The Infamous Beast

by T Shadow

  The girl is all small gentle movements with deadly precision, but the bloke is a protector and watcher, content in the background whilst his woman eats up the attention like a sponge absorbing water. Pale skin in my opinion only indicates one species - Vampires. If I was close enough, I could look at her eyes and determine her supernatural origin with a glance, but even my eyesight isn’t that good in this dimly lit bar. But the blood red cocktail glass she holds in her hand gives me as good of an indication as any, and it's not wrong of me to assume she’s drinking only the finest of delicacies.

  Laughing along with Remi and that tiger, I almost miss the Troll as he comes back with another bottle— fresh and as cold as ice. As he slides the bottle towards me, I catch it and his attention before he manages to escape back to the other end of the bar and inevitably, further away from me. Nodding my head towards the Vampire, I mutter, “So, when did they turn up?” The Elf has made an appearance, only to serve the Vamp with a smile, before returning to his usual scowl when he has to— begrudgingly serve the other customers.

  Ignoring the sidhe, Troll-boy looks at me as if I’ve sprouted multiple dicks over my body. It’s a look that conveys a little more disgust than if I had sprouted two heads. I would assume it’s about the question I asked, but in reality, it’s probably because I asked it.

  “Why do you care?”

  Hesitation and caution, got it. I’m not surprised that I’m being perceived to be some big bad arsehole, like I’m gonna huff and puff and blow the fucking pub down— or some shit.

  “What are you gonna do, dumbass, huff and puff and blow the fucking house down?”

  For fucks sake… Go fuck yourself Oshi.

  “Just inquisitive. Everything here is like a culture shock compared to the last couple of days.”

  That earns me a raised eyebrow which is quickly recovered and replaced with a scowl. Trolls scowl better than any other supernatural on the planet, unless you’re counting Goblins, or any other bottom-feeding lesser fae, or the Morrígan, whose faces were used in many bedtime stories to scare the chiselers.

  “What’s your name anyway? I’m Finnegan. Pleased to make your… acquaintance.” Wiping the condensation off of my hand and onto my trouser leg, I thrust it towards him as a peace offering. Troll-boy looks at it as if he’d contract the plague from a single touch, or that he’d rather shit in his hands and clap before he ever shook the hand of an outsider. “Come on, you were an outsider once, it won’t bite, I promise.”

  The scowl quickly morphs into a sneer. “An outsider you might be, but that doesn’t mean I trust you as far as I could throw you.” Smiling to himself, he adds, “And believe me, I could throw you very, very far.”

  “Right… Okay. Dominance asserted. Anywho…” I nod my head back towards Remi and her posse. “When did the other two turn up?”

  Looking back at the Vampire, before turning back to me, he mumbles, “why?”

  Easy enough to answer, no need to sugar coat it. “Just curious, and I have no malicious intent.”

  I can see the cogs turning in his head, slowly, but turning nonetheless. It takes a minute, but he finally gets there, “This morning.”

  It’d be amazing if he would answer me in something more than one word sentences. “So, she’s a Vampire, right? And the guy, what’s he?” He looks at me, incredulously. I wipe my hand over my mouth, confused. “What? do I have something on my face?”

  “No,” he shakes his head, “You asked what he is… can’t you smell him?”

  “He’s too far away and there’s too many sweating, wriggling bodies between us.” He blanches slightly, which in itself, is ironic. Considering he’s a fucking Troll. “I can’t tell the difference between a species when they’re all sweating alcohol.”

  “Right, well… it’s just strange because he’s a dragon… can’t you recognise your own?”

  His sentence slaps me with a hard dose of reality. He looks smug at my reaction— probably because it looks like he literally slapped me, rather than figuratively. “He isn’t one of my own, I don’t recognise him.”

  Already cautious of my own surroundings, due to my own mounting paranoia. I survey this unknown dragon again. Not everyone in the Dragon Realm knows each other— that’s just blasphemous, but there are some that could’ve been hiding right under our noses for millenia without us even realising. My first thoughts are that he could be a spy, quite ironic, considering that many people would consider us spies, especially in the previous towns that we’ve ventured. He’s either a spy or a homicidal maniac, considering that they usually look like everyone else.

  He sticks out like a sore thumb in this pub which makes me question if he really is just… normal. In a supernatural sense— he lives a normal life and isn’t a gun for hire, because in this world, living in the in between is just a fantasy.

  I can see that he’s stocky and tall as fuck. Tall enough for spineless humans to weep over him anyway, they’d twirl their hair around their finger and pout and speak with a purr, “Only six foot tall? Wow, you’re so… big.” I can only imagine that height is just another way that a woman can judge a man’s cock size, as if large feet weren’t enough. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary about him, no scars or weird markings that I can see. I’m beginning to lose interest in this seemingly normal yet mysterious dragon when the man in question lifts his head slightly, angling it away from his woman and towards me. I expect some type of greeting, but what I recieve is a snarl.

  Taken aback, I stare at the bloke, shocked. Not many people know that there are only a few thousand dragons who live outside the Realm in peace, but this dragon definitely knows that I reside inside those suffocating stone walls, and he isn’t afraid to show it. It looks like I have my work cut out for me, so I incline my head to the stranger as an action of peace; I would not battle with a rogue dragon. It would be a scrappy and ruleless fight, one that should not happen in a bar— for instance.

  Relinquishing myself from my stare-off, I turn back to the bartender, whose name I still haven’t got and am unlikely to get, and he too, gives me a shitty reception.

  “Just because he’s a dragon, doesn’t mean he has to like you.”

  “I’m well aware, Troll. I don’t like me either some days.”

  “I hear you, Dragon.”

  I snigger at him. It’s beneath me to snigger at someone, but I did it anyway, “Are we resorting to addressing each other by our species now, or are you finally going to offer a name?” Leaning forward, I lower my voice, as if spilling a secret that isn’t mine to share. “You do realise I’m not Rumpelstiltskin right? I mean, I know the guy and he’s ten times crazier than I am. I’m also not a fan of asking for names for favours.” I smile, and hopefully it comes across friendly and not manic. Okay, it’s probably more manic than I anticipated as he keeps his distance. “Name?”

  Hesitantly, he replies, “Matthius.”

  Instead of stretching my hand out again for him to reject me, again, I tip the neck of the bottle towards him, my attitude calm and relaxed. “Nice to meet you, Matthius. I’m Finnegan O’Shea, but my friends call me Finn.” I move to take a swig from my beer, but then I realise that he’s staring at me.

  “Uh… you alright there Matthius? Cat got your tongue?”

  “Finnegan O’Shea… sounds pretty Irish if you ask me. With your ginger hair and freckled skin, I’d paint you as a great Irish stereotype, except you don’t sound Irish at all…” He looks me up and down, as if he’s assessing me, “Did you live in Ireland?”

  Okay so my poster-boy looks are overlooked by many, but not this guy. Some people are just more perceptive than I anticipate, but then again, battle strategy and war cries aren’t my speciality, that’s Remington’s. Deciding to humour the guy, I answer with small-truths, just as he did, “Well, yes, years and years ago, I did.”

  “You haven't been back for a while?”

  “Well, you know what they say about home.”

  His eyes narrow to thin sli
ts, assessing yet cautious, “No… what do they say about home?”

  “well, home is where the heart is, or rather, home is where the dogs are.”

  I try my hand at humour, but it seems that even humour confuses him. The heart bit is understandable, but the dog bit? Maybe he now thinks I’m mad. I mean, I’m not yet, but slowly we’ll all become mad someday. I should leave the jokes to Landon. I don’t know why, but I attempt to save my disastrous conversation.

  “What, do you not like dogs?”

  Startled, he answers. “Dogs are quite moreish actually, spit-roasted and spiced accordingly.”

  His reaction startles me, not expecting his brutally sarcastic, yet honest answer. I stare at the Troll in front of me, shocked. Both at his ability to be sarcastic and to be able to hold a straight face while talking about roasting small animals. Okay, well I really shouldn’t be surprised— considering he’s a Troll and well… that’s what Trolls do… eat… people and animals. But dogs? I shiver at the thought, which makes him smile like the beast he is, “Are there no dogs, nor hearts in Ireland then?”

  Now I reminisce in my thoughts of home. I haven’t been back since I was a small hatchling, but I still remember, as clear as day, the reason why we left. Da was a strong man who cared for us deeply though he never showed it. But there is no honor among thieves, and when he died, it was Ma and I left to fend for ourselves, and that meant that our survival in that cruel place was paramount.

  Ma was never the same, and I… I only wanted to make our lives better, stronger. So we fled to the Dragon Realm, the heart of our kind. My heart is there with her, but here, there are dogs.

  It means that I win and lose at every turn. But right now, the dogs are better than that wretched place I called home. Quickly downing the rest of my drink, I leave the empty bottle on the bartop in front of Matthius as I get up to start making my way out. It’s only his concerned gaze that makes me answer his awkward question.

  “Not anymore, there aren’t.”

  “Hey bartender! Can I get a drink over here?” This tall guy’s shout muffles the last words of my conversation with the troll, but that’s fine. I made my statement loud and clear so that he heard it. I watch as he shoots me an inquisitive look before heading over to the human. Well, that’s what I thought he was until I see the air glimmer around him. It’s then that I realise that I’m actually staring at a Changeling, a very human looking Changeling. Poor thing must still be wearing his human skin in plain sight, not knowing that in this town, he doesn’t need to. Matthius moves over slowly, not recognising the individual, so he’s cautious. I’m not surprised, everyone here is fucking cautious. Like they’re all walking around a live bomb or something, just waiting for the explosion to erupt.

  I watch the two from my place at the bar, while Matthius looks big and foreboding, this Changeling looks happy, he has an air of confidence about him that seems foreign in this bar, especially when he’s a newcomer and everyone is hesitant as fuck. The guy thrusts his hand out in the same manner that I did, and Matthius takes it gingerly, accepting the age-old custom of how not to be an ignorant fuck. It’s only then that the guy supplies his name.

  “Hi, I’m Felix, but my friends call me Dad.”

  “Dad?” Matthius looks at the boy, who can’t be more than twenty, and struggles to comprehend the situation. “You have children?”

  He laughs, but it mixes in with the cacophony of noises bouncing around the bar. Shaking his head, he replies. “Oh god no. Absolutely not. They call me dad because I act older than everyone else. I can’t help it— I like music from the eighties, and apparently that's not ‘cool’ anymore, so Dad it is.”

  “Alright Dad, welcome to Stonehold.” Looking across the bar, he asks, “what can I get you to drink?”

  “Don’t suppose you have Guinness do ya?”

  After listening to that small snippet of conversation, I make haste towards the exit. Although it’s still mind numbingly loud in here, the patrons are moving from their jerky belligerent dancing to the booths where they’re all happily cuddled around each other in their drunken stupor. The only few that remain standing are Remi and her small gathering, and a couple of Vampires holed out in the darkest corner of the bar.

  Thankfully none of them pay attention as I leave the establishment. It’s the only small mercy that I’m granted tonight, considering all of my dreams will be plagued with a long legged, pale skinned, coppered haired beauty. She could haunt me forever and I would welcome her like an old friend.

  “That’s because she’s ours, Finnegan. I can feel it, so you must feel it too.”

  And feel it, I do.

  The walk this morning is chipper, the breeze that dances across my skin raises goosebumps— my only visible reaction to the cold. Wearing a thick khaki coat and leggings under my jeans to combat the cold, I stand a good chance against feeling the freezing temperatures down in my bones. Becoming acclimated to a different country’s temperature is easy enough, but the chill still lingers like an ominous feeling on a dreary night.

  A short whine escapes the small mammal wrapped around my neck. In order for the fox to ride along with me, the collar of my coat has to stay open and my zipper can only be done up half-way to accommodate the furry lump who refuses to use his legs. Dramatic as always, Lucius would only shriek if I put his pretty little paws down on the damp, cold concrete.

  Burrowing down into my jacket again, soft little murmurs are the only sounds which come from Lucius. It’s fortunate that the walk to the Wonder Emporium isn’t far, but it is unfortunate that it's as cold as balls out here. What would I need from that whacky store? Oh, random things like crystals, incense sticks and plants for the bookshop. Not that I wouldn’t love some for my home, but my shelves couldn’t possibly hold any more miscellaneous items. It’s honestly just a reason for me to buy more random shit, but it does make the bookshop look and feel more calm and zen and shit.

  Plus, the bat-shit crazy lady who runs this store is kooky as fuck. A person who actively seeks out the weirdest shit in life, she focuses all of her energies into tarot, star charts and the zodiac charts. She’s a human combination of all things coincidentally spiritual. Out of all the oddities in this town, she’s the weirdest of the bunch and that's saying something.

  Looming in sight is the beaten up sign of Mystic Meg’s Wonder Emporium. Dark purple paint peels off of the wooden sign, its yellow lettering fading from the strength of the sun. The outside radiates a disheveled appearance, but the inside looks as if a fortune teller and a hipster got into a creative war. Purple coats every surface. The furniture is purple, the walls are purple, and even the bloody ceiling is fucking purple. I’d love to say it’s some derivative of purple, like violet or lilac but no, it’s aubergine purple.

  Aubergine fucking purple.

  The bell chimes behind me as the door slams shut. The sound resembles a loud explosion in the middle of the eerily silent room. Though the sound does nothing to alert Wanda to my presence. It’s only as Lucius lets out his high pitched hissing squeak that Wanda parts that beaded curtain and walks through as if she’s the high priestess. The only problem is, Wanda is no damn lady. The woman wears those heinous jumpers that you get from the local car boot meet, the ones with the wolves on? Those. She also wears long skirts no matter what the weather, but they are always decorated with clashing patterns. Her style is definitely eclectic. Purple dreads are bundled haphazardly on her head and she has a pair of glasses perched up there too, as well as another pair balancing precariously on her nose. Sometimes, she puts one pair in front of the other to make makeshift magnifying glasses.

  The older woman— not old, she is only sixty, holds out her arms towards me as if she’s wanting to smother me in a motherly hug. Strange, considering the woman has never given me a cuddle before and barely lets me within two feet of her. She claims that she’s a germaphobe but I know that she just doesn’t like being touched. So when she edges closer to me, I consider the possibility that this woma
n has been abducted by aliens or replaced by a changeling of some sort. Lifting my arms up to receive her hug, I get ready to embrace this weird lady in my arms but at the last second she pushes my arms away from her approaching form. Instead of coming to clasp me in her unyielding grasp, she pushes her thin skeletal fingers into my coat and pulls Lucius out, cuddling him to her chest instead. I sneer at the small fox, mouthing the words, “traitor.”

  “Oh shut up you degenerate, he loves his aunt Wandie.”

  Okay, so maybe I didn’t say it quietly enough. The sigh that leaves me is so unnaturally loud that it echoes throughout this purple madness she calls a shop, “Wanda, he only loves you because you feed him. He has no loyalty.”

  I hear her scoff as she turns away, taking Lucius back to the counter where she keeps all of his fox treats. She puts him down so that she can pull up his gigantic tub of goodies. The thing is with Wanda, is she doesn’t half-ass anything. Lucius’ treat tub has his name on it, and is covered in purple rhinestones from top to bottom. I thought I spoiled Lucius, but Wanda really takes the cake.

  I don’t interfere as Wanda starts to overfeed the devil incarnate, instead, I start grabbing things off of the shelves at random. A couple of candle holders, a fair few packs of incense sticks and some other miscellaneous shit. Thankfully Wanda’s shop is small enough that I can walk from one end to the other, but big enough that I could swing a cat in it. Tapestries decorate the walls, leaving only slithers of purple in between. It smells like pot-pourri has been thrown like confetti all over the place, because it bloody stinks in here.

  Bits, bobs and knick knacks stacked in my arms, I turn towards the till with the intent of paying, but Wanda stops me in my tracks. On the counter, she’s laid out her trusty tarot cards. I’m not sure I need to know my impending doom right now, I mean, I’m a little busy trying to do everything and nothing at the same time. The idea to run away pops into my head, but Wanda looks up from her cards and smiles— it isn’t not one of those nice older lady smiles, it’s the creepy ass killer clown smile and I’m not a fan.