Pandemonium, Part 1

     Pandemonium lived up to its name on the best days. On the worst? It lived up to its name.
     There was no chance of calm in a city of every monster imaginable, every mythic pantheon flooding the streets with god power. There was a whole neighborhood that had been taken over by a gang of carnivorous unicorns. Ever seen a herbivore stalk prey? It's eerie, creepy, completely unnatural. But that's Pandemonium for you.
     Even in this realm of no safety, the chance of danger must be minimized. But it's not a job for everyone, that's for sure. Especially if you deal with monsters and gods, the ones who make all the trouble. There's a hierarchy everyone knows and follows, but they only go so far. It's okay for the most part, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
     My job is to minimize the danger. Protect the public, keep the peace. In a place named Pandemonium, it's near impossible. My job is to defy the odds.
--
     I can hear her outside of my door, hear her debating mentally. Her hand hovers in front of my door, poised to knock. Waiting...waiting...
     I'm not really part of the force. I'm not an officer, a detective, or an analyst. I'm not a private investigator. I'm a specialist. I might be in the same building as the regular guys, but everyone knows I'm not one of them. The only doors the secretaries hesitate in front of are the chief's (who happens to be the Norse god Tyr - ever heard of him?) and mine. It's all about power, and since I don't have to follow Tyr's orders, I guess it freaks them out a bit.
     With my feet propped on the desk and me already leaning back to relax, I really don't want to deal with the indecision outside of my door. But I know how it is.
     "Come on in, Belinda," I call out. In she walks, Belinda Montclair, a cute, timid ghoul. She's the only ghoul working in the department, which I guess contributes further to her anxiety. I always do my best to be professional and kind no matter who I'm dealing with, within reason. Belinda tends to stretch those limits, and I can't help trying to get her to smile. I don't think she realizes or notices my efforts.
     "Hey, Mal," She murmurs, head bowed. She continued addressing her shoes, "Clemmons and Swanson have requested you. They need some help. And, uhm, I'm supposed to warn you that they also have a consultant with them."
     "Oh, wonderful," I lie. Poorly. I hate dealing with detectives in the first place, and a consultant is the last thing I need. "So, you lead the way." I swing my feet off my desk and stand, working out the knotted muscles in my back with a nice stretch. The last job I was on was a doozy, a real pain. At least I'd only be sore and bruised for a few more days. The bad guy wasn't so lucky - actually he was a pile of ash. Silver linings.
     Belinda waits for me to join her at the door before starting off through the narrow hall to guide me through the bullpen. It's a chaotic mess, always is. Tidy, hygienic, but a craze of paperwork, shouting, and muttered cursing. Caffeine is the one true god here, at least until an actual god walks in. I stick to water and booze, figuring the two balance out my liver and kidneys. Yep, that's what I tell myself.
     Cops unconsciously tense up as I pass them by. They don't actually notice me - their conscious minds don't recognize it, but their subconscious instinct does. Their lizard brains, tasked with keeping them alive, are working overtime in my presence. As we get closer to the detectives' desks, I mentally review what I know about them.
     Clemmons is female, tough as nails. A lamia with a grudge against men, but then, all lamia have a grudge against everything male. Swanson, male. Used to be human, but got bit by a thrope on the job and now goes furry every full moon. Otherwise, an okay guy. The consultant, however, is going to be a mystery. I don't like mysteries. Hence specialist, not detective.
     Belinda stops at the cubicle housing the two detectives, her hands wringing nervously in front of her. It's Clemmons who looks up first, a scowl on her face.
     Giving me a sour smile, she says, "Glad you could make it, Cassel." Everyone here knows my name, but leave it to a lamia to make it sound contemptuous.
     "Detective Clemmons. Swanson. Where's your consultant?" I ask. Belinda begins to edge away while I talk, eager to be anywhere but here. I wish I could join her.
     "Probably went to use the bathroom. You took your time." We both know I didn't, and I struggle to keep my inward feelings just that, inward. I want to rip Clemmons's head from her body and shove it down a garbage disposal... Instead, I smile.
     "Sorry about that."
     She snorts, but backs off. No one seems to like when I smile, but I guess it's only natural. For them, my smile usually heralds great violence. However, this time it was meant to suppress her pissy attitude... I guess it still did its job...
     Through the clamor of our noisy surroundings, I hear sneakers on linoleum, not an officer, and they're trying to get the drop on me. My face drops of emotion, and I whip around, arm lashing out at speed, hand closing on the cold flesh of a neck. I keep moving forward, push hard, the idiot's body slamming into the opposing wall while I snarl. Silence falls, the only sound permeating the air is the wheezing of the man I've pinned against the wall. Other detectives, officers, employees have stopped what they're doing to check out the commotion.
      "Malachi, wait!" Swanson cries out, exiting the cubicle. "He's the consultant." My gaze doesn't waver, doesn't falter. I simply open my hand, dropping him in a heap to the floor. 
     The wheezing becomes a laugh as he instantly hops back to his feet. "Wow! No one has gotten me in centuries! I always get the drop on people. How'd you do that?" The voice is eager, a lot like an excited child. My brain reviews what my eyes took in when incapacitating him. Shaggy blonde hair, a smattering of freckles, brown eyes, cold skin...vampire. No wonder he's so surprised.
     "You're a fanger," I say. No reason for me to ask what I already know as fact.
     "Sounds almost a little speciest."
     "Did it? Sorry. I forget you guys like to call humans blood bags but get pissy about the same treatment."
     "Hey now! No need to get all serious, right? I mean we're going to be working together after all."
     "Nope. No way," I shake my head, cast my eyes toward Swanson. "I'm not working with this moron. So, the specialist or the consultant, take your pick."
     The kid, I can see now that the fanger got changed while looking only about 17 or 18, appears offended. "I'm useful," He says, eyes locked on mine. He's gone entirely serious, solemn. 
      "I doubt it."
     "Want proof? Fine." His eyes close, and I know what's about to come. I want to yell at him to stop, or better yet rip his tongue out - but damn wouldn't that look suspicious? He speaks in soft tones, "You're a father, a husband...son of...no, that can't be right. Why can't I see...?" Every eye is focused on me, and it takes all of my willpower to keep from ending this guy right here and now.
     "You're wrong."
     His eyes flick open and he frowns. "Oh? What part?"
     "All of it. I was a father, I was a husband. It was a long time ago."
     "Time is relative with a human." I want to laugh at his ignorance. I haven't been ever been human, even if I smell like one.
     "Let me tell you a secret, fang-boy," I lean in close, everything about me going hard and cold. I speak in low pitch that snake-bitch-Clemmons and fur-face-Swanson can't hear, but the vamp can. "I'm not human. Never have been. You wanna talk relative time? I'm thousands of years old. You're five hundred, tops. Try that seer crap on me again, and I'll do you the favor of making you a real seer by removing your eyes from their sockets." Okay, so, it might be a little harsh... I am a nice guy, but sometimes people push the wrong buttons. Such as my dead wife and daughter. There are some things you don't talk about, some things you leave alone.
     "You're scary," The fanger says, eyes wide. I try not to look surprised, but I certainly didn't expect so blunt a reply.
     "Uh...thanks?" Not really sure what to say here... A smile bursts onto his face, making him look like a little kid on Yuletide. For my part, I'm firmly bemused. Who knew scary was fun?
     "Man, so cool. I mean, I'd prefer you not kill me, but wow! No wonder you're considered a specialist," He babbles, and I slowly move back a couple of paces, no longer seeing a point in trying to be intimidating. "My name is Wallace, but please call me Wally."
     "Malachi Cassel," I nod in introduction. So I was expected to work with this joker... I could manage. He seemed different from the normal crop of Pandemonium citizen. Might be a good experience for me I guess. Turning back to the detectives, everyone gets the cue that the show is over. "What's the case?"
     Swanson shares a look with Clemmons and clears his throat before beginning. "We think a god has gone rogue." Shit. A serious accusation, and no wonder they needed me. The only people who could possibly kill, or in this case apprehend, a god were Tyr and me. They didn't wanna call in their boss because they had no solid evidence.
     "Any idea on which pantheon?"
     "We think it's a meso." 'Meso' as in Mesoamerican, not Mesopotamian, as in Mayan, Incan, Aztec. Those guys tended to party hard, and yet were still sober enough to be unbelievably savage. Great.
     "Lemme guess, all circumstantial at the moment, yeah?"
     "Uh," Swanson nods sheepishly, "Yeah." 
     "This is one big favor you're asking."
     "We can't go to the chief with it, you're the only chance we've got..."
     Clemmons won't look at me, so I know this request is serious. This is what I get for being a generally decent person... "Alright," I nod. "Lemme make a call before you fill me in on the different deaths." Last part is inferred by fact of them being homicide detectives.
--
     "I know it isn't much to go on. That's why I need your help." I'm back in my office, trying to get some idea on which pantheon to be looking at. I still dunno the details, but if any Meso is acting a little strange, some god will know.
     "Yes, Mal, I understand. However, I must ask, what will I receive in return?" The voice is silky smooth, the voice of a liar, through and through. I'm beginning to think I should have gone to Coyote for help.
     "Loki, you owe me. This would make us even." Dealing with these guys sucks. You'd never believe all the gods and I were once childhood friends. That we ever played together as children. Sometimes, I'm not even sure my memories of those times are true - but what else am I gonna do?
     "Mal..." Loki pauses, and I force myself to keep from sighing in impatience at his dramatics. "I do this for you and the score is settled? We owe one another nothing?"
     "Yeah. But don't try that trickster crap with me. I know you. You'll try and set up a situation of danger to rescue me from, which will make me owe you. Not gonna work."
     "I'm hurt you think so low of me." 
     "Oh, shove it."
     "Fine. Anyway, from what I already know, Krishna of the Mesopotamians has been acting strange as of late."
     "Great." Meso of a different sort. The phone slams down into the cradle of the receiver, and I put my fingertips to my temples. Never thank a god. They basically hear "I owe you one" when you say it. It shouldn't be so difficult though, really. It's like pulling teeth.
     I let out a sigh. Tired. Bone weary. But hey, I was tired after the first hundred years passed. I've been tired for so much of my life, what do a few more days, weeks, months, years matter? Eventually I will be killed. Just gotta do my job until then.
--
     I open the door to my office, ready to work on the cases, when I find myself face to face with Wally. Uncomfortably close, I blink and he takes a few steps back.
     "Sorry, that Clemmons chick was freaking me out, giving me a hardcore gruesome stare. Tactical retreat," He explains.
     "Well, she is a lamia, so... They don't tend to like men. Any men."
     "How does Swanson work with her then?"
     "Oh, she likes him. Probably the only man she gets along with. Story is, first day of work here, she accidentally bumped into him, but he went crazy apologizing - didn't even know she was a lamia either so," I shrug. "Guess she kind of views him as a cute little pet. Did even before he got bit."
     "Huh. Well, she's creepy."
     "Don't let her hear you say that. Between you and me though... Yeah. She is."
      "Well!" Wally claps his hands together and bounces on the balls of his feet. "Let's solve a crime, shall we?" He turns, gestures for me to go forth. I shake my head and take the lead, him trailing after me like a puppy. Goofy kid.
     We get back to Swanson hurriedly gathering the case files and his notes. The only greeting we receive is a slight nod of the head from Clemmons. As Swanson got the last of his stuff together, looked at me with a small smile.
     "How'd your call go?"
     "Loki gave me a lead," I reply casually. Clemmons snorted, but I understood it. No one could muster a single positive feeling for him since he fathered Fenrir. Creating a kid just to be a god killer could do that. It wasn't even just the Norse pantheon ticked about it. No pantheon was pleased with a god killer in Loki's hands. What no one knew, as neither of us had told anyone, was that I'd gone ahead and taken Fenrir. Since I'm not technically a god, I wasn't in danger of getting accidentally killed. Fen was still a pup, so he stayed with me. I couldn't care less about Loki, honestly. To me, he was just a man who had never grown out of his angsty teen phase. Like how Zeus had never grown out of his player phase.
     "Eh. I would've preferred Coyote, but Loki owed me a favor," I shrug.
     "You sure know a lot of gods," Clemmons murmurs, favoring me with a look of strange intensity.
     "All of them, really. I'm betting your perp is a Mesopotamian god. The mesos have cleaned up their acts a considerable amount. Outright slaughter is no longer their style." Not anymore, I added silently. Not since I dropped the hammer on them.
     "Wait until you see the files," Clemmons says. None of the people working here besides Tyr know who I really am, the truth of me. But Tyr has always been the one god I truly trust, my best friend in most respects.
     Swanson finally got himself together and handed me the papers. Wally stood on his tip toes behind me, trying to read over my shoulder.
      "First kill doesn't seem unusual until you look at the symbols drawn in blood on the wall," Swanson supplied. I cared less about the written reports and more about the pictures. Gods and monsters, they have pretty signature ways of killing. You can tell a lot from the photos alone. 'Course, none of the people here know it. They don't have the life experience to identify the specific signs. This kill... It was supposed to look like a meso did it, that much is clear, but I can see the inconsistencies, the set up. 
     "Anyone bother to translate the symbols?" I ask, already fairly certain they hadn't based on the various symbols' meanings.
     "Ah, no. An expert has been contacted, but hasn't gotten back to us yet."
     "Yeah, well... This one," I said, holding up the photo and pointing, "means rainbow. Couple others here, but they're all pretty congenial in meaning. It's a ruse. If this had been legit, you can bet it would be all blood and thunder. As it stands, it's a bunch of fluff."
     "You sure?"
     "Look, I'm a specialist. Take me at my word, or don't, it's up to you. But I know what I'm talking about."
     "Okay..." Swanson appeared unconvinced. Didn't matter to me, I already knew who did it. I could feel Wally's eyes burning a hole in me. If he truly was a high-seer, and I figured he was,he knew. Didn't know the specifics, but he was aware I already had the answer.
     For show, I viewed the other files flagged in the case, and made sure to nod and grunt in affirmation as needed. Finally, I was given leave to go, and waded through the sea of the bullpen to the bank of back elevators. One pinged open before I could even hit the down button, and I stepped inside.
     "Your destination, Mr. Cassel?" A disembodied voice asked. Elevators all across Pandemonium are operated by wraiths. They never have to sleep, and always know when one of the living approaches them. This particular wraith was one I knew. His name was Ralph.
     "The lobby, Ralph. Any floor that gets me out of here."
     A chuckle echoed through the elevator cab and the doors slid closed. Wraiths are good at their job. See, the floor I was on was 107. Hell of a long way down. Because of this, wraiths move at a fast pace, enough to give you a head rush, but not too fast to make you sick or injure you. To me, it's easy to be nice to them and treat them like any normal person, but some people find it difficult. However, the promise of a high impact death normally keeps them polite enough.
     The doors pinged open. "Thanks Ralph. Have as good a night as you can."
     "Thank you, Mr. Cassel. Be safe." The doors closed once more, and off he went.
     I left the lobby, coming out into the capital storm of Pandemonium. The center tower of Necromicon stretched far into the sky, climbing up and up until it disappeared into the gray above. On the streets surrounding me, there was chaos. Laughter, shrieks, screams, a thousand conversations pulsing through the air. I shook my head to clear it, and started off in the direction of my home.
     A chill had seeped into the flesh and bones of Necromicon, the city seeming to retract into itself. Cold days always led to change in the layout of the streets and buildings. Luckily, I wasn't effected because my lodgings were on the fringes. Almost in the middle of nowhere, but not quite nowhere yet.
     I could tell I was being followed, but I knew who it was, so didn't mind. Usually, I didn't like people knowing where I lived. It was invitation for an attack on my life. Or an invitation for that person to be attacked in order to get information on my location. This time, it didn't matter. The seer undoubtedly had the strength I thought he did, and he'd already seen how things would play out. He might as well know what his new address would be.
     When I finally made it, I smiled. The bunker wasn't much to look at, it was the underground house that made it such a great dwelling. Tramping through the grass, which is a lot more like human hair than any plant I know of, I simultaneously sent out a mental signal to my various security defenses to exempt my visitor. As I stepped up to the bunker's hatch and spun it open, I could already hear Fenrir scratching at the inner door of the house. The little beast howled, a pathetic puppy cry, and I snorted. He was always happy when I came home, but crazy impatient about it.
     With the bunker's hatch open, it was a quick trip down the narrow stairs to the real front door. Swinging it open, I was ready for the black furred body launching itself toward me. Catching the critter, Fen changed form to that of an eight-year old boy. One with pale skin, black hair, and intense dark green eyes.
     "Hey, buddy!" I greeted the god killer who was already like my own son
     "Dad! Did you bring me anything?" Most days, Belinda let me pilfer the candy dish on her desk to take something back from Fen. The candy was made for ghouls, and appealed to them and not much else. I was the only one who took treats from Belinda's dish.
     "Not tonight, but! I brought you a new toy."
     "Really?!" He asked, body quivering in excitement. I knew the fanger had already made it down the hallway leading to the actual front door, so set Fen down with a smile.
     "Yeah. Go check it out, kiddo." He ran off, through the front door and down the hall. I heard a muffled cry and a few thumps before Fen raced back through the door, dragging the fanger with him. The strength of a god killer... He would be a handful.
     Depositing Wally to the ground, Fen looked up proudly at me and smiled brightly. I couldn't help but laugh and mussed his hair.
     Rogue god aside, life was pretty good at the moment.

Life Cycle of a Vampire

     Susannah still remembered her birth. The conception of her final form.
     Though she had no recollection of how exactly they came to be, she knew how it started. The final stage was the beginning, you see. First, they were a speck. Not a spore, or an egg, or anything of such substance. They were a speck. A chemical. The beginning of life began as a base component within the saliva of the full grown. Sometimes, a lucky speck would be transferred from the home, to a new location. It didn't happen often, which was why so many victims died.
     For some, it was a rebirth.
     Susannah had been an exceptional speck, and made an actual effort, though not conscious, to escape the bonds tying her to this specific vampire's saliva. You might call such an organism a virus. It was a need to procreate, to propagate the survival of a species. So she was a lucky speck, who fell into a wonderful puddle of warmth. This puddle was, in fact, a river that never ended, but merely looped continuously through infinity. The warm red water caused an enzyme reaction adding onto her as a speck. Suddenly, she was no speck. She was a chain.
     Within the veins of a victim did she reside.
     It came to be after three passes through the heart, that the white blood cells finally stopped attacking her. Susannah hadn't like them, those pesky defenders, and had infiltrated their cell membranes. Now, the white blood cells she had infected flocked to her. She was no speck. She was no chain. She was a fully-fledged independent organism.
     Slowly, she began to convert the blood cells as well, and like the rabies virus, began working on the victim's nervous system. Though the victim suffered stiff muscles and sore neck, it was only natural. After all, she had been bitten by some unknown madman, hadn't she? Susannah carefully convinced the different pathways to help her ascend.
     The organism went up, up, up. 
     At the brain, it was simple enough. The parasite form gorged itself on the grey matter. Absorbed memories through a combination of synapse synchronization and neural alterations. The personality was taken as well. Eventually, no brain remained within the empty skull cavity. Only a snake sized coiled organism inhabited the space. This parasite form burrowed deep into the remaining tissue lining the cranial bone, and plugged in.
     Eyes opened.
     Susannah was miraculously, wondrously alive. And she remembered it all.
     From speck, to chain, to independent organism, to full on parasite, to human. To Susannah. While this speck had started with no name, it had one now. Now, it was a vampire, one who could continue spreading the child specks through the populace, drinking others dry.

A Grim Adventure

     I had died twice before. This third death proved to be slightly more comfortable, as if my previous familiarity with the situation garnered me such privilege. But I remembered those first two deaths, and doubted this third would end differently. Before long, I was proven correct as the warm place of death spat me, naked and shivering, into the cold of life.
--
     My first resurrection had stranded me in a small Russian village. The second had left me in Uganda. Hopefully, this third resurrection would be more accurate.
--
     Sticky lids peel back from dry-grit eyes. Wiggling each individual toe and finger was a delight, the novelty of sensation a wonder. For a minute, I fought to coordinate my limbs. My muscles were jelly, and sitting up was a battle. When I finally managed it, the details of my surroundings began to register.
     It seemed to be a clothing store, closed down. The lights were off, thick shutters pulled down over the storefront, soft light filtering through the slats. Around me, naked mannequins stood with hands on hips, necks thrust out in aggressive posing, eyes filled with silent judgement. The shelving was barren. Luckily, boxed of packed up merchandise remained, the flimsiness of the cardboard fortuitous. Perusing a box with the informative label "Men's Everyday", I came up with some boxers, jeans, a shirt, socks, shoes...
     The jeans were a tad too loose, the shirt simultaneously too tight and too long in the sleeves, and the shoes a size too big. But if it meant I wasn't naked anymore, I would take it. Some clever sock placement took care of the shoe issue, and the shirt had a profile grim reaper design on it. Fitting in that aspect at least.
     Some more inspection of the dismal room revealed a door leading to a narrow service corridor. I decided to follow it, there was nowhere else to go, and came to another door. Edging it open, I was immediately assaulted by a barrage of smells, sounds, and life. People were everywhere. A closed clothing store in a mall.
     With my magic, I could easily reach out, pilfer a little energy from them. It wouldn't be missed. But I didn't. There was no doubt in my mind that warlocks, mages, and sages would be on the lookout for my distinct magical signature. I was in no shape for a confrontation, magical or otherwise. Instead, I fully emerged from the service corridor, and rested my body against a section of unused wall space. I had no form of identification, no money, and no clue where I was. An ATM and a little blood magic would solve the issue of money, but nothing could currently be done about the ID. Leaving me the singular option of figuring out my location, and going from there. Pushing off of the wall, I began working my way through the throng of shoppers. Did salmon feel this way heading upstream? Seemed similar enough. My efforts were eventually rewarded by the sight of a set of heavy double doors. 
     Sunlight blinding me the moment I moved the double doors, and heavy, humid air engulfed me as I stepped outside. After several minutes of furious blinking, I could look around again. I was surprised to find I recognized my location. I was in the middle of my old hometown, not that "town" was applicable anymore. Over a decade had passed since I first left. The place had grown. Exploded like some sort of societal tumor. Belle Nue, Louisiana had become a bustling city.
     When I was ten years old, I had fled the area. When people are constantly trying to kill you, anonymity is important. You can't be a wallflower in a town where the only hobby is knowing everyone else. Despite the growth of the area, I still felt conspicuous. The only good thing about being here was everyone spoke English. Plus, the items to acquire a travel spell could be easily obtained. Two good things, then.
     Walking away from the main mall complex, I had a specific gas station in mind. The convenience store attached to it would have everything I needed. Once I gathered the ingredients required for the spell and got home to the Otherside, I'd have time to regroup. I had a stash of fake IDs (from licenses to passports), bundles of currency, and a handy "go-bag" back at my place. It was a contingency plan I'd developed after my first death and subsequent resurrection.
     I didn't yet have a clear concept of time. When you're dead, the clock stops, and readjusting is a process. I knew I'd been walking at least a few hours, because the sun had finally begun to set. I'd made good time though, already standing on the grassy median surrounding the property. I jogged over to the ATM outside of the store, and prepared myself. This magic was small enough to avoid detection. Good, because some things, no matter how much time passes, remain the same. Money, the desire and need for it, is simply one of those things.
     Looking at the machine, I bit into one of my thumbs sharply, hard enough to draw blood. Pressing my thumb to the screen, I smeared my blood across it, beginning to chant. Seconds later, the machine was spitting out a stack of bills. The blood on the screen dissipated, and I had a fresh wad of twenties. One problem down.
     Folding the bills, I stuffed them down the front pocket of my borrowed jeans, and strolled inside. It was tough work, projecting an air of confidence instead of acting like a suspicious guy who had recently returned from the dead and had no ID to speak of. Making my way through the various aisles, I grabbed a bottle of water, five pack of gum, one fat brush, and three protein bars. At the register, I asked for some matches. Eyes lingering on my choices, the cashier gave me an incredulous look, but rang me up. I shimmied, working two bills out of my pocket, and placed them on the counter. Then I bolted. He could keep the change.
     Next... I needed a place to do the binding and spell. A deserted parking lot with no lighting was the best bet. I knew the perfect location as well. As a child I'd been warned along with the other neighborhood kids about the abandoned factory. Horror stories abounded about the location. Once, as a curious eight year old, I'd looked up what actually happened to the place. It produced heavy machinery, but when the owner died in his own home, the city shut it down. There wasn't anything haunted about it. Besides, real ghosts can only be seen by necromancers, and those the ghost specifically chooses to appear before.
     The sidewalks became more cracked as I got closer and closer to the factory. Everything was gray concrete, and at least half of the structures were derelict. There was, however, an auspicious lack of lighting. Perfect for what I needed. The factory's parking lot was intact, no cracks running through, and darkness had fallen. Everything was in place.
     I set down my gas station goods and began the preparations. Ripping open the plastic holding the five packs, I began unwrapping each individual piece of gum, and placing it in a small pile. Gathering up random newspaper bits that had been scattered about, I set the litter up in a little ball next to the gum pile, along with some grasses. I always hated the next part, tried so hard to put it off, but it was time. Using my right index finger, I made a shallow but gushing cut across my left forearm. It hurt like crazy each time I did this without my enchanted blade. Grabbing the brush, I coated it with my blood, and started meticulously painting out my summoning and binding spell. I was panting by the time it was done, but there was more still.
     Sitting down with my legs crossed on the asphalt, I grabbed my water and food. After chowing down two bars and chugging half of the water, I was finally ready. Lighting a match, I tossed it on the pile of refuse and started the chant.
     "Dellepmoc er a ouy. Em ot emoc hctip."
     The shadows created by my small fire began to grow, their masses undulating. For several minutes they gyrated, shifted, swirled. My shadow itself began to change. It became shorter in height, and expanded horizontally, becoming fatter. Of course, with how skinny I am, it isn't difficult for any comparison to be deemed "fatter". The arms moved out, though my own did not, and shadow fists rested on the figure's hips.
     "Who has the gall to summon me?!" A male voice of surprisingly nasal quality came from nowhere and everywhere.
     "It's me, Pitch. I brought you an offering," I gestured to the pile of gum in front of me, ignoring the fact my shadow didn't adhere to my movements. A squeal of delight pierced the night.
     "Gimme, gimme, gimme!" Hands reached for the pile, transformed into hooked claws that dug into the gooey, sugary mass. The darkness consumed it, and in less than ten seconds, the entire pile of gum was gone. "So, Kid. Back from the dead again, huh?" Pitch spoke with carefully calculated causality. We both knew he was fishing. No one knows the secret behind my resurrections, not even me, not that the others take my word for it. Everyone asks me anyway, hoping I'll tell them how I do it. When I said nothing, Pitch sighed and moved on. "Okay. What is it you want, Kid?"
     "Transportation to the Otherside. Preferably in the area of Rabbit, Texas."
     Pitch snorted in derision, "You don't ask for much, do you?"
     "I could always go to Black Siren..."
     "What?! No!" It was a well-known fact that Pitch and Black Siren had been feuding for centuries about who had most of a right to black magic. While it was normally a pain for residents of the Otherside to deal with, it had its advantages. "One transport to Rabbit, Texas in the Otherside, coming right up."
     I stood, moving back from him, and left my remaining protein bar and water. Time to let him do what he did. The surrounding darkness swelled up. The fire guttered out as the darkness overtook it. From the impenetrable black now surrounding me, Pitch called out, "Hang on!"
--
    My name is Grim. When I asked my mother why she named me this, she had smiled dreamily. A faraway look entered her eyes, and she said, "I saw death in you." Now that I've been around the block a few times, I suspect she meant Death with a capital "D".
     I live, for the most part, in the Otherside. For normals, this place does not exist. For the few of us with even the barest hint of magic, it is a layer to the world you know. The two realities lie against on another, but cannot interact. The norms can't see the Otherside, can't see us, but we can see them. After a few months, you get used to constantly walking through other people and learn who is corporeal, and who is not. See, there aren't very many of us with magic. Out of seven billion people on the planet, there are maybe four million of us. In the grand scheme, we are a pitiful lot.
     Me, I'm a necromancer. We aren't well understood, and being the rarest of magical casters doesn't help. For the most part, we can mask our gifts, but once you're outed, you tend to stay outed. Unless you're like me. Then people just assume it because you came back from the dead. Which I didn't actually personally do, so whatever.
     This world of magic, of the unexplainable, it's out there and it's real. Not many get to see it. That's why I'm writing this, even if you take it as fiction, not fact. I'm writing this to give you a rare glimpse of the Otherside.
--
     The overwhelming feeling of a lack of oxygen, suffocation, and the smothering presence of darkness was horrifying. It felt like ice fingers were dancing up and down each vertebrae of my spine, and the snuffling of large, dangerous beasts was getting louder and louder, closer and closer. I had prepared myself for this, but each sensation was still unnerving. These sick feelings were the result of Pitch's transportation. This was how he had access to the world of the norms and the Otherside. As long as these shadows of soul-sucking, empty blackness existed on both layers, he could travel. It didn't mean the traveling accommodations were comfortable.
      When the darkness finally ebbed and dim lighting entered my vision, I knew we'd arrived. Pitch had followed through, even being so kind as to drop me off at a secluded location. I would have thanked him, but my shadow was fully own once again. Pitch was gone.
     The sun wasn't quite rising here, but I could see the sky hinting at lightening up soon. It wouldn't be too long now. Since I was in familiar territory, getting to my apartment was easy. Stepping into the place, I could see my norm counterpart starting his day. At first, it had been so weird. Living on a separate layer of existence, able to see the person who lived on the layer below was disconcerting at best. I got used to it eventually.
     My place wasn't ransacked as it had been the last two times I returned.Guess my enemies were either late, or maybe they'd given up. Yeah, right. I didn't really like the idea of my place being stormed in on while I was in residence, so I set up some protections. Seems the only "good" thing about being a necromancer is how strong the magic born of blood is. That same reason was the only thing that allowed me to bind and summon Pitch. My protections were heavy duty, top notch. Since I was a kid, people have been trying to kill me. With so much practice at making safe wards, I've gotten enough experience to make up some of my own. Only two other people I know can do that, making it an accomplishment.
     Stripping out of my borrowed clothing, I got into the shower, began calculating my next move. I feel a bit resentful at the idea of being run out of town. Rabbit, Texas is my home now. Time to stand and fight... They've killed me three times now, what more can they really do? Sure, unending pain and torture may be a possibility, but I'm a necromancer. Spilling my blood is a downright stupid thing to do. If they dedicated their time to breaking my bones over and over they'd have to give a period of setting. I've had worse, so it wouldn't matter.
     Turning the knob behind me, the spray from the nozzle died. Drying off, I prefer to avoid seeing myself in the mirror. My first resurrection changed me quite a bit. For instance, I no longer sweat. I haven't clocked my heartbeat at over 35 beats per minute since the first resurrection. My once green eyes? Dark gray now. Skin pale as a corpse, with a waxy complexion to match. Not my idea of "normal", even by Otherwise standards. At least I've got my own clothes now.
     Plain black t-shirts, dark jeans, and athletic shoes make up my entire closer. Clothing for the urban caster on the go. I also have a long, black duster. It looks cheesy as all get out, totally Matrix, but it's useful.The interior is covered by sown in pockets. Since I'm able to remember where I put all of my supplies, I take full advantage of the pouches.
     I've finished getting dressed when my ghosts arrive. Toby Wiket and Allison Hager were my best friends before my first death. They still are my best friends, except they died too, and didn't come back like me. I still feel bad about it.
      "Grim!" Allison squeaks, jumping up and down. She stopped the whole squeal and hug bit when we discovered she went straight through me.
     "We heard you died. Again," Toby grins.
     "And I've returned. Again." We all laugh. I think they're both waiting for the day I won't be coming back. Not with excitement, but with a silent, secretive sort of apprehension.
     "Have you told Layla yet?" Allison narrows her eyes at me. Layla is my best living friend. We bonded over the fact we're both freaks, even in the eyes of the Otherside. I keep coming back to life. For her, it's that she's supposed to be the next messiah. It was predicted by prophets, seers, and oracles alike. So far, no one thinks she's living up to the role.
     "I only just got back..."
     "So? She needs to know!" Allison gives me a look of complete exasperation. "If she's heard about you getting killed, she's waiting for you to return. Call her."
     "For a ghost, you're incredibly pushy." 
     "Call. Her."
     Grabbing my land line, likely bugged, I dial in Layla's number. She's different from Toby and Allison. She can take care of herself. Most clerics can, it's the only way to ensure their safety. In the past, they were taken captive during war time, forced to use their magic on the injured. Wars that would have taken six months turn into battles spanning decades. The clerics were treated horrible, dying from overuse of their magic. Somewhere along the line, a cleric wised up and learned how to fight. If someone came for them, they'd be prepared to defend themselves. Now, all clerics are extensively trained in combat. No one has taken advantage of a cleric in years, though many have tried.
     The ringing stops, replaced by a groggy, annoyed, feminine voice, "What?"
     "Sorry. Did I wake you?" Feeling Allison and Toby's eyes on me causes a prickle of self-consciousness, but Layla easily erases that.
     "Grim?" Her voice perks up. "Heard you died again. Was worried. Glad you're back."
     "Yeah, I'm glad to be back. Are you busy?"
     "Uh... Not really. What's up?" It really means a lot when a friend you clearly woke up lies about it.
     "I think it's time to fight back." Saying those words... My chest and shoulders feel a thousand times lighter. Allison and Toby make vague noises of distress behind me. Even Layla is quiet, the only noise the crackle of the phones.
      "Awesome!" The exclamation proceeds to nearly deafen me before Layla begins chattering a mile a minute. "This is so exciting. I was hoping you'd eventually be open to the possibility, but to suggest it yourself? Wow! Oh, man, I can't wait to teach you the fine art of kicking ass and taking names. Maybe we can even get Farrah Tiger to help you make a weapon..." She pauses, thinking on her suggestion. I take the opportunity and speak.
    "Think you could come on over now? We can get planning. The sooner the better. Right?"
     "Sure. Give me thirty minutes," She says, and then only the dial tone remains. Hanging up, I look over to my ghostly friends.
     "She'll be over soon. I need to eat real quick." They stay quiet, probably trying to figure out if this latest resurrection has left me brain damaged. Me? Fighting? I can hardly believe it myself, and I'm the one who suggested it. Before I can descend down that dark road of introspection, I start searching for food.
     Honestly, I don't eat much anymore. Another side effect of my resurrections. Poking around my pantry, all I come up with is some canned beans, beef jerky, and store brand saltines. Better than nothing. I prep the food and get to chowing down.
     Is it weird that I miss being dead? Probably. But when I've been dead... It feels safe. Like I'm hope. Yet I keep getting ejected, thrown back into cold, harsh life. No one bothers to ask me how I feel about it, it just happens. Everyone around here thinks my coming back is either awful, weird, or wonderful. They can't understand the security of death. The sweet solace found in its warm embrace. I imagine it's how babies feel in the womb.
     Quick knocks on my door have me getting out of my chair at the table, putting my dishes in the sink. I assume it's Layla or the wards would've gone off. I still check the peephole, but sure enough, there she is.
     Opening the door, I receive a toothy grin before she's shoving me out of the way. I lock the door behind her and turn around to see her inspecting the place. She's only been here once and it was back when I first moved in. Now the place is completely unpacked, resembling an actual home. Watching her take everything in allows me to look at her without seeming creepy.
     Layla is fair-skinned with bright green eyes, and flame red hair kept in two braids. The story is her family came from Scotland, mixed with some Irish, then mixed with some English. I really don't know, and I really don't care. She's beautiful, plain and simple.
     Turning sharp eyes on me, her mouth quirks up, "The place looks like home. I'm impressed."
     "You're the one who said I needed to stop living like a war criminal on the run and settle down."
     She shrugs, "Didn't mean you were going to listen and do it." She turns, fully facing me, resting her fists on her hips. "You got any weapons?"
      "Uh, I have a sharp and pointy object. Not sure it counts though."
     "I'll be the judge of that. Bring it here," Layla orders, and I nod. Heading into my bedroom, I beeline for my closet. In the very back corner, I have a small box made of Rowan wood, with hardcore warding done by I don't know who. My mother gave it to me, along with the item inside.
     I pull it out and lightly blow across the top. Not because of dust, no, but because this is how the warding of the box works. It's keyed into me specifically, and this is the method of disarm. Opening it up, I pull out the wickedly curved knife. It functions as both a dagger and a knife, a crescent shape. Setting the box back in its rightful place, I head back out to Layla. Her eyes go wide, white magic sparking along her fingertips.
     "Where did you get that?" I have never heard this tone of whispered awe from Layla. What was so special about it?
     "My mother gave it to me."
     "Wow."
     Since she seemed frozen, I went ahead and offered her the weapon, "Take it."
     She held up her upturned palms, flat. Placing it in her hands, an odd reverence is apparent in her eyes. "You have no idea how amazing this is, do you?"
     "It's something my mother gave me, that's all."
     "Well, it's definitely a weapon. What were you using it for before?"
     "Uhm..."
     She huffs, "Spit it out, Grim!"
     "For blood magic stuff." Whenever I use this place, the cuts don't hurt, and almost instantly heal. I didn't know any other magic users, not even my mentor, who have something like that.
     "I guess that explains why it looks well fed," Layla mused, now turning it over in her hands.
     "Well fed?"
     "The best of the enchanted weapons require feeding and care. My ax, for example." I had seen her ax before, and it was scary. A giant monster of a weapon. "I have to sink it in a giant tank of oatmeal each week. Takes about two hours once a week for all of the oatmeal to get consumed." I don't know why I was surprised. It was the Otherside after all.
     "So, what? I've been feeding this thing my blood without knowing it?"
      "Basically, yeah. Looks like that's all it can eat, too." Her hands were glowing. She was utilizing implemental magic to assess the properties of the weapon. The glow faded and she handed it back to me with a nod. "This is definitely a high-caliber weapon. Designed specifically for you too."
     "That doesn't make sense. Why would my mother give me some sort of ultra-weapon but not tell me it's an ultra-weapon?"
     "I don't know. She's your mother." My eyes roll at her retort. Sometimes, I think Layla is purposefully unhelpful.
     A sudden thought struck me, coming out of nowhere. My subconscious, I guess. Layla and I had been talking, sure, but Allison and Toby didn't normally stay quiet. I looked around, surprised to see no sign of my ghostly pals. Layla must have noticed my concern because she asked, "What's wrong?"
     "Something's not right. Toby and Allison are gone." As soon as I finished my sentence, the wards went off. I turned to the door, saw Layla pulling out smaller, throwing style axes. The wards flashed brightly, a soft grumble emanating from them. Filtering through the walls, muffled curses and swears came from the outside, even a few screams. My offensive wards had gone off as well, which meant a maximum level threat. I gripped the hilt of my knife with white knuckles. Based on the commotion outside, there were quite a lot of people coming for me.
     There was a fast, sharp blast that blew the door off its hinges, sudden and violent, unexpected. Layla and I were both knocked back, bodies hitting the ground painfully. Dust filled the room, a mixture of sawdust and plaster. Coughing, my ears rang angrily. I could barely push myself up, but when I could, my eyes focused on a vague figure in the door frame. Layla was still down, next to me, and I didn't know if I could stay awake and fight them off.
      I remained conscious long enough to hear, "Hello, Grim."