Mid-week Words

the Sigil of Azazel, Ch. 29-
"David said goodbye to his fiance that morning. There were no details to warn us with, only that his life thread was to meet a very sudden end. He did not regret it. David was proud to serve."

Eve's fists balled inside her pockets, and she wondered how much he would hate her if she banished him beneath one of the arctic ice packs.

"Because you lied to him and told him he was serving God," she snarled, unable to put a bridle to her anger any longer. "You made him believe he was going to some nice shiny place, and that one day he would meet his fiance' again. But there is no God, and there is no Heaven, and he will never see her again."

"Souls have to go somewhere," Azazel said calmly, turning to look at her as if she wasn't ready to beat him senseless. "Energy created cannot simply be destroyed. Even with the particle dispersion, it is sepertated into molecules beyond the human eye can see, but they are still there, if only permanently divided."

"Well maybe that's what happens to a human soul," she hissed, pulling her hoodie off as the room was suddenly too warm. She nearly flashed him as cotton dragged cotton, but Eve had as little regard for her bodies affects on others as she did for the idea of human attraction itself. She threw the offending sweater across the room to her desk chair as she spoke again, "Permanently divided unless properly extracted and tortured to power the world of a group of outcasts who shouldn't have survived at all."

Eve threw herself onto one side, letting her body fold in to the usual tiny ball in which she slept in for warmth, and pulled the covers up to her ears. Even though she couldn't see him, she knew his eyes were the blazing green of fury.

"I do as am I told-"

"No, you don't. You do as you please to. Don't tell me Lucifer tells you how to train your little pets, he cares about as much for us as the angels who cast you into the radioactive pits do. Now get out."

"Eve-"

"I said get out. Don't make me say it again. And leave the fire."

He vanished without another word. Only the thin scent of sulfur hanging in the air was left of him.

Mid-Week Words

the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 26-

The informant was not what he expected.

For one, he was not a young or inexperienced demon. He was old, in a way that had actually begun to show his age. This meant he was weak, which he had expected. And yet, this man should have been smarter than to open up to him. One eye was scarred over and sealed shut with a single jagged edge that was not clean, but thousands of years old. One arm was missing, and the other supported a crutch. Few wounds would have been left so untreated, but with the state of rags, the rasp of his cough, and the manner in which his one eye was nearly as dark as his first in command was, Azazel understood immediately why.

The informant was a veteran from the Great War, and like so many of his kind had been treated hastily as the bombs had gone off, and with minimal supplies left to treat the ill only the most powerful could be deemed necessary to be saved.

He still raised his one good hand in a salute.

Mid-Week Words

from The Sigil of Azazel, chapter 19:

"She reeks," Shemyaza began as he shut the glass door behind him, "of fear and power."

Azazel frowned. The deck was inside the Walls, but whether or not that would stop a listening hex, he was no longer certain. He didn't answer, but he was at least thoughtful enough to keep the smoke from blowing into the other man's face. 

"What did you do to that girl?" he asked, as close as Shemyaza ever came to demanding.

"I did what was necessary to save our kingdom," he spoke, calm and conversational, as if they had had this talk many times before. Azazel could not even remember what their last conversation had been about, but it was probably an argument about Lucifer's reach, and whether the madness was spreading to more than just their stricken women and frayed fighters.

Shemyaza snatched the cigarette from his hand, and snuffed it out in one clenched fist.

"That girl is an abomination."

"The girl is not your concern," Azazel spoke carefully, each word its own breath of caution.

"Careful, General. We can make more Wardens, we can't make another Abaddon."

"Shouldn't you be getting back to your mate?" Azazel asked. Shemyaza let the cigarette fall into the snow, and the intertwined marks in his palm seemed to vibrate in pain.

"I would tell you not to do anything foolish," he advanced just within arm's reach, and the hand marking him as healer, as mated, as Shemyaza, found easily between the layers of Azazel's clothing the mark he too had born since adulthood, the sign he was born unto, the black lines of two arrows intersecting over one straight line just above his heart, marking him as loyal, as alone, as Azazel, and tapped it twice, "but I can see its far too late for that, old friend."

Mid-Week Words

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 12:
If Kochbiel was considered kind, and Azazel was being summoned for his lack of progress with Abaddon and the girl herself, she did not want to imagine what her teacher would do to her if he returned tomorrow to no further progress.
But what if Azazel did not come back tomorrow? Phenex had warned her that Azazel was rarely ever given explicit orders at all, if this was so, what would stop them from simply reassigning to her a different master? One who did not care at all about making sure Eve ate a decent meal or healing her wounds or taking blows for her poor mortal body so she wouldn't have to worry about slowly healing while trying to fight off would be mates and saving the world from Abaddon's destruction of it?
This did not stop her from taking the blood that had begun to flow from her nose to gather on her thumb and press into the small black glass of her golden compact, and telling the demon exactly what had happened and how he had damn well better have some answers for her when they would meet next, or so help her.
She wondered as she wrote out the Latin, whispering it to herself in English as she went to force the knowledge to take root in her mind and stop it from coming free, if demons were just as flammable as the Preta.

Or perhaps they were even more so.

Mid-Week Words

The Sigil of Azazel, Ch. 9-
Eve sat there now getting tattoos on her hands that she was still worried about covering up for a job interview in the near future with the succinct and absolute knowledge that everything she knew about life and the world around her was nothing even close to the truth.
There was not one world, but many, one often pressing in on the other if a person or angel or demon was smart enough to see it, to seek it out and press through with the right word, the right sigil, the right sacrifice.
The only thing her father had taught her which remained to still be true was the way in which the demons had survived the complete and total death of the world they had once called home - the reaping of twisted and monstrous souls. If over time they had corrupted humanity to speed along that process, Eve did not truly care. Mankind was a flawed and foolish race at best anyhow, and she did not believe that they needed much help in this matter, in their plummeting ascent into the desolate bowels of the underground world which her teacher called home.
She tried to imagine as Phenex worked on how mankind had been searching for a cure for cancer, a solution to the energy crisis, a way to stop world hunger. She imagined this going on for thousands and thousands of years, in a world without aging and endless power, and yet to no avail. Eve thought for a moment that she understood why Azazel had kept it from her, the motivation behind his brethren's bloodshed.
It did not make her any less angry.

New Words for the New Year

I know its been ages since I've composed one of these, and while I am wishing everyone a happy New Year, to me getting the year started off in the best way possible means sticking to good habits, and one of those is posting in this lovely blog of mine on the regular, and to that point I give you the very first Mid Week Words of 2014.

from the Journal, entry dated Jan. 1. 2014-

Its a beautiful day to ring in the New Year. The sun is shining, the crows are chuckling, and the kitchen table is full of new merch for the store, setting in epoxy just waiting to be blessed and photographed. The moon is even new. Its as if for the first time I can remember, my pagan calender of old and the Gregorian of common use are actually lining up together to start again.

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 8-

He did not even bother stepping out of the car when he pulled the luxurious machine into his personal parking space at the MDA Apartment Complex in the heart of the Loop. Azazel simply took a breath, pausing to breathe in deeply, and when the air was leaving his lungs again he was standing in a subway station not far from Eve's school. It was as worrisome as it was enraging. The commander of the Ward had a sickening feeling that it was the same line Eve would have taken home this evening if he had not interfered. There was a stench in the air that humans would mistake for trash or decay if they could smell it. Azazel followed it into the darkness down the track. Here there were no lights, only the underground darkness of moldy, rat infested subway tunnels. 

“Kochbiel?” Azazel asked the darkness, and the darkness answered.

“I am here, sir,” the darkness spoke, a ball of golden light taking shape to illuminate his blood-stained figure. There were other ways to see in the darkness, but they were beyond the capacity of the soldier’s mediocre family line. He was not the most powerful, Kochbiel, but he was smart and he was trust worthy, and those were qualities far more rare and valued in the current dwindling state of his kind. His skin held just enough color and tone to pass for human, and his pale blonde hair was cut close to the scalp, to keep from helping the enemy or hindering himself in battle. His eyes were the inky black pools long ago accustomed to frequent total darkness that could occur at any moment, and often did, in the impoverished regions of their country beneath the dirt. Kochbiel had fought by Azazel’s side and under his orders since the very start of the civil war. 

“I moved the body out of sight here, but I knew you would want it handled yourself, sir.”

Azazel nodded, taking the light from his hands, holding the incorporeal orb aloft to see the remains. And they were just that, the remains of what little was left. 

Sigil and Nano and the Messy November

The past year for me has been fairly chaotic, and the past month has been no exception, but in fact the most messy yet.

I didn't finish Nano. Sigil currently stands somewhere in the mid 35k. I've been doing a lot of writing on the new laptop, as well as penning out on the go, so I haven't pieced it together again to get the current grand total, but I know its somewhere in this area. However, I'm not ashamed of this fact, which is I'm here writing to you today after my long time away from this blog to tell you why.

I sincerely forgot when signing up for darling writing event just how messy November can be for. Aside from family holidays and friend's birthdays, this month marked the last days my brother spent living in Massachusetts. As I am writing this now, in my cozy apartment despite the cold cloudy weather outside, my closest friend in life is probably dragging his new bed through the small three-bedroom in the truly tiny town of Hastings, Florida. Many a day this month was spent in his company rather than that of my novel, forcing me to fall behind on both Sigil and my actual writing job alike. Power outtages from the last wind storm did not help the latter at all.



However, I don't really mind it in the least. Nano taught me just how much I can write in only a few hours time, about 5k in three hours or less, which I honestly never thought I could be capable of. Through Nano I learned how to truly fitting writing into my days as much as humanly possible, despite the madness of clubbing and arcades and just relaxing afternoons spent in the company of one of the greatest people I have ever met in life. I'm grateful he forgave me for stealing his Legos, and his crib, and his cd player that one time.

Sigil is far from over though. I hope still to have a first draft done before the new year, which means I have another busy month ahead of me. But like all crazy amounts of productivity, I embrace it happily, for I do not do well with lazyness, it is simply not how I work. I am happiest buried deep in words, shop items, and aching muscles from another hard work out.

I hope everyone is enjoying their holiday season, and keeping warm and satisfied. My darling cat-childe and I will do the same.

Mid-Week Words

from the Journal, entry dated Oct. 29th 2013-
Its so easy to get comfortable, so comf that you often forget what you have.
It came to me relaxing on the couch Sunday afternoon, blister on my hand ripped open from steaming the house, laughing at Tuscany's confusion from wet carpets, reading a book from the local library, taking in the fruits of my cleaning efforts, that this is my home.
And for once, it feels like home.
I love my little town. I love the petting zoo at the end of my road, the park at the other, the ancient and beautiful Pine Grove Cemetery, the unique and richly detailed homes of the historic district, and the winding roads around the pond. I had to take a moment to walk around my apartment and take it all in, remember the story of these pieces of my life and how they got there. The couch from a curb in Fitchburg, the cabinets and desk from my grandparents, the vintage 50's coffee table from my father. When you dont make a lot of money, you don't often buy furniture, so much as acquire interesting pieces over time. Honestly, I enjoy it so  much more than a trip to a furniture shop. Here, everything has its own story, from the kitchen chairs Dad and I reupholstered, to the mattress I currently sleep on.
And I do so love to tell a good story.

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 4-
The day was not made any brighter by the early afternoon hour. Eve stepped outside to a sky void of sunlight, choked up with an endless grey mass, not so much clouds as one great hulking monster of one, dimming the world so much that cars night time lights were automatically flaring to life. She had to be careful not to step too close to the curb as cars roared past, throwing the water gathered on the streets edge in great, bone chilling arcs. It was one of those days where it seemed impossible to be raining, to be warm enough not to freeze, and yet there it was. A few lamps in the shadows of the taller skyscrapers in this block were even flickering to life, illuminating the impossibly deep pools of water.

Mid-Week Words

from the Journal, entry dated Oct. 15 2013-
I'm not sure I'm ready for a relationship yet, and the idea of dating is still oh so sickeningly dull and passionless that the word tastes stale on my tongue, but I no longer feel as if I or anything else is holding me back from the possibility. I feel open to it. I don't feel as if I'm hiding my healing wounds anymore. I feel free. And as if I am personally and spiritually moving towards a great and indescribable something.
If there was a time when someone wanted me in their lives, now would be the time to act. For right now I am experiencing something most remarkable, something passionate and wild and thrilling, and I would love nothing more then to share it with the right person.
Don't wait or hesitate, the sun, the moon, and the stars do not. The shifting seas do not pause, and neither do I.

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 4-
"The girl," Charron croaked, sputtered a cough, and continued, "she's been taken." He straightened himself upright, but Charron was always hunched, the demeaning stance of one who had spent a lifetime cowering to others. Cowering was a good way to stay alive in the service of elders of high rank for as long as possible. "The police have her for questioning, no one can get to her without exposure."
Azazel snarled, nearly throwing the expensive smokes across the room, but he thought better of it, held his face with his free hand as if he could shove common sense and something like humanity into it by sheer force of will alone. "And David?"
"No word for the past four hours. Kochbiel searched his home and found nothing."
No word since they lost track of Abadon. Azazel abandoned his smoke, and stalked off to the bedroom to peel off his wrinkled suit for something with less bloodstains. Though he hardly saw the point. With David gone, and most likely dead, the demon disguised as a man was certain that the olive trousers and navy dress shirt, along with his warmest charcoal wool coat, would suffer the same fate once the day was through. He knotted his scarf too tightly, and slammed the door on his way out, because teleporting into a police station was unwise at the very least.

Mid-Week Words

from the Journal, entry dated Oct. 2nd 2013-
There is an old saying that if you stare into the abyss, it will stare back into you.
It used to cause me anxiety, and fear. For what if I am all too like the darkness?
Now when I recall those words, I smile. Because the darkness will blink first, because I don't blink, motherfucker, and you should have known that. And I will laugh, and I will keep on living.
To me, that's growing up.
Life is too short to live in fear. Its too brief to hesitate, too impulsive to pause, and too fleeting to delay.
And for those of you who still cling to the past like a bottle of your favorite mind-numbing concoction, I only hope you can wake up before it's too late.

from The Sigil of Azazel, chapter 4-
"You've only just turned 18 Ms. Spellmeyer, do you understand what that means?" the Detective asked, leaning in close as if she were talking to a child. So close that Ever was certain the camera couldn't see her smile, which did not look like anything that should belong on the face of one so sworn to uphold the law.
"I do," Eve answered.
She understood that the Oscars would fight until she was wrongly convicted. She understood that she would be tried as an adult. She also understood that the only evidence they had was entirely circumstantial, and as such she had every right to get the fuck out of there.

Mid-Week Words

from the Journal, 9/14 and 9/18-
'This year has been messy, chaotic, and at times nearing disaster. And yet, I wouldn't change a moment of it. It feels full and well-spent. 2013 feels like the year I came back to life.
There are pages in this journal that are dark & cruel, twisted and wrong, like a mangled car wreck, warped beyond recognition. But they are mine, and I wouldn't trade them for a thing.
The air is getting colder, the nights shorter, and my friends fewer. Yet I've never felt more light and alive.'

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter four-
Eve Spellmeyer sat down in the folding metal chair, lithe and poised. Detectives Brett and Young informed her that someone would be along to talk to her shortly.
"Can I know what this is about?"
Detective Brett looked at Detective Young, and closed the door behind them, the tumblers locking into place.
The girl in questioning pushed a long, slender hand through her cropped, dark hair, sections of it still frozen together. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes and make the contact lens irritation behind her shades any worse. Eve had no idea what to think or believe, but she knew one thing for certain, and that was her own innocence. If she appeared distressed right now, it would only serve to seal her fate in their eyes.
Eve took a deep breath, and made a show of removing her shades to glare at the mirror, squinting up at the obnoxious florescent light, and putting the tinted lenses back over her eyes before the pain behind her eyes settled into a full-on migraine.

Mid-Week Words

I've lost count of how many times I've tried a posting schedule. Honestly, my life is not a stable thing at all this year, its ever turbulent, and I'm quite happy with that. But words are a constant, in any shape and form, words are always happening. I won't trouble you with any from work, unless you want a lecture about optical care or proper dental hygiene, but I would like to reveal bits of myself through my works and my thoughts.

from the Journal, entry dated 8/9/2013-
I wanted to leave because I felt as if I had nothing left but ghosts haunting my walls. 
But maybe not.
My personal spirits are like those of reality - they can only enter if I allow them. Lately, I have been, but I don't have to.
I can banish them if I please.

from the Sigil of Azazel, chapter 4-
"Who is it this time?"
"Abadon."
Azazel's head drew back, fists clenched as his muscles grew tight, and his breathing seemed to stop as his brilliant mind tried in vain to assess the situation, but it could not divine a solution, only a terrible chill which seemed to sink deep into his ancient bones. 
"When? How?"
"An hour ago, at most," the Satan spoke, lips closing together in a thin, pale line as he rose from his throne and lead the way to the Northern passage, the perfectly smooth stone narrowing as it curved higher towards the surface, small lanterns of yellowing light dotting their otherwise unmarred surface. 
"As for how," Lucifer continued, pausing to cough as a cold breeze whipped through the air around them, causing the lights to flicker. Azazel's gait paused at what to most would have been a harmless chill, but the Fell was not like most places. For one, it existed entirely and self-sustainably below surface. There were no cold breezes. As they moved further up the ascending path, the temperature dropped further still, and the Duke of the Fell growled lightly in disgust as he was forced to put the scarf, still tacky with incubus blood, over his nose and mouth to ward off the toxic air. Lucifer turned towards the gates of the high security section, his hand holding the sleeve of his robe in a similar fashion. 
They stopped at the cell that had once been marked with the Sigil of Abadon. The door was gone, as was much of the cell, and the stone above it.
Lucifer coughed again before he finished, "he seems to have gone up."Azazel had witnessed many break outs, and they had always involved the use of a door. Because above them was not only hundreds of feet of natural stone bedrock, but the toxic remains of what had once been the home to an immortal race. Azazel could see the sky for the first time in two millenia. It burned red with no oxygen to sustain it, clouds the poisonous yellow of sulfur. The next moment, it was gone. Azazel blinked, only now realizing that he and his King were surrounded by Moloch, the Jailer, and Panem, the lead Architect, as well as their dozen or so underlings. The hole was patched and sealed before Azazel had even noticed they were working, and it was a sight he was glad to be rid of.

Wordy Weekend: The Rewrite Begins!

After much consideration (and Jeff's insistent nagging, thank you darling!), I give you the new introduction for the Sigil of Azazel, now in third person! 

In a room found in the Land of the Fell (commonly known by human-kind as Hell), two demons stared at a looking glass in disbelief. Within its depths they could see the image of a young woman, slender and icy, typing vigorously at a desktop computer. Her skin is as pale as the lesser demon, who is a few shades lighter from his superior’s fury.

The demons did not have horns, or tails, or cloven feet. They were in fact very humanoid in appearance. The furious leader of the Warden looked like a handsome man in his mid-thirties, tall, powerful, and aged like the finest pinot noir. This was the first time he had been summoned back to his homeland for longer than a few minutes in over three hundred years. His profile looked like Roman Age art, all sharp lines and stunning shadows. But his smile was never warm, and always a nightmare. It is matched only by his petrifying glare, rumored to stop armies and cause the bravest of holy men to leap to their deaths, now being currently wielded upon his servant, a very minor and inexperienced demon named Charron.  

“Who is she?”

“I do not know sir, she isn’t in the records.”

Azazel turned to his assistant with an expression that was often followed by the removal of body parts.

“Then you missed something.”

“There is no record of a female birth sir, I made certain of it.”

The duke of the Fell snarled, turning back to the vision of the woman who shouldn’t be there at all.

“Then the Glass is wrong.”

“No sir, it is correct,” the gray-skinned demon flinched, gesturing to the map of the human world mounted on the wall above them. On it burned a new pinpoint of light that had not before, over the city of Chicago.

Azazel focused the Glass on a slim piece of paper taped across along the top of the monitor. ‘Print instructions for lab 203 – use your IADT card.’ The demon grinned, briefly. At least she wouldn’t be difficult to find. He couldn’t simply bring himself to her either. Such magic required an ingredient he did not have – her blood. A sample was taken at the birth of every success for exactly this purpose. He could not risk appearing in the middle of a night class, or startling his newest charge.

Normally they were approached much younger than she, so that when the time came, the pupils would be prepared. The records had never been wrong before, not once in the thousands of years since their inception. Azazel, who answered only to Lucifer himself, could not yet fathom how. But it was no matter, the demon had no time to lose.

That was how the demon left without reporting to his boss, or going out the door, and how neither he, nor his servant, noticed the grinning incubus lurking just outside. This demon did not share Azazel’s concern.  

Its coming out sort of...cheeky? I'm enjoying it a lot so far though. I think we're going to get a lot more out of it now, a much better story overall. What do you think?

Wordy Weekend: Snapshots of the Sigil of Azazel

"She needs Solomon's Keys."
With a single look the steel shutters on the windows smacked into place, and seven locks bolted the door shut. The white snake rose from its lazy gaze to coil angrily in its glass prison.
"What you are asking is highly illegal, and for good reason."
"But I thought you were an outcast!" I said, "What does the law matter to you?"
"No one is above Lucifer's wrath sweetheart, not even me."
"It is not our king who should worry you, my friend," Azazel hissed, "Its Abadon."
The tension in the air seemed to snap, fused with an electrical charge, and the room ran cold with the outcast's fear. The snake curled into to a tight ball around itself, and hissed. No one had told me who Abadon was yet, and for the first time in my life, I did not want to find out.

Music Monday: Depeche Mode

The Sigil series has me under its thrall lately, and so my musical taste goes with it. Lately I've been listening to a lot of Depeche Mode around the house, and the track Precious in particular has been standing out to me. I hear it and my mind translates it as Azazel speaking to/of/and about Eve Spellmeyer. Her entire life has been warped and twisted by the work of his people from birth to the time he finds her, and on thereafter. 

In my head there exists a deleted scene, where-in Phenex yells at Azazel for listening to this song for umpteenth time. He smacks the demon upside the head and tells him to quit whining and find her already. 

Precious and fragile things
Need special handling
My God what have we done to You?

We always try to share
The tenderest of care
Now look what we have put You through...

Things get damaged
Things get broken
I thought we'd manage
But words left unspoken
Left us so brittle
There was so little left to give

Angels with silver wings
Shouldn't know suffering
I wish I could take the pain for you

If God has a master plan
That only He understands
I hope it's Your eyes he's seeing through

Things get damaged
Things get broken
I thought we'd manage
But words left unspoken
Left us so brittle
There was so little left to give

I pray you learn to trust
Have faith in both of us
And keep room in your heart for two

Things get damaged
Things get broken
I thought we'd manage
But words left unspoken
Left us so brittle
There was so little left to give

Wordy Weekends: The Sigil of Azazel, Opening Chapter

the Sigil series takes place in Chicago, largely at The International Academy of Design and Technology campus

Chapter One

Many of us like to believe the best of people. Despite historical evidence to the contrary, we are apt to have hope in the human race. That they are overall, bright, adaptable, good-hearted creatures.

I stopped having such foolish assumptions a very long time ago, if they ever existed at all, which they didn’t, not to my recollection.

 I was not, nor have I ever been, kind-hearted. But I am very bright, and, as life would have it, extremely adaptable. Though as I sat there, squinting at the mixed code of symbols and numbers before me, I was having trouble believing it.

Most would have blamed the surrounding darkness of a computer lab at night with no lights on, but I possessed acute photosensitivity since birth, leaving me with acute night sight, migraines from florescent lights, and currently irritated contact lenses. The soft hum of the army of high-tech computers around me was a comforting background of white noise to the industrial synth-orchestra blasting out of the giant headphones that hung around my neck. I stared at the stupid code begging the stupid error to appear before me, rubbing my eyes to make the stupid contacts stick to my stupid eyelids, leaving me blinking idiotically in the darkness in a struggle to get them back in place, and it was in the midst of that struggle that someone turned on the painful light fixtures and sent agonizing ultra-bright beams of white light into my already irritated eyes.

“Spellmeyer! How’s it coming?”

If I hadn’t found the stupid absent backslash in that moment, I might have resorted to violence. As it was, I typed in the damned symbol, before hitting ctrl+s, F5 with such practiced speed that it probably looked like some hacker voodoo to the jackass interior design major behind me, really, all I did was save and reload the webpage, where it displayed his flawless new website in all its glory. The jackass to whom I was referring needed to get an edge on the competition for an internship with some up-and-to-do agency I could never afford, and would never hire if I did. He needed a site to showcase his talents, and I needed money. My opinion of my clients was not worth more than that.

“Take a look,” I gestured to the gargantuan monitor before me, standing up to give him full access to the preview. He didn’t like how I towered over him, but I towered over most everyone, I was used to it a long time ago. He seemed suspect.

“It’s very simple.”

“Simple is effective. Don’t believe me, ask Apple. It’s a website, communications and advertising, not a room to plaster wallpaper over.”

He frowned, but didn’t argue the matter.

“How much do I owe you?”

“250.”

He seemed surprised.

“That’s the steepest price on campus.”

“For the finest work on campus. You want top quality design, you need to pay top dollar. Time is money, and I have very little of either.” I wasn’t bragging, I don’t brag. I had a near genius level IQ and a very adaptable thought process, which is to say, I learn new things very quickly and excel at alarming rates. I do not have eidetic memory, but I have enough creativity to make up for it. I double majored out of boredom, and my high IQ and tendency towards computers were probably the only reasons my social apathy went undiagnosed. I was always regarded by family and peers as “one of those people.”

He counted up the money and handed it over as if he had just given up his favorite son for adoption. I would have felt bad, except that Theodore Oscar’s parents were both wealthy beyond imagining, and there was no logic to guilt. I counted the money, copied the file from my thumb drive, and left.

I didn’t turn back when he asked what my plans were this evening. Nor did I look up at the guy who brushed past me, ascending up on my way down. I did not pause when he had a weird smell, and I ignored the odd feeling I got from him too. I was a borderline sociopath, I thought everyone was strange, and by strange, I mean so dull and so foolish I don’t understand how they find contentment in their sad, boring lives.

I did not turn back. Not until I was in the hallway on the bottom floor, not until I heard a piercing wail that sounded like something from a good actor out of a bad horror movie. I turned back just in time to see the “weird” guy towering over Oscar, cowering, cornered against the glass wall of the stair case.

I don’t know why I began to turn back, but I did. Though as I took my first step up, a pair of hands grabbed me by the waist, lifting me straight off my feet and hauling me back. One of them sealed my mouth shut when I tried to scream. I had never done that before, but I had never been kidnapped either. I was held still to watch the arc of blood spray across the glass in great, scarlet, arterial bursts, as the guy tore Oscar limb from limb, and he didn’t go quiet, didn’t go quick. He kept screaming. And I screamed with him. Not for Oscar. No, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass for Oscar. I screamed for the knowledge that I was next.

“Calm yourself,” the commanding male voice of my attacker whispered into my ear, breath caressing my lobe, “You’re not ready to take him on. Not yet,”

I had no idea what he was on about, but I wasn’t ready to die yet either. His grip was firm, but not rough, not impossible. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He didn’t expect me to fight back.

Stupid man.

He was taller than me, and I used that to my advantage. I elbowed him in the solar plexus with everything I had and took off running, slamming through the doors at the end of the hall to the student lounge, the sound of his foot falls not far behind.

I was lithe, and tall, but not in shape; he would outrun me in a heartbeat. But he couldn’t outsmart me. An abandoned janitor’s caddy was off to one side. Perfect. Quick as a fox, I grabbed the broom and darted to the left corridor, shoved it through the door handles, and ran into the nearest classroom on the left, using the side-door to double back through the adjacent lab, finding a good hiding place behind a row of servers. They wouldn’t expect me to double back, they didn’t know the layout of the campus, not as good as I did. They would find the doors barricaded, and barrel straight through the next exit to the quad. As soon as they passed through, I could double back through the building, exit to North St, and get home.

But he never came. Neither of them. Minutes passed, until a labored crash burst into the lounge beyond. The sounds of yelling, the loud slap of blows against flesh echoed against the silence. It was as good a time as any. I crept through the side door, only to have the metal hinges screech shut behind me. Fuck. They were closer than I thought too. Creep number one lunged for me first, angular face covered in blood, but the second one pulled him back, throwing him against the wall with enough forced that it shook. And before I could move his long fingers wrapped around my wrist, and the world was reduced to a swirling pool of blackness, the lights snuffed out.