by brett hicks
“Avery Parker, yer eggs will not feed themselves to ye. You still have to get down to the station with five minutes left on the clock. Remember, early is the new definition of on time.”
I sniffed, and I bit into my egg landed on my fork. I might let her go with the last round, but I would hardly roll over and expose my belly to my granny!
“Where did you get this new pearl of office wisdom from? You’ve been working from home as long as I’ve known ya!” I reminded her, and granny nodded as if I had just proven her statement in stone set fact.
“Aye and I’ve always opened my doors at least five minutes early every morning.”
Granny fixes things, mainly antiques, but she is also the best locksmith and watch expert in Dublin. In one of her past lives she was a skilled cat burglar or a Garda like me. While we tussled verbally, such was the method of our affectionate exchanges. We were both hard and prickly people on the outside, like human cacti. However, we had our own unique layers of human warmth and compassion beneath our thickened outer defenses. We were a pair destined to occupy the same space and possibly the only link to sanity the other had left!
While I don’t know my origins, I know that my granny is as much a social outcast as I. She watches the world spin on its axis around her, almost as if unaffected by the currents of time. She seems to be so far removed from humanity overall, outside making a few Euros for minor repairs or some antique restoration.
“We can’t all work from the house, can we?” I grumbled in a sassy tone, and she rolled her eyes at me in a very Avery-like expression fired back at me.
“You’d be lucky if you tallied my records, young one.” She said, and I looked at my beeping smart phone and said a stream of curses at the time on the screen.
“If I’m late for my first shift, I’m blaming my loopy gran!” I said, as I stood and dashed off towards the door. I heard her reply as I slammed the front door harder than was strictly necessary.
“You’ll only have yerself to blame, madam!”
I murmured a few more choice curses for her as I stomped off to my car like a sulky teenager. Sometimes I felt like I was forever a child to my granny, even now as a grown ass woman with her own respectful career. Granny had raised me or finished raising me, rather. She had been there when no one else would touch me with a pair of thick rubber gloves! This helped to cool my temper every time we clashed or just disagreed.
I said a small prayer in Gaelic Irish for fortitude and strength. It was not so much a prayer, as a minor fortification spell linked to some tattoos and the vines on my left arm curled in dark green ink. I could feel the warmth and the activation of the minor protection spell. Such augments had helped prevent fatal injuries several times, even if I did still end up in the hospital. You never know, doing what I do.
Three:
My little two-bedroom house sat apart from the interconnected estate around it. Granny’s home had been standing long before the entire estate had even been a dream in an architect’s slumber.
Those of us born in the United States of America, often confused the meaning of the term estate in Ireland. In a nutshell, your estate was like your street or your whole sub-division. I still link the term to large ritzier homes set off on a large parcel of land with a massive multi-million-dollar home.
Don’t assume I am rich, and I am cruising to work from my private slice of Ireland. Estates around most of North Dublin, including mine, were rather filthy and poorly maintained homes, townhomes and apartments.
The bulk of my estate block was littered with graffiti and wash with wasters strung out. You could hardly attempt to find a more dangerous place to grow up. I have lived in this urban project environment since I came to Ireland. While I hold claim to some supernatural abilities and slight magical powers, this hardly dispelled the fear and constant paranoia of living in such a dog-eat-dog environment.
Reputation is hard won for an outsider and even harder to win when you are a guard. Bad eggs in the police force make most Northern Dublin denizens leery to trust a guard. I guess this is just a constant struggle in any urban environment.
The biggest difference to note while scanning the streets, are all the lads in track suits and other soccer paraphernalia. Instead of the prevalent baseball and American football attire you would expect on the streets. Even for me this was a strange sight. I liked soccer—football—more than most other sports before coming here, but I was raised in a culture awash with American sports.
I walked to my little silver Ford Focus hatch back coup. This choice was more about price and economical use, than about some sense of nostalgia for home. If I am being perfectly honest, Ireland is now home to me. This is my heart, my hearth, this place has become my touchstone. The press and the masses threatened my very sanity, along with my discovery about my father, when I was last in America. To say I do not miss that place, would be gravely understating my feelings!
While I hold no deep loathing or hatred for my birthplace, I felt disconnected from the US now. I had assimilated full, even my American English accent had bent to a slight Gallic lit. My wording choices had swung in favor of the Irish-English. While I would never sound exactly like my neighbors, I was no longer the same girl I had been when I landed in this city.
Most of the block appeared to be deep in slumber. One positive point of living in such a low-rent area, you are unlikely to be disturbed early in the mornings. Not in such an alcohol-friendly culture. Aside for the occasional shifty figure milling about, possibly still up from partying through the night, the block was strangely silent.
I clocked several of the locals and they had clearly clocked me. All transactions within my view came to a halt. I might be grudgingly accepted here, but I was still a guard. I was still duty bound to arrest anyone breaking the law in my sight.
As tatters and disarray as my neighborhood was, it was a uniform mesh of old cream-colored townhouses. At the very center sits this one small old-style home built a century ago. A spiral thorny garden like a Celtic ward against the fae. Granny was deeply superstitious, so it did not even register on her meter when I confided my secrets to her. She often boasts that the only reason she has not seen a fairy, is because her damn garden confuses them too much for them to show up at her door. I believe the four iron Celtic crosses posted around the spiral lawn have more to do with warding the lawn against fair-folk and other sups. Not all sups are allergic to iron, case and point, I am unaffected. I don’t pretend to know all the reasons and if the supernatural was not so bent on invading my life, I would not care to!
Granny flipped her sign to open, as I closed my car door and fired up the ignition. I could always see her beaming pride in me in these fleeting moments just as we were about to go our different ways. She was set to dive into whatever projects came her way, and I was ready to dive into crime fighting, cape and all!
The weathered industrial area surrounding my kip hole of a neighborhood was no better than my estate. There were many closed shops along the road, and there were even more painted fully in Celtic graffiti. Mixed in with the normal human tags, I could see the feint glowing runic magic markers of various street sups. There were murmurs about fully sup gangs and other such illicit activities.
The human in me wanted nothing to do with the supernatural, but I was hardly a real human. The magical parts of me seemed to be attracted like a moth to flame, by the supernatural world. It really was a feat of divine intervention that I had yet to out myself properly to the community. As it stood, I enjoyed a nice measure of distance from most. Sups were in no rush to crowd a garda’s space. Not that I was complaining!
Still, it was becoming harder to pass by the epicenter of magical gatherings. It felt like sunlight on my skin, being near the other clusters of sups. Their magicks and their spells were often like a nice warm buzz of a stiff drink. The feeling was almost addictive, in fact, there were magic addicts, spell-fiends. Most of these tended to be lower paranormal species on the fringes. Magic always seemed to
impact the minds and bodies of those with lower tolerance more. All effects were compounded, much like how medications and drugs had many varying levels of tolerance.
Casting was pleasurable, I could parallel it to sex, sort of, but I still think sex feels better personally! I am unsure where my tolerance falls on the casting spectrum. I knew that I was strong enough to handle casting small spells, and that I did not have a soul-breaking thirst for the euphoria of magick casting.
As far as I could tell, the largest portions of Dublin’s sup community were here in Ballymun. Something about the feral, concrete jungle aspect of the northern city seemed to attract the longer-lived races.
Ballymun garda station appeared more like an old warehouse with three stories of massive elongated building. The bulk of the warehouse-fortress is hidden behind wrought-iron gates. The small single lane exits through the gate slowed all station traffic to a screeching halt.
The entirety of Dublin was built around many old iron constructs of some form of another. This was another reason the fae, inhabited the north primarily. There appears to be more fair-folk-friendly locations. Aside from the popular locations, like the local parks.
I pulled up to the massive iron gates, and I waved my newly minted detective garda badge at the older lad at the gate. He was well past his prime, however there was a keen intellect housed behind the innocuous guise of elder gent.
“Don’t believe I’ve seen ye before, Detective.” He said, barely stopping himself short of calling me a little girl, or some such similar term. He was filled with heady caution and a deft alertness. He was like a hawk on the prowl for intruders in his domain. I extended my arm and handed my photo ID to the gate guard. I felt a lick of heat across my tattooed flesh, as my wrist brushed close to the older man’s.
“First day outta uni. I’m Avery, as my shiny new badge would have just told ya.” I rambled in a slightly awkward, but friendly manner. I am not exactly stellar with my social interactions.
His eyes snapped to focus on me, and I saw for just a split-second, his pupils vertically slit. He was a shape-changer of some form or another, which also went a long way to explaining the sense of danger and mild dissipated threat kicking off this older man. If he was older indeed. Most shapeshifters are immortal or extremely long lived.
In one sweeping heartbeat, his animal eye seemed to scan me head-to-toe several times over. He frowned slightly, like he couldn’t quite take my measure. Being that neither of us was willing to publicly out the other, he grumbled, then opened the gate. He gave me one final parting look of leeriness.
I was far from the only sup that preferred limited interactions with others in the community. Most of us were content to orbit in a vague proximity of each other, gaining the comforts of community, without the constant interactions and the posturing of many long-lived races and beings. Those of us with highly dominant personas tended to either rule or prefer the solace of distance.
I couldn’t really kick myself, because shifters have ridiculous senses. I often wondered what it was about me that stood out to them, but they often seemed to be the most willing to leave me alone. I guess it’s hard to want to stick your nose in everything, when you can smell, see, or sense something about everyone in your vicinity. Well, except for the wolves, they seemed to be more than keen to bug the hell out of you, if they caught a scent.
Lycanthropes were the leaders of the community for many reasons. In such a packed city as Dublin, many thousands of shifters could exist drawing no large attention to their packs. Some even owned entire estate communities, and their pack inhabited the whole of the housing sub-division.
“Just keep outta trouble, lass.” He said, his final decree as my back was to him and I was pulling through the gates. I ground my teeth in annoyance. It was almost as if he knew me, considering how prophetic that statement was involving me!
The massive iron gates slammed shut behind me with an ominous rattling. I felt flickers of magicks and little bits and bumps of energy that showed that not all the denizens of this station were strictly human. That could mean many things and considering this was Ballymun, I was ready to believe that there was likely a larger sup presence here. That sent chills of excitement along my spine. I had plenty of reasons to be leery of other sups, even if they were also police officers.
Maybe it’s not too late to consider being a private detective!
I thought to myself, bemusement seemed to be my go-to in handling stress or anxiety. When in doubt, sass out! I opened the doors to the lobby, and I felt the heat of many sets of eyes training their focus to me. I was the new girl, and I had to remind myself that this was more likely the reason for their sudden and immense attention. All this attention taxed my keen perception quickly. I felt the many surges of the surrounding supernatural. A sudden flare of heat probing my mind and my psychic defenses. It took everything in me to resist the urge to push back with my mind. I just maintained my mental defense and kept walking, attempting not to falter in my stride.
I was hardly grand at being the center of attention under the best of circumstances. I was much more volatile when becoming the center of attention for such a wide assortment of different sup auras. I felt like a lamb-chop walking through the gates of a kennel.
Four:
The surrounding silence was like a typhoon roaring through my ears. I felt as if I could scream and still not hear myself for the astuteness of my senses fielding the host of supernatural passer’s by.
Discordant rumbling and vibrating through my over-taxed nerves were now threatening to make me want to draw my holstered side-arm. I only wished I had loaded the mixed ammo designed for sups. I felt like I was the prey being lowered into the lion’s cage at the zoo at feeding time!
After a profoundly long moment, I huffed and cleared my throat. The small noise was enough to make several eyes snap up at me and more than double that number to shift away from me. Right about now I longed for the nearly all mortal station I had done my time as a blue uniform guard on the beat.
Come on Avery, you’re no one’s food!
I reminded myself encouragingly, and I stepped into the elevator at the end of the wide-open reception room. The uniform on the door didn’t even bother to check my ID, because it was obvious who I was. Despite this, I still noted the air of threat and poise alertness in his posture. Like the guard on the gate, he was also a shifter and his eyes and expression showed the same curiosity as the first shifter. This one was nosier than the older lad. He was sniffing me more openly, and I felt the heady rush of fur and the vague sensation of fangs. It was almost as if I had imagined this, but I knew that to be how I experienced a werewolf close to my personal bubble.
He seemed to become even more curious as I responded to his aura in a manner no mortal would. All of this transpired in seconds and neither of us even appeared to change to the naked eye. Supernaturals have potent sensory abilities to suss out others in their personal space. I am no exception to this rule. He said nothing, but I could tell the wolf had made a note of my existence. I would have to play my cards close to my vest, if I had any prayer of leaving this damn precinct without publicly outing myself.
Some might think it is silly how paranoid I am, but you have not seen the chaos of an insane, possessed man, as I have. You were not there to witness your own mother’s murder or to fight your father and assist the police in their struggle to subdue him. Even with the flare for supernatural drama in TV today, no one could scarcely concoct such pungent drama and such violent imagination.
The carnage of my teens flashed before my eyes suddenly. It was as if the world turned crimson and my mother’s blood tainted every single imagine before me. My own personal nightmare rekindled every time I am led too close to the memories of my father and of the thing that inhabited him. The thing that Still inhabits him today!
My one regret was leaving the States before I could exercised my father. Though, part of me was unsure if that was a mercy or a malice, considering the memories that
the man left behind, would have to endure behind bars all his days. Scarcely had I ever heard of similar evils, as those my father had visited upon the women he killed. I was the product of this monster, this butcher, yet I was untainted by the evil that housed itself inside him.
Why do I get up in the morning, lace up my boots, and go into work? Simple, because there are millions and billions of innocents who need a protector from the darkness they scarcely could ever imagine. As if I had summoned the burning agony, the Celtic cross tattoo along my mid-back lit with a furious aggravation. The cross had been my first tattoo, one given to me shortly before my mother’s death, by her own fair hand. It had also been the first clue to my heritage, since glowing tattoos that ward off evil spirits, are obvious, even to a stupid thirteen-year-old such as myself. Besides, no one forgets receiving an agonizing tattoo while their mother whispers softly in Gaelic.
So, perhaps I it sent me along this path even from a young age. They trained me in all the lethal killing arts of close-quarters-combat before I had even seen my tenth birthday, almost like some child-soldier in the making. By the time I was maturing to my early teens, I had new and scary perceptions of all life around me. Then, I had to see my mum die and my dad kill several police officers.
I almost physically shook my head, as I willed that line of thought away. I was already shifty enough for my new co-workers. This was not the first time I had aroused such suspicions, but this station seemed keenly attuned to all preternatural comings and goings. What worked brilliantly most times, was a good old fashion human denial. When in doubt, convince yourself nothing dodgy is going amiss around you! In my experience, this would give other sups the belief that I am a “sensitive” human and not an actual magical creature. Sensitives can feel magic and imprints of the unexplainable around them but are not sure what or where it comes from. Look no further, than the age-old mediums for an example. They feel too much to skate by without arousing suspicion, but if they cannot see beyond the veil with their own eyes, sups just move right on past sensitives without a second glance.