, is nowhere near enough.
Okay, I can work with this, "I'll need some specific materials, but I can write a self sustaining Script onto the wood that will make it invulnerable as long as it lasts. With enough silver wire..."
"There can be no additive power," the shaman interrupts me, "anything unnatural in the substance of the cage will compromise the wood's ability to stop the beast's power."
What.
I knew I'd jinxed myself. God damn it!
I glare at Cait who simply shrugs, "You said anything."
"Can you help us?" the shaman asks expressionless. He doesn't expect me to be able to, I realize. They had tried before, and failed, but something about this is important enough to try again anyway. And Cait had gone out on a limb and told them that I could give them a miracle.
So what they want me to do is somehow make the wood, without running any energy through it, able to hold up to their monster.
I have no idea how to go about doing that.
But that's what I have to do.
I can try altering the wood in some way, but if just running energy through the wood stopped it working, altering it too much probably won't work either. I run my hands over my hair making a frustrated noise, "Let me work on this for a bit, and I'll let you know."
The shaman nods and turns to Cait, "We can wait in one of the studies, it will be a more comfortable place to talk."
"Sure, it'll give us a chance to catch up." Cait takes him up on the offer, and the two of them stroll out the door without a care in the world. Meanwhile, I turn back to the box.
I pace around it, knock on it, even climb it a few times. The problem is that I need the wood to have the properties of something not wood, while staying wood. Which makes no sense. If it doesn't behave like wood, it's not wood! That's the way it works! It was the old if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, then it's a fucking duck!
I groan and sit down, lean my back against the box, pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and bury my face in them.
This is the important job, I realize.
The dryads are out in the middle of nowhere, who would they tell about me? And who would listen to them? The orphanage was almost more a favor to Cait. A mundane, if aware, woman running an orphanage won't have many people she can tell about what I can do, and won't have the reputation for her words to carry a lot of weight.
An obviously old and powerful mage society, though? One that probably deals with a lot of other supernaturals as they did their thing hunting monsters? And probably has a good reputation because of it?
This is the important job, and I'm fucking it up.
The day had been going so well too! And now, at the finish line, I'm going to fail. Cait had taken a risk on me, given me this chance, and I'm going to blow it.
My trap Script would work, I'm sure. Or as sure as I can be without testing it. But I can't think of a reason why it wouldn't.
And I helped the dryads! That had been straightforward and easy.
And had come with great eye candy.
I blush slightly as I think about Edinia's invitation to return to the grove and be their guest for a while. It's really tempting, and something I might actually do if I can find my way back there without Cait.
Cait would just mock me incessantly, and I don't need that.
It would be a great way to experience certain things without getting attached to somebody I'd just have to leave. Some part of me knows that I'm rationalizing but I ignore that part 'cause damn if those tree girls can't kiss.
I mean, wow. For a first kiss, that was not a bad one to get.
My brain keeps circling that idea. Which is frustrating, because tree girls, as nice as they are, are just distracting me from my current issue...
Tree. Girl.
Tree girl.
Tree girl!
I snap upright and bite off a curse as I smack the back of my head into the hardwood I'm leaning against and scramble for the door. Dryads essentially are their trees. Both tree and girl at the same time. All the time. They can be as hard as the wood of their trees when they want to, or soft flesh...
I stop the thought there with another blush.
The point is that I'm not bound entirely by the physical world as science understands it. I'm in fantasy land, and I've put a lot of effort into making physics my bitch. Ripping the door open, there's a young man there that appears to be waiting for me. Probably just in case I need something or to keep me from wandering around in their super secret fortress.
He smiles at me, "Hello there. They didn't tell me that the visiting mage was such a vision of loveli..."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I need you to go get your boss," I cut him off before he can get going. Now is not the time for flirting even if he had parts I'm interested in. I feel like I'm on the edge of something big. For me, if nobody else. However, given what this bunch are asking, I'm pretty sure that this, if it works, will be unique. That feeling combined with the exhaustion from the rest of the day is making me a little manic.
I slam the door shut, and dive for my bag. Pulling out the Script dictionary, I start paging through it rapidly, trying to find some concept that will work for what I'm after. What seems like moments later the door swings open again and the shaman and Cait enter the room.
I look up at them and apparently I'm looking a little crazy because they both stop dead upon seeing me. "Dryads!" I cry out and bounce to my feet.
"Dryads," Cait agrees soothingly like she's trying to calm down a crazy person.
"Yes, dryads! Don't talk to me like that. Dryads are one with their trees, how?" I demand startling both of them with the non sequitur from the looks of it.
The shaman is the one who answered me, "They share essence with their trees, making them both." The man says slowly, "You think you could do this? Make the wood both wood and something else?"
"Essence!" I dive back into my book looking for the symbols I want, "Maybe, but that's not really what we want. It's probably the easiest way, but if we stuff steel essence into the wood it still won't be wood any more. Or at least I wouldn't want to bet on it still being wood for your purposes. And from what you've told me about this thing, we shouldn't take chances."
"Then I must confess that I'm lost," the shaman admits, but I'm not really paying attention to him any more.
I'm pretty sure that from what I already know, and what I'm looking up now, I can do what I'm thinking of. "I need you to get something, something with the strength and hardness that you want your box, cage, vault, thingy to have." I pull out my notebook and a pencil and start scribbling down ideas for how to arrange the Script.
I can totally do this.
I don't notice the shaman leave. I notice him return with several more people in tow, carrying something heavy between them. I glance up as they come in and point at a spot near the box, but not too near. I'll need room to write around it after all, "Put it there!"
They drop the dull black metal ingot with a thud. It doesn't ring, or rattle. Just thud. There might have been a faint tremor when it hit the floor.
I dart to my feet, carrying my notebook as a reference in one hand and a fresh stick of bone chalk in the other, and I go to work. It's my largest Script to date. I surround the ingot in one circle, describing what qualities I want to copy from it. Another around the box, some of it traveling up onto the box, describing how what is transferred would be integrated. That turns out to be easier than I thought, but I can't find anything wrong with it so I move on. Lastly, a lot of connections between the two describing how what's copied will be delivered to where it'll be used.
Finally it's done, and I step back sweating and breathing hard, "There. That should do it." This will not be a short Script.
I've acquired an audience of several dozen, but I try not to pay attention to them. It takes me several minutes to catch my breath, but once I have I'm ready to begin. For the third time that day I approach the beginning of a Script story, apply blood from my poor sore thumb, and sing.
Light trickles from my blood to the absorption Script, and then burns through the symbols, following my song. It flows through the circle around the metal, then down the channels to the circle around the box. The light surrounding the square wooden cage crawls up it and sinks into the wood.
I stop singing, the Script done. My head is pounding, and I'm gasping for air. The room is silent as I turn back to the shaman and nod. He gestures to one of the other members of their wizard order, or whatever it is.
The young man steps forward, carefully stepping over the bone chalk that remains. Taking out a small knife he reaches forward to try and notch the wood.
I, along with everybody else, hold my breath.
Then the knife carves a small groove into the wood and my heart plummets. It didn't work.
The room erupts into pandemonium.
"I knew it would never work," a young mage says to the mage next to him.
"It's an outsider, what do you expect?"
"Never should have wasted our time."
"Waste of time."
"You told me that she could do this." That's the shaman.
"I thought she could." My ears start ringing as Cait replies, "She's managed everything else today. Maybe this was just too much for her."
The volume of the chatter seems to rise until it feels deafening, "We trusted." "Shouldn't have bothered." "Failure." 'Victim' My own mind supplies.
"Shut up!" somebody screams. I look around to find out who... why is everybody looking at me?
... Oh, because that was me.
I take a few deep breaths to center myself. "We are trying something entirely new here. Something that apparently has never been done before. You'd be lucky if something worked the first time you try it even if you know exactly what to do. We don't have that luxury here. Now shut up, and let me figure out what went wrong so I can try again."
Without waiting for a reply I turn and stalk forward to examine every bit of my Script. I'd seen the light travel through the entire Script, so it's not a grammatical or connection error. Really there are only two places it could have failed. The places where I'm making things up. The places where it wouldn't be obvious if the Script didn't work. Either copying the qualities we want from the metal, or giving them to the wood.
I start with the box. The light from the Script had sunk into the wood evenly from what I saw, and the Script had described the process well. I can't see anything I would change. I kept it simple so it's unlikely that the Script has done something other than what I had intended.
Which means that the failure is at the other end.
Hopefully.
The Script around the metal is by necessity more complex than that around the box. It describes precisely as I can what qualities I want to copy. The information on those qualities should have traveled with the light to the box.
Maybe that's the problem? The light can't hold the information to copy? No, I think the problem is that you can't just stick information into an object and expect the object to know what to do with it. I could probably write a Script to use the metal as a template and alter the wood to match... but that comes back to altering the wood in a way I'm not sure would leave it wood. Essence is the answer...
If I can't copy it, can I take it? Sacrifice the metal to give its properties to something else?
Sacrifice.
The word clicks in my head. I'm sacrificing blood and power from the world around me to achieve a temporary effect. A trap that will vanish once it's sprung, or a tree that's accelerated, but not really changed in a way it wouldn't have on it's own. Even my reinforcements and wards will only last until the Script overloads, then vanish as though they had never been. But if I want to achieve something more permanent, a larger sacrifice would be needed.
I don't have any idea if that's how it really works, but it makes sense to me at this moment. So I go with it.
I erase large portions of the Script surrounding the metal ingot, and start again. This time I'm not copying. Not looking, remembering, and moving on. This time I'm taking. Ripping the hardness, and strength from the metal and leaving the rest behind. Whatever happens to the metal, happens.
I check over my changes, making sure they don't conflict with any of the unaltered Script. Steadfastly ignoring the soft murmurs in the background, I bite my thumb to start the blood flowing again, apply it, and sing one more time.
The light flows again, everything looking exactly as it had before. Until it reaches the metal. Instead of flowing over it, the light rushes through the ingot. The metal cracks, saggs, and begins to ooze into a puddle. No longer possessing the tensile strength to hold itself together, or any hardness at all. The light rushes through the channels and into the circle around the box, and from that circle, into the wood once again. The wood groans audibly as though under some strain, but there's no visible change.
The room is silent as the same mage as the first time moves forward again. My head throbs from the panicked focus that had led to my new changes. I watch with baited breath as the knife reaches forward again, and scrapes along the wood without so much as scratching it. Even rapid subsequent tests with larger sharp objects fail to make an impression. When a strike with an axe brakes the axe against the wooden box, we all finally accept it has worked.
I let out my breath in a rush and stagger. I feel dizzy as the pressure of expectations, both mine and those around me, vanish with my success. I manage to wobble my way to scuff out my power draw Script, and the Script that ripped apart the metal. The rest of it isn't that special, straight forward really. But if I can use Script, then anybody can, and those two bits are my invention. I'm unwilling to let go of any advantage, especially as I'm sure there's something special in this one. Those two Scripts I'll be keeping to myself.
I shuffle my way over to my bag as the several hundred mages... When did they all get here? And how did I miss them arriving? The mages quietly, or loudly depending, debated and discussed what I had just done. Several of them are examining my Script, convincing me that I made the right choice destroying the pieces I had.
Having collected my things, I shuffle over to where Cait and the shaman stand watching the rest of the room, but not participating in the chaos themselves. They turn to look at me as I approach, "I think I'm ready to go home now." I tell them, swaying on my feet.
Cait smiles at me, it's a new smile, not smug, or amused, or even just pleased, "Good job, Kitten. You did real good." Oh, she's proud. Of me. I think I'm blushing again.
"Indeed," the shaman nods, "Ericka Rhostana. It is as you said Caitríona, a name to watch for."