Year 33: The ritual was neither painful or traumatic. The decision and the aftermath would not be nearly so pleasant Georg warned. After ten days, Michael was now a new person.
“I don't feel different,” he commented.
“You won't immediately, but give it time. At the core, you're the same, but it's all the details that have changed.”
Four weeks later, Michael felt bloated and vaguely ill. Another two days passed and he started excreting a white fluid and experiencing hot flashes. He found himself irritated at small matters and had trouble concentrating. Georg took careful notes from Michael's journal while commenting that this was all unremarkable, considering the circumstances. Morgan's only comment was “if someone who normally gives one hundred fifty percent is now only giving a hundred ten, is it really lethargy?”
One night, Michael dragged himself into Morgan's bedroom and clung to his brother for comfort. Morgan sensed agitation and nausea from Michael and tolerated Michael scraping skin from him. Morgan fell asleep with blood welling up from his arms.
The next morning, Michael was asleep still curled around Morgan's arm. Morgan could smell dried and fresh blood. Morgan checked his arm. The bloody welts were crusted. The fresher smell wasn't straight blood. It smelled rich with hormones. Michael groaned subconsciously as Morgan sat up. Morgan's hand probed his brother's leg. It came away wet. The scent was pungent. “Michael, wake up.”
It took some prodding to get Michael aware enough to notice the blood on Morgan's hand. A pang went through him like he'd been stabbed with skewers. The sheets had a deep garnet stain beneath him. “Wha...?”
Morgan wrinkled his nose, a mild expression of surprise on his face. He blandly observed, “You are menstruating.”
February 27, 2009
February 26, 2009
Details of the Dead
Ante Mortis
In the Cold of the Eve of a New Year
We trudged back out to the gravesite, but selfishly wanted to believe that the grave would be settling in the wet, cold mud and my uncle merely gone. I kept telling myself he went off traveling, despite the fact that his normal travel method had been buried with my father. Others murmured to themselves that Morgan was an adult and could take care of himself. Denial and rationalizations were shattered when we found him half-supine in the mud. From the looks of it, he'd had a major seizure and was lucky to have landed face-down so fluids could drain from his mouth. In our deluded self-assertions that he couldn't be here, we neglected to bring any servents to help lift him. We crudely dragged him back, apologizing several times along the way.
He was washed up and laid in the infirmiry. Several times in the day his lips turned blue. When Georg arrived, he listened to his chest and heart, drugged him and sadly said he was severely incapacitated. Long exposure to the cold and his waxiness had led to nervous shutdown in his lungs and other organs. It was a trait that he didn't share with humans. He would repair eventually, but it would be months, possibly years, before he was close to what we would recognize as normal for him.
Mr. Shay turned to me as next executor. I looked at him in numb shock. My brother was six years old and obviously not old enough to manage the barony or the proprietorship. Morgan was named regent. If he was unable to fulfill that duty, I was the next in line for regency. My stepmother Margaret was next. I was also named to the proprietor's seat until Charles was deemed capable of running a company.
I couldn't think of filling my father's vaunted shoes. He was a great man by many measures. My uncle was, too, if by different measures. To add to the responsibilities, my father left me the lion's share of his money and the exhortation to “see to the family's needs.” I also inherited powers of attorney over my uncle. I had no idea my uncle was deemed incompetent. The only separate stipend went to Margaret who ran the household and “should be obeyed as a dowager.”
Oddly, only a quarter of my father's fortune was to be granted. With another quarter to be released after five, ten, then finally, twenty years. “After twenty years, if I have not been seen alive, nor any claims of me living have been put forth, I can be considered dead. Habeas corpus is not to be considered sufficient proof of my death for the release of my total funds to the beneficieries.”
Mr. Shay said the unusual stipulation was also in Morgan's will and I suddenly understood its purpose.
February 25, 2009
Routine Procedure
“Daddy!”
Michael grabbed up Krystie in one arm and lifted her up. He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you been well-behaved while I was gone, sweetie?”
She nodded coyly. “Daddy,” she said tentatively, her fingers playing with his tie. “Uncle Morgan came home hurt.”
“Hurt? Badly hurt?”
“He wouldn't let us near him. Not even Mr. Holmes.”
Michael took a deep breath. “I'm sure he'll be okay, love.”
“What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing serious. I got a small injury and will need to wear a sling while it heals.”
Michael put Krystie down and walked inside. The servents were taken aback by his visible injury. Michael smiled pleasantly and greeted them individually on the way to the third floor. The head butler was busily inspecting the dust layers on a sculpture in the hall. Michael whistled sharply. The servent quickly came to attention. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you, Gilbert. As you can see, I'm somewhat incapacitated and will need someone to serve as a valet until my arm heals.”
“I'll see to it immediately.”
Michael nodded and continued on to Morgan's apartment. Michael found him hunched up on the floor of his bathroom. Some blood had seeped to the floor, but Morgan was still wearing his cloak and God only knew how much was being collected in the shadow void. “Morgan?” he said quietly, while kneeling.
“Did not mean to come here...”
Morgan's voice was faint. Michael lifted up the edge of the cloak. Morgan's viscera was visible from the top of his ribcage to his bladder. He'd been flayed open. Michael almost subconsiously started chanting while collecting his brother into his good arm. When he's done, a thin, almost translucent skin had formed over the exposed areas. Michael unclasps the cloak and drags Morgan off of it. He folds it as best he can and puts it away. When he looks towards the bedroom door, Holmes is standing there.
“He's badly injured,” Michael said without preamble or emotion. “He needs to be taken to the infirmiry.”
Holmes merely nodded acknowledgement and left. Michael went back to his brother's side. “Was it Sethiel?” he asks.
“Yes, she flayed me with a healing knife.”
Michael gently stroked Morgan's temple with his thumb. “I would take you to your bed if I were able to lift you.”
Morgan's eyelids fluttered. “I was told you lost your arm.”
Michael shook his head vocally. “No, I slipped and fell on a stairway. Overflexed my elbow. Nothing serious.”
Michael felt a sympathetic pain shoot through his chest as Morgan coughed. Some foamy blood came up at the corners of Morgan's mouth. Morgan lingered far past the point most people would have died from shock. Michael realized sickeningly that he was denied even the comfort of being unconscious right now. Morgan tried to lift his arm to touch his brother's hand. The hand shudderingly moved halfway before it collapsed and Morgan pulled into a tighter ball of pain.
Michael slipped off his sling and shifted around Morgan, then lay down on the floor next to him. He worked his good arm under Morgan's body and pulled him into an embrace. Pain shot from his wrist to his shoulder. He ignored it. He held Morgan closely until he heard his breathing shift to a sleeping pattern. He gently pulled his tender arm back to himself while continuing to cradle using the other. The embrace was comforting to both, reminiscent of how they would sleep from cradle to adulthood.
Michael grabbed up Krystie in one arm and lifted her up. He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you been well-behaved while I was gone, sweetie?”
She nodded coyly. “Daddy,” she said tentatively, her fingers playing with his tie. “Uncle Morgan came home hurt.”
“Hurt? Badly hurt?”
“He wouldn't let us near him. Not even Mr. Holmes.”
Michael took a deep breath. “I'm sure he'll be okay, love.”
“What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing serious. I got a small injury and will need to wear a sling while it heals.”
Michael put Krystie down and walked inside. The servents were taken aback by his visible injury. Michael smiled pleasantly and greeted them individually on the way to the third floor. The head butler was busily inspecting the dust layers on a sculpture in the hall. Michael whistled sharply. The servent quickly came to attention. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you, Gilbert. As you can see, I'm somewhat incapacitated and will need someone to serve as a valet until my arm heals.”
“I'll see to it immediately.”
Michael nodded and continued on to Morgan's apartment. Michael found him hunched up on the floor of his bathroom. Some blood had seeped to the floor, but Morgan was still wearing his cloak and God only knew how much was being collected in the shadow void. “Morgan?” he said quietly, while kneeling.
“Did not mean to come here...”
Morgan's voice was faint. Michael lifted up the edge of the cloak. Morgan's viscera was visible from the top of his ribcage to his bladder. He'd been flayed open. Michael almost subconsiously started chanting while collecting his brother into his good arm. When he's done, a thin, almost translucent skin had formed over the exposed areas. Michael unclasps the cloak and drags Morgan off of it. He folds it as best he can and puts it away. When he looks towards the bedroom door, Holmes is standing there.
“He's badly injured,” Michael said without preamble or emotion. “He needs to be taken to the infirmiry.”
Holmes merely nodded acknowledgement and left. Michael went back to his brother's side. “Was it Sethiel?” he asks.
“Yes, she flayed me with a healing knife.”
Michael gently stroked Morgan's temple with his thumb. “I would take you to your bed if I were able to lift you.”
Morgan's eyelids fluttered. “I was told you lost your arm.”
Michael shook his head vocally. “No, I slipped and fell on a stairway. Overflexed my elbow. Nothing serious.”
Michael felt a sympathetic pain shoot through his chest as Morgan coughed. Some foamy blood came up at the corners of Morgan's mouth. Morgan lingered far past the point most people would have died from shock. Michael realized sickeningly that he was denied even the comfort of being unconscious right now. Morgan tried to lift his arm to touch his brother's hand. The hand shudderingly moved halfway before it collapsed and Morgan pulled into a tighter ball of pain.
Michael slipped off his sling and shifted around Morgan, then lay down on the floor next to him. He worked his good arm under Morgan's body and pulled him into an embrace. Pain shot from his wrist to his shoulder. He ignored it. He held Morgan closely until he heard his breathing shift to a sleeping pattern. He gently pulled his tender arm back to himself while continuing to cradle using the other. The embrace was comforting to both, reminiscent of how they would sleep from cradle to adulthood.
February 24, 2009
Miami Spice
Michael found that upscale clubs anywhere tended to have elements of machismo that came off as overly arrogant and silly. Hired muscle and eye candy were used to make such hauteur seem important and more than a little seedy. He found himself in one such club in Tel Aviv. He'd waylaid two pickpocket attempts and was “foolishly” mingling with locals. Of course, the embassy couldn't really keep him from doing business that did not interfere with his diplomatic duites. His fingers drummed a briefcase on the seat next to him.
He sat half-slumped, as if the watered scotch he was drinking was going to his head too fast. It prevented, by design, anyone from making casual eye contact. A body sat down opposite him. He looked up. The man across from him looked more like the sleaze one would expect in Miami, but he had two hefty, artificially tanned bruisers and a underwhelmingly charming Latina with him and a humongous diamond in his ear. Exactly the kind of thing to scare away Michael's contact. “I'm sorry, I believe you've mistaken me for someone else,” Michael said through his glass.
“Well, mebbe you can gimme the 'case. And if I'm wrong. I'll give it back.”
Michael's face resolved from unaware to adamant. “No.”
The faux mobster looked surprised, then pissed. “I don't think you heard me.”
Michael muttered something under his breath. “I heard you just fine. Leave. Now.”
The annoyance actually stood up and leaned across the table into his face. “I paid good money for those forgeries. Hand 'm over.”
Michael reached into his jacket pocket for his embassy passport and flipped it open in his antagonist's face. “What forgeries?” he asked slowly.
The aggressor suddenly looked a lot less comfortable and slowly sat back down. “Listen. You're right. I was mistaken....”
“There is an empty booth two places behind you. You're going to that booth, and you're going to sit there until I'm done with my actual business here. Bolting and running isn't a good idea with her shoes and dress. And I can squeeze her for information just as easily as you.”
Michael watched them sullenly move down to their appointed seats and went back to looking down at his hand on his glass. Any pretense of intoxication was gone, leaving a veneer of irritation. Mr. Cynosure was loudly lamenting his situation and now annoying all the patrons of the bar, not just him. Luckily, he'd managed to be rid of him as the person for whom he'd been waiting arrived not two minutes later.
Ten minutes passed quietly and pleasantly while Michael went over some points of a venture loan. Suddenly, his guest went white and silent and Michael felt something metallic press into his shoulder. Michael made a hand gesture to the other gentleman to duck. He took two cleansing breaths and then slid down himself while reaching up to grab the gunman's wrist. He incanted quickly, shattering the bones in the wrist. The gun fired into the tabletop.
The guy Michael labeled Cynosure came around and grabbed the gun and pointed it in his face. Michael barked something that sounded like an insult. The floor rippled like water beneath Cynosure's feet throwing him off balance. Michael felt a bullet graze his forearm.
“Let me apologize,” he said in German to the shaken, pale businessman that had merely come searching for an investor. “I don't know who these people are or who they think I am, but I certainly am going to beat them further if they cause any more interruptions.”
Michael went over and kicked the gun away. Half the patrons of the club were now looking their way in frozen terror. The other half had fled. Michael grabbed Cynosure by his shirt and dragged him back to the booth he'd assigned to him earlier. “I told you to stay there.”
“Faggot!”
Michael's fist fit neatly into the man's face. His ring broke the guy's nose. He turned to walk away when “Guess we're not secure in our masculinity, are we?” rang out between blood and spittle behind him.
Michael turned around, smiling gamely. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, poured a pitcher of water on Cynosure's face, yanked him by the shirt front, and pulled him into a liplock. The floundering, bloodied, humiliated poseur fought persistently to break away from Michael's grip, but it was like breaking out of steel. After two tense minutes, Michael finally let go. “So, how secure did that feel?”
He turned to the moll and clacked his tongue while winking before sitting back down. At that moment, the local authorities arrived...
He sat half-slumped, as if the watered scotch he was drinking was going to his head too fast. It prevented, by design, anyone from making casual eye contact. A body sat down opposite him. He looked up. The man across from him looked more like the sleaze one would expect in Miami, but he had two hefty, artificially tanned bruisers and a underwhelmingly charming Latina with him and a humongous diamond in his ear. Exactly the kind of thing to scare away Michael's contact. “I'm sorry, I believe you've mistaken me for someone else,” Michael said through his glass.
“Well, mebbe you can gimme the 'case. And if I'm wrong. I'll give it back.”
Michael's face resolved from unaware to adamant. “No.”
The faux mobster looked surprised, then pissed. “I don't think you heard me.”
Michael muttered something under his breath. “I heard you just fine. Leave. Now.”
The annoyance actually stood up and leaned across the table into his face. “I paid good money for those forgeries. Hand 'm over.”
Michael reached into his jacket pocket for his embassy passport and flipped it open in his antagonist's face. “What forgeries?” he asked slowly.
The aggressor suddenly looked a lot less comfortable and slowly sat back down. “Listen. You're right. I was mistaken....”
“There is an empty booth two places behind you. You're going to that booth, and you're going to sit there until I'm done with my actual business here. Bolting and running isn't a good idea with her shoes and dress. And I can squeeze her for information just as easily as you.”
Michael watched them sullenly move down to their appointed seats and went back to looking down at his hand on his glass. Any pretense of intoxication was gone, leaving a veneer of irritation. Mr. Cynosure was loudly lamenting his situation and now annoying all the patrons of the bar, not just him. Luckily, he'd managed to be rid of him as the person for whom he'd been waiting arrived not two minutes later.
Ten minutes passed quietly and pleasantly while Michael went over some points of a venture loan. Suddenly, his guest went white and silent and Michael felt something metallic press into his shoulder. Michael made a hand gesture to the other gentleman to duck. He took two cleansing breaths and then slid down himself while reaching up to grab the gunman's wrist. He incanted quickly, shattering the bones in the wrist. The gun fired into the tabletop.
The guy Michael labeled Cynosure came around and grabbed the gun and pointed it in his face. Michael barked something that sounded like an insult. The floor rippled like water beneath Cynosure's feet throwing him off balance. Michael felt a bullet graze his forearm.
“Let me apologize,” he said in German to the shaken, pale businessman that had merely come searching for an investor. “I don't know who these people are or who they think I am, but I certainly am going to beat them further if they cause any more interruptions.”
Michael went over and kicked the gun away. Half the patrons of the club were now looking their way in frozen terror. The other half had fled. Michael grabbed Cynosure by his shirt and dragged him back to the booth he'd assigned to him earlier. “I told you to stay there.”
“Faggot!”
Michael's fist fit neatly into the man's face. His ring broke the guy's nose. He turned to walk away when “Guess we're not secure in our masculinity, are we?” rang out between blood and spittle behind him.
Michael turned around, smiling gamely. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, poured a pitcher of water on Cynosure's face, yanked him by the shirt front, and pulled him into a liplock. The floundering, bloodied, humiliated poseur fought persistently to break away from Michael's grip, but it was like breaking out of steel. After two tense minutes, Michael finally let go. “So, how secure did that feel?”
He turned to the moll and clacked his tongue while winking before sitting back down. At that moment, the local authorities arrived...
February 22, 2009
Designated Miss
Designated Hit
Bound and gagged, Morgan considered the man pacing about him. Whatever specie inhabited this place, they seemed capable of shielding their mind from his ability to read them. He tried manifesting a knife in his hand to cut his bonds, but that sensation of having his mind squeezed like a sponge returned. Most of the chatter in his head was gone, save one precious inherent link, which they apparently couldn't suppress.
Morgan wondered why they had gagged him, but perhaps they thought he cast like most scafir do. They left him laying there for the length of several hours. He heard them argue, copulate, sleep, and eat. During a quiet period, their leader removed his gag. He handled Morgan's eyelids and tapped his forehead.
“If you were born here, you would have been left to die,” the leader said evenly.
“Mother wanted to do that, I am told.”
“You are alive. Someone stopped her.”
“My human foster father.”
“Gratitude.”
“Profusely so.”
“You fight well for a scafir, child. They teach you confusing thoughts.”
“No. The humans taught me higher mathematics.”
Magish was a passable language for discussion, but it had its shortcomings. The habitual lack of interrogatives was one of them. Its limited vocabulary was another. Morgan was forced to transliterate mathematics into “number studies.” The term still confounded his captor.
Morgan tried to force a sentence into a question. “You know you are my father?”
“Yes, I remember your mother. You smell of her.”
Morgan presumed he meant he smelled like her. It occurred to him that he might simply smell like a scafir.
“Your race?”
“We are the the'pf. The greatest hunters in all the cosmos.”
“And yet, I was able to overcome you with trigonometric functions,” Morgan murmured to himself. His “father” apparently understood the intent, if not the words.
“You have a vocation.”
“Generally, I kill people. I am an assassin.”
“And you killed many.”
“Yes, more than there are in your tribe five times over.” Morgan estimated the “tribe's” size from differences in cadence of movements.
“If that's true, you are an impressive.”
Bound and gagged, Morgan considered the man pacing about him. Whatever specie inhabited this place, they seemed capable of shielding their mind from his ability to read them. He tried manifesting a knife in his hand to cut his bonds, but that sensation of having his mind squeezed like a sponge returned. Most of the chatter in his head was gone, save one precious inherent link, which they apparently couldn't suppress.
Morgan wondered why they had gagged him, but perhaps they thought he cast like most scafir do. They left him laying there for the length of several hours. He heard them argue, copulate, sleep, and eat. During a quiet period, their leader removed his gag. He handled Morgan's eyelids and tapped his forehead.
“If you were born here, you would have been left to die,” the leader said evenly.
“Mother wanted to do that, I am told.”
“You are alive. Someone stopped her.”
“My human foster father.”
“Gratitude.”
“Profusely so.”
“You fight well for a scafir, child. They teach you confusing thoughts.”
“No. The humans taught me higher mathematics.”
Magish was a passable language for discussion, but it had its shortcomings. The habitual lack of interrogatives was one of them. Its limited vocabulary was another. Morgan was forced to transliterate mathematics into “number studies.” The term still confounded his captor.
Morgan tried to force a sentence into a question. “You know you are my father?”
“Yes, I remember your mother. You smell of her.”
Morgan presumed he meant he smelled like her. It occurred to him that he might simply smell like a scafir.
“Your race?”
“We are the the'pf. The greatest hunters in all the cosmos.”
“And yet, I was able to overcome you with trigonometric functions,” Morgan murmured to himself. His “father” apparently understood the intent, if not the words.
“You have a vocation.”
“Generally, I kill people. I am an assassin.”
“And you killed many.”
“Yes, more than there are in your tribe five times over.” Morgan estimated the “tribe's” size from differences in cadence of movements.
“If that's true, you are an impressive.”
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