by Lee Isserow
“It is!”
“If this is magick, we know you've got at least two weeks until it's all over your skin. . . Not that we know what happens after that point. . .”
“It's already been a few days. . .” Mallory muttered.
“It's going to be fine!” Ana insisted, grabbing her arm, and glancing over to Rafe. “Right?”
“Yeah. . . I mean, we don't know what this thing is, but if it's just ink on your skin, can't be too bad, right?”
He caught a scowl from her, and decided to switch gears to be more helpful.
“First step is to track this guy down, see how he's doing. Maybe then we'll be able to work out where he picked up this damn thing, and if it's magick, find a way to stop it.”
“I don't know where he lives. . .”
“Do you have anything of his?”
Ana raised an eyebrow. “You think Reva can―”
“I hope Reva can―”
“She really hates you right now. . .”
“But she likes money.”
“Pro bono, remember?”
“I'll foot the bill,” he growled. “Do you have anything from this guy, did he leave a sock or underwear or hat or something?”
“No. . .” Mallory mumbled, trying to think. “I . . .I mean, he blew his nose? Tissue might be in my waste basket, maybe. . . if that counts?”
“It counts,” Rafe said, with a reassuring smile.
Mallory went behind the bar to grab her coat and bag, whilst Ana smiled at Rafe, brimming with approval of him giving in and taking the case. She knew full well that a tissue wasn't much to go on, even if they did find the right tissue in her bin. . . but it was the only lead they had.
Chapter 26
No real indication
Rafe's knuckles rapped against Reva's door. Three hard, sharp knocks, the twentieth grouping of rat-a-tats, each of which had been louder than the last. He was certain that not only was she aware of their presence, but also intentionally delaying granting them entry.
Ana had tried to conjure a door straight into the living room, but to no avail―it appeared that Reva had put more effort into warding her residence from unwelcome guests.
There was a nagging in the back of Rafe's mind, irritation tugging on strings, pulling hard at his patience. He was considering turning to Ana and asking her to blow the hell out of the door, as she had done in the hotel―but he decided to keep that thought to himself. Given her current state of mind, the fear she was harbouring for her friend's safety, if she let that anxiety out in the form of a destructive casting, he reckoned she'd take the whole damn building down in the process.
He growled to himself, raised his fingers ahead of him, tracing out a square at the door, sealing it with three semi-circular lines to the right of it. His knuckles pierced the sigil and struck wood, another three knocks, this time each of them echoing loud and deep across Reva's dwelling―volume turned up to eleven.
He heard heavy, irritated footsteps clack towards the door. It was tugged open, and a physical wave of anger hit the three of them, as Reva stared them down.
“What do you want?”
Her words assaulted Rafe's mind with mental images of her writhing, naked body. It was a curse she had laid on him months previous, that still appeared to be in full effect. He made the mistake of making eye contact with Reva, and was blinded by a torrent of yet further, more intimate, sexual experiences of hers. “Got a guy needs tracking,” he said, screwing his eyes up tight.
“Well I'm bloody busy. If someone doesn't answer a call or the door, it means their busy! Don't you have any manners?!”
“Got manners, don't have time,” he grunted.
Reva's eyes navigated from Rafe to his companions. Ana's aura radiated angry power just waiting to be unleashed. But the other one, the mundane girl, was terrified. And there was something Reva could see, with her old eyes that saw more than was on the surface. She could see the spectre of something dark hanging over her.
Her scowl melted away as she observed the fear in the girl's eyes. “You better come in. . .” She swung the door open, letting them enter into her domain.
“My friend picked up a. . . hex. . . or curse. . . or something,” Ana muttered. “We need to find the guy who gave it to her.
“A'course you do,” Reva said, sniffing the air around Mallory.
“Is she smelling me?”
“Just let her do her thing.”
“Ain't a curse, I know a curse,” Reva said, furrowing her brow. She glanced over to Rafe. “She paying?”
“I'm paying.”
“Shame,” she scoffed. “I'd have done free for her. . . “
“Can I change my answer?”
Reva chuckled, shaking her head. “What you gots for me?”
Ana gestured to Mallory, who presented a handful of tissues.
“All his?”
“One of them is. . .”
Reva grabbed them, investigating the contents of each in turn, smelling them, picking two out and licking them. She leaned over to Mallory again and took in another big sniff. “This is him,” she said, raising one of the tissues.
“How do you―” Mallory started, interrupted instantly by Ana.
“Don't ask. . . this is just one of the many things you kinda have to learn to accept.
“Rafe dear, will you give me a hand with the brew?”
He made the mistake of turning towards her, catching her eye, and in an instant was overcome with an action replay of her lying on the bed, a pack of six inch tall dvergars hard at work at her loins.
Screwing his eyes shut again, he tried to shake the image out of his head, but it refused to flee. Reva cackled as she went over to the kitchen, taking great pleasure at his suffering.
“Just find him!” he grunted, turning around, staring at the walls lined with cabinets, trying to picture anything other than geriatric sexual activities. He had managed to forget about the curse, and made a mental note to dig out a cure.
But that would have to wait for another time. . . Curing Mallory was their priority. The writing on her skin didn't seem to be deadly, but as with all things magickal, just because something didn't look like it was going kill you was no real indication that it wouldn't result in the most excruciatingly painful death imaginable.
Chapter 27
Waterproofs
Whilst Reva was deep into doing her thing, Ana couldn't stop thinking about why she called her culinary conjurings 'soup', and that led her to the awful thought that after every one of the tracking castings were done with, she sat down and ate them. . .
Soups made from mystical creatures were one thing, Ana had imbibed all manner of broths in her time, and figured that meat soup was meat soup―but tissue soup was a whole different story. Even if it did have other ingredients, from carrots and toad scales to ghoul clippings and onions, and all manner of other fixings she hadn't paid attention to. . . the core component was essentially wet paper and snot.
An involuntary shiver went down her spine as she thought about eating such a disgusting dish, followed by another shiver when she saw Reva taste the brew. She wanted to gag, could feel vomit attempting to crawl up her throat, but managed to quell it.
“Just needs to simmer,” Reva said, turning from the stove. She glanced over to Rafe, who was facing the wall, with his fingers in his ears. “I said,” she shouted, “just needs to simmer!”
Ana glanced over, and couldn't help but smile as he recoiled, more images obviously being shoved in his mind's eye.
“Lemme have a look-see.” Reva grabbed hold of Mallory's arm and brought the writing on the wrist closer to her ancient eyes. “Hmm. . .”
“Hmm?” Ana repeated.
“Looks familiar.”
“Have you seen this before? Do you know what it is?”
“Seems familiar., I said. Not seen this exactly, but seen something like this. . .“
“What was it? Was it. . . sexually transmitted?”
“Commun
icable, yes. A mystical infection, if I remember correctly.”
“Like an STD.?”
“If you will, but obviously magickal in nature, none of those pesky germs or what have you.”
“But. . .” She turned to Rafe, threw her fingers in the air, spinning him around on the spot, wrenching his eyes open. “You told there are no mystical S.T.D.s!”
“No, I told you Teloah brood spores aren't a mystical STD.”
“You could have put a caveat on there of 'these things exist, this is not one'!”
“If I did that with every statement I made, you'd never get a word in edgeways.”
“But that specifically. . . It's terrifying!”
“No more terrifying than a regular mundane STD―there are things you can do to prevent them.”
“Not the point! Knowing is half the battle―”
“No, you're thinking of morals in 80's cartoons. . . with STDs, knowing is the step before prevention, which doesn't so much win the battle as have a 99% chance of staving off infection.”
Reva cleared her throat. She was standing over a map on the coffee table. “Are you two quite done?”
“Have you found him?” Ana asked.
“About five minutes ago.”
Rafe shook off the images assaulting his mind, and did his best not to look at Reva as Ana conjured a door. One way or another, they were about to get to the bottom of Mallory's condition.
“S'raining out,” Reva said, as Rafe reached for the door knob. “Can fetch you waterproofs or an umbrella if you'd like.” He did his very best to ignore her, and tugged the door open.
Later, when they were washing off all the blood and viscera, they would think back to that moment and wish they had accepted Reva's offer to provide them waterproofs or an umbrella.
Chapter 28
The least of his worries
Peter was crouched on the floor, arms around his knees, shaking violently and gasping for breath. He was cold, so damn cold, colder than he could ever remember being―especially given that the heating was turned up as high as it would go.
He had wrapped himself in blankets and the duvet from the bed, but it wasn't doing a damn thing to raise his temperature. Then there was the light, even with the curtains drawn and lamps in the room off, just the general ambience hurt his eyes. He had put shades on, and when that didn't work, put duct tape over the glass on the shades to block out every iota of light that might pass through them.
It was no good. His eyes were still aching behind the tinted glass and tape, but he tried not to dwell on it. The pain had to be related to light, just like meningitis, it couldn't be anything else, or at least it couldn't be anything else he could comprehend.
A door clicked, and he looked around wildly. Nobody had the key but him, not with the new locks. And on top of that, he had double locked himself in―nobody should have been able to gain access. . . unless it was them, the person who had been haunting him, the bastard who had been writing on his skin as he slept. . . writing on his skin whilst he was awake. . . writing on his damn skin without him even noticing it.
He heard footsteps, heaving thuds leading the way, followed by one or two sets of lighter steps. Muttered conversation got lost in the thick, stale air in the room. Voices, two of them, getting closer. But between the drawn curtains and taped-up sunglasses, he couldn't see a damn thing. He didn't hear the switch flip, but the lights came on, glimmers pouring from above the shades, and he jumped out of his skin.
Peering over the glasses, three strangers were standing over him, all blurs, as if his eyes no longer knew how to focus.
One of them spoke, a gruff Australian accent that he was certain he recognised, but couldn't say where from. “Gods damn. . .”
Another voice, again similar but from a time and place he couldn't point to. “Is. . . that him?”
Then a third voice, “It's him.” A voice that he not only recognised, but linked the other voices to a memory―Mallory. The others were the two barflies that hung around, seemed to know her. The female voice was the friend, the one she had complained about. The other was the guy, the not-boyfriend that was tearing their friendship apart.
They were in his house. The three familiar blurs, but he was too sick to focus, too sick to respond. All he could do was huddle in the corner and shake as the chill rocketed through his bones. He tried to react, to defend himself as the man came towards him. But he no longer had control over his body.
All too soon, that would be the least of his worries.
Chapter 29
Words would be no comfort
The darkness put Rafe on edge. He considered casting, giving himself night vision, but was all too aware that seeing as he didn't know what would be waiting for them as they went deeper into the apartment, he should conserve his magick.
There was an unpleasant aroma on the air, it felt thick and stale, as if sweat and beer had a stench-baby, and neither parent had cleaned its diaper for a while.
“Hold back,” he instructed, with a gesture for them to file in line behind him. With no idea what might be in store as they walked through the domicile, he wanted to be the first to face it.
Ana scowled, well aware that she was more than capable of looking after the three of them. She took a breath, reminded herself that he was concerned for her and Mallory's safety, rather than doubting her ability to deal with whatever was up ahead.
“Why's it so hot?” Ana asked.
“Urgh. The smell is worse than the heat,” Mallory muttered.
As they came into the living room, there was movement in the corner amidst a huddled mass of blankets, and Rafe's fingers made to cast. The bulb overhead burst to life, and his eyes went wide.
“Gods damn. . .” He had never seen anything like it. The man, formerly caucasian, at least on paper, was covered head to toe in inky scrawlings. Some of it was blacked out, redacted with tattoos as Mallory had said, but the writing appeared to have spread more, or faster than he could get it covered up, words etched over the top of one another, thousands upon thousands of phrases, each of them illegible.
“Is. . . that him?” Ana asked. He didn't look at all familiar.
“It's him.” Mallory gulped, her teeth chattering, tears filling her eyes, as fear overwhelmed her.
Rafe stepped towards him, signalling the others to stay back. He still didn't know what this thing was, and until he did, wasn't going to let Ana get anywhere near it.
The man flinched as Rafe kneeled down next to him. “We're here to help.” He tried to smile, but wasn't sure it was convincing, and wasn't sure there was anything they could do to help. “Do you recognise us? Recognise Mallory?”
The quivers continued to rocket across the man's body. He stared blankly over the top of the taped-up glasses, and nodded. “But I can't. . .” he stammered. “. . . see you. . .”
Rafe chewed on his lip, fearing the worst. He reached up and took the glasses from the man's face, careful not to make skin-to-skin contact in case that was how the damn thing spread. When he saw what lay beneath, it took everything he had to hold in his body's natural reaction to recoil in horror.
The whites of the man's eyes were covered in writing, words over his irises, blending in with his pupils. Rafe had never seen anything like it in all his years on the job.
“When did this start?” Rafe asked. “When did you first notice the words, the ink?”
The man covered his eyes. “It's so bright!” he squealed, arms flailing wildly until he found Rafe's hands and snatched the shades back from him and he slid them back on. As soon as they were blocking out light once again, his hand whipped to his arm. “And it hurts! It hurts so bad!”
Rafe cast to take control of the man's hand, and pulled it away from the arm he was holding on to. He shoved the blankets away, and felt his jaw drop as he saw what was causing the man's pain. The skin was raised, pushed up by a point, as though someone was prodding from within, attempting to find some clear skin to write on. It seemed to
give up, the raised skin returned to normal, then the man squealed again, tried to reach for his chest, but Rafe's casting held his arms in place. Once again, the skin raised, as if a pen was trying to draw on him from the inside out.
“Glyph him!” Ana shouted. “Heal this before it gets any worse!”
She was right, and Rafe knew it. It appeared that the malady―whatever the cause―was going to assault him from the inside out until it had the chance to write whatever message it was trying to send. The pain would only get worse as it navigated his body from the inside, desperately searching for bare flesh. And in turn, the screams would only get worse.
He laid his fingers on the man's chest, all too aware that there was a chance he could pick up the condition via touch. Curing him was more important, he would worry about his own safety once this was dealt with.
Sealing the glyph, Rafe pulled back, inspected his fingers to see if he had any ink on his skin, unsure as to how quickly it might spread.
An unholy scream began to pierce the air, lines drawn across the man's chest, his arms, his face, crossing out everything that had been written, scribbling over and over and over, not with just the one point, but with a myriad tips of internal writing implements that seemed to be held harder and firmer, pushing the skin out centimetres, then inches.
The scream hit a crescendo, and his skin tore open. Blood painted the ceiling and walls, it spurt out across the room, his organs liquefied as they splattered forth from his chest, each of them covered with inky inscriptions.
As the blood hit Mallory, and she registered what happened, she dropped to the floor, her tears sending the viscera down her cheeks.
Ana knelt down to comfort her, but she knew words would be of no use. Nothing would make up for seeing a man explode from the same condition that she was inflicted with.
Chapter 30
Might and maybe