by Jason Rose
I watch in awe as Adrian completes his transformation into a large two-hundred-and-twenty-pound midnight-black wolf with yellow eyes. He said he was faster in his wolf form than in his were or human forms. Despite being prepared for it, innate terror grips at me. He is “the Lycanthrope” indeed. His transformation is awesome and frightening. Once transformed, he points his long snout at the door, signaling he’s ready.
“Alright, Wolfy, race on! Ready, set, go.” I open the front door and then watch from the window as Adrian struts out into the clearing, stretches, and then sprints for the woods. He is fast—cheetah fast. Note to future self: there is no point in ever trying to run from a werewolf—they will catch you. Shortly after Adrian disappears into the woods, two red and white-colored wolves streak across the clearing after him. I can only pray the two wolves on the other side of the house also took the bait. I continue to watch from the window and count to thirty in my head. At thirty, my plan is to walk out into the clearing and ask the witch for a parlay. Seven minutes isn’t a lot of time to dick around and try and set up a sneak attack.
When I get to twenty-six, a full-figured female with long blond hair, wearing jeans, boots, and a North Face jacket enters the clearing headed towards the still open front door of the cabin. I stop counting and smile at my dumb luck. She must not know I’m here. If the wolves were in their wolf form, even if they smelled me, they might not have warned her. This changes everything. I guess the saying is true, God looks out for fools, drunks, and especially lawyers—who are often both fools and drunks. I grip the sword loosely, but firmly, like Sinn taught me, and position myself behind the door and wait.
I know from talking with Sinn that witch magic is powerful, but it takes time and usually involves rituals with other witches, and is therefore not very useful in combat, which is often over in a matter of seconds—but that doesn’t mean witches aren’t dangerous. Witches survive and thrive, even against other citizens, by being prepared. They pre-cast spells and bind them to objects, like jewelry. Although they might not have time to cast a fire spell during battle, they can release a stored one from a ring or an earring. The problem is, each item is usually only good for one shot—that’s why witches wear so much jewelry. Sinn told me to treat a witch’s jewelry like a loaded gun—always keep it aimed away from you.
The big-boned-blond enters the cabin. She’s only an arm’s length away and her back is to me. I hesitate, caught in indecision. Do I kill her outright or try and capture her? It would be so easy to just slide the point of my sword through her back into her heart. Upon reflection, I realize I’d prefer to capture her. Call me old-fashioned, the idea of killing someone, particularly a woman, in cold blood, without ever talking to them or even seeing the color of their eyes, bothers me. I wish I had a gun; taking her hostage would be so much easier with a gun. How do you take a witch hostage with a sword? Do I keep it held to her throat? Pushed up against her back? My arm will get tired. The witch starts scanning the cabin. I realize I only have a second or two until she discovers me. I decide her back is my best bet and firmly press the tip of the blade between her shoulder blades.
“Don’t move or you’ll discover what the tip of my sword feels like, as it explodes . . . through you, your eh, chest.” I added the through your chest part because the whole thing was sounding more sexualized than I intended.
The witch gasps in surprise and then freezes.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Cinnamon,” answers the witch.
“Cinnamon?” I ask incredulously.
“Yeah, like the spice,” she deadpans.
“What are you, a stripper-witch?”
“No—” she says angrily, a hint of Southern twang in her voice and starts to turn towards me, obviously offended.
“I said, don’t fucking move.” I apply pressure to the sword pressed against her back, not enough to make her bleed, but enough to remind her the blade is there.
She stops turning. “I’m not moving!” she shouts. “Don’t stab me—especially with that. And screw you, I’m not a stripper.”
“What do you know about this blade?”
“Nothing, other than it’s giving off a lot of really nasty energy. Feels like death magic. Don’t poke me with it.”
“Don’t do anything stupid and I won’t have to.” Death magic? I don’t even know what that is. I will need to follow up on that later when I have more time. “Cinnamon, I want you to walk forward, slowly, stop when you get to the kitchen table and then take it all off.”
“Perv, I told you I’m not a stripper.”
I sigh. “Not your clothes—the jewelry.”
“Oh.” she stops when she reaches the table and frustratedly piles the rings, necklaces, and earrings that adorn her body onto the table. She curses under her breath while she does it. When she says she’s done, a small fortune in gold and precious stones lies in a neat pile on the table. It’s almost big enough for a dragon to hoard—well, a very small dragon.
“Is that all of it?” I ask, seriously doubting it is.
Cinnamon exhales dramatically, like a teenager being interrogated by a parent, and then bends over, giving me a good view of her apple-shaped bottom, to remove an ankle bracelet. A little thick for my taste but I’m not complaining. It occurs to me, in a rare moment of self-reflection, that men are douchebags. I’m stuck in the Canadian wilderness, I have a sword pointed at a dangerous witch, there are five werewolves playing tag in the back yard, my life is literally at risk, and yet, I’m wasting time fantasizing about sex with my captive. #WTFisWrongWithMen? I need therapy or to get laid, preferably with someone who is not my captive. It has been quite a while.
“That’s it,” she says.
I doubt that’s all of it, but I don’t have time for a complete and thorough strip search. Adrian’s already been gone over three minutes.
“Take a seat in the chair.” I point at the chair I was sitting in earlier with the blade. She sits, and for the first time, I get a good look at her face. She’s not ugly, but not pretty either. Just a plain-Jane southern blond with a bit of meat on her bones. The kind of barfly you’ve seen a million times at your favorite small-town watering hole or university pub.
“Why isn’t my gate magic working?” I demand.
She wrinkles her brow, clearly confused by my question, “I . . . I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
I hold up my hand displaying the red-stoned Advocate ring. Her eyes widen, and a specter of fear crosses her face as she realizes I’m more than just a sword-wielding human or werewolf henchman. Sinn told me that Concordat citizens—and witches are citizens—are taught from an early age to fear and avoid Advocates. Advocates represent Concordat law—the law that governs all monsters. Most Advocates are scary-powerful; they must be to enforce the laws of the Concordat treaty and to hold onto their position. There are only twenty-four of us and you only get to become one by killing your predecessor. We are the equivalent of supernatural boogeymen. The monsters who supervise the monsters. I became one when my uncle, an ancient vampire from actual Roman times, killed himself on a knife I happened to be holding. I’m not nearly as powerful as my colleagues—not even close. I really don’t even understand what I am. I’m told I am the last in a long line of Paladins. Self-obsessed do-gooders who were hunted to near extinction by the monsters I’m now sworn to adjudicate. I’m not even sure I believe the do-gooder part. Everything I read about my ancestors indicates they were grade A assholes. The truth is, I’m no John McClane. Until a few months ago, before I got caught up in this supernatural mess, I was just a regular San Francisco Public Defender and had hardly ever been in a fight, at least not since high school, but she doesn’t know that.
“I tried to open a gate and something stopped me—I presume that was you?” I ask.
She swallows air, looking more and more uncomfortable with her circumstances by the second. “I . . . I cast a bubble around us for about a mile in every direction. Nothing goes out, n
othing comes in. I didn’t want the Wolf King to escape. I didn’t know you were here, and I had no idea it would stop your gate.” She looks a little bit proud of herself when she says that last bit. “I’ve never tried to send magic through a bubble, but I guess it makes sense that it would stop it; it’s a similar spell to my shield spell.”
“So magic works inside the bubble?” I ask, thoughtfully. The beginnings of a plan begin to form.
“Yes.”
“How do I pop the bubble?”
“Easy,” she says flippantly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Destroy the anchors.”
“Which are?” I ask, getting more and more annoyed by the moment.
“Parts of a goat.”
“A goat?”
She exhales in aggravation, as if explaining this is as boring to her as doing the dishes after dinner is to a teenage girl who’d rather be endlessly texting her friends. “Yes, a goat. To make a bubble you need a sacrifice. Goats work best. You cut the head off a goat, cut its body into quarters and then place them at five points equally distant from the center of the bubble. Then the magic happens.”
“Where is the center of the bubble?”
“You’re standing in it. The five points, or anchors, represent the boundaries of the spell. If you destroy an anchor, the bubble pops.”
“A live goat?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re one of those hippy vegetarians, aren’t you?” she asks.
“No, I eat meat. I just don’t sacrifice defenseless animals. I’m not an asshole.”
“Fuck you.” Cinnamon shakes her head and mutters, “Grow up. How do you think that chicken you had for dinner the other night made it to your grocery store? Someone had to cut its head off, pluck it, and package it. That’s being done on your behalf, indirectly, at your direction. You’re just as much of a murderer as I am. Get off your judgy moral high ground.”
“You mean chicken doesn’t naturally come separated into thighs and breast? I always thought it grew in Styrofoam and Saran Wrap packaging. You're telling me my grocery store-bought chicken used to be alive? Someone had to kill it? Seriously? Wow, you are blowing my mind. You might have just convinced me to eat more tofu.”
“Fuck you, snowflake!”
“Great, I’m dealing with a twenty-something pudgy blond Fox News host who just built a magic bubble around me, using goat parts. This is like my worst nightmare come to life.”
Cinnamon gives me an over-acted eye roll. “I’m not pudgy, asshole. I am Thicc.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” I glance down at my watch—it’s been about five minutes, I’m running out of time. Adrian could be back at any moment, particularly now that I know he will run into an invisible bubble wall well before he reaches the helicopter.
“If I ask nicely, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
She smiles. “Kill the wolf . . . duh.”
In hindsight, I realize that was a pretty dumb question. “Why?” I ask. Sometimes short questions are the best questions.
“For money.” She continues to stare at me as if I am the dumbest human being on the planet.
“Who hired you?”
She frowns and for the first time since I met her closes her mouth.
“If I torture you, will you tell me?” I’m not really going to torture her, at least I don’t think I am. I don’t really have time for torture, but she doesn’t know that and I’m guessing the stories she has probably heard about some of my brethren lend credence to my threat.
Her eyes widen, fear flashes, but she remains silent and defiant.
“Everybody acts tough until the first nail gets pulled off with pliers,” I say with the scariest, most threatening grin I can muster.
She stares down at her well-manicured nails, American flags with little crystals for stars; and a single tear runs down her cheek. She is clearly terrified of me, and yet, she must fear something even more than me because she’s still not talking.
“What if I just ask nicely?”
Cinnamon smirks, clearly amused by my ploy, but not enough to volunteer anything new.
“Aren’t Southern debutantes supposed to be honest and virtuous?”
Cinnamon belts out a full-throated laugh. “I am no debutante. Ball gowns aren’t my thing, and regardless, there is no honesty oath given to Southern belles. Such an oath would go against a Southern woman’s very nature. Polite, strong-willed, independent, yes. Honest, only when it’s to our advantage.”
“That sounds about right,” I murmur under my breath.
I scan the cabin for something to tie her up with. Time is ticking and I really don’t want to have to kill her. I’m not sure I even have it in me to kill her in cold blood. I’d try knocking her out, but come on, that’s never gonna work in real life. This ain’t the movies. If I hit her in the head, I’m just going to put her at risk for developing CTE, and get slippery blood all over the floor, and I haven’t even seen a mop. My eyes stop when they reach the fridge. It’s one of the nineteen fifties, two-tone, white-and-teal, single-door, diner-style fridges with the chrome and rounded edges. The thing is solid and probably weighs a ton. It has a handle that locks to keep it closed. It’s just what the doctor ordered.
“Don’t move.” I keep the sword pointed at her as I walk over to the fridge and open it by pushing the handle in. The freezer is full of what looks like bloody meat in large clear Ziploc bags. I hope it’s deer and elk in those bags and not something else. What the hell do werewolves eat, anyway? The fridge compartment is relatively empty other than condiments, beer, and cheese. A typical bachelor fridge. I pull the meat and the two stainless-steel shelves out and toss them on the floor, creating a body-sized cavity inside.
I glance over at Cinnamon. “I know my mom always told me not to put spices in the fridge, moisture will ruin the flavor, but I don’t always listen to my mom. Get in!” I command.
Cinnamon crosses her arms. “I’m not getting in there.”
I take a threatening step towards her with the sword. “I can cut your head off and quarter you if you’d prefer.”
Cinnamon looks at me with hate in her eyes; after a moment of sulking, she gets up and walks towards the fridge. When she reaches the open doorway, she stops and hesitates. “I’m a bigger girl, I’m not going to fit.”
“I thought you were thicc?”
“Fuck you.”
“Ok, I’ll trim something off. Wing, leg, thigh, what do you prefer?”
“Okay, okay,” she says frantically, “I’m getting in.” Cinnamon sits down inside the fridge and tries to pull her legs in towards her. “You’re an asshole,” she hisses once she’s inside. I can’t help but smile; you have to respect her defiance. And then I force the door shut, squeezing her into the small cavity, and latch the handle. After checking to confirm that the door is secure, I grasp the top of the fridge and pull it as hard as I can towards me. It’s heavy, and it takes me three tries before I get it to tip. Once it does, I step backward, out of the way, and use the fridge’s momentum to guide it so it falls forward onto its door—locking her inside. I got the idea from a YouTube video where a guy pushes a porta-potty over onto its door, trapping his friend inside with what I can only imagine is a running river of shit and piss. I hear screaming and pounding from inside the icebox. I’m guessing that fall didn’t feel so good. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. Does that make me a bad person?
Now that I’ve got Cinnamon racked, I can focus on the wolves and bursting the magical bubble imprisoning us.
Chapter Five
It’s been about eight minutes since Adrian took off like a metal rabbit at a dog track, and I’m starting to get worried. The barrier will have prevented Adrian from making it all the way to the helicopter; still, he should have been back by now. Screw it, whether Adrian is in trouble or not, the bubble needs to come down. I step out of the cabin into the clearing, sword in hand, and s
tart jogging towards the woods. I feel a bit clumsy. Have you ever tried running full speed while holding a pair of scissors out in front of you? It’s more difficult than you’d think. Trying to run while carrying a three-and-a-half-pound sword makes running with scissors seem pedestrian. I’ve read that a sword is supposed to feel like an extension of the user; well, to me, it just feels like I’m running with an awkwardly long piece of sharp metal. I hope I don’t catch the edge of a gopher hole, trip and stab myself—that would be embarrassing. Do they even have gophers in Canada? Or is that just a lower-forty-eight thing? Wasn’t Caddy Shack supposed to have been set in Illinois? That’s somewhat close to Canada. If you accept Bill Murray movies as being 100% factually accurate and I do, there must be Canadian gophers and they are mean suckers. I would be willing to bet Canadians hate gophers just as much as Americans do. Maybe we can somehow harness that shared hate to heal the rift that is growing between our nations. #GopherHateTranscendsNationDivides.
I let out a subtle sigh of relief when I hit the woods’ edge. Being out in the open made me feel like a target—although an itch in the back of my conscience warns me that the woods aren’t any safer than the clearing. At least not from werewolves and . . . whatever other supernatural creatures roam out here in the deep Canadian wild. Life was so much simpler when I thought all the bad guys were human, and either worked for and/or controlled the government. Now it seems like everyone has claws and fangs and wants to eat you—what’s the world coming to?
About a half-mile into the woods I stop and catch my breath. The air in front of me has a faint shimmer to it. It must be the edge of the bubble. It’s barely perceptible, and if I wasn’t looking for it, I probably would have smashed right into it. The unpleasant thought reminds me of my childhood. My elderly neighbors in Indianapolis, the Morts, had a bulldog named Bosco. The Morts rarely played with Bosco; they were older and seldom got up out of their rocking chairs for anything less than a meal. Occasionally, they’d let Bosco out so he could play with me. Dad never let me have any pets growing up, so Bosco was the closest thing I ever had to a four-legged friend. Every day on my way home from school, I’d walk past Bosco’s house. I don’t know if he could hear me, smell me, or just had an amazing internal clock, but every day, without fail, Bosco would start barking in excitement and then run full bore into the closed screen door just as I walked by. Because of the heat and bugs in the summer, screen doors are a way of life in Indiana; they’re constructed of heavy gauge wire, built to last. Despite his bulk, poor Bosco would bounce hard off of that thick screen door and take a nasty spill on the Morts’ hard wooden floor. Then he’d just lie there and pant, too shook up to bark. As a young child, I thought it was funny. Reflecting back now, I realize just how cruel it was.