The Lorelei Chronicles (First Chapter)

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There is an invisible world all around you. Rather, it's the same world you live in -- you just can't see the bits I'm talking about. Everyone can sense it sometimes. Maybe you're walking down an empty sidewalk late at night and feel like someone is watching you. Or maybe you catch a fleeting flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, but you never find anything there. You just tell yourself that you're tired, or drunk, or even a little paranoid.

Sometimes the feeling is even less tangible than this, if it's possible. You'll feel a prickling on the back of your neck, or an inexplicable fit of laughter overcomes you. People might ask what the hell you're laughing at, and you'd say you just thought of something funny. Not so, says I. It was the laughter that came first, and your brain has to scramble for some way to justify it. Because your brain knows that it gets all the blame when you look crazy.

So what is this mysterious something that I keep hinting at? Exactly what kind of sinister force is at work in the pale fringes of your imagination? And how much longer do you think I can keep up the evasive melodrama?

The answer to the third question is "a really long-ass time". For the other two, I simply say... magic.

That's right. Magic. Not the cheap kind of stage shenanigans you sit through on a drunken night in Vegas. I'm talking about real magic. The subtle energy that flows through the universe, bringing change and balance. If I were a scientist, I might say it's the basest component of the physical world -- the cement that binds every atom and the spark that lights every flame.

Of course, I'm no scientist. That "basest component" stuff is just me talking out of my ass again. But it's my prerogative to BS about magic -- after all, I'm the wizard in this conversation.

As if being a wizard guarantees that the conversation always goes my way.

"Don't you ever wonder what it's like?"

"What, the soul-sucking thing?"

"No. The part right before that."

I shrugged. "Not even a little."

I glanced around the room again. If I could pick any word to describe the Grapevine, it would be indifferent. Or possibly swarthy, just 'cause I can. Whatever adjective you used, it was a small establishment far from the prying eyes of tourists and club-hoppers. In fact, I can't remember seeing more than five people inside on any given night. I could only assume that Harry, the amicably nosy bartender, had a booming lunchtime trade that brought in some actual profit.

In any case, the Grapevine's quiet disinterest and reasonable cleanliness made it a favorite late-night hangout of mine. I didn't have to worry about nosy drunks or raucous partiers. Everyone kept to themselves and never asked questions.

Well, most everyone.

"But they're sex demons, aren't they?" Harry plied, refusing to drop the subject. "They've had centuries to develop their precious talents! Besides, it's not like you have to worry about them stealing your mortal energy or anything."

I set my glass down with a thud. "Harry, think about it. They're called 'bone-women' for a reason. It'd be like being repeatedly elbowed in the ribs, but instead of the ribs it's my--"

"Alright, alright, I get the point."

I eyed Harry suspiciously, not sure if he made the pun on purpose.

"It's not like they're bony all the time," he continued, absently polishing an empty glass. "At any rate, it sounds like you had another productive day."

"I guess."

All modesty, I assure you. I consider it no less than brilliant to be able to identify an obscure Asian demon, research the proper banishing technique, and execute a masterful sting operation on -- let's face it -- a stunning she-demon who could easily land the Playboy cover from now until eternity. Well, until tonight, that is.

I doubt those looks'll do her much good where she's going, I mused.

My internal dialogue was interrupted by a loud sigh.

"What now, Harry?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing. Good work, Mikey."

"Harry..." I goaded. I was opening myself up to the usual grievances, I knew, but I'd rather get it over with than have to drink through loaded sighs for the rest of the night.

"Okay, fine. It's... well, things do go well for you. You have a challenging job, a nice apartment, a comfortable bank balance.... Plus, there's the whole 'rough and manly' thing going on."

I rolled my eyes and scoffed.

"What? A guy can't notice these things?" he said hastily. "I bet I don't need five minutes to find a dozen girls who wouldn't sell their souls to be on the arm of Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Swaggery."

One of the side-effects of tracking down ghosts and monsters for a living is that you tend not to fixate on outward appearances. Nothing is as it seems -- and that naturally applies to normal people as well. The prettiest belle of the ball could be the Devil Incarnate when your back is turned, and the greasiest vagabond you ever did smell could be the sweetest soul alive. The surface is a lie. It has no meaning whatsoever.

And so, what does it matter to me that I'm tall? Not an NBA-grade of tall, but the kind of height that some people prefer to gaze up at dreamily. And how does it concern me that the physical aspects of my job grant me a lean, athletic build? And in the long run, what difference does it make that my head of wavy black hair behaves itself even in a full gale, or that my eyes are the sharp slate-gray of seawater in a storm? I'm sure I've been described before as "dashing". Or "rakish". Or even on some occasions as "Sigh!".

But like I said, the outside doesn't matter. All that matters is how fantastic I am on the inside. Anyway I'm the last person to brag about myself. Seriously. The most humble. Ever.

"I see where this is going," I said sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Harry, but there's not much of a job market these days for philandering boozers. That's more of a volunteer activity."

"Hey, that's specism... speciesism... speci-- that’s racist! There's more to satyrs than that!"

Now, I'm sure you think you know what a satyr is. Tradition says that satyrs are roguish drunkards who happen to be half-goat. While it is true that the few satyrs I know personally enjoy a stiff drink now and then, and they can occasionally have as much tact as a construction worker on a hot day, there is very little goat-ness to them. Okay, Harry does sport a scraggly little beard -- a goatee, if you will -- but it's more about aesthetics than genetics.

As with other lesser spirits, satyrs are essentially mortal. Their only real power is the ability to sense other supernatural beings. But it is my firm belief that, given the chance, a satyr could escape death anytime he wanted. Probably by asking his Reaper a lot of obnoxious questions.

"Yes, I remember the old days!" Harry continued with a nostalgic glaze in his eyes. "My people were the beloved guardians of shepherds, teaching our followers the wisdom of nature."

"As I recall," I interjected, "the most important thing your people taught to shepherds was a way to pass long lonely afternoons without women. Besides, you're only forty-five. Unless you count the seventies as the 'old days', I'm afraid you're full of crap."

Harry sputtered indignantly.

"Well, excuuuse me, Your Warlockness! We can't all be eternal champions, bane to horny demon seductresses everywhere!"

"Hey, at least I can get some if I want it."

"And a lot of good it does you, too. How many times a week do you hide out here, wreaking havoc on your indestructible liver? You don't have anything better to do?"

I slammed my glass onto the bar, loud enough to leave a ringing bell note but not hard enough to break anything. Maybe it was the taunting. Maybe it was the scotch. Maybe it was just boredom. But I was in the mood for something ugly.

"That goes both ways," I sneered. "How many nights do you spend getting pathetic losers drunk instead of dealing with your own family?"

Yup, definitely an overreaction. The jury was 8-to-4 in favor of "drunk".

"How long since you've been with your wife? Read to your daughter? Why don't you go home and stop bitching to me all the time?"

"I think that's enough for you," Harry growled and lunged for my scotch.

"Go to hell!"

"And screw you too!"

"Go jump up your own ass, foolish mortal!"

That last one did the trick. We glared at each other for an awkward moment. Hushed chatter echoed through the still air as the handful of other barflies pretended not to notice us. It would have been far more convincing if they actually thought to look somewhere else.

Finally, the moment crashed in the same manner it always did -- with a fit of laughter. It was pointless fighting with Harry, even if we actually meant it. One of us inevitably say something ludicrous enough to derail the anger train and drag us back to a state of loyal brotherhood.

"Foolish mortal!" Harry roared as he clapped me on the shoulder. "Whatever you say, Count!"

"So how's Dawn?" I asked as the mirth finally subsided.

Harry wiped a tear from his eye. "Ah, fine."

"Just fine? Doesn't she have a field trip coming up?"

"Oh, yeah. Next week. Her class is going to the Junior Theater to see a play of 'The Hobbit', of all things. I mean, how d'you make that into a play? A play for third-graders?"

"Tell me about it. The whole thing's riddled with inaccuracy. Also, Gandalf doesn't exactly help my public image."

"You don't have a public image."

"Well... yeah. But if I did, he wouldn't help it. He's all eccentric and... bushy."

Harry gave another generous chuckle. A creak of tired hinges and the shuffle of weary feet signaled that the eager bartender had some new and pressing matters to attend to. With a wink to me -- to which I replied with an understanding shrug -- Harry whisked off down the bar to attend to a huddle of dreary-looking suits.

Well now what? I thought to myself. By the looks of the fresh clientele, I was on my own for a while. My attention drifted to the TV for a few seconds before I remembered how little I cared for football. Especially the endless recaps. One of the downsides of being immortal and apathetic, I guess; every pastime loses its appeal eventually.

After a listless moment watching my empty rocks glass, I relented to the shabby Vienna clock mounted behind the bar. With a respectful nod to my loyal tavern-keeper, I drew my newly-ventilated jacket tightly around me and sauntered forth into the cold midnight air.

It was snowing in Lorelei. In my opinion, snow is the best kind of weather to fall in the city. Don't worry, I'm not the kind of sap who swoons at the untouched beauty of a frozen wonderland. No, I like the snow because it's quiet. Subdued. Almost -- dare I say it -- peaceful. The customary din of the urban cityscape becomes stifled by the thickness of it, and the usual deluge of people virtually disappears as everyone cowers indoors by their radiators. There's nothing left but snowflakes drifting lazily over silent buildings and empty streets.

But that night there was... something else.

The feeling came on me in an instant. I was being watched, but not by any mortal eyes. No, something distinctly magical was lurking just beyond my vision. It was an unfamiliar presence, like the scent of some uncanny beast.

I whipped my head around, half-expecting a barrage of claws or a flash of teeth lunging for me, but there was nothing.

A second later, it was gone. Whatever it was that dogged my steps had vanished without a trace, leaving me alone in the dark and the snow.

To be continued....

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For more Michael Reeve (short stories, novel excerpts, etc.) see also:

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Michael Reeve: The Lorelei Chronicles  (E) Meet Michael Reeve: professional wizard, wise detective, and eternal smart-aleck. #2024897 by BD Mitchell