Stone Cold Hands - Chapter 2

Regan stood in front of the broken mirror and rubbed his face tiredly. Small bits of black stubble were growing at the chin and underneath his ears. It would’ve been considered handsome if he were some kind of noble, but on a Raven, a hairy face was considered to signify stupidity.

As he dunked his face in the water basin, he considered keeping it. It would make him look more like a normal person, but then he thought of simply the spell’s conditions. The Raven god probably wouldn’t recognize him and then he wouldn’t have any magic on his side.

The spellcasting gods did exactly that, not caring to recognize the spellcaster. If the prayer was from a mage and in their language, the spell would be delivered to the gods. Of course, then the gods would see if the spell was worth it.

Regan pulled his head up above the water and breathed in quickly and deeply.

And a bearded Raven wouldn’t seem worth it.

He shook the water off of his head and looked to his side. There was the razor, and his face was already wet. In the cup besides it, there was nothing to foam or to cover his face. Dammit.

He turned to the side of him to see the other bedrolls, and only Ollie’s was full. That meant Bowen was up and had probably already shaven. “Hey Bowen!” he called, if a bit too loudly. He watched Ollie groan and roll over.

“Yeah?” He heard Bowen right behind him, and whirled on his feet. There was the man, with the same square jaw, but now with gray hair and wrinkles. But funny enough, there was a beard.

“Did...” he asked, and then realized. A couple of alley urchins wouldn’t have the proper coin to even pay for something to make shaving less painful. But mages were usually well connected and had the means to make their own razors... Even after two months, it was hard to remember that. “Did you take the razor?”

“I did,” he said, almost like nothing had happened the night before. “Shaved myself right good, too. Then I aged myself.”

Regan nodded and grabbed the razor. He turned to the cracked mirror and pulled it down his face. He stopped moving his hands, then spoke. “So do you need it again?” Awkwardly, he put it down on the table without washing the hair off of the leading edge.

“Nah. Wolf spells can help me with that.” He waved his hands like shaving without a razor was nothing, and then held his hands out like claws. “Five seconds.”

Regan continued and tried not to notice the Wolf man.

“Lupa Gowda,” he began, “Kuteang vantia. Shoul, pleis.” There was a flash of light from the corners of Regan’s eyes, making him turn around. In a second, Old Bowen was whisking his index finger along the sides of his face. Wisps of hair fell off from the invisible finger-blade, landing on the floor silently. He muttered a quick swear when he accidentally cut his nose by not curling his finger in quickly enough, but that was the only sound he made.

Regan realized he stood there for only ten seconds before his beard was leveled down to nearly nothing. “Damn,” he whispered.

“Wolf spell only, Regan. Sorry.”

Regan’s eyes traced to the back of his hand, where his coven’s sigil glowed. Bowen flicked his wrists, and the sigil nearly disappeared. “Now I’m safe.” He glanced in the mirror. “Holy coyote. Back to normal. Um...”

Regan pitched in slowly. “You’re thirty-four, right?”

Bowen whipped around. “Think I don’t know?” Angrily, he muttered, “Lupa gowda. Miy naga bi tre-dez-quat. Shoul, pleis.”

Right in front of his eyes, Regan saw years fall off of Bowen. Wrinkles got smaller, and only some disappeared. It seemed that hair grew back onto his head, and then went from gray to a lighter brown. Within seconds, he was done.

Regan saw it nearly every day, whenever he would turn himself into a completely different-looking man, even if he was still recognizable as Bowen. But he could never get used to seeing him transformed back.

Regan shook his head. “So your gift is... Shape shifting, or...”

“Age shifting,” he replied hastily. He combed his brown hair back to its usual neatness before turning towards Regan. “What time is it?”

Regan pivoted around to look for a clock, but then realized that there was nearly nothing in the room. He leaned down at Ollie, remembering the pocket-watch that he always slept with. He pried it from his hands slowly and glanced at the open face.

“Half past sev- Dammit!” he shouted. He whirled and turned towards the hole in the wall. “Work!” With a leap, he grabbed his jacket off the hook near his bed. He turned around and waved a hasty goodbye towards Bowen and even Ollie, who was groaning and stretching with his eyes still closed.

“I’ll see you come evening!” he shouted, turning around. He hopped through the hole, ducking so he didn’t smash his face on the bricks.

He looked behind him quickly to see if Bowen was responding and saw a half-joking smile.

Regan shook his head and turned to the alley way. He blinked again and saw the same thing. Two shadows waiting on the wall. There wasn’t any odd glow, or anything to say that it was a spirit. He must’ve been imagining things. He ran by them, kicking up old dust. He turned back to see if the shadows were still there, and realized that the dust settled enough to show a dim outline of two people.

He stopped in his tracks and then walked along. He was definitely seeing things. He started running, thinking it was just work that was doing this to him.

***

Flyta coughed and swept the dust out of her eyes. Her dress was pretty much torn to shreds after nearly a week of running away from anyone who seemed werewolf-ish or mage-like. She for one, wasn’t accustomed to even being near the streets and slums that normal people had.

Shaller, on the other hand, seemed to revel in it. He whipped a few extra particles away and shrugged. “He’s gone.”

Flyta refused to believe him, and instead shook her head no. His footsteps were still clearly audible, not to mention the sound of discarded automaton pieces being crushed beneath his feet. They nearly made her ears hurt. “I still hear him,” she said quietly, even if he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She turned to the alleyway and flattened herself against a wall. “And why are we helping them? We should’ve caught them by now!”

Shaller whirled. “And have the others think we were hiding him? Not to mention that it could easily look like we framed the criminal with the others not dead,” he said.

Flyta raised her brow. “Then why don’t we kill them?”

Shaller leaped back. “What? We keep ourselves alive, and don’t kill. It brings attention to ourselves.”

She wrinkled her nose in anger and flew her hands out before crossing them. “Fine. You’re the captain.”

He smiled, black eyes twinkling. “If we get rid of your Wolf boys, then they won’t think we framed Regan, right?”

She stopped, trying to take in what he said. “Make up your mind. What do you want to do with them?” Flyta’s hands started losing their transparency, her tattered dress now completely opaque. Shaller was now turning to a normal, opaque, person along with her.

“We take one of them at a time, but definitely the Wolves first. Take what makes them weak.” He turned to Flyta, eyebrows raised. “And for some, weak at the knees.” With that, he turned and stalked in the direction of the condemned brick buildings. 

***

James looked around him at the people crowding the streets. The sunset light shone over the city, giving nearly all the other people ghost-like glows. Maybe that was the same thing that happened with dawn. 

In the summertime, though, dawn happened long before he was awake.

He shook his head, turning the corner into his alley. His feet crunched on dead leaves and pieces of metal thrown about on the ground, but he didn't really notice it. He watched his shadow, almost like a giant on the wall compared to him. It was like the shadows that he saw earlier that morning.

Without thinking, he walked faster and closer to the wall. Her kept his head high, but also turned it around to see if anybody was following him.

"R-R-Regan?" From the walls keeping the square clearing safe, there was the sound of Bowen. 

James' head flew up in fear. Bowen was a strong man. He was confident and always one to keep the mood up. When he stuttered, there was something wrong. Seriously wrong. "I'm coming!" He sprinted, kicking dust into the air behind him, but he couldn't care less.

When he turned the corner, he expected to see the tall shape of Bowen, even if he was just standing there. Instead, he looked around for a moment to realize that he was on the ground, slumped against the north wall.

"Bowen!" he said, crouching down to his height. Bowen's hair had turned gray, making him look even older than he had in the morning. He could have easily been seventy. His nose was bloodied and his lip was bleeding down his shirt. It was when he got a second glance of his hair that he saw the blood around the edges. "What - What happened?"

He sat for a second, staring into the distance. Then he hung his head, his chest shuddering in silent sobs. "I couldn't stop it. Blond... Beaverskin hat... fine clothing..."

"Stop what?"

Bowen turned his head up to meet James in the eyes. "Ollie. They took him." He took a shuddering breath. "He's -- He's gone."