by Avell Kro
dog on a wild-goose chase, and not the kind that ended up with a tasty bird on the table, but one in
which the result was a level of exasperation so profound that shutting up and going to bed seemed
like your best option.
Let it go, Theo. I smiled to myself. I’m gonna meet actual, normal people.
It didn’t work out that way.
I’d let my father and ridiculously old, Elven uncle dictate my style for too long. I would walk into the
Red Hawk in a lush green cloak and silk tunic right about the time hel froze over.
I tried to ignore the fact I could probably make hell freeze over.
‘Hmm…’ I shoved my head into my vast, antique wardrobe, trying not to think too hard about
Narnia, and pulled out reams of clothing, chucking the rejects onto the floorboards of my bedroom.
I resurfaced, coppery mane the worse for wear, or as my mother always said, ‘Dragged through a
hedge backwards.’ Hardly an hour passed when I didn’t swallow back a thought about her. In the
ten short years we’d spent together, she had rubber-stamped her mark on my heart in a way only
a mother can.
What would Mum tell me to wear? That feeling – that if I walked downstairs, I’d find her whipping
up pancakes in the kitchen, her flaming red loops gathered on her head, strays framing her moss-
green eyes and generous mouth – I could never shake. I still remembered her slender figure and
the softness of her chest, the cushions upon which I’d wept and laughed. Even on an off day, Mum
belonged with the fashionistas in a Paris boutique, or with movie stars sipping cappuccinos in the
heart of Rome.
I didn’t stray far from silk, choosing an Italian shirt Nikolaj had sent to me after his last trip to
Europe – of which he took many, and for apparently top-secret purposes – but deciding it was too
showy, I rolled up the sleeves to fit snugly at the crease of my sinewy forearms. Black jeans and
leather shoes completed the outfit.
A few squirts of Issey Miyake later, I descended the grand entrance stairway, hand hovering over
the bespoke bannister – my uncle’s handiwork – made from an ancient tree pillaged from Alfheim.
Also known as the Summer-Lands, Alfheim was one of the Nine Realms supported by the great
World Tree, Yggdrasil, and home to Elves and Fae.
I missed out the creaky steps, avoiding Father in case he retracted his permission slip before I left.
His goodwill is fickle like that. But Father appeared by the heavy front door, his body knitting itself
together out of atoms, conglomerating into a mass of familiar features and limbs. I had yet to
master that skill – and that made it infuriating.
‘Who are you, my jailor? Move aside unless you want to be slain at sword point.’
‘More like a gatekeeper.’
‘Ex-Gatekeeper,’ I smirked.
He folded his arms as my uncle arrived at his side. Father was tall, but Nikolaj towered over him.
High, amber-dusted cheekbones and deep, seaweed eyes betrayed inhuman ferocity common to
his father’s Elvish race. Nikolaj had inherited one pointed ear from him, and it poked out from his
glossy, straw-coloured hair, softening his otherwise severe features into something princely and
playful. His other ear was more human – Clemensen in fact – although it peaked a little at the tip as
if for symmetry’s sake.
‘Ha! Espen is an old dragon. All puff and no flame. I grant thee free passage, Nevø.’
‘I’ll avoid patricide then.’
‘A wise decision; you’ll never get blood out of that shirt.’
Father shrugged, as reticent to our uncle’s humour as possible. At least, he pretended to be. I
wasn’t so immune.
Father grabbed my arm as I attempted to slip between them. ‘Be back by midnight. And for the
sake of Odin, Thor, and Freyr, take a decent raincoat and an umbrella.’
‘No need to invoke our gods, Father. How about I take the Jag instead? Even Cinderella needed her
carriage, right?’
Father stalked off muttering to himself, but Uncle Nikolaj, bless him, slipped the keys into my
pocket and shoved me out the door with a hearty pat on the back. I broke into a run through the
rain, cowering under the hood of my coat, which was ridiculous because I was causing the rainfall.
I reached the garage on the sweeping bend in the driveway and liberated the Jag.
Alone at last, I sped into the night. I tried to imagine going home in a few hours’ time but couldn’t. I
didn’t want to. Later, when I looked back on that night, I realised it was the start of one long
getaway. The warning sirens were there, flashing in my rear-view mirror as if in a high-speed cop
chase. Pursued by my demons, by genetic destiny, I drove.
2
THE RED HAWK
T
wilight clawed through solid cloud, ripping open rain-swelled bowels to spew over our already
waterlogged town. The Jag glided downhill along Market Road and the easy motion brightened my
mood. It wasn’t a coincidence that just then a swift gale drove the cloudbank away, allowing the
setting sun a brief chance before it was beat. Try not to be too chipper, Theo, otherwise you might
cause a drought next.I connected my phone to the car’s speakers, craving a background chorus to
provide suitable levels of drama to my bid for freedom. Sometimes only pirate metal will do. I
whistled along to tales of pillage and plunder, as the fir trees bordering my family’s estate ran at my
windows, threatening to claw me back.
Suddenly, I was released from its clutches, sailing past the Old High Street with its cobbled
pavements and atmospheric shops, a blur of sandy Hamstone and timber. When I was little, I called
it ‘Rocky Road’ and was embarrassingly old when my parents convinced me that was a flavour of
ice-cream. At least I didn’t get confused and call Piccadilly Circus ‘Little Pig in a Circus’ like…
Like…
Who? Who used to say that? I clutched the wheel as I rattled dusty, childhood memories. The
harder I tried to focus the more elusive it became. By Loki, the trickster god, it would really annoy
me, like when you’re lying in bed and can’t remember the names of all your old school friends.
Considering I hadn’t been to school since Mum died, Father educating me at home with the help of
private tutors, that ability was a point of pride. I decided it must’ve been one of those fading school
pals who had said it. It didn’t ring any bel s.
The tyres screeched round the final bend, squat cottages on the right, which had housed townsfolk
since Hellingstead had been a village in the middle of nowhere, and the back of the shops
supplying the town on the left. Ahead, gleaming under gas-effect lighting, its fierce talons curling
around the sign, a deep scarlet hawk swung violently in the wind.
The pub’s carpark was already crammed. I found an available – if slightly illegal – spot near an
al eyway with a wide refuse opening for the local businesses, and followed the other patrons
towards the noise of reverberating instruments. A group of us streamed together through the
head-bangingly low doorway of the Red Hawk.
This place breathed magic. Nikolaj had told me it was owned by a witch-couple, not powerful, but
fun and with good business sense to boot. They bathed the low ceilings in bursts of lamps and
clever illuminations, made the seating comfortable, and the serv
ice instant and amicable. Every corner of the pub emanated laughter, as if someone had a tape of the canned variety hidden behind
the bar. It didn’t matter if you arrived dishevelled and weird looking, you’d find a pint in your palm
that smelt like liquid honey, and your backside planted on an eat-me-up sofa by the roaring
fireplace. It catered to the young and slick, as wel as the middle-aged has-beens craving their
youth and their old freedoms.
Or so I’d been told. All true. I pressed myself through the door, leaning my considerable bulk into
the crowd on my way towards the heaving bar. Despite my fear that the crowd would turn and
stare at my entrance, judging my worth, no one even noticed I was there. Just another body to add
to the eclectic mix.
Friends, Pneuma, Countrymen. My nostrils flared as I surveyed the crowd. A lot of regular Johns
and Janes milled about the pub, but the air also exuded a spicy scent unique to Pneuma. And
where the Pneuma went, the varmint were sure to follow.
Energy seethed through my body, an electric current fizzling over the surface of my skin. I made a
distracted attempt at controlling it. Since my birthday, each moment pulsed with unseen energy
demanding to be expended. I wasn’t ready to unleash my full powers onto the world yet. I kind of
liked the sight of grassy meadows and terra firma, and had no desire to build an ark to assuage my
guilt for accidentally drowning everyone.
Constant fidgeting helped to disperse it. My teeth often chattered and I was fast becoming liable to
tics. It made me wonder how the hell my father had hidden the physical symptoms of being the
Gatekeeper from me for so long. It explained the obsessive restoration work of Hellingstead Hall
he’d taken on using labour – not magic – and the three rounds of the estate he made every morning
jogging. I had horrific visions of doing the same for the next twenty years, an ageing Espen
watching on from the window in the library, nodding knowingly, Uncle Nikolaj still a perfect blond
against my father’s greyed hair.
Maybe I’l try meditation.
I arrived at the bar, nabbing a stool, and waved to catch the attention of one of the pretty barmaids.
A Red Hawk logo branded her black shirt, drawing out the colour of her vibrant, ginger curls. Her
bright blue eyes weren’t enough to keep my own from noticing her long legs, sleeked by tights.
Over the din of the live band in the far corner, I combined sign language and smiling flirtatiously to
order a pint of Hawk Ale. They made it in-house on a conjoined property, and you could taste the
magic fermented together with the hops, at least I could, considering I currently embodied the
world’s only source of the stuff. Magic that is, not hops.
The barmaid, Grace – name-tag pinned exactly at breast level – winked at me before sailing off
down the length of the bar like a captain taking the helm of her ship. I imagined her wearing a
pirate hat and long boots, the lyrics I’d sung along to in the car infusing my fantasies, and
ungentlemanly twitches of the non-magical kind started, so I focused my attention on the other
patrons.
Naturally, I was jealous of the equal distribution of winking Grace handed out to all the men, but it was when she blushed at the young lad several seats down from me that I really examined the
object of her affection. From the roots of his hair to his boots, he alternated between black and
grey. I thought I’d mastered bedhead, but this guy was pro-expert. Ruffled like a raven’s feathers,
with a few streaks of premature silver hairs, it complemented his pearly-grey irises, but even
these were smudged around the edges like charcoal – did I mention that becoming the Gatekeeper
had given me faultless vision? His athletic physique made his dark, knitted jumper a garment for a
model, his grey jeans no disguise for some pretty hench calves, hooked over his barstool. During a
brief lull in the music, I heard his gravelly voice slice through the air, aiming like an arrow with
Grace as his target.
‘Lorenzo!’ She waggled her eyebrows. ‘I’ll ask the boss if I can get out early, now go away.’
His smile was chilling. Wide and feral, his teeth almost biting into his bottom lip. I had to double-
take. Those canines were definitely pointed. Bol ocks. A vampire could rat me out, right? This hot
shot must’ve noticed my staring by now, and only the prophetic goddess, Frigg, knew what
unearthly substances he smelt on me. I gripped my tankard in my palms.
Don’t look at him. Don’t attract attention. I tried to remember the last sighting of a vampire in
Hel ingstead. As so many were varmint, they usually stayed away from these parts as the HQ of the
Praetoriani – the Pneuma equivalent of a police force – was stationed in Hellingstead. They were
run by the Praefecti, a pompous quasi-government, who were like those self-righteous hal
monitors in school. Even the good guys resented them.
No vampires, not for bloody ages. I smirked to myself at the bad pun. I like bad puns.
I observed Lorenzo. The foreign twang to his name boosted his bar-appeal, but he seemed bored
by the gawks he was getting from the other barmaids, who seemed intrigued by his exchange with
Grace.
I retreated at warp speed into the dense crowd behind me, thankful to lose sight of the bar. After
being battered around an impromptu dance-floor I glanced back over my shoulder. Lorenzo no
longer occupied his stool. Hoping he’d gone, I slipped into a booth in a dark corner, as far from the
little stage as I could get, and downed my ale.
‘Clemensens. They all share the same stink.’
Shocked, I peered into the shadows. Across the table, a man who made Lorenzo look like a cute
puppy grinned at me, baring longer fangs than could possibly fit in his mouth. I froze under his
mocking, honey-coloured stare.
Lorenzo’s gravelly voice accosted my left ear. ‘What, Issey Miyake?’
‘Don’t be thick, kid.’ His lyrical Italian accent jarred with an expression that incinerated my
confidence. The most pathetic part? I couldn’t stop thinking, Someone knows my name. Someone
knows my name. I was clearly starved of friends as a kid, and we won’t even discuss adulthood.
‘Like the promise of spring. Sickening, isn’t it?’ I flinched when Mr. Scary Long Fangs whipped out his hand over the table, waiting for me to shake it. He smiled at me again, his face plastered in
amusement. I didn’t know what the hell he found so funny, probably seeing an all-powerful
warlock shit himself, but I swallowed hard and took it. His hand was warm, different from the
whole cold-and-dead shebang you read about in books. Father had told me enough stories; the
vampire’s warmth meant he’d fed like a banqueting king on the poor souls of Hellingstead.
‘Vampires,’ I beamed. ‘They’re all dickheads.’
I jolted as another face came into view, accompanied by a hair-raising cackle, this time a female
with heavily made-up lashes and a long, French braid that disappeared behind her shoulders.
‘Malachi, let go of him. Our coven has use for a warlock who can still hold an athamé.’
Really, really stupidly, I said, ‘Clemensens don’t need ceremonial knives.’ We don’t need anything.
We’re living magic.
The trio went dead still until this Malachi very slowly retracted his claw-like nails from my flesh.
‘Interesting,’ he murmure
d, and a metallic scent lingered in the air.
Better change the subject, otherwise this will bite me in the arse. ‘So, Lorenzo. Grace, huh? What
do you intend to do with her after she finishes work?’
‘Have dinner with her.’
I’d walked into that one. ‘Not with candlelight and soft music I’m guessing.’
Lorenzo shrugged, throwing a venomous glance towards Malachi that made me pay attention.
‘There’s only one woman I light candles for.’
I visualised Lorenzo standing in St. Michael’s Church, less than two miles west, striking a match for
a tea-light on a table of memorial flames, tears staining his cheeks. My mouth opened before my
cerebral cortex kicked in – again – and I said, ‘Ditto.’
It was when he asked, ‘So you have a maid too?’ that I realised how far my dart flew past the
bullseye.
‘You mean like a girlfriend? No, I meant my mother.’
‘Give me a break,’ laughed Malachi, ‘what is it with witches and warlocks and mourning the dead?
Sapiens die, get it? Move on.’
‘Your mum’s dead?’
I faced into the heaving pub, avoiding eye contact, trying to figure out what to say. My father would
nail me to a cross if he found out how much I’d divulged to these strangers – two dubious vamps
and a goth-witch – within two minutes flat. Hey, yes, you’re right, I’m a Clemensen, which makes
me Theo. By the way, we have a short cut to access magic, and yeah, my mum’s dead. What else do
you need? My Pincode? I know! I’ll give you my signature and a scan of my retina. Duh.
You see, my social skills were sorely underdeveloped. The only two people I interacted with knew everything about me already. Isolation had been Father’s way of keeping me safe, but his stifling
protection had an unintended consequence; I had no talent for deception.
‘Warlocks honour their ancestors,’ I evaded. ‘That might be hard for immortals to understand when
the afterlife is irrelevant.’ I glared at Malachi before flicking my focus to Lorenzo, ‘But then again, I
don’t get why you’re flirting with a barmaid when you have a girl already.’
Malachi usurped Lorenzo’s chance to retaliate. ‘Because one’s for fucking and one’s for food.’
‘I thought vampires were into both at the same time.’ Really, my pop-culture knowledge was more