Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  But first I needed that cup of tea.

  THE BOOK OF GATEKEEPERS

  I found Father standing by the open fireplace at the back of the library, a few paces from his study.

  He often migrated towards the fire’s warm light during the long winters and frigid springs, instead

  of sitting at a cold desk.

  He took his time to acknowledge me. When he turned, his cloak swayed over his wiry shoulders,

  and the clasp, Thor’s Hammer set in silver, caught the firelight. With a nonchalant swish of his

  hand, he motioned to the teapot on the side table. I sat in the ancient armchair, its tartan fabric long

  since faded, and poured myself a cup. ‘Uncle Nik said you wanted to talk?’

  Father sat cross-legged on the rug and poked at the fire. He ran Hellingstead Hall. No question. But

  to his king, my mother had been queen, and life was less of a military campaign before she died. In

  the evenings, we’d all play Scrabble until the game disintegrated into a wrestling match between

  me and Father. Did he think about that?

  Whenever I tried to empathise, I slid back from the attempt, scared to let his grief in to join my

  own. He had borne the gift and burden of being the Gatekeeper without her until I’d come of age.

  Now I had the control by all rights, just no experience to go with it. I still needed him to teach me

  the ropes – he’d made sure of that.

  ‘How was your evening?’

  ‘Is that all? Why summon me to ask me that?’

  Father stretched his legs, picking at the worn patches of thread in the carpet. ‘Humour me.’

  I considered how much I should lie. No way in any of the Nine Realms would I spill my guts about

  practically getting my guts spilled.

  ‘It rained a lot.’

  Father sighed. ‘And?’

  ‘Okay!’ I raised my hands in mock surrender. ‘It was packed out, had to park by the alley. Music was

  good even if I had to fight my way to the bar—’

  ‘Do I need to fetch the breathalyser?’

  Warlocks and alcohol don’t mix, so I’d been told since day zero. But my many tics and I needed

  loosening up. ‘Relax, I only had a couple.’

  He waited, staring up at me as if I were regaling him with a fairy story. ‘Go on.’ Well, my story

  involved some monsters but that’s where the parallel ended.

  ‘There were some cute girls I guess. Quite a few Pneuma too.’

  His back straightened. I swear if he were a dog, his ears would’ve pointed up. I chuckled; Nikolaj’s Elf-ear did that whenever he was excited about something. ‘Pneuma or varmint?’

  ‘Both I guess. Where one goes the other will follow, right?’

  ‘Indeed,’ he nodded, pleased that I’d rehashed one of his favourite sayings. ‘What kind?’

  ‘Why does it matter?’ I countered. What was his angle? Maybe a test designed to assess my general

  awareness. He loved that kind of thing. ‘Oh, whatever. Couple of witches, some vampires. Few of

  the regular types, you know.’

  It stung a little that he didn’t give me the chance to talk about Ava, her crazy hair and sexy voice.

  Typical: business as usual. I was so busy being disappointed I almost missed his deathly cold stare.

  ‘Vampires?’

  ‘Yeah, two I think.’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Did they know who you were?’

  I sucked in my lower lip. My feet itched to River-Dance against the floor. ‘How should I know? I

  mean, it’s not like I’m in witness protection or anything.’

  Father smirked, his attention on the fire, no doubt thinking how he’d love to hide me away like

  that, no one even knowing I existed. If the Praefecti didn’t insist that every Pneuma registered the

  birth of a child with them, maybe no one would have. Total shiver attack.

  ‘So, the reports are true. Vampires have returned to Hellingstead.’

  Reports. That’s what he’d said. I was curious where his information came from, considering he

  hardly left the estate, and the last time I saw him using the internet was like, never. Heck, Uncle

  Nikolaj was more au fait with technology and it gave me a headache calculating how old he was.

  ‘Right, so why have they come back?’

  ‘Theodore…’ For once he wasn’t saying it to annoy me, but absent-mindedly. ‘There are many

  reasons. One is more troubling – and likely – than the rest.’

  I paused, about to suggest a reason, but choosing instead to listen, hoping my father was in a

  sharing mood. ‘The weather we’re experiencing isn’t natural. The birth of a Gatekeeper always

  happens during a cosmic alignment. Likewise, the transfer of power from one body to another

  requires a boost. We call this a “psychic shift”. The magnetism it generates interferes with natural

  weather patterns. If one knew what to look for, one could detect when, and where this happens.’

  Father stared hard at me, the fire reflecting in his eyes. ‘It’s possible they have been attracted by it.’

  ‘By me, you mean.’

  ‘You must be careful, Theo. Leave no clues about your true identity as a Gatekeeper, otherwise there’ll be an unending line of Pneuma and sapiens ready to use you – at best.’

  ‘And at worst?’

  ‘Exterminate you and all magic from the face of the earth forever.’

  I winced. Talk about the bottom line.

  ‘Why would anyone want to get rid of magic?’

  Father laughed, the derisive edge echoing around the vaulted ceiling. ‘I hope that’s a rhetorical

  question! Why does one religious man aim to kill another? Humans are driven to obliterate

  whatever doesn’t fit within their stringent belief systems. For every person who rejoices in the

  idea of magic, and the DNA of Elves and Pneuma mixing with sapiens, there’s a thousand others

  who’d light the pyres with their own hands.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not as pessimistic about the human race as you are.’

  ‘It’s not only sapiens you need to worry about, Sønn. Both varmint and Pneuma are an equal

  threat. The varmint care for nothing but their own glory, and even the Guardians would be happy

  to exploit you, all the while believing in the nobility of their cause. The gods have helped us to mask

  our existence, but they cannot seal the cracks alone. The forces of chaos are everywhere. Don’t be

  foolish and trust the first girl who charms your heart, or the first person who claims to be your

  friend. The optimism of youth could get you killed quicker than a cyclone wipes out a village.’

  Ouch. There he went again, seeing into my head as if I were one of his carefully preserved books.

  ‘Right, got it. Warning received loud and clear. The theatrics weren’t necessary, Father.’ Before he

  could reply, I added, ‘Next time, save the spiel about enjoying myself and get on with the lesson.’

  Father stood and walked very close to my chair, resting his hand on my shoulder. His tone dropped

  low. ‘Theodore, I didn’t send you out for that.’

  My shoulders sank under the grip of his palm, and I smiled, believing he’d really wanted me to have

  some fun. ‘I simply required an eyewitness to confirm the vampire epidemic. There was no need

  to alarm you if my source was mistaken, and both Nikolaj and I are familiar to the varmint. We’d

  attract too much attention. Put out the fire when you’re done.’

  With that callous rendition of his un-fatherly motives, he ruffled my matting hair and strode off

  into the shadows of the library
. I sat there in shock until I heard the door click shut. He actually

  used me. He used me as his lackey!

  That. Was. It. I wasn’t going outside unarmed like that again. To Father’s Wikipedia, I was a

  chatroom of hearsay and speculation. The fire would rage on tonight – I had some rummaging and

  pilfering to do. Time to act instead of react. Make my powers work for me. I didn’t want to be the

  Sorcerer’s Apprentice anymore, relying on the knowledge of others.

  I walked down the red carpet that ran towards the door, fine golden threads blossoming into

  branches of Yggdrasil under my feet. Since infancy, I’d roamed these bookshelves, chasing

  imaginary foes across the carpet, where I’d taken my first steps long before I could read. The library anchored the satellite wings of the house, a home within an estate. Easy to get lost in if you

  hadn’t grown up learning its secrets.

  To my right, Father’s study, a ladder on castors to the catwalk and gallery above, where shelves

  burst with impenetrable reading material. We’re talking script in Elvish and Old Norse, pesky runic

  languages and ancient Greek and Latin, not to mention the Hieroglyphics.

  The walls themselves bore their share of books too, and several of the bookcases slid aside like

  French doors, revealing secret shelving. To my left, in the centre, Uncle Nikolaj’s display of Elvish

  curios, irresistible since my father warned me not to tamper with them. Near the door were

  bookshelves that didn’t quite reach the corner.

  Instead, the wall concealed a door, and a staircase spiralling down into the vaulted undercrofts.

  Until my birthday, I hadn’t known the undercrofts existed thanks to Father’s warding runes. ‘We

  didn’t tell you for your own protection,’ he’d said.

  ‘Why, what’s down there?’

  He and Nikolaj had exchanged tumultuous looks, and once again, I felt barred from another larger

  conversation. They’d refused to answer.

  The incident outside the Red Hawk had freaked me out, but compared to my suffocating and

  unfathomable destiny, it didn’t rank highly on my list of anxieties. My chest tightened with fear.

  Does anyone know who I am? Is anyone searching me out? What do they want from me?

  The Gatekeeper of the Lífkelda. A big title. Father had told me that my body was like a beehive, the

  only source of magical sustenance in all the Nine Realms. I controlled the flow of energy from the

  life-spring of Yggdrasil into the world of flesh and bone. Without the Gatekeeper, he’d said, magic

  would wither. Then he’d spelt it out: if I died before having a child who reached the age of twenty-

  one, magic would die too. Forever.

  My bare feet suddenly became fascinating. I wriggled my toes into the worn carpet, trying to

  disperse some pent-up energy.

  The memory rocketed from my subconscious and exploded into fragments, showering the floor

  like fading stars.

  There’s a book in the library, Theodore, which only one of us can touch.

  Don’t tease him with your riddles, Nik. He’s not ready.

  You can’t protect him forever. The Norns of Fate find us wherever we hide.

  What does he mean, Daddy?

  I’ll tell you when you’re twenty-one. Eat your breakfast.

  I blinked, the glittery dust of the vision vanishing, but the recollection remaining, clear as the face

  of the full moon. Coiled energy tumbled in my gut; the innards of a Gatekeeper are reptilian: viper-

  fangs and flicking tail, hard and viscous, an alien warmed by Clemensen blood. This thing hissed and settled back down, giving itself away. Magic had triggered the flashback, and I’m talking Magic

  with a capital M, literally sparking the images to life.

  Why? I asked the silence. Why that memory? I’d been five at most, young enough to call my father

  ‘Daddy’ without meaning to mock him.

  Whispers filled my head. Ask and ye shall receive. It reminded me of Lorenzo and his fondness for

  quotes, and I imagined him reading, somehow making it cool as he lounged on a windowsill in the

  dead of night, waiting for quarry to pass beneath. Lorenzo: Literary Assassin. I chuckled, choking

  on the imagery as I let it spiral away, Lorenzo tossing his book aside and leaping onto his beautiful

  victim, the girl with soulful eyes and rainbow hair…

  The Thing listened. The air hummed, saturated. I’d asked for an instruction, and it had replied.

  What if ask and ye shall receive meant your wish is my command? I axed Ava from my thoughts. A

  stray daydream could send a wordless spell into the cosmos, one I’d never want fulfilled.

  My body isn’t my own anymore. I’d died. Something had slipped inside me, resurrecting me with

  it. Filling my marrow with a cancer that drew on my life force until I could provide it with a

  suitable replacement. Scary enough, let alone that it seemed to be sentient, my suddenly not-so-

  silent passenger, watching everything I did.

  Only one of us can touch the book. I paced down the length of Yggdrasil, one foot in front of the

  other, walking over the golden trunk like a living Hieroglyph peeled from papyrus. Which means

  it’s special, connected to the Clemensen bloodline… Only one of us…

  ‘One Clemensen ever, or only one at a time?’ I whispered my musing into the book-stacks.

  My secret passenger answered. Only a Gatekeeper.

  I peered up to the second-floor gallery, considering the possibility that the book was one of the

  mind-boggling manuscripts stored beyond the ladders. No, Father had given up making me study

  those infernal languages – it was not my special talent – so I doubted such a book lingered up

  there. Then again, he hadn’t told me anything about this book as he’d promised in my memory.

  A pinch of Sherlock Holmes deduction pointed to the aforementioned hidden room filled with

  locked drawers, and the undercroft below it, crammed with ancient ‘junk’. It hadn’t looked all that

  useful during the moments I’d spent down there, curious after my father and uncle had confessed

  to its existence.

  Passing the curio display cabinet and rounding the bookcases towards the hidden room, I slipped

  through the semi-invisible door. Golden symbols flecked the panelled wood and vanished from view

  upon examination – Father had included a proviso within the wards, allowing me to enter.

  The room, with its stained-wood lockers, imitated a tiny bank vault. Previously the old buttery, a

  staircase dropped into an undercroft that once stored barrels of beer.

  My eyes flew to a little cabinet on my left; a mysterious key I’d only ever seen in the hands of my father hung out of it at a slant, indicating it didn’t belong there. To be accurate, the key didn’t

  belong in this century; it was a rough bronze cast, about three inches long, with a decorative

  handle reminiscent of a dream-catcher. Viking for sure.

  The cabinet squeaked open, and a note, written in Nikolaj’s swirly Elven scrawl, read: I’d conceal

  this PDQ before Espen notices it’s missing. He wants to protect you too much sometimes.

  END OF EXCERPT

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  Part 1 - Season 1

  © 2017 Devin McCamey. All rights reserved.

  Episode 1: Bad Luck Follows You

  Getting beaten up by a troll was an odd feeling. It was one I wasn't keen on repeating. The

  problem is I hadn't learned my lesson yet. At least the
winged jerks in the sky seem to think so. It's

  2017 now and my New Year's resolution is to prove them wrong. I'm turning over a new leaf. No

  more dice. This time, I'm going to pay off my debts and get my damn wings back. I flinched again..

  Maybe after a little more practice.

  It is an odd feeling getting beat up by a troll. Emotionally, I mean. Physically it's still a kick in the

  teeth, and I'm no slouch. It's just that when you're actually standing there and this big - smelly -

  gray - smelly - hulking - smelly - witless - did I mention smel y (I mean I don't even know what

  kind of dead fish, skunk fat, and giraffe ass combo that is, but wow) monster is bearing down on

  you, what would you be thinking about?

  I can tel you, that at least in my experience, it aint what's on TV later. It's more along the lines

  of “Why the hell did I take this job?” I knew the answer, of course. I owed the wrong guy a favor

  and now I got to stand here and try my hardest not to die too soon because junior is still trying to

  make good on his escape.

  The troll had already trashed the office outside the safe room. They were looking for something

  they could use to bash the reinforced door in. Me being the lucky idiot who stayed out of said safe

  room as a distraction got to be the lottery winner in tonight's “What's on the menu?” episode.

  The trolls could probably get through the door quickly enough. That's when I drew the short

  straw. Keep the door secure until help arrives. Got it.

  There were three trolls that came a knockin'. The one that stood before me now hunched over

  and drooled on the tile floor. He stared at me with a hungry, stupid, and once again, smelly grin.

  “Here I am. My name is Jonathan and I'll be your dinner this evening.” Sarcasm in the face of

  dismemberment, that's just typical. This is why my brain doesn't take my mouth out for walks or

  nice steak dinners.

  “You. You need to open the metal door. Open it now.” the troll growled stupidly at me.

  “You.” I mocked, “You need to go kick rocks. Kick rocks now.” I growled stupidly back. My

  response went over about as well as you'd think. It took the loud warty idiot about four seconds to