Hey guys! This is part 4 (woah!) of my first longer series (unless you count the robot short stories). I like where it's going and I'm enjoying writing it, so I intend to keep going until it ends. My vague intention is to hit 50,000 words and call it a novel. If it ends naturally before then, I'll be okay with that. Word counts are dumb and arbitrary.
I just want to say that these should all be considered drafts. The entire thing will be edited as a whole when it's done. There may be typos, continuity errors, or pacing issues when read together (I've written each piece separately). I'm posting the drafts to motivate myself, get feedback, and be accountable. I hope you enjoy.
Let me know what you think down in the comments (if you want)!
"Nah, no way".
"Yeah!"
"Prove it!"
"Okay, watch."
The spray paint can is rough and wet in my fingers, damp from the constant drizzle and the constant sweaty touches of hundreds of wayward youth. I pull my hood back slightly, exposing a little more of the delicate band of skin to the air, to observation. I'm masked and goggled against the threats.
I can feel the shadows dancing behind me as I approach, Jo and Zed materializing to join Mallow in watching me. I study the wall, the patterns of red bricks dotted with impact marks and flakes of graffiti long gone. I turn back for just a moment, studying the silhouettes of my companions, lit by the hazy glow of the dull streetlights. The air smelt of weed, iron, and acid.
"They looked something like this", I said, and began to draw.
The figure took shape slowly as I worked, lines of black crossing back and forth in great circles. It was cold, but sweat poured of my forehead, catching in the armpits of my hoodie. I soaked through, but never became cold. I was focused completely on the drawing, the image that now poured from my mind on the canvas.
I drew them as I had seen them, glorious and resplendent, standing proud amidst the chaos of a world failing. I passed the can back and forth, my fingers numb and burning on the trigger. Black stacked on black, shadows providing shading, life to the image. For a moment, I was back in the subway, back on the floor, back watching. My brain seized and suddenly there was a hand pulling me back and down.
I dimly registered the impact of the ground, the hand finding it's way over my mouth, the wave of flashlights, the sudden silence left behind by the lack of screams? Someone was screaming? Oh, it was me. Mallow pulled me closer, the warmth of her apparent through her twin ratty sweaters. I swallowed and forced the tension out of my body, as we had practiced, as was necessary.
There were vague calls in the distance. I had screamed and someone had noticed. I tried to apologize, but Mallow's remained steady upon my lips, grip tight, fingers sinking into my cheeks. I ran a hand along their arm, and together we rolled up into a crouching position. The others were gone. It was just the two of us and the full moon.
"You good?", she whispered.
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's-"
A cop rounded the corner. For a moment, the three of us remained motionless. The pig's eyes flicked warily between the two of us. We must've looked like the very creatures of the night, ratty and filthy. I felt Mallow's grip on my arm tighten, her panic aimless and useless. The moon stared on impassively.
"Hands above your heads!", yelled the cop.
Slowly, we complied. The cop watched, his eyes slightly out of focus, his mouth agape. His arms slowly dropped to lie limp by his sides. The two of us hesitated for a moment, but the spell didn't break.
"Um", I whispered.
"Come on", said Mallow, tugging at my arm.
Next thing I knew, the two of us were at a dead run, hurtling through the night. I glance backwards once, following the cops gaze to that perfect mess carved on the wall. It was not a drawing but a symbol, primal and mind bending. Concentric circles around parallel lines, repeating patterns that had no constants. It almost seemed to reach outwards, extending tendrils of darkness, pulsating with a magnificent energy. It was like staring into the future. It was beautiful. I only realized I'd stopped running when Mallow yanked my arm again.
I think that was the true beauty of the internet: how it gives any group of random weirdos the ability to connect. Turns out there were groups for those who had touched magic and lived to tell the tale. Mine met once a week in the back of a bar owned by Mallow's sister. She let us use it for free provided we followed the rules: no fire, no pigs, no magic on the property. Easy enough.
The group was small and ever changing. Mallow was the only real fixture I noticed, perhaps apart from myself. Most only dropped in once: a teenager who claimed to be made from fire, an old man who was insistent there was a demon in his amulet, a frat bro who claimed to have been seduced by a witch. There were many. Mallow picked them up in bars, on the streets, talking to strangers in the subway, in hidden encrypted chat rooms. Mallow found me in a library, googling for sightings of monsters. She slipped the address into my hand and left, blonde ponytail bouncing as she went. Of course I went. Where else would I go?
And so, every Tuesday at 11 pm, we gathered in the grimy back room. Mallow would dim the lights, so that only the flaccid glow of neon lights from outside lit our dull faces. She'd smile, clap her hands, her bracelets jangling with the motion, and invite us to begin. And then we'd tell stories.
Most of the stories were bad. Most of the stories were made up, I was pretty sure. Not even made up that well. More akin to urban legends. I caught one kid just parroting a creepypasta stolen from Reddit. I didn't say anything. I knew he wouldn't be back. In the weeks that followed, Mallow never explained how that worked. But it always did. The group was never spoken of out loud. Those who fit in always found their way in. Those who didn't belong never found their way back, despite stated intentions.
We built up a tradition over the first few weeks, me and Mallow. At the end of each session, she would tell her tale. And then I would tell mine. Mallow went first to establish the truth of the matter. Because when she rolled down her sleeves to show off the moving tattoo, the crawling cat that rolled and tumbled over her arms, there was no denying that there was magic. The skeptics were forced into dismal silence, those eager debaters endlessly pursing rationalization for experiences beyond their ken. It's funny how many people obsess over disproving it.
And then, we would look out on the sea of hopeful faces, who now knew they weren't crazy, they weren't losing their minds, that the world did truly contain more than could be understood by mortal science. We would look out on them and I would destroy them.
I think there was something infectious about the idea of the monster. Whatever dark magic seeped into my sketches of it, flowing from my pencil into the minds of viewers, choking them with fear, was also in my words. It blotted out the light and hope from minds. It said to go home, to hid in your bed, to fear the darkness. And in many ways, that made it the perfect complement to Mallow's tale.
Perhaps it was mean. Perhaps it was a form of hazing, a ritual bullying. But we justified it to each other as we got high afterwards, from the comfort of Mallow's balcony. Magic was dangerous, we were pretty sure. If anyone was gonna help us track it down, they needed to know that. Anyone who couldn't handle that story shouldn't come back. I could handle it. And Mallow could. And that was all the mattered.
Mallow never questioned my desperation to seek out the monster. She just accepted it. And for that, I was forever grateful. Because maybe we should've questioned it more. Odds were pretty good, I was running headlong into danger. Headlong into annihilation, into something that would get me killed. But Mallow got it because she'd also touched something greater than herself and wanted nothing more than to touch it again. I pieced it together slowly over the weeks, as we spent more and more time together. And we did. Neither of us really had anyone else.
I'd swing by after class, darkening her door. She left it unlocked always. I'd pause on the doorway, hand on the frame, and watch as she tended to the rows of plants, the bushy numerous things that crowded the windowsills and shelves. Bright colours and exotic scents choked the air, thick with the taste of power. She bent, dressed in a tank top and shorts against the unnatural humidity of the apartment, humming to herself as she worked the clippers. She trimmed the plants back down to size. She trimmed me down to size too.
It was kind of sweet, in a way. We cooked together. Mostly soups, stir fries, curries, anything that was just vegetables in a pot. After the first two weeks, I started sleeping on her couch. There were other people who drifted through the apartment. I saw myself in their haunted eyes and tight faces, the tension in their shoulders. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes we fed them dinner. Sometimes they sat with us and we all got high for hours, me and Mallow chatting while they watched silently. They made up the alumni of the magic discussion group. Mallow said that someday I would too. Someday soon, I hoped.
Not only were there wizards for absolute certain, but my new friends had a pretty good idea who they were. The obvious answer, of course, was not us. We were the touched and wounded, those who were scarred by the taste of the arcane. True wizards, those who claimed dominion over power instead of being swept into its currents, were honestly pretty much who I expected them to be: old rich white guys. The kind with libraries of books and weeks to dedicate to study and mansions where their circles could hang out in shadowy smoking rooms in between riding horses and eating whatever the butlers provide. That was delivered by a particularly animated punk whose vest was studded with spikes and anarchist symbols. Their name was Quinn and apparently they knew someone who knew someone who was friends with The Lake Witch.
"There's a lake witch?", I asked later.
"The Lake Witch. One and only."
"Have you ever met her?"
Mallow laughed. "There's only one way to meet her". She glanced at Quinn, who had taken 4 shots and immediately fallen asleep, and then leaned forwards and whispered conspiratorially, "and it's not something you want to try."
"I want to meet a lake witch!"
"The Lake Witch."
"C'mon Mal! Tell me!"
"Promise me you will never tell another?"
"Of course."
"Go jump in the lake."
"Fuck off!", I laughed for a moment but caught myself at the seriousness of Mallow's expression. "That's not that hard."
"Don't come back."
We stared at each other for a moment. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Oh", I said again, quieter.
"Sometimes, very rarely, people walk back out. They claim to be friends with The Lake Witch." She sneered. "And sometimes, other people try to use them for credit."
"Yeah. S'fucked up, huh?"
"Mm."
"You don't like Quinn." It wasn't phrased as a question.
"Dude's an asshole. Most of that about wizards was pure speculation, you know? Quinn hates wizards and they hate the rich, so..."
I whispered, "So why?"
"I try not to judge. Besides, I think that magic has many paths. I could force us all down one path and you might miss what you're looking for. Maybe someone, not you but someone, will need Quinn's help."
I chuckled and repeated something Mal said often, "Not a guide."
"Not a guide! Exactly! I collect people. I don't tell them what do to."
I moved a little closer, shuffling up tighter against her warmth to fight the cold. "You collected me all right."
She smiles, slightly sadly. "And someday I'll watch you go."
"You think?"
"I'm the first stone. Most people stop here. But I can already tell you're going to walk to the end. We don't have what you're looking for."
"Don't you also want to walk the path?"
Mal said nothing.
"We'll still be friends, right?"
She turned away. For a moment, she let the bitter anger seep into her voice. "If it doesn't destroy you."
"Oh", I said.
"Mm", she said.
We sat in silence together for a long time that night.
As I settled onto the couch, wrapping myself in blankets and pillows, inhaling the scent of the plants, Mallow plunged down onto one end, crushing my feet slightly. I let her. It didn't hurt that much. She paused and gazed at me. The lights were dim, mostly coming from outside. One of her neighbours was throwing a party, the faint pulse of an EDM beat slipping through the floor.
"Vi, you're my friend. And I love you for that."
I waited for her to finish.
"Do you know what the difference is between wizards and witches?"
"No. I've heard you use both. I thought they were equal."
"Witches give. And wizards... wizards take."
I waited again. She was speaking slowly, hesitantly. It was unlike her.
"I know a couple witches. Actual ones. The thing you seek, I asked around. It's not witch business. It's a wizard thing."
She rolled her sleeve up as she spoke, the cat sauntering past her elbow towards her wrist.
"They told me to tell you to stay away. That this would...", she stopped for a moment, blinked her eyes shut, and then continued, "This would take everything from you."
I took a deep breath. I think I already knew that.
With one sharp motion, she slapped the cat tattoo. Her palm stayed still for a moment, letting the sound ring in my ears, and then she lifted it, peeling the tattoo away onto her other arm. It left behind a name, red and angry, vibrating with contained rage. It read "Davis".
I studied it for a moment, because the cat wriggled out of her fingers, dropping back onto her skin, and tangled its way back into the name, the crimson becoming the stripes on the kittens back. It bared its teeth, and strode off to the safety of the shirt.
"Mal, I-"
She interrupted, speaking quickly. "You give him a fake name. If it goes wrong, get underground. He can't touch you when you're underground."
"Mal, what-"
"He's been excommunicated, so he might not know anything. But he probably knows who does."
"Mallow!"
She stopped.
"Don't do this. Please?"
"I swore an oath", she said. "I said I'd help. It would be selfish to not."
"Thank you", I whispered.
"If you find what you're looking for... When you find it, promise you'll come over and tell me about it, Violet?"
"Yeah", I said, sad smile on my face. "Yeah. It's been wonderful. Thank you for everything."
She laughed, tears down her face. "Never gets any easier. Never."
When I woke up the next day, the apartment was empty. There was a piece of paper on the coffee table. It bore a name and phone number, neatly underline twice.