The sun hadn’t even begun to set until eight, making him clench his jaw in irritation. Alexander (or as least that was the name on his passport), crouched on the roof of St. Peter and Paul’s Church, careful not to been seen by the throng of well-dressed people leave the large, gothic building. He watched them through pale blue eyes, hidden by tinted goggles. Alexander kept his shoulder length, chestnut hair back in a black fedora. With his long, vinyl coat, they brought out the paleness of his skin. The red casting of light from the retreating sun only further brought out the gauntness of his cheeks. If someone were to look up, they would be sure that a young Grim Reaper was waiting as he finished his expensive American cigarette.
As the middle-aged, balding priest sent off the last of the congregation, Alexander flicked the butt of the smoke. Watched as it cast sparks like a Morning Glory as the wind took it spiraling as an unwilling hostage. Careful not to let go of the gigantic gold cross he held, he pulled his pants up over his bony hips. He frowned, noticing that he had lost more weight. He looked up at the cross, then back down. This gateway was going to be a pain in the ass.
Casually, he shifted his long coat, reached into the deep pocket of his black pants. A glint of metal flashed. He pulled out and an old switchblade, studied its blade for a moment. Then jabbed the tip into the side of his hand.
Alexander bit his lip, feeling his blood bubble up from the self-inflicted wound. His long, slender hand shot forward, pressing onto the cut. Droplets of blood dribbled down as his fingers, the crimson liquid contrasting with the gold of the cross. He closed his eyes, announced the words needed to pass.
A frigid wind blew upwards, nearly strong enough to knock off his hat, and was unusually cold for mid-May. His eyes opened as he pulled himself on his feet, paying no mind to the possibility of witnesses. He peered over the edge of the towering roof. Then, let go of the cross and began to free-fall, his long coat billowing around him.
Alexander hit the cement feet first in front of the massive, wooden doors, causing a small ripping of magic after-affect to advertise his entry. To ease impact, he went to one knee. A smug grin spread across his face as he realized he was right and he had indeed crossed over. Triggered by his jump, the clear, spiraling gateway opened. The minor merge of worlds slowed his fall as he disappeared from the eyes of any “Mundanes” watching. To anyone faintly Awakened, it would appear as if a strong spiral of wind consumed him. To anyone else, it would look a suicide jumper vanished mid-jump.
The sky itself went from the normal blue-with-white-clouds to a blood red, the clouds shifting in colors from black onyx to a steel gray and back hypnotically. Absent was the surrounding city; only the church remained in a field of tall, scarlet grass.
He stood, high on self-satisfaction with the success. This church was quite literally a portal. The young European crossed into Purgatory. He shuddered a moment against the air, cold and condensed, like the perpetual feeling of an oncoming thunderstorm. Alexander turned back toward the church, the only thing that remained that resembled the realm he jumped from. Its gray stones now appeared menacing and castle-like against the unnatural-colored sky. In this realm, he was able to see it without the eyesores of jaundice-yellow Plexiglas and chicken wire meant to keep local birds from nesting. Also absent was the red brick addition the leeched onto its back. The steps now lead down the worn, wide dirt paths that split three ways. Several trees littered the surrounding area, all, bare and bleak.
Alexander pulled off his hat, followed by the dark goggles. His eyes were a silver-blue and bore a resemblance to a wolf’s. Long, almost skeletal hands pushed the goggles on the top of the fedora. His mission was only half over; he still had work to do. This was to be the first of several tasks on his list.
A small ripple spread across the landscape passing over the massive church, and waved right through his body. Alexander let out a shudder of anticipation. His pulse began to accelerate; he could feel it from his chest to the very veins in his fingers. They could smell the blood, still drying, on the wound his hand suffered only moments ago.
With a catlike reflex, he tossed his hat out of his left hand, landing it with indie-move like precision one a spike in the black iron railing. They were coming, and they were not biding their time. Alexander’s eyes swiftly shifted from blue to bright silver as his head fell back, arms outstretched. Light pooled into the palms of his hands, shifting colors from white, to silver, blue, purple, then black. He stood straight, brought both hands together, palms only inches from each other. The lights joined into one large ball of dark light. Alexander’s fingers dug into the ball forcefully changing its shape as it elongated both up and downwards. At head level, the beam of dark light stopped and branched outward so the whole mass came close to resembling an upside-down “L”. Then it came into its corporal form.
Alexander reached up, grabbed hold of the scythe’s long, knotted wood. In one fluid motion, he swung it ninety degrees, setting the weapon at level with his waist. He gripped the scythe so tightly his knuckles whitened. His aura flared; he was ready.
Shrouded in grays of death, three Reapers came.
********
It was fifteen after midnight by the time he crossed back. Coat slung over his left shoulder, he leaned his hot, shaking body heavily into the church’s cool, gray stones, sighing in content. Through half-lidded eyes, he stared up at the sky, nodding toward the full moon. Alexander’s white shirt now clung to his body from sweat, with random tears in the back and down the long, baggy sleeves. Blood dried on three new wounds. One on his right shoulder blade, one on his left hip, and the third just grazed his left cheekbone. He didn’t care. Scarring was next to impossible for the Eastern European.
Alexander pulled a pack of Marlboro 100s from his dust-covered pants. As he lit up with a black metallic Zippo, his cell phone came to life. He laughed at the sudden techno ring. Somehow, it didn’t break during the battle.
With a shrug, he flicked it open, instantly recognizing the number. Bringing it up to his ear, he exhaled a puff of smoke. “*It’s done.*” He answered in Russian.
As he hung up the phone, the world began to tilt and spin, colors blurred together as one and Alexander hit the ground.
********
At five-thirty that morning, Alexander finally awoke. Coming out of the daze of sleep, he felt a sharp poking in his upper back. A short, half-muffled moan escaped him as he rolled over. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to being awake. When they finally did, Alexander nearly jumped at the sight before him.
A short, middle-aged nun had been poking him with someone’s cane.
He shielded his eyes from the rising sun with a raised hand and looked up at the nun. She stared down at him through bifocal lenses with a nonplused look of both annoyance and shock.
Groggily, he stood, his coat he had been using as a blanket fell off. She gaped up at him and looked like she was about to faint. Dried blood plastered in patterns from his wounds did a great job of exaggeration. Two of the tears in now soiled shirt had grown while he slept.
The events of the previous night came back to him as he stretched, then smiled. Alexander looked down at the nun who was still staring; to his amusement white as the ghosts he saw every day.
“Good morning, sister.” She was startled by his accent. Her first thought was he probably was hiding Anthrax in his pockets.
She gaped at the foreigner, “You’re, you’re hurt.”
He laughed softly. “Good is all. Err, all is good.”
Damn English.
He squinted at his watch, noticing now that its face was cracked in the battle. There was still a good two and a half hours until his appointment. More than enough time for a shower, a fresh change of clothes and a pot of Black Ceylon tea. Shaving was still up to debate.
Without another word, he strode to the fence’s gate (waist-height for him), and sprung over it, ignoring the disgruntled French cries from the nun.
********
Little over and hour away, an alarm clock went off in a second-story bedroom. The annoying buzzing was so loud it could be easily heard outside the window that belonged to the blue house well into its forties.
Tristan Pheloix rolled over in his black comforter, slamming a hand down on the offending clock. He groaned. Six hours of sleep was highly overrated. The world came into focus through long, blond curls, the color of corn silk, as he sat up. A wind blew up into the windows behind his two-hundred-year-old brass headboard, sending both window shades toward the freshly painted black ceiling. Tristan jumped, shielding his eyes from the hateful sun.
Still squinting, he staggered out of bed; he needed music to function. Yawning, he padded nude to his closet across the room. To the left of his walk-in closet was his mp3 player (a Yule gift from the previous year), hooked up to a stereo that took four of the blonde’s paychecks to obtain. Quickly, he flipped through the list of songs, stopping at song # 32. A loud, dark voice of a British thirty-something raved through the speakers, a techno-rock baseline causing minor tremors in them.
A contented grin lit up on his face as thumbed through a small grouping of black shirts. Two people would be waking now in the next room. The loud music would be a good revenge of keeping him up on and off all the previous night. The least they could have done was pull the headboard away from the wall.
Tristan soon found what he was looking for; a black nylon T-shirt with a design of the Death card from the Witch’s Tarot pressed into the material. It was followed with black pants, slightly loose-fitting with large pockets at the knees. It didn’t take him long to do his hair. Both braids were set, one on either side of his head before his pulled the rest of his hair back into the traditional ponytail. Just as he finished tying his red Doc Martins, a knock came muted through his bedroom door.
“Tristan, honey.” His stepmother knocked again.
“Are you coming down for breakfast?”
Tristan opened the door, paused before he rushed past her. “No thanks, I’m just going to grab a protein shake and head out. I have things to do.”
He felt her petite hand grab hold of his wrist.
“You’re telling me you don’t have time to sit down with us for one meal? It’s been forever.”
The blond pulled his wrist out of her grasp. “I’m sure. This can’t wait.”
As he headed down the stairs, he called over his shoulder. “I won’t be home for dinner either!”
********
They were running late, again. Ashley “Yes, I’m a boy” Waitte hit the brakes of his 1976 Mustang hard, swinging the beast of a car into the parking spot less than a foot away from the rear bumper of a newer model Honda Civic. Aubrey let go of the “Oh Jesus” bar on the door. He stared wide-eyed at his redhead cousin.
Ashley blinked innocently at him. “What? It’s no worse than your driving.”
Therein came the sudden urge to grab him by his carrot top curls and bounce his forehead off the steering wheel. “So?” He glanced down at his watch. “Shit! We have five minutes!”
The two eighteen-year-olds bolted from the car, doors slamming in wake. They sprinted twenty feet from the classic car into a narrow alleyway, between two former mills that now served as dormitories. Thirty feet later they shot to the right down a walkway carved into part of one of the three-story building’s foundations. In seconds they were back into sunlight, immediately spotted by someone on the rooftop.
Ashley felt a cold shudder through his spine, a short flash of nausea his stomach. He glanced over at Aubrey to see if he had felt anything, but he had his usual poker face on. The redhead assumed it had to do something with the future verbal beat-down by his boyfriend. The feeling was shook off as he reached for the main building’s door.
********
Goggles and hat off, Alexander leaned against a close to three-century-old brick chimney, a cigarette in one hand, cell phone in the other. The Russian smoked like it was an art. At first, he took a puff from the cigarette, letting the white cloud roll in his open mouth. In one breath, he would consume the nicotine cloud. A couple seconds later, Alexander would exhale in a long cloud, like a dragon in thought. Or in a little series of “O”s that floated into the air like exhaust from an old oil-burning toy train. He spoke in Russian with an easy flowing, young tenor, staring randomly in the distance as he listened to a middle-age man on the other end.
Things were going well. The object he was looking for was found, now, and it lay unceremoniously in his coat pocket. While showering, he had discovered the wound on his hand had already healed. By next afternoon, so would the rest of his injuries.
“*Have you spoken to anyone yet?*” It wasn’t hard to tell by his awkward accent that the older man had only been fluent for less than five years.
“*No.*” Although his tone didn’t change, Alexander was growing impatient. “*Where am I supposed to drop off this . . . thing?*”
“*That I will call you to instruct you on later. Where is it?*”
“*I don’t trust my room.*” Alexander deadpanned. “*It’s still on me.*”
Something moving caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Peering over the edge of the roof, he spotted two of the school’s students running toward one of the buildings. He tossed the Marlboro. “I’m going to have to talk to you later.” He hung up, dropping the phone into his pocket without a second thought.
“*What are you two?*” He put his hands together; his long index fingers and thumbs making a narrow triangle. Left eye clenched tightly shut, he peered through his fingers, concentrating on the two boys running.
Both of the longhaired boys darted by without any notice to his presence. As his opened eyed locked onto the pair, a light pulled out of their auras from their backs. The lights molded and shifted like the formation of storm clouds on fast frame footage. Alexander blinked; the light became two sets of wings.
The first of the pair in sight had odd colored hair, it was a dark auburn color, but the front was nearly a platinum blond. His wings flamed into the same auburn color; feathers long and pointed, like a hawk’s. It was obvious from Alexander’s training that this young man practiced some kind of fire magic. The redhead who accompanied him had wings of a different kind. His expanded into those like an owl, again the same color as his hair. Neither one he could identify.
Alexander lowered his hands. He waited until they were inside the building before descending the fire escape. His appointment was up, and he already had a very interesting idea of how this “workshop” was going to proceed.
********
“It’s Larisa, imbecile.” A young Eastern European woman stared down hard at the unfortunate behind the front desk. Tossed her long, strawberry blond braid behind her shoulder. She slammed down the nametag that read “Melissa”. “This is the third time in a week I’ve had to correct you on my name, and again, I’m here.”
“I understand, miss. I’ll see to it your I.D. badge is corrected.” He stammered, turned to another worker.
She sighed, shook her head. A voice, barley audible over the crowd of people, stood out like a black feather in a flurry of snow. Larisa strained her ears over the other registering visitor. It was a familiar tenor, speaking perfect St. Petersburg Russian. She pushed through some of the students, trying to find the owner of the voice.
Then her heart caught in her throat.
What was he doing here?
Although it had been two years when she had last seen him, he was very easy to pinpoint, anywhere. He had grown, and his reddish brown hair was longer, but it was him nonetheless. The young man stood at one of the table, speaking with the volunteer. But, that couldn’t be. He was unregistered last she knew. And then he gave his name.
Alexander Chiorny.
As the name was spoken, everything made sense. |
Submission Name: Alexander
