by Rain, J. R.
I did more research and found a blog of interest. According to this writer, who claimed he was quite sensitive to the spirit world and was writing from firsthand experience, Elementals came in all shapes and sizes. Often they were as elusive as spirits, existing just beyond our earthly sensitivities, but sometimes, not so much. Sometimes Elementals could manifest through humans.
I rubbed my eyes and got up. Yes, I wanted to brush off my growing feeling of agreement with the article. I wanted to and yet… .
A small wind blasted through my small apartment, knocking over a lava lamp and nearly breaking it in the process.
Except I could do that.
I picked up the lamp and kept pacing. There was nothing else on the Internet that was of any help. I truly didn’t know what to do … until I remembered the blog. The author had an email address.
Fifteen minutes later, I dashed off a rambling, slightly incoherent email that I sent via one of my dummy email accounts. If that guy could make heads or tails of my email, then he was a psychic.
I grabbed a beer and dropped down into my overstuffed recliner—I was about halfway through it when I heard my email ping.
Dear Bloody Diary,
Apparently, Stefan was right. Something very, very weird happened in the Mystic Grill earlier. Hell, they were still cleaning up the place when I got there. The first kid I came up to confirmed Stefan’s story: some kind of wind had blasted through there. The bartender didn’t know much more. Some sort of devil wind had appeared out of nowhere. No explanation for it. No doors open, no windows open, no fan on, and yet, it was knocking over glasses and throwing around salads like there was no tomorrow. But other than that, he had no clue what caused it. The wind stopped just as quickly as it had started.
I next asked if he saw anything unusual after the windstorm, but he hadn’t. I sighed and wanted to break his neck for being so damn unhelpful, but I resisted the urge.
I might be a creature of legend, but that doesn’t mean I believe everything I hear. The story of the Four Elements, I suspected, was just that—a story, no doubt concocted by some old witch high on her latest batch of witch brew. Truth was, I hadn’t a clue as to what I was looking for, and the grimoire wasn’t much help either.
Still, as I drank at the bar and looked around at the mess—at napkins on the floor, silverware in piles, and broken glass still being swept, I felt in my dead heart that there was something to all of this.
The meteor would herald the Four Elements.
Wind was one such element.
“Oh, give it up,” I said to myself. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
I ordered another bourbon, neat, and, as the bartender brought it over, I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward me. I caught his eye and said, “You are to tell me everything you saw immediately following the windstorm.”
He got the glazed look that I love so much when I compel someone. “Paper flying everywhere. Glasses breaking. Three people jumped up from their table directly behind you.”
“What else?”
“One man didn’t jump up. He stayed at the bar.”
“Hollywood hair, long face, lips like a girl?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes.”
“What else did you see?”
“Two men sitting at the bar were standing over there. One of them had his hands raised.”
“Hands raised? Why?”
“No clue.”
“What did he do next?”
“He lowered them … and the wind stopped.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall guy, slender, wide shoulders.”
“You recognized him?”
“Of course. He’s the local private dick.”
“He’s a private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Max Long.”
“Max Long? Kind of redundant.”
“It’s his name.”
I shrugged and downed the rest of the bourbon … then I went looking for Mr. Long. He was easy enough to find. His office was just off the square a few blocks down, under some ratty apartments. I knocked a few times, called his name, stood there like an idiot for a few minutes, and then headed home.
More to come.
D. Salvatore
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
I was in my apartment, pacing, waiting for the phone call when I heard the knocking from down below.
I didn’t have an appointment today, nor was I expecting anyone. Technically, I should have still been in the office, as it was just before six p.m. Then again, technically, I shouldn’t have been able to control the wind either. Things changed.
The knocking came again, this time more urgently.
I made a living out of following cheaters and catching the occasional bad guy. I’d sent a handful of people to jail, and I’d even testified against them in court. It’s why private eyes kept our guns around: We were known to make a handful of enemies, ones who were probably more than a little vindictive.
It’s also why I had installed a cheap camera in a shadowy nook above my office door. It was always a damn good idea to see who came pounding on your door after hours. I went over to my laptop and clicked on the camera icon. A window appeared on my screen, displaying the darkened facade of my building below.
The man standing before my office door was a handsome devil: black hair, grayish eyes (although hard to tell in the twilight), slender build … and a lot of attitude. I’d seen him around town a few times. Okay, more than a few. I had often seen him drinking at the Mystic Grill and hanging around some of the high school kids, although he looked a little older than high school. Maybe early college. But that could have been the confident, cocky way he held himself. Either way, he looked like trouble, and I wasn’t in the mood for any trouble.
He knocked again and sort of cocked his head, as if listening. My apartment was located directly above my office. Few people knew that, especially since the apartment was leased in my mother’s maiden name, God rest her soul. Private eyes needed our anonymity. But I also liked to keep a close watch on my office. It was my man cave when I didn’t have any cases. I even had my Bowflex in the corner. I needed to dust that thing off and use it.
So, I stayed quiet through his knocking and listening, although there was no way in hell he could hear me in my apartment above. Still, trouble sort of radiated from him in a way that surprised me. It was almost as if I could feel his darkened energy, but I knew that was paranoia on my part.
After half a minute, he gave up and continued on down the street. I had a sneaking suspicion I was going to see that guy again … and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
About five minutes later, the call came.
“Is this Max?” asked the voice on the other end.
“Yes.”
“This is Michael, you emailed me about my article.”
“Yes, sorry … I’m sure I sounded insane. Hell, I feel insane—”
“Just relax, Max. I don’t think you’re insane.”
Michael had a soft, comforting voice, one that immediately calmed my nerves—nerves that had been on edge, all day.
“Well, you should. I mean, I feel insane.”
“Max, would you say you’ve had an affinity for wind all your life?”
That was an easy one. “All my life.”
“Would you say you have a similar affinity for water? Do both elements calm you, make you feel alive, somehow resonate deeply within you?”
“Yes, but isn’t that the case for every—”
“How about fire, Max? Do you ever catch yourself staring at a fire?”
“Yes, but who doesn’t?”
“Do you find yourself enchanted by fire? Nearly hypnotized?”
“Yes, dammit. But doesn’t everyone?”
“No, Max. Not everyone. Last question: do you enjoy walks in nature? Hiking, camping, backpacking? Do
you have, say, a garden at home?”
I thought of the little herbal garden on my balcony—the same one that Tom mercilessly ridiculed. I thought of my many weekend hikes and camping trips.
“Yes to everything,” I said. “What’s your point?”
“We need to talk, Max. And now.”
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter, Max. I’ll fly or drive all night. You and I need to talk.”
“We are talking—”
“This requires face time. How do I find you?” he asked.
I could literally hear him rushing around what I presumed was his home. “We’re not doing anything like meeting up,” I said, “unless you tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Max … there was a recent meteor….”
As he spoke those words, I nearly dropped the phone. Instead, I dropped myself into my recliner. “Go on,” I said.
“Did you feel … funny after the meteor? Different perhaps?”
“I felt sick.”
“You need to see me, Max. ASAP.”
“Fine,” I said, and gave him my address.
When I hung up, I was feeling sick all over again.
Dear Bloody Diary,
It’s easy to dismiss legends. It’s easy to dismiss the cryptic writing of witches. Except, of course, I have seen, firsthand, witches at work … and have seen firsthand the power of their spells—even ancient spells. Hell, there’s an old mansion in town in which some very dead witches have made it known I am not welcome.
So, I would be a fool to dismiss the grimoire as just legend.
Especially with the story of the devil wind at the Mystic Grill. And Stefan isn’t talking either. Which means he saw something. Something that he is, undoubtedly, looking into as well. The bastard.
Except, of course, I have the grimoire with the relevant information. Whether or not another such grimoire exists, I don’t know. If it did, I doubt Stefan will get his hands on it in time.
I’ve done some detective work of my own on the private dick. Max Long apparently had parents with a sick sense of humor. Other than the world’s most redundant name, the man seems fairly unremarkable. A quick call to Sheriff Forbes proved that. The sheriff, unknowingly, had been compelled to always provide me information whenever I ask, no questions asked. So, when I called when coming home and told her what I wanted, she brought me his name, including everything on his driver’s license, criminal history, and personal history.
No kids, no arrest record. Unremarkable career as a private dick. One interesting tidbit: Mr. Max Long had come in to see Sheriff Forbes a few days earlier about two deaths in the woods. Two deaths that, according to the sheriff, appeared to be vampire kills. Unofficially, of course. Officially, they would be listed as animal attacks.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Was he, in fact, looking for me?
Hunter and hunted. Except, of course, which was which?
Never a dull moment in the life of Damon Salvatore.
Until later.
D. Salvatore
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Although Mystic Falls didn’t have any of those fancy coffee shops, we did have a little place called A Latte Coffee, and that’s where I was when Michael the Blogger appeared.
He was a short, bald man who reminded me a little of George Costanza. Unlike Costanza, Michael emanated pure calm and peace. He surveyed the quiet coffee shop, until he saw me seated in the back corner, which afforded me a nice view of the entire coffee shop. The handsome stranger who had come a-knocking had me a little rattled. Not to mention Michael’s own urgency playing on my nerves.
Hell, the last few days had done a number on my nerves.
“Max,” he said, coming over to me, although I had given no indication that he had found his guy.
“How did you know it was me?”
“A guy alone at a coffee shop, looking like he’d just seen a ghost?” Michael smiled and sat opposite me. “And who’s the detective here?”
I sat up. “How did you know I was a detective?”
“There are only three guys named Max who live in Mystic Falls. Two are retired. The last one appears to be the owner of Max Long Investigations. Thank you. You just confirmed my suspicions.”
I sighed and rubbed my face. Damn Internet. For a few bucks, anyone could grab any information on anyone. Shouldn’t have signed the email using my first name. Normally, I wouldn’t have. Normally I would have covered my tracks a little better. Then again, normally, I wouldn’t have created a windstorm in the local bar and grill.
Michael smiled warmly. “Don’t be hard on yourself. I’m a friend. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me how?”
Michael didn’t immediately answer. “Would you like a coffee? Two men sitting in a coffee shop on a late evening who aren’t drinking coffee, might arouse suspicion.”
“Who would be suspicious?” I said.
Instead of answering, he said, “Mocha?”
My head was spinning. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Mocha, it is,” he said, winking and left to place our orders. I watched him chat amicably with the young barista. She laughed. He laughed. He came back a moment later and sat across from me again. “Drinks will be ready in a minute.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who knows a little something about what’s happening to you.”
“And what’s happening to me?”
“You’re in for some big changes, Max.”
I suddenly reached across the counter to grab his collar. My plan was to haul him across the table and force him to get to the point. Instead, my hand passed through him.
“Holy mother of God,” I said.
“Close, but not quite,” he quipped.
I recalled the article I had read earlier, the one about the Archangel Michael instructing the Elementals.
“This isn’t happening,” I said.
“Oh, but it is.”
“You’re the Archangel Michael… .”
“In the flesh, more or less. Now, let’s keep our voices down—Oh, look, our drinks are ready … I just love mocha lattes.”
Dear Bloody Diary,
As far as I know, no one else knows of the appearance of the Four Elements—or that, in all likelihood, the Four Elements is a dude. A private dick of all people. Or, perhaps, one of the elements is the private dick.
Wind.
I don’t know yet. Truth is, I have no idea what I am dealing with, or the players involved. But if something could potentially make me as powerful as the Originals, then I will look into it. With all my heart and soul.
So, do vampires even have souls? I think so, yes.
Souls forever trapped. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.
More, anon.
D. Salvatore
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
“You are working on a case,” said Michael.
“I’m a detective. That’s kind of what we do.”
Michael ignored my snarky response. “A murder case. Two bodies found in the woods.”
“Yes, how did you—never mind.” That an archangel could see more and know more than the average man was a given.
I’m dreaming, I thought. Or high. Or both.
“You’re not dreaming, Max. Or feeling the effects of legal or illegal drugs.”
“You read my thoughts.”
“Perhaps … or perhaps your thoughts were obvious. Plain as day. Written across your face, so to speak.”
“I’m seriously losing it here, man.” My coffee sat forgotten in front of me. “Please, please tell me what’s happening to me.”
“You have become Nature’s secret weapon, so to speak.”
“That sounds crazy.”
“I’ve heard crazier.”
I rubbed my face, eyed the mocha latte, and then downed half of it. “What exactly do you mean?”
“The natural world is greatly out of balance. You a
re here to restore balance.”
“By creating windstorms?”
“Oh, you can create much more than that, Max.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t, Max. It’s why I’m here.” Michael paused and held my gaze and looked deeper than I am certain anyone has ever looked within me. “I’m here to help you understand.”
“My head hurts.”
“It’s part of the process, Max. Your life is about to forever change. Or not. The choice is up to you.”
“You lost me … and either you get to it, or I’m going to check myself into the local mental ward and get on some very serious medication. Maybe even request a straitjacket … because I’m damn well certain I’m going crazy here.”
“You’ve always been melodramatic, Max. But that’s okay. I enjoy that about you.”
“Because you’re my guardian angel, and you know everything about me.”
“Not quite … but close.” He paused, considered what he was going to say, and then plunged forward. “Max, you are, and always have been, an Elemental.”
I had, of course, read about these. Before I got up and excused myself and headed for the closest bridge to jump, I decided to at least hear him out.
“Good choice, Max,” said Michael, winking, obviously reading my thoughts again. “But you are not just an Elemental, as there are many.”
“Of course,” I said. “They’re everywhere. I saw one just the other day outside of the courthouse, begging for food.”
“They are closer than you think, Max, but they exist just beyond your periphery. Or rather, just beyond your perception. I suspect you might just start seeing your brothers and sisters soon.”
“Brothers and sisters?”