"The Best Medicine"

Eyes on the electronic tablet in front of her, Jillian did the math in her head.  “So, you’ve been here for… six months now?”

“That’s right,” replied her patient, who had been identified by her tablet as Wesley Baumgartner.  He wrung his long, thin fingers together one moment, and then absent-mindedly picked at his eyebrows the next. 

Jillian winched away in disgust and hoped that he hadn’t seen, quickly donning her professional face.  This man was one of her patients, after all.  “Are you thinking of moving into more permanent housing soon?” 

Wesley’s large, watery eyes became distorted as he looked around the extended-stay hotel room through his thick glasses.  “Um… well, I suppose I could,” he replied nasally.  “But, I’m sorting of holding out that mother will change her mind and let me move back in with her.  I mean, right now, the basement is completely unused.  It’s a waste, really.” 

Shifting in the folding chair the Agency had given her, Jillian tapped a box labeled ‘attachment issues’ on her tablet screen.  “Mr. Baumgartner, I think that your mother asked you to move out in an effort to help you rather than punish you.  You have to admit, it’s hard to get by with your… condition… while you’re living with your mother, isn’t it?”   

The thin, weasley, middle-aged man swallowed, and his eyes seemed to flicker even faster behind his glasses.  “Oh.  I was… um… wondering if you were going to bring that up.” 

“Well, it is why the Agency sent me, Mr. Baumgartner.” 

Wesley seemed to sit up a little straighter in his chair.  “Oh.  Really?”  Jillian noticed the man’s knees beginning to shake.  “Just… um… how did the Agency expect you to… remedy my problem?” 

Remembering her training, Jillian put on her most serious face in an effort to diffuse the situation.  “Simply to examine your living conditions and prescribe medication if I think it’s necessary.  Standard procedure.” 

Lower lip now trembling, Wesley replied, in what Jillian would later realize was a laughable attempt at a seductive voice, “Are you sure they didn’t send you to perform a… physical examination?” 

A sliver of fear slipped into Jillian’s stomach, but it didn’t show on her stone-cold expression.  Even so, she remembered her training, and let her right hand slip toward her purse.  “Definitely not.  This is a very standard, very professional visit.  You shouldn’t be worried.  This sort of thing is much more common than you’d think, Mr. Baumgartner.” 

“Please.  Call me Wesley,” Wesley said, just before leaping to his feet and lunging for Jillian. 

Adrenaline and fear filled the nurse like a hot poker placed on her skin.  Jillian leapt to her feet, dropping her tablet and knocking her folding chair to the floor.  Though she twisted away from the man, Wesley managed to grab her wrist. 

And then he licked the back of her hand. 

Jillian shifted her weight, broke Wesley’s hold and, with a twist of her hips, planted the sole of her right foot squarely into his sternum.  All the air left his lungs in a great whuff, and the scrawny man tumbled backward over his chair.  In the moment she had bought, Jillian snatched her purse from the floor, where it had fallen, and produced the instrument she had reached for earlier. 

A moment later, Wesley’s hands appeared on the back of the chair as he struggled to pull himself to his feet.  His previously combed-over quaff of hair was disheveled and his glasses sat skewed on his nose.  “Wow,” he wheezed.  “I know it’s been a while since I used the Venom, but I forgot how powerful it can be!  Just not so rough from now on, okay?” 

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Baumgartner, that I’m immune to your Venom” Jillian huffed.  Her adrenaline-quickened breath made her hand rise and fall rhythmically, but still she maintained perfect aim on Wesley with the implement in her hand.  “The agency made sure to inoculate me against every possible poison, venom, toxin, hypnosis, mind trick, and curse known to cryptohumanoid kind. So if I were you, I’d not try that again.  This thing was freshly enchanted this morning.” 

Wesley’s eyes widened in fear at the red-handled, ruby-tipped wand in Jillian’s hand.  “Oh.  Oh, no.  I’m… I’m so sorry,” he stammered.  “I had no idea.  Oh god.  I’m so sorry.  It’s just been so long… I mean, look at me!  I’m not supposed to be like this!”  Wesley returned to his chair and put his head in his hands, which put Jillian more at ease. Still, when she righted her chair, she made sure to place it a few more feet away from the man, and to keep her Wand of Stupification in her hand. 

“It’s not healthy for an incubus to stay holed up in his mother’s basement,” Jillian went on professionally.  When Wesley opened his mouth to protest, she added, “no matter how good his video game collection is.  Your kind survives on the sensual energy of young women.  And there are NO young women playing video games on the internet.” 

“But…,”

“NONE.” 

Wesley lowered his face shamefully. “I’ve tried everything, though.  I mean, look at these pills I ordered from an ad I got in my inbox.”  He trotted to the room’s nightstand, opened it, and produced a pair of plastic bottles, each the size of the venti coffee Jillian had drunk that morning.  Written across the front of the red bottles were the words ‘LOVE MACHINE’ in black letters, plastered in a yellow comic-book style starburst. 

“Mr. Baumgartner, you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” Jillian said, setting down her wand long enough to make a few quick taps on her tablet.  “I’m calling you in a prescription meant to help incubuses just like you with this very same problem.  Soon you’ll be looking like your old self again, and you’ll have no trouble with the ladies.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Nightingale,” Wesley said, looking repentant.  “Mother has been teasing me because I look older than she does.” 

“That’s because she’s a succubus, and she feeds regularly,” Jillian replied, “and doesn’t spend all her time playing video games.”  She flipped the cover on her tablet closed and stood, collapsing her folding chair.  “Your prescription will be ready by tomorrow.  Simply take it, and concern yourself more with your health instead of how many headshots your squad is accumulating.” 

Wesley nodded, his hands clasped in his lap.  “Thank you again, Ms. Nightingale.  And I’m so sorry about my little… outburst.  I hope you can forgive me.” 

Despite herself, Jillian smiled.  “It’s not the worst that’s happened to me in this job.  Coincidently, werewolf bites itch like you wouldn’t believe.”  With that, she stuffed her belongings into her back, bid Wesley a final good-bye, and left the hotel room. 

On her way down the hotel’s stairs, Jillian recalled the patients she had seen that day.  A harpy with a broken wing.  A merman with a terrible case of athlete’s flipper.  A troll, currently living under the Watterson Beltway Bridge, with fang rot.  And, lastly, an antisocial incubus with a hormonal imbalance. 

Jillian Nightingale, nurse practitioner for the Agency for the Betterment of Cryptohumanoid Health, returned to her mobile office (a.k.a. her car).  No doubt, it had been a long day.  Though she could have squeezed in one more patient, she decided against it, and picked up her phone to text the Agency that they’d have to find another agent to treat the Sasquatch with fleas. 

The nurse left work at five o’clock, officially, and headed in the direction of her favorite bar.  The wizard bartender had promised her a Wand of Flypaper for the pixies she was supposed to visit tomorrow, should they try any funny business. 

Just another day.

"I Can Explain...."

“Fergus! What happened here?!” Fergus heard Father McCollum cry, and the sound of boots on grass quickly approached behind him. 

Fergus swallowed nervously and kneaded his hands together.  He had been utterly impotent to stop the fire, but hadn’t run and hid when it had started, like his cowardly instincts had told him.  “Something happened, and now the barn is on fire.”  He said it with a slight inflection at the end, making it sound like a question, as if Father McCollum's question might have been rhetorical.

“Clearly!” Father McCollum cried, his billowing robes appearing in Fergus’s peripheral vision.  “What happened to cause the fire?” 

Fergus’s face was warm, though he was quite a distance from the blazing shed. It was past dusk, but the well-kept monastery grounds were easily visible in the radiant, orange glow.  Before he knew it, his knit peasant’s hat was in his hands and he was wringing it back and forth.  “I … I don’t know,” Fergus lied.  “I saw the light from my window, and I came down here as fast as I could. By the time I made it down all those stairs, it was like this.” 

His stomach hurt from lying, but what was he supposed to do? Tell the truth? There was no way Father McCollum would believe him, and he’d simply have to spend the week in the tower without supper again.  Still, guilt chewed at Fergus’s insides.

“Where are the cows?  Are they still out to pasture?” Father McCollum asked urgently.

“Yes, Father,” Fergus stammered.  “I put them out just before you left for the trader’s market, just like you asked.”

“Thank the High Ones,” Father sighed.  “We would have been sore off without them.  What about the chickens?  How many are accounted for?” 

“I found Mable, Isold, Darby, Juniper, Silverbeak, Penelope, Fiona, Tristina, and Janet,” Fergus reported mechanically.  “But there’s no sign of Caneil, Harriette, or Regina.”

Father McCollum rolled his eyes.  He had never thought much of Fergus’s propensity to name livestock.  Still, his face was thankful.  “More saved than lost.  Good lad, keeping up with them.” he said.  “And there wasn’t anyone inside the barn? The other acolytes and scruples are still at the communion in Talonwood, then?”

“Um, yessir.  It’s just been me here, all day.  All by myself.” 

Fergus held his jacket tightly against his sides. 

Father McCollum placed his hands on his hips and started up at the leaping flames.  The barn’s roof collapsed, the wooden shingles finally giving way to the corrosive power of fire, and filled the air with glowing ashes and smoke.  The trees from the nearby wood were painted an eerie orange.

“Come on, then,” Father McCollum said. “There’s little we can do about it now.  Dew’s fallen, so it won’t spread to the monastery.  The best we can do is wait for it to burn down, and then examine the ashes for any sign of who did this.”  For a moment Father McCollum didn’t move, except for crossing his arms over his chest.  Fire reflected off of his bald head.  “These are dark times we’re living in, Fergus.  Dark times, indeed.” 

“Y-yessir,” Fergus replied. 

The Father turned to leave, presumably back to the cart that he had brought back from the trader’s market. When he was sure that he was alone, Fergus opened his jacket ever so slightly and hissed into it, “Now look what you’ve done!  You’ve gone and gotten us both in such deep trouble!” 

Two amber eyes blinked open, catching the light of the fire, and a scaly head, the size of Fergus’s thumb and the color of the leaping flames, poked its way from beneath Fergus’s arm.  The creature hiccupped, and a gout of fire the size of the boy’s open palm erupted into the air.  Fergus twisted away from fire before his clothes could catch, but the heat made his face and fingers sting. Silently he hoped that Father McCollum wouldn't later notice his lack of eyebrows. 

Tending a monastery by yourself can be ever so boring.  But when Fergus had gone exploring around the grounds that day, he had no idea he would stumble across the huge, brown egg in the crags south of the abbey.  Though he was beginning to appreciate why the monks called the area ‘Forbidden Gulch’. 

Already Fergus was making a list of things he would have to do that evening, in addition to helping Father McCollum unload the goods from the cart. 

Number one: find out what had happened to Caneil, Harriette, and Regina. 

Number two: dispose of the brown egg shell pieces in his bedroom.

Number three:  figure out how to muzzle a dragon hatchling. 

"Ungrateful Arms"

The grey sky outside is still lit by the afternoon sun, though it's filtered through the grey cover like a filthy window.  Trees bow and sigh, moving in the wind like fish caught in a current, their leaves glittering scales as the first raindrops patter upon them.  The air smells heady and humid, like grass and dirt and life, and the pre-storm squall blows it into my modest home.  Tossed asunder, the fingers of the curtains beckon me closer to the window. 

I've always easily fallen for lovers that could care less for me.  Not necessarily those that are outwardly malicious, but undeniably those that were callously indifferent.  And the storm is just that.  I am nothing more to her than another warm body to kiss with her raindrops, to tease with her voice and her sweet smells.  But, as is so often the case, risks are so difficult to assess in the presence of a beckoning hand, a sweet smell, and a seductive voice.  And the approaching storm has them all. So I take my coffee and my guitar and venture into her bosom, seeking the sweet peace that she peddles. 

The hilltop already belongs to her when I step outside. The fields worship her, bending in deep green-golden waves as she whispers over top of them.  She’s already begun singing her song, her first notes tapping a staccato beat on the metal roof of the porch.  I settle into a chair, and immediately her teasing begins.  A sweet-smelling breath blows on the back of my neck, tossing my hair and parting the collar of my shirt.  A raindrop kisses me lightly on the cheek.  Her voice, deep and throaty, echoes somewhere in the distance, promising to be here soon.

Samson, my huge, grey cat, has followed me outside, and even he seems to wonder what possessed him to do so as he curls beneath my chair.  After one last sip from my coffee, I place my guitar on my knee and let my fingers slide along the strings.  I don’t play anything in particular:  just a few chords, some scales, some songs I know by heart.  She doesn't care.  I mean nothing to her.  And yet, I continue to throw her my affections. 

A raindrop strikes my guitar’s wooden body.  I’ll have to dry it soon or the finish will be ruined. 

The strings are already expanding from the humid air. It’ll need to be tuned. 

Steam rises from my coffee cup.  It will soon be cold. 

Samson mews pleadingly from beneath my chair. 

But still I play.  She continues to ignore me in her approach, dispassionate to my efforts.  I don’t mind.  Because her voice, her smell, her damp, cool kiss, are all I need in that moment.  I've always easily fallen for lovers that could care less for me; but, for this moment at least, I am satisfied. 

"The Beat"

My heart thundered like a jackhammer beneath my shield, pumping blood that seared like hot coffee through my aching legs and arms.  Everything begged me to stop.  My legs, full of sand after three straight blocks of sprinting.  My lungs, which turned a breath of fresh air into acid.  My head, which was starting to throb from lack of oxygen as my out-of-shape body sent it to the parts that kept me moving.   

“NYPD!  Stop where you are!” I cried.  Ahead of me, the perpetrator shoved a woman aside, sending her armful of shopping bags scattering like bowling pins.  Bystanders screamed and ran in all directions as I cried out my warning again.  With a burst of adrenaline I didn’t know my legs still possessed, I leapt the shopping bags, my trench coat flapping behind. 

I held my hat on with one hand and produced my service revolver from its holster with my other.  The perp turned into an alley so quickly that he almost fell when his shoes skidded on the sidewalk.  I gained about five feet on him before his hand whipped from the waistband in his pants and produced a gun of his own.

I was barely thirty feet from the perp when the piece appeared.  Time seemed to slow down, and my jumbled mind whizzed through the hours I’d been briefed on what to do in such a situation.  Raw, naked fear took over, and my feet stopped on their own volition, sending me pitching forward. Only after stumbling a few feet was I able to pull some useful advice from my training, and I spun behind a newspaper stand a split-second before he started firing.

Two claps of thunder split the afternoon air.  Screams rang out from, I hoped, bystanders that were simply terrified and not hurt.  Three feet from my head, the wood of the newspaper stand exploded, showering the sidewalk with splinters.

My back pressed against the stand, I listened for more gunshots through my heart jackhammering in my ears.  A happy flow of adrenaline now dampening the other symptoms of the chase, I counted off five more seconds before venturing a peek around the corner.

Clear. 

I dove from behind cover, keeping my head down, and dashed into the alley after the perp.  It was empty, aside from a dumpster that belonged to the Chinese restaurant next door and a rapid jangling of metal from over my head.  My eyes followed the sound and I spied the perp, and beneath his arm the file that he had pilfered from headquarters under the guys of a delivery boy.  He clambered up the last run on the ladder of the neighboring building’s fire escape, and took off up the metal stairs two at a time.

Not wasting another second, I threw myself down the alley and leapt to grab the first rung on the ladder.  My arms screamed in protest, but I forced past their voice and pulled myself up high enough to get my foot into the lowest rung.  My hat tumbled off in a breeze that smelled of mushu pork, but I quickly forgot it as I ascended after the fleeing man. 

When I reached the first landing, a clap of thunder roared in the alley, and at the same instant sparks showered from one of the steps above my head.  A metallic ping met my ears before they filled with a high-pitched whine.  I only took a second to blink through the confusion of the gunshot before I charged up the stairs after him, barely able to make out the sound of his footsteps (or mine, I can’t really tell) through the white noise.

I passed through the landing he had been standing on when he had taken a shot at me. It still smelled of gunpowder and cordite. 

When I reached the last landing, I was alone.  Holstering my revolver, I ascended the final ladder and cautiously peeked over the edge of the building’s roof.  I spotted a fleeing man, a folder tucked under his arm, and a nearby building that he was recklessly charging toward. 

I dove over the edge and cried “NYPD! Stop where you are!”, and had plenty of time to duck behind an air conditioning unit before he fired recklessly over his shoulder.  The shot didn’t even come close to me, but I couldn’t have him firing wildly.  There’d be no telling where those bullets might up. 

I charged after him. 

Suddenly the perp was airborne, leaping from the edge of the roof.  He seemed to hang, suspended, in air for days until he landed on the roof of the next building.  His knees gave way and he rolled in an attempt to reduce the impact of the fall, but it was less coordinated than he had intended.  Dizzy, he sprawled in a heap on the roof. 

It was my chance. But, once again, my body and its perfectly rational fears took over.  I skidded to a stop just short of the edge of the building, the chasm between the two like a gaping maw, ready to swallow a beat cop who was still twenty years from paying off his mortgage.  The alley below looked much further than seven stories; not that it needed to be, because seven stories would do just fine for turning me into a pile of pulp. 

Across the alley, the perp was finally starting to pull himself together.  It would be a matter of seconds before he was on his feet and running again, or he got his gun hand working again and risked his remaining two bullets on perforating me. 

So, once again, I tuned out the voice that screamed in my head to turn around, backed up twenty feet on the rooftop, sprinted, and jumped.