02-20-2007, 06:31 PM
(Bloody thing keeps growing...)
It was agonizing. A line of spandex, leather; some fashionable and ultra-stylish, some banal and debased; and some that looked like a bloody clown threw up and declared the resulting detritus the hot new look for Milan this year. Lethal stood at attention at the end of the line. Staying still was hard enough, but this was worse. Lethal shifted slightly, the leather of her new coat, a present from the bloke in the Founders Falls Icon, creaked slightly. It still smelled brand new. That wasnt the only thing she smelled either.
It had been a busy day. After a dozen egg omelet, a loaf of toast and a Kermit sized serving of bacon and sausage, she had set out to negotiate a trade with the Rikti. It was a bloody awful situation. The Rikti had contracted chicken-pox, and were growing increasingly ill; they had kidnapped several scientists in hopes of synthesizing a vaccine. The boffins at Seraph had fixed up Rikti friendly counter virus, and had requested that Lethal deliver it to the Rikti.
It had been a rather spiffing cock-up; at all levels. Lethal had shown up, shown the vaccine, and had been promptly been set upon by a cadre of alien tossbags. Whether is could still be considered a mission of mercy was now significantly open to consideration. If mercy consisted to pulling out a honking great sword and giving the aforementioned sick alien tossbags a sound and thoroughly violent thrashing; then it was a mission of mercy. Still the scientists had been freed, unharmed, though slightly splashed with various Rikti Ichors, and the Rikti had been dosed, and were receiving treatment for chicken pox; contusions and various gaping wounds.
Lunch had been deferred on account of Nemesis. Those boobs in Toyland had tried to shake down a tailor. What sort of dodgy bloke sent his minions to scare a tailor? What was next? Nemesis declares all out crack-down on hairdressers and manicurists. And they called her crazy. It had taken several protracted beatings of Nemesis soldiers and the destruction of a dozen War Hulks to ensure that the message had truly sunk in. Leave the tailor alone. Towards the end of the fight she had taken to glancing over her shoulder as deep, scary, growls had been evident. War wolves or devouring earth? No. It had been her own stomach, forcefully reminding her that justice had been fulfilled, but it had not been.
She had been within a few steps of a Brickstown Mexican restaurant; a matter of hunger and convenience rather than desire for bad food, when her communicator had squawked. A priority signal to show up at the City Hall with all haste. The growl from her stomach turned into a horrified scream as if it were the digestive equivalent of the famous Munch painting. Duty was calling; her stomach was yodeling and the Mexican place didnt do takeout. However, across the street, salvation.
And now she was standing along with six other heroes; a comfortable warmth spreading from her right coat pocket. Hot pretzels from the convenient vendor. Four of the six had vanished en-route to City Hall and the last two were taunting her with the aroma of dough, salt and toxically hot mustard. The City Representative was going on about outstanding service, dedication to the community and how they exemplified that ideal. Boring. Boring. Boring. Lethal snuck a hand into her pocket and tore off a piece of Pretzel and faked a yawn so she could cover her mouth and pop the morsel in. Chewy, doughy heaven. Yum yum. The representative continued on. Boredom coupled with hunger sent Lethals hand back into the pocket for the rest of the oversized pretzel which she crammed it into her mouth. Cheeks bulging like a chipmunks Lethal savored the taste for a moment before getting down to the serious business of chewing.
And now to present your Justice Incarnate badges. The representative finished abruptly. I am pleased to introduce Statesman!
Lethals eyes widened until they took up three quarters of her face. It was him! Really him! She watched as the huge, muscled man strode forcefully into the room and surveyed them. His eyes were kind and white teeth shone as he smiled. The muscles! Perfect definition under a thin coating of spandex. Charles Atlas didnt have that sort of muscle. Lethal froze like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck a truck laden with a full cargo of sweaty school-girl fantasies.
Lethal Sawchyk. Statesmans voice was as impressive as the rest of him. He draped the medal around her neck. Well done indeed. You have done both of your parents proud today. I trust they are both well?
A question? Lethals mind snapped back into motion. He had asked her a question! He had spoken to her! She had to say something! Anything! Her first words were entirely inarticulate, but did manage to convey a large portion of half-chewed pretzel and neon yellow mustard across the blindingly white star on Statesmans chest. Not her finest moment.
* * *
The medal still bouncing on her neck, Lethal made a hasty retreat from City Hall. Gobbing on Paragons greatest hero, and then trying to wipe away the mess with the sleeve or her new coat had not been a proud moment. The other heroes receiving their awards had been glaring at her with a combination of disgust, amusement and a certain degree of uncertainty. If someone as pig-thick and incompetent as her was getting the Justice Incarnate, how much could it truly be worth? Statesman had weathered her inadvertent pretzel shower with far more dignity and gravitas than the situation warranted. Rather than pretend it hadnt happened, he had smiled at her, an event in and of itself staggering, as if he himself could picture himself spraying chewy pretzel chunks in a similar fashion. That just made it worse.
Lethals eyes were hot as she pushed through the double doors; perhaps with a little more force than was required. Two journeyman heroes who were trying to enter at the same time were thrown backwards, sprawling in undignified heaps in front of the door.
Liesel. A low voice called from behind her. Lethal started and turned slowly. Leaning up against the wall of City Hall as if his shoulders were the only thing holding it up, was an older man; his grey hair was cut short in a military cut. His upper lip covered by a thick, neatly trimmed moustache. He wasnt tall, no more than 5 10, but with a solid build that spoke of excessive physical activity. He was old, over seventy years, even if he didnt look it. He was also her father.
Papa! Lethal launched herself at him. In her excitement she knocked down one of the fledgling heroes who had just managed to regain his feet. Thibor Sawchyk swept her up in a hug, one hand pressed to her back, the other wrapped around back of her neck. He shook her affectionately.
Is having time between mission deployment. Thibor explained releasing her. So is coming into town to visit. Mama is only making it as far as apartment; is saying something about living conditions and then reaching for rubber gloves and disinfectant.
Oh bother. Lethals heart sank further. Great. Mama would not say a word about it; she would labor diligently to return Lethals apartment to calm, clean, almost military order. It was a double edged sword. It would be champion to have clean laundry, but the issue of locating it in the closet or dresser would add an nigh unbearable level of complication to her normal morning rituals.
Oh bother is perhaps understatement. Thibor growled. Is going to meet us later for dinner. Is going to get big dish of beef chow mein.
Lethal smiled; much of the pain of recent events washed away. Papa approved. They probably werent going out for Chinese Food; though they would be going out for excellent food. The ancient Warren Zevon song, Werewolves of London spoke of a werewolf getting a big dish of beef chow mein, and Papa always used the phrase as a compliment; the reward when her behavior pleased him. She had read enough about Pavlovs dogs to know why; but knowing about the dogs didnt mean you stopped salivating either. He stomach signaled its own opinion on the matter.
Of course dinner is not for few hours. Thibor considered the borborigmous sounds issuing from his daughter. Is wanting to go for snack?
* * *
Thibor glared at Andrea. Andrea glared at Thibor. Lethal shoveled a triple patty cheeseburger into her mouth; adding French fries to fill up any burger free nooks and crannies. Thibor had eschewed food but was lingering over a cup of thick Turkish coffee. The tension between the two men had developed swiftly. Andrea had been refused the opportunity to offer up a meal to the father of his favorite client. Thibor had refused the opportunity to be subjected to the sort of meals that Andrea served up. However the clouds of animosity were slowly lifting as Thibor continued to sip his coffee. Andrea made good coffee.
The talk was light. Her brothers were both well. Doru Harry and William Christonel. Mama and Papa had agreed that all the children would have one British name and one Roma one. Mama had let her strong monarchist tendencies rule and had reverently raided the House of Windsor for names. Her own was a compromise. Elizabeth; for the grace and dignity of the Queen. A Queen who would never, in a state function, inadvertently gob up pretzels and mustard on Statesman. Her middle name, Marta was an enigma. Papa and Mama, especially at that time, did not get along at all well with Evil Aunt Marta, so how her name ended up attached to their second child was a matter of some conjecture; or as was more likely, a subtle gypsy curse that managed to neatly side-step the various protections erected by her great mama, Nana Ruxy.
The first sign of danger had been Andrea making a slow sink behind the counter. Lethal had jumped and turned, while Papa had sprinkled a dash of salt on his coffee. The man in the doorway of the small diner was Circle of Thorns from the tip, top of his absolutely frightful hat to the elaborated embroidered hem of his ornate robes. Who embroidered those robes? All Circle Mages were men. Did they have elaborate nightly needlepoint sessions? Silver needles flashing in and out of thick velvet as they prattled on about the travails of their day. Abducting citizens, siphoning their souls away and replacing them with the festering souls of passed Circle Mages, and the distressing reality of watching their teeth skitter across the ground like bloody Chiclets as a passing hero took umbrage at the soul stealing and visited a beating up them.
The Circle declares an end to the House of Sawchyk in Paragon! A dirty hand emerged from the robe, clutching a thick, ugly, ceramic sculpture. A crudely-formed, bent, human figure that seemed to suck light from the room, leaving the air around it dim and flat. Lethal felt her stomache drop. Something was wrong. Her great sword Eisengrim was not in her hand where it was supposed to be. Papa turned slowly on his stool, his coffee in his left hand. He sipped calmly.
Fuck off. Thibor swallowed the last of his coffee, draining the thick dark dregs.
The end of the House of Sawchyk! The mage sputtered, repeating himself. I hold in my hand an artifact of power! It denies you the power of your weak Roma magic! You shall die! Screaming in agony! Your line ends now!
The Mages mouth opened and he gestured with a hand, readying a powerful spell. It never emerged. Papa flipped his right had forward, throwing a handful of white salt into the mages face. The coruscating magic sputtered and died. Lethal hopped off her stool and snatched it up by the legs. It wasnt necessary. The mage had underestimated his foes. Papa was not dangerous because he was a powerful alpha werewolf. Papa was dangerous and his powerful wolfish form only made him more dangerous. The mage never had a chance to regain the upper hand and bring his magics to bear. He reeled as Papa beat him down. Andreas eyes appeared over the counter. It was not the most efficient beating he had ever witnessed, paragon still being cosmopolitan in that regard, but it made the top five. A knife hand strike to the throat, rolling into a hammer fist to the brachial plexus. Then the left hand came into play. Papa grabbed the Mage by his face and walked forward. The mage fell back as Papa bent, driving the back of the spell-casters head into the floor with a loud crack as both tile and skull gave way under the impact. The statue skittered across the tile and Lethal jumped on it with both feet. It shattered, the magic escaping with a hiss and small cloud of foul vapor. Her sword was suddenly in her hand, and Papa swelled spectacularly, as he assumed his werewolf aspect. The mage didnt react at all, merely blew bloody bubbles out of crushed nose and lips.
* * *
The Chinese believed in many hells. A whole bunch of them, each deliberately and maliciously crafted to make those there as uncomfortable as possible. Being debriefed by your father was likely one of them. Lethal mused about the strange nomenclature. Being debriefed by your father was one thing if you were still a nipple jockey having your nappy changed after a particularly fragrant bout of bum fudge. It meant another thing in the stereotypical Deep South, but only if accompanied by the banjo. She was currently enjoying, or rather not enjoying another variation; the after-action analysis of a combat situation by a parent.
When was first aware of situation? Papa asked. The interior of the diner was a shambles, tables overturned, the door smashed inward by a creature too big to be admitted normally. The floor was a particular mess. Three circle mages rested in a large puddle of a black liquid that still steamed; Andrea wielded a mop, cursing under his breath in the sort of Greek that gets you in trouble with the gods. He occasionally visited each of the mages with a smack to the head with the sodden head of the mop; as if the small gesture could in some way make up for the difficulty in clearing the mess.
When Mr. A. moved. Lethal admitted. It was the right answer, or at least the honest one. She was about to hear the right one and tried to stave it off. Papa, Im not a bloody wolf. I cant hear and smell them like you can.
Fair is where you go on pony rides. Thibor reminded her. Were sitting with back to door. What is doing when sitting with back to door?
Find a reflective surface in my field of vision and check it regularly to make sure no one is trying to sneak up behind me. Lethal kicked at the floor with the toe of her boot. And if I cant find one, move to another seat that lets me monitor all avenues of approach.
Good girl. Thibor grabbed her by the back of her neck and shook affectionately. Is remembering for next time. Now. Why is going for saltshaker?
Most circle magic is hermetic. Lethal recited. They need to combine symbols with words and intentions through a focus. Usually it is a mystic symbol, a summoning circle. Most of them are inscribed on the robes, stupid bloody hats, or other accoutrements in silver thread. Salt can be used to create a circle or, if thrown on an extant one, cause it to ground itself out.
And few grains will also take edge off of bad cup of coffee. Thibor added, noting a murderous glare from Andrea. And no, coffee was very good, but was casual thing that would not be immediately picked up on.
Next youll be going on about my bloody swordswomanship. Lethal said sourly.
No. Is good. Not Great-Papa good. Is better than mine. Thibor nodded to two of the three unconscious mages. Was fast, efficient and very enthusiastic.
Lethal nodded. Papa was not just being kind to her. Her swordplay had improved immensely since coming to Paragon. She chocked it up to the few weeks she had spent running down the warriors. Those bits of bum-fluff didnt know the first bloody thing about the inane philosophy they spouted with all the intellectual depth of whistling kettles, but the blighters could handle their swords and axes well. It had forced her to move beyond simple hack and slash to timing and technique; she had practiced such things before, but it was very different to do so when your life was on the line. It could have gone very badly for her, and nearly did. She had been fortunate that good breeding had endowed her with the speed of an amphetamine crazed rattlesnake, combined with muscle tissue that packed more power per square inch than a can of spinach packed for Popeye. That edge had kept her out of the hospital. Well mostly out of the hospital. She had improved.
Thank you Papa. Lethal scraped a toe in the black goop on the floor, absently tracing a Rom symbol against evil. The gunk on the floor had not come from the mages, but rather the demonic overlord that had charged into the caf moments after Papa had made the introduction of magely head to previously clean floor. The fourteen foot winged demon had crashed through the door, accompanied by two more circle mages. Papa had intercepted the demon, while Lethal had faced off against the mages. Massed with muscle and sprouting sulfurous flame from skin, wings and every orifice, the demon had towered over Papa by some seven feet. It had reached out to grapple and had gratified that the werewolf had chosen to meet it in a match that pitted raw strength and power against raw strength and power. One of Papas rules was that there was always someone bigger, faster, stronger, better and meaner; and you should enter into every encounter with the assumption that you were meeting them. With the demons hands occupied, Papa had proceeded to hoy it in the crotch. Three times; a mystically significant number in that it exceeded the normal yogurt-chucker count by one. Powerful kicks that started at the creatures loincloth and ended up somewhere around its kidneys. The demon had fallen to its knees. From there Papa had grabbed it by the horns and twisted, uncapping the demons head as easily as Uncle John might flick the cap off a bottle of beer. Foaming black bile had sprayed out of the ragged edges of the neck like champagne, black, viscous, sulfurous, clotting champagne; but champagne nonetheless. Maybe not champagne. Guinness. One of the chav sized bottles, well shaken. The demon had sloughed away into corruption. That had been convenient for the mages. It gave their unconscious bodies a nice soft pillow to break their falls on, when Lethal broke their jaws with the pommel of her sword.
The sigil she had traced with her toe flashed bright green. It spread out, consuming the black bile that had once been the physical form of the demon; replacing the smell of sulfur with that of beeswax and a hint of saffron. One of Papas bushy eyebrows shot up. He had been impressed. Andrea merely swore loudly in Greek and shuffled back behind the counter to stow the mop and bucket.
Is Aunt Marta teaching you that one? Thibor asked calmly.
Not directly. Lethal admitted. She sent me a new tome for my birthday.
Liesel Thibors voice was low. Am feeling foolish asking this. Is being careful?
Too true. Lethal nodded. If I turn the page and it starts screaming, I dont read the spell.
It was agonizing. A line of spandex, leather; some fashionable and ultra-stylish, some banal and debased; and some that looked like a bloody clown threw up and declared the resulting detritus the hot new look for Milan this year. Lethal stood at attention at the end of the line. Staying still was hard enough, but this was worse. Lethal shifted slightly, the leather of her new coat, a present from the bloke in the Founders Falls Icon, creaked slightly. It still smelled brand new. That wasnt the only thing she smelled either.
It had been a busy day. After a dozen egg omelet, a loaf of toast and a Kermit sized serving of bacon and sausage, she had set out to negotiate a trade with the Rikti. It was a bloody awful situation. The Rikti had contracted chicken-pox, and were growing increasingly ill; they had kidnapped several scientists in hopes of synthesizing a vaccine. The boffins at Seraph had fixed up Rikti friendly counter virus, and had requested that Lethal deliver it to the Rikti.
It had been a rather spiffing cock-up; at all levels. Lethal had shown up, shown the vaccine, and had been promptly been set upon by a cadre of alien tossbags. Whether is could still be considered a mission of mercy was now significantly open to consideration. If mercy consisted to pulling out a honking great sword and giving the aforementioned sick alien tossbags a sound and thoroughly violent thrashing; then it was a mission of mercy. Still the scientists had been freed, unharmed, though slightly splashed with various Rikti Ichors, and the Rikti had been dosed, and were receiving treatment for chicken pox; contusions and various gaping wounds.
Lunch had been deferred on account of Nemesis. Those boobs in Toyland had tried to shake down a tailor. What sort of dodgy bloke sent his minions to scare a tailor? What was next? Nemesis declares all out crack-down on hairdressers and manicurists. And they called her crazy. It had taken several protracted beatings of Nemesis soldiers and the destruction of a dozen War Hulks to ensure that the message had truly sunk in. Leave the tailor alone. Towards the end of the fight she had taken to glancing over her shoulder as deep, scary, growls had been evident. War wolves or devouring earth? No. It had been her own stomach, forcefully reminding her that justice had been fulfilled, but it had not been.
She had been within a few steps of a Brickstown Mexican restaurant; a matter of hunger and convenience rather than desire for bad food, when her communicator had squawked. A priority signal to show up at the City Hall with all haste. The growl from her stomach turned into a horrified scream as if it were the digestive equivalent of the famous Munch painting. Duty was calling; her stomach was yodeling and the Mexican place didnt do takeout. However, across the street, salvation.
And now she was standing along with six other heroes; a comfortable warmth spreading from her right coat pocket. Hot pretzels from the convenient vendor. Four of the six had vanished en-route to City Hall and the last two were taunting her with the aroma of dough, salt and toxically hot mustard. The City Representative was going on about outstanding service, dedication to the community and how they exemplified that ideal. Boring. Boring. Boring. Lethal snuck a hand into her pocket and tore off a piece of Pretzel and faked a yawn so she could cover her mouth and pop the morsel in. Chewy, doughy heaven. Yum yum. The representative continued on. Boredom coupled with hunger sent Lethals hand back into the pocket for the rest of the oversized pretzel which she crammed it into her mouth. Cheeks bulging like a chipmunks Lethal savored the taste for a moment before getting down to the serious business of chewing.
And now to present your Justice Incarnate badges. The representative finished abruptly. I am pleased to introduce Statesman!
Lethals eyes widened until they took up three quarters of her face. It was him! Really him! She watched as the huge, muscled man strode forcefully into the room and surveyed them. His eyes were kind and white teeth shone as he smiled. The muscles! Perfect definition under a thin coating of spandex. Charles Atlas didnt have that sort of muscle. Lethal froze like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck a truck laden with a full cargo of sweaty school-girl fantasies.
Lethal Sawchyk. Statesmans voice was as impressive as the rest of him. He draped the medal around her neck. Well done indeed. You have done both of your parents proud today. I trust they are both well?
A question? Lethals mind snapped back into motion. He had asked her a question! He had spoken to her! She had to say something! Anything! Her first words were entirely inarticulate, but did manage to convey a large portion of half-chewed pretzel and neon yellow mustard across the blindingly white star on Statesmans chest. Not her finest moment.
* * *
The medal still bouncing on her neck, Lethal made a hasty retreat from City Hall. Gobbing on Paragons greatest hero, and then trying to wipe away the mess with the sleeve or her new coat had not been a proud moment. The other heroes receiving their awards had been glaring at her with a combination of disgust, amusement and a certain degree of uncertainty. If someone as pig-thick and incompetent as her was getting the Justice Incarnate, how much could it truly be worth? Statesman had weathered her inadvertent pretzel shower with far more dignity and gravitas than the situation warranted. Rather than pretend it hadnt happened, he had smiled at her, an event in and of itself staggering, as if he himself could picture himself spraying chewy pretzel chunks in a similar fashion. That just made it worse.
Lethals eyes were hot as she pushed through the double doors; perhaps with a little more force than was required. Two journeyman heroes who were trying to enter at the same time were thrown backwards, sprawling in undignified heaps in front of the door.
Liesel. A low voice called from behind her. Lethal started and turned slowly. Leaning up against the wall of City Hall as if his shoulders were the only thing holding it up, was an older man; his grey hair was cut short in a military cut. His upper lip covered by a thick, neatly trimmed moustache. He wasnt tall, no more than 5 10, but with a solid build that spoke of excessive physical activity. He was old, over seventy years, even if he didnt look it. He was also her father.
Papa! Lethal launched herself at him. In her excitement she knocked down one of the fledgling heroes who had just managed to regain his feet. Thibor Sawchyk swept her up in a hug, one hand pressed to her back, the other wrapped around back of her neck. He shook her affectionately.
Is having time between mission deployment. Thibor explained releasing her. So is coming into town to visit. Mama is only making it as far as apartment; is saying something about living conditions and then reaching for rubber gloves and disinfectant.
Oh bother. Lethals heart sank further. Great. Mama would not say a word about it; she would labor diligently to return Lethals apartment to calm, clean, almost military order. It was a double edged sword. It would be champion to have clean laundry, but the issue of locating it in the closet or dresser would add an nigh unbearable level of complication to her normal morning rituals.
Oh bother is perhaps understatement. Thibor growled. Is going to meet us later for dinner. Is going to get big dish of beef chow mein.
Lethal smiled; much of the pain of recent events washed away. Papa approved. They probably werent going out for Chinese Food; though they would be going out for excellent food. The ancient Warren Zevon song, Werewolves of London spoke of a werewolf getting a big dish of beef chow mein, and Papa always used the phrase as a compliment; the reward when her behavior pleased him. She had read enough about Pavlovs dogs to know why; but knowing about the dogs didnt mean you stopped salivating either. He stomach signaled its own opinion on the matter.
Of course dinner is not for few hours. Thibor considered the borborigmous sounds issuing from his daughter. Is wanting to go for snack?
* * *
Thibor glared at Andrea. Andrea glared at Thibor. Lethal shoveled a triple patty cheeseburger into her mouth; adding French fries to fill up any burger free nooks and crannies. Thibor had eschewed food but was lingering over a cup of thick Turkish coffee. The tension between the two men had developed swiftly. Andrea had been refused the opportunity to offer up a meal to the father of his favorite client. Thibor had refused the opportunity to be subjected to the sort of meals that Andrea served up. However the clouds of animosity were slowly lifting as Thibor continued to sip his coffee. Andrea made good coffee.
The talk was light. Her brothers were both well. Doru Harry and William Christonel. Mama and Papa had agreed that all the children would have one British name and one Roma one. Mama had let her strong monarchist tendencies rule and had reverently raided the House of Windsor for names. Her own was a compromise. Elizabeth; for the grace and dignity of the Queen. A Queen who would never, in a state function, inadvertently gob up pretzels and mustard on Statesman. Her middle name, Marta was an enigma. Papa and Mama, especially at that time, did not get along at all well with Evil Aunt Marta, so how her name ended up attached to their second child was a matter of some conjecture; or as was more likely, a subtle gypsy curse that managed to neatly side-step the various protections erected by her great mama, Nana Ruxy.
The first sign of danger had been Andrea making a slow sink behind the counter. Lethal had jumped and turned, while Papa had sprinkled a dash of salt on his coffee. The man in the doorway of the small diner was Circle of Thorns from the tip, top of his absolutely frightful hat to the elaborated embroidered hem of his ornate robes. Who embroidered those robes? All Circle Mages were men. Did they have elaborate nightly needlepoint sessions? Silver needles flashing in and out of thick velvet as they prattled on about the travails of their day. Abducting citizens, siphoning their souls away and replacing them with the festering souls of passed Circle Mages, and the distressing reality of watching their teeth skitter across the ground like bloody Chiclets as a passing hero took umbrage at the soul stealing and visited a beating up them.
The Circle declares an end to the House of Sawchyk in Paragon! A dirty hand emerged from the robe, clutching a thick, ugly, ceramic sculpture. A crudely-formed, bent, human figure that seemed to suck light from the room, leaving the air around it dim and flat. Lethal felt her stomache drop. Something was wrong. Her great sword Eisengrim was not in her hand where it was supposed to be. Papa turned slowly on his stool, his coffee in his left hand. He sipped calmly.
Fuck off. Thibor swallowed the last of his coffee, draining the thick dark dregs.
The end of the House of Sawchyk! The mage sputtered, repeating himself. I hold in my hand an artifact of power! It denies you the power of your weak Roma magic! You shall die! Screaming in agony! Your line ends now!
The Mages mouth opened and he gestured with a hand, readying a powerful spell. It never emerged. Papa flipped his right had forward, throwing a handful of white salt into the mages face. The coruscating magic sputtered and died. Lethal hopped off her stool and snatched it up by the legs. It wasnt necessary. The mage had underestimated his foes. Papa was not dangerous because he was a powerful alpha werewolf. Papa was dangerous and his powerful wolfish form only made him more dangerous. The mage never had a chance to regain the upper hand and bring his magics to bear. He reeled as Papa beat him down. Andreas eyes appeared over the counter. It was not the most efficient beating he had ever witnessed, paragon still being cosmopolitan in that regard, but it made the top five. A knife hand strike to the throat, rolling into a hammer fist to the brachial plexus. Then the left hand came into play. Papa grabbed the Mage by his face and walked forward. The mage fell back as Papa bent, driving the back of the spell-casters head into the floor with a loud crack as both tile and skull gave way under the impact. The statue skittered across the tile and Lethal jumped on it with both feet. It shattered, the magic escaping with a hiss and small cloud of foul vapor. Her sword was suddenly in her hand, and Papa swelled spectacularly, as he assumed his werewolf aspect. The mage didnt react at all, merely blew bloody bubbles out of crushed nose and lips.
* * *
The Chinese believed in many hells. A whole bunch of them, each deliberately and maliciously crafted to make those there as uncomfortable as possible. Being debriefed by your father was likely one of them. Lethal mused about the strange nomenclature. Being debriefed by your father was one thing if you were still a nipple jockey having your nappy changed after a particularly fragrant bout of bum fudge. It meant another thing in the stereotypical Deep South, but only if accompanied by the banjo. She was currently enjoying, or rather not enjoying another variation; the after-action analysis of a combat situation by a parent.
When was first aware of situation? Papa asked. The interior of the diner was a shambles, tables overturned, the door smashed inward by a creature too big to be admitted normally. The floor was a particular mess. Three circle mages rested in a large puddle of a black liquid that still steamed; Andrea wielded a mop, cursing under his breath in the sort of Greek that gets you in trouble with the gods. He occasionally visited each of the mages with a smack to the head with the sodden head of the mop; as if the small gesture could in some way make up for the difficulty in clearing the mess.
When Mr. A. moved. Lethal admitted. It was the right answer, or at least the honest one. She was about to hear the right one and tried to stave it off. Papa, Im not a bloody wolf. I cant hear and smell them like you can.
Fair is where you go on pony rides. Thibor reminded her. Were sitting with back to door. What is doing when sitting with back to door?
Find a reflective surface in my field of vision and check it regularly to make sure no one is trying to sneak up behind me. Lethal kicked at the floor with the toe of her boot. And if I cant find one, move to another seat that lets me monitor all avenues of approach.
Good girl. Thibor grabbed her by the back of her neck and shook affectionately. Is remembering for next time. Now. Why is going for saltshaker?
Most circle magic is hermetic. Lethal recited. They need to combine symbols with words and intentions through a focus. Usually it is a mystic symbol, a summoning circle. Most of them are inscribed on the robes, stupid bloody hats, or other accoutrements in silver thread. Salt can be used to create a circle or, if thrown on an extant one, cause it to ground itself out.
And few grains will also take edge off of bad cup of coffee. Thibor added, noting a murderous glare from Andrea. And no, coffee was very good, but was casual thing that would not be immediately picked up on.
Next youll be going on about my bloody swordswomanship. Lethal said sourly.
No. Is good. Not Great-Papa good. Is better than mine. Thibor nodded to two of the three unconscious mages. Was fast, efficient and very enthusiastic.
Lethal nodded. Papa was not just being kind to her. Her swordplay had improved immensely since coming to Paragon. She chocked it up to the few weeks she had spent running down the warriors. Those bits of bum-fluff didnt know the first bloody thing about the inane philosophy they spouted with all the intellectual depth of whistling kettles, but the blighters could handle their swords and axes well. It had forced her to move beyond simple hack and slash to timing and technique; she had practiced such things before, but it was very different to do so when your life was on the line. It could have gone very badly for her, and nearly did. She had been fortunate that good breeding had endowed her with the speed of an amphetamine crazed rattlesnake, combined with muscle tissue that packed more power per square inch than a can of spinach packed for Popeye. That edge had kept her out of the hospital. Well mostly out of the hospital. She had improved.
Thank you Papa. Lethal scraped a toe in the black goop on the floor, absently tracing a Rom symbol against evil. The gunk on the floor had not come from the mages, but rather the demonic overlord that had charged into the caf moments after Papa had made the introduction of magely head to previously clean floor. The fourteen foot winged demon had crashed through the door, accompanied by two more circle mages. Papa had intercepted the demon, while Lethal had faced off against the mages. Massed with muscle and sprouting sulfurous flame from skin, wings and every orifice, the demon had towered over Papa by some seven feet. It had reached out to grapple and had gratified that the werewolf had chosen to meet it in a match that pitted raw strength and power against raw strength and power. One of Papas rules was that there was always someone bigger, faster, stronger, better and meaner; and you should enter into every encounter with the assumption that you were meeting them. With the demons hands occupied, Papa had proceeded to hoy it in the crotch. Three times; a mystically significant number in that it exceeded the normal yogurt-chucker count by one. Powerful kicks that started at the creatures loincloth and ended up somewhere around its kidneys. The demon had fallen to its knees. From there Papa had grabbed it by the horns and twisted, uncapping the demons head as easily as Uncle John might flick the cap off a bottle of beer. Foaming black bile had sprayed out of the ragged edges of the neck like champagne, black, viscous, sulfurous, clotting champagne; but champagne nonetheless. Maybe not champagne. Guinness. One of the chav sized bottles, well shaken. The demon had sloughed away into corruption. That had been convenient for the mages. It gave their unconscious bodies a nice soft pillow to break their falls on, when Lethal broke their jaws with the pommel of her sword.
The sigil she had traced with her toe flashed bright green. It spread out, consuming the black bile that had once been the physical form of the demon; replacing the smell of sulfur with that of beeswax and a hint of saffron. One of Papas bushy eyebrows shot up. He had been impressed. Andrea merely swore loudly in Greek and shuffled back behind the counter to stow the mop and bucket.
Is Aunt Marta teaching you that one? Thibor asked calmly.
Not directly. Lethal admitted. She sent me a new tome for my birthday.
Liesel Thibors voice was low. Am feeling foolish asking this. Is being careful?
Too true. Lethal nodded. If I turn the page and it starts screaming, I dont read the spell.