With the eyes of the Sheriff and his Wardens on him constantly, he walks a narrow line in the dark allies of Metro. Without the connections of the Council to keep him financially afloat, he has had to dip his toes into some murky waters; Vampires, Vengeful Spirits, and Vagabond alike. Unlike the Council members, Thomas does not live in luxury with a gaggle of servants to maintain him. Most of his wealth was stripped from him by the vulturous harpies in the Council as soon as he lost his standing. Their curses were flung as freely as their insults and within a few weeks he was thought to be broken. He managed to escape with a few bucks, a broken-down, old building and a few books of magic.
EDIT (Ignore anything in red. It's old or just notes to me)
ORIGINAL
NEW (this should be read as part of the story)
Part 1EDIT (Ignore anything in red. It's old or just notes to me)
ORIGINAL
NEW (this should be read as part of the story)
A Funeral
Funerals. I hate funerals. They always remind me of her.
Some funerals are full of alcohol, others are full of wives and mothers throwing themselves at the coffin screaming and pleading with their God. Some people say that funerals are times of reflection and when families come together, but what do you do when you have no family? The only real family that a Wizard has are the few friends he makes on his journey. Even still, being a Wizard is like being in a Fraternity; you're only Brothers when there's drinking and parties. As soon as it gets rough, you find out who's got your back. Funerals reminded me exactly how few people had mine.
I was surprised that I got the invitation. I knew that Mouse had died, but I didn't expect this. Mouse was Nat's cousin so I guess it was a invitation based on tradition and formality than familiarity. Natalya's grandmother, a woman whose influence could be felt in almost every corner of the family, made the invitation in her own name. She was one of the few people in the family that didn't blame me for Nat's death. She knew what I did and why I did it without ever being told.
As soon as they pulled the casket from the back of the car, I felt the first drops of rain on my face. The storm clouds didn't appear on any forecast and I'm sure that all of the local news stations would be baffled why it rained over only one part of the city. If there was every any doubt, the rain had proclaimed the nature of the boy's death. Mouse had been murdered.
The motley bunch of mourners were gathered around the pit dug in the corner of the cemetery. Fifty people gathered around as the rain began to swell in the clouds. The old women with their floral scarves and carpet bags could have stepped out of a village in Eastern Europe. The old men, what few there were, stood beside them like scarecrows with big black umbrellas. I could see that almost everyone there had a small bag to be placed as a gift to Mouse for his journey to the Other Side. I saw bags with clothes, some food and I think one even was going to give him new pair of shoes. The Gypsy were always such practical people.
Since I was here as a guest of Baba's invitation, I didn't know quite where to stand for the funeral. I've always been more of a fringe-watcher than someone who jumps into the middle of things. I was content to stay at the edge and pay my respects - and then Baba appeared beside me. I'm not going to tell you that I jumped. That would be a lie.
I squeaked
My well-rehearsed icy exterior was disrupted by a five-foot nothing old woman who has never spoken more than two words in English. That tough old broad fought the Nazis. I swear it. She was as quiet as a fart in church. She just smiled and extended her old, grandmotherly hand for me to take and with the force of a team of oxen, dragged me over to stand beside the grave. She made it a point to involve me and the others wouldn't question it - not directly. So I found a spot beside a guy that had the smile of an insurance salesman and a woman who was incredibly too tanned for April and reeked of cheap perfume; it's that new fragrance - Bad Taste.
By the time they had the small, white casket arranged for their final fair-the-well, I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. The rain was already soaking through my overcoat, but it wasn't the cold water that I felt. It was a presence. Someone or something had gotten close enough for me to pick up the ripples. Granny Baba felt it too. Before I could really get a sense for what was pinging on my magical radar, she had pulled a small, draw-string bag from her purse and sprinkled something over the grave. I don't know if the family knew what she was doing, but it was Baba - she was from the Old Country and no one questioned her mojo.
Gypsy magic was NEVER to be ignored. The Rom had been fighting spirits and demons centuries before the inqusition and had managed to survive even the cleansing fires of the Church. Whatever it was that Grandmother Baba had sprinkled on the grave was probably some kind of protective blessing - the same ones that all grandmothers have I'm sure; the gypsy simply do it with more flair. I smelled lavender and something that reminded me of week-old laundry, but whatever it was made the 'blip' go away. After the first few shovels of dirt were tossed into the grave, I took my cue and turned to leave. Marco, one of Natalya's brother, gave me a dirty look and muttered some Romani insult under his breath. He couldn't publicly say anything to me while at the funeral - especially while under Baba's watchful eyes, but I knew that he'd love to break something over my head if he were to ever catch me out and alone.
Just as I was getting into the Jeep, I saw something shiny on the steering wheel and paused. Someone in my line of work doesn't do anything without some degree of paranoia. Sticking into my steering wheel was a square nail; like the old ones used to shoe horses. This one was silver; an old Gypsy ward against witches and Magi. Though not all of the wards from the Old Country still worked, nailing a witch's footprint with a silver nail was one of those that still packed quite a sting.
I glanced over towards Marco and the other brothers that were watching like a pack of dogs, snickeringly eager to see if their message was received. I would have liked nothing more than to fling a little of my own mojo at them, but the family didn't deserve it. Marco would step over the line sometime and Granny Baba wouldn't mind if I put him back in his place. I took the nail and stuffed it into my pocket and drove away from the graveyard and within a minute or two I was out of the rain. Handy thing, too. My jeep liked to leak.
UPDATE: 4-09-08
You would think that a Mage would be able to repair a leaky jeep-top with a flap of a finger, but not all magic works that way. Besides, magic can get addictive. If I start using it to repair every little thing that has gone wrong in my life - I'd be worse than a crack-addict. Duct tape is just as good as any spell, sometimes better. I had taped the tear in the cover a week ago and I thought that it was going to hold until I could get paid by Mr. Tweed. I love antique dealers - they're so twitchy about hauntings and they pay well. Payday was in two days - according to his secretary, so I just had to coast along until then. By the third stop-light, I had gotten past the mourning clouds around the grave yard and back to clear skies. The jeep would dry out eventually.
My jacket and shirt were soaked, and all I could think of was grabbing a shower. The smell of the graveyard was still on me as I pulled into the old firehouse that I called home. Natalya has been gone for almost a year now and I remember it all; the smell of the fresh dirt around the grave, and the thud of the rain on all of the umbrellas. It was the same sound today. Why do sounds like that always stick with us?
I was half out of my shirt when I heard something break in the back of the apartment.
"Six?"
My cat had a tough life. When Nat got him, she said that it was the number on his cage. I said that it was the number of lives that he had burnt through. According to the vet, he had been poisoned with antifreeze, electrocuted, and shot at least once. I'm fairly certain that if there was a nuclear holocaust, the few things left alive would include cockroaches, twinkies, New York rats and Six. He was great for naps. He was so mellow, orange and so round that he could pass for a buddha statue.
I heard it again and I knew that it was a lot bigger than a cat. With the appearance of a 'something' at the funeral and Marco's warning, it could have been anything. I wasn't going to take any chances. Crossing from the top of the stairs to a hall table, I found my insurance and tried to sneak closer.
Magi are practical folk. Traditionalists get burned at the stake. Living through two Witch Wars had taught me that if you rely on magic to save your life, you're not long for this world.
My insurance was in the form of an antique Colt revolver. It only had six shots but it had never missed what it was pointed at; at least that's what the ghost said when I got it. My insurance was always kept loaded. I never understood the logic of having an unloaded gun in your home.
With each step, I found myself hoping that it was Marco. I -wanted- it to be him. Dropping a nail on me is one thing, breaking into my home was crossing the line. I couldn't think of what would be worse: having him arrested or taking him to Baba for punishment. When I got close enough to see what it was, I was disappointed. It wasn't Marco. It wasn't a wraith either.
It was a kid, barely older than the one that I just saw buried.
Funerals. I hate funerals. They always remind me of her.
Some funerals are full of alcohol, others are full of wives and mothers throwing themselves at the coffin screaming and pleading with their God. Some people say that funerals are times of reflection and when families come together, but what do you do when you have no family? The only real family that a Wizard has are the few friends he makes on his journey. Even still, being a Wizard is like being in a Fraternity; you're only Brothers when there's drinking and parties. As soon as it gets rough, you find out who's got your back. Funerals reminded me exactly how few people had mine.
I was surprised that I got the invitation. I knew that Mouse had died, but I didn't expect this. Mouse was Nat's cousin so I guess it was a invitation based on tradition and formality than familiarity. Natalya's grandmother, a woman whose influence could be felt in almost every corner of the family, made the invitation in her own name. She was one of the few people in the family that didn't blame me for Nat's death. She knew what I did and why I did it without ever being told.
As soon as they pulled the casket from the back of the car, I felt the first drops of rain on my face. The storm clouds didn't appear on any forecast and I'm sure that all of the local news stations would be baffled why it rained over only one part of the city. If there was every any doubt, the rain had proclaimed the nature of the boy's death. Mouse had been murdered.
The motley bunch of mourners were gathered around the pit dug in the corner of the cemetery. Fifty people gathered around as the rain began to swell in the clouds. The old women with their floral scarves and carpet bags could have stepped out of a village in Eastern Europe. The old men, what few there were, stood beside them like scarecrows with big black umbrellas. I could see that almost everyone there had a small bag to be placed as a gift to Mouse for his journey to the Other Side. I saw bags with clothes, some food and I think one even was going to give him new pair of shoes. The Gypsy were always such practical people.Since I was here as a guest of Baba's invitation, I didn't know quite where to stand for the funeral. I've always been more of a fringe-watcher than someone who jumps into the middle of things. I was content to stay at the edge and pay my respects - and then Baba appeared beside me. I'm not going to tell you that I jumped. That would be a lie.
I squeaked
My well-rehearsed icy exterior was disrupted by a five-foot nothing old woman who has never spoken more than two words in English. That tough old broad fought the Nazis. I swear it. She was as quiet as a fart in church. She just smiled and extended her old, grandmotherly hand for me to take and with the force of a team of oxen, dragged me over to stand beside the grave. She made it a point to involve me and the others wouldn't question it - not directly. So I found a spot beside a guy that had the smile of an insurance salesman and a woman who was incredibly too tanned for April and reeked of cheap perfume; it's that new fragrance - Bad Taste.
By the time they had the small, white casket arranged for their final fair-the-well, I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. The rain was already soaking through my overcoat, but it wasn't the cold water that I felt. It was a presence. Someone or something had gotten close enough for me to pick up the ripples. Granny Baba felt it too. Before I could really get a sense for what was pinging on my magical radar, she had pulled a small, draw-string bag from her purse and sprinkled something over the grave. I don't know if the family knew what she was doing, but it was Baba - she was from the Old Country and no one questioned her mojo.
Gypsy magic was NEVER to be ignored. The Rom had been fighting spirits and demons centuries before the inqusition and had managed to survive even the cleansing fires of the Church. Whatever it was that Grandmother Baba had sprinkled on the grave was probably some kind of protective blessing - the same ones that all grandmothers have I'm sure; the gypsy simply do it with more flair. I smelled lavender and something that reminded me of week-old laundry, but whatever it was made the 'blip' go away. After the first few shovels of dirt were tossed into the grave, I took my cue and turned to leave. Marco, one of Natalya's brother, gave me a dirty look and muttered some Romani insult under his breath. He couldn't publicly say anything to me while at the funeral - especially while under Baba's watchful eyes, but I knew that he'd love to break something over my head if he were to ever catch me out and alone.
Just as I was getting into the Jeep, I saw something shiny on the steering wheel and paused. Someone in my line of work doesn't do anything without some degree of paranoia. Sticking into my steering wheel was a square nail; like the old ones used to shoe horses. This one was silver; an old Gypsy ward against witches and Magi. Though not all of the wards from the Old Country still worked, nailing a witch's footprint with a silver nail was one of those that still packed quite a sting.I glanced over towards Marco and the other brothers that were watching like a pack of dogs, snickeringly eager to see if their message was received. I would have liked nothing more than to fling a little of my own mojo at them, but the family didn't deserve it. Marco would step over the line sometime and Granny Baba wouldn't mind if I put him back in his place. I took the nail and stuffed it into my pocket and drove away from the graveyard and within a minute or two I was out of the rain. Handy thing, too. My jeep liked to leak.
UPDATE: 4-09-08
You would think that a Mage would be able to repair a leaky jeep-top with a flap of a finger, but not all magic works that way. Besides, magic can get addictive. If I start using it to repair every little thing that has gone wrong in my life - I'd be worse than a crack-addict. Duct tape is just as good as any spell, sometimes better. I had taped the tear in the cover a week ago and I thought that it was going to hold until I could get paid by Mr. Tweed. I love antique dealers - they're so twitchy about hauntings and they pay well. Payday was in two days - according to his secretary, so I just had to coast along until then. By the third stop-light, I had gotten past the mourning clouds around the grave yard and back to clear skies. The jeep would dry out eventually.
My jacket and shirt were soaked, and all I could think of was grabbing a shower. The smell of the graveyard was still on me as I pulled into the old firehouse that I called home. Natalya has been gone for almost a year now and I remember it all; the smell of the fresh dirt around the grave, and the thud of the rain on all of the umbrellas. It was the same sound today. Why do sounds like that always stick with us?
I was half out of my shirt when I heard something break in the back of the apartment.
"Six?"
My cat had a tough life. When Nat got him, she said that it was the number on his cage. I said that it was the number of lives that he had burnt through. According to the vet, he had been poisoned with antifreeze, electrocuted, and shot at least once. I'm fairly certain that if there was a nuclear holocaust, the few things left alive would include cockroaches, twinkies, New York rats and Six. He was great for naps. He was so mellow, orange and so round that he could pass for a buddha statue.
I heard it again and I knew that it was a lot bigger than a cat. With the appearance of a 'something' at the funeral and Marco's warning, it could have been anything. I wasn't going to take any chances. Crossing from the top of the stairs to a hall table, I found my insurance and tried to sneak closer.Magi are practical folk. Traditionalists get burned at the stake. Living through two Witch Wars had taught me that if you rely on magic to save your life, you're not long for this world.
My insurance was in the form of an antique Colt revolver. It only had six shots but it had never missed what it was pointed at; at least that's what the ghost said when I got it. My insurance was always kept loaded. I never understood the logic of having an unloaded gun in your home.With each step, I found myself hoping that it was Marco. I -wanted- it to be him. Dropping a nail on me is one thing, breaking into my home was crossing the line. I couldn't think of what would be worse: having him arrested or taking him to Baba for punishment. When I got close enough to see what it was, I was disappointed. It wasn't Marco. It wasn't a wraith either.
It was a kid, barely older than the one that I just saw buried.
2. Investigation of the boy's death.
3. Discovery of a Thief.
4. Problems with the Church
5. Another Witch Hunt
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