I’m participating in another challenge from Chuck Wendig at terribleminds, but it’s a bit late. This one has been brewing…Part II in a three part colaboration. 

The Wardrobe Monster (Pt I) by Mozelle

The power had gone out soon after the storm started up, and pretty soon after, her e-reader died too.  She looked outside and noticed the whole neighbourhood was in darkness. Sighing, Savannah showered by torchlight and went off to bed.

But not for long… only a few minutes after she switched off her torch, she started hearing noises coming from her wardrobe – noises she had never heard before.

Unnatural noises.

Her folks had told her there was no such thing as monsters when she was a kid.

That was crap.

She knew it.

But then, she had seen this thing destroy people’s lives in a split second, and now she was sitting up in her bed terrified of it.

Savannah knew it was crap, and closed her eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” she kept chanting to herself to see if it would make the noise in her wardrobe stop.

To make her mind from going crazy…

To make her nerves from being on edge…

…to make her relax again.

She pulled the covers of her bed up to her chin and watched the door handle of the wardrobe as the shadow of the trees moved across it, “Crap, I’m in my twenties and …” she swallowed dryly, “I’m too fucking old for this shit!” kicking off her covers, she pulled on her Ugg boots, dressing gown and grabbed the waterproof torch she kept by her bed when storms like this hit and switched it back on.  Walking toward the wardrobe, she followed the large circle of light.

Five feet out, the noise started to sound like a grunting pig.  She thought it was cute – but weird – seeing it came from where her clothes were stored.

Three feet out, her gut cooled as she heard scratching coming from inside… along with screams.  The grunting was gone.

One foot, and Savannah noticed smoke was seeping from underneath the doors as she reached forward to open the door…

The door handle suddenly rattled loudly… clearly… and…

The whole door shuddered as though somebody bashed against it!

Savannah shuffled back, tripped over her glory box at the end of her bed, and sat on the end of her bed as the two wardrobe doors opened…

Part II (moi)

Silhouetted in the doors, a man in jeans and a leather flack jacket dusted off his sleeves. He looked up, with a sly little half-smile. “Savannah.”

Under the mischievous glance of big green eyes, Savannah found all her words dried up, her lips gaping like a fish.

“I know, I know.” He strode into her room, a bounce in his step. “I’m not what you were expecting. But you should know, that was a monster sent direct from the deepest levels of hell.”

“But…why?” Savannah gaped at him.

His eyes ran over her and Savannah pulled her robe tight, a fiercely hot blush on her cheeks. The smirk said everything. “Not all is as it appears on the first sighting.” He took her hand and the blush felt like it crept further down her body. “You, my dear, are the Turnpoint, the one who will change the balance of power in the spiritual world.”

His earnest gaze unsettled her. “And who do you represent?”

“Myself.” That bright flash of smile again, the mischief in blue eyes. “Me…I prefer the delights of chaos.”

“Are you–?”

The only answer was that smile again, and he inclined his head, the smirk rising from his lips to his eyes. He brushed a lock of dark curly hair out of his eyes. They understood each other, Savannah was sure.

“What does that mean for me?” Savannah asked, peering into the wardrobe.

Elegantly, her guest gestured at the open doors. “We enter the spiritual plane.”

Savannah drew back from the mist that curled cooly around her ankles. The idea made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

“I’m certainly not dressed for the occasion.” She drew back towards her bedroom door, surreptitiously kicking some discarded underwear under the bed.

“That won’t be a problem.” With a shrug, Loki clicked his fingers, and she had on her favourite jeans and sweater. He quirked an eyebrow, gauging her reaction with a thoughtful look, before he extended her a hand.

Nervously Savannah smoothed back her hair. Why her?

A beating began at her bedroom door, when Savannah knew they were alone in the house. The door bent inward with the ferocity of the attack as a high-pitched yowling that descended into a deep growl.

“Or you could wait here, to meet the envoy of the planes of Hel.”

With a gulp, Savannah took Loki’s hand. The frenzy at the door intensified, as with quick steps, Loki lead her to the door. Holding her breath, they passed between the planes, where the crossing burned and froze in the same searing moment and the howling fury of life and death rang in her ears.

His hand gently squeezed hers. “Welcome to the other side Savannah.”

Savannah opened her eyes to a darkness of the deepest fog. Flashes of light illuminated standing figures, frozen in a moment of time, the hue of light flickering.

“Who are they?”

“People in the throes of the choices that may cost them their souls…Or free them…”

Savannah looked at the figures with sadness. At that moment, out of the darkness, strode a young woman, her features resolving as she moved closer.

“Here’s trouble,” Loki mused under his breath, his easy half-smile emerging once again.

Another challenge from Chuck Wendig. I really liked this one. It was pick 5 words to incorporate into your story. Mine are: djinn, foxglove, orphan, topaz, whalebone.  I also feel like this could be a longer story, maybe a novella or a novel, I will have to see. Going in the story file…

I really encourage anyone wanting to write to read Chuck’s blog. It’s funny, it’s got great advice for writers, and this weekly writing club ensures that I am writing often. And that’s what you need to become a writer.

Anyway, without further ado, I present…

Finding Foxglove

Her father’s shrouded body was barely in the ground when the Ahdia felt his presence behind her. Ahdia had not told her father that she didn’t need to close her eyes, that she could feel their heat radiating when they were close by, and could see their faces cast in fierce blue light when she looked. It was his blood coursing through her veins that meant she could. A Prince of the People of the Pyre could not hope to contain that power from the blood of his blood. She could not be protected, as she could never be unseeing.

There is always one way for humans to know a djinn, her father had told her, again and again, the feverish grip on her shoulder always too tight. If you can close your eyes, feel for that extra-perception field that is inside you, and when you slip your fingers in that oily and tricky thread, you turn that eye and the djinn will glow with the blue flame of life. Ahdia knew the feel of the perception; it covered her own skin like wet paint, sucking and pulling at her.

“Marid,” Ahdia’s voice took on the resonant inner voice her father had taught her to use and addressed to djinn directly. “Why do you intrude at the height of my sorrow?”

“Ameera Abaza.” The reply was like sand shifting against sand, rasping, warm. “I have come to honour your father.”

Ahdia paused, tilting her head, observing the shadow and feeling for the brightness of the flame the djinn possessed. “No one has come to us since Abi was disowned for loving my mother. Why would the Peoples of the Pyre come now?”

The chuckle was warm, real. “They come not now. I once was a great friend to your father. There is a plot against your life, Ameera, and out of love for him do I come.”

Adhia pivoted, her topaz eyes flashing. “Where was that love when they were slowly draining his flame with the Sentinel’s voodoo? They allowed him to be consumed, against all of the laws of our people.”

“Ameera, I begged for him to run. To leave this land and go across the seas, to older lands, where their power would be ineffective. But he would not leave you, nor the home he shared with your mother.” The tall and solid djinn shifted, staring out towards at the red sands, his loin cloth flapping in the hot desert wind. He was out of his element here. The carved whalebone jewellery he wore about his neck and in his ear spoke of a life of richness and joy, of seas and wet sands; not the hard and bitter life on the edge of the desert.

“You are an orphan now,” his eyes and voice were gentle, protective, as he turned his gaze back to her. “There is no one to protect you.”

“Why would I need protection? They killed my father. There is nothing that they have to fear from me.” Adhia’s breath caught traitorously as she acknowledged the reality she faced; being alone. But she would not cry. Her father would not have wanted that.

The djinn bent his great bulk so that he was eye to eye with her, his face appearing  tinted blue like moonlight to Adhia. “Because you, Ameera, are an upset in the balance of life. In the combination of your father’s blood and your mother’s human blood, a great power was created. Your father knew it, and used his own power to protect you. You will scare the People. That is why they will hunt you.”

Gently, he took her hand. “I extend the offer to you. We will travel across the world, to where your mother’s grandfather came from. Examine his history. Then we will have the truth.”

Ahdia searched his face, seeking duplicity. “How do I know you speak the truth?”

“In the words that your father gave me and that clue which will guide you on our journey.” He opened his dark, meaty hand and inside was a necklace that she recognised; her mother’s. It had been a long time since she had seen this, but she remembered it around her mother’s neck.

With trembling fingers, Ahdia took the necklace and looked at it, at the strange flower painted on the yellowing surface of the ovular china surface. Purple tubes, hanging down, with dark spots like a leopard from her books.

“What are they?” Ahdia asked, tracing the beautiful paint strokes with her fingertips.

“Your father’s words to me were: Find the Foxglove.” Even the giant djinn looked perplexed. “I believe that is the name of the flower, and the insignia of your grandfather’s house.”

Ahdia nodded, staring at the piece, reliving the scattered memories of her mother, who had died trying to give birth to a younger brother, who had also died with her. Her eyes smarting, she looked back at the djinn. “I do not even know your name.”

His smile was broad and beautiful. “I am Emir Hafiz Najjar, Ameera, from the islands of a distant sea.”

“Hafiz, you may call me Ahdia.” Ahdia bowed, slightly to him. She turned back to the open gravesite. “There is one thing I need to do before we can leave.”

Feeling her fingertips warming with the flame, she took out the taper, holding it between her fingers. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, feeling the beat of her heart, the heat of her body and pulling it to that one spot. With a puff, she felt the taper catch, and opened it to see the tiny flickering fire dancing in the wind.

Kneeling by the edge of the grave, she touched the flame to the shroud, and moved away. She watched as the redness crept from the spot she had touched along his body, like a coal, and burst into a white-hot flame. Ahdia watched as the blaze ate through his earthly body, brightening to a blue as his remains crumbled. Ahdia watched the embers lift from the pit, to be carried out into the world, so that somewhere, a piece of her father could live again.

“Goodbye Abi,” she whispered, as the last of his body crumbled to ashes.

Knowing her duty was done, she turned away from the last remnants of her life before, and followed the stranger who offered her answers.

Foxglove flower (Digitalis)

A few small things about the unusual words used (all anglicised versions of Arabic words):

• Ameera is the word for princess
• Emir is a title used for noblemen
• Djinn or jinn are not devil as such in Arabic mythology; they’re pretty complex from the little reading I have done
• Abi is father

Chuck Wendig’s at it again. His challenge is to roll a d20 (or use a random number generator) and get a title. 

Knowledge is never ultimately bad or ultimately good; it depends on the person who wields it.

Under the protection of the Medici in early Florence—for the Medici liked the power that came from controlling the collection of the rare and beautiful items—a young magician created a secret book of all he knew in the world, all the dark secrets of the family. He’d only meant to get them out of his head, where they caused him many sleepless nights and a crick in his neck from looking over his shoulder always.

In an airy room, high above the stink of the river, he toiled with a recipe that would remove the secrets from his head and protect them from anyone but himself. With the appropriate ideas, and a dash of flair, he cast the spell.

His Master had always been on at him about his grammar.

But instead of making the book beholden, it emboldened it and gave it a voice. A voice much like that of the youngest daughter of the reigning head of the Medici, in fact. She would have been charmed, if she’d ever known of its existence.

In a flash of premonition, the young wizard realized that this was not a sin that would be forgiven, and seeing as he had no idea how he’d created the spell, he would have no way to remove it. Excusing himself from the house, he disappeared from the city and was never seen again. His name was never known because the idea that he had ever existed had the Don in paroxysms of fury.

The Don had it buried with the Great Don, Cosimo, deep in the family crypt. He put in sound-barriers, had it sealed, but it never strayed far from its mind. In fact, the only time it got near him, it revealed to his wife that he was the one that had made her original betrothed…disappear.  So he buried it.

When archeologists discovered the lost crypt a millennia later, they didn’t at first find the book. It’s voice was old, cracked with underuse, and its tongue almost incomprehensible to the speakers of the modern language.

It was one young assistant who finally heard its calling, left when the head archeologists went to examine the exhumed bodies of the old world’s most powerful family. Beneath the decay of centuries, it fluttered its leaf, blowing the softest puff of dust, leading her straight to it.

She held the tome, caressing the ornate leather cover reverently with her gloved hands. It began to whisper to her, to woo her. At first Catherine Mendicino did not hear the words, but could not comprehend what it said; her experience with the written word held no sway with the unique pronunciations of the 13th century.

Gently, the book probed her secrets, relearning the language. Dizziness swept over Catherine, so she decided to call it a day, wrapping the book in protective coverings and putting it into her kit bag for delivery to the laboratory when the dizziness had passed. It was only a block away from the room she was staying in.

Lying in the cool room, a breeze wafting the curtains gently, the book spoke.

“Signora Caty,” it said to her in hushed tones from the bag on the table, “your mind is wonderful.”

Caty sat bolt upright in bed, almost falling off. “Who’s there?” She trembled.

“You have seen so many places. The world is so changed.” The book marvelled, the voice smothered a little by the confining wrappings.

Caty got out of bed, tip-toeing towards the corner of the room where the book lay. She looked out of the windows, behind the curtains, in cupboards. There was no one to be found. A tinkling laughter behind her and Caty whirled.

“Over here!” This time she could see the bag moving about as the book flapped its cover.

Caty was sure this had to be some kind of prank. Scientists were known to do that. She was fairly new to the team. That had to be it.

“Caty, get me out of here.” The bag shifted itself.

“Dio mio!” Caty went to the table, opened the bag and dropped the book on the table like it was on fire.

The book seemed to sigh happily as its pages rustled. “Thank you for freeing me.”

It flipped on its end again, the artwork of the cover facing her. “Now, put away those thoughts of trying to return me to those dusty old professors. This brave new world looks just like what I’ve always wanted. And if you do, I will tell them all about the blackmail you used to get on to the team here.”

Speechless, Caty’s mouth hung open. Her hands worried at her dusty tunic. “You have no proof. And, you’re a talking book!”

“That’s just the secret I will start with, Signora Mendicino. People will believe, eventually. But not if you take me everywhere with you. Let me explore the world, as you have.”

Caty stared out at the cityscape from her window, focusing on the famous dome of the Cathedral of Florence. The afternoon light was soft on her face, her brow furrowed as she chewed on her lip and thought about her next move. She was definitely going to pray at the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore later today for deliverance from her sins, which is definitely what brought this book to her.

“Did you know, you look an awful lot like Lorenzo Medici? Have you looked into your background? There’s definitely him in the shape of your brow and lips…”

Caty looked out the window at Florence. What was she going to do with a chattering show and tell of all her secrets?

“Don’t worry,” the book called to her. “It’s not just your secrets I know… You want to be a world famous archeologist?” The pages fluttered alluringly. “I know where all the bodies are buried…”

Round four of Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: 200 Words at a Time. I took on one a few others had done, because it got under my skin. I may even finish it off if no one else takes it up, because I’ve got a clear ending in mind. 

The first 200 words were by Meagan Wilson and the second 200 were by Wanderer. The third batch by dangerdean. I had to give this a title; Round 4 is far enough along.

“Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”
A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.
“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and darkness, fell devourer of the innocent, conqueror of—” Arcane symbols covered the speaker’s robes, nearly obscuring the heavy crimson fabric.
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” I gestured with my gin martini.
He paused, then finished in a post-pubescent squeak, “We invoke thy true name and bid thee do our will.”
“Oh you do, do you? Well I want you to send me back. I was having a smashing time, and that girl may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she looked quite likely to do some rubbing together. If you know what I mean.”
The robe-wearers shuffled, and whispered amongst themselves. The leader piped up again.
“O great Sorasel im—“
“Stop that, stop that,” I interrupted. “Only my dad calls me that. I prefer my middle name. If you must speak, call me Stewart.”
More shuffling and whispering from my summoners.

—————-

“Yes…Jaime? You masterminded this escapade?” I drained the martini, and stared directly at Jaime.

“Oh great Stewart, we sumoned you because…um…” Jamie looked sheepish. “We want to get laid, like, a lot.” The chuckleheads voiced their agreement with grunts and high fives.

“You seriously summoned me because you want sex? Personal hygiene and asking a girl on a date didn’t work, so you decided ‘Meh. Let’s just summon a demon’?” A couple of them laughed, but were quickly silent.

“Well, you’ve taken the trouble to bring me here, and I’m bound to your will, but just because I’m feeling generous, I’m going to give you a short primer on demon invocation.” They looked at each other warily.

“There are five elements of a proper invocation. Three you have managed admirably. You have consecrated the space. I personally would have used something a little more visceral, but there’s no accounting for taste. I’m here, so obviously you have successfully invoked me, and of course, you have bound me to your will.” I looked down my nose at Jaime.

“The fourth element, however, is constraint. You must constrain the actions of the demon. That, my young friends, you have not done.”

————–

I stared forlornly into my empty glass, twirling the delicate stem in my fingertips. I pursed my lips in thought, until I came to a fitting punishment.

“So here it is,” I drawled, pointing my glass slowly at each of them. “I’ll give you what you want, all the tail you need for the rest of your life.”

The goons grinned lasciviously and nudged each other, their eyes lit with the joy of their victory.

My own nasty smile emerged. “Tail being the operative word.”

Low and swift, the incantations curled into the still air of the basement. A fog swirled around the boy’s ankles, wrapping swiftly around them. Their grunts and looks of panic amused me. One even tried to run for the stairs.

As the smoke dissipated, I looked proudly upon the five antechinus bounding around my feet, chirping. I’d read an article about these sex-crazed marsupials* the week before. Sexual suicide; how fitting.

About to conjure up the female that would be their undoing, I was distracted by a set of delectable female legs descending the stairs.

“Stewart,” her voice purred. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Sorceress.” I inclined my head with a genuine smile.

Thin tendrils of mist writhe over the gently lapping water and I stand on the dock, waiting. In my blood, I can feel the thrum of the waiting evening, the dark things uncoiling in the grey, moving unseen in the falling night. Beside me, my malamute Loupe watched, his sharp blue eyes on the shifting around us.

The ferry chugs toward me, drawn by the scarlet allure of my hood, the single point of brightness in the fog. A quiet and drawn young man holds the boat as I step on, and I make small talk as we cross. The flickering of the light on the water gives the youthful face a gravity and solemnity as he talks sparingly. I can see what sort of man he would become in a snapshot.

My footsteps on the boardwalk are a hollow sort of sound, lonely, until my companion’s crisp  scrapes sound beside me. We take a break at a bar, where I nurse a vanilla vodka on the rocks, crisp and clear on my palate, the sweetness my balm to the workings of the world.

I watch a couple inside, intimacy drawing them together over the cliche flickering candle, a warmth and relaxation in their faces evident from what I assume is the wine in those glasses. Loupe’s dark-rimmed ears flick back and forth, his black nose twitching. I rubbed him with my foot; I could feel it too.

Leaving my tumbler empty, I walk. We cross the old tram tracks, over the cobbled streets, wandering along deserted shopping strips. The silence fills the cracks here; it is preternatural and wrong, out of place even on a lonely night like this.

Slipping out of the darkness a girl, her dark head down, wanders into the space. She seems not to notice the stillness, the emptiness. Behind her, it rises, its form neither masculine or feminine, much like the mist surrounding the island. The girl walks on, heeding neither me nor what stalks her. From an alley I watch as it gathers, coalescing, congealing, into a form like a human.

Long ago one of my forebears had been told to watch for the wolf, but it was never the wolf that was the trouble. Oh, the stories they tell all involve the wolf now. People prefer not to be reminded of what waited in the dark, what the small parts of our brain are afraid of when we can not see. The wolves are not that to be feared; treasured companions and keepers.

With a soft rustle of fabric, the girl pass me by, the blue light picking up the soft features of her face. A still forming hand reaches, and the ragged flash of glacier blue, sharp and hungry through the eons.

Charging with energy, my axe, that slid so well and familiar into my palm, lit the alley with silvery light. My nemesis turns a head as they glide past, and I see myself reflected, red coated and glowing, Loupe growling softly beside me.

I step into the cobbled alleyway, sounds lost in the vacuum that the fey brings. Justice sings in my blood, coursing through my limbs. It turns from its prey to face me, gashes for eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Little guardian,” in a voice like age coiling serpentine in the air, “you are far from home and all alone.”

“Not as far as you, fey, and not as hungry.”

It laughs, crisp and cold, with a mouth with the blackness and emptiness of space, as the expected face starts to devolve. “What will you do? Scratch me? You’re just a little girl. I am as old as time, older than your ancestors.”

“You’ve lived far too long then,” I heft my axe. “You need to be released back into the stars.”

It gathers and rushes at me, its edges a thousand slivers of glass. I may have a chance while it is still in a humanoid form. It limits its capabilities and I know where it will be hurt. Swirling out of the way, my cloak takes most of the damage, but a sliver slides cold against a cheek and my blood trickles warm against the cold of my skin.

The pike at the end of my axe has gashed it, a tar-like substance oozes from its malformed leg. With a hiss, it rushes again, icicles pelting through the air at me. A weave of garment lighter than mail but similar in strengths knocks aside the small ones that escape the pendulum of my axe but the bruises flower against my skin beneath. I step forward slow, wind gusting and howling. A well timed one-handed swipe and the body is slipping sideways. A growl of triumph and my companion, treading in my footsteps, shielded by my body, launches forward, his teeth bright daggers in the dark.

There is the sound like the ripping of wet sheets and with a judicious swing, crunching glass. Collapsing downward, a sail released and without the wind, it falls. Black goo bubbles and steams, burning up to nothing, released from existence.

My axe slides deftly beneath my coat, onto my back, and the wolf spits out the chunks he can. I acknowledge his service by kneeling, bending my head to his, and scratching the scruff of his neck.

“Why do they always say just a little girl?” I muse as we walk, the silence disappearing around us. “Do they not know what a girl can do?”

Loupe whines in what feels like sympathy.

I smile down at him. “Clearly, they haven’t met enough little girls.”

We walk into the night, side by side, the wolf and I.