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Fic dump, part the next.
Doom and gloom and stories of the past
It took Alan two days to find her.
He'd gone digging around the clubs and backstreet dives that they'd checked out the previous year when hunting for her; he'd called in more than a few favours, followed up a couple of leads and, finally, got lucky. He'd tracked her to a rundown motel on the East Side of the city; such places were a seedy bolthole for all sorts of flotsam of society. Someone remembered seeing a woman who matched her description on that side of town, and it hadn't taken too much effort to find a motel manager whom - when paid a sufficient amount to breach client confidentiality - was able to direct him to his English guest.
Bracing himself for a confrontation that had the potential to be at best unpleasant and at worst downright dangerous, the Irishman knocked firmly on the door of room number 566.
No answer. He knocked again.
“Go 'way.”
Well, it sort of sounded like her. If a little fuzzy around the edges. He tried again, loudly.
“Fuck off.”
Not so good. Plan B, let her know who it is.
“Yoz, it's Alan. Come on, open up, we need to talk.” Not terribly original, he thought with a wince, but simple and clear. There was a pregnant silence for a while.
“Go 'way. Nuffink to talk about.”
Bad. Very, very bad.
“Open the bloody door.”
“No.”
“For fuck's sake woman!” His temper was beginning to fray. “It's taken me two days to find you and I'm not leaving until we talk, so open the fucking door.”
A harsh, male voice from further down the row could be heard shouting for him to shut the fuck up, didn't he know people were trying to sleep? Alan ground his teeth, and refrained from just hollering abuse back along the dank concrete stairwell; this wasn't the sort of place a nice boy like him got into pissing contests with white trash. Not unless he wanted to be the star of a newspaper article entitled 'guitarist found shot to death', anyway.
Turning back to mount a fresh assault on the peeling paint of the door, he discovered it standing open. Muttering nastily under his breath, he stalked in then jumped sharply as the door slammed hard behind him, apparently of its own accord.
Spinning back to scrutinise the room, he spotted his quarry slumped in a chair over a battered and chipped writing desk, back to the room and staring at the wall. The only illumination in the place was a dim reading light perched on the edge of the desk; all it showed was a bowed head, the curve of a shoulder clad in a torn t-shirt and a sad little grouping of an almost dead bottle of tequila, an overflowing ashtray, and a single glass.
“Yoz.”
“You found me. Give the man a cigar and send him on his way.”
“We need to talk.”
“You need to talk. I, on the other hand,” and he saw a shaking hand pick up the bottle and slop a little of the contents into the glass, “need a drink. Cheers.” And so saying, she picked up the glass and drained the contents in a single gulp before placing it back on the table with exaggerated care.
“Do you know what's happening with the others? Andy thinks you do, but he won't tell me.” Deciding to get right to the point, Alan's heart was rapidly sinking as he watched her fill the glass again. This certainly wasn't the woman he remembered.
“Do you think they put the worm in there while it's still alive?” she wondered aloud, holding the bottle up to the light and tilting what was left of the contents around.
“Because something bad is happening to us all, one at a time. Again.”
“Must be a horrid way to die, if they do. To feel the spirit burning your skin as you pass away. Wicked thing to do, even to a caterpillar.”
“And we need your help.”
She slammed the bottle back down on the table, making him jump.
“Who 'we', kimosabe?” her voice was brittle, icy. “Pete told me in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of his life. Ian and Vic just don't care any more. So that's me out of the picture, then.” Her voice tailed off, and she took another drink.
Alan walked across the room toward her, ignoring the way that…things…crunched under his boots as he did so. Moving into the circle of dim light, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms, looking down at her face for the first time.
She looked like hell.
Puffy eyes, red-rimmed. Dirt under her fingernails, greasy hair lying in filthy rat-tails across her face and shoulders. Her fingers were deeply nicotine stained, and there were obvious sweat circles under her armpits. He wondered how long she'd been sitting here; there were several empty bottles glinting up from the floor, and a quick glance down showed a neat row of more full ones under the desk.
“Christ, girl,” he said more softly.
“Fuck off,” she retorted instantly, but without the venom of earlier.
“Something's wrong with Pete,” he said bluntly, seeing that sympathy wasn't getting him anywhere either, “and Ian and Vic are being…” he wiggled his fingers in the air, and puffed out a breath irritably as he hunted for the right word, “…strange. Sarah's worried, and Eileen has been on the phone to Helen more than once. Andy's looking fidgety, and doesn't want to talk to me about it.”
“They'll get over it. I did.” She cocked her head on one side for a moment, considering her last statement. “Actually, that's a lie.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I'm dying.”
“You're what?”
“Well. I figure if I keep drinking this stuff it'll get me eventually.”
“We need your help!”
“So?”
Alan was staggered. She'd fought like a tigress for them all the previous year, and had personally rescued Ian from a very nasty hostage situation; this attitude was out of character for her, and he told her so.
“Yeah, whatever. Did it ever occur to you,” and she wove a bloodshot gaze up to meet his eyes for the first time, “that there are some things not even I can do anything about?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What's so different from last time?” Alan hunted desperately for something, anything to break her out of her stupor. He knew that whatever was happening, it was very, very bad; she was his last hope for his friends, and he wasn't going to give up easily.
“Lots,” and, unbelievably, a strange smile began to spread across her face, “because that was just some prick with too much power that didn't have the wit to use it properly. This is much tougher.” She slugged down another glass, emptying the bottle, and tossed it over her shoulder where it bounced on the bed before rattling to the floor. When he looked back to her, she was cracking the top from a fresh one; the sharp smell of the liquor stung his nostrils as she sloshed more into the glass.
“Tougher? How?” he remembered her love of explaining things, and relied on it now.
She lit a cigarette, and stared blankly at the wall for a moment before huffing out a cloud of smoke. “It hurts, this time.” She exhaled a great sigh, and slumped in the chair as though all the stiffening in her spine had dissolved. “It's personal, you see,” she whispered.
“And?” he enquired softly, suspecting that he was finally getting to the heart of the matter. She fidgeted for a moment in her chair, as though trying to decide what to say. Finally she appeared to come to a decision, and sat up straighter.
“Listen very closely, my Scottish friend, because I'm not going to repeat myself.” She suddenly sounded sharp, focused; the wobbling lush of a few seconds before was nowhere to be seen. “Last time I was only moderately fond of the people I was trying to protect; if I lost and survived, I figured that I could go on my way none the worse for wear, emotionally, with only my reputation in need of a polish.” She tapped her fingers in a swift tattoo upon the tabletop, then lit herself another cigarette. “Then I fell…well, lets just say I became more than fond of the lot of you, and rather attached to Pete.”
She snorted, knowing that her audience of one was fully aware of the situation.
Suspecting she was going to be rather a while telling her story, Alan hitched himself up to sit on the desk, back on the wall and legs dangling. She looked up at him as she leaned back in the chair, and he saw a flash of the old Yoz in the glitter that briefly lit her eyes. He reached out and pinched one of her cigarettes, letting her light it for him before she lit another one of her own from the stub of the last one and made herself a little more comfortable before continuing.
“I'm going to tell you about the last time I came up against Tiamat, the Dragon of Darkness; maybe then you'll understand why I'm so…reluctant…to go up against her again.” Her mismatched eyes suddenly took on a far off look, as though she were actually seeing the past she was describing for him. For all he knew, she was.
“My mother died of lung cancer when I was fourteen years old. I'd spent my whole life up to then with her; she'd had me at home, taught me at home…never even registered my birth with the authorities. So when I called an ambulance the day she died, my presence became a bit of a problem to them. I'd spent the time since I learnt to read studying magical theory and practice, closeted away in my mother's creaky old house and dark brown library, tucked away in the grey granite house on the moors in Yorkshire.” She sighed, a small smile crossing her features. “They're some of my happiest memories. But as I'm sure you can appreciate, the outside world came as quite a shock to me.”
Alan made a small sound of agreement, fascinated by the play of emotion across her face.
“Anyway, I was sent to a series of foster and care homes. I acquired a reputation of being somewhat difficult; a wild, undisciplined thing. I suppose I was. So when I turned sixteen I found myself out of the care system, with access to the trust fund set up for me when all my mother's possessions and house had been sold by the court.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know that a lot of what was in that house was stolen by some of the men who came to clear it after I was got out of the way. It took me a few years, but I caught up with them in the end and made them regret their larcenous ways.”
Her smile was chilling. Alan didn't enquire any further.
“I needed a career, some sort of job to support me while I continued with my…private studies. So I bought a little house, and enrolled myself at Brands Burton sixth form college, on a course to become a draughtsman, a technical artist. I got on it because I gave the panel a little 'push' at interview; my conventional education was nil, but I knew I could do it.” She lit herself another cigarette, and her voice became a little quieter. “I didn't really fit in. But there was one young man who was as much a misfit as I; his name was Stephen. We met in the library, in the section which dealt with comparative religion and mysticism; we were both looking for the same book, and got chatting after we both laid hands on it at the same time.”
She leaned back, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling as she continued.
“He was my age, a little younger by a few months, and as unconventional as myself. He still lived with his mother, who was divorced; but he spent more and more time at my place until he finally moved in a few months later. Oh, we did everything together; explored each other's bodies, experimented with meditation and drugs and demonology, pushed back the boundaries of our minds and told the rest of the world to go to hell. We thought we were going to change the world together…thought that we knew enough to stop anyone from coming near us, let alone touching us.”
She remembered a time when their arrogance had almost become their downfall. Another student had become jealous of their skills; he had decided it would be cool to summon a minor demon and keep it around the house as a sort of cross between a pet and an exhibit.
Unsurprisingly, it had gone horribly wrong.
Yoz closed her eyes as she described the scene to the listening musician; how when she and Steve had finally turned up after being called by the boy's terrified girlfriend it was almost too late. How he had mis-read the name of the demon he wanted, and summoned one of the major principalities of hell instead of some tiny imp. The blood and filth that had caked the walls; the sad remains of his parents and younger siblings, nailed up over various doorways by a demon with a very pointed sense of humour.
Dressed - literally - to kill, the pair had arrived at the front door with all the arrogance of youth that expects to live forever. Long leather dustercoats, black jeans and solid black boots; silver chains and glittering studs, golden pentagrams and a bag full of mystic articles and unpleasant powders. Assuring the weeping teenage girl who refused to accompany them any further that yes, of course they knew what they were doing, they had entered the cursed property and promptly had to pause proceedings to be very, very sick in the corner.
She laughed bitterly at the memory, then described how they had finally tracked the beast to the boy's bedroom, where it held court with the mutilated souls of the family and kept the boy himself in a golden cage, gibbering and insane with the horrors he had wrought. It had laughed at them, unafraid; in truth, at first neither one of them could think of what the hell to do.
Steve had regained his wits first. Beginning the exorcism had made the beast angry; but whenever it struck at him Yoz had deflected the blows and stung it in return, allowing her lover to bind the demon and begin the delicate process of sending it back to hell.
Working as a team they slogged through the minefield of the exorcism, and had finally hit a major snag.
They had bound and restricted the demon, opened a portal, and were poised to finally stuff it back where it belonged.
It refused to go.
Without being able to release their joint hold on it for a moment, they held a quick, wordless conversation; now what the hell could they do? They lacked the power to force the issue, and if they didn't finish this quickly it was going to break loose again. Their life expectancies weren't going to last much beyond that happening, truth be told, and they were beginning to feel a touch desperate.
The demon solved the problem for them.
It would go, it said, if it was allowed to take the souls of the boy and his family with it.
“It's a demon,” yelled Steve above the roaring noise of the binding, “it's bloody lying!”
“It can't lie, not bound like that,” snapped Yoz in return, “and if we say no it isn't going to be bound much longer!”
“We can't!”
“We must.”
“No!”
“Do you want to die or what?”
He gave in, and they watched miserably as five innocent souls accompanied the creature back to one of the deeper pits of Hell.
“Not,” said Yoz wryly, cocking an eyebrow at Alan and lighting yet another cigarette, “my finest moment. But his nobility was going to kill us both.”
They had been left in a room full of parts of corpses, covered in soot and sulphur and less pleasant substances; they crept away from the house in the first grey light of dawn, setting fire to it behind them. They had kept a low profile for a few months after that, but the authorities had never connected the strange looking pair of students arriving that afternoon with the fire. They had realised that they had a hell of a lot to learn, then; the studying had begun in earnest, but his heart wasn't really in it.
“Which is the reason,” she sighed again, regretfully, “why he died when he did. Well, at least that's what I thought until…but I'm getting ahead of myself.”
They had been in London, visiting friends and picking up some tips and tricks from some more experienced practitioners when they had run into the small vampiric community that existed there. Vampires were relatively easy prey, in theory; along with some of the more enthusiastic young London Mages they had decided to go and see if they could bag one. The dust of a vampire was a valuable ingredient in certain spells, plus there was, of course, the mock-pious belief that they were freeing a tortured soul.
And it was like hunting big game; dangerous enough to get the blood up, yet safe enough to be enjoyed.
So they had thought.
They'd had a young vamp cornered, six on one; hardly good odds, but this one was a fledgling and had made a series of very stupid mistakes that led to its downfall. The six aspiring Mages had started in on it, all in the name of 'research'; brutal and vicious, it had been nothing more than torture. Steve had refused to take part, holding back and acting as a lookout; Yoz had hovered on the fringes, not knowing whether her beloved was right or if the acceptance of her peers was more important. That indecision was to save her.
There had been a bright flash as the fledgling was finally despatched. Over the laughter of her companions Yoz had become aware of another noise, a low keening that rippled through the air and sang along her nerve endings. Crying out to the others she realised they couldn't hear her; looking up desperately she was horrified to see that the rooftops were lined with dark figures, watching and making that weird noise of grief as one of their own was so callously destroyed. Turning back, she was just in time to see the vampire Queen descend on her friends, tearing them limb from limb and lofting their remains up to her children to feed upon, showering the street and walls with so much gore that it dripped from the gutters and caked in long, gleaming black streaks along the brickwork.
Then Tiamat had turned to her.
“I would be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid,” sighed Yoz, “because I was fucking terrified. But I was strong, and foolish; I thought if I could get away with that disastrous exorcism I could get away with anything.”
She took another slug of tequila straight from the bottle and barked harshly with laughter. “Of course, that was before the Camden job…but that's another story from the Yoz Archive of Famous Cock-Ups.” She shook her head and sighed before continuing.
The Queen had gestured imperiously, never taking her eyes from the determined young woman in front of her. Two older vampires had moved forward, dragging a semi-conscious Stephen between them. Yoz hadn't so much as flinched, despite the fact that inside she was already screaming. Tiamat had gripped her beloved hard with long, filthy claws; all he could do was moan with the pain of it.
“I'm not going to kill you now, silly girl,” the creature had hissed, baring creamy fangs, “but what I will do will haunt you for the rest of your miserable days.”
She had tilted his head back. His eyes had met Yoz', still standing expressionless not five feet away; he had stretched out a hand, and mouthed I love you to her.
Then the Queen of the Vampires had torn his throat out.
“I watched the light drain from his eyes, and a part of me died inside. I just watched her kill the man I had wanted to spend the rest of what should have been a long, long life with; we were going to find somewhere remote to hole up, just him and me against the world. And I watched him die.” She shrugged, refilled her glass and chugged the spirit back before repeating the action.
“What happened then?” asked Alan, quietly. He felt so desperately sorry for her; but he also realised that he had to break her out of this funk if she was going to save his friends. He could be hard too, when the situation demanded it. And she had to get this out of her system one way or another.
“The police had been called; someone had heard screaming. So I didn't even stay to say goodbye; it was too late anyway.” She rubbed a grimy hand across her eyes. “Too damn late. So I ran away, all the way home with my tail between my legs. His body was finally identified and returned to his mother; she buried him in a simple ceremony.” The Mage let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I didn't even go. I just lurked outside the graveyard until it was dark, then crept in and sat there in the mud, howling. Eventually I just felt numb; that was when I started really studying in earnest. I was going to become the most powerful human Magus ever; I was going to hunt Tiamat down and stuff those fangs right down her fucking throat; I was going to stake her out in the sunshine and piss on her dust; oh, there was no end to the horrible things I was going to do with her. But, at the last…do you remember the First Of The Fallen?”
“Shit, yeah,” replied Alan with a shudder, recalling his brief encounter with Hell's ruler the previous year. He still had nightmares about it; they all did. You didn't look into the eyes of a fallen angel and walk away unscathed.
“His final gift to me, when I signed my soul over to him in exchange for power, was the realisation that this was what she had wanted the whole time. She'd taken my lover, and my future, and now my soul.” She leaned toward Alan, her odd eyes burning with passion. “And I'd done it willingly. Do you understand how complete that made her victory?” Without bothering to see if he did, she continued. “So I just got on with being the biggest, baddest fish in the pond. And everything was fine…or as fine as it gets, knowing you're damned to Hell. And I swore I would never, ever fall in love again, because people you love are just another way for other people to get at you.”
She sighed. “Then I got involved with you lot. And for a while, I thought I'd got away with it. Then I was shown a picture of her…with Pete.”
“Bad.”
“No shit. Even talking to Angela and then to him, I still never realised. Then I spoke to Vic…then Ian…then Andy. Then I went to that damn party…” She hissed between her teeth. “I was all set to run her off and strut my stuff; free Pete then the other two. Oh, I was going to show her.”
“So what happened? She did leave.”
“Yup. But did you see the young bloke with her? The one she called forward at the end?”
Alan was beginning to get a nasty feeling that he knew where she was going with this.
“Yes…five four, dark, eighteen?”
“Yeah. His name is Stephen Francis Chapman, and once upon a time, I loved him with my entire soul.”
“Oh. Shit.”
She tilted her glass at him in agreement. “So, she's proved her point. There's nothing I have that she can't take away, and even if I tried all she has to do is threaten his existence and I…am…fucked. Get it? So go away, and start mourning your friends now; there's no-one and nothing can save them.” She stared down at her glass. “Not even me,” she whispered sadly.
There was silence for a moment in the grimy motel room. Alan rubbed his eyes; the sun was coming up, he noted idly. Time for vampires and rock musicians to be a-bed.
“So, you done with feeling sorry for yourself?”
She froze. “Pardon?”
“You heard. What you've told me is all very sad, but it's irrelevant.”
She turned to look at him, very very slowly.
“Because it all happened a very long time ago. Presumably you've learnt something since then?”
She glared at him, murder in her eyes.
“So get off your arse, dry yourself out - and jaysis, take a shower - and find a way to free my friends.”
“Haven't you heard a word I've said?” She was talking through bared teeth, so angry she was trembling.
“Every one. And it was a powerful lot o' history.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“But history it was. What I need from you now is action.”
“You're not going to give up, are you?”
“Nope.”
“I think you should.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She hissed out a breath, then threw her hands up in despair. “Fine. Just fine. I bare my soul, you rip my heart out.” She stood up abruptly, then swayed. “But one last point.”
“What?” He jumped to his feet and caught her arm, stopping a sway from becoming a crash.
“When you're boiling in the pits of Hell with me -”
He winced. “Yeah?”
“I'm really, really going to enjoy telling you I told you so.”
“That's OK,” he sighed, steering her toward the bathroom, “I'm sure I'll have more important things on my mind. You gonna be alright?”
She waved him off, and he turned away and winced as the unmistakable noise of the night's alcohol being unloaded drifted through the door. Shaking his head, he heard clinking and the sound of tooth brushing; then a voice chanting something unintelligible but a lot more cheerful than anything else she'd said all through the long night.
To his amazement, the woman that padded out to meet him was the Yoz he remembered; the only difference was a distinct puffiness and bloodshot haze around the eyes.
“Anti-booze spell. Useful if you've got to sober up in a hurry; hygiene spells for body and clothes. Terrible misuse of power; but what the fuck, say I.”
“Cool.”
“Yup. I'll have a hangover for a couple of days, but other than that I'm all better.”
“Really?”
She looked haunted for a moment. “No. But I can pretend, right?”
He nodded, and looped one arm about her shoulders to give the smaller woman a tight hug. Tucking his chin onto the top of her head, he sighed. “C'mon. We've got plans to make, right?”
She stepped back, and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. “Right. Let's go.”
Together, they left the grimy room and prepared to leave the area altogether. Alan turned and cocked an eyebrow at the door as she was closing it.
“566?”
“Floor down from the Beast.”
They left, Alan's giggles drifting along the stairwell behind them.
It took Alan two days to find her.
He'd gone digging around the clubs and backstreet dives that they'd checked out the previous year when hunting for her; he'd called in more than a few favours, followed up a couple of leads and, finally, got lucky. He'd tracked her to a rundown motel on the East Side of the city; such places were a seedy bolthole for all sorts of flotsam of society. Someone remembered seeing a woman who matched her description on that side of town, and it hadn't taken too much effort to find a motel manager whom - when paid a sufficient amount to breach client confidentiality - was able to direct him to his English guest.
Bracing himself for a confrontation that had the potential to be at best unpleasant and at worst downright dangerous, the Irishman knocked firmly on the door of room number 566.
No answer. He knocked again.
“Go 'way.”
Well, it sort of sounded like her. If a little fuzzy around the edges. He tried again, loudly.
“Fuck off.”
Not so good. Plan B, let her know who it is.
“Yoz, it's Alan. Come on, open up, we need to talk.” Not terribly original, he thought with a wince, but simple and clear. There was a pregnant silence for a while.
“Go 'way. Nuffink to talk about.”
Bad. Very, very bad.
“Open the bloody door.”
“No.”
“For fuck's sake woman!” His temper was beginning to fray. “It's taken me two days to find you and I'm not leaving until we talk, so open the fucking door.”
A harsh, male voice from further down the row could be heard shouting for him to shut the fuck up, didn't he know people were trying to sleep? Alan ground his teeth, and refrained from just hollering abuse back along the dank concrete stairwell; this wasn't the sort of place a nice boy like him got into pissing contests with white trash. Not unless he wanted to be the star of a newspaper article entitled 'guitarist found shot to death', anyway.
Turning back to mount a fresh assault on the peeling paint of the door, he discovered it standing open. Muttering nastily under his breath, he stalked in then jumped sharply as the door slammed hard behind him, apparently of its own accord.
Spinning back to scrutinise the room, he spotted his quarry slumped in a chair over a battered and chipped writing desk, back to the room and staring at the wall. The only illumination in the place was a dim reading light perched on the edge of the desk; all it showed was a bowed head, the curve of a shoulder clad in a torn t-shirt and a sad little grouping of an almost dead bottle of tequila, an overflowing ashtray, and a single glass.
“Yoz.”
“You found me. Give the man a cigar and send him on his way.”
“We need to talk.”
“You need to talk. I, on the other hand,” and he saw a shaking hand pick up the bottle and slop a little of the contents into the glass, “need a drink. Cheers.” And so saying, she picked up the glass and drained the contents in a single gulp before placing it back on the table with exaggerated care.
“Do you know what's happening with the others? Andy thinks you do, but he won't tell me.” Deciding to get right to the point, Alan's heart was rapidly sinking as he watched her fill the glass again. This certainly wasn't the woman he remembered.
“Do you think they put the worm in there while it's still alive?” she wondered aloud, holding the bottle up to the light and tilting what was left of the contents around.
“Because something bad is happening to us all, one at a time. Again.”
“Must be a horrid way to die, if they do. To feel the spirit burning your skin as you pass away. Wicked thing to do, even to a caterpillar.”
“And we need your help.”
She slammed the bottle back down on the table, making him jump.
“Who 'we', kimosabe?” her voice was brittle, icy. “Pete told me in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of his life. Ian and Vic just don't care any more. So that's me out of the picture, then.” Her voice tailed off, and she took another drink.
Alan walked across the room toward her, ignoring the way that…things…crunched under his boots as he did so. Moving into the circle of dim light, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms, looking down at her face for the first time.
She looked like hell.
Puffy eyes, red-rimmed. Dirt under her fingernails, greasy hair lying in filthy rat-tails across her face and shoulders. Her fingers were deeply nicotine stained, and there were obvious sweat circles under her armpits. He wondered how long she'd been sitting here; there were several empty bottles glinting up from the floor, and a quick glance down showed a neat row of more full ones under the desk.
“Christ, girl,” he said more softly.
“Fuck off,” she retorted instantly, but without the venom of earlier.
“Something's wrong with Pete,” he said bluntly, seeing that sympathy wasn't getting him anywhere either, “and Ian and Vic are being…” he wiggled his fingers in the air, and puffed out a breath irritably as he hunted for the right word, “…strange. Sarah's worried, and Eileen has been on the phone to Helen more than once. Andy's looking fidgety, and doesn't want to talk to me about it.”
“They'll get over it. I did.” She cocked her head on one side for a moment, considering her last statement. “Actually, that's a lie.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I'm dying.”
“You're what?”
“Well. I figure if I keep drinking this stuff it'll get me eventually.”
“We need your help!”
“So?”
Alan was staggered. She'd fought like a tigress for them all the previous year, and had personally rescued Ian from a very nasty hostage situation; this attitude was out of character for her, and he told her so.
“Yeah, whatever. Did it ever occur to you,” and she wove a bloodshot gaze up to meet his eyes for the first time, “that there are some things not even I can do anything about?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What's so different from last time?” Alan hunted desperately for something, anything to break her out of her stupor. He knew that whatever was happening, it was very, very bad; she was his last hope for his friends, and he wasn't going to give up easily.
“Lots,” and, unbelievably, a strange smile began to spread across her face, “because that was just some prick with too much power that didn't have the wit to use it properly. This is much tougher.” She slugged down another glass, emptying the bottle, and tossed it over her shoulder where it bounced on the bed before rattling to the floor. When he looked back to her, she was cracking the top from a fresh one; the sharp smell of the liquor stung his nostrils as she sloshed more into the glass.
“Tougher? How?” he remembered her love of explaining things, and relied on it now.
She lit a cigarette, and stared blankly at the wall for a moment before huffing out a cloud of smoke. “It hurts, this time.” She exhaled a great sigh, and slumped in the chair as though all the stiffening in her spine had dissolved. “It's personal, you see,” she whispered.
“And?” he enquired softly, suspecting that he was finally getting to the heart of the matter. She fidgeted for a moment in her chair, as though trying to decide what to say. Finally she appeared to come to a decision, and sat up straighter.
“Listen very closely, my Scottish friend, because I'm not going to repeat myself.” She suddenly sounded sharp, focused; the wobbling lush of a few seconds before was nowhere to be seen. “Last time I was only moderately fond of the people I was trying to protect; if I lost and survived, I figured that I could go on my way none the worse for wear, emotionally, with only my reputation in need of a polish.” She tapped her fingers in a swift tattoo upon the tabletop, then lit herself another cigarette. “Then I fell…well, lets just say I became more than fond of the lot of you, and rather attached to Pete.”
She snorted, knowing that her audience of one was fully aware of the situation.
Suspecting she was going to be rather a while telling her story, Alan hitched himself up to sit on the desk, back on the wall and legs dangling. She looked up at him as she leaned back in the chair, and he saw a flash of the old Yoz in the glitter that briefly lit her eyes. He reached out and pinched one of her cigarettes, letting her light it for him before she lit another one of her own from the stub of the last one and made herself a little more comfortable before continuing.
“I'm going to tell you about the last time I came up against Tiamat, the Dragon of Darkness; maybe then you'll understand why I'm so…reluctant…to go up against her again.” Her mismatched eyes suddenly took on a far off look, as though she were actually seeing the past she was describing for him. For all he knew, she was.
“My mother died of lung cancer when I was fourteen years old. I'd spent my whole life up to then with her; she'd had me at home, taught me at home…never even registered my birth with the authorities. So when I called an ambulance the day she died, my presence became a bit of a problem to them. I'd spent the time since I learnt to read studying magical theory and practice, closeted away in my mother's creaky old house and dark brown library, tucked away in the grey granite house on the moors in Yorkshire.” She sighed, a small smile crossing her features. “They're some of my happiest memories. But as I'm sure you can appreciate, the outside world came as quite a shock to me.”
Alan made a small sound of agreement, fascinated by the play of emotion across her face.
“Anyway, I was sent to a series of foster and care homes. I acquired a reputation of being somewhat difficult; a wild, undisciplined thing. I suppose I was. So when I turned sixteen I found myself out of the care system, with access to the trust fund set up for me when all my mother's possessions and house had been sold by the court.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know that a lot of what was in that house was stolen by some of the men who came to clear it after I was got out of the way. It took me a few years, but I caught up with them in the end and made them regret their larcenous ways.”
Her smile was chilling. Alan didn't enquire any further.
“I needed a career, some sort of job to support me while I continued with my…private studies. So I bought a little house, and enrolled myself at Brands Burton sixth form college, on a course to become a draughtsman, a technical artist. I got on it because I gave the panel a little 'push' at interview; my conventional education was nil, but I knew I could do it.” She lit herself another cigarette, and her voice became a little quieter. “I didn't really fit in. But there was one young man who was as much a misfit as I; his name was Stephen. We met in the library, in the section which dealt with comparative religion and mysticism; we were both looking for the same book, and got chatting after we both laid hands on it at the same time.”
She leaned back, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling as she continued.
“He was my age, a little younger by a few months, and as unconventional as myself. He still lived with his mother, who was divorced; but he spent more and more time at my place until he finally moved in a few months later. Oh, we did everything together; explored each other's bodies, experimented with meditation and drugs and demonology, pushed back the boundaries of our minds and told the rest of the world to go to hell. We thought we were going to change the world together…thought that we knew enough to stop anyone from coming near us, let alone touching us.”
She remembered a time when their arrogance had almost become their downfall. Another student had become jealous of their skills; he had decided it would be cool to summon a minor demon and keep it around the house as a sort of cross between a pet and an exhibit.
Unsurprisingly, it had gone horribly wrong.
Yoz closed her eyes as she described the scene to the listening musician; how when she and Steve had finally turned up after being called by the boy's terrified girlfriend it was almost too late. How he had mis-read the name of the demon he wanted, and summoned one of the major principalities of hell instead of some tiny imp. The blood and filth that had caked the walls; the sad remains of his parents and younger siblings, nailed up over various doorways by a demon with a very pointed sense of humour.
Dressed - literally - to kill, the pair had arrived at the front door with all the arrogance of youth that expects to live forever. Long leather dustercoats, black jeans and solid black boots; silver chains and glittering studs, golden pentagrams and a bag full of mystic articles and unpleasant powders. Assuring the weeping teenage girl who refused to accompany them any further that yes, of course they knew what they were doing, they had entered the cursed property and promptly had to pause proceedings to be very, very sick in the corner.
She laughed bitterly at the memory, then described how they had finally tracked the beast to the boy's bedroom, where it held court with the mutilated souls of the family and kept the boy himself in a golden cage, gibbering and insane with the horrors he had wrought. It had laughed at them, unafraid; in truth, at first neither one of them could think of what the hell to do.
Steve had regained his wits first. Beginning the exorcism had made the beast angry; but whenever it struck at him Yoz had deflected the blows and stung it in return, allowing her lover to bind the demon and begin the delicate process of sending it back to hell.
Working as a team they slogged through the minefield of the exorcism, and had finally hit a major snag.
They had bound and restricted the demon, opened a portal, and were poised to finally stuff it back where it belonged.
It refused to go.
Without being able to release their joint hold on it for a moment, they held a quick, wordless conversation; now what the hell could they do? They lacked the power to force the issue, and if they didn't finish this quickly it was going to break loose again. Their life expectancies weren't going to last much beyond that happening, truth be told, and they were beginning to feel a touch desperate.
The demon solved the problem for them.
It would go, it said, if it was allowed to take the souls of the boy and his family with it.
“It's a demon,” yelled Steve above the roaring noise of the binding, “it's bloody lying!”
“It can't lie, not bound like that,” snapped Yoz in return, “and if we say no it isn't going to be bound much longer!”
“We can't!”
“We must.”
“No!”
“Do you want to die or what?”
He gave in, and they watched miserably as five innocent souls accompanied the creature back to one of the deeper pits of Hell.
“Not,” said Yoz wryly, cocking an eyebrow at Alan and lighting yet another cigarette, “my finest moment. But his nobility was going to kill us both.”
They had been left in a room full of parts of corpses, covered in soot and sulphur and less pleasant substances; they crept away from the house in the first grey light of dawn, setting fire to it behind them. They had kept a low profile for a few months after that, but the authorities had never connected the strange looking pair of students arriving that afternoon with the fire. They had realised that they had a hell of a lot to learn, then; the studying had begun in earnest, but his heart wasn't really in it.
“Which is the reason,” she sighed again, regretfully, “why he died when he did. Well, at least that's what I thought until…but I'm getting ahead of myself.”
They had been in London, visiting friends and picking up some tips and tricks from some more experienced practitioners when they had run into the small vampiric community that existed there. Vampires were relatively easy prey, in theory; along with some of the more enthusiastic young London Mages they had decided to go and see if they could bag one. The dust of a vampire was a valuable ingredient in certain spells, plus there was, of course, the mock-pious belief that they were freeing a tortured soul.
And it was like hunting big game; dangerous enough to get the blood up, yet safe enough to be enjoyed.
So they had thought.
They'd had a young vamp cornered, six on one; hardly good odds, but this one was a fledgling and had made a series of very stupid mistakes that led to its downfall. The six aspiring Mages had started in on it, all in the name of 'research'; brutal and vicious, it had been nothing more than torture. Steve had refused to take part, holding back and acting as a lookout; Yoz had hovered on the fringes, not knowing whether her beloved was right or if the acceptance of her peers was more important. That indecision was to save her.
There had been a bright flash as the fledgling was finally despatched. Over the laughter of her companions Yoz had become aware of another noise, a low keening that rippled through the air and sang along her nerve endings. Crying out to the others she realised they couldn't hear her; looking up desperately she was horrified to see that the rooftops were lined with dark figures, watching and making that weird noise of grief as one of their own was so callously destroyed. Turning back, she was just in time to see the vampire Queen descend on her friends, tearing them limb from limb and lofting their remains up to her children to feed upon, showering the street and walls with so much gore that it dripped from the gutters and caked in long, gleaming black streaks along the brickwork.
Then Tiamat had turned to her.
“I would be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid,” sighed Yoz, “because I was fucking terrified. But I was strong, and foolish; I thought if I could get away with that disastrous exorcism I could get away with anything.”
She took another slug of tequila straight from the bottle and barked harshly with laughter. “Of course, that was before the Camden job…but that's another story from the Yoz Archive of Famous Cock-Ups.” She shook her head and sighed before continuing.
The Queen had gestured imperiously, never taking her eyes from the determined young woman in front of her. Two older vampires had moved forward, dragging a semi-conscious Stephen between them. Yoz hadn't so much as flinched, despite the fact that inside she was already screaming. Tiamat had gripped her beloved hard with long, filthy claws; all he could do was moan with the pain of it.
“I'm not going to kill you now, silly girl,” the creature had hissed, baring creamy fangs, “but what I will do will haunt you for the rest of your miserable days.”
She had tilted his head back. His eyes had met Yoz', still standing expressionless not five feet away; he had stretched out a hand, and mouthed I love you to her.
Then the Queen of the Vampires had torn his throat out.
“I watched the light drain from his eyes, and a part of me died inside. I just watched her kill the man I had wanted to spend the rest of what should have been a long, long life with; we were going to find somewhere remote to hole up, just him and me against the world. And I watched him die.” She shrugged, refilled her glass and chugged the spirit back before repeating the action.
“What happened then?” asked Alan, quietly. He felt so desperately sorry for her; but he also realised that he had to break her out of this funk if she was going to save his friends. He could be hard too, when the situation demanded it. And she had to get this out of her system one way or another.
“The police had been called; someone had heard screaming. So I didn't even stay to say goodbye; it was too late anyway.” She rubbed a grimy hand across her eyes. “Too damn late. So I ran away, all the way home with my tail between my legs. His body was finally identified and returned to his mother; she buried him in a simple ceremony.” The Mage let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I didn't even go. I just lurked outside the graveyard until it was dark, then crept in and sat there in the mud, howling. Eventually I just felt numb; that was when I started really studying in earnest. I was going to become the most powerful human Magus ever; I was going to hunt Tiamat down and stuff those fangs right down her fucking throat; I was going to stake her out in the sunshine and piss on her dust; oh, there was no end to the horrible things I was going to do with her. But, at the last…do you remember the First Of The Fallen?”
“Shit, yeah,” replied Alan with a shudder, recalling his brief encounter with Hell's ruler the previous year. He still had nightmares about it; they all did. You didn't look into the eyes of a fallen angel and walk away unscathed.
“His final gift to me, when I signed my soul over to him in exchange for power, was the realisation that this was what she had wanted the whole time. She'd taken my lover, and my future, and now my soul.” She leaned toward Alan, her odd eyes burning with passion. “And I'd done it willingly. Do you understand how complete that made her victory?” Without bothering to see if he did, she continued. “So I just got on with being the biggest, baddest fish in the pond. And everything was fine…or as fine as it gets, knowing you're damned to Hell. And I swore I would never, ever fall in love again, because people you love are just another way for other people to get at you.”
She sighed. “Then I got involved with you lot. And for a while, I thought I'd got away with it. Then I was shown a picture of her…with Pete.”
“Bad.”
“No shit. Even talking to Angela and then to him, I still never realised. Then I spoke to Vic…then Ian…then Andy. Then I went to that damn party…” She hissed between her teeth. “I was all set to run her off and strut my stuff; free Pete then the other two. Oh, I was going to show her.”
“So what happened? She did leave.”
“Yup. But did you see the young bloke with her? The one she called forward at the end?”
Alan was beginning to get a nasty feeling that he knew where she was going with this.
“Yes…five four, dark, eighteen?”
“Yeah. His name is Stephen Francis Chapman, and once upon a time, I loved him with my entire soul.”
“Oh. Shit.”
She tilted her glass at him in agreement. “So, she's proved her point. There's nothing I have that she can't take away, and even if I tried all she has to do is threaten his existence and I…am…fucked. Get it? So go away, and start mourning your friends now; there's no-one and nothing can save them.” She stared down at her glass. “Not even me,” she whispered sadly.
There was silence for a moment in the grimy motel room. Alan rubbed his eyes; the sun was coming up, he noted idly. Time for vampires and rock musicians to be a-bed.
“So, you done with feeling sorry for yourself?”
She froze. “Pardon?”
“You heard. What you've told me is all very sad, but it's irrelevant.”
She turned to look at him, very very slowly.
“Because it all happened a very long time ago. Presumably you've learnt something since then?”
She glared at him, murder in her eyes.
“So get off your arse, dry yourself out - and jaysis, take a shower - and find a way to free my friends.”
“Haven't you heard a word I've said?” She was talking through bared teeth, so angry she was trembling.
“Every one. And it was a powerful lot o' history.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“But history it was. What I need from you now is action.”
“You're not going to give up, are you?”
“Nope.”
“I think you should.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She hissed out a breath, then threw her hands up in despair. “Fine. Just fine. I bare my soul, you rip my heart out.” She stood up abruptly, then swayed. “But one last point.”
“What?” He jumped to his feet and caught her arm, stopping a sway from becoming a crash.
“When you're boiling in the pits of Hell with me -”
He winced. “Yeah?”
“I'm really, really going to enjoy telling you I told you so.”
“That's OK,” he sighed, steering her toward the bathroom, “I'm sure I'll have more important things on my mind. You gonna be alright?”
She waved him off, and he turned away and winced as the unmistakable noise of the night's alcohol being unloaded drifted through the door. Shaking his head, he heard clinking and the sound of tooth brushing; then a voice chanting something unintelligible but a lot more cheerful than anything else she'd said all through the long night.
To his amazement, the woman that padded out to meet him was the Yoz he remembered; the only difference was a distinct puffiness and bloodshot haze around the eyes.
“Anti-booze spell. Useful if you've got to sober up in a hurry; hygiene spells for body and clothes. Terrible misuse of power; but what the fuck, say I.”
“Cool.”
“Yup. I'll have a hangover for a couple of days, but other than that I'm all better.”
“Really?”
She looked haunted for a moment. “No. But I can pretend, right?”
He nodded, and looped one arm about her shoulders to give the smaller woman a tight hug. Tucking his chin onto the top of her head, he sighed. “C'mon. We've got plans to make, right?”
She stepped back, and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. “Right. Let's go.”
Together, they left the grimy room and prepared to leave the area altogether. Alan turned and cocked an eyebrow at the door as she was closing it.
“566?”
“Floor down from the Beast.”
They left, Alan's giggles drifting along the stairwell behind them.
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(Great story snippet, however!)