Scribbler Guardian 2: Seven Sons of Zion

by Lucian Bane

  The feeding rage lasted and lasted. He wasn’t aware bodies could sweat on Octava outside a story world. But a generous sheen covered both of them and Contessant suddenly braced her palm against his chest.

  Poe’s body heaved, recognizing it as a white flag of I surrender. No more.

  He pushed away from her, realizing just how far he’d gone. Then he froze, staring at her. A pattern of scrollwork glowed in her skin, beginning at the center of her forehead. It continued down the left side of her face and neck and… he froze again, following it over the swell of her left breast, then down the center of her body where it finally ended at her naval.

  Poe’s muscles went slowly rigid in fury at realizing what it was. Sabre. Sabre’s mark on her.

  “What’s wrong?” she huffed, her eyes still half closed. “I just need… a moment. To get… my second wind.”

  “I’m going to kill him!” Poe grit.

  “What?” she whispered. “Who? Kill who?”

  “Sabre,” he said through clenched teeth. “Look at your face, your body!”

  At seeing her struggle to move, guilt hit him and he quickly helped her off the sink to stand. “God, are you hurt?” Is anything broken, he wanted to ask. He wouldn’t be shocked. He’d performed intimate relations with her like a rabid animal in the final hours of its sickness. At close inspection, his breath froze at seeing blood on various parts of her neck and shoulders. Teeth marks! Dear God, he had been bitten by the Vamps!

  “No, I’m… I’m okay. Will be a bit sore maybe,” she said, still gasping for air as she looked in the mirror. She gave another huge gasp. “Oh, my Gad, the hell is that?”

  “Aside from my sick abuse, it’s just a simple mark,” Poe muttered in rage, pacing with the need to get his hands around Sabre’s neck. Any neck would do. “He gobbed a full body tattoo on you that glows when I… God, look at you, there is no name for what I even did! None that I care to speak!” Poe all but yelled.

  The look on Scribbler’s face tickled at the hunger he’d just fed. “You…” She licked her lips, seeming breathless again. “It’s called… owned me. And you certainly did… and do… own me.”

  His wrath mixed with this new deprivation and made him snarl like an animal. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispered, grabbing his head.

  “Oh… dear Poe.” Her words trembled out lightly. “Pretty sure… it’s not wrong, it’s…” she gasped a light laugh. “It’s very right. So… very perfectly. Right.”

  He angled his head at her. “Scribbler…” he warned, feeling the fiery hunger enter his gaze. “Unless you want another round of what I just gave… do not talk. Not like that. Or wear that look on your face.”

  “But… I can’t help it,” she whispered.

  He stared at her for many seconds in a vicious fight with himself. “Divnities!” he finally growled. “You’re human! And I am sure I will break you if I am allowed to sate what burns in me. Look at this!” He turned her to the mirror and pointed at every mark he’d put on her body. “This is not me!”

  “But it can be,” she said to his shock.

  A knock sounded on the door and Poe jerked to open it, needing to strangle something.

  “Your clothes!” Contessant hissed.

  “Who is it,” Poe demanded, hurrying to dress.

  “The Queen is waiting.”

  Poe strained to make out the voice and eyed Contessant as he dressed. Eyed her with an insatiable hunger. “I am no better off than I was before.”

  “What do you mean?” she whispered in a distressed voice, fighting to get her clothes back on.

  “I mean I have all but stoked a fire rather than quenched it.”

  “Ohhhhh that,” she whispered. “Mercy me.”

  “Do not!”

  “Do not what!” The laughter peeked again in her voice.

  “Do not tempt me more, I cannot handle it. Something is wrong, something has happened to me. I think I was bit by one of those Were-Vamps, I am experiencing ineffable amounts of hunger for you suddenly.”

  “I’ll try not to be offended.”

  “What on Octava for?” he said, raking his fingers through his hair, his mind burning him with visions of her pulling it so very hard and yet not hard enough. Nothing had been hard enough for him during that.

  “That you didn’t always feel this for me.”

  “This is no time for joking,” he said, helping her straighten her blouse collar and smoothing her silky hair. That hunger stabbed him and before he could resist, he grabbed her face and kissed her, devouring her like a starved man, sounds and all. He pulled up with a growl. “See?”

  “I do, I do,” she said, eyes closed as though she only wanted more.

  “Divnities, you are no help!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her lids fluttering open.

  He regarded her a second. “You are not.”

  “Right. You’re right, I’m not.”

  He pulled her out the bathroom while peeking into the room beyond. “It’s empty,” he whispered. “I will find out what Sabre has done. Maybe he’s behind my problem too. Maybe whatever he did to you has initiated some Armageddon in me. Stop laughing, Scribbler,” he growled.

  “I can’t help it!” she hissed behind him. “Slow down.”

  “I don’t want to be late, we likely already are. Late to the most important meeting Octava has ever had.”

  “Well that’s your fault Mr…. Rapester.”

  “God, it was exactly that! Just like that, an assault.”

  “It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced if you must know the truth.”

  “Astounding,” he muttered. “I can only assume you are not dead because you are on Octava.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, stifling laughter.

  She laughed but he was truly astounded she’d not suffered worse injuries. “This is it,” Poe said, stopping at a pair of large doors, flanked with guards. They were promptly scanned and ushered through.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The Rider and the Scribbler,” the Queen announced, gesturing to empty chairs at the far end of the large table. “As you can see, there are three Province Guardians missing from this meeting. I have a justified notion why Parasia, the Paranormal Guardian, isn’t here, but I cannot be certain why Comodian, Guardian of the Comedy Province, and Sciantica, Guardian of the Science-Fiction Province, are not.”

  “Shall we send a scouting party to discern if Comodian and Sciatica are in trouble?” one of the members asked. Poe noted there were only a few in the chamber along with himself, the Scribbler, Sabre and Valentine. Such a small audience.

  “Octava has been compromised,” the Queen announced. “As very few of us know, we’ve been waging a war for many centuries. Since the humans have been targeted, we’ve fought valiantly and tirelessly. Every wicked move that Darkness has made, we’ve countered with Goodness and Light,” she said with pride.

  “We knew that this time would come.” The Queen stood at the head of the table, eyeing them all. “We have fought a very good fight.” Her lavender gaze landed on the Scribbler. “I like to think we have accomplished much. The leaps and bounds that the universities have made on unlocking the mind’s functions and abilities, reflect our successes. We have given them the tools to know they have the power, and the ability within themselves, to control who they are. Control their destinies.”

  “But…” she lowered her head a little. “Getting them to choose to use that power, to steer it, has become the greater task. The humans are mused upon by the desires of ancient evils and seduced into a darkness they cannot return from. More and more are being lost at The Pass of No Return.”

  “So it’s time,” one of the Guardian’s said, sounding sad.

  The Queen eyed them. “I do not know the depth nor the height of the Seventh Realm’s Mercy. But I do know all there, are, indeed, perfectly measured. And until we receive exact word on such things, we fight as we have been.”

  Th
e Queen turned to the wall behind her and it lit up, showing a map of all the realm. “I have enough legal grounds to bring Parasia in for interrogation,” the Queen announced. “Sabre, Poe, and Valentine?” She turned to them. “Find him.”

  As much as Poe hated being away from Contessant, he was much relieved. But she was not, and her hand shot up like a student in class that needed to immediately be relieved to the lavatory.

  “I cannot risk you getting captured, Scribbler,” the Queen said to her. “I will need you here.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “To do what you do. Only, I will need you to do it from the fictional side.”

  “You want me to write?”

  “We will need all the help we can get,” the Queen said. “You will be heavily guarded in a chamber. I will give you the proper writerly resources for scribbling on Octava.”

  “But…” Poe took her hand under the table as she sat with mouth open a moment. “What am I supposed to write?”

  The Queen eyed her many seconds. “That answer… belongs to the Scribbler. We will pray you figure it out.”

  “Figure it out?” She sounded panicked as she looked around, shaking her head. “But I’m an, an outliner. I outline, I plan out the things, but more importantly, I live and study the things I write. You are asking me to write blindly. But the great books and stories I’ve written are not blind stories, they are stories of-of eyes wide open, looking, seeing, living. Forgive me if this is poor manners but… I cannot sit in a closet and write about a story I can’t see!”

  The Queen gave a happy laugh as though so very pleased with her. “My dear Scribbler. You are among all that has been scribbled. Whether written on paper, or written on the fabric of the mind, or even scribed upon the very skin of the universe via the breath of life. You are far from blind here. The story is already inside you. The words are all there, dancing to the choreography divined in them. The song is being sung, the picture has been painted. Heaven has ordained it, Hell has exploited it and Octava is the progeny of these great things. And you, dear Scribbler, are the conductor of that existence.”

  The Scribbler lowered her head and Poe gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll try my best. No pressure, right?” she gave a light laugh but her palpable fear didn’t allow for any humor.

  “You’ll do fine,” Sabre said. “Remember how you penned our story?”

  Poe didn’t miss the burn in his gut at that idea. Divinities he was thoroughly jealous of that caricature catastrophe that had defiled Contessant’s body with his… colossal maze of arrogance. To make matters worse, his Scribbler smiled and said with a happy gasp, “From the seat of my pants! You’re right, I did. I…” she looked around, gaze landing on Poe and the admiration in her eyes made him forget all about jealousy. “But… I never did it again. It was too scary, too… unpredictable.”

  “But exciting,” Valentine offered.

  She gave a genuine laugh. “Very! A real adventure. But then came the deadlines and… I was too afraid to risk writing myself into a corner and having to spend days writing myself out…” she looked around. “I couldn’t take that chance.”

  “You don’t need to justify anything,” Poe said to her. “There is a beauty in both art forms. Disciplined creativity may not prove to be as adventurous, but it’s a very powerful form.”

  “Indeed, Rider,” the Queen said. “A beloved trait of The Seventh Realm where all things are carefully planned, measured, and weighed. The ride can be just as intense and exhilarating even if you do know the intended end.” The Queen gave a wise smile. “But… a true Scribbler always acts in accordance with the laws of choice. And that ever-changing gem often provides us with more adventure than we may ever want. Sometimes, the little surprises along the way make us adjust our course. Other times, it broadens the path we forge. Regardless, the Scribbler respects the life flowing around them and will conduct that living force with due honor and reverence—whether they do so intentionally or accidentally. Outlined, or not.”

  “Wow!” Contessant said after a few seconds. “That was… so smart! I’ve never thought of it that way. Thank you!” Poe sensed she’d been set free of some negative force in her mind, judging by the amount of relief gushing from her. He didn’t understand the intricacies of being a human Scribbler, but he was glad for it and hoped one day he could learn. Directly from her.

  “I do wish we had more time for such talks,” the Queen said, turning back to the wall with the map. “But I am afraid there is no more time.”

  ****

  “You will do fine,” Poe whispered, kissing her once again. “You’re the Scribbler.”

  “But what do I scribble!” Contessant hissed, her confidence back to negative numbers.

  “It will come to you,” Poe said.

  “Will it?” she demanded, clearly doubting that.

  “Scribbler,” he said. “How many books have you penned?”

  She gave a sound of useless disgust, throwing up her hands. “I don’t remember. I don’t keep track. I just write stories.”

  “So just write.”

  “Just write,” she muttered pacing. “In here, in this monstrous room where the walls are miles away.”

  “Do you want me to ask for a smaller space?”

  “No! I don’t know! Clearly I am supposed to have more confidence in myself. Everybody but me has it, it would seem. Which does me no good. Scribbler you’re so great! Scribbler how can you doubt yourself!? Well like this,” she said, nodding. “Just like this.” She turned to him. “Did you know that after writing all these books, all these great books, all these guaranteed best sellers, that for each book I wrote and released, I had cold feet?”

  “What do you mean?” He knew it must be a figure of speech but the meaning escaped him.

  “I mean I never ever came to the point where I knew, where I had confidence in me. I never knew if that book was going to be another best seller. Each one ended with a what if? What if this is the one that will be shit? What if I’ve gone blind and can’t really tell what’s good or bad anymore. What if everybody is lying to me because I’m famous, but really they all think I need to rethink my career because I suck! And look at this!” She hurried to the large desk and gestured to it. “I get to write at a giant ship. With this!”

  “You… don’t use pens?”

  Her face screwed up in some kind of ghastly expression. “No!” She shook her head a lot. “No, I don’t use pens! I’ve not used pens since I was in high school, Poe!”

  “I thought… you used the Sound Scribbler’s pen?”

  She shot out a laugh. “Ya! Did you see what I wrote? I could barely read it myself! It’s a miracle I didn’t read myself into the wrong dimension. I had to make up some words because I couldn’t figure out what was there, I guessed at what I’d written!”

  “I can ask for a type writer if that’s what you prefer,” Poe offered softly.

  “You are missing the point!” she cried, tossing the pen onto the desk. “Quit… trying to fix everything!” She clutched her head for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” Poe said, even more confused. “I’m trying to help.”

  “I don’t want your help I want you to get what I’m saying, I want you to say, ‘Oh my God, I see, I see what you mean Charlotte, and I’m sorry everybody is blind to what you’re dealing with!’”

  Poe had never felt so useless, and for the first time in his existence, he didn’t know what to say to fix anything. So he muttered the only thing he did know in that moment, “I prefer to call you Contessant.”

  She stared at him with wide eyes, frozen for several seconds, before she barely said, “Oh, my God. Of course, what am I thinking? You can’t say all of those things to me because you don’t get it either. Of course you don’t, you’re a figment of my imagination, why should you get my human issues?”

  The words stung Poe.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she gasped, hurrying to him and hugging him tight.


  He didn’t often see his Scribbler so out of sorts and she was very right about him not getting a lot about her humanness, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn and wasn’t applying a thousand percent of himself to doing just that. Happily, eagerly, because there was something about that part of her that appealed to him. The vulnerability, the inadequacy, the flaws. The doubt, the fear. All of those things made him love her even more.

  Poe held her tightly and put his mouth to her ear. “Hear me, Scribbler.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I didn’t mean that, I’m scared, Poe. I’m so scared I mess everything up.”

  Poe stroked her head and waited a few seconds before closing his eyes and lacing his power into his whisper. “You are my Scribbler. You created me, a man that should never know love and silly romance. And yet somehow, you rewrote the codes inside me without ever touching those words on the page. You, Scribbler. With the words of your lips and the ink of your heart, have made me into a walking, living, breathing… romantaholic.”

  She gasped a laugh but he heard the sob threatening.

  “If you cannot have faith in yourself, then please. Have faith in my absolute knowing, with all that I am, that you can do this.”

  She finally nodded and pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of both hands. “Okay,” she whispered,. “I am pretty sure I can do that my dearest Poe.” She gazed at him, her pretty eyes glistening with a love that stole Poe’s breath. “I have one hundred percent trust in you.” She jabbed a finger at him. “And if you say I can… then surely… it must be true, even if I can’t see it.”

  At seeing her face tremble with fear in spite of her words, he pulled her into his tight embrace. “Yes, it is perfectly true,” he whispered. “I don’t think it will take us long to find the Guardian and return with news.”