Stone Cold Hands - Chapter 1

James’ hand jolted for his knife at the sight of Chef. Hurriedly, he started to chop onions and throw them into the pot. If Chef caught him doing something other than making soup, he’d probably get thrown out of the restaurant then and there.

He watched with wary eyes as the chef walked by slowly, probably to berate some other poor kitchen boy who’d decided to listen to dining room conversation rather than do his job. James sighed as he wasn’t even given a second glance by the chef. His hand jolted away in pain as his knife hit his finger instead of the now fully-chopped onion. He swore quietly, and lifted his finger up. A streak of blood was already dripping down the side of it in a clean line, just like the knife’s chop would’ve been. Out of instinct, he turned around to see if anyone would be looking at him directly. If he could just heal himself without being seen…

James pulled out his fingers and twisted them in circular shapes over his wrist. “Ravan gowda,” he whispered, glancing around. “Hela mi. Shoul, Ravan gowda.”

Immediately, he shoved his sleeve over his hand, hoping it would be enough for the others around him in the busy kitchen not to see.

There was a flash of light, showing that in fact his small spell had been cast. He slammed his hand under the counter to hide the glowing sigil. It was louder than expected.

He blushed quietly as he saw heads turning in his direction. He whipped his head around to see if Chef was going to catch him, but Chef wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“What’s the problem, James?” the other kitchen boy, Irwin Brines, called from his station. With a careful hand he crushed the garlic skins and peeled them off like a broken peanut.

James looked up at the sky, and rubbed his hand. It hid the growing raven sigil like a charm. “Cut my hand,” he said. “Nothing much.” He grumbled to himself as he put his hand back on his knife.

Irwin looked at him steadily. “I can take you o’er to the doc if you need it.” He looked into his pocket unsteadily. “I’ll help pay…”

With a worried shake of his head, he looked back at his onions, fully chopped and ready to be cooked into a stock along with the hambone in there. “No, it’s alright, Irwin.” He could deal with himself, he thought. He grabbed for the next ingredient in the soup’s list – Garlic cloves. His hand reached empty air.

“Hey Irwin!” he called, turning to face the younger boy.

Irwin looked straight up. “Yeah?”

Without skipping a beat, James stood taller. “Can I use some of your garlic?” He stole a glance at his pot. “I only need about three or four cloves.”

Irwin didn’t say anything and without a motion of his hands tossed a pair of cloves. James barely had time to blink as he reflexively grabbed at them, but they bounced from his palms and landed on the counter. James lifted his brow expectantly at the curly haired boy, and without another second, another pair was thrown at him.

This time, James was prepared and speedily snatched the garlic. He threw them on the table with a flair and smiled. “Thanks, Irwin.”

Without lifting his eyes from the table, he said, “You’re welcome.”

James took a glance at his wrist to see that the glowing raven had disappeared, leaving him completely normal and unsuspicious.

He sighed and minced the garlic carefully, thinking about his home. No, he admonished himself. Two months ago he left. He shouldn’t think about it again.

He held his blade close to his curled-in knuckles, but never further in than that. The blade sliced through the last piece of sliced garlic, making them officially minced.

He thought of Enora and stopped stark still. Already, his stomach started tumbling about. Her blond hair, her near-black eyes…

James shook his head. No. He had to keep his mind off of his old home. He had a new life, a new mission.

He tilted his head to better see the recipe. All he needed now was half a pot of water, and then that’d be all he needed. The soup would slowly cook overnight with Chef keeping his eyes on it periodically.

Pinching his forehead, he smiled in relief. His job could easily get his mind off of things.

Before he knew it, the whistle shot through the kitchen-boys’ ears and they all stood up. James lingered for a moment, looking around at the old kitchen.

Old pots that were nearly rusted hung in the cupboards. They were always washed as soon as they weren’t in use anymore. To him, it was a waste of flavour to wash away the bottoms of pots and pans. But those were the rules, and who was a new worker like him to stop them?

“James!” Chef shouted from the other room, now empty from any possible diners. “Go home!”

James nodded and turned away, slipping two apples into his baggy sleeves. “Yes, Chef!”

James kept his head high and dignified so that the chef wouldn’t get suspicious that one of his own workers was stealing from him. He saw Irwin do it a few times before he left, and that was the skilled sous chef who could make boiled water into the best stew a man could taste. So if the most generous kid would do it, then he could too. And he had a far greater need for food than any others would understand.

***

James reached inside of his shirt and smiled. “Hey, guys,” he muttered. Around him was a broken down alley behind a bunch of condemned buildings. Inside holes in the brick walls was his home, and he didn’t really mind it. Nobody disturbed him or his group, something that runaway mages needed.

Finally, a head popped from the brick walls. Immediately, he recognized the brown-haired head of Bowen. “Regan?”

James nodded. “Yeah, it’s me.” He produced the pair of apples from his shirt. “I’ve got food. Ollie can come out.”

The second head of Oliver popped up, a boy of barely eleven. “What is it?” His eyes then trained on the appl.es and lit up. “Goody! Apples!” The lean-bodied boy crawled out and brushed his hands on his thighs to get the dirt off his palms. “Just two?”

James narrowed his eyes as his heart jolted. “Taking one is risky. Chef would’ve cut off one hand for each thing stolen if he caught me.”

“So if you stole three apples…” Bowen piped up with a joking glint in his eyes. He swiped his hand in front of his body right at the waist. “No wonder you only took two.” He winked and stood at a makeshift table made from three broken pieces of wood. “Toss ‘em over?”

James threw them both at Bowen and he grabbed them both skillfully and laid them on the table. “Lupa Gowda,” he said with just a hint of grandeur. “Kuteang vantia, iffa yoy pleis.”

James nodded as a light flashed off of his right hand’s fingers. First, he prayed to his old coven’s god. Next, Bowen asked for what he needed – cutting fingers. A smile cracked on his face as he realized that Bowen even said please.

James saw Oliver watch in wide-eyed attention as Bowen sliced through the apple just by holding his fingers to it and dragging down. “Wow,” he whispered, hazel eyes alit. “How’d he do it?”

James stood up tall, like he would have in his old days. “It takes learning. It’s an entire language that you’re getting here. And you can’t bluff it either. Self and Shelf sound very alike. Self is Shilf, and shelf is Shalffe.”

Oliver blinked. “But I want to learn magic!” he whined.

“That’s why we wait until you’re older. Even the tone of your casting can create something new. If you whine to your Lupa, or Wolf, you ain’t going to get a strong spell.”

Bowen looked at James – Regan unsteadily. “The officers could be anywhere you know. Or the wolves.”

James shook his head. “Not around here, they won’t.”

“It’s hard to forget a murderer in two months. The covens are probably still looking for you.”

Regan bit his lip. He didn’t really kill Bowen and Oliver. That was a cover-up for them to escape. Of course, he probably should’ve faked his death better than he did.

“It’s alright, isn’t it?” Oliver asked as he grabbed a slice of apple and threw it in his mouth. “I mean, Regan, that they think you’re dead too, right?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s just that I might’ve escaped too quickly. It’s best we just lay low for now.”

Bowen nodded. “If you see any witches,” he began, pushing his right hand into the folds of his oversized shirt, “don’t tell them anything. Just say your mum died from plague or something, and that you’re still here.”

“Plague?” Regan asked. “Hundreds of years ago, Bowen.”

“Well, not plague. Say Smallpox or something,” Bowen shot back. “Just say that you live here with your cousins.”

Oliver blinked and slumped down on the ground. “So we aren’t warlocks, then?”

“No!” Regan said immediately. “Orphans. Nothing more.” He grabbed an apple slice, looking behind him like there was some kind of phantom behind him. He chewed quietly, studying the faces of his alley-mates. Bowen’s face was nearly slack, and it looked as though he was putting all his effort into looking like a stronger older man.

Oliver, who could only be Bowen’s son, no matter how much the man denied it, was watching the back alleys with his arms tensed and ready to go on the defensive. Regan had the urge to tell him that Ollie didn’t have to be ready to fight at every moment, but then he thought again. Ollie being on the guard and ready would make him a safer and more mature young man.

The apples were gone in a matter of a few more silent minutes. Regan looked around at the sunset alleys, lit only by the coal-fires and candlelight coming through windows far in the streets ahead of them.

He sighed and turned to the other two mages. "Let's head to bed."

He saw Ollie's shoulders slump. "What? Come on!"

Bowen nodded. "It's only sunset. We need to be cautious, not paranoid."

Regan stood tall, trying to emphasize his point. "There's no such thing as too much caution. Head to bed." With that, he took long strides to one of the decrepit holes in the buildings.

"I don't know bout you, Regan, but we're going to stay up."

Regan stopped in his tracks. He breathed in. "I got you out of the coven, and I'm the one getting you food. Listen to my rules," he whispered. His father was the one who always told him that. Of course, without pretty much saying that he pretended to kill Regan to let him out of safety.

There was silence before Regan heard a frusturated sigh from Bowen. He heard two pairs of footsteps dragging their way across the cement, and when Regan looked up, he saw Bowen giving him a baleful glare.

To Regan, it said, 'I'm only doing this once. Then, I'm gone.'

His head dipped out the wall for a second just for a last glance. There was nobody near, and the only sounds of human life were from the streets a half-kilometre's walk away.

He blinked -- unsleepily -- and saw a pair of shadows standing on the wall. His head jerked upright. There couldn't be any people around!

He squinted his eyes and shook his head, but when he stopped and opened his eyes, they were gone.