By: Josh Kemp
When I woke up, it was in two
sections. My body came awake first,
against my minds better judgment. Every
section of me throbbed in a dull way, except for my wrists. Those were red hot
rings of agony. My head felt strange
against the pillow, my scalp shaven and smooth so skin rested on cloth. I was startled
by these unfamiliar circumstances. I
came jerking awake and thrashing briefly, not sure at all of where I was. The memories of what had preceded my black
out came rushing back to me with a physically painful jolt that staggered me
back into the bed with a flop.
I was
in a bed. This fact, at least, was a
comforting sign. You generally don’t get
beds for people who you are going to kill, or who are dead. In the moments before I blacked out I wasn’t
sure if I had expected to wake up at home from a bad nightmare, in the bar
surrounded by wreckage, in a hospital.
Hell, I wasn’t incredibly sure that I would wake up at all.
Waking
up in a fairly comfortable hotel room bed had not been on my radar. This was a Holiday Inn, cheerful lettering on
the stand up pay-per-view menu on my bedside table happily proclaimed. There was a picture of a sail boat resting on
the wall opposite me, another surefire indicator of hotel space. Done in faded pastel colors and unique by
itself, somehow the painting managed to be the same as every other half assed
piece of “art” hotels and corporate offices display with manufactured pride.
Throughout
my rushed examination of my surroundings, the pain had been slowly
building. Both of my wrists throbbed in
low waves of pain. My head pounded in
time with my pulse, each wave building in intensity until I was physically ill
from the agony. I did my best to lay
still, keeping my eyes half lidded to block out as much brightness as possible,
and given time the pain subsided.
There
was a phone next to my bed as well and, when I eventually was able to move, I
slowly scooped it from its base and cradled it to my ear. Even this simple act left me barely able to
resist the pain that was continuing to tell me what a stupid idea moving in any
manner was. I didn’t see Martin come in,
wasn’t even aware he was there, until he chimed in and interrupted me from
dialing 9-1-1.
“I
don’t think that’s such a great idea, Christopher.” His voice rang with gentle authority.
I
whirled to face the newcomer as quickly as I could, fresh waves of newly
intense pain washed over me as a reward for my sudden action. This sent my vision down a long black tunnel
that led towards unconsciousness from which I was barely able to pull myself
back.
Through
my terror I couldn’t recognize Martin.
Given what I know about psychic trauma now, I’m surprised I thought of
9-1-1. Hell, it’s a damn miracle I woke
up at all. Darius had done the
equivalent of smashing through my head with a psychic tornado. He hadn’t been trying to extract anything
from me, or preserve my sanity in any way.
After I dumped that grease over him he had simply reacted, lashing out
at whatever had hurt him. You don’t take
a mental ass whooping from a real live demon and walk away totally intact.
Anyway,
the point is that, while I remembered in a hazy way the events of the night
before, my head was still not right.
Martin’s intrusion into my reality, even as gentle as he was trying to
be with me, sent me skittering back into the corner of the room furthest from
him and sobbing.
“Shh,
shhhh Christopher, it’s alright, you’re safe now. It’s alright.” As Martin spoke he approached
me slowly, his hand extended, showing me he was not threatening. He kept his
manner calm and carefully composed, in the same way you would a new pet that is
frightened of you.
My
hands held in front of me, clutching the blanket so that it formed an entirely
useless wall in front of me, I stammered.
“St.. stay away fr.. from me…”
A brief
frown crossed his face before it returned to a friendly mask. “Christopher, you were hurt. Do you remember the bar? Do you remember how you helped me?”
I was
able to calm down, if only slightly. “I
want to go. I remember you, sure, but I
don’t know shit about you, or that other dude… No offense, or anything…”
“Indeed. Well, the opposite is now true of both Darius
and I. After your little intrusion in
the bar both he and I felt compelled to learn a bit more about you, Christopher
Chance. Before I go any further, I want
you to be assured that I vow I will do all in my power to protect you and your
kin. Do you understand?” Martin’s voice was solemn, the voice of a man
speaking an often recited prayer.
“Uh,
yeah… yeah sure, whatever you say.” I
wasn’t sure he was entirely sane, and thought it would be best to play along
with what he was saying.
“Good. Now, Darius is not going to be happy with
you, and worse than that, he pulled a chunk of your hair out.”
“My
hair? What does that have to do with
anything?”
“More
than you think, with it he could…”
Martin stopped abruptly, and then a look of startled curiosity flitted
across his face, and he spoke again.
“Young man, tell me truly, what do you know of wizards?”
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