Scribbler Guardian 2: Seven Sons of Zion

by Lucian Bane

  “Of course,” Poe said, his disturbance growing with every second.

  She turned to Sabre. “So what are you doing here?”

  “Ensuring your safety to the Queen.”

  She smiled and turned joyful eyes to Poe. “He’ll help us.”

  Poe bit back the rush of words, certain all of them would serve to make a jealous fool of him. “We can use all the help.” He’d just barely managed to choke up the foul syllables while reeling over this un-divulged story and pen name of hers. Sarah Marks. Wait, help them get to the Queen? The idea of having him in their company for any length of time beyond another second was pure mind mutilation and he’d not have it.

  But how to stop it when he’d just regurgitated his agreement?

  “Why should you want to do this?” Poe didn’t trust him and was sure the good riddance of him should be found in that. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” he asked.

  “Many reasons,” Poe said.

  “Like?” he asked, lightly.

  “I asked you first,” Poe shot back at realizing he’d evaded the first question.

  He shrugged. “You should trust me because I have the same feelings for Sarah as you do for Contessant. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself.”

  Poe’s blood boiled. He wanted to look at Contessant but didn’t dare unlock his gaze from the smirker to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t believe a word… Poe realized then. Contessant hadn’t denied it. He looked at her, unable to help himself. Having to know. Divinities. There she stood, gaze lowered. Guilt-ridden.

  Poe fought to think logically, feeling like it was his only defense. If he loved her as Poe did, then why not write himself into her life instead of him? Poe borrowed his Scribbler’s Earthly expression and called definite baboon bullshit on his highly unlikely story.

  The neurons on two legs snickered a little. “Baboon bullshit,” he muttered. “Good one.”

  “Well, while you’re listening to my thoughts, perhaps you could answer the prior one?” Poe quirked a brow.

  “I did muse upon her to write me. But she wasn’t the same girl. The dark time had changed her. She heard what she heard.” He gestured to Poe. “And thus… you were born. Muse Rider.”

  Poe fought his growing disgust. How dare he imply he was a mal-mused creation? And just wait a divine moment. If what he said were truly the case, then Mr. Sabre had certainly lost, hadn’t he? He’d mis-mused and yes, here was Poe. Madly in love with Contessant, his wife, and she, his wife, madly in love with him.

  So the question remained. Why did he want to help?

  “You misunderstand, Mr. Poe,” the man said, shaking his amazed head at him. “I,” he placed his hand on his chest, at which point Poe noted was unclothed beneath the coat, “do not need her love.” He held that same hand out to her. “I merely needed her… to be loved.”

  Poe stood there, never having been so thoroughly confounded in such a short span of time—aside from when Kane had solved the Quark’s puzzle. But this… this was similar only with a slow build.

  He took a slow breath, drawing on his favored strengths—logic. He was not prone to being steered with emotions but he could not deny, that’s what was happening. But did that mean the logic was illogical merely because his emotions were wound in it? No. It was, however, logical to assume that his reasoning might be tainted by his emotions since he once considered the trait not prone to sound judgement. But that did not mean one could not have passion while being… logical.

  Poe angled his head at this individual and faced his problem head on—the jealous one which clearly hindered him. What exactly was he jealous of? Poe analyzed it and the conclusion was simple—everything. He didn’t want, like, or ever would, share any aspect of Contessant with anyone.

  But the bottom line remained. Jealousy had no place in a time like this.

  “How do you intend to help us?” Poe asked.

  The smile the man gave said he was about to turn that inch into a mile. “I know the realm like the back of my hand.”

  “So do I,” Poe said.

  The man shook his head slowly, still holding his grin. “Not like that. I mean… know. As in all the dirty intricate details you never wished to soil your pristine mind with.” He put his hands on his hips, putting his massive chest and Tarzan nipples on display. “See, when I say I know the realm, I also mean I know all the characters therein. I know how to get you to the Queen. Currently, at the rate you’re going, you’ll have all of Octava in a civil war before you set foot at the capital.”

  Poe drew back a bit. “How so?”

  He looked at Contessant. “Does he have any idea of how many books you’ve written?” He turned to Poe then. “Consider Dylan Jones.” He pointed to Contessant. “She will either be revered by her creation, or hated and crucified. To them, she is a cruel God that has given, then taken away, everything they loved. Depending on the story. And as you know, most of her stories do not end well.” He slowly leaned until his back hit the wall. “Which means you’re going to have a lot of angry people once the ‘ohhhh and ahhhh it’s our Scribbler’, wears off.” He spread his arms wide with raised brows. “Not only do I know every single one of her creations, I know where they are, and how they feel about her.” His lips went into a thin line of misfortune. “Most hate her guts, I’m afraid.”

  Quarks that was bad indeed. And as much as Poe loathed anybody… having such fondness for Contessant to such a degree, his brain refused the fruitless emotion any place in his tactical strategy.

  “I can get you safely there by tonight.”

  Why are you doing this kept popping in Poe’s mind, still feeling very much part of the equation.

  “I am here to protect her,” he said.

  Poe didn’t miss the with or without your permission in the calm words. Divinities, he didn’t have time for this puzzle out of nowhere. And he needed some kind of assurance, anything, that would make Poe feel halfway in his rights for trusting this man to actually lead them to the Queen and not straight to the Paranormal Guardian.

  “I will give you something,” the man said.

  Poe’s frustration mounted with the character’s incessant mind reading despite the shields he erected to prevent him. He just seemed to barge right through them. “What could you possible give me?”

  He held his hand out and Poe regarded it.

  “Put your hand in mine. It will only take a couple of seconds. Literally.”

  Curiously compelled, Poe did as he said. Two seconds later, Poe stared at him stunned into silence.

  “You won’t remember it,” he said. “But do you feel it? No more fear?”

  Poe considered, searching for the distrust he’d felt, unable to remotely find it. All he felt was… He regarded the man, astonished. “What did you do?”

  “I showed you what you needed to see.”

  “What was it?”

  He winced a little. “Well see, I can’t actually tell you so I showed you then took it back. I put it in a part of your mind that remembers subconsciously. That way you know but you don’t know.”

  His clever grin didn’t irk Poe as thoroughly as it had been up to that point. He very much wanted to think that maybe he tricked him, but his mind said he didn’t. His mind said he was being honest.

  Poe decided to do something he’d never done, not in such a way at least. He trusted. Trusted that which he couldn’t see or know for a certainty.

  Chapter Nine

  Fifteen minutes later, they sat in a corner booth of some restaurant named The Devil’s Twin. It was joined to the horror box they’d just left. Poe and Sabre joined powers to shield them from Contessant’s hostile creations, a collaboration which Poe didn’t mind. He wanted to learn more about him, but after ten minutes of striving to learn a single thing, Poe was left exhausted with Sabre merely smiling and shaking his head. He gave up for the time being and waited for Sabre’s mysterious friend to perform that trick he felt was impo
ssible to do.

  As they sat there, Poe’s feelings continued to change about Sabre, and not in a good way. While he didn’t distrust him, he didn’t like him. At all. He was certain it had something to do with how kind, careful, and protective he was with Contessant. And her being very oblivious to how he affected her didn’t help him. Like a star-struck lover. Part of him understood why she might, since this amazingly handsome, flawless, strong, and good, so very good character was created at such a tender age. The other part of him thought it downright wrong. She should have no type of fascination of this magnitude, for anybody, especially a man. It was unhealthy. He hadn’t pinpointed the exact psychosis, but would.

  And then what?

  “Why can’t we just place a shield over Contessant?” Poe said. “Our powers together would be enough.”

  Sabre shrugged. “I prefer to have all of our energies available. And this guy owes me. Let him.”

  “Energy available for what?” Contessant wondered before Poe could ask the very same. Sabre knew something and wasn’t telling. That’s what it was, Poe realized. He was being too calm while being so suddenly there and concerned.

  Sabre shrugged a little. “Can’t be sure.”

  Either way, Poe agreed with him on the needing their energy for whatever might come. Poe’s gut said something was going to happen, and soon.

  “This place is really hard to get used to,” Contessant whispered, trying not to look around.

  “I imagine it is,” Sabre said with his all-knowing-but-no-telling smile.

  Poe regarded him, ready to drag things out of him and get to whether he actually did know or only pretended to. “You know about the Seven Arks?” Poe tested.

  “The Seven Arks?” Sabre narrowed his brows briefly then laughed. “Kidding, yes. I know of the Seven Arks.” Poe’s hope fizzled out as quickly as it had sparked. Before he could inquire further, Sabre bragged on, “I also know about you being the Eighth Ark of Octave, the trip to Earth, the Tabard, and how you got back. This is why I need to ensure she makes it to the Queen.”

  “Right,” Poe said, wondering how in the world he knew all that while his mind gravitated toward getting as much details as he could.

  “Oh, look!” Sabre whispered, barely pointing to the right. “That’s Bill. Let me introduce you.” Sabre scooted out of the seat and went over to the man at the counter.

  “Oh my God,” Contessant hissed when Sabre left. “There are people in here that are transparent, Poe!”

  Poe turned to her then, more concerned about other things. “Contessant,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  She looked into his eyes and the love in her gaze and soft smile caused a pile up of thoughts in his mind. He became aware of his hammering pulse as he devoured the signs still there, her passion for him and all its facets, still very much intact. There was suddenly only one thing to communicate and one way in which to do that. He held her face and gave her a discreetly hungry kiss.

  She smiled and pulled his ear to her mouth, burning him with her whisper. “Mr. Poe. Do not for a second think my heart isn’t entirely yours. And my body.”

  Heat speared him through and through, just as Sabre returned with his Indie-freak-show.

  “Bill, this is my good friend Jeramiah, and his wife, Contessant.” Sabre made the surprisingly proper introductions with a gesture of his hand.

  It was rather irksome how the man went from offending and mending all in the same breath. He wasn’t accustomed to being jerked this way and that way.

  “Nice to meet you,” the man said, reaching a hand out to Poe. “It’s not the best time for me to mingle,” he muttered to Sabre while Poe spied his attire. Was he a bum in his story or out?

  “Oh,” Sabre said, sounding overly curious. “Is it… that time?”

  That time?

  “Afraid so.”

  Poe listened carefully as Sabre assured him in a squeal of whispers, “Not to worry! Sit. These here are good people. Contessant is a Scribbler, and Jeramiah is a First Class Miskriat, like us.”

  The man sat, smiling with happy eyes while looking at Contessant. “It’s always nice when Scribbler’s create Scribblers. So creative.” Poe let out a breath of relief and caught Sabre’s clever wink his way, demonstrating how well he knew this character.

  “I, for one, am blessed with a great Scribbler,” Bill said, scratching the scruff on his face. “She’s very creative. So creative, she can rarely decide on things.”

  “How nice,” Contessant said. Poe regarded her to see what she looked like while lying. “What is your story about?”

  “Many things,” he said with a smile. “It started as a thriller,” he whispered. His twinkling blue eyes suddenly turned brown and Poe and Contessant drew back a little.

  “What?” He looked worried, touching his face. “What happened?”

  “Your eye color just changed,” Contessant said, amazed.

  Bill leaned forward. “She’s working right now. Well, fiddling. She likes to do that on Sundays at about this time.” He grimaced uncomfortably. “I usually stay in on Sundays. I don’t get stares or anything but it just seems… private. Like changing clothes in front of people.”

  Yes, changing one’s body parts ranked perfectly with that.

  “Plus, I had this freebie that expired today. I won it from sweeping the floors.”

  Won money while working? Interesting.

  “Oh,” Contessant said, as Poe grabbed her hand under the table. “Like a job.”

  “No, it was a game I won,” he corrected, eagerly. “Whoever got the broom first and swept the restaurant, won.” He leaned and conceded in a whisper, “The owner likes me. I think he let me win.” The man winked and smiled his biggest grin yet.

  Divinities. So, Bill obliviously shared a sham of a friendship with a thieving owner. Poe concluded he was likely very young in mind, or impaired. The notion sparked Poe’s anger and he eyed Sabre, surprised—and yet not—to find raised brows and a likewise emotion in his blue gaze.

  Sabre leaned in. “Bill is one of the best kind of friends to have. Never boring.”

  Bill laughed, and his short cropped black hair suddenly vanished, making Poe startle and Contessant gasp. Usually these things happened like a gradual but quick morphing—or the backspace key. But in Bill’s case, it zapped away, like the Scribbler had been struck in the head and fell upon the delete function.

  The man’s hand shot up to his head, as though realizing, perhaps feeling the sudden draft. “Uh oh. Wonder what I’ll be this week? I can never be sure.” He leaned in, clearly practiced with this process. “I’ve been twenty-two nationalities since I’ve been born,” he said proudly. “It used to bother me not knowing what I was going to be or what I was going to do from one day to the next, but like Sabre says, it can be exciting to live so many different lives. Sabre thinks she’s sorting through all of it and will settle on the best very soon. Process of elimination.” He gave a single quipped nod with his dazzling smile.

  Divinities. Maybe it was the Scribbler that was touched in the head. Whatever they were, they shouldn’t be allowed near writing tools.

  “H-how long has your Scribbler been writing?” Contessant wondered as though she were thinking along the same lines.

  “Well, she only gets to work once a week on me. She’s very busy, I imagine.”

  “I imagine,” Contessant said. “Scribbling can be… a hobby. For many.”

  “Is that what you are? A Hobby Scribbler?”

  “I… I write for a living,” Contessant said, flashing a look at Sabre.

  “So you have time to finish your characters,” he said joyfully, so very happy for them. “That’s good,” he added with a nod before leaning forward abruptly. “Last week I was an astronaut! I had the space suit on and everything.”

  “Wow,” Contessant said. “That’s exciting.” Again Poe regarded her. She was a fantastic liar.

  “Then I was zoo keeper.” The man’s face turned a little perplexed. �
��But… it was kind of weird? I didn’t even like animals. I actually hated them.” His eyes were wide with worry. “Wasn’t sure how that would work as a zoo keeper.”

  “Right,” Contessant said, her expression mirroring Bill’s.

  Bill turned to Sabre. “Did I tell you she made me a single mother that was forced into prostitution?”

  Sabre gave a good times nod. “You did.”

  Bill looked at them. “Now that was an experience.”

  “Do you… do you remember all these experiences?” Contessant asked.

  He seemed to think about it. “I do.” Then he looked unsure. “Some of it? Maybe pieces.”

  “It’s a lot to remember,” Contessant said. “Right, Poe?”

  Poe realized her leg squeeze wasn’t a gesture of affection but a cue. “Right. Quite a lot of information to digest.”

  “So enough about me,” Bill said, looking at Poe now. “What do you do?”

  “I… am in a type of fantasy.”

  “Your Scribbler finished you?”

  “Not quite.” Poe grabbed Contessant’s hand and squeezed hard enough to make her smile.

  “Maybe another hobby Scribbler,” Bill muttered while leaning in. “But you are a First class Miskriat,” he reminded.

  Poe nodded once, fingering the ends of Scribbler’s nails. “Yes.”

  “Me too,” he said, seeming proud.

  A waitress dressed up like a demon, stopped with a tray and set down four glasses of what Poe imagined was a type of beverage. He took up his glass and smelled the contents. He was not one to drink the concoctions of Earth’s realm, but perhaps once wouldn’t hurt. He held the glass toward the man. “To a long lease on life.”

  While the man laughed, his entire character transformed. Poe’s glass froze at his mouth as Bill went from a middle aged white man with no hair, to a black man with long dreadlocks.

  Bill noticed right away and looked down at himself. “Rastafarian! Eh, man! I think my Scribbler is partial, this is my fourth time for this one. I hope I’m not a murderer this time, I don’t enjoy that kind of life.”

  “She’s getting close to picking,” Sabre said, raising his glass in wide eyed salute.