Live and Let Lie

by F. A. Bentley

  “Flawed light,” Lis replied without missing a beat. “He’s got the same problem as me.”

  “And what problem could that possibly be?”

  Lis took off her boots and with a lazy yawn plopped her bare feet against the glove compartment. Her razor sharp toenails dug into the leather of the dash.

  “It’s called ‘dilution’,” she said.

  I perked an eyebrow high. “Say again?”

  Lis coiled her arms around her knees. “You remember that Pact me and Abla get to operate under and how it’s kinda like the Supernatural equivalent of the Geneva Convention, right? Well, the thing in itself isn’t enough to keep out all the teeming goody two shoes Angels in Heaven. They’re the sort of hopelessly selfless beings that’d gladly give their immortal lives to save even a single sin-riddled Human.”

  “What are you trying to get at?”

  Lisistrathiel closed her eyes and leaned back in the leather seat. Her exhaled breath poured out of her mouth like thick smoke, “I’m saying that being around Mortals for prolonged periods of time has this nasty habit of corrupting both Heavenly and Infernal beings alike. You’re like nuclear radiation to us.”

  My heart skipped a beat. My instincts screamed. Something felt off about all this. But what?

  “Explain,” I said.

  “Think about it this way Charlie: Angels and Devils are like white and black t-shirts. We’re pristine and pure in our goodness or evil. Humans however are dirty multicolored t-shirts with rips and stains all over and which you usually only wear to the gym or the occasional rugby game.”

  “Hold on. So you’re trying to tell me that--”

  “Hanging out with Humans for long periods of time tends to dilute us. Yes. Put a white shirt into the same wash with a red and congrats, your white shirt is now hot pink. Black shirts are more resilient, but they get stained and smelly and gray with enough washes just as well as white t-shirts. It’s partly why Devils go through the whole ‘possessing’ thing. Fun fact.”

  Her explanation was all the evidence I needed. If Lis thought that she’d pull the wool over my eyes this time she had me figured out all wrong.

  This was way too good to be true. If what she said was fact, not fiction, it would probably be one of the most closely guarded secrets in the Supernatural world. Lis was lying through her damn teeth.

  Chapter 29

  “Admitting to me with almost no provocation something that sounds like a crippling disadvantage that ought to be jealously guarded?” I asked Lis, holding back a smirk. “Just how stupid do you think I am? This is round one in your deception game.”

  Jagged eyebrows furrowed. “It is? You sure? You know I could just dislike Abla enough to go out of my way to uh, ‘lead you astray’ from him, so to speak,” Lis said, chuckling wickedly.

  “Of course I’m sure. Now drop the act.”

  Lis’ lips widened, her literally forked tongue lolled out the side of her mouth gleefully. “Congratulations then. You’re one hundred and ten percent wrong. Wow Charlie, you’re even worse at this than I thought. You’re very incorrect and you should feel very bad for being this incorrect.”

  My breath caught in my throat. My heart froze over. A false lead? “Bullshit.”

  “You must have some strange misconception about how often I feed you fibs. Angels and Devils can, over a long period of time, become diluted by hanging out with Humans. I swear it to be true. We totally can’t help it. Rank and willpower and faith make very little difference. In other words, I deceived you by telling you a truth I knew you’d never believe. So,” Lis said, rubbing her hands together, “Just how should I punish an unrepentant unbeliever like you, hmm?”

  The car slowed as my legs went limp. A cocktail of emotions whirled around within my brain, though not the usual suspects. I felt courage, not fear. Hope, not melancholy. All shaken, not stirred.

  If what Lis said was true, then I had a real chance to redeem her. I gripped the steering wheel and pumped the acceleration as my heart danced. The punishment didn’t matter anymore. This information was as close to Lis admitting that she could be saved as if she’d begged me to save her with tears in her--

  My train of thought was completely derailed as I suddenly became aware of a pair of molten bronze eyes searing into me. A frown of disapproval curled devilish lips downwards.

  “Charlie,” Lis said, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Why are you smiling like a creepy weirdo? I’m about to make your life unpleasant. Cower or something.”

  “Do your worst,” I said, struggling to wipe the smirk off my face.

  Another moment of staring, and then Lis fell back in her seat, her hand pressed against her eyes in a pose of grief-stricken tragedy. “Oh no. I should have seen it sooner. How could I have missed the red flags? To think that all along Charlie was a massive perverted maniac desperately looking forward to the next chance he’d have to get mentally messed up. Practically drooling at the thought of getting walked all over by me!”

  I did a double take. “Wait. What?”

  “No no, don’t you worry Charlie. Don’t you say another word. I’ll just take the wheel, drive you over to the next town and have you committed to an insane asylum for the criminally deviant. You can get help there. Maybe even be cured of your freakish masochistic need to be picked on by a sweet innocent vir--”

  The car swerved as I clamped a hand down onto Lis’ mouth. I felt her lips splay in a diabolical grin beneath my hand. It tickled.

  “Good save,” she said, her hot breath washing over my bare palm, “I almost dropped the V-bomb there.”

  “Just hurry up and punish me, damn you,” I cursed, my hand returning to the steering wheel.

  Jagged eyebrows rose high. “‘Hurry up and punish me’? I was just joking about you getting off on this but apparently you’re really desperate for some abuse. Do I need to look into getting dominatrix gear or something?”

  “Go straight to Hell,” I spat.

  “That’s more like it. Here,” Lis said, pressing her sharp fingernail into my cheek. A cold shiver wound up my spine at the touch. “Charlie, I curse you with paranoia.”

  “I’m already cursed with paranoia,” I retorted.

  Wiping my cheek, I noticed a tiny droplet of blood smeared on my hand. Her fingernail pierced the skin even though I didn’t feel a thing. Uh oh.

  “This is industrial grade paranoia,” Lis said, slowly fitting her boots back on, “Maybe now you’ll be a bit more careful about your deception picks instead of just cracking jokes.”

  “My humor is a coping mechanism for the constant stream of trauma I suffer at your hands,” I shot back.

  “Compliments won’t save you this time, Chumbo. Go have fun in Shuycha. I’m gonna take a stroll through the woods til you’re done.”

  Without any hesitation Lis jumped out of the Ferrari while it was still going eighty miles an hour and landed without a stumble. She waved until I lost sight of her in the rear view mirror.

  Usually you find Devils at a crossroads, not drop them off at one.

  A sign made out of wood caught my eye as I turned my gaze back to the road. I could barely make out the word Shuycha on it.

  “Wake up,” I said to Zophie and the priest. “We’re there.”

  Chapter 30

  Calling Shuycha a town was a clear cut case of hyperbole. I counted a meager eight homesteads in sight, spread out in small openings amid the trees. They looked like they’d been there forever and more than half of them seemed to have been in a state of ruin for most of that forever.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m a city slicker, but I don’t think there’s much to actually investigate here, Father,” I said to the priest.

  The Popov turned his steely gaze towards me, his neck craning to make sure both of his eyes were firmly fixed upon me.

  “It’s all I’ve got up my sleeve, boy,” he said.

  “It used to be larger, it seems,” Nuhl added, rubbing the last of the sleep from her eyes.

&
nbsp; “So you’ve noticed it too,” Popov replied, “Good eye.”

  A gesture towards a pile of rubble and I understood what they were talking about. Near the central point of the ‘town’ stood a church of the Orthodox persuasion, and around it gathered a graveyard of bulldozed abodes.

  “Burn marks. Not just on the cottages, but the church as well. Orders, Nuhl?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever hear those words come out of your mouth,” she replied. “Popov take the outer cottages. Charles take the general store. I’ve got the church.”

  We split up and got to work. Truth be told investigation wasn’t exactly my favorite part of a mission, but after Lis’ last interference I was glad to have a chance to test out her little curse on my own.

  I made it into the general store, larger than the average cottage, and kicked the snow off my feet as I entered. The light came exclusively from the fireplace, where a dim sputtering flame cast eerie shadows across the room. I felt like I’d jumped back in time three hundred years.

  “Privyet gospodi-- ah?” I heard a feminine voice speak.

  A short unassuming blonde dressed in plain clothes sat behind the main desk. It was set up a little like a convenience store cashier. I offered the young woman a smile and a reassuring nod.

  “Privyet. Speak English?” I asked.

  The woman smiled. As I approached her hand gripped something behind the wooden counter. My heart leaped into my throat as a flash of light glinted off a hunting knife.

  I reeled, my hand darting to my wand as the woman gave a startled gasp. A second look at the ‘weapon’ confirmed my mistake.

  “Just a ballpoint pen,” I said out loud, shaking my head.

  Dammit. I had to get a grip.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the woman meekly put pen to paper and wrote out a barely legible line in English.

  “You write, but can’t understand spoken English?” I muttered.

  I took the pen and wrote ‘Do you know a man called Nikita Gogol?’

  After a moment’s inspection the blonde replied with a shake of her head. I sighed. Of course she wouldn’t. She barely looked twenty years old. Nikita Gogol must have been born in this town, what, two hundred years ago? The long lives wizards usually lead sure can be inconvenient.

  Nearly turning about and leaving empty handed, an idea came to my head at the last second. Taking up the pen I wrote ‘Does this town have any good Fairy Tales?’

  The woman’s smile evaporated and her eyes turned away from me. She fidgeted with the hem of her dress before building up enough courage to take the pen from my hand and writing down a response.

  “Grandmother told me the town was burned down because of Fairies,” I read out loud. “I don’t believe it, but she said once upon a time there was a young woman born to Shuycha who could cast magic. Call rain. Bless the farms. She even kept a pet owl, the stories go. Half the stories grandma would tell were about how much that woman loved her owl, and the sort of trouble they’d get into.”

  A pet owl? Perhaps this story had more truth to it than it seemed. The owl sounds an awful lot like the woman’s Familiar.

  ‘Seems pretty nice for a witch. What happened to her?’ I wrote.

  The girl gave me a shy smile. She wrote her response. “The story goes that in the end Shuycha got burned down because of the friendly witch,” I read aloud. “Men came hunting Fairies, and chased her out of town and onto a frozen lake. The ice cracked and she drowned. Depending on who tells the story she either swore revenge and broke the ice to take as many hunters with her, or she did it in despair to make sure they didn’t catch and torture her. Or worse.”

  I dragged a hand down my face. It’s easy to forget old fashioned Fairy tales always have dark endings.

  Chapter 31

  “Legend has it her owl never forgave the men. That’s why all the snow white owls glare at intruders in our forests. Cursing them with bad luck. It’s just an old story though,” read the last line.

  Unconsciously I nodded my head. There were kernels of truth in old stories. Myths were as often half forgotten histories as they were fabrications. This woman that lived in Shuycha coincided with Gogol’s presence there. She was a skilled sorceress and seemed to be on friendly terms with the Fairies of the woods too. Most importantly of all though, she had a Familiar.

  Maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way. Maybe the witch in the story never drowned. And maybe, just maybe, an Archmagister like Gogol was more illusion than man.

  I shook my head. No, there’s no confirmation for any of this. Just because there’s a few coincidences doesn’t mean that Gogol’s actually a chick. That’s your libido talking, Charles.

  Smiling my thanks I left the girl behind the desk and stepped outside.

  “It really wasn’t much of a hope,” spoke a gruff voice as I closed the door to the general store behind me.

  “Popov,” I said. “I actually got a bit of a hint, thank you very much.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “When it comes to hunting down Gogol’s type the slightest hint might mean the difference between life and death. That being said our chances are nowhere near good.”

  A grin crawled onto my face, “We’re going to end up bonding with all these pessimistic back and forths, Father.”

  As I spoke the words a trio of unkempt and destitute men shuffled past us. Scoping out the outsiders? They looked like they’d been hunting in the woods for half a winter without toilet paper.

  Furtive. Reluctant. Suspicious. Useful traits for those who want to avoid trouble at any cost. I wonder if they killed outsiders who asked too many questions and hid their bodies in snow banks.

  I shook my head. They’re normal people. Relax.

  “I take it the natives have been less than useful?” I asked the priest.

  “Half don’t know anything,” replied Popov. “The other half don’t want to talk about it. Maybe your superior had superior fortune with the church.”

  “We can only pray,” I replied smartly.

  “Very funny,” the priest said, sounding anything but.

  “So what do you think of all this, Popov?” I asked, walking by him as we made our way towards the town center.

  “Gogol is at least two hundred years old by now. Ancient by Human standards. Of course no one from his little backwater town remembers anything about him except the fact that he vaguely had something to do with some barn burning.”

  “And what about your own insights? Do you think the good Archmagister was the reason behind Shuycha getting burnt to a crisp?” I asked.

  “No. Purifying fire is the hallmark of my illustrious order. The Black Rose did the burning. No mistake.”

  As we approached the square, Zophie and a remarkably bald, ashen man exited the church. The pungent scent of smoke assaulted my nostrils and wafted off the man like smoke.

  Just vapors. It’s winter Charles. The priest is not actually on fire. Easy now.

  The priest looked downright miserable. He didn’t so much as wait for Nuhl to get off the church door step before shutting the door as fast as his feeble arms could manage.

  “Any luck Nuhl?” I called out.

  “Records confirm it. Sort of. There was someone by the name of Gogol here two hundred years ago, but there’s no actual birth record of him. Just a name and a date. The priest told me his predecessor would whisper stories about the olden days to him all the time. Avoided specifics though.”

  “Perfect then,” Popov said. “We’ve got half a story and are not one step closer to solving this mystery. We know where the Lord of Familiars started off, but not where he ended up.”

  “Good thing we only talked to half the potential suspects then,” I said.

  Popov and Nuhl turned to look at me incredulously. “Half the suspects?”

  I smiled, nudging my head in the direction of the woods. “That’s right. Where better to find the other half of this story than in the clutches of the local Fairies? I bet some of
them are old enough to have even been witnesses. Let’s get to work.”

  Chapter 32

  Despite being considered two sides to a coin and thus incapable of coexisting peacefully, the Mundane and the Supernatural that live close together tend to affect each other. At least that’s how I was justifying the peculiar similarities I saw before me.

  The woods weren’t exactly teeming with life, but every once in a while the distorted figure of a being peeked out from behind a tree or made its presence felt, hiding among crooked branches up above.

  “Lots of Supernaturals. Especially considering the Order purged the area. This place must have been teeming before,” I said.

  “No wonder they targeted it then,” Popov said.

  The priest paused to cast his gaze up. On a branch a trio of owls were visible in the afternoon light. Snow white. Golden eyed. They stared in mute curiosity at Popov as the man grit his teeth.

  “Most unsettling. Why are they staring at me?” he muttered.

  “Complaining about your popularity at this age, old man?” I asked.

  “Shut up you two. You’re scaring them all off,” Nuhl said.

  She was right. The Supernaturals all avoided us like we were giving out religious pamphlets. Some, however, seemed gripped at an impasse between fear and all consuming curiosity, peeking past skeletal bush branches and leering around the trunks of the crowding trees.

  “They remind me of the villagers somehow,” I said. “We should catch one.”

  Zophie nodded. “I don’t see how else we’re going to get them to talk. Here’s the plan: I’ll anti magic one to stop it from getting away. The long range spell won’t last but you two should have enough time to catch it.”

  “I’d like to remind you that I have brochures for retirement homes back in my apartment,” Popov muttered.

  “No problem. I should be fine on my own anyways.”

  Just as I finished speaking I thought I heard cracking beneath the snow. As a child I’d read with a certain morbid fascination all sorts of tales about gruesome deaths. The forest reminded me of the very real possibility of half frozen rivers and streams hidden beneath the snow. I could find myself drowning with just one false step.