Daggers and Curses (a chapter of sorts)
“Put my son in my office!” Ferinus shouted to his men.
Two men in Armani suits dragged the unconscious body across the Italian marble tile floor while a third watched them toss him into the armchair. A heavy blood trail marked his passage through the halls that the servants immediately attacked before any guests would arrive. After all, despite his son’s appearance Ferinus Castignus ran a very tight ship.
The lord of the manor spoke, “Where did you find him?”
“Broken and beaten in the alleys in
The phone on his desk beeped twice. “Mr. Castignus, your
Ferinus hit the button. “Escort them to the conference room and keep the model covered. I’ll only be a few moments.” Ferinus sighed and turned back to the broken heap bleeding on his armchair. The weight of juggling a contracting empire while containing the family curse wore him down a bit. In the end, he felt that his son, not business negotiations, would be his undoing. “What am I going to do with that boy, Drake?”
The stocky man straightened his glasses and checked his suit for blood. “I do not know, sire, but the boy was void of his possessions.”
Ferinus turned around and looked his chief guard in the eye. “No money, nor crystal?”
“Nothing, sire.”
Ferinus stared at his son, suddenly cognizant of a vacant spot in his heart where, in recent weeks, paternal love once flourished. He knelt before the boy, rolled up his sleeves and began to chant. Though he had seen this sort of thing a thousand times before, the bodyguard watched in awe as the crystal spikes embedded in his master’s forearms reddened and pulsed with power. Placing his hands on his son’s chest, his frenzied incantation released a charge from the crystals that ran through his hands and into the boy, who immediately gained consciousness and started coughing.
Suddenly alert and aware of his father, the boy began to speak. “Father, it was not my fault. There were so many of them. I was able to wound a few but lost my dagger. I have…”
“Don’t say another word, Demetrius,” screamed Ferinus. “Tell me, have you the crystal?”
The boy raised his eyes reluctantly to meet his father’s. “No, sir.”
“Then you know who has possession of it?”
“No, father.”
“You have failed me again. Just sit there and bleed.” He sat down behind his desk, a large white oak frame embossed with golden leaves. Ferinus regarded his son’s bloodied nose and bruised eyes as a mere formality in learning the real family business. As his ancestors learned that with knowledge and real power come pain and suffering.
After some reflection on the matter of a missing relic, he met Drake’s gaze. “Go find out what you can about the location of my crystal while I’ll see what I can find out here.”
“Yes, sire.” Drake closed the large doors behind him.
Ferinus stood up from behind his desk and came around to look at the boy. His rage barely contained, he tried to remember how his own father dealt with disrespect, but this boy was already bleeding and showing no signs of changing, so now a new tactic was necessary. He reached out wiping blood from under his son’s nose. He held up the finger which shined red.
“Do you realize what is in this?” Ferinus leaned in close to the boy’s face and whispered, “The legacy, our legacy, is on your blood. This is not a game, Demetrius. The ritual will go on as planned despite your own intentions. Your own dreams do not matter now, nor did mine when I was your age.” He sat down in the arm chair opposite the boy. “The luxury of dreaming ended long ago. You know that,” he patted his forearms as he spoke. And the boy had been told the story of a greedy ancestor grasping power from somewhere beyond, the crystal binding shards, the curse, and the miserable fate of every first born male in the whole Castignus line. “But you keep running that mouth and talking to people about our business. You put us at risk.” He paused and regarded the blood on his hand. “No one should even know of this night’s business, or your distinct responsibilities. Your duties to this family are non-negotiable.”
Demetrius sat upright in the chair uncomfortably. “Father, I have something to say about all of this.”
“No, you don’t.” Holding the bloodied finger before him reverently, Ferinus returned to his desk and opened a drawer. Upon his desk he placed a mirrored tray and a small velvet bag. “I know the story already, so you don’t need to speak of it.” He could feel his son glaring at him. History was repeating itself. “You are seventeen and in love. You know this girl you love is not someone I would approve of but still you love her and are hell-bent on being with her.” He reached into the bag and placed one diamond in the center of the tray. “Though I applaud your passion, alone you have almost undone everything, and for what?” Ferinus paused, but the boy didn’t answer. “Who attacked you?”
“I don’t know,” Demetrius replied.
“Yes, you do,” Ferinus scowled.
“No, but I…”
“Don’t insult me. Remember, generations of our men have tried every trick to try to avoid our fate.” He gestured to the shelves behind Demetrius. “Every Castignus man has written an account of his tryst with Malebec.” The crystals in his arms flared at the mention of the trapped demon’s name. The man hoped this dramatic effect would put fear in the young man’s heart despite the he himself pain felt at its expense.
Taking the diamond gingerly between his two fingers, he twirled it, bathing it in Demetrius’ blood. It shone a slight red in the center of tray. “We cannot have you distracted, nor discussing family business with outsiders.” Leaning in close to the tray Ferinus blew gently on to the gem which then stood on its point and slowly began to spin. Muttering the incantation softer than Demetrius could hear, Ferinus looked up on the final word into his son’s eyes. “Vox.”
“No, Father, not again!”
Then Demetrius saw the diamond flash a moment before he felt a fiery flash in his throat, causing him to scream. The shrill sound died almost immediately though Demetrius cried out with all his might. Then, as suddenly as the pain began, it disappeared. He looked to the jewel which now lay on its side, pulsating a cloudy red color.
“Why father?” he mouthed, though nothing came out.
The intercom beeped again.
“Why, my son?” Ferinus smiled. He picked up the red jewel and held it before his son. “Because without a voice, you cannot charm your girl. What you cannot charm, I do not have to worry about.” He rubbed the diamond between his hands and pulled away revealing empty palms, the jewel was gone. “Secrets are safe when one loses a voice.”
The phone beeped again. “Rosie, entertain my guests for a minute more.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the voice from the speaker.
“And Demetrius, your voice shall be returned before the ritual, when you’ve earned it back. Now, go to your room.”
Demetrius mere rose from his chair and bowed to his father while scowling before leaving. He slammed the door shut in a small act of defiance.
Ferinus reached back into the jewel bag and produced two stones, a pearl and an emerald. Today alone drained him of magic that he would need to conserve for the ritual. Touching his son’s blood to the pearl he chanted a few words rendering the pearl a deeper red, then speaking a language few recognized and fewer knew he gently pushed the pearl into the heart of the emerald. The emerald glowed and faded into a pearly opaque shade.
“When I return, my son, we shall see what you know,” he whispered to the gem, before grinding it into powder.
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Demetrius flopped down on his bed and scoffed at his father’s ploy to silence him, because for the first time in the history of the family curse recent technology trumped the Castignus library. Stupid old man, how can you dream of silencing anyone these days? I’ve learned some tricks too. In his room alone were a phone, computer, and cell phone, let alone his father’s business resources in the house; within the confines of his room he could still communicate with anyone despite the voice situation. The blessing found in the Castignus library wasn’t the extensive journals from all members who bore the curse, but the fact that fathers never expect sons to find the hidden tomes of magic, or befriend one of the family wizards. Demetrius had done both and dared on a course of action. This animosity between father and son had developed when Ferinus, on Demetrius’ fifteenth birthday, followed the family tradition of preparing his son.
“Open it,” Ferinus had told his son.
Packaging littered the floor revealing small islands of sporting equipment, video games, and designer clothes, but only one box remained after all the guests had departed. Demetrius tore through the paper only to find an aged wooden box bound with old iron bands and hinges. The front revealed a chiseled face of a gargoyle.
“I want no part of this,” his mother said. And with that Sabina Castignus left the room. Her marital experiences tempered any excitement found in jewels or precious stones. His mother’s clear disdain for this gift fueled Demetrius’ exhilaration for whatever resided in the box.
“You must open the latch, Demetrius.”
The young man began to feel his way around the gargoyle’s face for a button or latch but he could find none.
“Look harder,” Ferinus told him. “You have to want it.”
And so the boy did, it was unlike anything he had ever seen. He probed the eye socket of the gargoyle when the pain of success hit him.
“Yeeow!” he pulled back his index finger, crimsoned on the point, as a sharp bloodied pin slowly retracted into the metallic face.
“Now you get your prize, Demetrius,” Ferinus said as the lock began change into a standard latch and clasp. “It’s a blood box. Only you have access to its contents now.” The boy pulled open the lid excitedly, not cognizant that his sordid adventure into a doomed life had begun.
The cell phone beeped, pulling him out of his reverie, to alert him of a message. The text message read: “Delivery right now. Proceeding as planned.”
Demetrius folded the phone while thoughts of spending play money he would now have at his father’s expense. His modern digital Athena, the internet, helped him discover just how much a particular 11th century crystal box was worth, not to mention the folklore behind it. Rumored to be made by a group of strange bedfellows, the crystal’s special attribute was fashioned by mystics from all the great religions who had gathered to create vessels to trap the soul or a wayward spirit. The family historians explain in great detail that failed innovators, like his long lost ancestor, tried to capture a minion of hell as a secret weapon. Some such powers should never be tampered with, an irony that Demetrius only partly understood. His true victory with the internet revealed itself in a list of potential buyers for such an item.
Tonight’s knowledge of thy enemy has reaped wonderful rewards for the young upstart he was: His father thought him to be neutered and conciliatory, and his betrayer thought him dead. He lay back on his bed waiting for his father’s wrath to burst down his door when he learned the truth. Because he was necessary to his father’s plan to contain a devil, personal safety would never tampered with, though personal happiness was another story.
His cell phone interrupted again, it was Evie, which he let go to voicemail. Regardless of who it was, it would have to wait until he could supplant one voice for his own. He’d need to sneak off to see Alim, when his father wasn’t as preoccupied with his actions. If anyone knew how to overpower a stolen voice spell, it was Alim whose methods were still mysterious to the only surviving intern of the mage. To pass the time before his visit, he started typing an email to Evie while thinking of buying her nice gifts and getting lost in the tangle of her thick, black curly hair.
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“Alright,” said Bankroll. “Let’s get this thing to the library.” The van turned south down
Joey “The Bankroll” Driscoll had been enjoying life lately. He especially relished pulling off small weird jobs that paid lucratively. Getting thrown out of private school was the best thing that ever happened to him. He made contacts with obnoxiously rich kids who knew he was really expelled for extorting money from faculty members rather than one incident of fisticuffs. Either way, his reputation was set among a group of children eternally angered by whatever their parents did to them, for them or near them. Those spoiled brats and their schemes financed a very nice lifestyle for a high school dropout. For a brief year and a half, Joey Driscoll lived with his current bread and butter: his dorm mate was Demetrius Castignus.
Now, a year after ‘expulsion’ stopped sounding like a bad thing, Demetrius offered a six digit paycheck for lifting and moving some rare desirable glass doohickey from one place to another. On top of that, he found himself in charge of six guys who would help him make such good money. It’s nice being the brains, he thought.
However, Bankroll didn’t particularly like taking orders, nor listening to anyone about anything. We’ve all met the case study that is a sucker for reverse psychology, but none was worse than Bankroll. Demetrius had been a little too clear in his directions when he gave Driscoll a mapquest printout and pretty ornate crystal dagger to put into the box they were stealing.
“Joey, I can’t beg you anymore than this,” he said holding the dagger. “Repeat after me.”
“Repeat after me,” Joey snickered and jabbed one of his new men in the ribs. The man didn’t laugh.
“This is serious, smart ass. Hold out your palm and repeat after me.”
Demetrius placed the blade flat against his friend’s palm. “I promise to carry out the master’s plan.”
Joey laughed. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Just do it,” Demetrius said. He leaned in close to Joey, “Or so help me God, I’ll find someone else.”
At the threat of a paycheck he had already spent a thousand times in his dreams, Joey submitted and repeated the oath. “I promise to carry out the master’s plan or my soul will be forfeited to the vessel before me.” The dagger gently glowed once, but Bankroll dismissed it as a reflection from the lights. “What was that shit, Demetri? My master?”
“Nothing, merely formality. Just follow the directions to the detail, okay?”
“Sure, whatever, my master,” he laughed alone.
And so, three days later, Bankroll had successfully played his role in beating up and stealing directly from his employer; furthermore, he savored the coup he had improvised by killing his ‘master,’ plotting a more clandestine route back to his place and leaving the crystal dagger in his office safe. A little research proved that crystal daggers are worth more than six figures. It was a good day for the Bankroll.
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In three years a lot of things can happen. Boys of fifteen grow hair in new places, tend burning, mercurial passions that weren’t previously there and, if they are given a mystical dagger, experience a puberty that takes some sharp turns. And so, weird things befell Demetrius in the months after he received his gift. Sometimes he was surprised to find it on his person in chemistry class or the bottom of the school pool where he stood during practice; other days, frustrated by a videogame or schoolmate, it appeared in his hand. Though he knew he left it in the blood box, he began to develop a quick wit for deception and an uncanny ability to hide a dagger with only a towel and a swimsuit. Two dead household pets and accompanying punishments later tempered his angry outbursts. This newfound and unwelcomed bloodlust provoked two firsts from his father: his voice was taken for a brief time and he needed to get a job. These circumstances introduced him to the depths of magic and basics of servitude to the family sorcerer, Alim.
In this new strange world of curses and magic, most first days were catalogued under memorable; so it was in Alim’s workshop.
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Fifteen and mute are really what an employer dreams of in a servant.
“So… you say your father sent you here for a job, did he?” The little old man’s scrutinizing eyes peered up to meet Demetrius’, who was looking past him into the darkness of the workshop. “You’re sure he’s okay with this decision?” The boy said nothing and produced a document sealed with the initials on his father’s ring. The man unfolded it and looked again at the boy. “Everything looks in order, but let’s check for sure. Follow me,” the old man said, turning to walk down the darkened passage, but he stopped suddenly and turned to the boy, “but do not touch anything.”
He led the boy down the hall to what appeared to be a kitchenette complete with an old wooden table. The table was scarred with deep cuts. On the table were various mason jars, ancient parchments and one candle that barely lit the room. Outside the narrow radius of the light the boy could see nothing, but he could hear a slight rustling in the darkness.
The old man turned and spoke. “You wouldn’t be the first one to forge a signature and seal it with a sleeping man’s ring, but if you did no one could blame you. After all…” He leaned over the table holding the parchment over the flame. The edge caught fire and the flame crawled across the expanse to the words. The paper ate away but the script remained floating in a golden smoke, lingering until acknowledged by the spellcaster. “After all, Ferinus has been to the oracle, and he knows what she thought.” At the mention of the name Ferinus, the words dissipated from view. There was no ash, no scent of smoke. He sighed, “Well, it’s his decision, the fool. Heh, I guess I can trust you not to speak out of turn to your father. ” He grabbed the boy’s chin and looked into his eyes. “Ah yes, the seeds of hate are planted in there.”
The old man then beckoned the boy to follow him to a doorway to the right. He opened it and clapped his hands. Lights went on at the bottom of the stairs revealing shelves lining both sides of the passage. “Again. Don’t touch anything. Once I give you the tour I’ll tell you the rules. Most times the tour is enough without the rules, but considering who your old man is… Well, who can blame me?”
They began down the stairs past some of the jars and canisters. The boy gave a quick glance at the labels as he passed them. Some were in English, others Greek; some he recognized as Latin or German, but a few were written in characters he never seen before. There seemed to be no logic as to how they were organized: not by language or alphabet, nor was it by container type. The old man’s lights down below grew stronger as they approached. Demetrius’ eye was drawn to the glass dome holding a large golden moth pulsating with light.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” the old man said. “Like most things here, you need to understand and respect it, because even the best intentioned act could kill you or do something worse.” Demetrius looked away from the moth and at his host for the first time since entering the basement. “Yes son, there are far worse things than death. Take it from me.” The boy glanced around the room following the old man to the next chamber. This room was also lined with wooden shelves and filled with jars. Against the back wall was what appeared to be a baker’s rack with a wooden counter, cutting block and various tools. Between the baker’s rack and shelves of ingredients was a large framed window glass that ran from ceiling to floor. Planted in the center of the room was another table, twice as big as the one in the kitchen, but the countertop was made out of some strange stone.
“Yes, there are rules. The rules will keep you alive. The exceptions to the rules you will pick up over time as you see me do things, no exception will ever appear in writing. Should you find a note in writing from me, know right now that it is not from me and will never be from me. I do not write notes, but plenty of other things do.” Something snickered from one of the containers behind him, causing the boy to jump. “Rule one: you break one of the rules and chances are, even I can’t save you from what happens. My last assistant didn’t listen to the rules and he was let go. Jules didn’t need a recommendation from me, if you know what I mean. If not, you will later.”
Demetrius nodded his head slowly in an understanding fashion, though he really didn’t understand. “Rule Two: Whenever I give you a direction you will follow it completely and obediently.” The old man reached behind him and took a glass tumbler and two containers off the shelf. “For instance, if I ask for a scoop of Vesuveitus in a tumbler, you need to move with speed or you will waste the product. These things are expensive and most have a shelf life for what we do down here.” He took the metal scoop from inside the container and quickly placed the contents in the glass tumbler. No sooner did he drop the contents into the tumbler then it began radiating heat and blasting small, intense flames over the lip. “It might also blow your arm off,” he laughed.
The boy took a step back from the table.
“Rule three: language matters. Do you know your languages? Greek, Italian, German, Aramaic and Chinese?” The boy nodded in affirmation. “Do not read anything aloud that is not written in English. If it’s in English it can be said. Otherwise, if you utter any other language, you will corrupt the protective wards on them, or perhaps begin something you are not equipped to finish.”
The boy nodded again.
“Follow me,” the little hunchback beckoned with a long bony finger. “Rule four: No books ever pass this threshold.” He outlined the iron doorframe with his hands. “Memorize in there, never chant in here, got it? Pass the iron with a book and you’ll probably pray for death like Jules did.”
Demetrius began to doubt his father’s judgment about a summer job.
The old man walk through the threshold into the new room lined with shelved books. Old volumes covered every inch of wall except to his right where there was another full length mirror glass framed in lead. To his left, outlined with more books was a cheap IKEA desk organizer complete with a new computer. “Heh heh, not everything we do needs the old rules. As you learn, the new stuff can be quite beneficial, but tricky.”
The boy followed the man back into the contents room. “This almost concludes the tour for today. Your education in poisons, spells and curses begins today. Follow the rules and things will end well. Make no assumptions, take no guesses and don’t do anyone any favors. Do you understand? I’ll answer your questions this time tomorrow. Feel free to look around the room now but do not touch.”
Demetrius looked behind him at the long line of containers. To his left he heard tapping on glass down the row close to the base of the stairs. He followed the shelf until he arrived at a glass urn filled with black smoke that billowed from the bottom of the jar. In the smoke something small struggled and hit the glass. He leapt back when he saw small skeletal hands struggling against the smoke and striking the glass in a frenzy. His gaze rose from the struggle in the bottom of the jar to the label near the lip. He could only understand the title of the contents in Italian but not the symbols under it.
It said Jules.
The old man snickered again. “See you tomorrow, son.”
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Learning that you are doomed to be cursed for all eternity if you are not vigilant and strong in spiritual battle of wills with a demon can ruin your day, not to mention that even the slightest perk could cost the user so much. Had the shock of the dagger materializing wherever he went and strange magical rules in a workshop made of fantasy not wracked his brain, Demetrius may have remembered from that first day to check his father’s tomes for a reference of a Jules. But he didn’t. Instead, he distracted himself with girls, but now, unlike then, he met success in Evie.
“I need to see you. I miss you” was all the message from Evie needed to say to launch Demetrius toward Alim’s workshop to cure his imposed silence. Every time he approached the door he paused before knocking. The dread and fear he felt never went away regardless of how many times he had visited. As soon as his feet hit the pavers on the lawn, memory pulled him to those first experiences of magic.
“Pay attention, you fool,” the Alim said. “You could kill us both.”
His chiding was justified because Demetrius had almost killed himself twice that week by not paying attention. The first time was because he bumped into a shelf knocking over a jar of dragon urine, the end result eating a hole into the floor. The remedy required Demetrius to learn how to mix and set concrete.
The second time was while mixing ingredients for a love potion. The spell called for an exact measurement of nasty and volatile items while hand mixing it in a mortar for a precise amount of time. As his wrist throbbed he wondered why the Kitchen Aide mixer his mother’s cooks had wouldn’t work with these magical ingredients. As he was dutifully counting out the twists into the mortar, Demetrius saw the old man access the casting room for the first time. Then, there was a mini explosion on the worktable.
“Dammit! Watch what you are doing!” The old man ripped the smoldering bowl from under Demetrius’ teary eyes. He was blinded by ash and soot, so he wiped the smoke from his eyes with the back of his hands. For the moment his vision what clouded by a green tint. When he looked over at the glass frame on the wall, it was glass again, a mirror. Seconds before he thought he heard the old man mutter something. He turned to see the glass turn to mercury and dissolve, leaving a doorway to another room beyond the threshold. He thought the room beyond looked red, but now everything was green so he couldn’t trust his senses.
“You alright, boy?” Alim grabbed the boy’s face forcefully and gazed into his eyes. “I should let you walk around with this curse of the Irish in your eyes for a week. It drives greedy American men insane, but with my luck it’ll cause you some other miscalculation.” He released the boy’s face to dig in one of the canisters on the shelf. Pulling out a fine blue dust in a closed fist, he turned his wrist and opened the palm. “Open your eyes, but do not inhale this or we will have a whole new set of problems. Understand?” The boy nodded.
Demetrius held his breath while the old man blew the powder directly into his eyes. Color immediately returned to his sight but his eyes felt filmy. He raised his arms to rub them when the old man grabbed both.
“Don’t! Let it settle. Close your eyes and listen to me,” he said leading the boy by the hands to recline on the wooden bench. “This is partly my fault, though your old man never need know about it, okay? I should’ve shown you the spell room before today, or at least how the door to it works.” The boy sat up to look at the door, but the man hit him in the head with a small book. “Head down, eyes closed.”
Demetrius knew he’d have to be patient if he were to really learn anything useful from his boss. The relationship had been rocky from the start. Demetrius could not speak and the old man was all business. Short of the occasional “Harumph!” or “Hmmmm,” it was one long awkward silence the first week. But now, two months later Demetrius could almost call Alim an acquaintance. The boy no longer immediately cowered when the man yelled, for it was his way. And Alim chuckled regularly at the boy’s awkwardness and would sometimes make a dirty joke, though Demetrius’s naïveté sometimes kept him from fully understanding the jibe. He listened attentively for his teacher to begin.
“I’ve been meaning to show you how these rooms relate to the world of magic, if only to keep you from making a mistake. Keep your eyes closed,” Alim settled down in the chair opposite the workbench. “My business is a lucrative one. To be in my business you had to collect things from a long, long time ago. To be good in my business you had to predict what will be valuable to others and then have the guts to go get it.”
The old man looked around the shelves, spotted the remnants of the concrete mix and laughed. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to collect dragon urine? Do you know how many times I had to wait to see if I had a container that could hold it?” He paused, and the boy shook his head because he hoped that ignorance would keep him from ever having to get a new sample. The old man sighed, “Seven times and two assistants later, and I am the only magic dealer in the world with those goods. That summer, dragon urine was all the rage in
“Well, the doorway you saw today is a protective ward. If the ingredients are bound to this place, the spellbooks to the neighboring chamber and both beyond a sealed ward, the only place they can be joined is in the casting room. Now, open your eyes.” Demetrius opened his eyes. The slow burn caused him to blink and tear but he could see various colors. “Sit up and watch.” The boy did as he was told.
Alim rose from his seat and walked to the mirror. He leaned in close, whispered a phrase into his reflection. The sheer glass quaked violently and dropped like falling mercury. Beyond the threshold was a room constructed from crimson bricks. “You may enter, but only this once,” Alim beckoned for his student.
The large room was large and contained a solid granite altar in the center of it. Each of the five walls contained a full mirror that led to other places. The red brick danced with shadows from the coal-filled urns that flanked each of the doorways. “As you can see, this place is fairly safe from people messing with it. Each door requires its name to gain access. Even if you know the word, it doesn’t preclude that you’re safe in here. This is a room with no wards. Anything can happen here. Magic happens here. A demonstration.” Alim took a canister from the floor and dipped in his hand. A thick green honey-like substance covered his hand and dripped on the floor. He walked around Demetrius in a circle dripping the greenish goo an inch from his shoes. “Stand here and watch.” The old man looked the boy in the eyes. “Don’t break the circle or you could die.” Demetrius swallowed hard.
Alim then walked over to the altar, threw a tentacled piece of rotten flesh on the smooth grey slab and began to chant. The words, unfamiliar to Demetrius, followed a staccato cadence that grew into a song. It appeared that the flesh began to writhe and bubble, smoke emanating from where the altar and flesh met. The foggy result obscured his view, but Demetrius could hear a shrill grinding sound.
Alim appeared at the boy’s side. “Do not break the circle, Demetrius.” Tracing the movement in the mist, he could see something big with sharp parts struggling, almost screaming. Instantly the mist dissipated leaving a large scorpion poised to spring at the men from the altar. It shrieked in a rage. “It cannot touch you as long as you are in the circle.” Both claws raised high, snapping and dripping wet from its magical birth, leaped off the table at Demetrius. He closed his eyes waiting for death and only heard a thud.
When he opened his eyes but a crack he saw the beast struggling to touch him but unable to connect. “Magic follows simple rules. Until you break the circle, he cannot.”
Had the boy been able to ask questions he would have started out by screaming at his teacher for no warning, for little compassion and for bringing such a beast into the world. But the lesson learned: Don’t mess with the casting room.
Alim reached into a small sack tucked into his belt and threw white sand on the creature who instantly melted into the floor. Not a trace was left behind. “My boy, if you cast correctly, there is very little cleanup.” The boy remained in his protective circle. “You can go back into the pantry now. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Demetrius ran to his workplace and the sorcerer sealed himself in the casting room alone.
Alim pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Yes, I think your boy will be running a little low on curiosity in the coming months.”
“Splendid,” said Ferinus. “Do you think you could make me a little something to juice up the oracle? I need answers.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He hung up and rejoined Demetrius in the pantry. “Finish those lists and maybe I’ll let you work with the spellbooks,” Alim said, before heading upstairs. Demetrius finished his mixing for the potion he started an hour before but remained distracted. After he poured the finished result into the proper flask, he searched for Jules. The little figure’s struggle mesmerized Demetrius who approached the jar every free moment he could spare. The mystery in the jar, the shrouded battle for life itself, enchanted the boy. He wondered what could be happening and how it happened, but today, after looking down the claws of a magical monster, he pitied the creature called Jules who once had his job. He made a vow that somehow he would free the tiny plagued entity.
Posted in Main Story : Other posts by Chet