Young Writers Society

OK, I'm sorry that I split the first chapter into 2. I don't write a lot at once. Sorry. Anyway, if anybody disliked it more than the 1st part, please don't hesitate to say so.

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I got to Soul Calorie Street, and immediately noticed that I was being followed. I sighed, forewarning the follower that he had it coming to him.

“What do you want?” I snapped.

“What are you buying, stranger?” the following man asked in a wheezy voice, opening his trench-cloak. It revealed herbs and slips of paper, small sticks of scented ashwood, a smell that could have knocked someone out, and a small, bleary-eyed serebia.

“Please help! He captured four of my friends and me, and the charms make me feel nauseous! For the love of Danny, help!” it screeched, tiny blue-grey arms reaching out, black lips stretched in despair. The charm-dealer stuffed it inside a much thicker, wriggling pocket.

“Just leave me alone. I have enough to deal with,” I muttered, disturbed at the sight of the delicate faerie. I like serebiata. They don’t make judgments, and they’re so small, they’re almost insignificant. I’ve heard that there are restaurants here in this godless street, that serve serebia and noodles. Somehow, I feel I should rip out this guy’s throat, but, as usual, I just look away and pretend that I didn’t see it.

The guy was still following me when I got to the ‘For Sale’ shop Coda had wrote about. She’d already put up a notice: ‘Lucain and Wihara Privat Investigation are thinking of buying’. It seemed to have put off the few potential buyers.

“Oh, Lucain, is it? That’s a werewolf name,” the charm-dealer sniggered. I had started drawing up an identification portrait in my head; a little more digging, and who knows what I could find, apart from a house reeking of charms?

“Lycan,” I murmured. He had eyebrows of a shaggy, droopy sort, yeah...

“Touchy, aren’t ya?” he taunted. His teeth were brown, like coffee. And his nose was sort of long and straight...

“Shut it,” I snarled. Although, then again, it wouldn’t be that straight, it would be buried under his face, after I rammed my fist into it.

“Ooh, take a chill-charm, won’t ya? Actually, I think I have one of those...” he mumbled, patting his pockets, rustling through them.

I was wondering when I should punch him, when a welcome sight came rushing up to me; a sprite-mail.

It was a different one; this one was older, the fangs fully formed, his eyes solemn and cynical. His uniform was rumpled, and he displayed a bored, narcissistic look.

“You montylucain@spritemail.cty?” he said, examining his fingernails.

“Oh, thank Arcadia,” I said under my breath. “Yeah. This is from codan3cromanc3r@spritemail.cty?”

“Dur, no. Of course it is. Who else would it be?” he retorted, smirking. I would have preferred the young idiot to this jerk.

“Well?” I asked, noticing that the charm-dealer was edging ever so closely to my money-bag. “One more step and I’ll rip your throat out.” The charm-dealer scowled, and, seeing I meant it, walked away.

“Well, if we’re quite ready...” the sprite sneered, continuing in a purr, unlike the official voice the first sprite had used;

“Dear Monty Lucain,

Well? Sorry, I really want to know whether you’re OK with it. Please say yes. Pretty please?”

I paused, looking back to the shop. It was clean, and nothing smelt too bad. The windows weren’t broken, the door wasn’t smashed. It stood out in being perfect.

“I’d like to reply: Coda, sure. It looks good.”

Back at the apartment, much later, I looked around. I’d cleared away the smashed wood, and replaced the furniture they used to be with cheaper alternatives. A bean bag, a box, a small part-time ice-spirit instead of a fridge full of full-time ice-spirits, you know.

“How did I come to this?”

“You probably shouldn’t have gotten fired from that job in the police service,” Derek, the ice-spirit, pointed out.

I’d been telling him my troubles for half an hour; telling him about Marian, about the kids, about Coda Wihara, about Soul Calorie Street, about the charm-dealer, about how I punched the Commissioner in the face for ‘calling me a werewolf’.

I know. I shouldn’t have snapped. I should have kept my head down. Maybe Marian and the kids would still be here. Maybe Coda Wihara wouldn’t have been chosen me when she started her search for ex-police officers. Maybe it was all my fault.

But, hell, I just roll with it. Live one day at a time, all those useless proverbs from the monks of Danny, the purple elephant god, right? Yeah. Derek doesn’t know what he’s talking about.