Sam LaCroix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
necroslacker) wrote2013-10-21 04:10 pm
necroslacker) wrote2013-10-21 04:10 pm
seattle ; monday ft
Douglas ran one hand over a stack of CDs and the other over a row of vinyl. It had to be in here somewhere. He often moved it around, trying not to keep it in one place too long, and he was sure the last place had been the music library inside the duck figurine.
Minion looked into the fragile belly of the duck for the third time. "It's still not here, Master." He shook his head in a slow, confused fashion. "Strange things are afoot at the Circle K."
Douglas wondered—again—if calling Minion had been the best idea. He closed his eyes and looked out into the room, searching with his powers. He didn't have all day, either. Sam would come back eventually. The various security measures had ignored him, either because they weren't set against Douglas—and why would they be since he was supposed to be dead?—or because they weren't meant to keep out spirits. Or zombies. Minion had snuck in without any problem at all, and Douglas hadn't slipped the coin around his neck until he'd shut the library door. He was corporeal enough without the coin to manage getting it on, but it took a concentrated effort.
So they had to search and get out before Sam came back from his Council duties. The boy would sense a ghost, surely. He grimaced. Of course with Sam, you never could tell.
He opened his eyes, his scan once again finding nothing. Frustrated, he flopped into his chair. Technically, he supposed, it wasn't his chair anymore. The dead can't own anything, and all of his belongings were in Sam's ownership now. Douglas could petition the Council on the grounds that he wasn't truly dead and get it back, but that would rather defeat his purposes. He could always buy a new chair.
He looked around the library. A feeling of regret filled him. When was the last time he'd felt anything like that? He couldn't remember. Douglas hadn't been prepared for how much he'd miss his house. His home or, really, if he was being totally honest, his sanctuary. This was where he should be, not some seedy cabin in the woods with no lab, no music library, no James, and only the idiot Minion for company.
"For heaven's sake, Minion, put the duck down. Wherever it is, it's not here."
Minion carefully set the duck on the table. "What should I do, then? Would you like me to get you something?"
Douglas waved him away. "Keep looking, I guess, but leave me alone."
He was not used to being at a loss. Usually, he was the gentleman with the plan. Every little detail cataloged and put in its place. But now he had no place, and the details were everywhere.
Where could it have gone? James would have mentioned Sam finding it. Maybe one of the others? There were simply too many unknown factors. For a second he was tempted to just kill them all. It would be so much simpler. But then all his plans would go to waste, and he couldn't have that. You can't rule a kingdom with no one in it.
Douglas closed his eyes and drifted. He was in a field. Somewhere in the South. He couldn't remember where. They moved around a lot when he was young and still training. But the air was hot and sticky in a way he wasn't used to, he remembered that. He was … what? Ten? Twelve? So long ago, he could only register it as young.
Shiyomi and Auntie Lynn were across from him. Shiyomi was his age, a tiny girl they had purchased somewhere. He didn't know before then that you could buy people, and though he'd never seen anything so gauche as money changing hands over the deal, he understood that they owned her now.
She was petite, like a bird. He wondered at her, her black hair, shiny in any light. Her skin was a little darker than his—tan and soft looking. Often, he found himself wanting to reach out and touch her. To see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. Shiyomi didn't smile much and said even less. She'd broken down to the power of the fates long ago. All the fight was gone. They had a lot in common.
After she'd traveled with them for weeks, he found himself taking care of her. Making sure she ate, brushing her long hair and tying it with ribbons. She was his responsibility now, and he found himself enjoying his task. But he really hadn't understood her purpose.
He'd helped her pack that morning, filling the small bag that came with her. There wasn't much: a change or two of clothes, a hairbrush, a tired-looking cloth doll. And the egg. That was a newer purchase. Douglas had caught her eyeing it—where had they been? The East Coast? He didn't remember where, only that the store had been enveloped in the smell of dust and incense. The jade egg was tiny, not much bigger than a quail's egg. Beautifully carved cherry blossoms trailed down the sides, swept up in an imaginary wind. He'd picked it up then, felt the cold of it in his palm.
He held it out to her.
At first, she didn't move. With his palm slightly cupped, he moved it closer to her. Hesitantly, she reached out for it. She smiled at him, and it made something in his chest loosen. He smiled back. Then he used his pocket money to buy it for her.
They'd become friends after that. Never really speaking—her English was either poor or nonexistent—but enjoying the silence together. Sometimes, when she was really scared, she'd hold his hand. Feeling her frail hand in his made him realize how much he missed touching another human being. Auntie Lynn wasn't the comforting type.
And in Shiyomi's other hand, the one he wasn't holding, was always the jade egg.
But that morning in the field, she'd had only the egg. Douglas was across from her, too far to reach. Auntie Lynn had her hand resting on the girl's shoulder. A sluggish wind was pushing at his aunt's hat and curling Shiyomi's skirt around her calves. Wind does not discriminate—it touches everyone, everything. He liked that about wind.
In his hand, the one that was now used to holding Shiyomi's, was his aunt's spare ritual dagger, her athame. He should have known or understood as soon as he'd stepped out onto the field and felt it. Old death. This was all overgrown grass now, but it had once been a burial ground—he knew that as soon as his feet hit the soil.
Auntie Lynn held Shiyomi. His friend wouldn't look at him, but she didn't shake or stare at him accusingly. Like him, she'd been broken and given herself over to the quiet space where no fight remained. Or not like him. Where he'd thought there was nothing, a small spark stood up and weighted his arms, his feet, his heart. He couldn't move, and his aunt was getting angry.
"What did you think she was for? A living doll for your amusement? She is as much a part of the ritual as the knife in your hand, and just as replaceable." She laughed then. Auntie Lynn's laugh was joyless and unpleasant, sickly as winter grass. He wouldn't move, and he wouldn't cry, but he couldn't stop that laugh from crawling inside him and squatting.
The laughter died when he continued not to move. She pursed her lips and stared at him. Not angry. You have to have passion to be angry, and Auntie Lynn was a cold, calculating thing. She sized him up and cocked her head. Then, quick as a snakebite, she had her own athame out and had drawn it across the girl's throat. A thin shallow line blossomed on that fragile skin before Auntie Lynn released her and let her crumple to the ground. Then she cleaned the knife off on Shiyomi's faded dress.
"Because of you, her death will be without purpose. We will raise nothing today. I do hope you've learned your lesson."
Then she turned and went back to the car.
Douglas was left standing, his knife still in his fist. He walked over to the girl, leaned down, and brushed back her hair. Shiyomi, his Shiyomi. He held her hand and said nothing. It took her a while to die. Auntie Lynn had left the cut shallow. Had Douglas done it himself, her death would have been much quicker. Still, he stayed squatting until he felt her life leave. And he cried.
It was the last time he would ever do so.
When it was done, he closed her eyes, and he took the egg from her loose grasp. He asked the earth to open, to take what was hers. He couldn't leave Shiyomi to the scavengers, so he tucked her into the soil as he had tucked her into bed so many times. Under his breath, he sang an old song—an almost-forgotten lullaby his mother used to sing. When he was done, only the empty field could be seen. He hoped that, in the summer, flowers would grow there. But that was beyond his control. Douglas couldn't create life and make things blossom. He only had power over the withered things.
Sticking the egg into his pocket, he walked slowly back to the car. Auntie Lynn sat unconcerned, cold and waiting, behind the wheel.
The next time he got a girl, he did the cut himself. No one cried, and Auntie Lynn took him to dinner afterward. She'd been proud of him. He cut his steak into little bites and felt nothing. The spark was gone.
**
Douglas came to with a start—Minion was leaning over him, concerned and confused. Had he been sleeping? Could he even sleep now? He didn't know. But it was time to leave. Time to return to his cabin. The egg wasn't here. It must be somewhere else in the house, but he couldn't look for it now. He'd have to be patient and come back another day.
Minion held up a random CD. "How come you don't have any of mine?"
"I like myself a little too much for that."
"Oh," he said. "Okay. We're leaving now?"
Douglas nodded. Yes, they were leaving now.
[NFB, NFI. Taken from Necromancing the Stone. Warning for: stabbings. Part 1 of 2.]
Minion looked into the fragile belly of the duck for the third time. "It's still not here, Master." He shook his head in a slow, confused fashion. "Strange things are afoot at the Circle K."
Douglas wondered—again—if calling Minion had been the best idea. He closed his eyes and looked out into the room, searching with his powers. He didn't have all day, either. Sam would come back eventually. The various security measures had ignored him, either because they weren't set against Douglas—and why would they be since he was supposed to be dead?—or because they weren't meant to keep out spirits. Or zombies. Minion had snuck in without any problem at all, and Douglas hadn't slipped the coin around his neck until he'd shut the library door. He was corporeal enough without the coin to manage getting it on, but it took a concentrated effort.
So they had to search and get out before Sam came back from his Council duties. The boy would sense a ghost, surely. He grimaced. Of course with Sam, you never could tell.
He opened his eyes, his scan once again finding nothing. Frustrated, he flopped into his chair. Technically, he supposed, it wasn't his chair anymore. The dead can't own anything, and all of his belongings were in Sam's ownership now. Douglas could petition the Council on the grounds that he wasn't truly dead and get it back, but that would rather defeat his purposes. He could always buy a new chair.
He looked around the library. A feeling of regret filled him. When was the last time he'd felt anything like that? He couldn't remember. Douglas hadn't been prepared for how much he'd miss his house. His home or, really, if he was being totally honest, his sanctuary. This was where he should be, not some seedy cabin in the woods with no lab, no music library, no James, and only the idiot Minion for company.
"For heaven's sake, Minion, put the duck down. Wherever it is, it's not here."
Minion carefully set the duck on the table. "What should I do, then? Would you like me to get you something?"
Douglas waved him away. "Keep looking, I guess, but leave me alone."
He was not used to being at a loss. Usually, he was the gentleman with the plan. Every little detail cataloged and put in its place. But now he had no place, and the details were everywhere.
Where could it have gone? James would have mentioned Sam finding it. Maybe one of the others? There were simply too many unknown factors. For a second he was tempted to just kill them all. It would be so much simpler. But then all his plans would go to waste, and he couldn't have that. You can't rule a kingdom with no one in it.
Douglas closed his eyes and drifted. He was in a field. Somewhere in the South. He couldn't remember where. They moved around a lot when he was young and still training. But the air was hot and sticky in a way he wasn't used to, he remembered that. He was … what? Ten? Twelve? So long ago, he could only register it as young.
Shiyomi and Auntie Lynn were across from him. Shiyomi was his age, a tiny girl they had purchased somewhere. He didn't know before then that you could buy people, and though he'd never seen anything so gauche as money changing hands over the deal, he understood that they owned her now.
She was petite, like a bird. He wondered at her, her black hair, shiny in any light. Her skin was a little darker than his—tan and soft looking. Often, he found himself wanting to reach out and touch her. To see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. Shiyomi didn't smile much and said even less. She'd broken down to the power of the fates long ago. All the fight was gone. They had a lot in common.
After she'd traveled with them for weeks, he found himself taking care of her. Making sure she ate, brushing her long hair and tying it with ribbons. She was his responsibility now, and he found himself enjoying his task. But he really hadn't understood her purpose.
He'd helped her pack that morning, filling the small bag that came with her. There wasn't much: a change or two of clothes, a hairbrush, a tired-looking cloth doll. And the egg. That was a newer purchase. Douglas had caught her eyeing it—where had they been? The East Coast? He didn't remember where, only that the store had been enveloped in the smell of dust and incense. The jade egg was tiny, not much bigger than a quail's egg. Beautifully carved cherry blossoms trailed down the sides, swept up in an imaginary wind. He'd picked it up then, felt the cold of it in his palm.
He held it out to her.
At first, she didn't move. With his palm slightly cupped, he moved it closer to her. Hesitantly, she reached out for it. She smiled at him, and it made something in his chest loosen. He smiled back. Then he used his pocket money to buy it for her.
They'd become friends after that. Never really speaking—her English was either poor or nonexistent—but enjoying the silence together. Sometimes, when she was really scared, she'd hold his hand. Feeling her frail hand in his made him realize how much he missed touching another human being. Auntie Lynn wasn't the comforting type.
And in Shiyomi's other hand, the one he wasn't holding, was always the jade egg.
But that morning in the field, she'd had only the egg. Douglas was across from her, too far to reach. Auntie Lynn had her hand resting on the girl's shoulder. A sluggish wind was pushing at his aunt's hat and curling Shiyomi's skirt around her calves. Wind does not discriminate—it touches everyone, everything. He liked that about wind.
In his hand, the one that was now used to holding Shiyomi's, was his aunt's spare ritual dagger, her athame. He should have known or understood as soon as he'd stepped out onto the field and felt it. Old death. This was all overgrown grass now, but it had once been a burial ground—he knew that as soon as his feet hit the soil.
Auntie Lynn held Shiyomi. His friend wouldn't look at him, but she didn't shake or stare at him accusingly. Like him, she'd been broken and given herself over to the quiet space where no fight remained. Or not like him. Where he'd thought there was nothing, a small spark stood up and weighted his arms, his feet, his heart. He couldn't move, and his aunt was getting angry.
"What did you think she was for? A living doll for your amusement? She is as much a part of the ritual as the knife in your hand, and just as replaceable." She laughed then. Auntie Lynn's laugh was joyless and unpleasant, sickly as winter grass. He wouldn't move, and he wouldn't cry, but he couldn't stop that laugh from crawling inside him and squatting.
The laughter died when he continued not to move. She pursed her lips and stared at him. Not angry. You have to have passion to be angry, and Auntie Lynn was a cold, calculating thing. She sized him up and cocked her head. Then, quick as a snakebite, she had her own athame out and had drawn it across the girl's throat. A thin shallow line blossomed on that fragile skin before Auntie Lynn released her and let her crumple to the ground. Then she cleaned the knife off on Shiyomi's faded dress.
"Because of you, her death will be without purpose. We will raise nothing today. I do hope you've learned your lesson."
Then she turned and went back to the car.
Douglas was left standing, his knife still in his fist. He walked over to the girl, leaned down, and brushed back her hair. Shiyomi, his Shiyomi. He held her hand and said nothing. It took her a while to die. Auntie Lynn had left the cut shallow. Had Douglas done it himself, her death would have been much quicker. Still, he stayed squatting until he felt her life leave. And he cried.
It was the last time he would ever do so.
When it was done, he closed her eyes, and he took the egg from her loose grasp. He asked the earth to open, to take what was hers. He couldn't leave Shiyomi to the scavengers, so he tucked her into the soil as he had tucked her into bed so many times. Under his breath, he sang an old song—an almost-forgotten lullaby his mother used to sing. When he was done, only the empty field could be seen. He hoped that, in the summer, flowers would grow there. But that was beyond his control. Douglas couldn't create life and make things blossom. He only had power over the withered things.
Sticking the egg into his pocket, he walked slowly back to the car. Auntie Lynn sat unconcerned, cold and waiting, behind the wheel.
The next time he got a girl, he did the cut himself. No one cried, and Auntie Lynn took him to dinner afterward. She'd been proud of him. He cut his steak into little bites and felt nothing. The spark was gone.
**
Douglas came to with a start—Minion was leaning over him, concerned and confused. Had he been sleeping? Could he even sleep now? He didn't know. But it was time to leave. Time to return to his cabin. The egg wasn't here. It must be somewhere else in the house, but he couldn't look for it now. He'd have to be patient and come back another day.
Minion held up a random CD. "How come you don't have any of mine?"
"I like myself a little too much for that."
"Oh," he said. "Okay. We're leaving now?"
Douglas nodded. Yes, they were leaving now.
[NFB, NFI. Taken from Necromancing the Stone. Warning for: stabbings. Part 1 of 2.]