I’ve worshipped at the Altar of the Terriblemind more than once. It involves sacrifices of coffee, whiskey, tacos, and an outpouring of creative swears while dancing naked under the light of a full moon. While it’s yeilded quite a few fantastic books, which I’ll get to, it’s also given me the sense that I need to kick my writerly ass.
The last few months have been surprisingly stressful at the dayjob, which is perhaps due to extenuating circumstances in my head and diet and whatnot, but that’s not really an excuse. The dayjob only lasts a certain number of hours per day, and I could easily carve out more of the remaining time for writing. Hell, Hearthstone has long queues, as does Heroes of the Storm (waiting on my invite, Blizzard!), World of Warcraft has pauses for travel and queues of its own… and those are just the Blizzard games! I like to write posts like this while watching Crash Course or The Cinema Snob. It’s possible to pour the words into the cracks between the day’s longer hours. I just need to do it more often.
A while back, Chuck posted a photo of where he writes. It’s beautiful. Isolated. A window to the outdoors, a rig for his iPad (disconnected from the Internet, I’d imagine), a place for his coffee. I’m reminded again that not only do I need to make the time, I need to make the space. Sitting here tapping out blog posts isn’t too difficult, writing-wise, but it’s still incredibly easy to be distracted and if I want to get anything done, I need to focus. I must do that more often, just like I should work out more often. I can make all of the excuses I like about the dayjob or my mental/emotional state or what have you, but in the end, the only way to write is to write.
Wendig reminds me of this because, damn, that motherfucker’s prolific. He’s writing novels, novellas, serialized fiction, non-fiction about writing… basically everything a canny genre writer can write to keep writing. He’s got various points of entry if you’re not up on his work, too. Are you into vampires and/or zombies? Read Double Dead. Want a powerful female protagonist? Blackbirds is for you. How about urban fantasy mashed with gripping crime drama? Try The Blue Blazes. Young adult reader looking for something unique? Under The Empyrean Sky might be your bag. Just need advice/a kick in the ass for your own writing? Buy The Kick-Ass Writer already.
See what I mean? Whenever I worry that my ambitions are too “all over the place”, that what I write can’t possibly make it, Chuck reminds me that such thinking is bullshit. All I have to do is get off my ass. Or at least sit my ass down and write.
“Bless you, dearie. Granny can always count on you two.”
The words rang in Caroline’s ears as she and the mass of wrinkles beside her picked their way through the woods towards the city. To be fair, the wrinkles were mostly on Seymour’s face – the long, beige body of the hound was sleek and muscular, the body of a creature bred for hunting and snatching prey. To Caroline, there was a understated beauty about her most reliable companion. Every wrinkle told a story. There was no duplicity in the hound’s eyes, no tricks, no facade of civilization hiding a monster within.
The same could not be said for the bustling figures in the streets before her now.
She pulled her flat cap down towards her eyes. With her disheveled and dirty clothes nicked from some other urchin years ago, she could pass as a boy. This suited her just fine. She saw girls her age flit here and there, decked in finery and giggling to one another about parties and parents and lessons and boys, always boys. As much as the dresses and hairstyles were pretty, Caroline wondered if they had any idea what the world was really like as she and Seymour picked their way through the crowd towards their destination.
Granny needed some small things to complete her work. A topaz, some foxglove, a raven’s wing bone – not unusual requests from Granny. They passed the building bearing the sign ‘ORPHANAGE’, and the girl shoved her hands in her pockets and kept her head down as they walked by. Her orphanage was in the past, as was creepy Mr. Harrigan and his wandering hands. She reminded herself to go back one of these days and burn the place down.
Not today. Today Granny had sent her on a mission. “A love potion” were the words Granny had used, and Caroline couldn’t think of a sillier thing to waste precious time and wonderful charms trying to make. Granny could work miracles with her gnarled hands and spindly fingers; why a love potion of all things?
It wasn’t Caroline’s place to ask, though. She reminded herself that it was Granny, a hermit who owed her nothing, that had found her when she ran away, taken her in, given her a chance at life. A life in transit, mostly, of moving from place to place almost constantly and having very little to call their own, but it was a life all the same, and it was freedom and adventure and challenges and the world, the real world, not the one these people around her tried to close off with doors and windows and wine and employment. It was a gift, this life, and all that came with it, including Seymour. And it was a gift Granny had given her, only occasionally asking something in return.
Seymour nudged her towards the proper street. Caroline shook her head and stroked the hound’s fur. She had no idea if this town had leash laws or anything, but she didn’t plan on sticking around long enough for it to be an issue. Seymour was always close by unless she told him to stay somewhere, and even then he had a keen awareness of where Caroline was and if she was being threatened. A feeling deep in her guts told her that such skills might be required.
A gesture put Seymour right outside the front door of the jeweler’s. Caroline walked in, finding the large man behind the deck at the other end of the floor engaged in conversation with a young couple. She looked through all of the display cases until she found the semi-translucent beige stones she had been sent to acquire. Granny only needed one for her potion, but Caroline saw no reason not to pocket a few for herself. She reached for the case.
“Miss? Can I help you?”
Caroline turned, putting on her best smile while silently cursing to herself. “Just browsing, thank you.”
“Looking for something in particular? A gift, for Mom or Dad?”
The shopkeeper leaned closer, and Caroline glanced towards the large windows facing the street. As if on cue, Seymour started barking. The shopkeeper looked away and turned towards the noise, giving Caroline the chance to do a turn of her own and slip her blade into the seam of the display cases’ lock, tapping it open.
The young couple had also moved to the big windows. Caroline pocketed the gems and slipped past the adults to get outside. Upon seeing her, Seymour immediately stopped making noise and fell into step behind her. She kept her pace at a brisk walk until she was around the corner. The cries of “THIEF!” didn’t emerge until they were a block away, and by then, she and Seymour were running.
They stopped for breath not far into the forest, and Caroline immediately spotted some foxglove. With that, they returned home. However, the hearth was already burning despite it being warm and mid-day, and Granny usually didn’t start her fire until it was cold, dark, or she had all of her ingredients.
Caroline and Seymour stepped into the tiny log cabin. Stretched out on the couch Caroline had helped ‘liberate’ from a trash heap was the woodsman’s boy, a gangly kid with straw hair a few years old than Caroline. They’d met, made nice, bickered and even on one occasion fought before.
“Oh, dearie, dear, thank all that’s good you’ve returned,” Granny said. “The boy’s been snake-bitten, he needs medicine.”
“One thing at a time, Granny.” Caroline placed the potion ingredients on the table. “What does he need?”
“Find the snake. Don’t kill the poor thing, of course, just bring it to me. We can milk it for a little venom to make medicine.”
“I’ll find it. Seymo-”
The dog was already sniffing the wound, and was out in a flash. Caroline turned to follow, then looked back at the boy.
Suddenly, she understood why Granny would want a love potion.
Lieutenant Richards looked up from the orders with a frown.
“I don’t like this, sir.”
“What’s to like?” The colonel didn’t look at his subordinate as he circled the map on the table in the center of the room. “They’ve got intelligence, they’re pinned down, and they need extraction.”
“This is deep in enemy territory. In a civilian area, sir. And we may need to work around hardened positions equipped with anti-air.”
“That’s why I bought you in, Richards. You and your team are legendary for this sort of thing.”
Richards shook his head. “Don’t use that word, sir. It’ll go to their heads.”
“You told him this is bullshit, right?”
Richards looked at Sergeant McNally. The enlisted woman had her arms crossed, and her freckles were scrunched in a frown.
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
“Should’ve used those words,” Corporal Collins offered. “Easier than beating ’round the bush.”
“So what’s the plan, then?” Corporal Nicheyev was never one for waiting. “Surely you have one, sir.”
“Of course he does,” McNally said, “and don’t call him ‘Shirley’.”
“Seriously. The four of us, this bunch of fortifications, and no air support?” Collins frowned. “This had better be good, boss.”
Collins listened closely to what he was being told. After a moment, he turned to the others with a shrug.
“He’s asking for a hell of a lot of money to show us the way.”
“He’s probably afraid he’ll catch a bullet.” Nicheyev shrugged, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. “I would be.”
Richards rubbed his forehead, pushing the turban back a bit. It kept falling towards his eyes. “Collins, pay the man.”
“Sir…”
“Don’t argue.”
“You can win it back from me next time we throw down some Hold ‘Em,” McNally said with a nudge.
“You all suck.”
Collins paid the man.
“I want to go record that this plan sucks ass.”
“What was that, Collins?”
“You heard me, sir!”
“Half the town will hear you if you keep that up,” Nicheyev reminded his compatriot.
“Fuck you. We’re at least a klick outside of the town, I’m waist-deep in sewage, and I’ll need to shower for a damn year after we get these geeks out of Hotel de-”
McNally hissed, holding up her fist. The four of them froze, lowering their weapons from where they’d carried them over their heads.
The truck above them shook gravel loose into the sewer.
The nice thing about civilized areas is that they needed to put down walkways for sewer workers. The bad news was, the rusty grilles were noisy at anything faster than a slow walk.
“Nicheyev, get some eyes up there.”
The corporal slipped past Richards, the snake-like camera in his hand. He gently worked the tube up the pipe and took a look.
“Anything?”
“Not yet. Seems to be a bathroom.”
McNally glanced over her shoulder. “Hostage-takers gotta shit, too.”
“I know, but… hang on.”
There was a pause. Slowly, Nicheyev pulled down the camera. He blushed at the others.
“Wrong house. Definitely.”
Richards really wanted to ask Collins if this was any better. Instead, he crept forward another inch, gently probing with the barrel of his weapon.
The lights from their shoulders were hooded, and they didn’t want to risk more. That, however, made tripwires harder to find.
Like the one Richards found with a soft, deadly click.
He froze, and the three others behind him did the same.
“Claymore,” he hissed after a moment. “Nicheyev, you’re on.”
The corporal slipped past him, pulling tools from the pockets on his vest.
“Don’t move, sir.”
Richards started to sweat.
The manhole cover slid back, and one by one they climbed out into the street. It was dusk, and by Richards’ watch they were just about on schedule. They took positions outside the house’s back door, and waited.
The voice rang out around them, calling the faithful to prayer. Richards nodded at McNally. The sergeant thumbed the safety on her .45 and raised the suppressed pistol as she entered the door Collins opened for her.
Under the cries from the mosques, Richards heard the metal clangs of silenced gunfire. When it was over, they swept inside.
“How many, Collins?”
The corporal on the other side of the door poked his head out to look, only to jump back as cackling automatic fire peppered the wall and doorjamb with rounds.
“Two at least, sir!”
Richards touched the radio control at his neck. “Nicheyev, did you hear that?”
“Copy,” was all Nicheyev said. Richards said a silent prayer of thanks for this being a two-story house, and leaned out to deal some suppressing fire across the street.
When the return fire started again, it stopped abruptly after two loud shots from above.
“Got ’em, sir.”
Richards turned to McNally, who held the CIA man up on her shoulders.
“Shall we?”
McNally gestured towards the door with a grunt.
“After you, LT, by all means.”
His ears were still ringing from the rocket blast. Richards tried to keep the pace up, but he could go no faster than his sergeant. The operative was still delirious from drugs and torture, unable to walk on his own.
“It isn’t right,” Collins lamented. “We shouldn’t have left him.”
“If he survived, he can take care of himself,” Richards replied. “If he’s dead, we can’t help him.”
Collins was going to protest more, but then he stopped and turned back, carbine raised.
“We’re not alone,” he hissed.
Richards kept the ice pack on his head as the Colonel read the report.
“I’m telling you, Richards… legendary.”
“We got lucky, sir.”
“Your man Nicheyev survived a rocket attack, son, that wasn’t luck.”
“He also nearly lost a leg, sir.”
“Did Collins really carry him the kilometer back to the extraction point?”
“He and McNally took turns with carrying duty, sir.”
“Unbelievable. I’ll see to it you all get full honors for this.”
“Thank you, sir. Even if we can never talk about it.”
The colonel nodded. Richards reached for the bottle.
Jack climbed the stairs to the apartment in question. He didn’t mind the Lower East Side, never had, yet some other detectives avoided it like crazy. He could understand why – shambling husks of former human beings were enough to put any normal person off their lunch – but to him, it was just another annoyance between him and a case.
The case in question was a young couple murdered in their home. Jack’s partner, Sam, was already on the scene, trying to make heads or tails of it. Sam was slightly overweight and never tied his tie properly, but he was a good cop and the salt-of-the-earth sort Jack needed around to remind him of why this job was worth doing.
There was also the fact that Sam, a full-blooded human, handled scenes like this better than Jack.
There were to victims. The husband sat at the breakfast nook’s table, and the wife lay near a shattered carafe of coffee. Both had burns on their hands and forearms, blood on their faces from their mouths and noses, and dark, smoking holes where their eyes should have been.
“I will never, ever get used to this shit,” Sam said, taking a sip of the convenience store coffee in his hand.
“Give it a few more years,” Jack replied. He was twenty years Sam’s junior, yet stood shoulder to shoulder with the seasoned homicide detective in terms of rank.
Jack absently rubbed one of the short horns that curled up towards his hairline, kneeling by the woman’s body. He dipped a finger into the blood that had oozed from her face, bringing it to his nose for a sniff. Under the tangy copper and surrounding smell of burning flesh was the unmistakable scent of home. Wiping his fingers clean on a handkerchief from his pocket, he turned his attention to the mail and its pile of past-due bills.
“What’ve you got, Jack?”
“These two were close to going Soulless,” Jack told his partner. He opened his mouth to say more, but he looked at the corpses again and he began hearing the Choirs and the sunlight coming in through the window really bothered him and he stepped outside, covering his mouth with the handkerchief. Sam followed, a hand on the shoulder of Jack’s tailored suit.
“C’mon, partner, let’s hear the facts.”
Jack smiled. “Thank you, Sam. Anyway. The pair of them gave up their souls for something, and have either been waiting for delivery or got played. Judging by the mail and the state of the apartment, their earthly concerns have been less and less important to them. Finally, their bodies are starting to take on aspects of the damned. They’re malnourished, their skin isn’t in great shape, and their blood’s taken on the smell of brimstone.”
Sam bit back his initial response, which Jack assumed would be an invocation of the name of Jesus. He appreciated his partner’s sensitivity. “Same as the last two?”
“Seems that way. I think I may know how we can find out more, though. Friend from the ‘old country’.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Which is your way of saying I shouldn’t be there.”
“Why, Sam, with skills like that, you could be a detective!”
Sam gave Jack a bit of a shove. “Smart-ass. Okay, fine. Go talk to your source, I’ll report in with HQ. And get a meat wagon down here.”
Jack nodded, heading down the stairs again. In the alleyways outside, he could hear the soft moans and occasional grunt or outcry from the Soulless. He got into his car, gunned the engine and headed downtown.
The city had definitely changed, even since Jack was born. Years before that, three archdemons – Asmodius, Aziraphon, and Azazael – had taken human form to offer mortals connections with dead souls in exchange for their living ones. Musicians got to commune with passed luminaries of the art. Comedians could channel the mannerisms of lost favorites. Actors took on the air of former glories of the silver screen. And all at the price of a measly human soul.
He turned towards the high-rises of Manhattan, rubbing one of his fangs with his tongue absently. Heaven seemed to be waiting to see what happened next, save for incidents like this. There was talk on Jack’s father’s side of a coming reckoning, of New York itself becoming Armageddon, a second Babylon for the Heavens to smite into oblivion. Some were even eager for it, a showdown millenia in the making.
Jack was of a different mind.
He pulled up to the valet, dropped the keys for the Astin Martin in the young man’s hand, and took the elevator inside to 33rd floor, and walked past the receptionist into the austere office beyond. He tried to ignore the way the sunlight made his scalp itch.
She was waiting for him. “Hello, Jack.”
“What’s next, Sandy, a family of four? We need a better way to communicate.”
Sandalphon got to her feet, buttoning the jacket she wore as part of her well-cut suit. “I dispatched a pair of nearly soulless sinners and sent you a message. Two birds with one stone. A shame, really – we could have helped them here.”
Jack swallowed. His skin was crawling and something inside of him screamed to flee. He stood his ground. “Is it going to be soon?”
Sandalphon looked away, out across the city, a crestfallen expression on her face. “Yes. The Choirs are gathering strength. It won’t be long.”
Jack set his jaw. He tried to put aside his unease at the same time he ignored how beautiful the angel was, how cute her blonde hair looked in its pixie cut, how he loved the fact she could take him in a fight the way no mortal could. He reminded himself that he trusted her, and that they were this planet’s only hope for survival.
“What do we do?”
Sandalphon turned to him, smiling a little. “Close the door, handsome half-breed, and we’ll talk.”
According to Terribleminds and the Die of Fate, this story must contain “a talking cat” and “a plane or train ride”.
“This is your captain speaking. We’ve reached our cruising altitude, and forecast for today calls for clear skies all afternoon. Feel free to unfasten your seat belts and move freely about the cabin, and we’ll let you know if we’re in for any chop or how the Bears are doing. Thank you, and enjoy your flight.”
I don’t move, not at first. I glance to my left, to see if either of my fellow passengers need to get up, but the couple is looking out the tiny window into the vast beyond, through the 30,000 feet of air to the planet below. It’s a good thing that they are actually enjoying the flight, because I sure as hell won’t. Big metal tubes hurtling through the void bother me. Not necessarily because of the flying itself, but because with so much technology compressed into one place, something is bound to go wrong at some point.
And that’s not even taking into account the things that normal people can’t see.
The carrier in my lap vibrates ever so slightly. I figure she’s fallen asleep. The cat doesn’t like to fly any more than I do, but considering everything she’s been through, both before and after she came into my life, some pressurized air and rapid movement aren’t enough to spook her.
I crack open the well-worn book I brought with me. It’s one of the Star Wars novels. I’m not a big fan of fiction – my own life is interesting and weird enough, thanks very much – but once in a while, I like to take my mind away from the worlds around me and invest some time in a place and time when things are simpler. Heroes and villains are easily defined, even if the so-called heroes engage in wholesale slaughter under some flimsy justification. I have to laugh sometimes. It’s a lot easier than you might think to shove something or someone that isn’t you into the category of ‘other’ and build up your opposition to it. Plenty of wars get their starts that way.
Believe me, there are times when I wish it was that simple.
“Something to drink?”
I look up from my book and smile at the stewardess. Flight attendant? I can’t keep the PC terms straight anymore. I ask for a tomato juice. The couple beside me both get pops. I watch the woman as she pours, and I think I catch something in her eyes. The carrier in my lap shifts. Either her sleep is restless, or she feels something. I wait until the stewardess is gone and then down my tomato juice as quickly as possible. I’d have asked for a bloody mary, but I didn’t want to shell out for the liquor and I hadn’t thought to grab a tiny bottle of vodka from the duty free store. Whatever. I set the plastic glass down a final time and open the zipper on the carrier.
“About time, human.”
The voice is small and scratchy, the whisper nearly lost in the roar of flight. Just as well; normal people aren’t necessarily prepared for aspects of my life like this.
“Did you feel something, Crowley?”
“I still can’t believe you gave me that name.”
“You wanted more distance from your True Name, I’m providing it.”
“There are lots of goddesses of wisdom or knowledge, you know. Neith, Athena, Vör…”
“Is there a goddess of changing the subject?”
Yellow eyes glared at me from within the shadows of the carrier. “Yes. I felt something.”
“The stewardess?”
“They’re called ‘flight attendants’. Don’t be sexist.”
“Who’s being sexist? Guys can be stewardesses too!”
“It’s a sexist term, jackass.”
“Crowley’s a gender neutral name.”
“It’s the family name of a male -”
“It’s gender neutral, you’re changing the subject again, and we’re on a goddamn airplane. Are we going to do this or are you going to keep sacrificing tuna privileges?”
There was a pause. “Okay, I concede. You win this round. Let me out so I can sniff around.”
“Give me a second.” I pick up the little plastic cup, with tomato-covered ice still rattling around, and return my tray table to its upright and locked position. I set the cup (with apologies) on the guy’s tray next to me. He doesn’t care – he’s holding hands with his pretty ladyfriend and they’re watching a movie. I unzip the inner portion of the carrier and set it opening-first towards the aisle.
Crowley is sable-black, pouring out of the carrier and onto the floor carefully, like an oil spill with legs and a tail. Her fur is actually quite soft, and she’s got a weakness for that spot at the base of her skull between her ears, which always make her start purring whether she wants to or not. But I don’t have time to coddle the cat. I unbuckle my seat belt and rise to follow her, heading towards the front of the plane.
I get some dirty looks from the people in business class. I’m shattering the illusion that their affluence separates them from the plebs back in coach. I’d linger to make more of them uncomfortable, but I’m on a clock. Crowley’s definitely on to something, and I have to be there to back her up. As much crap as I give her, I really can’t live without her.
We find the stewardess in question tucked away working on the in-flight meals. She glances at me and smiles a little.
“You should return to your seat.”
I cross my arms and lean on the wall. “Crowley?”
The cat jumps up onto the counter, startling the woman. Yellow eyes peer at her and the cat’s nose twitches.
“Nebiru,” Crowley says finally.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Brimstone and stardust, moreso than just about anything.”
The stewardess shakes her head, backing away. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You’re on a flight full of mortals. Why?”
“It’s my job.”
“Come on, you took part in the creation the Universe, it’s gotta be more than a job.”
The stewardess nods. Her nametag says ‘Angela’. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the one who sends us back to Hell.”
“Talking cat give it away?”
“It’s probably your boorish attitude.”
“Shut it, Crowley.”
“I’m tired,” Angela says. “Tired of conflict, of choosing sides. I just want to see the creation. Wonder in what was wrought.”
“You’re here as a sightseer?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Crowley, what do you know about the Nebiru?”
“Oh, now I can speak?”
“Out with it, cat.”
She sighed. “Nebiru were celestial angels before The Fall. They set stars in motion and plotted the courses of galaxies. Not many sided with Lucifer, but those who did often find themselves summoned by accident when idiot mortals tap into Lovecraftian ideas of old gods born of the stars.”
I look evenly at Angela. “Is that what happened?”
The demon nods. “I took the body of one of the participants in the ritual. I told them their Old Gods did not exist. They didn’t believe me. I showed them the cosmos as I’d seen it, back on the First Day. They couldn’t take it.”
“You killed them?”
She shook her head. “They’re blind and babbling. They spout equations they’ll never understand. They see stars burning and dying and exploding to burn again over and over again in their minds.” She turned away, towards the window over her shoulder. “It was too much. I should have simply escaped.”
My hand is in my pocket, the Medallion heavy in my fingers. One press to Angela’s forehead and the demon would be sent screaming back to Hell. Option A, here, was that I was fast enough to get it on her before she knew what was happening. In my experience, that rarely worked. That left Option B: I go for it, she tears out of her human meat-suit, and we fight on a plane 30,000 feet in the air with the lives of hundreds of innocents hanging in the balance.
Thankfully, there’s a third option, one I rarely take.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you.”
Angela blinks at me. So does Crowley.
“Crowley has your scent, now, and I’m going to take a lock of your hair. If anything ever seems off with you, we’ll come for you. Do you understand?”
Without a word, Angela reached under her hair, produced a pair of scissors from one of the cabinets, and clipped a lock, which she handed to me.
“Thank you.”
“Just stay out of trouble, all right?”
I pick up Crowley and walk back to my seat.
“That was uncharacteristically magnanimous.”
“Now you’re just showing off.”
“Azariel’s going to be pissed.”
“Maybe, but she’s not stupid. She’ll know a Nebiru on a plane’s no threat.”
The rest of the flight was quiet. And, wouldn’t you know it, Angela brought some free vodka to my seat along with another can of tomato juice.
I don’t get many good days on this job. I’ll take what I can get.
