by Ryan Attard
“Well, why don’t you start where all stories do?” Sun Tsu said. “The beginning.”
12
Approximately 13 years ago
It all started with an eleven-year-old being thrown into a puddle of mud.
Me.
“That’ll teach you to break my bike.” The voice belonged to one of three schoolchildren with scraped knuckles and dim looks. I forced myself up again, trying to ignore the throbbing pain on the side of my head. My sister, Gil, gasped from behind me and started crying. The three of them clenched their teeth in rage. If there is one thing bullies hate, it is when someone stands up to them. It especially hurts when it’s a little wimp like myself.
This started when one of them shouldered me into the bike rack. I upturned a couple of bikes and used one of them as a crutch to get back up again. There was a tingling inside my chest, like lightning coursing through me. It felt warm and fuzzy, so I assumed it was due to the smack on the head I had gotten from a bike handlebar.
But the bike I grabbed began smelling funny and felt like dust inside my palm. Looking down, I saw the skeletal structure of the bike crack and flake off. The unmistakable color of rust spread from where I clutched it, slowly spreading all over the structure. I let go of the bike, looking at my hands. They looked no different except for the stains. The bike lay in a complete mess. Rust spread through it like a plague, literally dissolving it into stinky, brown flakes. Soon, what was left of the bike looked like a remnant from a nuclear winter.
The boys’ stunned looks soon turned sour and the beating began. I felt strangely spent after I had gotten up, but I chalked that up to getting thrown onto a bike rack. They punched and kicked me, throwing me around like a football. I soon found myself thrown to the side again, this time into a puddle of blackened water and mud. I got up again, my frustration and anger giving me strength. I mean, I had done nothing wrong to begin with. They shoved me inside the bike rack. And I had no idea where all that rust had come from. It was probably the owner’s fault for not taking proper care of that bike. Why was I taking the beating? I saw my sister, with whom I was supposed to wait quietly until our ride got here, crying and covering her eyes. Gil had probably never seen a fight before. She lived in that innocent world every privileged eleven-year-old inhabited.
I screamed at my tormentors like a cornered beast and threw myself at them. Of course, this wasn’t like those anime cartoons where one scream can empower someone into a victory. This was real life, and the reality of it was that they were three and I was by myself. They were bigger, as all bullies tend to be, and this was my first real fight. Reason should have indicated that it wouldn’t end well for me. But I never felt such hatred until then. I didn’t care if I got seriously injured. I wanted nothing more than to swing my fist and smash the big guy’s nose in. He was the one in front, the one who shoved me, the one who threw the first punch. He started all of this and I really hated him for it. So, I went for it.
They didn’t fight well, moving around like uncoordinated walruses. But then again, neither did I. Fighting was not something a family like mine approved of. It didn’t matter - I just wanted to hear the squishing sound his nose made against my knuckles. I did have my wish granted, taking the guy by surprise. After all, the last thing bullies expect is there for victims to hit back. He buckled back, blood spraying from his nose. I had gotten some on my knuckles as well, much to my morbid satisfaction. But I had spent all of my energy getting that one punch in and forgotten all about what happens next.
I got hit back. A lot.
They left me lying there, in the same puddle of mud, having gotten tired of hitting me. After the second blow to the head, there wasn’t much I felt afterwards. My vision became spotted with black dots and everything began spinning. They stopped, panting heavily, and walked away. Gil came to my side, her tiny hands trying to help me up. But I wasn’t sure which side was up and my legs wouldn’t respond to my commands.
I did hear a car pull up, and through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, I saw a jet-black limo silently parking.
“Mr. Faust, over here,” cried Gil, waving her hand. The driver switched off the car, and from the backseat emerged the creepiest man alive.
A lanky figure, pencil-thin with long arms and an even longer face, Mr. Faust served as our butler and chaperone. His uniform was immaculate, of course, and with his swallow-tailed jacket, the crisp, black vest underneath and the pocket watch chain dangling ever so slightly from his vest pocket, he looked like he belonged in a Dickens novel. His long hair was held in a ponytail by a long ribbon of midnight blue, his smile malicious and predatory, and his eyes were a disturbing shade of sulfuric yellow. He looked at my state with a hint of amusement and disgust, and then cocked his head sideways toward the direction of the boys. They remained rooted on the spot, taking in the long, black vehicle, the malevolent-looking butler, and what it all meant. No doubt they thought my family was some sort of mafia and they had just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Mr. Faust locked his eyes onto them and they began shivering.
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t punish you this instant.” His voice was like an ice cube running down my spine. They didn’t answer at first, but within seconds, I caught a whiff of the faint smell of urine from one of them.
“B-because you-you’ll go to-to j-jail if you h-hurt us,” stuttered one of them.
Faust took one step toward them, his dress shoes clacking loudly against the courtyard ground. His tall figure loomed over them.
“Do I look like the sort of creature to be intimidated by the prospect of jail?” He spat out the word ‘jail’ as if he referred to a vacation on Bora Bora. It made me think – was our butler a former criminal who had been hardened in prison? Was he a recidivist, constantly going in and out of jail? Was my family really tied to some mob? Or was my imagination running wild due to being repeatedly hit in the head?
Whatever the reason, the kids all shook their heads and shuddered even more violently. Faust arched his eyebrow.
“You may leave now.” The order rang with power, as if the voice of God commanded the children to disappear. I felt a strong breeze, and when I looked back all three of them were lying on their backs nearly ten feet away. Did Faust push them away, or could they really run that fast when scared out of their wits?
He walked over to me. “Allow me, Miss,” he said to Gil. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt and hoisted me up like a grocery bag.
“I can walk,” I rasped.
He arched his eyebrow, but other than that, ignored me completely. He opened the car door and nearly threw me in. Gil entered from the other side and Faust took his seat in front of us. The driver, an obscure figure, twisted the keys in the ignition and the vehicle shuddered ever so softly to life.
“We’d best get you cleaned up, Master Erik,” Faust said. “Your father wishes to see the both of you.”
13
Our house isn't like any other. It screams money, power and privilege, and the fact that it looked like Disney’s Haunted Mansion didn't help either. The armed guards posted at the front gates weren’t exactly the friendliest of people, communicating mostly in nods and slight waves of their submachine guns. But the real terror lay inside. It was just a feeling, like when you get goose bumps when hearing a good horror story or your Spidey-sense tingles because you're sure there is someone watching you.
Ah, home. My own personal freak house.
Faust was scarier than all the armed guards put together. There was just something about him, the way he walked and moved. He had a grace about him that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame, and an air of power as if, were he ever bothered to do so, he could make the world tremble at his feet. But believe it or not, Faust wasn't the one I was nervous about meeting.
He took me straight to an infirmary, right in our house, where a small staff of nurses jabbed and dabbed me with cloths and all sorts of smelly liquids that don't seem to exist anywhere outside of
an emergency room. They didn't speak to me at all, although I did catch some of them glancing nervously at Faust, who stood casually by the doorway with an anxious Gil by his side.
Once the nurses had finished playing Operation on me, it was time to meet dear old Dad. I mean, just my luck, right? The one day that my father wants to get all chummy is the same day three kids decide to use me as a punching bag. Story of my life.
My father’s study was… intimidating. The same way that a library in the Cthulhu mythos is intimidating. A set of large doors swung open with the most clichéd noise possible. Bookshelves were covered in modest layers of dust, and shadow filled the room, making it appear smaller than it was. A small section to the right was completely obscured, not even the outline of the shelves visible. Dad was old-school. Little LED lights scattered around gave the room the impression of candlelight. There was a little walk from the doors to the modest working desk, where a figure hunched with an honest-to-god candle holder, complete with a set of small white candles, flickering away. Beside him were a pair of couches, an armchair, and an open fireplace. It reminded me, again, of some gothic horror novel, where a lone wizard dug into secrets better left untouched, in a race against time before some monster appears.
“Master Ashendale,” said Faust. “Your children, as requested.”
“Thank you, Mr. Faust.” Dad didn’t even look up from his books. My sister and I walked slowly and awkwardly toward the desk, each step taken cautiously, as if a bear trap might spring at any second. This was the first time our father had summoned us, like some sort of business meeting. Imagine being called down to the principal’s office. Only here, detention could mean ending up running away from the office in tears and without an explanation as security escorts you out, with their gun barrels hanging very close to your lower body parts. I’ve seen it happen a couple of times. Dad always stood there calmly, his piercing eyes a calm field of green, sometimes with the hint of a frown behind his spectacles. Sure, he put up the whole “meek boss” look, with the glasses, hunched posture and calm monotones, but I knew better. His word was law and his mind was steel. We never had a proper conversation, not even at the dinner table. He always sat at the head, his eyes fixed on his PDA device or on the paper. When we did pluck the courage to pull at his attention, he always kept his replies to ten words or less.
Usually less.
I suppose that explains why my sister and I became so close — our choices were to either confide in each other or suffer loneliness. But really, at age eleven in the early ninety’s, all I needed were the Ninja Turtles and a couple of soda pops and I was on cloud nine. My sister, on the other hand, would always come and bug me, either wanting to play or seeing monsters in her closet.
You might ask what happened to our mother.
Good question.
Our Dad simply waved at us when we infiltrated his peripheral vision. We sat down on the couch and waited. My heart was beating so fast I could literally hear it pumping. Never mind getting beat up; when my father wanted to talk to you, it was like standing in line for your turn at the gallows.
He got up, pushing the chair noisily behind him, and came to sit down on the couch facing ours. He had both elbows on his knees and his palms pressed together as though in prayer, fingertips touching his chin.
“I understand the both of you had a very interesting day at school today,” he said. I heard the doors close and realized that Faust had disappeared. At least that guy showed you clearly just how creepy he was. I would much rather have a conversation with him. But here I was, completely alone with my old man, except for my sister, who was even more scared than I was.
Like any kid who did something wrong, I knew immediately that I was in trouble. I mean, what father wants their kid fighting at school, especially when coming from an upscale family such as ours? I mean, we had it all; planes, stocks, land, more money than Michael Jackson, the whole enchilada.
Everything except a fucking dinner table conversation.
“I would very much like to hear your stories, but I simply do not have the time to waste. Mr. Faust has already relayed all the information I need anyway.” I expected him to be angry.
Instead, he smiled.
My dad actually smiled. I didn’t know he could smile. I didn’t know his lips could stretch or anything. And he was not mad. Smiling means not mad, right? Every kid knew that. When your folks smile, you’re off the hook.
“It seems that you both came into your magic on this very day. Congratulations.”
Oh, great, we achieved something good. And he wasn’t mad. Maybe my dad wasn’t such a bad person after all.
Wait. Did he just say ‘magic’?
Our faces must have shown some expression, because he leaned back and sighed loudly.
“This is the first step toward your destinies. This is the beginning of your real lives. We are warlocks, explorers of worlds, and more powerful than any other wizards in the multi-planar universe.”
Oh, I get it now. He wasn’t mad. Just insane.
“I suppose you don’t believe me just yet,” he said. “Tell me, my children, what is it that you think I do here all day? What is my job?”
The first thing that came to my mind was “make people cry”. The second was “creep the living crap out of your family”. Of course, I didn’t say any of that. I may have been a dumb kid, but no kid is that dumb.
It was Gil who answered in a very small voice. “I think you’re the CEO of a company. We have a family business, Father. I think we also have a lot of stocks and investments in banks and world resources.”
Did I mention my sister is my twin? My younger twin? She spouted out stuff I didn’t even know how to spell, let alone define.
Dad smiled at her. “No, Gil. That is not what I do. Yes, on the surface I do own many shares and stocks, and my investments do supplement some of our income, but that is a mask. My true profession is that of a warlock. I study, observe, and capture creatures from other planes in order to further the knowledge and power of the wizard population in the world.”
“Seriously, Dad?” I burst out. “Wizards? You really expect us to believe that? How dumb do you think we are?”
That was a mistake. It’s rude to snap at your parents. Especially when they have vast magical powers. Dad gave me a dark look.
“Yes, I do suppose that a demonstration is the only way for you to understand,” he said. He pointed at the fireplace. I heard him mutter something in a glottal voice, sounding like a stone being crunched into shrapnel.
The low flames burst up, claiming the entire fireplace and mantelpiece, before turning bright purple. A roar accompanied the inferno as the purple flame spiraled, seemingly uncontrollable. My father snapped his gaze at me and smiled sadistically. He snapped his fingers, once, loudly. The purple inferno twisted upon itself with another roar and compressed into a creature with four legs, a large snout, and a jaw full of fangs. All made out of purple fire.
The creature snapped at me as I raised my legs to my chest and tried not to wet myself. I was completely frozen to the couch, trying so hard to disappear. As the creature’s flaming snout inched closer and closer, I stopped breathing and forced every molecule in my body to be very, very still. It soon reared up, filling my vision with purple flames, writhing into a vaguely canine shape.
And then, it disappeared.
For a moment, all I saw was white, as my brain could not register what the hell just happened. Then, I slowly saw my dad rise up, the smirk still on his mouth.
“Elemental manipulation, transmutation, kinesis, psychometrics, alchemy, summoning, sanguine rituals, physical enhancement, tactical and combat technique. You will learn all this and much, much more,” he said in a menacing voice. Power brimmed from his tone, as if he were giving absolute orders, and the mere notion that we could even think of opposing him was nothing but a lame joke. “From this day forth you will no longer be concerned with the world outside these walls. You will focus on our world, where
life is magic, and magic is power and knowledge. Do not forget that. Now, I believe it is time you were introduced to your teacher.”
He looked up. “Mephisto, if you please.”
The doors swung open, creaking just enough to make our hairs stand on end. Mr. Faust came into view and hovered inside. He floated with his feet together, hands clasped behind his back, ponytail floating in the air, hovering a few inches off the ground. Slowly, like a specter, he moved toward us. He had forgone the coat-tailed jacket, but with his pocket-watch chain rattling lightly and hair whispering against the wind, it gave him the air of a ghost, or a vampire from a thirties movie.
“Introduce yourself properly, slave,” ordered our father. If Faust took offense, he didn’t show it. He landed right in front of us, giving our Dad his back. He stood two feet from our faces, and I saw his eyes.
His yellow eyes.
They had a black slit in the middle, like a cat’s, and when he smiled, his serrated teeth gleamed in the light of the fire.
“Good evening, Masters,” he said in his cold, silky voice. Then he fell into a deep bow. “I was called Mr. Faust by the staff of this household to disguise who I really am. I am a demon, elemental of air and wind, former adviser to his fallen majesty, the Demon Emperor, and current council to the Ashendale warlock bloodline. I shall be your instructor in the ways of magic and ancient lore.”
He straightened, yellow eyes gleaming, fangs exposed. His expression spoke of macabre and horror, the stuff that children dream up and think is hiding in their closets; the monsters we think are watching our every move, lurking behind the next corner.
“My name is Mephistopheles.”
14
Present
“Damn, I nearly pissed myself.”Amaymon looked up. “My brother is one creepy son of a bitch, huh?”
“I have never had the pleasure of meeting him.” Sun Tzu put down his cup.