A Wizard's Best Friend: Part 1/2

Do you remember that feeling? That peculiar feeling you had, all alone in your bed at the age of four? You knew there was something in the dark, oh yes, something shifting, scratching, pinching, pounding. Cast your mind back. Can you recall that feeling, the unshakeable belief that if you wrapped yourself up in your blankets oh so tightly, they could never reach you?

There was a trick to it, of course. Not a single bit of you could stick out – not even one little toe. Otherwise the things that bumped against the shelves would latch on to it and drag you down under your bed. I recall it well. I would hold out until the air got stale and warm under the blanket, and then would invariably change the rules. Just the slightest hint. The monsters, of course, couldn't latch onto my head.

However, with age comes more experience, and sometimes we even learn from it.
 

Twenty-seven years and countless nights later, I finally learned.
 

With the tip of the knife, I lifted the edge of the blanket ever-so-slowly. I inhaled greedily, the euphorically cool air sloshing into my lungs. It wasn't dark, as dark goes; I could still make out the details of the room: the bed, the writing table, the open drawer, a lamp. Oh, and the freakishly pointy claw that etched a furrow onto my cheek. Crying out in surprise, I hurriedly slammed down the edge of the blanket, just in time to feel a mute thump on its surface, right above my eye.
 

”Crap,” I said, holding up my hand in the light of my cellphone. It had come back bloody from my cheek. ”So much for childish belief. Well, I'm all out of ideas now.”
 

”Ideas?” scoffed a voice beside me. ”I'd rather not have any more of those out of you. 'Quick! Let's hide under that blanket instead of running away!' Sound familiar? If yes, please feel to go screw yourself.”
 

I tried to stare at him coldly. It's surprisingly hard to pull off crammed under a blanket, and I'm quite proud to say the stare was at least under room temperature. I let him suffer the full blast of my mildly chilly glare. ”A blanket is a symbol of strong belief and the will of the mind. There is nowhere safer you could be. Tell me, Mr. Trent, which one of us is the wizard here?”
 

Mr. Trent gave a mighty harrumph. Huh. Apparently someone actually does that. ”Mighty good wizard you turned out to be. Should've called that Dresden bloke, after all. If I have to suffer one more minute under this hellishly pungent blanket, I am going to take my chances with Mr. Boogieman out there.”
 

”For the umpteenth time, it's not some bastard suited up as the Boogieman. It's a lich. Sharp claws, eat your soul, that kinda thing. Big time dangerous.”
 

Another harrumph.
 

I sighed. They complain about friends being horribly mutilated by monsters and then when someone tries to help, they throw clichés in your face. What's wrong with a blanket anyway? Sure, it's not your rain of fire or bolts of lightning or anything, but it actually works unlike other things that may or may not have been mentioned earlier in this sentence. You want story-book magic? Read the damn books.
 

”I am a paying customer,” Mr. Trent sputtered out, ”and you will treat me with the proper respect, Mr. Hedge.”
 

Oops, thinking aloud again. Bad habit.
 

”I am most sorry, didn't mean anything by it. Just a little frustrated here. You know.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of a series of thumping coming from outside the blanket. ”And call me Eddy.”

 

”Well, Eddy,” he said, enunciating the name with clear contempt, ”what do you propose as our next move? What do your wizarding senses tell you?”
 

Truth be told, my wizarding senses, as such, were screaming at me to run. A lich isn't something easily fended off. They have the pleasure of picking one of two ways to kill you. They can shred you into itsy-bitsy pieces or shred your soul into itsy-bitsy pieces. Or throw you off a roof. I'd seen that happen once. A first-person view, one might say.
 

The short of it is this: I'd faced down a lich only once and for a good reason. I steered clear of them afterwards. This jackass called me up, saying Boogieman was killing his friends one by one. You'd think that no-one could mistake a floating cloak with claws for a shambling, zombie-like giant. You'd be surprised.
 

Last time, I had happened across a gas station while falling face first from a building. There were no suitably explosive things with which to vaporize this one though. Honestly, I had no clue how the two of us could get out of this one alive.
 

The lich screeched its irritation. Liches can damn well screech. I felt it vibrate through my bones, the sound waves rattling my brain in its bony cradle. While my heart lurched, I could feel Mr. Trent jerk bodily, nearly upsetting the carefully infolded sides of the blanket. There was a sudden stillness outside the blanket. Hurriedly, I shut my eyes and ran through a mental catalogue. Right. When you don't know what to do, walking helps to clear the mind.
 

”Oi, Trent.”
 

A pause, then, ”Uh-huh?”
 

”We're gonna get moving. I need you to keep the blanket close to you and against the ground.” I tried to keep my voice calm and reassuring. ”We're gonna crawl that way.” I pointed in the direction where I was pretty sure the door was. ”Remember. Not a single toe outside. Capiche?”
 

Mr. Trent capiched alright. I mentally tipped a hat to the lich for taking the shit out of my client. No-one's all bad.
 

I switched my knife into my teeth and grabbed a fistful of blanket, weaving the rest under my feet. By the light of my phone, I instructed Trent to do the same. After nodding my approval, I put away the phone and counted down from three on my fingers. At my fist, I threw my hand forward, pushing back on the floor; at my right, I could see Trent mimicking my movement. The blanket lurched forward with us.
 

”What doesss it do?” The voice sounded as if it had been carved out and replaced with whispers and grinding bones. Suffice to say it made my skin crawl. Trent gave a squeak. I placed a firm finger onto my lips, glaring at him. He squeaked again, less audibly.
 

I mouthed, ”Shut. Up.” and held up three fingers again. Another fist, another lurch. Pause. Fist, lurch, pause. Fist, lurch, pause. The air was getting increasingly stale inside the blanket and I was breathing hard. Trent was doing worse, his face drawn tight as his throat bulged and deflated. This was not going well. It couldn't be that far to the door, though.
 

”Just a little longer, a little further,” I hissed at him.
 

He merely nodded, in a vague sort of way. I held up my fingers again. Three, two, one, fist. I dragged myself forward, my shoulder aching. I turned to say something to Trent, just to find him behind me, eyes wide and distant, throat working like a bellows.
 

His foot was outside the blanket.
 

”No! Get inside!” I roared.
 

My cry reached deaf ears and there was a sound of pure, malicious joy from outside the blanket. Slowly, as if the lich were savouring the moment, Trent began to slide away from me. I grabbed hold of his hand and braced myself as well as I could against a horizontal floor.
 

”Mr. Trent! I need you to stay here! Mr. Trent! Danger. You're in danger!”
 

The steady force on my shoulder was hurting like a bitch. I could feel my grip slipping. Trent was half-way out, the zipper on his coat scratching against the floor. He looked into my eyes. There was a fog there in his brown eyes, the familiar fog of insanity. His mind was trying to protect him by shutting down. His slack lips mouthed a word right before his face slid outside.
 

”Help.”
 

My grip failed and I watched Trent's hand slip away from sight. The blanket thudded down.
 

”Shit.”


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To Be Continued... Dundunduuuun.