The House Of Whoosher... ;-)

[Phalon]

Once inside the house, Guru mumbled that he was tired and excused himself to his room. Crossing the cold marble floor of the foyer, his footsteps echoed loudly; hollow and empty….like him, Phalon thought.

She watched him as he walked away from her and started to climb the staircase. Such a sadness in him; so alone, she thought. He had reached the landing and paused, looking down at her, and their eyes met for a brief moment before he continued his ascent. She thought she might have seen something then, in those eyes as he looked at her – something other than the emptiness she had seen earlier. She wondered…

….What in Tartarus she was going to do. Suddenly she felt very tired; a weariness of all that had happened here seemed to all at once attached itself to her; heavy and crushing. A film of dust from the tunnel combined with the dried salt of the sea clung to her, making her feel unbearably grimy. And she was hungry. Eat, bathe, and sleep; in that order; was at the moment all that mattered to her.

But there was Scrappy. She desperately needed to talk with her. Hhmmm…and the last place she knew Scrappy to be was in the dining room. Kill two harpies with one stone then: talk with Scrappy and eat at the same time; very convenient.
Quickly turning on her heels away from the staircase, she started down the hall in the direction of the dining room.

Peering into the door, she saw Dixie and Scrappy in an embrace, sharing a kiss. Feeling the intrusion inappropriate, but tired and unwilling to wait any longer for what could be a confrontation between Scrappy and herself, she cleared her voice loudly. “Ahem.” They looked over to her, startled at the sound, but not nearly as surprised as by what she said next, “Could I interrupt you for a moment?"

“English?! You can speak English? The surprised expression on Scrappy’s face instantly turned to one of mistrust, and Phalon knew her task just got a great deal more difficult.

[Scrappy Amazon]

Scrappy let go of Dixie and stood as Phalon entered the room. “You speak English?” A sudden glare crossing her features. “Care to explain?”

Phalon crossed the large dining hall and sat down at the table across from her. Helping herself to the breakfast spread she barely glanced up as she addressed Scrappy and Dixie. “It’s a long story. And we don’t have time for it right now. I came here to talk to you. To explain to you what I tried to before.”

“I told you I didn’t want to hear it. I don’t need your ‘help’.” Her sarcastic tone emphasized the last word with venom. “I can take care of myself.”

“Everyone needs a teacher Scrappy. Let me help you. If you don’t you will die a miserable old woman barely holding on to the last shred of sanity you have. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” A short derisive laugh flew from her lips. “What makes you think I would trust you? You invaded my head several times without my permission, you seem to know this SWM and still have not told anyone how, and now I find out you speak English. Has this been going on the whole time? Are you really from some ancient Greek Amazon tribe or has this whole thing been a set up from the beginning?” Scrappy ran her fingers through her hair out of frustrated habit. “I don’t need this shit. I don’t need to be here. I was invited for a contest. Now this ‘contest’ seems to be a lie as well. I’m leaving. The rest of you can figure this crap out on your own.”

Phalon stood and looked at Scrappy’s dirty face. “I need you to see, I need you to understand.” Phalon’s hand shot across the table faster than Scrappy could react. Grasping Scrappy’s face she began in earnest sending pictures of her recent vision into Scrappy’s mind.

Scrappy grasped Phalon’s wrist in an attempt to wrench it free. But her grip was strong and the fact that Scrappy was grasping her wrist with her ungloved hand only served to make the vision stronger. A multitude of images flooded Scrappy’s brain. A wooden door, scratched and worn with age, a white room, stark and empty, and pale golden eyes, now dull and lifeless stared out form an old hag sitting in a rocking chair, her handless stumps resting uneasily on the arms.

Scrappy suddenly forced the visions out of her head and reached across the table grabbing Phalon by the throat. Squeezing the tender neck in her grasp she whispered menacingly. “Let go of me or I will choke the life out of you, I swear.”

Phalon’s grip only got tighter as she once again tried to force the images into Scrappy’s consciousness. “You must see.”

Scrappy tightened her grip on Phalon and pulled her across the table. Dragging half of the breakfast spread with her. With a strength Phalon had underestimated Scrappy turned and flung Phalon into the chair she had recently vacated, effectively removing the iron grip of the blue robed Greek.

“Do not ever touch me again. I am leaving this place. I am done. You all are on your own.” Turning briefly to Dixie, “If you care to join me, you’ll know where to find me.”

Scrappy’s heavy motorcycle boots marred up the ancient wooden floor as she strode out of the room. Entering the foyer she took one last look around then made her mind up for good. She angrily flung the front doors open and walked purposefully to her bike. She removed the plastic rain cover, fished around in her pocket for the key then mounted her motorized beast. With barely a second thought the twin engine of the Harley fired up and a cloud of dirt was raised as Scrappy thundered down the driveway.

[TamiZ]

Squaring her shoulders, she was about to walk back out into the sunshine to enter the house once more, when she was abruptly brought up short…




Malory stopped short when she heard the bass rumble of Scrappy’s Harley. From her cover behind the corner of the manor, she watched a cloud of dust quickly chase the warrior down the road. Her thoughts of what might have occurred when she had abruptly left the dining hall were interrupted by a presence at her side. There was no need to look to know that it was Aiden.

“They always run, don’t they?” he asked as he turned to her, continuing instead of waiting on her answer. “Your side always runs before the game starts. Maybe if you told them who you were and why you all are here, they’d stay. It wouldn’t make a difference to my Master, though. He’s going to win. He always wins.“

Grinding her teeth in frustration, Malory bristled, but refused to take the minion’s bait. Her mind rapidly considered recent events and those of the most recent showdown. As she deconstructed events, the clashes through the centuries came to her. She relived the small victories and the eventual losses, trying to determine what would make the difference in this time. Closing her fists around the talons that had sprung from her anger, a new determination was found.

The Warrior Seer was very necessary. And she had to step up her plan and put it into motion. “Go back to your master, you peon. Tell him this time is different. This time, we will be send him permanently to Hell.” Malory finally turned to Aiden. When she smiled, she revealed sharp, curved teeth, which she gnashed in a show of feral power. Her eyes began to glow orange in the receding shadows of the manor. “Say goodbye to the comforts you know, Aiden. We will defeat your master. The Family has had to pay the wages of my sin for too long. This ends now.”

Aiden paused for but a moment, his bravado flickered within his eyes. Then his foolishness picked up the slack. “I’ll be sure to tell Master that this time around will be fun and his victory will be sweet.” The minion’s eyes fell to Malory’s teeth one last time. “I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they meet the real you.”

Malory growled low in her throat, like the rumble of the cycle that could no longer be heard. “Leave me now, Aiden. Enjoy your skin before I peel it off one inch at a time.”

The minion finally paled. “You aren’t like that anymore. Master told me. He told me that you have forsaken the Dark Gifts.”

“Maybe I changed my mind,” Malory uttered before signaling to her pets. When Orion and Calliope landed at her side, Aiden stepped back. As Calliope lowered herself to all four legs, the muscles in her shoulders bunched as if she were going to pounce. Aiden coughed in an attempt to cover a shudder. Hastily, he escaped deeper into the shadows.

Turning back to the road, Malory squinted, but could no longer see Scrappy’s trail. She reached down to scratch Orion’s thick brow. “Follow her for me, Orion. Let her see you. Reaching into the collar of her shirt, Malory withdrew a heavy pendant on an ancient chain. It was similar to the ring that both Scrappy and Phalon wore. “Let her see that we share more than she knows.” Lovingly, Malory hung the pendant around Orion’s neck. She smiled softly before her brow turned down. “Maybe her anger and suspicion will bring her back. Maybe she’ll see that we all have our demons inside. Demons that we need to harness, if only to have a chance with the upcoming fight.”

Malory looked up at the rising sun. “Bring her back to me, my sweet Orion. Let her see you and when she looks as if she is about to chip your precious skin with those bullets of hers, lead her back to me.”

With one last rub against Malory’s leg, the gargoyle lifted and flew off, following the Warrior Seer.

[Phalon]

It ended nearly before it began.

Phalon rubbed her throat, sure that there would soon be five purple-black bruises visible: Scrappy’s fingerprints, and ugly reminders that she’d failed to reach the woman. She sighed aloud, wondering if she’d had a chance to try again. Her throat was sore; it was hard to swallow. ‘Damn’, she thought, chuckling to herself trying to find some amusement in a situation where there was none, ‘I hope this doesn’t hinder my ability to eat.’ She doubted it, and laughed again.

“What the hell just happened here?” Caught up in her own thoughts, Phalon had nearly forgotten Dixie was still in the room.

“It did go rather poorly, didn’t it?” Phalon spoke more to herself than to the tall blonde standing near the doorway.

“Yes, and whatever “it” was, "poorly" is too mild a term. “A complete disaster” would seem more appropriate. Whatever it was that happened between you two, it caused her to run away; leaving…without me. I can’t believe after all this time; finally finding each other again after centuries without each other, that’d she do that.”

“She’ll return. I can sense these things…I can see it in my mind”, Phalon replied. Dixie did not look reassured. And Phalon could not blame her. She saw nothing during the brief confrontation with Scrappy - no vision of her returning to the house; no images of where she was headed - nothing that gave her a clue as to what would become of Scrappy once she left…..nothing but the vision she had earlier of Scrappy as the toothless, spitting hag in the rocking chair.

That was it…aside from Phalon feeling the house would not let Scrappy simply leave – it was her vision of the hag that caused her to know Scrappy would be back. The images she had seen, she knew, where symbolic, but there were always truths in her visions; she was just left to decipher their meanings.

And in her vision, Scrappy was there until the end – the bitter end – though whether that end could be changed or not remained to be seen. But they all needed to be present, Phalon was sure, if the outcome was to be anything but, as Dixie had just said, “a complete disaster”. She still believed there was a reason they - this particular group of people, herself included - were called together. And Scrappy was part of the group. Her role – all of their roles, whatever they may be - Phalon knew, were vital.

“What did you do, Phalon? What was it that caused her to attack you, and then run off like that?”

‘Grrrr’, Phalon growled inwardly. It was an accusation, as if she were the one to blame when all she was trying to do was help. She pushed her irritation aside for the moment, “There was something I needed to show her.”

The puzzled expression on Dixie’s face caused her to try to better explain. Their language; English they called it; was starting to fade from her mind. She chose the words – words that were becoming more difficult to find – slowly and deliberately. She chose them wrong.

“Scrappy is childish with her abilities, and needs mental help.” An angry look from Dixie told her what she’d said was not quite right. “She is infantile, and needs counseling”, she offered, trying again. Still the anger in Dixie’s face did not fade. “Immature, and should not be left alone?” The glare fixed on Dixie’s face told her the words she chose once more did not convey the meaning she’d intended. Argh!!! Her attempts at communicating her thoughts correctly were in vain; the precise meaning of the words she spoke lost to her as her comprehension of English began to slowly slip away. Frustrated, she slipped back into her own language. “Scrappy is but a fledgling with her power, and needs guidance in learning to control it…wherever her mind takes her”, she yelled in Greek, slamming her fist on the table, emphasizing her frustration – finally, she could speak their language, but still could not communicate effectively.

Her outburst only served to fuel Dixie’s anger. “Name calling, Phalon? And just who is it that is childish here? I don’t know who you are, or why you’re really here, but I do know you were the cause of her leaving. I wish it was you that left instead of her. Why don't you go back to wherever it is that you call home?"

“You are not the only one who wishes I was home. Show me the way and I’d gladly go.” Phalon muttered in Greek to nothing but an empty doorway as Dixie had turned and left to find the one she’d lost once before, in another time.

Tired, discouraged, and her mood growing increasingly foul, Phalon sat with her elbows on the table and her chin propped in her hands. She didn’t ask for this; unlike them, she did not choose to be here. She was an unwilling participant in this “game”, and would like nothing more than to withdraw from it. To Tartarus with them all. But again, unlike Scrappy, she couldn’t leave. She was stuck here in this place until she found a way to return home.

Malice towards Scrappy crept into her mind; envy that Scrappy could just get up and walk away without looking back. And why should Phalon care what happened to her? If it weren’t for Scrappy - her screams bringing her back from the threshold where Phalon stood after she’d been shot with the ion gun; standing at the doorway between this place and hers - she’d already be home. And what had she got in return? Nothing but a bruised neck, a ruined breakfast, and now, an increasing resentment towards the woman.

“Ungrateful bitch”, Phalon said aloud. It would have been easy….Scrappy was careless, grabbing Phalon by the neck, but not controlling her hands. And it was not as if the thought had not occurred to Phalon at the time either…one swift move was all it would have taken to sever the contact of the hand squeezing her throat. But noooo…for whatever reason Phalon had felt a loyalty towards Scrappy; whether it be that they were family, that they shared the “sight”, or because they had both lost something to the beast that seemed to control this game - whatever the reason, she had refrained. That it was something she would not normally consider, and that a lack of sleep played a part in her even thinking it….or even that her state of exhaustion allowed tiny tendrils of thought - thought planted from a vile beast - to weave themselves into her head…none of that crossed her mind now. Instead, she thought how satisfying it would have been…..

Reaching over her shoulder, she unsheathed it; the cold steel flashing brightly as she brought it down hard; swift and silent in its movement, until…Thwack!!!! As the blade hit the table, Phalon imagined the apple it cleanly sliced in half to be Scrappy’s hand neatly severed from her wrist. A sickening grin lit her face.

[Phalon]

It felt good swinging the sword…she loved the feel of its weight as she brought it high over her head, guided its downward arc, and drove it home into the table, cutting the apple in two – it was an unforgiving authority, and instead of the sliced apple, she imagined leaving that shrew with nothing but a bloody stump where her hand should have been. She almost wished for another confrontation so she could use the sword in earnest on something more substantial than a piece of fruit.

She speared one half of the apple with the end of the sword, plucked it from the tip and bit into it. The fruit that had been so sweet when she’d first returned from the dead, leaving the threshold to her home behind, now tasted sour. Again, she longed for something more substantial than fruit to satisfy her hunger… ‘Pfft’, she thought, ‘I’ve had enough of the fruits in this place….all of them.’

Tossing the apple back on the table, she spied a platter of round doughy looking pastry things, each having a hole in the center, and they vaguely reminded her of Zena’s chakram. Hhhmmm…what were they called again? When she had last seen them; when she was present in the room only in Scrappy’s mind; Scrappy had called them doughnuts, she remembered. Ok then…so their language hadn’t left her completely – yet. Fragments of it still remained with her. Good. The doughnuts looked good too, and she grabbed the plate of them and leaned back in the chair.

With the platter in her lap, she propped her boots on the edge of the table and pushed back so that the chair balanced on its hind legs, much in the same way she’d chided Scrappy for sitting earlier. Elbows resting on the arms of the chair; her free hand – the hand that wasn’t shoving doughnuts into her mouth….‘Damn’, she thought, ‘these things are good.’ – she held her sword pointed towards the ceiling. Like a king at his throne holding his scepter, she sat.

Absentmindly, she flexed her wrist back and forth, the steel blade catching the light from the chandelier above and casting luminous shadows upon the wall. Amazingly beautiful, she thought of the blade. Mesmerizingly so, in fact, and she saw the sword for what it was – something which had a sole purpose for killing, and it hadn’t been used for that in a very long time. What better place than here, in this house, to resolve that issue? She smiled. And then frowned.

The nagging thought at the back of her mind pushed itself forefront as she caught her distorted reflection in the sword: this was not her. She did not seek to kill; did not revel in it. Nor had she ever experienced the “battle-madness” that she’d seen other warriors have; a frenzy of unstoppable power, killing any opposing force in their path. No – her sword was a weapon of self-defense. She used it; used it well, but only when she had to; when words failed. Entertaining the thought of severing Scrappy’s hand…and enjoying the thought…that it had even entered her mind was unthinkable.

The vision of the hag came back to her, and a piece of its conversation replayed itself in her head. “You see, I’ve no need for those damned leather gloves anymore. Remember his sword? Much like the one you carried, wasn’t it”, Hag Scrappy had asked. Phalon had thought he, the sword wielding maniac, had been the one who relieved Scrappy of her hands. The hag said that when he was done she’d never again have to experience the pain of seeing others’ lives in her head. What if….

….what if she’d been the one? What if it was she who cut off Scrappy’s hands…thoughts not of her own entering her head, and causing her to do so. Part of his plan; turning them against one another and thus causing their own demise? Could he…

“You are an odd one, aren’t you?” Mrs. Peacock emerged from the shadows of the room.

The same can be said of you, Phalon thought, glancing at the woman sideways through narrowed eyes. Her feeling of extreme agitation returned, and sent any discernment she’d just had back into the recesses of her mind.

Mrs. Peacock’s own eyes flickered iridescent. “Your presence here has me stumped and I haven’t quite figured out what your place in all this is.”

“Nor have I.” Phalon retorted aloud, suspicious of the woman, “Neither mine, nor yours.” She smiled inwardly, pleased with herself for seeming to get the words right; at least Mrs. Peacock gave no indication that she’d done otherwise. Actually, she ignored what Phalon said, and with her hands on her hips, continued as if Phalon hadn’t spoken at all.

“Look at this! You people have got to be the messiest group of guests ever to stay at this house.” She looked around the room in disgust; it was a disaster - food strewed across the table and on the floor, broken dinnerware, over-turned chairs. She pursed her lips, but her eyes gleamed with smug amusement; as if she was in on a secret that no one but her was privy. “I’ll have to get the servants to clean the table, sweep the broken glass from the floors…the cook will have to make another meal for the others who haven’t eaten yet; we’ll have to serve it again…and for what? The next one too, I’m sure will end up just as this one has…and the one before that….”

Phalon paid no attention to the woman’s rant; she was tired and it hurt her head to try to follow what was being said. Lost in thought, she let Mrs. Peacock drone on for awhile before interrupting. “Help me with something.” The short simple sentence was all Phalon could muster in English at the moment, and it sounded like a demand.

It was.

[guru]

He didn't see what was right in front of him.

Something clouded Guru's vision as he ascended the stairs. Rounding the turn at the second floor landing, he kept one hand on the rail to compensate for foggy perception. Was it too long without sleep ... or too long without peace? Thoughts exploded from every direction like fireworks. Thoughts of attack and defense -- thoughts of vigilance and violence -- thoughts of hatred and... ...and... ...and tenderness. Focus was hard to find in all the confusion. Just like back in the tunnel...

He didn't see what was right in front of him.

Like a rookie he made the most basic mistake in a dark environment -- looking directly into a light source. Torches don't burn forever, so the torches at hand would have to be trusted to light the way for hasty progress.

'Better check their condition,' he thought. His immediate next thought was directed at himself and cannot be repeated in polite company.

A minor fireworks display danced across his retinas as he closed his eyes. In the new and sudden darkness of his momentary stupidity there was one saving grace, and he paused ever so slightly to let Phalon take the lead. Her footsteps would be enough to guide him until his night vision returned. That's what he told himself to keep his mind off the hand he held only moments ago. The hand that fit so neatly into his own.

Confusion, distraction, desire -- such things take energy, and energy was in short supply at the moment. Time and events had robbed him of energy and left him with an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. He needed time to recover his strength. Someday he would be strong enough to desire again.

Desire can make the heart grow stronger ... and the eyes grow weaker. Their desire to escape the tunnel blinded them to movement at their feet. If only they were glancing down instead of focusing forward, they would have seen a message. A message meant for them.

The party of two began moving in a direction they called progress, ruddy torchlight receeding with them and yielding to velvet darkness. Red faded to blue on bones bleached white with time and now revealed by the cave-in. A spark of hope was fading as a skeletal finger, pointing forward to the house, gave up its fight against gravity and collapsed. Without a sound ... without an echo ... without a prayer.

Love conquers hate just as light conquers dark. But in a life without love there is only ego forcing its will upon the world. Absent our greatest power, we live like warriors marching to the drums of duty. It was time to be a warrior and fight evil. A warrior is cold and hard and solitary, able to see victory while staring at loss. Guru could see the battle to come.

But he didn't see what was right in front of him.

[Phalon]

House is haunted.
I just want to go for a ride,
Out and on,
Before I set this room alight.
Left alone, forever and for crimes unclear,
With my patience gone.
Someone take me far from here.



She followed a few steps behind Mrs. Peacock down the hall, not paying attention to anything but the color of her own thoughts, and she saw only red. The irritation she began to feel in the dining room had turned to anger, and now she felt hot tendrils; burning fingers of rage start to creep from the back of her mind and weave their way into her thoughts. Rage at the predictiment she was in – that she was here when she shouldn’t be – what had she done to deserve this; what gods had she angered to warrant being dumped here so far from everything she loved? It was not right; it was unfair, and she fumed while cursing the gods that had brought her here.

The rage also was directed towards Scrappy: for not listening, for being stubborn and then simply walking away. And at Dixie for thinking she was to blame for Scrappy’s departure. And Guru – even with his big equipment – was no help; retreating to his room to yearn for something he’d never have again – Yana – when here in front of him…if only he’d open his eyes….Pfft. Yeah well, I am alone in this, she thought.

Her patience was gone; in its place her rage grew stronger and was directed at all of them. Instead of coming together it seemed to her they were more separated than ever; each having their own agenda. If they worked together she thought they could defeat this thing, and maybe…just maybe, she’d find a way home when it was all over. It seemed to her though, that not one of them cared to even try. She should just forget it all; forget trying to help; forget the maniac with the sword, and forget all of them – just concentrate on getting back to Greece, is what she should do. But even in her uncharacteristic and new-found anger, a tiny bit of her was still aware she could not forget – a small voice to which she now refused to listen.

Her growing anger was so great she felt she could rip any one of the closed doors they passed in the hall off its hinges. But with her luck – the way things were going for her in this place – she’d choose the wrong door, and unleash some other unspeakable horror that could not be contained from its dwelling. How perfectly fitting in the scheme of things that would be.

Bathed in the red of her vision, Phalon saw Joxie making her way down the hallway coming towards them. Head bent, her eyes directed only at the floor in front of her, she willed her feet to lead the way to the dining room. Making no eye contact, she refused to acknowledge Mrs. Peacock, her only thought was to get somewhere safe….and food seemed safe…it was comforting at least.

With her eyes directed towards the floor, Joxie didn’t notice Phalon walking behind Mrs. Peacock. Phalon’s temper flared. This was no place for the meek – the afraid – and what use was Joxie to them – to her? Just another useless body in a house that was full of them.

As she passed, Phalon gave in to the urge to do what she had wanted to in the dining room the night before, only then, she would have been playfully teasing. Now she did it with malice. She leaned in close and hissed, “Boo!” into Joxie’s ear, taking sick delight in watching Joxie nearly jump out of her skin at the sound. A hysterical laughter; eerily hollow in its lack of emotion, followed Joxie as she scurried off down the hall like a timid little mouse until she found the dining room and slammed the door.

Phalon was still laughing at the image of Joxie with all color drained from her face when she turned to face those iridescent eyes; cold and staring directly into hers. She felt her neck jar as her head snapped to the side from the hard slap Mrs. Peacock delivered to her cheek.


New day yawning; another day in solitaire.
House is honest;
Clearly more than I can bear.
Drag me off,
Before I set my world on fire.
Out and gone, the sun will never
Set tonight.


Phalon’s eyes blazed in her crimson vision as she reached over her shoulder withdrawing the sword from its scabbard. And still the iridescent eyes did not waver.

Instead she felt cold fingertips digging into her forearm.

“Leave it”, a voice whispered in her head - Mrs Peacock communicating to her through thought. “Listen Phalon. Put your sword back and listen.” Phalon was admittedly both shocked and intrigued from both the slap and at the voice in her head, and her curiosity now outweighed her rage for the moment.

“This is the only way I can talk to you without him hearing; he hears most everything. Do you understand?”

“I do”, Phalon thought back.

“Do you understand, Phalon”, the voice in her head repeated impatiently, and she realized Mrs. Peacock did not share the ability to hear another’s thoughts. She nodded yes, she understood.

“Good. It’s happening again, Phalon. I had hoped this group would be different…would be the last one; the one to defeat him and end it all. I’m getting tired; I’ve seen enough of this and I need it to be over as much as you and the others. I’ve a personal stake in this too, you see.”

Phalon raised a brow, but the old woman ignored it or refused to see it as an inquiry to explain herself, and instead continued. “He’s pitting you against each other to gain control…” Phalon vaguely remembered having the same thought in the dining room before she let her anger turn her vision red. “I know you feel it – you’d realize it if you stopped for a moment to think…these thoughts; the thoughts of anger and malice are not your own, are they.” It was not a question. “Look at yourself. Is this you; maliciously scaring people for disturbing amusement? Think. Is this something you’d normally do?”

“He planted a seed of hatred that has started to grow. Pluck it from your mind and squash it now before its roots take firm hold. Do it, Phalon. Do it before it’s too late. It hasn’t taken complete control yet or I wouldn’t be standing her right now, but imagine my head would be lying on the floor of this hall, and you’d have a bloody sword in your hand.”

Phalon nodded once more; and it was only then that Mrs. Peacock’s eyes moved from her own – now darting back and forth as she hurriedly let go of Phalon’s arm. “Come, Phalon, this way”, she said aloud, in her usual monotone voice devoid of emotion. She continued down the hall – but not before Phalon noticed the warning look that was shot in her direction. It was a look that meant they were being watched.

Her anger tempered for the moment, she followed Mrs. Peacock up the stairs and wondered if this would ever end. One day in this house had seemed to last a lifetime. Very few questions had been answered; there were more now than before, and with each step she took, each turn she made, unanswered question piled on top of unanswered question, until the heap seemed so high she thought it topple and she’d be crushed under the weight of them.

At the top of the stairs, they passed what she knew was Guru’s room. Soft murmuring came from behind the closed door, and Phalon paused in front of it, imagining him to be sitting in the chair by the window talking to the framed picture of his dead wife. She wondered what the look on his face would be; one of horror, she guessed, or irritation, if she yanked the door open, and took him in her arms, willing him to see….

She nearly laughed at the thought, sure that he’d think she’d gone insane….and maybe she had. She sighed. Things that would never be…

“Phalon, quit your dawdling; I haven’t got all day. Come now, let’s get on with this. I’ve got things that must get done; another meal to see that gets prepared and served, rooms to clean, ….”

A sullen expression crossed Phalon’s face, and she jammed her hands in the pockets of her robe and trudged down the hall towards Mrs. Peacock, like a child being scolded and sent to her room. She felt her irritation start to grow again, and she instantly fought to quell it; not willing to let him to gain control of her. “No”, she thought, she’d be irritated at the patronizing scolding tone in Mrs. Peacock’s voice even in the best of moods. She laughed aloud this time.

“…I’ve got a house to run,” Mrs Peacock finished listing the day’s chores. “Do you think it runs by itself?” Phalon had no doubt that it probably did – the house did what it wanted whether Mrs. Peacock was here to see that it was dusted and polished or not. A rare twinkle in the woman’s eyes, and a wink confirmed to Phalon that she was probably right: the house would always run itself.

Her fingers clasped something at the bottom of her pocket – something she’d forgotten she’d put there. Perhaps…she raised an eyebrow….perhaps, there was a way to find the truth to questions unanswered.

“Here, this is where you’ll stay”, Mrs. Peacock said, holding open the door for Phalon. “I trust it’ll suit your needs.”

Eyeing the big bed with its stacks of pillows piled high…..she thought, ‘Yes, this will work just fine’, as she clasped the vial in her pocket tighter, and a slight smile crossed her lips.


No what for's; only a can
Of red says danger on it.
I have found another way.

Gasoline ~ Audioslave

[Phalon]

Mrs. Peacock showed her around the room and the adjoining bath, explaining the lights; how the bathroom fixtures worked, even showing her the soap, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste and toothbrush: little things that Phalon would not have any knowledge of in ancient Greece. Normally she would have been in awe of such things, but as tired as Phalon was, she could only nod that she understood as Mrs. Peacock explained each item.

“Bath or shower?” Mrs. Peacock asked when she was done with the bathroom tour. Phalon shrugged; at this point she didn’t particularly care; all she wanted was to be clean and go to bed. “Shower”, Mrs. Peacock decided. “From the looks of you, you’d most likely fall asleep in the bath, and drown….again.” That caught Phalon’s attention; again she thought Mrs. Peacock must know a great deal of what went on in this place; much more than anyone could guess perhaps? She cast the older woman a sideways glance of suspicion.

But Mrs. Peacock was used to suspicion; she simply ignored it, and turned instead to start the shower. That done; the steam from the hot water beginning to rise above the closed shower curtain; she faced Phalon again. “Your clothes”, she said, “I’ll have them cleaned; they need it.” She eyed Phalon up and down with her hands on her hips. “Hhmmm…..I’m sure I can find you something to wear from the things previous guests left after they….departed.” Once more, her words hinted at a deeper meaning. Or was Phalon imagining it; her exhaustion and diminishing comprehension of English playing tricks in her head? She pushed those thoughts aside for the moment; there’d be time enough to think things through better when she felt more clear-headed.

She began to undress, first unstrapping the scabbard and leaning it against the wall. Mrs. Peacock bent to retrieve it, and Phalon reached down grabbing her wrist. Shooting her a look of warning, “The sword stays with me”, Phalon said sharply, managing to get the words correct.

“But of course”, the woman answered with a bemused expression on her face, “Forgive me.”

Phalon sighed, and continued removing her clothes. The belt with all her trinkets, vials and baubles attached, she lay next to the scabbard, gently and with care, as if it were something of great fortune. Then, leaning with her back against the wall for support; too tired to simply bend over; she slid down it and unlaced her boots, pulling each one off with an immense effort. Mrs. Peacock’s expression of amusement seemed to grow watching the strange woman make such an exaggerated production out of the simple act of getting undressed.

The two women fell into a kind of odd camaraderie; the servant and the guest; the teacher and the student, the knowing and the unknowing, but were both aware the other was here for a reason other than what it appeared to be. It was as if they were actors in a play, each putting on a performance for the benefit of the other.

Next, off came the robe. Phalon reached into the deep pockets, pulling out their contents before handing the garment over to Mrs. Peacock. A fistful of dinars; she counted them out one by one, placing them on the sink vanity. An apple core, covered in blue lint. A spring of pine with a tiny pinecone attached that she’d meant to give to Evergreen; she wondered if she’d ever get the chance. A few small stones, collected because they were pretty. Various colored glass beads and kept for the same reason as the stones. A piece of seaweed, crusted with dried salt; a remnant of the trip here. She was aware Mrs. Peacock was rolling her eyes and tapping her foot. Quickly, she pulled out the remaining items and placed them on the counter. Last came the glass vial with the silver lid. She place it with her other things, and hoped her expression on her face did not show how important it was to her. For some reason, she wished to keep its significance from the other woman.

She continued undressing and, article by article as she stripped them off her body, she handed her clothing to Mrs. Peacock, who held them as far away from her as her outstretched arm would allow, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Phalon laughed aloud at the sight. The sea had not been kind to her in that respect; her clothes smelled like dead fish. She was still chuckling when Mrs. Peacock left the bathroom and Phalon stepped into the shower.

Her laughter subsided however, shortly after she was inside the enclosed space behind the shower curtain. Once again, she felt the isolation of being totally alone in this place. She pressed her forehead against the cold tiles of the wall as the hot water beat upon her back. Naked and alone; vulnerable, suddenly she felt ashamed. Ashamed for how she had treated Joxie in the hallway downstairs….ashamed for the evil thoughts she’d felt towards Scrappy…towards all of them. Damn him! Damn that beast for invading her mind; for invading their lives.

She started to cry; silently at first; just hot tears in the corners of her eyes. As the tears began to overflow, they mingled with the droplets of water on her face; one indistinguishable from the other; both hot, both cleansing. Rivulets ran down her cheeks. The tears turned to sobs, and violently they wracked her body. She cried for Scrappy; first for losing Dixie in a past-life, and then, in this one, for losing her parents. She cried for them; for Yana and Guru and what they’d lost. And she cried for herself. For though they’d given up a new life together essentially for her so that she might live, they had something she’d never have: a chance to say goodbye. She’d never have that with Athan; ripped from her life unceremoniously without her having the chance to say goodbye, nor would Scrappy have that chance with her parents. She wondered if she’d have the strength to do what they did; Yana and Guru; to commit a self-less act and let go of the possibility of being together again for the benefit of another. She was just a young girl then though, and could never go back to that place in her life. He’d stolen it all from her; her one love, her youth, her innocence. And he’d taken something from them too. Everything. From each of them. And from how many others?

The hot tears of shame and sadness turned hotter still as anger and frustration again pervaded her thoughts. This time though, the rage was not placed there by him, but rather, was directed towards him. Again she cursed him, this time aloud and through clenched teeth. “Damn, that beast!”

Quickly, she finished washing, turned off the shower as Mrs. Peacock had shown her, dried, and crossed the room to the large mirror above the sink vanity. The air in the room was thick with steam from the shower, and she used the towel to wipe the foggy condensation from the mirror.

Brushing the tangles from her hair; the bristles angrily ripping through it; she studied her reflection. She didn’t like what she saw. Even through the remnants of condensation clinging to the mirror; her image not quite clear; she could see how bad she looked: like something dragged under the wheels of a chariot and left for dead in the middle of the road. An uncharacteristic scowl made her face look hard; old. Dark circles were present under her eyes; a telltale sign of lack of sleep; of weariness. Purple-black bruises adorned her neck from where Scrappy had grabbed it. And the hot shower had done nothing for her color; there was a pallor to her skin akin to the bluish tone she had when she was dead. The paleness of her face was only broken by the still red handprint on her cheek delivered from Mrs. Peacock’s slap. Like death warmed over, she thought. ‘I looked better when I was dead.’

Finished with her hair, she set the brush down, and noticed the vial she needed among the jumble of things she’d emptied from her pocket. Grabbing it and a hand towel, she exited the bathroom, and stepped into the attached bedroom.

A fire had been lit in the fireplace, and there was a warmth in this room that she had not felt since entering this house. Crossing to the bed, she set the vial and towel on it next to the clothes Mrs. Peacock had promised. Running her fingers over the borrowed clothing, she wondered who had once worn them. But no traces of their previous owner remained.

She slid the pants over her hips; the faded blue fabric stiff and coarse - so different from her soft doeskin riding breeches. The shirt though, was as soft as anything the blind weaver, Frieda Rose had ever made. It felt good against her skin; warm and comfortable, and she thought she might like to keep this, when she returned home.

Dressed, she sat cross-legged on the bed, and held the vial in her hand, staring at the contents through tinted glass. Artemisia: mugwort, and aside from its many medicinal properties, it also held a bit of magic. It had been known to repel evil, but that is not the reason she’d sought it. She had had some notion when she’d taken it in the dining room from the spilled contents of Dixie’s bag the evening prior, that it could be used on Guru. She had not known then why he’d shot her…she still didn’t know – and now it didn’t matter. But then, not trusting him, she’d thought she could use it to read his dreams, and by reading them, would know who, or what he was. An herb to dream true; but now, instead of Guru, she planned to use it for her own dreams.

She thought of him again, and Yana’s words came back to her. "Home doesn't have to be a place -- sometimes home is a person." A beautiful sentiment, and suddenly she desired to be with someone she could call home. Home…this was not it; would never be, no matter how long she’d remain here, she thought. She sighed deeply. Her home was with her friends…her family. “We are family – by choice, and not by the bond of blood.” Zena’s sentiment. The two were similar in a way, yet so very different. And though very different from her own, these people here, in this house that was not a home, were a kind of family; her family for as long as she was here, and they’d better pull together and start helping each other the way families are meant to do.

If this worked; if she dreamed what she hoped, she’d have some answers to some of the questions surrounding this place, and of the beast whose dominion it seemed to be. And that would be a start, at least, to helping them all.

She spread the towel in her lap, and emptied the contents of the vial in the center of it. Tying the opposite corners of the towel together, she made a sort of pillow…a dream pillow; a little trick she’d learned from the gypsies she traveled with after Eurayle had found her.

The bedding had been turned down, and it looked so comfortable to her; inviting her to finally rest. She slipped between the sheets and beneath the heavy quilt, and lay down with the herbal pillow tucked under her head. As exhausted as she was, she still tossed and turned for a while. The gods must be playing a joke on her, she thought. Finally able to sleep, yet sleep would not come. Something was missing.

She knew what it was, and dragging her ever-present sword, the quilt and pillow with her, she crossed to one of the floor-to-ceiling length windows. Parting the heavy curtains, she looked out to it: the sea. She opened the window a bit so she could hear its roar. Beautiful; angry, yet comforting at the same time. And wrapping herself in the quilt, she lay down on the floor next to the fire.

There…the crackling fire, the rhythmic sounds of pounding waves crashing on the shore, and watching dancing golden-pink flames, she could almost imagine she were back in Greece, camped for the night with her traveling companions. The sounds and flickering light were mesmerizing to her, and with her eyelids growing heavy, she drifted to sleep with thoughts in her head of home. And her dreams took her there: to Greece; to where it all began.

* * * *

The gypsy tales of so long ago were correct: the mugwort worked. While she slept, Phalon dreamed. And she was awakened from the dream she had sought by a scream.

Hers.

[TamiZ]

(NOTE: all dialog in italics are part of a mental conversation, not heard by others around in the physical or spiritual realm)


The Silent Truth

Malory saw Mrs. Peacock descending the grand stairs as she leaned momentarily against the portal to close it. The older woman skillfully maneuvered the steps even though her hands were full. Malory cocked her head with curiosity upon seeing what Mrs. Peacock held tightly as far away from her nose as possible. Seeing that the great hall was empty, the lanky woman closed her eyes and centered her power. She utilized one of the first skills she learned from her earthly mentor.

She did a mental check before pushing off and falling into step with the housekeeper. Even though the hall was empty, she knew that in spirit, they were not alone. Between the lines of a verbal conversation, she began a mental one with the older woman. They shared a silence before their minds danced around the spoken cover they used to distract the evil that had invaded the very core of the house.

“With the exception of Scrappy, have all of the houseguest returned?” Malory asked aloud. “I sent Orion to follow and hopefully irritate the warrior into coming back,” she thought.

The housekeeper showed no outward indication of the thought that passed to her, only the verbal. “All are here except the loud one,” she replied; her voice was devoid of emotion, though her thoughts were decidedly tinged with concern. “The smelly one is in the shower now.” Silently, she added, ”The Greek does not know why she is here,” the housekeeper thought. “Perhaps you should enlighten her.” Mrs. Peacock closed her eyes. An unusual sadness fell upon her features. “She is lost in this place and time and lost with her inability to help those around her.”

Thinking upon Mrs. Peacock's words, Malory said softly, “I saw Scrappy leave.” She looked askance at the other woman. “Would you like me to take care of those for you?” The other woman stopped and looked at Malory. With a whisper and a throw of her hands, she tossed the offensive clothing up into the air where they disappeared into ether without a sound or flashy exit.

Malory shook her head in a brief show of amusement before a low rumble rudely preempted another mention of Scrappy or Phalon. “Is there any breakfast left?” Malory asked. The gargling of her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten much before dashing from the dining hall. “What I need to do is sit everyone down. Perhaps a short and sweet version of the whole damnation of the family line will get their attention.”

Uncharacteristically, Mrs. Peacock softly snorted. “Aye, there is food left. You may have to eat it off the floor, though. Who knows what has been going on since I showed Phalon to her room.” They passed into the dining hall to see that nothing had changed. Mrs. Peacock began to clean cherry pits from the table. “Will you wait to see if the loud one comes back, or will you call them together without her?”

Sitting down, Malory contemplated the spread before her. Congealed oatmeal and cold eggs held little appeal to a stomach that was beginning to tie itself into a knot; she was not looking forward to the gathering. Opting for simple fare, she reached for an apple. She continued the silent conversation with Mrs. Peacock while she slowly chewed small bites of the fruit. Her eyes studied the intricately carved crown molding of the dining room. The dark wood swirled in patterns familiar to the old pagans of the Isle, but merely decorative to those who were not familiar with the old ways. “I’ll be lucky if they don’t take my head when they find out. Remember that time?”

“Remember? It took me forever to get that mess cleaned up.”

Malory’s gaze slipped to the housekeeper as she began to instruct the lower servants to the cleaning up of the meal that had mainly gone to waste. “As you’ve told me every time you have to clean after me.” Malory sighed aloud. “I always seem to make a mess of this.”

“You have never told the truth….”

“I couldn’t tell the truth, Pavora, you know that. They would have hung me along with the entire family upon the highest branches at the Devil’s Crossroads. And I have worked very hard to not be swinging from a rope. A most unpleasant feeling, I've been told.”

Undeterred by the change of subject, interruption, and the use of her ancient name, Mrs. Peacock continued silently. “These are different times, child. Conspiracy theories lurk around every corner and no one trusts anyone. Only truth will bring light into this house once more. Call them together Malory, and soon,” the old woman advised mentally. “Get this battle joined and ended, before they all kill each other.”

There was a mental pause before Malory asked, “Have you been watching ‘X-Files’ again?”

Mrs. Peacock stared at Malory for a moment, her eyes flashed with warning. Her mental tone took on a tone of admonition. “I have tried to teach you to believe in your purpose and stand despite your fears. For centuries, you have run to the edge of the fight. Stop hiding in your shame and fear. This is the time to join and fight.”

With that reminder, Malory finished chewing a bite of apple. She contemplated the fruit in her hand. She remembered Eurayle, the woman over whom the tragic history of the family began. It was in her time that an inhuman rivalry spawned the curse that now haunted the seeress’ family line.

The seeress destroyed the mortal body of an evil man, but not the immortal eternity of evil soul. The evil soul became a malevolence that would plague her bloodline.

Malory allowed herself a discrete glance to the housekeeper. “I do wish I could go back to that day and change everything. No woman could possibly be worth the pain my arrogance has wrought.”

And Malory did blame herself. She was there in the beginning of it all. She knew of Eurayle’s power and she revealed it to the one person that would become a rival in both flesh and spirit. Once he had shown an interest, though, it became a fight that would damn innocents. He had been hungrier for power than Malory had imagined.

Their rivalry began in the time of the Centurions and their misdeeds of that time echoed through the Blooded Ones, those that carried the gifts of Eurayle.

When Eurayle destroyed the Roman’s mortal body, the rivalry became a rage. It quickly became a void of hate that devoured all involved. It turned out that her adversary was irrationally ambitious. He was not content to merely deceive a woman for her mystical abilities. He wanted to steal her power and her soul. He wanted to usurp and replace the Roman God of War. He ended up, however, making a deal with the dark angel Lucifer.

It took many battles through the generations for Malory to learn her rival’s power and learn the ways to defeat him. But she needed all of the Blooded Ones to vanquish him. They each had something vital to banishing the evil to Hell for all eternity. Once she could get all of the Blooded Ones together, she would lay the truth out for them. And hopefully, they would understand that all of them were needed.

If it was one thing that haunted Malory the most, it was that she knew that the second they walked away from the unfinished battle, they would be met with horrendous deaths. Her thoughts were immediately with Scrappy and she hoped that the warrior was safe; she wanted to say a prayer. Instead, she whispered for Orion to watch over the woman running from her destiny.

She looked across the room to an old clock that dominated a space between two mammoth windows. It was a gift from a German whom she had saved from the witch hunters centuries ago. It turned out that the witch was actually of Germanic tribal descent and was at least a century older than her savior. After the rescuing, though, the two of them became companions, sharing an eventful life. Malory blinked against a tear that threatened to gather on her lashes. Once this was over, she knew she was going to have to say goodbye. Her companion was restless and wanted to see the world on her own time and by her own map.

Focusing against a rising melancholy, Malory watched as the clock’s minute hand advanced one minute forward and then three minutes back. Squinting her eyes, she saw the Roaring 20’s come to life for just a moment before there was a blur of space and time. Time caught up to itself and the house’s layering of existences was neatly re-ordered. Rising from her seat, Malory calculated the time she would have to read over the old texts. She looked briefly at Pavora and smiled sadly. “I’m going to read the Histories again, Pavora. I want to make sure that I have interpreted that incantation correctly. It won’t do us any good if I give a bad spell to the witch.” Out loud, she said, “Well, Mrs. Peacock, I will be in the library reading until lunch. I do hope that goes better than breakfast did.”

As Malory turned and walked out the door, she received one last mental exchange laced with an affectionate disgruntlement. “I knew I should have thrown you into the Rhine after you rescued me from the hunters. To borrow a phrase, Malory, ‘smart-ass punk’ fits you just fine in this age. We’ll see who picks up the mess you make this time around.”

Malory’s laughter was soft but it echoed in the empty hallway as she made her way to the library. It was a desperate attempt to keep a tight hold of herself. Losing control now would not do them any good. She could have her breakdown after it was over. But then again, once it was over, the Circle of Peace Stones would no longer be tainted and she would be able to better contain the animal she concealed from the world. She would once more find her serenity.

[guru]

Eyes closed, curtains drawn, door locked. Peace and quiet all around ... an empty room ready to receive the thunderous cacophany within his mind. Let all thoughts out to wander freely, then keep only those of value.

Yana's picture was returned to its portable shrine within the armored briefcase. The Ion Gun was plugged into its recharging unit powered by a solar cell in the window. Guru mechanically stepped through the motions of washing up and changing into clean clothes.

It was almost normal.

With a numbness simulating zero gravity, he watched himself maneuver to a hovering position over the bed. Then his orientation changed to horizontal as he floated downward toward the pillow ... much like a disembodied spirit settling in to inhabit a new host. Time passed without a sound as thoughts sorted themselves out. One thought remained -- an unforgettable pair of eyes. He drifted back in time.

A scream pierced the walls, turning the gravity back on and returning Guru to the present. In one quick motion he snaked his hand inside the long coat and liberated his sword from its hiding place. The other hand unlocked the door and threw it open as the coat fell to the floor behind him. His well-trained ears had already turned the sound into a map, so he ran down the hall with a purposeful sense of direction. To a closed door.

Turning the knob but not giving the bolt enough time to fully retract, Guru burst through and charged inside. A glint of light on steel caused his subconscious mind to react without conscious awareness. Taking the sword in a two-handed grip, he blocked downward at a forty-five degree angle and shifted his weight off the centerline of motion to push harmlessly aside whatever he contacted.

With subconscious speed it pushed back.

The sound of swords clashing replaced the scream and disengaged his warrior's autopilot. The face staring back at him was not the face of an enemy. He felt no threat or malice.

For a confusing moment, he couldn't be sure whose eyes were looking back at him. Or what he should be feeling.

'No. Not again.' A single thought reverberated in his mind as he soundlessly tossed his sword aside. Phalon looked scared, and he didn't want that.

He put his arms around her and lifted her to him ... then with one hand at the back of her head, guided her face into the nape of his neck. The warm and rapid pulses of air on his skin almost triggered a memory. Against his will he was drawn down a long dark spiral into the sound of breathing right below his ear. He was hypnotized.

No other sound in the room.

No other sound in the world.

[Scrappy Amazon]

She thundered down the road eyes glued to the pavement watching the stripes whiz by at lightening speeds. The tears trickling out from under her sunglasses were being buffeted by the force of the wind, making them slide brutally into her ears and hair, stinging her cheeks. Alternating patches of sun and shade from the gathering storm clouds were warming and chilling her back in cycles. The vibrating of the engine between her legs usually served to help calm her but today it only proved to be agitating. The once familiar and comforting feel of the bike now making her legs as numb as her heart and soul.

She was tired. Mentally and physically exhausted. And she was more determined than ever to leave it all behind. All the trouble and the lies and the secrets. And all the pain. She felt bad. Her guilt was weighing her down. But the rage was still boiling in her blood. She had never in her life walked out on a friend or a lover. Never had she totally disregarded another’s feelings like that. Dixie would be upset with her when she found her. And god knows what Phalon would think. She was sorry, and she hurt for them more than they would ever know.

She had always been loyal and honest and faithful. But now she had destroyed all that by running away. Maybe she really was just a coward in disguise. The leather and the gun all costumed trappings of a soft heart battered soul. Easily used and disposed of by people who were cruel and callous. She hated being vulnerable. Being a loner protected her from that.

But now, these people, in two days, had totally engulfed her life and caused her to once again lay her heart and soul, not to mention her body, on the line. Should she care enough about what happens to them to turn around? Thoughts of returning and doing what was right began to creep into her brain, pushing the sadness and anger and hurt aside. What right did she have to feel this way?

Scrappy’s thoughts were interrupted when she began to notice that she had entered a patch of shade that seemed to be following her. She pulled her eyes away from the road ahead and looked up over her shoulder. All she saw was the sun shining brightly down. She looked back at the road ahead thinking she’d clear the cloud patch soon. But it didn’t seem to matter how fast she drove or how far she went she was still shaded. She looked over her shoulder once again and was once again temporarily blinded by the sun.

Faintly over the roar of the engine she could hear a swooshing sound. Thinking her bike was about to have a serious valve problem she focused intently on the noise her engine was making. She looked down at the V-twin engine trying to determine if there was an oil leak, and momentarily took her eyes off the road. When she looked up again there had appeared suddenly in the road a huge grey obstruction. Reacting as quickly as possible she attempted to slow the break neck speed of the bike. But pulling the hand brakes and stomping on the clutch only made the bike unstable. She laid it down and kicked it away from her as both woman and machine continued to slide across the pavement.

The cruel black surface of the road dug into leather and flesh alike until she skidded to a stop. Sparks flew as the gas tank slowed the momentum of the bike as well, finally coming to rest at the foot of the obstruction in the road.

“What the frell!” she yelled at no one in particular.

Scrappy stood and quickly took stock. The thing in the road hadn’t moved so she assumed whatever it was wasn’t going anywhere and she had time to check herself out. Her elbow was ripped to shreds and bleeding profusely down her arm through a tear in her trench coat. Her leather pants were ruined but at least they protected her legs for the most part from worst of the pavement. “Damn, road rash in places I’d rather not think about.” She grumbled. “And damn if that wasn’t my best pair.”

Limping slightly she approached her bike and the thing in the road. The closer she got the more of it she could make out. It looked like a piece of rock, medium boulder sized. “All that for a piece of rock that probably fell out of a landscaper’s truck. SHIT! Damn it to hell! I’m gonna kill them if I ever find them!”

As she finally got near the bike she looked closer at the stone. It had a face and arms and even wings. “I’ll be damned. It’s a gargoyle. Someone screwed up when they let this thing fall off the truck.” Scrappy noticed something shiny and silver around its neck and reached out to examine it. As she reached out the thing moved. A little shuffling movement, arms held out wide, to get closer to the hand that was reaching out.

Scrappy stumbled back pulling her gun. It stopped moving the minute she backed off, but she could hear a faint whining sound coming from it now. Almost like a dog begging to be petted. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the wreck made Scrappy more agitated than usual. She immediately began firing at it. It wrapped its grey mottled wings around itself in an effort to protect it from the flying projectiles. Scrappy watched as little chips of stone flew off it in all directions as the bullets glanced off its surface. She quickly emptied her clip then waited for the thing to react.

When it realized she was done firing it spread its large wings and took to the air. The force of its flapping nearly knocking Scrappy off her feet. When it gained sufficient height it pulled the silver object from around its neck and dropped it at Scrappy’s feet, then flew off back in the direction of the house. She watched with interest as it went then bent down to pick up the thing it had dropped.

“Well, now I think I’ve seen everything.” She turned the object over in her hand and examined it. The familiar crisscrossing lines, the heavy silver, The delicate yet sturdy chain, conveyed a sense of familiarity. Scrappy removed one of her gloves, which had managed to not get shredded in the crash, and held tightly to the pendant. The visions came immediately. Age and generations of people wearing it made it easy to read. Almost too easy.

Images flickered through her mind like a slide show. All at once speeding up then slowing down when something seemingly familiar flashed through then speeding up again. Scrappy tried to direct the images, but the harder she tried the faster they slipped away. The more she tried to grasp at one the more rapidly others stacked up and pushed it away. She was about to let go when one single scene slammed into the forefront of her mind. It was nearly staggering in its intensity.

Malory and another, naked and entwined in each other’s arms. The one, Scrappy didn’t know her name, dark hair flowing around her like a black sea bathed in moonlight from an open window. She could feel the emotion being conveyed in the moment. Love, desire, fondness. The one with the dark hair removed something from around her neck and placed in Malory’s hand, closing her fingers tightly around it. Scrappy caught a brief glimpse of the pendant she now held before it was enclosed in Malory’s hand.

Scrappy immediately let go of the pendant, effectively shutting off the vision. “If she thinks I’m going back to that house she’s crazier than I thought.” She stuffed the pendant into a pocket of her trench coat and made her way to her bike once more.

Standing it up she checked the bike for major damage. “Thank god for skid plates. Only a few scratches easily repaired and painted.” Mounting the bike once again, she fired it up and headed down the road in the direction she had originally been heading. Attempting to put as much distance between her and that place as she could possibly get.

[Phalon]

It was nearly midday when Phalon woke to the sound of her own screams in a room darkened by the heavy curtains blocking out any sign of daylight. The images from her dream were as clear in her mind as her vision in the dark was not. Disoriented, one thought entered her head as the door opened and she saw the dark silhouette holding a sword appear in the lighted doorway. The beast has come for me.

In an instant she was on her feet, sword in hand. She brought it down hard against the figure in the shaft of light. The blow was easily deflected. Steel met steel as the other fought back….but only for a moment.

Without warning, she was pulled in…into a place where she felt comfort. Confusion; his mingled with hers in her mind, and neither of them seemed to realize where they were at first. A keen awareness soon replaced her blind fear as she felt the warmth of his protective embrace; his hair against her cheek; his smell…the feel of his heartbeat against hers. And then…with hyper-sensitive clarity, she felt it as his mind cleared: his thoughts. She shivered with emotion; trembled with desire, and its force threatened to take control; to completely engulf her. And she was willing to let it…except…

Except…she could not. Not now. She wouldn’t let herself forget the reason he was here, holding her. She’d screamed. She screamed because of something she saw, something that needed to be reckoned with, and to lose herself in him now was something none of them in this house could afford.

She unwound her arms from behind his neck where they’d somehow found their way, and slid her hands down his shoulders to his chest, gently pushing him away.

“The fire’s died”, she said, explaining the shiver in her body that she knew he’d felt. “It’s cold in here.” A weak explanation, she thought, as she moved to the window she’d left open. She parted the curtains and closed the window, shutting out the sound of the sea. Looking out at it - the blue-black water seeming to her to stretch as far as the ends of the earth - she realized that this moment was the first since she’d landed here that she did not wish she was home.

Turning from the window, she saw the chair next to it contained her own clothes; clean, neatly folded and stacked waiting for her, just as Mrs. Peacock had said they’d be. Amazing, that woman was.

She picked her sword up from the floor where she’d let it slip from her fingers without her realizing she’d done so. She leaned it against the chair; leaving it there as a gesture of trust…a gesture she hoped would not be lost on him. Then taking her clothes with her, she entered the bathroom, leaving the door open so she could talk to him while she dressed.

Pulling the borrowed shirt over her head without bothering to unbutton it, she began to explain to him what had brought him to her room. “You are aware I see things”, she asked as she watched her reflection in the mirror mouth words still foreign on her tongue. How odd it looked to her – to watch herself speak a language she shouldn’t have known. She ran her finger over her lips as she continued, feeling as well as seeing her mouth form the words new to her, “With just a touch, I can see into one’s heart, and know it for my own”. Did he understand what she’d just said? Not the words – they came easily now; there was no struggle, and she didn’t have to even think about which ones to use. The bit of rest must have done her some good, she thought; perhaps bringing their language back to her. It was the meaning of her words though, and the emotion behind them that she wondered if he’d comprehended…

His heart: now hers…if he’d let it be.

She reluctantly relinquished the soft material that had felt so good against her skin as she dropped the shirt to the floor, and replaced it on her body with her own coarsely woven tunic. As good as the shirt had felt; the fabric’s texture sensuous to her touch; she could not keep it. It was not hers; and in a place where she had nothing; where everything was unfamiliar; she could not give up even one part of what was her own. The borrowed clothing might be more practical than hers, but to Phalon, wearing it was impossible.

“And I dream”, she went on, struggling to push aside anything in her mind but what she had seen in her dream. “My dreams show me things that I wouldn’t otherwise know. And with a little help…”

She had finished dressing and stepped out of the bathroom, adjusting the strap of her sword’s scabbard. “…I dreamt of something that took place long ago, and far from this place. Something hideous; something wicked, and something which I don’t fully understand yet.”

Sitting in the chair by the window, she quickly laced her well-worn boots. Finished, she looked up at him and said, “There are two beasts present in this house, Guru. One wields a sword and has in some way had its hand in destroying pieces of all our lives.”

Rising from the chair she crossed to where his sword still lay on the floor. “And the other is the one who’s brought us here, and I intend to find out the reason why.”

She knelt and reached for the sword. Her fingers traced the intricate carvings on its bone hilt, and she wondered what stories it had to tell. Images flashed in her mind…the sword’s past…his past…his nightmare. But not his hand wielding the blade. A flash of steel against a moonlight sky…a woman’s screams…Yana’s…Then…a dull thud, sickening in its finality…Silence.

She looked at him for a long time before she rose and offered him back his weapon. His fingers touched hers on the hilt; their hands overlapped. Again, she felt a blast of his emotions from the touch and she was in danger of letting her own feelings for him fog her purpose. Quickly she withdrew her hand. “Are you ready for this”, she whispered, taking her own sword from its resting place against the chair.

She turned towards the door without waiting for an answer. And as he followed her out of the room to face together whatever awaited them in this house, she wondered herself at the meaning of her question….

And what his answer would have been.

[TamiZ]

Past Redemption

Breathing deeply, she became heady with the scents of the riot of blooms that surrounded her. She held the breath, trying to memorize the taste of it.

“You’re going to pass out again.”

Opening one eye, Malory craned her head to watch the graceful figure that approached. She smiled at the owner of the melodic voice. The soothing tones never failed to calm her. She had been waiting in the garden for Eurayle to come back from the forest. “I’m quite confident that you would revive me,” Malory replied with a crooked smile.

Eurayle stopped to look at her student and companion. Her slender, yet deceptively strong arms were crossed, threaded through a large basket laden with wild herbs and roots. The seeress shook her head for a moment. “Either you have come to know me too well, Malory, or you are the cockiest immortal I’ve ever known.”

“You’ve known a lot?”

“A few.”

Malory waited for the seeress to continue, but was not disappointed when no other information was forthcoming. Eurayle was always frugal with words when it came to information. Rising to the challenge, though, Malory sought to cajole and tease the information from the other woman. “Only a few? I would think that a woman with your beauty and power would have them flocking to her in droves. All looking for one thing or another.” An impishly charming grin was punctuated with two dimples that seemed to take away years of self-torment.

With a deflecting wave of her hand, Eurayle changed the subject, commenting, “I wish you would change your name. It’s been long enough to carry around that guilt. Do you plan to flagellate yourself for all eternity?”

Malory paused, pondering her companion’s words. “I really don’t even think about it anymore, Eurayle. It’s much better than Malfeasance.”

The seeress shook her head as she kneeled upon the soft grass of her garden. She slapped away hands that were attempting to take the basket from her. “I’ve got that. The last time you did it, you got my truth root mixed in with my healing roots. I was so tired when Kaliepes came to me for that salve last moonphase that I didn’t notice it.”

“At least not until you realized the reason why he was so compelled to tell everyone he met why he had the rash.”

Eurayle’s frown failed to hold firm; it fell as she chuckled. “His wife was none too pleased to hear that news from the temple virgin.”

“Really,” Malory added, “who would have thought that temple virgins gossiped so much?” The lanky woman sat up with a burst of laughter when Eurayle batted her with a long wiry root. Denied the permission to touch the roots, Malory instead, gathered a bundle of slender shoots. Focusing on her task, she began to gently remove the soft green buds from the tender shoots.

After a comfortable silence, Malory looked up to find the seeress studying her. She allowed the inspection as she gazed back with loving eyes and an open soul. Malory finally closed her eyes when she felt the comforting intrusion of her companion’s mind into her own. She smiled when she felt the light caress tracing the line of her jaw.

“You’ve been watching the roses again,” Eurayle whispered before tucking an errant strand of hair behind Malory’s ear.

“It’s the full moon.”

The seeress looked over to the vine trellis where blood thorn roses had begun to bloom five years ago. Those years had not been uneventful, as Malory had moved in after the death of Ahriman. The immortal made herself naked of soul and truth in the retelling of her own history and her search for a peaceful existence. The seeress had been unable to resist the wrenching ache that radiated from the taller woman. She was drawn in by Malory’s quest for absolution. In the five years that the seeress had been teaching Malory to focus her mental strength to find her peace within, they had found a common bond in laughter, tales, and pitch-black nights studying the stars.

Eurayle reached out to clasp Malory’s slender fingers. Together, they watched as the sun began to reflect off a drop of blood that swelled upon a pale pink thorn. When the drop became to heavy to hang so precariously upon the thorn, it fell upon the soil to be absorbed by the earth. “He cannot come back from the thorns, Malory.”

“He will find a way back, Eurayle,” the lanky woman promised ominously before turning her companion’s hand and kissing the knuckles. “The blood thorn roses are an omen.”

“Is your tankard always half empty?” Pushing the basket aside, Eurayle shifted closer to Malory until they were side by side. Leaning back to rest her weight upon an outstretched arm, she cocked her head and smiled. “Has it never occurred to you that maybe the blood thorns are the talisman to keep him out?”

Malory studied the seeress whose lips twitched the smallest fraction. “You planted them?”

Eurayle chuckled. “Aye. They are a dangerous beauty, aren’t they? I traded my Oskin Stone for a seedling from the eastern caravan.” Eurayle fell silent a moment before she shook her head to clear her wandering thoughts. “Let’s finish with our task here and then I will tell you the story of my mother’s mother and how she banished the satyr that had been plaguing her sheep.”

Malory squinted as she studied the seeress. She commented softly as she continued the task she had assumed, “You shall be death of my reasoning, yet the source of my reason, Aislin Saorla.”

In return, a warmth stole across her heart and the sun shone upon her face when the seeress returned to her basket of roots.

Malory watched Eurayle for just a moment longer before looking back to the roses. Thorns up and down the stems of the climbing bush were swelling with blood. She often wondered how the blood spilled from the plant each full moon. When the moon was full, the sentinel keeping light in the sky, the flowers would give their blood and their life to nourish the soil; they would then be withered upon the vine by morning. It was a beautiful sacrifice, Eurayle had once explained. The greater beauty of the bloom was what it did to assure the next moon’s blossoms. The blooms’ appearance was a mere detail. For in giving their life-blood, there were always one or two new roses the next month and the plant thrived despite dying every 28 nights.

As Malory watched the blood drip from the thorns, a rising fear began to grip her by the throat. It left her motionless for a heartbeat. She realized that the blood was dropping faster to ground with each heavy thud within her chest. Soon, the blood was flowing so quickly that the ground could no longer absorb it and the earth became saturated. She turned to Eurayle to get the seeress’ attention, but the other woman was oblivious. Eurayle continued to sort her roots as the rising blood began to flood the garden. When she tried to reach out and physically gather Eurayle into her arms, a force threw her off the other woman. Malory suddenly looked up when the call of a crow overhead brought silence to the growing cacophony of the day. All she could hear was her heart beating heavy and hard. As the bird crossed the path of the sun, the day became night and the flow of blood became a flood. The pale white sentinel of the moon became red as the blood below. From the direction of the roses, tortured cries began to rise over the sound of rushing blood. Panicking, Malory began to scream over the cries from the blooms. Out of fear for her lover and fear of her own damnation, She cried out for Eurayle. She begged her god’s forgiveness for her transgressions.

With a start, Malory opened her eyes and took stock of the room around her. She was reclining on the leather couch in the library; the thick tome of family history was spread out upon her chest. It rose and fell rapidly with her labored breathing. Carefully closing the book bound in cracked leather, she rose and returned it to place among the other ancient volumes. Still dealing with the effects of the pleasant dream turned horror, she ran a hand across her forehead. She wiped away the sweat that began to trickle down her temples. She crossed to the tall windows and pushed wide their shutters. She inhaled deeply as the day’s breeze began to cool the terror that had been raging. She gripped the window sill and leaned out to breathe even deeper, a cleansing breath to calm. And when she opened her eyes, she looked to her right, to the trellis that climbed as high as the attic dormers. She understood when she saw that the blooms were beginning to bud anew.

[TamiZ]

As Malory was withdrawing into the house after looking at the roses, an odd feeling made her pause. The short hairs on the back of her neck stood with the sudden chilly breeze that whipped her raven hair away from her face; a moment later, she was brought to her knees by a thundering jolt that knocked her from her feet. She grunted in pain as her chin caught the edge of the sill. Before she could pull herself to her feet, the room was plunged into darkness.

“What now?” she asked of the empty room.

In the darkness, she raised her fingers to gingerly probe her throbbing chin. Her fingers came away warm and wet. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” she muttered to herself. She thought of the sound she heard right before the sharp pain in her chin. If the noise accompanied the jolt was any indication, some of the furnishings were also knocked to the floor. She carefully felt along the floor until her long fingers came into contact with the balled foot of the Victorian chair so favored by the house familiar.

Orienting herself to the furniture, Malory stood and took a cautious step forward. When her boot toe nudged something solid that jingled flatly upon the hardwood floor, she realized that the lamp had fallen from the table that flanked the left side of the sofa. With a sigh, she reached down and set the lamp back on the table. Finding the turnkey, she attempted to illuminate the room. The click was only accompanied by darkness.

“Well, now we know why I didn’t get the god job,” she mumbled to herself. Feeling along the back of the sofa, she carefully made her way over to the fireplace. She felt along the right side of the hearth to the tinderbox that had been unused for years. She flipped open the top and reached inside. When she felt a thick spider web, she advised the box’s occupant, “You better not be poisonous and you better not bite.” When she located the matches within, she explained, “I’m not good for your health at all.”

Kneeling, Malory struck one of the wooden matches along the hearth. From its weak flame, she had enough light to locate one of the heavy candelabras that now littered the floor. Fixing the candles upright once more, she quickly lit one candle and then another. Before the dry match burned completely down, she was able to light the third. She blew out the match before the tips of her fingers were burned; she held the candles high to get a better look at the library.

The family tome was still resting upon its shelf, as were a majority of the other books. There were a few that had tumbled to the floor in a haphazard way. Mumbling more to herself about the lecture she was sure to hear from Pavora, Malory stepped carefully over the fallen books and fixtures. Righting a delicate Queen Anne chair, the lanky woman crouched when the house groaned around her. She raised the light high once more and studied the heavy paneling as best she could, searching for fissures within the walls that might indicate that the house was about to collapse. Just as she was about to stand, the house did shift slightly; she steadied herself against the Queen Anne. She swore softly to herself when she heard the ominous creak of antique wood breaking.

“Great. Why don’t I get all the witches on my case this time around?” She looked up and studied the ceiling of the room. A long crack had formed and ran the length of the library. Without another thought for the items strewn about, she quickly made her way towards the door. She took a moment to brace herself for what she was to find and then she slowly pushed the door wide.

After years of keeping company with gifted mortals and witches alike, as well as their malevolent nemesis, Malory was rarely surprised. This time, however, she knew that the solution to the latest predicament was not going to be simple. Leaving the door ajar, Malory slowly stepped out into the hall. Instead of the grand paneling and elegant molding, she was dismayed to find rough granite walls. She placed her hand flat against the wall and waited for the house to respond to her touch. She heard only a hollow response inside when all she felt was hard, damp rock. She was disconnected from the house; she fought down the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm. She took one look back into the library before taking a step further into the hallway. She jumped, startled when the library door swung closed with a thunderous echo. Malory assumed that the boom from the other side of the door was the library collapsing in upon itself.

“This is just an enchantment,” she reminded herself softly. “It’s just a very massive glamour meant to throw me into chaos.” Malory began to slowly make her way through the hall turned tunnel. She stepped carefully and listened intently for the others. She reached a large cavern in the middle of which was a large cauldron of fire. To save what resources she had, Malory blew out the candles she was holding and set the candelabra on a ledge along the wall. As she stepped further into the room, which she figured to be the great hall of the house, torches set within the walls blazed to life. It was by their light that she saw the warped mirrors that lined the entire perimeter of the room.

And by the dancing light of the crackling torches, she walked slowly around the cauldron to study each mirror. Within each was the writhing body of a demon. “Malfeasance,” she whispered.

Malory’s utterance was unnaturally loud as the acoustics of the cavern bounced the sound back to her. The laughter of the demons in the mirrors was thunderous. The bass rumble of a voice followed the wicked glee.

“Take a look at your true self, Malorrrrrrryyyyy,” the demon taunted. “Pull away your duplicity and be honest. You aren’t the Martha Stewart of demon-killing parties, are you? You are the demon.”

“Go to Hell,” the lanky woman said as she continued to circle the cauldron of fire, studying the walls of the cavern, looking for a way out.

Again, the laughter boomed into her very bones.

“And where do you think you already are?”

Inhaling deeply, Malory was assaulted by the sharp stench of sulfur. The burning in her lungs partially confirmed the statement. While she was there, she figured, she would find out what was going on.

She evened her breathing as she closed her eyes. She angled her neck sharply to either side; she smiled in satisfaction as the sounds of joints cracking echoed through the room. When she opened her eyes, they were glowing orange and her smile of sharp curved teeth mirrored those of the demon. “So it seems I am. I guess while I’m here, I should pay an old friend a visit.” Closing her mind off to the seen and unseen, Malory ordered, “Take me to Lucifer.”

“He’s been waiting so long for your return,” Malfeasance replied with a dark chuckle.

Malory shivered as she felt herself being transported from the Cavern of Mirrors. When the world settled into place around her once more, she found herself in the empty Throne Room. Geysers of fire spewed high into the open ceiling as the screams of the tortured filtered through thick walls into the room where the Lord of Hell kept his court. Malory made a show of studying her nails when she sensed another presence enter the room. “I don’t suppose there’s a good manicurist you could recommend down here,” she inquired glibly.

A chuckle was her only answer. “Always hiding, aren’t you? Even from yourself, you hide behind your words, your deeds, your pathetic love of mortals.”

Malory finally looked up at the speaker who was slowly approaching her. “Oh, I don’t know, Lucy,” she began as she studied Lucifer from head to foot. “You can drop that disguise you wear, too.” Malory laughed softly as she boldly faced the other demon. “You know pretty boys never did impress me much.”

Lucifer shrugged as he opened his jacket wide. “I don’t know, Mal, I kinda like the tailored look.” Buttoning his jacket closed once more, Lucifer continued to approach Malory. His eyes wandered from her broken-in boots to the loose t-shirt she had donned before settling in to read. He pursed his lips in thought as he studied the tall woman. “This in-between thing with you now… it’s not so fashionable. It’d be best to just go all demon or all human.” Lucifer smiled wide in amusement. “But then, you would love to be human, wouldn’t you?”

Malory followed him with her eyes as he began to walk away. She took a moment to study the Throne Room. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever did, except for the clothes, it seemed. Lucifer regained her full attention when he stopped and suddenly spun to face her.

“I never could figure it out. You were among the celestial beings….”

“Until you came along,” Malory injected on a soft breath.

“…and you’ve seen the power available to you down here,” he continued. “Why for all that is unholy would you want to be human? It’s just so… so….”

“Much better than suffering your company,” Malory finished for him, smiling sweet as saccharine. “Really, Lucy, we’ve gone over this a dozen times. I made the mistake trusting you once. I tried to play your game by your rules and it just didn’t do it for me.” Malory tucked her hands into her jean pockets and raised her eyes. For a moment, she seemed to be discerning shapes in the inky black heights. She shook her head as she looked again at Lucifer. “I’d rather live an honest life working hard for something than derive unholy pleasure for others’ pain.”

Lucifer was silent for only a split second before he started laughing. “Don’t tell me that you do not get pleasure from the witches’ battle that you’ve joined. You love flexing that bad girl inside. And I also know,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “that you’ve been known to love a few of the witches, too.” With a flourish of his hand, Lucifer materialized a scantily clad servant to pour him a goblet of wine. “Not that I don’t understand that. I’ve even come to accept the fact that as you said, ‘pretty boys don’t impress you.’ Wine?”

When Malory shook her head at his offer of hospitality, he patted the servant girl on the head and she crossed to his throne and at on the step below it. Malory watched as she carefully arranged the skimpy pieces of her attire.

“I can give her to you, if the wine isn’t to your liking.”

A sculpted brow rose in a combination of amusement and irritation. “Lucy, I do not want your wine. I do not want your women. And don’t even think about breaking out into song,” she warned. Breathing deeply, Malory walked over to a group of scrying pools. She forced herself to maintain a stoic expression while she observed some of the tortures of Hell. There was a flicker of emotion, however, when she saw Guru and Phalon; they also, were within the tunnels. “What I want is to know why you’ve brought me here. I think I’ve made my choice clear to you by now when it comes to you and me.”

Turning slowly, Malory waited, knowing that Lucifer was studying her, trying to read her thoughts. She cleared her throat with a sarcastic patience.

Lucifer became serious as he held out his empty goblet. Within a moment’s time, the slave girl was at his side. With a flick of his fingers, she disappeared with the heavy cup. “I wanted to give you a chance at something besides that miserable existence you pretend to like up there,” he said with a jab of his thumb to the ceiling. “This foe you’re facing isn’t some fly-by-night half-bit demon. He means business.”

“And what makes you think that he’d stop after us?” Malory asked as she stepped away from the pools. “That’s if he gets past us.” She softly scraped her bottom lip for a moment with her razor sharp teeth. “What if he gets bored and wants your job?”

Laughter accompanied the waking of the fiery geysers. “He’s strong, but not as strong as I am.”

“Never underestimate ambition or greed,” Malory reminded him. “It’s what got you where you are now. I seem to recall that your… our old boss was quite powerful, too. Your arrogance didn’t stop you then.” Malory held her arms wide. “And look where that got you. You wanted Heaven under your rule, and you got Hell. Not so much sun down here, is there?” Malory stopped to stand directly in front of Lucifer. She ran the back of her hand gently down his smooth cheek. She shook her head in amusement. “No need for sunblock, either. Is that self-tanning lotion you’ve got on?”

Lucifer caught her hand quickly. With a forceful jerk, he pulled Malory’s body tight to his. “I want you to stay, Malfeasance. Don’t waste yourself on the mortals.”

With a considerable power of her own, Malory braced herself against his chest and pushed him a few feet back. “Never, Lucifer. If my choice leads to misery between Heaven and Hell, so be it. At least I can say that I worked for absolution.”

“You cower like a beaten dog when you could rule Hell with me.”

Shaking her head, Malory began to walk away from Lucifer. “I told you, Lucy. Pretty boys just do not impress me.”

Lucifer ground his teeth together as his glamour began to fade. His tan became sallow gray and his styled hair became mottled spines. A great span of leathery wings sprung from under his tailored jacket. “Where are you going?” he asked with a rising fury.

“I’m going back to where I came from,” Malory replied. “I’ve got a battle to fight.”

“You and your army of weaklings have a task ahead,” Lucifer said, halting Malory’s progress for only a moment; he pointed to the scrying pools. “No soldier can go into battle strong and sure with demons eating him from within. Your army is in my realm, Malfeasance. Their demons are hungry. If they defeat their personal demons, they may have enough left to put up a fight.” Lucifer ripped from his demon form the clothes that now hung in tatters. “Then again, they may just walk away.” He laughed with the humor he found in the situation. “But then again, if they walk away, they’re dead from the curse. What army will you have when you join this battle, Malfeasance?”

Taking a calming breath, Malory reminded herself of her reasons for being at Whoosher in the first place. She refused to take his bait. She simply replied as she walked away, “We will prevail.” Malory’s boot heels clocked her steady pace across the floor.

“If you think you’ll hear them call for Iustitia, you are kidding yourself!”

Malory continued to walk from the Throne Room. Her memory served her well as she located the door to Purgatory. “I’m not looking to hear that name again,” she called over her shoulder. “Justice for me is in the past. All I want now is a little peace.” With a wave of her hand, a hidden door vaporized before her. Disregarding the Lord of Hell, she stepped through and began her search for the others.

[Scrappy Amazon]

Guilt at having left my house mates seeped into my brain as I continued to thunder down the road. But why should I care what happened to them now? I was again alone in the world. Only having to worry about myself and my happiness. I pushed out the guilt and replaced it with righteousness and excuses.

Phalon was an old and powerful seer. She could get rid of that maniac without me. And why should I care about getting rid of him anyway? They don’t need my useless “gift”. Some gift. It was more like a curse. Fifteen years without being able to touch anything for fear of getting lost. Fifteen years of never being able to fully touch another human being. I had been a very tactile child, I had relished the physical sensations that exploring things with my hands had brought. How cruel that this thing everyone called a gift had taken that away.

Needing to forget the emotional turmoil of the last few hours I let the physical memories wash over me like a flood. All of my favorite sensations came to the forefront of my mind as I absentmindedly watched the stripes on the road fly by. The feel of the bark on the old oak tree in the front of the house we had lived in. Wet, from a sudden summer rain, and rough from decades of growth. It felt old and wise, as if you could just reach in and glean all the knowledge of the ages from its core. The leaves of the very same tree, smooth and slick on one side and fuzzy on the other, like satin sheets. Two conflicting sensations all wrapped up in one beautiful contradiction.

The summer grass, grown as high as my chest, warm and sweet smelling, tickling my fingers, as I passed my small hand over the top. Making snowballs with the first snow of the season. The tiny sharp edges of all the individual snow flakes biting into my hand as I pressed them together. The fuzzy green moss growing next to the creek. The way my fingers would always go numb when I ran them through the water of the creek. It felt like nothing else. The water from the tap never felt that pure.

The stubble on my father’s face when he forgot to shave. The softness and warmth of my mother’s hair as she hugged me to her chest. These things and more would forever be beyond my ability to feel. What I wouldn’t give for some peace from this curse. What I wouldn’t give to be able to just touch my own body. And how would Dixie feel about being with someone who could never touch her without gloves on.

I let my mind focus on Dixie. I should not have left her. I chastised myself for breaking my promise. But I didn’t have the energy right now to feel guilty. No guilt, no regrets. Isn’t that how I used to be? Live my life doing what I wanted without regard for the others that came into my life. I only had the energy for finding someplace to hole up in for a while. Someplace to screw my head on straight and give Dixie a chance to catch up before I went home.

Home. What was that? I hadn’t been back to where my parents had lived in years. Not since they had died. Since then I moved from place to place, living with the people who had once been my parent’s servants. More than that, my parent’s friends. Despite the outward appearances of their relationship, the people who had worked for my parents were their friends. Dedicated and loyal, willing to protect their now orphaned daughter.

I should have gone back, I should have at least taken Dixie with me. And I should not have attacked Phalon. Can’t change that now. Phalon would hopefully forgive me. And if Dixie wants me, she’ll come find me.

I crested a small hill and saw what I had been looking for. An old run down motel I had passed on my way in. Not much on looks but it would do. I needed some rest.





Edited to add clicky link to image. ~Mini-Mia
Click it, why don't ya?

[guru]

The solitary sun of this world waged a silent struggle for dominance in the sky. Dark clouds, like muscle-bound tag team wrestlers, maintained a tireless barrage as if they could smell weakness ... or fear. A great gray mass hung on the horizon and threatened to prematurely draw down the curtain of night. The day's final outcome was uncertain at best.


You kissed me! My head drooped low on your breast
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,


The slight clicking of footfalls echoed off mahogany panels. Distance between rooms also seemed to magnify as Phalon and Guru proceeded along the single shaft of sunlight that would suddenly appear ... as if pointing the duo in the direction it wanted them to go ... then just as suddenly abandon them in mid stride.

They must have made quite a sight -- two sword-wielding maniacs haunting an anonymous darkened hallway in some forgotten mansion at the edge of the earth.


While the holy emotions my tongue dared not speak
Flashed up as in flame from my heart to my cheek;


Wordlessly they crossed the threshold into Guru's room. Warmth enveloped them. It was a welcome relief from the unnatural chill of the hall, but this was not the time to luxuriate in sensation. Any sensation, no matter how passionate and fulfilling, draws energy away from the primary focus. Guru stepped about the room following the dictates of his focus.


Your arms held me fast; oh! your arms were so bold -
Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold.


The last thing Guru wanted was another misunderstanding with razor-sharp steel flashing through the air. He made a deliberate show of slowly unlatching the iron-ribbed footlocker beside his bed, reaching in with a motion not unlike cradling a sleeping infant. His goal was the shiny black wooden scabbard that mated to his sword and gave its blade a protective home. The scabbard was tied to a belt which clipped around his waist with the greatest of ease. He figured if she could walk around openly wearing a sword, so could he.


Your glances seemed drawing my soul through mine eyes,
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies.


Phalon's eyes were watching him, but not burning into him like the first time she stood there in his room. Maybe it was a laughing quality at his almost-military pose; maybe it was a soft light of admiration. Maybe it was something more.

But he wouldn't think about that now. He wouldn't allow himself to think about that. There were pressing questions, and someone in the house had answers.


Your lips clung to mine as I prayed in my bliss
They might never unclasp from the rapturous kiss.


Time to move. No further distraction would keep them from the business at hand.

(quotes from "You Kissed Me" by Josephine Slocum Hunt)

[Phalon]

No further distraction would keep them from the business at hand. Their steps were deliberate and with purpose; time to move….forward motion to find answers to questions perhaps better left buried.

Phalon grew uneasy; almost restless as they walked though the hall and started down the stairs.

Borias bellowed; his icy roar battering the house and demanding to be let in. The house creaked and groaned in response, threatening to obey the command. Phalon had a sensation that the floor shifted under her feet, and she half-expected it to open wide, inviting the house to pull itself, and them, into the fiery pits of the Underworld.

The air was charged; a current of energy, negative and foreboding, swirled about them as she descended the stairs after Guru. Her skin prickled. Something was about to happen…she could sense it…she could feel it.

Suddenly, he stopped, turned to her and motioned for her to do the same. “Something is coming”, he whispered. Too late; he had stopped too quickly; she was following too close and had already started her descent to the stair he was occupying. Trying to check her step; to stop short to avoid bumping into him, only served to throw her off-balance, and her boot caught the hemline of her robe as she stepped down.

It was only three or four stairs before they hit the landing below, he falling on his back with her sprawled on top of him, lying nose to nose. "Umph!" The impact of hitting the floor combined with the force of her weight from the fall, knocked the air out of him. His lips parted in a sharp intake of air, trying to replenish his breath.

The energy she’d felt in the air seemed now to come from within her; she was alive with it. Not the negative energy that belonged to the house…but...Electric; a word from their language jumped into her mind. The parted lips breathing deep breaths; his eyes; the way his long hair fanned out on the floor about his head…the way his body felt beneath hers. If it was distractions they fought to avoid, Phalon had just lost the battle. Her feelings for him were now impossible for her to ignore, and she was ready to lose herself in them.

If it had been just a tiny sliver of time earlier that she would close her eyes to kiss him, she would have not seen the pair of shoes appear above his head. Sensible shoes; no-nonsense shoes like the kind a head-servant running a manor would wear…not at all what one would expect to find in a house borne of evil.

“Your presence has been requested in the dining room”, the tone in the voice belonging to the shoe-wearer was mildly scolding; slightly amused.

Phalon looked up at Mrs. Peacock through a veil of her hair that had fallen across her face…a veil that was now blown back by a heavy sigh of frustration at the unwanted interruption escaping her lips. ‘Damned distractions.’

[Phalon]

“They change their sky, not their soul, who run across the sea.”


Although they knew the way, Mrs. Peacock showed them to the dining room, performing the duty with all the formality one would expect out of the seemingly prim woman. “I expect the others will arrive shortly”, she told them before shutting the door on her way out.

Once Phalon and Guru were left alone, Guru immediately walked to the far end of the room and began a thorough examination of the walls, searching for….what? More of those strange symbols they’d seen in the cottage? Hidden passages? Anything to keep him occupied and put as much distance between him and she as the room would allow, Phalon thought.

She sighed and took her place at the window seat, sitting with her back against one side of the frame and her feet propped up against the opposite side, just as she had the first time she sat in the dining room. How long ago that seemed. Absentmindedly tapping the flat edge of her sword against the toe of her boot, she watched Guru run his hands over the dark wood panels of the wall…so methodical, so practical, logical, and….so distant.

She had felt there’d been something between them…that he shared the emotion she felt when they touched. But his avoidance of her now was obvious and perhaps she’d been mistaken. That was the problem with having the ability to read thoughts – to feel what others felt – the thoughts were real; the feelings were real, but what they meant was all left to her interpretation. And perhaps it was only her desire that he felt the same that led her to believe it was so. But still….could she be so wrong?

She sighed again – frustrated with herself and with him. Outwardly he gave no indication of feeling anything at all. She knew that wasn’t true; she'd known it from the time she first saw him and looked into his eyes. And she’d felt it through the bit of physical contact they’d had. There was a river of emotion hidden underneath the cool steel exterior: the intense love and unfathomable pain – emotion reserved for Yana. But there was something else too…something….for…for….her? Perhaps. But none of it showed on the outside.

And he wasn’t the only one, she thought. A house full of people and few of them let anyone see who they really were. Scrappy hid her emotions as well; the gloves were her fortress, and she used them to block out feeling…anything. Even Mrs. Peacock was not what she pretended to be, Phalon thought.

Malory? Her front was perhaps the most dangerous; a feigned appearance hiding what was really beneath the surface. Phalon had seen in her dream what Malory kept hidden, and it scared her. She wondered if that had something to do with the reason they were all being summoned to this room. Her hand tightened its grip on her sword.

She watched the blade bounce off her foot, spring slightly upward, aided just a bit by her flexing wrist, before she let it drop to repeat the process. tap…tap….tap Again, and again without hesitation. It felt natural; the continued motion of the sword took very little effort on her part, yet without her – without that little effort - it would not be. Without her hand, without its help, the sword would lay there motionless….lifeless. So easy, so nearly effortless to feel alive, or a great deal of effort to feel nothing at all. Shouldn’t the choice be easy?

She looked at Guru once more, and suddenly felt a deep sadness wash over her. It must take an immense amount of effort, she thought, to build and maintain such a wall as the one he kept around himself. He might have felt her staring at him; he paused for a moment and glanced over to her. Their eyes met, and he quickly turned away, resuming his search of the walls. Again, she thought she might have seen something in those eyes, but could not be sure.

She turned to the one thing of which she was sure; the one constant she had here: the sea. Its emotion it showed plainly: calm and gentle or angry and full of malice; generous and other times, unforgiving. Its moods were easily read, though it often changed them quickly and without warning. But that was to be expected from something as powerful as the sea, and, in its way, was predictable.

Its mood was gray now – to match this place - gray and stormy. She watched wave after angry wave crash over the rock peninsula jutting from the shoreline. The peninsula was not large; just a mass of huge boulders really, perhaps placed there purposefully to create the effect of a tiny inlet. The house sat high above on its place on the bluff protected from the waves, which beat the shore and peninsula below. Nothing was visible from Phalon’s view; nothing visible even one day to the next, but over time, the continued crashing of waves would show its effect. The shoreline would change; sand slowly eroding into the sea. It would one day too, wear down the seemingly impenetrable rock of the peninsula. Perhaps there would even come a time when the bluff gave way to the sea, and take the house with it.

A gull rose from the rocks and seemed to hang suspended in the air, as it fought to gain forward motion against the wind. Suddenly it plummeted downward, and Phalon caught her breath a moment, thinking it’d crash onto the rocks below before it swiftly changed course and flew with the wind, using it, instead of fighting against it.

The whole scene spread out before her, and she watched in awe from her place at the window. It occurred to her how similar they were: motion and emotion. Both were too powerful a thing to ignore; it was fruitless to fight either of them. Eventually, they would win the battle. Just like the sea.

He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.

Her skin crawled with a familiar icy blast of air. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" It was a whisper in the room as if he stood next to her, though she saw no one. He spoke Greek. Odd that coming from him – the demon beast - it would sound comforting. “Even in turmoil, those dark waters are beautiful in their own way…..just as you are now.”

Claw-like tendrils of frigid heat trailed across her cheek; the comfort of the sound of her own language immediately disappearing with his inhuman caress. She fought to keep from flinching at the touch - she would not give him the satisfaction. Refusing to acknowledge his presence, refusing to speak, she continued to stare out the window at the sea. Like the others, she now used a mask to hide what she felt and only hoped he could not read her thoughts. Rhythmically, the sword tapped her boot tip.

The invisible fingers brushed her hair back from her ear and he whispered into it, “Pretending I’m not here, Phalon?” The whisper was a hiss. “Pretend if you want; I know you can hear me. Just sit there and listen then…because you can’t ignore what I have to say.”

[Joxcenia]

Joxcee made her way down the long driveway, heading toward the big gates. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to open them, or where she would go if she managed to get on the other side.

“You can never leave,” called out a voice from within the shrubbery at the side of the guardhouse. “The gates let the visitors in, but they don’t let them out.”

Joxcee stopped in her tracks, each foot pointed in opposite directions. No way was she going to get caught with her pants down, so she kept her options open as to possible points of escape. She shifted from foot to foot as the shrubbery parted and a tall, lean man in overalls and a straw hat stepped out into the open.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, I happen to be the groundskeeper,” the man said, chuckling to himself. “There’s a bathroom in the guardhouse you can use if you can’t wait until you get back to the main house.”

“What?” Joxcee cocked her head to one side and leered at the man, trying to decide if he was touched in the head.

He shifted from foot to foot and chuckled once again. “The spirits will let you enter the guardhouse to use the bathroom, but they won’t let you leave the grounds. The groundskeeper stopped moving and glanced about to determine if anyone was around. “They don’t like to be talked about, but I can tell by your eyes you’ve had a run-in with them, so I’m not spilling any beans.”

Joxcee opened her mouth to deny she had a run-in with anything of the sort, but instead asked, “Who are they? And why won’t they let you leave?”

“I’m not privy to any answers, miss. Wish I were.” He glanced all around and shivered. “We’re not allowed to give out any information. We may be dead, but the spirits have ways to make us suffer their wrath.”

“Who’s dead?” Joxcee froze as her heart dropped down into the depths of her stomach. “I’m dead?”

The groundskeeper pulled a small silver bottle from his back pocket and took a swig. “You’re not dead . . . not yet. All the visitors are alive . . . for now. It’s us servants who are long dead. You’ll find our graves hidden in the wooded area down that way, at the far corner of the fence.” A roar filled the air, and the groundskeeper jumped. “I’ve said too much. I best be gettin’ back to work now.”

A motorcycle raced down the driveway, heading toward the gates . . . towards Joxcee.

“I think you best be gettin’ out of the way,” said the groundskeeper. “That rider seems bent on not stoppin’ for anything.”

“It’ll have to stop for the gates,” said Joxcee as she rushed toward the guardhouse to hide. She didn’t want to face whoever was on the bike. She trusted no one.

A motor kicked on, and the gates began to open.

“I thought you said visitors weren’t allowed to leave?” Joxcee shot the groundskeeper a sharp look.

“They won’t let anyone crash into them either.” He shrugged. “She won’t get away. The road will lead her right back to the gates. It won’t matter which direction she goes in. She’ll be back.”

The motorcycle roared past and Joxcee raced after it to get through the gates before they could close. If it had been a car that had left, perhaps she could have made it. But the gates only opened enough to let the motorcycle through, and then they closed as quickly as they had opened. She was not quick enough to get out.

“It wouldn’t matter if you had made it out,” said the groundskeeper. “All roads lead back to the gate.” With that said, he disappeared back into the shrubbery.

“This place just gets weirder and weirder.”

Joxcee decided to check out the guardhouse while she was here. Perhaps there was a secret passage that would lead her to the outside . . . to freedom. She opened the door and walked into a room with a bed. Her suitcase lay open on the dresser, and her nightgown was draped across the bench at the foot of the bed. This was her bedroom . . . just as she had left it in the mansion.

“Holy crap! This can’t be right.”

Joxcee backed out the door and found herself in the hallway. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. She made her way down the hallway, head bent, eyes directed only on the floor in front of her feet. She counted her steps as she made her way to nowhere in particular. She heard movement coming towards her, but she didn’t look up. The servants are all dead, and she wanted nothing to do with them. The thought of looking into their eyes made her queasy. She only wanted someplace safe in which to hide until this was all over. But where would she be safe? Her stomach growled. Okay, the dining room it is. Food is safe . . . or at least it’s comforting. Hopefully it isn’t poisoned. Whose side are the dead servants on? The evil spirits or the visitor’s? Wouldn’t they have poisoned the food already if they were out to kill the guests?

Joxcee kept her eyes directed towards the floor and her feet as she passed whoever was coming her way, ignoring them to the best of her ability. “Boo!” A voice hissed into her ear. The warmth of the person’s breath heating up the side of her face and neck. She jumped and scurried off down the hall as hysterical laughter echoed behind her. She raced into the dining room and slammed the door. Once inside she grabbed the biggest platter she could find and filled it to capacity. She didn’t want to deal with anyone, so she took her platter and a huge glass of RC and went to the fireplace, where she quickly rushed through the opening into the convention room to hide from everyone. She went and sat in a window to watch the ocean waves while she ate and gathered her thoughts. She heard voices coming from the dining room from time to time, but she refused to peek through the fireplace to see what faces went with the voices. She was alone, and she liked it . . . preferred it even. Alone equals one . . . one equals safe . . .

She stuffed her face long after she was full. Chewing the food comforted her as a pacifier does a baby.

[Scrappy Amazon]

The old motel rose up against the horizon like a mirage in the hot desert sun. It’s almost welcoming presence shimmering slightly before her eyes. She was exhausted and passed off the oddity as weary eyes.

The motel itself was comprised of an office type building which looked like it had once been an old farm house and several low bungalow type buildings strung out in a line but not directly attached to each other. Haphazardly thrown together as if the whole thing was an after thought. Tucked in between the tangle of rooms was a swimming pool. Cracked and aged, mostly drained with a small puddle of greenish algae laden water at the bottom. Summers filled with swimming children now replaced by a breeding ground for mosquitoes and frogs.

The disillusioned warrior pulled her bike up to the front of the small farm house and, dismounting, cautiously surveyed the old building. The second story, with its faded and peeling white clapboard, rose above her at an awkward angle. Tilting slightly, giving the appearance of almost trying to slide off one side. The wooden wrap around porch with it’s sunken in roof and missing floorboards lent itself to the picture of old men playing chess on Sunday mornings. The solitary neon sign, giving off an almost imperceptible glow in the harsh sunlight flashed the word vacant in a steady pattern.

She approached the battered screen door and pulled it open gingerly, fearing even her currently limited strength would pull it off its hinges. A tiny bell hanging from the screen announced her presence as she entered the building. Pulling off her sunglasses she watched briefly as the dust made intricate patterns in the sunlight streaking through the far windows.

A counter across the far room showed piles of papers and a small silver bell. Behind the counter mounted on the wall was a small wooden box with what she assumed were room keys displayed on nails. She watched with interst as a small grey house mouse ran across the counter and scurried down behind. No one was manning the counter. But Scrappy could hear something going on in the room behind. She cleared her throat in an attempt to get someone’s attention. A little black haired head barely as tall as the counter popped up from behind.

“Hello. Are your parents around?”

Deep set dark eyes stared back at Scrappy, little fingers gripping the edge of the counter in an effort to see above it. She asked in a small voice, barely above a whisper. “Are you real?”

She chuckled under her breath. “Yeah I’m real, I think. Is there an adult around who can get me a room?”

“Grammy is in the kitchen, she’ll be back in a minute.”

“Ok. What’s your name?”

“Ginny. What’s yours?”

“My name is Scrappy. Whatcha doing back there?”

“Playing with my dolly. Want to see her? She’s very pretty.”

“Sure.” Scrappy approached the counter as the little girl brought the doll up to eye level. Leaning slightly over to get a better look Scrappy nearly gasped as she got a full view of the doll. Disheveled and greasy hair fell down in long waves, a dirty and graying petticoat was all that was left of its original clothing. The scratched and marred face stared back with permanently open eyes. Years of hard use and abuse were clearly evident on the once beautiful doll.

“She’s broken though. See?” The seemingly innocent child raised the doll higher up so that her whole body was now above the counter. Scrappy looked down and swallowed hard. At the ends of the doll’s arms were tiny stumps. The hands were gone.

She started to back away from the counter but was brought up short by the child’s now iron grip fastened to her wrist just above her gloves. Her stomach turned and bile rose in her throat as she got lost in the vision.

The child led Scrappy down a long dark hallway. A large silver door at the end stood as barrier and sentinel to something Scrappy knew she didn’t want to see. But the child’s grip was like an iron band around her wrist and she couldn’t free herself. Slowly the door got closer. And the smell got stronger. Sickeningly sweet, rotten smell. The kind that attracts vultures to their next meal. The one that warns you death is present.

The small upturned face looked at Scrappy. “Come, and see what is in store for you.” Her eyes now darkened with circles, sunken cheeks and sallow skin giving the child the appearance of one who has witnessed too much, like the victims of Nazi atrocities. Half crazy from starvation and abuse but those abuses giving them wisdom beyond the normal.

Ginny pulled on the long silver handle. The door opened with a slight whoosh sound. The cold fetid air hit Scrappy in the face immediately. The slight crack in the open door let in enough light so she could see as she and the child stepped in. She began to gag at the sight more than the smell. Bodies everywhere. Dark plastic bags covered the forms but she knew still what was there on the shelves. And not just what but who. All of the people in her life who had ever loved her and died. Her parents’ childhood friends, even her family pets.

She placed her hand over her mouth and nose in an attempt to quell her rising stomach.” There.” The child pointed with a small bony finger. “You need her. You need us both.” Her breath coming out in tiny puffs, mingling with the smell of rotten flesh, served to emphasize the importance. All she had to do was look and they could leave. “Get it over with Scrappy.” She told herself.

Scrappy reached out and tore a hole in the bag the child had indicated large enough to see the face within. As she tore, the face became clear. Clouded yellow eyes stared back as white hair flowed from the hole. Scrappy immediately turned to go. The stench almost overpowering now. But she stumbled and fell as she made her way to the door. The child had slipped from her grasp and now darted through the door slamming it shut behind her. Sealing Scrappy in.

The dark sticky substance on the floor was soaking through her jeans onto her knees. She began to panic now, screaming for someone to open the door. Beating her fists on the smooth metal surface until she was sure they would bleed. She screamed until her lungs burned, until she knew they would burst from being unable to fill them with clean air. Tears born of panic streamed down her face.

Suddenly the door popped open and she slid unexpectedly to the floor face down as the object of previous resistance gave way. She gathered the last of her strength and pulled herself free of the darkness. She lay sprawled on the floor, half in and half out of nightmare, panting, trying to clear her mind and lungs. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a set of soft leather boots and flowing blue robes walking away. “Thank you.” she muttered. “It’s about time.” Was the faint reply.

Scrappy woke up laying face down on the floor of the office. An old woman and the child standing over her. “How many times have I told you not to touch?” The old woman chastised Ginny.

“I’m sorry Gran, he told me she needed to see.”

“Well, never mind.” Turning now to the prone leather clad woman. “Can you stand?”

Scrappy rolled over and immediately began to gag. Her stomach refusing to give up its contents. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shrugged off the old woman’s helping hand. “I’m fine. Leave it.”

“Suit yourself child.”

“And don’t call me a child.”

“You are what you are child. Only you can change that.”

“Yeah yeah, you two must be related.” Scrappy pulled herself up off the floor and faced the old woman. “I came here for a room, not a lesson. If I wanted lectured I could have stayed where I was.”

“Obviously you weren’t listening the first time. And still aren’t apparently. Stubbornness suits no one. Only makes the road that much harder.”

“Whatever. Do I get a room now or what?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to stay. The house will not let you go you know.”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

Scrappy sighed, she was in no mood for riddles. “Can I just have a friggin key.”

The old woman shuffled behind the counter and retrieved a key. “Take number Eight. It has a bigger shower. Looks like you need one.”

“Thanks.” She growled.

Scrappy left the office giving the woman and the strange child one last glare. She mounted her bike and idled it to the front of the little bungalow marked #8. All she wanted was a shower and a nap. Jamming the key in the door she flung it open half expecting to see cockroaches scurrying away. To her surprise it was clean and well kept inside. “At least,” she thought, “I’ll be able to get some rest.” She entered the room closing the door behind her.

---

Edited to add clicky link to image. ~Mini-Mia
Click it, why don't ya?

[Phalon]

The sea continued its constant assault on the rocks of the peninsula as Phalon stared out the window. But the rock wall was hard; it would not crumble easily. The wall Phalon constructed to hide her emotion from him was not. She was not practiced at hiding her emotion; how could she be? Her sensitivity of touch did not allow her to do so; her awareness of what others felt, and her responsiveness to it…how could she not show anything in return? Her wall was erected hastily. He knew its weaknesses, and began to chip away at them.

“The sea is part of you; you love it,” he started his attack. “You know…it almost looks the same here as it did in Greece the last time I saw it. Ah….but that was so long ago; a different time. Your time. And although the water may seem the same, it is not, is it? Not actually. This sea…this place, this time…none of it is yours…and it never will be.”

Nourishing seeds of doubt…

“What are you doing here, Phalon?”

I don’t know.

“You have nothing here. You are nothing. You are alone in a place full of people. Look at him…Your feelings for him will never be returned. He is as far away from you in mind, as well as body, as he can get in this room. You mean nothing to him.”

….nothing

“And the one with the gloves…Scrappy…your own family…tosses you across the table like some discarded piece of garbage, then tries to strangle the life out of you, and just leaves. What are you to these people? What have you here?”

Nothing…

tap-tap-tap-tap The strike of the sword against her foot grew more rapid; more forceful.

“You belong back in Greece, Phalon. Not here, not now. Not ever. Everything you have is in Greece. Everyone you love…”

Except…

“…everyone who loves you is there; your friends, those Amazons; Zena, Evergreen…they called you Sister though you were not one of them. Your family…. What about your mother? You disappeared from her life for twenty years. What do you think it’d do to her if you disappeared once more?”

It hurt now, the sword striking her foot – a physical pain in exchange for the mental blows he delivered.

“I can send you back, Phalon, to your side of the sea. I can send you home to Greece.”

Home? To Greece? How? Why?

“All I’m asking is a little help from you first.”

Ah, of course….a price.

“I’ve come to believe those who have pledged me their allegiance may not be so loyal after all.” She heard fury in these words; the sound of his voice distorted as if he were speaking through clenched teeth, and she could imagine his face twisted in anger.

So those who aided him had now turned on him? Carly and the one who pushed her through the tunnel? What became of them?

“I need help, Phalon, and since I don’t seem to have it where I thought I did, I’ve come to offer you a deal you can’t refuse.”

Oh? There is nothing that can’t be refused if the will is strong enough. How strong am I….how strong do I need to be?

She thought of the strength of those around her in this house – these people with their impenetrable walls…and the strength of those back home; of her mother; of the Amazons…out the window; the strength of the sea…and the trees of the forest that framed her view of it. Words she spoke so long ago to another whose will was unbreakable, but who’d temporarily lost her way home, came back to her: echoes of her past; whispers from home…

'A love for life, never fading, even in the bleakest of times. Were you aware, though, that even the most majestic of the pines and firs go dormant when the weather turns from mild to harsh? The greenest boughs cease to grow, though alive with color. And while the branches sleep, deep below, under the surface the roots continue their growth, anchoring and supporting the tree above and keeping that wonderful color in the boughs that is such a glory to behold on the darkest winter days. Then when the gloomy days of winter give way to the warmth of the sunshine in spring, the branches awaken once more, stretching from their long sleep, pushing new growth, brighter and more vibrant than before. Are you ready for spring yet, Evergreen?'

And Evergreen had been ready; hearing Phalon’s words spoken so long ago, her friend returned from the place her dreams had taken her; returned home, to her Amazon family. Now Phalon was ready for spring. This was winter: this gloomy house; dark, unfeeling and cold. Here, after a brief moment of feeling alive, a brief reprieve from winter, now she felt dormant again. Greece was her anchoring roots; what kept her alive…Greece, with the love of her family; of her friends…and the warmth she felt wrapped up in it – that was spring. And she longed for it.

Until now he had been speaking to her from the outside; a voice whispered in her ear. But there was a tugging at her mind, and raw cold crept into her as she realized the whisper now came from within her head. He was on the inside. Another wall went up, and she fought to keep it intact. He would not read her thoughts; she refused to let him. tap…tap…tap… She concentrated on the sound.

“Your Greece is waiting for you. Phalon….home. Imagine it. I can take you there, and make you forget any of this ever took place.”

She had a choice. It seemed to her the first real choice she had since she was thrown into this place. The remainder of her days spent here in winter…gray and without love? Or home? And would home then become a winter of her own making; time spent in eternal bleakness knowing what’d she’d done; betraying these others in exchange for her happiness? Betraying herself. Happiness: how can one truly be happy without love for oneself, and who can love oneself once they’ve bartered their soul. She would become something she’d despise.

But he said… Can I forget?

“Help me, Phalon, and I’ll help you.”

She wanted it – the warmth of it. She wanted to feel the warm sun on her face again, hear the warm laughter of those she loved. She wanted to give love, and get it back in return. And she so wanted….

….Out! She pushed him from her mind.


“Think about it, Phalon. I’ll be here…I’ll always be here. All you have to do is say yes.”

“No!” She screamed the word with as much force as she drove the sword into the window frame she was facing.

And he left her alone; nothing remained of him but a trace of his chill…

…and a word he’d spoken.

“óðßôé”, she said quietly. Home.

All she had to do was ask.

[Scrappy Amazon]

I stood in the doorway for a minute getting a look at the place. A clean and made bed stood to the right flanked by old, but functional nightstands. A low dresser leaned precariously against the other wall, barely holding up a window sized mirror. I stepped into the room, slamming the door behind me, and made my way to the bathroom, purposefully avoiding looking in the large mirror. I had no desire at this point to see the mess I had made of myself.

I turned on the shower to the hottest setting and began to undress. Gingerly, I peeled my now ruined leather coat from my elbow. The dried blood making the task harder than it needed to be. It was more painful to think of the good jacket I had ruined than the pain of the abused and still bleeding appendage. Once disrobed, I threw my clothes into a heap on the floor, suddenly regretting my hasty retreat.

“Damn, forgot my clothes. Well I’m not going back now.”

I stepped into the steaming shower and let the hot water pour over me, washing the blood off my body, and the nightmares running through my head. I leaned my head against the cold tile wall and watched the grime wash in spirals down the drain. I let my mind wander as the heat and steam softened and relaxed my aching muscles.

I never felt so tired. The only thing keeping me awake was the sting of fresh water pouring over my road rash. I quickly washed my wounds with the soap provided and then washed the days stink from my hair. Exiting the shower I grabbed a towel and quickly ran it over my head then wrapped it around my body for warmth. I then decided to take stock of myself. Facing the mirror I ran a hand over it to wipe away the steam that was covering its surface. I stared at the face in the glass. Wet and tangled hair, fell limply over my shoulders. My eyes darkened with circles, expressed evidence on the outside of the exhaustion I felt on the inside.

“What are you doing here?” I asked the face opposite me. “You should be helping them.” The face shifted. Red gold hair turned gray and wild. Bright gold eyes turned to dull yellow. Skin once youthful and full of expression turned to wrinkles and insanity. Rotted teeth smiled back in a feral grin. I pulled back in anger.

“Damn you Phalon!” Reaching out I smashed my fist into the mirror, cracking it beyond repair. The image I had seen now split into a myriad of faces. All of them mine, all of them different, but the one that continued to stand out was that of the hag. “I don’t need this shit.”

Exiting the bathroom I made my way to the bed and without any grace or ceremony I pulled back the blankets and fell into it. Hoping to sleep away the visions and the weariness, I closed my eyes.

Sometime later I opened my eyes to find a similar golden gaze regarding me with sadness. I reached up in an attempt to touch the long dark hair surrounding the familiar face, but my hand merely passed through sending a cold chill up my spine.

“Hello Mom. It’s good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same. You look like hell.” A sad smile played across ethereal lips.

“I’ve been through a lot the last few days.”

“I know.”

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, but, what do you want?”

“Why are you being so stubborn? Why won’t you let them help you?”

“I don’t need them or anyone to help me.”

“That’s a lie. The old one knows how to control the visions. Let her teach you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t.”

I stared into her eyes for long moments, contemplating telling her everything I had ever wanted to share with her. “I am so sorry for what happened. I wish more than anything that you could stay and teach me what I need to know.” Tears began to trickle unbidden down my cheeks.

“You did not kill me Scrappy. He did. He needs to be stopped and they can’t do it alone. You need the old one to teach you how to control your power and you need the witch to teach you to live. Go back and help them by letting them help you.” She leaned in and placed a soft cold kiss against my forehead, a barely whispered "I love you.", and then she was gone.

I awoke to soft knocking on the door. I got out of bed and wrapped the sheet around me like a robe. I grabbed my gun and opened the door, keeping the hand with the gun behind it so as not to frighten anyone who didn’t deserve it. Shining gold hair sparkled in the now late afternoon sun and all I could do was stare. Blue eyes locked with gold and an eternity passed between us in that stare. Lifetimes of coming together and coming apart, conveyed through need alone. A faint static charge filled the air as we looked into each other’s eyes. Suddenly Dixie was across the threshold, arms wrapping tightly around my waist, head tucked under my chin, her tears soaking into the makeshift garment.

I shut the door one handed then tossed the gun onto the bed before fully embracing the woman before me. “Shhh. I’m here Beautiful.” I soothed.

“You left me.”

“I’m sorry.” was all I could think to say. I hoped it would be enough for now.

[Scrappy Amazon]

It was always a game of control. In bed and out. Men were different. What they wanted I never could give them. I could never give them that part of me that would trust them enough to let go. To trust that I wouldn’t get hurt. To let go of my control enough to actually feel them touching me. And they could never let me have control. It was never mutual between me and any lover I had taken before. They wanted to conquer the badass woman. To prove they could. To prove they were better men than I was. And I didn’t want to let them.

What I wanted now was to let go. To feel something for a change. I wanted her to touch me. I wanted to trust her. I needed to trust her. Though I don’t think I really knew it at the time.

I leaned down and brushed the tear sodden hair from her cheek. No words were needed to explain or apologize or ask. We knew together what we wanted and needed. What was needed to relieve the pain we were both in. She needed to rid herself of the memory of her recent encounter and I needed to release myself from a lifetime of being closed off. Her pain forced on her from outside. Mine of my own making. Which was worse?

A comforting silence settled between us as I began to undress her. I trailed my gloved fingers over her shoulder and down her arm as her shirt floated the floor. I marveled at the gooseflesh I witnessed.

Suddenly she was grasping my hands and tugging at the gloves. I began to protest, thinking surely she didn’t understand how much I needed them. She stopped tugging when I began to pull away.

“You don’t need those. I won’t let you get lost.”

I stared at my hands, looking at them as if they were the enemy. Pain and sorrow fed each other as the waiting came to an end. Hundreds of years came crashing together in one moment of looking into her eyes. I knew finally that I could let go and trust someone else to protect me.

She waited patiently as I pulled the gloves off and tossed them onto the dresser behind me. She leaned foreword and placed the most gentle kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.” She whispered in my ear. Then she began to cry all over again.

I reached up and wiped away a lone tear with my thumb. A thousand images inundated my brain. Bits and pieces of our lives together flickered nonstop like a slide show gone mad. That queasy feeling in my stomach rose up and threatened to over flow as I slammed my eyes shut in an effort to control it.

The slideshow picked up speed and began to blur. One scene became indistinguishable from another. My lips began to tingle. Slightly at first, then more insistent as the visions threatened to overtake me. Flashing so fast now they melded into one blinding white hot light. Piercing my brain, threatening to take my consciousness with it. And suddenly all I felt was love. With the same white hot piercing intensity as the vision, abruptly it was replaced with comforting warmth. Love, trust, compassion, freedom.

I came back to reality feeling, more than acknowledging, her lips touching mine. Her warm breath mingling with my own. “Welcome back.”

I stared at her for a moment, contemplating what had just happened. I finally came to the realization that she had called me back. Not by force or invading my mind, but by love, and compassion, and tenderness. And as I reached up and placed my hand behind her head, entwining my fingers in her hair I knew I never wanted to be without her again.

She led me to the bed and I dumbly followed. Lost in what was about to happen, trying not to let my fear consume me. We tangled ourselves together for what seemed like hours. Holding and touching. Learning about each other in this life. Attempting to push back the past and just be with each other now.

And as the waves crashed over me and I teetered on the edge of consciousness it happened.....

.....I shattered into a million sharp edges....

Each one threatening to shred my soul beyond repair. The decades of hurt and anger and pain came flooding back and I remembered, why I had become what I was. And as she held me....

....I wept.....

She had reached down inside of me and loosened something that had been stuck for years. She untied a knot and let the flood gates open. She held me close and wiped away the tears with tender kisses, and sang a soft Irish lullaby until I fell asleep.

[Scrappy Amazon]

The sound of softly falling rain woke me from my light dozing. Like music playing in the background, the sound of the fat cold drops hitting the roof and windows seeped into my soul. I watched, lost in thought, as the bright early afternoon sunlight streaked through the window and slowly changed to gray as the winter clouds rolled in. The atmosphere around us, once aglow with golden highlights, was now dark and shadowy.

We had spent the afternoon wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing warmth and strength, laughing and talking. But now it was time to make a decision. It wasn’t hard. I knew I had to go back. I just didn’t know how I was going to apologize. It wasn’t something I was accustomed to doing. But I knew that Phalon didn’t want to be involved in this anymore than I did. The difference being, she couldn’t leave. My conscience wouldn’t let me stay gone. In a matter of minutes I went from warm and content to hard and tense. She must have felt the change. Her arms tightened around me and she whispered into my neck.

“You’re going back, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I sighed.

“You’ll need some clean clothes then I expect.”

I laughed. “Don’t tell me, you packed my clothes?”

She just smiled at me as she rolled out of bed taking the top blanket with her. She wrapped herself strategically in the blanket using a corner to cover her head from the rain. She flung open the door and hopped out to her car on tip toes like a child puddle jumping in the rain. I couldn’t resist. I yelled out the door.

“Hey! It’s cold out there. And wet. Think maybe you should have put on some shoes?”

I heard a car door slam and shortly after she returned to the room, a black duffel slung over one arm and my duster over the other, rain dripping off her bed sheet dress. “Now you tell me.” She grinned.

I stretched then gingerly pulled myself out of bed, my road rash suddenly telling me to be careful. “Guess this means I should get dressed and go. Will you wait for me here?” I turned my back and began to fish around in the bag she’d dropped on the floor. I didn’t want her to see my face if the answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

“No.” she said.

My shoulders slumped and a lump rose in my throat. “I understand.”

“I am going back with you.”

I let out the breath I had been holding. It sounded like a long sigh. “Ok then. We’ll go back together.”

She leaned down and kissed the back of my neck. “As always.”

I pulled out a clean set of clothes and proceeded to get dressed without much ceremony. Though the injuries from the crash made me think before I just slapped everything on. I was stiff and sore and the clothes I had been wearing showed the evidence. My leather jacket had a huge tear in one arm and the jeans were beyond repair.

I picked the old pair up and fished in the front pocket looking for the medallion I had gotten from the stone minion. I examined it more closely before I shoved it in the pocket of my clean jeans. The knot work was definitely similar, if not exactly the same as the ring I wore around my neck. That would be the first order of business upon returning to the house.

“Ready?” I asked as I snapped the last snap on my duster. She nodded and grabbed what was worth taking from the room and we left our safe haven for the last time. The respite had done us both good but I was worried the time we had spent would cost us something important. Something we wouldn’t understand until our last day in the house of hell.

I watched as she tossed the bag into the back seat of her car then turned to me. “Mind if I ride along?”

“It’s going to be a cold, wet, ride.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Ok then climb on and hang on.”

I fired up the bike and we thundered down the road as she wrapped her arms around my waist and leaned into my back. It felt good having her there. I felt powerful. Like nothing could catch us if we would just keep driving, but I knew better, and so headed for the house anyway.

The trip back seemed shorter somehow and the rain turned from giant cold drops to freezing drizzle in no time. So by the time we arrived at the great wooden door we were both nearly blue with cold and covered in a fine mist. As I dismounted the bike I looked up at the gabled roof. The same stony features I had met in the road greeted me with a frozen stare. “I know you can hear me. I’m not crazy. Tell your Mistress I want to talk to her.” It didn’t move or even acknowledge my presence. But I knew my message would be relayed one way or another.

As we entered the house the heat immediately began to thaw us. I turned to Dixie as we entered the foyer and shook off the wet. “I need to go and apologize to Phalon. I think we should start in the dining room.”

“No problem. But be careful. She was pretty mad when I left.”

“I will.” She leaned up and gave me a quick kiss before we made our way toward the great hall. I steeled myself for the confrontation. What I had done would be hard to forgive but I hoped the wisdom I knew she had would win out over the anger.

However, my innate ability to speak before I think would once again set me up for a long battle. As we entered the dining hall I saw her sitting once again in the window seat across the room. Her blue robes matched the mood of the sea she was staring at. Even from where I stood I could see the angry purple bruises I had caused on her neck. She was agitated and talking to herself, the end of her sword bouncing off her outstretched foot. I immediately became defensive. Assuming her current mood had everything to do with me. And like I said my mouth got me into trouble again. Dixie entered behind me and made her way to the table as I approached Phalon.

“What’s your problem now?” Green eyes glared back at yellow.

---

Edited to add clicky link to image. ~Mini-Mia
Click it, why don't ya?

[Phalon]

She knew it was her before she spoke. Long, sure-footed strides; heavy boots steps echoing in the hall told Phalon she’d returned. Nothing quiet about Scrappy. The loud footfalls were followed by thoses that were lighter; quieter. Dixie, she assumed. Phalon continued to stare out the window as they entered the dining room, not wanting to deal with another assault at this moment. She closed her eyes, and tried to wish them away.

Wishes rarely come true, though – and never in this place. It started immediately. “What’s your problem, now?” Always that antagonistic tone; always tinged with belligerence. She was not in the mood for this. She stepped down from the window sill and glared at her assailant….at least it was still just a verbal attack at this point. The green flash of bitterness in her eyes made Scrappy stop her approach.

Phalon turned her back towards her. “What is my problem?” she repeated aloud, directing the question to herself. “What is the matter with me?” She faced the window, but did not see anything beyond her reflection in the glass.

The face she saw was not her own; the woman who stared back at her was one she didn’t recognize. Gone was the sage mystic with an answer for everything – even if it was the wrong answer. Here, she had no answers; right or wrong. She didn’t know what to believe….about anything. All her usual optimism had disappeared; hope was as far away as the place she wished to be. And like the place, it seemed impossibly out of her reach. Her hope had been stolen, and a mood that seemed perpetually melancholy had been left in its place.

Not wanting to see that face any more, she looked through it, and out to the sea. Their sea. Not hers. The anger instantly returned, replacing despair. Despair and anger; two emotions she rarely displayed, but which she felt all too frequently here.

She plucked her sword from the window frame where it hung embedded, and whirled to face Scrappy. “What is my problem?! Do you really want to hear? I’ll tell you what is the matter with me.”

“The beast that whispers inside my head is what is the matter with me.” She kept silent that he’d offered her a deal, and that she’d contemplated that deal. But it was still there, in the back of her mind…..as were his words that still bit into her.

‘…tosses you across the table like some discarded piece of garbage…’

She pointed her sword towards the woman who’d treated her like garbage, looking down the length of cold steel with narrowed eyes.

“You are what is the matter with me! You and your ever indignant attitude is what is the matter with me!”

She started forward towards Scrappy standing near the table. Her frustration was clearly written across her face; her anger evident in her voice as it rose with each step. There’d be no attempts to learn to hide her emotion now.

Her sword sliced through the air as she swung it towards Guru. “And him!!! He is what is the matter with me!”

He’d stopped his examination of the walls when Scrappy and Dixie had entered the room. He stared at her now, the expression on his face plain and easily read. ‘No, not again….not another lunatic with a sword on the loose.’

And she was aware she appeared as a lunatic – waving her sword savagely through the air, directing it at each of them, while yelling words sounding unintelligible. Somewhere in the few steps she’d taken, in her anger she’d slipped back into speaking Greek. She was also aware Guru’s hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. The tension in his stance told her he’d use it against her without hesitation if she continued this way, advancing towards Scrappy.

She sighed. One more misunderstanding between them. She had no intention of assaulting Scrappy with her weapon, and so sheathed it at her back. Two swords at home in their sheaths: much less threatening than one wildly swinging about. She raised her eyebrow at him until he removed his hand and let go of his. Convinced she meant no harm, he visibly relaxed with relief that there’d be no blood letting today – not now, anyway. He leaned back against the wall, glad her sword was back where it belonged.

She’d reached the table, and sunk into a chair. “Being here is my problem”, she sighed, speaking English now. “Everything about this damned house is what is the matter with me.”

In leaning against the wall, Guru had finally found what he’d been searching for. His weight released a trigger mechanism and a hidden door opened. A plate clattered, followed by Joxie sprawling into the room. Curiosity had outweighed fear, and she’d been listening to the yelling through the wall. Food lay strewn across the floor….another meal gone to waste.

“And that….”, Phalon said with heavy sarcasm, “….that is what is the matter with me. By the gods, if I don’t get to finish my next meal without interruptions, there will be Tartarus to pay.” She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling at her statement, as Scrappy did the same.

Phalon looked at her, and a slight smile played about her mouth; the smallest of gestures that they’d work things out between them. Not yet – the bruises on her neck and the reason they were there were still too fresh; it still stung. But there was hope.

Phalon smiled to herself; renewed at that last thought. Hope. There was always hope. There had to be, or she had nothing. Hope would get her through this…until she found a way out.

[TamiZ]

feasance (noun) - an obligation or duty, the carrying out of such an obligation

[From dictionary.com]

========================================

After stepping through the portal between Hell and Purgatory, Malory pushed stray hairs from her face. She took a deep breath then exhaled with a muted gag. “He should really should put in an order for some air freshner,” she whispered. She closed her eyes briefly and gathered her senses. When she stepped away from the portal, she was awed by what she saw. She had the fortune to forget until now.

A great chasm gaped from top to bottom (if either existed in this plane). With her own eyesight, Malory could see two tiers, roads cut from the stone walls. Two levels of Purgatory; journeys traveled in penitence for sins long committed. Some made it through their journey to find an absolution granting them passage into their realm of peace. Some merely got lost and never thought to ask for directions. Malory blinked as she calculated her next move. Every so often, a shadowed figure moving along the tier, distracting her from her thoughts.

“You’ll never get out of here if you let them into your soul.”

“I don’t have a soul.”

“Of course you do. Your soul is Justice. You are the archangel Iustitia. Your sword cleaves in two those that would bring death, desolation and despair for their own greed and worldly hunger.”

Malory turned and stepped away from the demon tempting her with a long-traveled past. “That angel does not exist. And neither do you.”

Taking the shape of Eurayle, the demon laughed then reached out to touch Malory. “There was a time that you could not resist me,” the liar pouted. “Your own greed delivered hell to my garden. It could have been delicious if you had not come back.”

Bowing her head in an effort to control her temper, Malory gritted her teeth. She was about to fire back a sarcastic response when the demon vaporized with a furious screech. The words became choked within her throat.

“For once, I have managed to leave you speechless.”

This time, Malory reached out, taking a stuttered step. “Please tell me it’s you,” she begged softly. “My heart has never lied to me.”

Eurayle smiled tenderly before reaching to clasp the outstretched fingers that spread as if to gather her face for an embrace. “I do not have much time,” she explained quickly; she stepped closer to Malory so that her words rushed across the taller woman’s chest as she was gathered into strong arms. “You must be strong in your purpose. The demon was correct – if you let the penitents into your soul, you would never get out. No matter your most basic instinct to aid them in their quest for absolution, you must ignore them. You must fend off this glamour and return to your own ground. Your warriors have gathered. They will need your knowledge to fight Ahriman.”

Malory wanted to be lost to the feel of Eurayle, but the seer’s words refused to give her leisure. “How did you get here?”

“You keep company with a strong witch, my love. I’m not sure if I should be jealous or grateful. She has saved your skin on more than one occasion.”

“You’ve nothing to be jealous of,” Malory immediately assured Eurayle, reminding herself to thank Pavora for her help. “She is a companion, nothing more.”

“She is a good friend to you, Iustitia.”

Malory tensed at the sound of that name. “I am not Iustitia.”

“Nor are you Malfeasance.” Eurayle stepped back from Malory, but stayed within the loose circle of her arms. Her frown melted into sadness. “You accepted your penance centuries ago, love. Now is time to pay me back for sending that demon to my garden.” Eurayle glanced down at her feet for a moment before looking back up into Malory’s eyes. “They are the only ones I have left. My precious Phalon is up there. The others - seeds flung far, thrown by the wind, melded with others so their true gifts were long forgotten. Do not let them die, Malory. You took an oath to me. Forget who you were or were not. Set free your own demons to do battle.”

“I’m afraid.” Malory tried to let her arms drop to her sides with her naked admission. Eurayle, however, refused to be set free. Malory bowed her head as the ancient seer drew her close. Their warm breaths fanned across their cheeks as they spoke into each other’s ear.

“You will not fail if you have the courage to be weak.”

“I can’t let go. I’ve fought so hard to hide among them.”

“You have forgotten. Sometimes the end does justify the means. Tell them your story. Tell them mine, which is theirs. Show them your true self and to yourself, be true.”

“I am reduced to dramatic cliché,” Malory mumbled as she finally gave in and buried her face in Eurayle’s hair. She clung for a moment before letting go when the seer pushed away from her.

“Now is not the time. We will see each other again some day, but today you have other obligations.” Eurayle looked up into the pitch-black height of the chasm. “For the love of Hestia, darling, I know you recall the glamour lesson. This place is much too depressing. Stay here much longer and you will resign yourself to bed duty with that beast. Take yourself home.”

For a moment, Malory stubbornly refused, as Eurayle began to fade. Pavora’s spell was losing its power. She watched until the seer became a memory of particles dancing in the weak torchlight. When the other woman was finally gone from sight, Malory opened her hands and looked down at them. She was grieving for their emptiness until a soft call caught her attention. Cocking her head to better judge the direction, she set off to find the owner of the familiar voice.

“Carly!”

Malory had to stop suddenly and brace herself when Aiden made his presence known. The demon’s minion was surprised to see her as much as Malory was surprised by the desperation in his eyes. He jumped back after running into her taller form.

“Have you seen her? Carly!”

Malory slapped a hand over his mouth and used her body to slam his against the rough hewn wall. “Shut up, you fool. Do you want an innocent drawn by your calls into this hell?”

Aiden’s eyes widened and his breath quickened. His face began to turn red. Malory released her hold on him and stepped back to give him room. She watched as he evened his breath.

“I have to find her. She can’t get lost down here.”

Studying the minion, the way his eyes darted back and forth, the way his body shook in fear, Malory shook her head and smiled thinly. “Looks like love does beat all,” she muttered. Aloud, she advised the minion, “Keep playing your part, Aiden. This is only a mirage – a glamour cast of Lucifer and Ahriman. Carly will be safe as soon as I throw off the cover of illusion. I will get Carly safely back to the house. You screw up, though, and this battle could be over before it’s even begun.”

Aiden’s neck convulsed with a heavy gulp. He became impaled by a steady, empowering gaze that settled his nerves. “Promise?”

Without pause, Malory nodded. “Stick to the script and things will resolve.”

Malory stepped back then reached out to grasp the minion’s shoulder. She looked around, suddenly paranoid that the walls had eyes and ears. “Have no doubt that you will meet your end with your sorry excuse of a boss,” she warned.

Before he could reply, she was off to find a weakness in the glamour, so that she could dispel its effects. Twenty minutes later, after ignoring the shades and shadows calling out her name, she found the fissure. A soft voice within her head repeated words she had learned long ago in a witch’s garden. She repeated them, awed that words could move proverbial mountains. As the last syllable rolled from her tongue, she became lightheaded; she fell to her knees among the clutter tossed about the library. She took a deep breath, relishing the stuffy but clean air.

Pushing herself to her feet, she was immediately alarmed when she heard Phalon’s voice raised in anger. Turning to make her way to the door, Malory stopped and bent to retrieve the family’s history. Before more blood was spilled, she would have to get everyone to see the need for peace, if just for one moonphase.

[Henrietta "India Ana" Jones]

India Ana scaled the wall and sat atop the ledge. She surveyed the mansion and the grounds surrounding it. Rumor has it that this place is a ‘Bermuda Triangle.’ People go in, but they don’t come out. Solving the mystery would make her famous in her own right. No more wallowing in her _daddy’s_ shadow.

“It’s high time the heiress took her rightful place on the throne and banished her father to the history books where he belongs.” She quoted from the book she would write when this was all done. Even when she was alone, she had an audience. It was the projected inner workings of having lived in the public eye all her life. And really, with the powerful satellites that the governments had in place now, and the paparazzi stalkers who could afford cameras that zoomed in from miles away, one never knew for certain one wasn’t being photographed, filmed, or recorded at any given moment. Not even when one was naked in their own home, or back yard.

Her fame, of course, had nothing to do with anything that she had done on her own. It was because of who her biological father was, and of what her scientific mother had done. Her mother had ‘borrowed’ DNA from her father without asking. She never disclosed how. Perhaps a dropped hair, a missing blood sample, a knocked out tooth that slide across the floor and hid away in a crevice; it could have been anything really.

Anyhoo, she took this DNA and used it to fertilize one of her own eggs and then had it implanted. She legally changed her last name to ‘Jones,’ and when the child was born she named her, Henrietta ‘India Ana’ Jones.

“Because of her mother, India Ana’s life has been one big fishbowl. And unfortunately, since it wasn’t a fishbowl of her own design, she had to do something in order to put her own spin on things. This led her to the ‘House of Whoosher,’ where she cracked the mystery that made her famous in her own right.”

India Ana pondered on her book and this mystery as she watched the mansion to see if it would reveal its secrets to her without having to actually enter into it. After all, you can’t write a book and be famous if you don’t come back from the adventure. And who would know she fictionalized her nonfiction anyway? No one ever came back, and so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to contradict her ‘facts.’

[Joxcenia]

Joxcee laid sprawl on the floor, unsure of how she got there. One second she was all alone, and the next she was surrounded by bickering convention goers. Fortunately, she wasn’t the bone of their discontentment, and needed not fear being chewed on or buried alive. Not by them anyway. Not so long as she managed to stay out of range of their weapons.

A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, but Joxcee didn’t look to see who it was attached to. Instead she glanced about for a way to make a quick exit. The fireplace had a fire at the moment, the wall had closed back up, and the door to the hallway was blocked by the dining table and a few of her fellow trapped rats.

Maids rushed in and cleaned up the mess, then left as quickly as they had arrived. Joxcee used the distraction to find a lone chair in the corner, out of the way of what ever had been going on before her ‘arrival.’ It wasn’t her job to participate in the goings on of the contest; only to observe and congratulate the one who didn’t let the hauntings run them off. At the rate this event was progressing though, it was more likely the contestants would be killing each other off rather than fleeing.

Note to self: don’t get talked into doing any future Whoosh assignments.

[LMV's Old Account]

Sita appeared out of nowhere, sprawled out on the ground...unsure of how she got to where ever she was, she shook her head and stood up... as she balanced her self she began to mutter curse words, she dusted herself off and looked around her ice blue eyes focusing on her surroundings...She saw a huge stone wall first off "ahh crap" she said rather loudly, she was feeling incredibly weak and had a feeling that she was going to be stuck wherever she was for a while.
Moments later as she was wandering around she noticed a huge mansion and thought "now how the hell did I miss that before?" she looked up at the building and then decided to look around some more before she ventured into the rather odd looking mansion, she adjusted her leathers a little and began to walk in the direction of a little shed off to her right.
When she reached the shed she saw that it was locked so she picked up a rock off the ground and pretty much smashed it to peices she then opened the door and walked inside, she noticed many garden tools and weapons on the walls and benches.
"God what world or place have I stumbled into?"
Knowing her luck it was probably a place where there was trouble, she could smell it already.

[TamiZ]

[Please note: the Greek translation is modern, not ancient. It was easier to find a modern machine translator.]

----------------------------

The louder Phalon’s voice became, the faster Malory ran to the dining room. When she bound through the double doors, all noise came to a discordant halt. Her eyes twitched, trying to take everyone in as quickly as possible, trying to determine the situation; the room’s occupants were all watching her expectantly, some with narrowed suspicious eyes, some with a veil of disinterest. Her blood rushed to her face as she pictured herself standing there dumbly with the heavy tome of family history cradled against her chest as if it were a shield against the mistrust and anger that was threatening the house. The embossed triquetra stamped into the cover burned her skin; she would be forever linked to the Blooded Ones, for better or worse. It was time to come clean and see which it would be.

She was speechless for a moment, as she saw that Phalon sitting at the table, rubbing at her temple, was not about to skewer anyone with the blade that lay glinting on the table. A silent figure moved to her side and she knew without taking her eyes from Phalon, that it was Pavora, or Mrs. Peacock as the guests knew her. A whisper began to crawl upon her skin: truthhhhhhh, worms once more eating into her flesh. The whisper beat in time to her accelerated heartbeat. The evil chuckle that followed straightened her shoulders and firmed her resolve.

Regaining her composure by will alone, she blinked to slow the beating, burning, gnawing upon her body and mind. One by one, she caught everyone’s eyes and held them, trying lay naked her purpose; there would be no more playing of charm, but rather, a revelation, a history lesson, and all the gods willing, an end to their benefit.

She crossed without a word to anyone to stand at Phalon’s side. She looked down at the smaller woman - a character of polished steel, flexible but unbreakable. The experienced seer was being tested sorely. Glancing at the sword within hand’s reach, Malory humbled herself by kneeling at the ancient Greek’s side. She wanted to reach out and touch her, the woman that was once a child that played in Eurayle’s garden. Instead, Malory held an unflinching stare.

It was time to reveal the manner and reason. Making sure that the words would come, Malory ran her tongue across the roof of her mouth; she took a deep breath before wetting her lips. Language spoken so long ago came back to her in a rush.

(I brought you here to teach her the gift. She fights it, though it thunders in her blood.)

Malory paused to let Phalon absorb her words, waiting to see if the edge of that sword would be tested upon her skin. Instead, the Greek waited, though not patiently, for the rest. The ancient’s fingers began to tap heavily against the table.

(We are fighting an ancient evil. It is infecting all of us here. We must fight against the influence, we must fight against him. I need you. I need you to make her as strong as you.)

Her head still attached to her body, Malory hurried on. She never dropped her eyes, her vision centered on the woman she once knew as a centuries ago; she laid bare her own soul. Her voice lowered to a strained husk as she tried to convey the urgency bearing down up them all.

(Please forgive me. You were the only one I knew I could trust. Your aunt always spoke of your power and goodness. I need that now. I need you to help me fight this or else your line will die out right here. I will explain it all if you will stay and help me. Please.)

Malory watched with an intensity raw with desperation. She ignored the seer’s protesting stomach for just a second before promising, “I will serve you a feast fit for a Queen.”

Phalon’s eyes refused to yield. She leaned back in her chair and her fingers stopped tapping. “I’m waiting.”

Standing to her full height, Malory surely strode to the head of the table, where Pavora waited for her. She looked at everyone as she slowly lowered the volume in her arms to the table. She clapped her hands sharply. Once. Twice. By a strike of the clock, the noise was echoed by the dark grandfather upon the hour of two. From the fabric of time, a host of servants appeared and began to lay platters of steaming food upon the long table. Fowl and fish, vegetable, starch roots, and bread. The air became heavy with the scents of an otherworldly deliverance. Malory glanced sideways at Pavora when the older woman grunted.

“You are improving,” the old witch complimented grudgingly, “but I would have served duck.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Malory opened her arms wide and addressed everyone in the room. “Please, sit and let us break bread together. We eat and then I will explain everything. It is a long story that goes back an even longer time. But when I finish, you will know everything that I do.” She caressed the triquetra with her fingers and allowed a memory from a century past to surface. “You will know what Fate has woven.” She turned to Pavora and nodded to the chair at the right of the table head. “Please sit with me, old friend.”

Pavora snorted with a hint dark humor. “We will discuss the use of that word – old – when this is over. We’ll see who has the longer tooth.”

Malory and Pavora sat down; they allowed the ghostly servants to ladle servings onto their plates while a young man walked around the table, filling goblets with fruit juice that was a shade lighter than blood, but reminiscent nonetheless and hopefully not a premonition. With her thoughts tumbling over one another, Malory chose to ignore the way that her guests’ study refused her any allowance. Even Phalon, who immediately set to devouring her meal, would not release Malory from her gaze. For once, Malory was the one whose stomach would not be pleased, for the dance it was playing upon her gut did not allow much sustenance to find its way into her mouth.

Instead, she watched the others watching her; she was busy formulating the tale she had told time and time again, wondering what the magic would be to convince them to fight as one. She wondered if she would fail this time like that time before when Pavora had to put her back together again from the pieces into which she’d been rendered.

Studying those around her, she thought there just might be a chance for quartering.

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Edited to resize image. ~Mini-Mia / Joxcee

Edited again to replace missing images. ~Mini-Mia / Joxcee