Page 17 of Envious Of Fire
Tristan and Raya lift their eyes.
Behind the candle now stands a man Tristan can’t be sure was there a second ago. Long legs, imprisoned in unforgivably tight black leather pants that outline his dick, balls included, with just a low-hanging, lopsided, metal-studded belt hanging loose—what function it serves, Tristan can only guess. Leather jacket with ribbing along the shoulders, tight-fitting, opened to reveal the sweaty, tawny skin of his chest, a tuft of hair at the top, and a thick happy trail drawing a line partway down his abs toward his crotch. Atop his head sits a frayed cowboy hat with a hole in the brim, strands of greasy black hair poking out from under, wavy tangles spilling down the back of his neck. Cowboy boots to finish his look, soles caked in mud.
“Don’t go shittin’ yourself,” says the man in his deep drawl, words echoey and strange in the dank, long tunnel. “It’s just a simple trust spell. One of the few innocent tricks I’m capable of, unless you care to see my version of a New Years’ sparkler.”
Mance, returns Tristan rather lightly for a greeting, his arm still outstretched, holding back Raya.You need such tricks? I had believed us to be friends.
“Don’t got none of those, never did me no good. And you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout unless you’re untrustworthy.” Mance tilts his head. “Are you?”
This is exactly how Tristan remembers Mance, perpetually moody, tightly buzzed beard framing his permanently smirking lopsided lips, forehead creased, eyebrows twisted up, a constant air of suspicion and arrogance.
About as trustworthy as a jock cup in the direct path of awayward curveball, answers Tristan.I am ever so happy you agreed to meet me.
“Better get on it, then. We got until the candle’s burned to the wine before the spell runs out and my ass is gone.”
It’s a tall candle, notes Tristan.
“And magic fire burns awful quick-like.” He slants his head downward, eyes gleaming with malice. “But I suspect you know all about that, now don’t you, Tristan?”
Raya glances at Tristan, questions in her eyes.
Tristan dismisses the taunt with a lift of his chin.My request is simple.I have a deceased human who was not meant to die…
“Anyone who’s dead was meant to die.”
Be that as it may, his being dead is…inconvenient, Tristan elaborates.We need him to be…well…not dead.
Raya crosses her arms impatiently.
It’s that simple movement that steals Mance’s attention. He glances her way, takes in the sight of her the way a wolf stares down his prey in all ways but licking his lips. He removes his hat, revealing his greasy bangs, gives her the slightest of nods. “Didn’t see you there, sweetheart. My apologies.”
Raya’s eyes go to the man’s fingertips—which are entirely grey, as if all trace of blood and life has been sucked from them up to the knuckle. Sickly, off-putting spots of greenish black run across the backs of his hands with no discernable pattern.
“What happened there?” asks Raya, nose wrinkled up.
He doesn’t look at them. He just continues staring at her, unblinking, as he slowly returns his hat to his head. “Call it an itty-bitty consequence of my particular line of work, sweet—”
“I’m no one’ssweetheart,” Raya cuts him off.
This is Raya, explains Tristan quickly.She accompanied me for moral support.And entertainment, I think.
Mance grunts to himself. “She don’t look much entertained to me.” He sets his eyes back onto Tristan. “Is she part of thedeal? That why you brought her? To offer her to me?”
Regrettably, no, Tristan answers.She is my—
“Sister? Family?” He looks her over again. “I don’t get how you folk do this whole family thing … blood sisters and fang brothers and whatever other crazy rules you got goin’ on.” He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Fuckin’ adorable.”
We have chosen family, explains Tristan,bonded by exchanges of blood with those we trust indefinitely, not by assignment of birth, which in itself is sadly a choice no mortal baby is afforded.
“If it were up to me, I’d keep all my dang blood to myself. I like it in my veins where it belongs.”
Is this family advice from someone who killed his own parents?
“You killed yours, too,” Mance fires back, “but why bother flirtin’ with each other? Our candle’s still burnin’. Time’s a’ tickin’.” He narrows his eyes. “So many other gods whose doors you could have knocked on tonight, from the Four Winds to the Sisters to Mother Nature herself. What in the hell kinda pickle did you get yourself in to wish me to call upon Death?”
A bad one, admits Tristan.So can you help me? Or shall I go with my original plan and consult a priest?
Mance smirks, amused by the joke, then pulls out a box of cigarettes, flips it open, draws one out with his mouth. “Sure can do,” he says, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he lights it. “First things first. Who’s the unlucky fella?”
