(Original) Phoenix Rising - Chapter 1 - Bad Moon Rising
Title: Phoenix Rising
Chapter: 1 part one, Bad Moon Rising
Word count: 6.5k words
Warnings: A girl on girl pairing. Nothing dirty or smutty. Far more gore than there is 'omg, 2 gurls n luv!' My muse is possessed by the way. Somewhat proofed, still expect errors all over the place. This is horror / supernatural related, basically, if you can handle SPN, this'll be fine or a cake walk, for the time being that is. Expect trippy stuff later.
Comments: This is the start of my first original fiction in almost four years. It's been awhile since I've tried to write a novel, and damn it feels good to be in the hang of things again. This is for my nano 2010, my first nano. If you have time and want to read, I'd love to get some feedback on this just to know I'm not too hairballed about this crazy thing.
Dust unfurls, curls in the air, only to be whisked away by the wind soon after it has been kicked into the air. Just as the wind sweeps the dust away, so does it sway the long grasses that are brown and dry, dead now, from the fifth drought in five years. Just as the grass is brown, and the dust reddish-brown, the sky is sickly, sallow yellow, with its highest reaches just barely tinged with blue, as if it had been bleached of all its color from the weary sun that is already beginning to make its descent towards the horizon in the west as the harvest moon rises from the east. The prairie air is hot, stifling, almost choking to the point that not a drop of moisture remains in the air.
But for the wind whistling through the bone dry blades of grass, the air is silent. It hadn’t been so some minutes ago, when the dust had been first tossed into the air. The prairie is strangely cut in half, between it runs an ancient stretch of highway that hasn’t seen true maintenance in years. While grass sprouts here and there, the surface is even, for the most part. The highway is dead silent, though a section is marred with fresh black streaks that resemble a child’s first attempt at writing his or her’s alphabet. It is a wild scrawl before it suddenly stops where the edge of the highway blends in with the edge of the prairie grass. There, the grasses have been flattened, and smoke rises up where dust had been. Still, an old beast of times long forgotten stands still, not yet reclaimed by time’s wear, though it too, will soon be the victim of the grinding gears of time.
Suddenly the air is alive again with noise, a roar of something that sounds like the death of a great predator. There is a squeal and screech as tires fight to free themselves from the soil that is now only loose sand and grit. The dreadful sounds continue as the iron beast tries to work itself free of the boulder which it has smashed itself upon. Grinding gears erupts from the dying beast, and as the clutch cables burn, the sound of a door opening is lost in the cacophony. A figure, with a bloodied face and tattered clothing, tumbles out of the driver’s side door, falling to the ground in a ball of numb limbs. There is no one else inside, but the car doesn’t stop, nor does its fit end. Door still open, it starts to creep back from the rock, metal crunching as it parts from unmoveable stone. The lithe figure laying upon the ground is weakly clutching at the dusty soil, trying to pull herself to safety from the two tons of angry, possessed steel.
The world is spinning for the woman, she can’t make heads or tails of anything. What way is up, and what way is down is a question she cannot answer. Everything is tan blur mottled red from the blood that is stinging her eyes. A crack to the head upon an old steering wheel has a habit of doing that, she thinks, dragging her body across the soil. She’s maybe three paces away when the old Cutlass rears back from what should’ve been its grave marker. Rolling onto her rear, as she scoots back, she starts to find clarity through the throbbing pain that is muddling her thoughts. It takes concentration, it takes years of training. The pain is pain, is only pain, is the mantra that breaks her lips.
It is still daylight, barely that is, but the Cutlass beams her lights right upon the still half incapacitated woman in the grass. With the front of the fascia crumpled, a broken head lamp, and the hood knocked ajar and crooked, the fastback Cutlass takes on almost a horrifying look, if it wasn’t horrifying as it was, driverless and homicidal. Gears grind again, as it shifts from reverse to first gear, before bolting towards the woman. Adrenaline is a funny thing, the woman thinks, as she finds her feet at the last moment and manages to roll out of the way. Brake lights bleed red light over the grass and smoke sputters from engine and exhaust both as the Cutlass stops, realizing its missed its mark with eyes it doesn’t have. White reverse lights flick on, and the gears grind again as it aims to try to back over the driver. Once again, the woman makes it out by the skin of her teeth. This time, she remains on her feet, running sluggishly, but running none the less.
Scrambling for the boulders which the Cutlass had impaled itself upon earlier, she scrambles up one poking just above the tall grass, and the Cutlass, gone berserk, rear ends the stone. Angrily, the engine roars as it shifts back into drive. With the right quarter now crumpled, it looks hardly like it had only ten minutes prior. The woman, catching her breath, hurriedly tries to think with a mind that is hardly capable of thinking. Her tools, are in the trunk and the back seat, all she has on her is a small pistol on her hip, and dagger tucked into an old worn boot. Blood continues to streak down from the gash in her forehead, causing the woman to wipe at it as she stood up, watching as the Cutlass trundled away, circling about with its chrome bumper dragging on the ground before it.
It’s nothing more than a rabid beast, she tells herself, no longer what it had been. It had went wild, she says, shoulders squared as she pulls the pistol from her hip, a pistol that’s older than she, but not quite as old as the Cutlass that was already turning its headlights back on her. Gunmetal eyes focusing despite blood creeping over her brow, she extends her arm in a smooth arc, pointing the gun and firing a split moment later. The shot is true, and blows the left tire, slowing the monstrosity that much more. Aim shifting marginally, she fires again barely flinching from the sound that pains her ears, nailing the right tire that blows with an audible pop. Hearing the engine rev hard, she knows she’s angered the beast that possesses her once loyal steed even more.
Then again, that was the risk, wasn’t it? It had always been possessed. A demon beaten and melded to the will of a Vanguard was still a demon, and it could always revert at any moment. She had been lucky, lucky that the Cutlass had stayed under control for so many years. As she clambers up onto one of the large boulders, she’s thankful of how incensed the Cutlass is, to the point it borders on pure, blind range. With two flats, the Cutlass ambles its way towards the boulder field, too focused on trying to kill the woman who had held it under control to notice the boulders for a third time. Once again it collides, smashing its front fascia even more. The sound of grinding metal and shattering headlights causes the woman to wince, but she doesn’t waste a moment. Scooting forward, she reaches her hands out before grabbing the hood. With it knocked ajar, she simply has to shove it back, and hard, so that it slams against the Cutlass’s cracked windshield.
Exposed, the Cutlass throws itself into reverse, but the woman is faster, as she clambers atop the exposed engine. Instantly, she can feel the heat of the metal stinging her through the thick pants she wears. A black sludge is bubbling from the engine block, and the smell causes her to wrinkle her bloodied features in disgust. It is a deep acrid smell, a smell that burns the back of her throat, to the point she holds her breath. The thick coppery smell lingers in her nose however until her eyes water. There’s no time for even registering such things, as the Cutlass jerks and jolts over the uneven landscape. Clinging with one hand to the side of the engine compartment, the woman’s other hand, still holding the pistol, she aims it before emptying the remaining rounds, iron clad and pure, into the heart of the bubbling black mass. A hard tremor shakes her as the final round buries itself into the mass hidden within the engine compartment. In the next instant, the engine falls completely silent, and the car becomes just as still. Shaking, the woman looks down into the engine compartment once more before she realizes her legs are still being burned from the heat coming off the now dead engine. Rolling off from the top of it, she settles onto the ground and leans up against the wheel well. A hard sigh breaks from her lips just before she passes out from her injuries.
***
Two Weeks Prior. . .
“Aggie!” calls a voice that just barely manages to grab her attention over the sound of the 455 small block of the Cutlass, which she stands before, making sure everything was running properly.
“What?!” she yells back as she peaks around the opened hood to a pleasant faced woman dashing out of a rough old building.
The day is a bright one, even at morning, the sun shines brilliantly, gleaming down on the little hamlet that is Ithaca, Nebraska. The little town is one worn and old, but still holds life. Little houses and settlements pepper the area, mixed between fields and barns. Green grasses and green fields are the only green in miles around. A river that sources from an underground lake runs to the west of Ithaca, supplying the town with clean, good water. The river also allows for a modest, well, extremely modest, hydroelectric plant that provides the town with some electricity. It isn’t paradise, but it isn’t hell either, not that the times are always good. But this year, Ithaca is without drought.
All the houses are small, simple structures. Some are made of brick, others are cobbled together with whatever the residents can find, others are structures that have been passed down the generations. Most lack a solid coat of paint or are else painted with a ramshackle mush of colors, but do have windows, windows that are wide opened to allow in the cool morning air, and little comforts like potted plants, though most are spice plants rather than ornamental. Some porches have wind chimes hanging from them, but they too, like the plants, are more than just decorative.
The other woman is wearing a bright smile, and she quickly strides up to the car. Reaching into the opened window, she turns the ignition to the off position. The Cutlass’s engine quickly dies, prompting ‘Aggie,’ to yell, “Hey! C’mon, I was working, Nel!” Her tone lacks anger however, just simple indignation.
“But it’s first thing in the morning, you woke me up, Agatha, again,” Nel replies, placing her hands on her hips.
A look at Nel, from Agatha, tells her that it’s indeed true. Nel is wearing that simple, bag shaped night dress she always does, and her sandy blonde hair, glistening under the early morning sunlight, is left out of its usual french braid, instead curled and crimped and hanging past her tanned shoulder blades exposed by one side of the dress slumped off a shoulder. There’s an annoyed expression on Nel’s face, one sandy eyebrow lowered, another up, while her green eyes are squinted from the light of the sun. Her lips, full and peach-colored, are turned into a slight frown.
“You know I like to get any work I do early in day before it gets too hot,” Agatha responds, her voice almost a whine. Wiping her hands on a cloth that had been stuffed in her pocket, she approaches Nel who seems apt to playing angry and annoyed. Where Nel’s frame leans towards a more curvy side, Agatha on the other hand is quite slim, practically underweight. Nel always insisted that Agatha needed to eat more. They are nearly the same height, but Agatha is a little taller. Where Nel has long hair that reaches past her shoulders dry, and longer than that after a shower, Agatha’s hair is short and nearly black. Any longer, and it’d be in the way, was Agatha’s reasoning. Her skin is not quite as tanned as Nel’s, but, then again, Nel worked outside every day, and there were far too many days that Agatha pulled the ‘night shift.’
Sighing, Nel tilts her head to the side before crossing her arms across her chest. “Well, I like getting some sleep, too,” she murmurs before shaking her head.
Reaching a hand out, she grabs for one of Agatha’s, the one not holding the rag. “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon again. . .Do you really have to leave tomorrow?” Nel admits as she rubs her thumb over the little white scars the crisscross Agatha’s knuckles.
“I know. . .and yes. . .” Agatha replies, looking down and to the side. “But an assignment is an assignment, and it’s only Denver. I won’t be too far, and it’s supposed to be just a few exorcisms. . .” Agatha tries to reassure.
“Than why do you need to go? Shouldn’t someone just call one of those holy men?” Nel asks with an upraised eyebrow.
“Heh, and let them have all the fun? No,” Agatha teased, looking up so she could meet Nel’s eyes. “Just be patient, I’ll be back soon, and I promise that I’ll take some time off, k?” Agatha asks.
“You’d have better,” Nel pouts before pressing a chaste kiss to Agatha’s jaw.
Agatha sighs at the kiss, eyes narrowing as thick black eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. “I will,” she whispers.
“You need another bath. You smell like oil and dead things, as always,” Nel chides as she embraces the other woman briefly before making an about face back to the house.
Agatha can only chuckle.
***
The beautiful morning turns into a beautiful day. Ithaca, while small, is busy. Everyone is out, both adults and children, or the few that have survived the hard years. At the center of town, people have put up a small market. Most vendors are locals, but a few of the merchants are from other places, some of which are far off, some just some miles down the road from the other small settlements. Most have just arrived to see what they can trade for. Vegetables and fruits, though small, are abundant this year, filling baskets of the booths arranged upon the village green. A small bakery churns out loaf after loaf of bread, there is still a store of last year’s wheat, enough to sell and enough to eat. Goats wander the green while their shepherds focus on selling cheeses and milks from the precious livestock.
Not everyone is at the market, however, though most are. For Agatha, the nice day with the right amount of breeze, was the sort of day to be spent out on the half rotted porch connected to Nel's home.
They had always talked that they were going to tear it down and start anew.
Things had always come up.
Chimes made of seashells that Agatha had picked up in a stint on the east coast clattered softly in the wind as a ward to ghosts and any other ill-meaning spirits. It was a calming sound, and Agatha hummed as she sat in a chair that was only a little less worse for wear than the porch. A table beside Agatha was covered with firearms in various states of cleanliness and completion. Brush in one hand, and the barrel off of some old rifle, Agatha's action were completely methodical as she cleaned each and every piece of weaponry.
Her feet, bare, are kicked up on a stool that hardly sits level with one leg shorter than the other two. Freshly cleaned from a bath in the river, Agatha’s jet hair hangs in loose coils about the crown of her head. It was hardly brushed, but Agatha had worked her fingers through it, though with it so short, there were few tangles to begin with. Her shirt is sleeveless, plain linen that hangs off her lithe frame. Her stomach is half exposed, her pants some sort of clingy synthetic, hanging half below her belly button and barely held up at that point by a belt.
When that was done, Agatha moved onto sharpening every blade in her arsenal. The sound of metal, some old, some new, on a whetstone that was needing replacement, and soon, was practically rhythmic, though it slowed as the slim woman heard the porch creak. A smile lit her normally tense features as she took in Nel’s visage as she strode gracefully over the creaky, rotted, grey wood of the porch. Her arms are laden in rough, burlap sacks containing the woman’s buys for the day. She wears a rough pair of sandals that have seen several repairs. Tawny pants, starting mid shin, and ending mid hip cling to the woman’s legs in a way that Agatha definitely finds pleasant. Nel’s shirt is of simple linen that had once been a deep maroon, but is now barely the color of the cherry blossoms that bloom in late spring on the river.
“You going to sit there all day?” Nel asks, lifting one of her thick, crescent eyebrows in consternation.
“Maybe,” is Agatha’s answer, though it comes with a smile.
Nel sighs, rolling her eyes up into her head until Agatha can see more white than green. The expression prompts an almost buck toothed grin from Agatha, who, gingerly sets her current project down, a small hand pistol with mother of pearl inlay upon its grip, to rise smoothly off the chair. Crossing the porch to take half or so of the bags in Nel’s possession, Agatha hums as she makes her way to the door that half hangs off its frame. Agatha does plan to fix that before she leaves.
Holding the door open, Agatha lets a brief smirk cross her features as Nel strides in with a sniff.
Following after, Agatha barely eyes the house within. Porch rotted, paint faded, the home inside is in considerably better repair. True, the walls haven’t been painted in years, and the furniture is worn, scratched, scuffed, but it’s still solid. As Nel says, it still has years of life to it. The home is clean, and even appears spacious. Sometimes Agatha had joked, much to Nel’s disapproval, that Nel was a witch with powers to make a house bigger inside than what it was outside.
Striding through the living room, with its old couch, rocker, and several bookcases mixed with books and e-pads, Agatha pads over the rugs as she follows Nel into the kitchen. The kitchen is simple, just as everything is in Nel’s house. Laying the bags on the counter, Agatha eyes the bags with great interest as she stuffs her hands in the pockets of her loose pants that are only held on by an old belt that is probably older than Agatha.
“You know, they say curiosity killed the cat, but you could help me unload all these,” Nel murmurs as she casts a look over her shoulder at Agatha. . .
***
Giving a low whistle, Agatha looks over the small bounty that has been unloaded from the burlap sacks. There’s tomatoes, around eight of them, carrots, even cucumbers; which are Agatha’s favorite, lettuce, apples, pears, several loaves of bread, and most noticeably a medium sack of rice. Rice was a rare commodity. Nebraska, even green Ithaca, was much too dry of a place for a rice paddy.
Nel is across the room, placing the goat milk, goat cheese and the fresh dozen of eggs in the icebox. “There was a merchant from the West coast, can you believe it?” Nel asks.
“Crazy bastard,” is Agatha’s response as she folds up the bags and places them in a cabinet.
Nel chuckles, “A lot of folks might say the same about you, Aggie,” Nel replies as she shuts the door to the icebox, making sure it seals.
“But I’m better armed,” Agatha says with a curt nod, as if it made all the difference in the world.
Sighing, Nel shakes her head before padding over to the counter. Taking an apple, one of the tart, green ones, she presses it into Agatha’s hand. “Go eat,” she says, changing the subject.
The limber woman frowns, quirks an eyebrow and is about to speak but is stopped by a slender, calloused finger pressed to her lips.
“I know you don’t eat much on the road, and what little you do is hardly good for you,” Nel murmurs, her voice concerned, head tilted to the side. Barely does she keep from saying, ‘You’re going to drive yourself to an early grave.’
Being one of the Vanguard alone had that effect.
Nodding, knowing that Nel would get her way even if she had to force it down her throat, Agatha takes a bite and is half delighted that it is crisp versus mushy.
Nel can only chuckle as Agatha wanders out of the house and back to the porch. Keeping that woman indoors during the daylight was impossible when she wasn’t on the road for a hunt. Nel really couldn’t blame her.
*****
The porch is silent but the for the shell chimes, even with both the women seated at the table. Agatha has long finished with gun, and instead divides her attention between the horizon and Nel beside her. While they are on either side of the table, Agatha has her hand clasped with Nel’s under the table. The sweet smell of sage fills her nose, and calms her as the sun dips below the horizon. It was now trained instinct for the taller of the women to become. . .tense and anxious at the dark. Combined with the gentle rubbing of Nel’s thumb over those myriad or so of thin, white scars that mar Agatha’s knuckles most predominately, the slender woman is almost at peace. Of course, there’s also the consideration of having a nice, filling meal of rice, bread, and vegetables to placate the woman. Sitting in the middle of the table is some earthen bowl that Agatha remembers Nel finding up stream some ways. A pattern adorns its sides, but its so well worn that any significance is lost. It is filled with ash, and stuck in the center is a tightly wound sprig of sage, the tips of it red with embers while smoke wafts from the slow burning herb and fills the immediate air around them.
Sighing, Agatha leans back in the chair that creaks with her every moment, that only has a few leather strands of the weaving that had filled in the open arch of the back. Glancing at Nel in the fading light, Agatha smiles, though Nel has her head tipped down. While one of her hands were tightly knit with Agatha’s, Nel’s other hand holds an e-pad, the dim light of it reflecting off of Nel’s gentle features. Her green eyes are cast almost blue as she reads from the digital text.
Opening her mouth at what must’ve been an hour’s silence, Agatha asks, “Whatcha reading?”
Without even a hint of annoyance, Nel looks up with a warm smile before answering, “You know, poetry. . .”
“Read one to me, please?” Agatha asks her expression almost becoming childlike for a faint moment.
It was quickly lost.
A scream cuts through the night air that has Agatha on her feet within the blink of an eye. Nel has discarded her epad on the table by the time Agatha has darted inside for her boots. Quietly, the raven-haired woman is cursing herself for his laxness as she tugs them on. In the next instance, she is wrapping a belt laden with a pistol and ammo, along with several knives around her slight waist. Nel is grabbing the shot gun.
“You’re not going,” Agatha chides.
Giving a snort, Nel replies, “The hell I’m not.”
They’re words that Agatha can’t argue with.
There are more important battles to fight, though Agatha knows she would shoot herself if anything ever happened to Nel.
Agatha first, Nel following, they’ve hardly made it past the door when a man carrying a firebrand and wearing the most terrified look as happened upon them.
“Monsters! On the green!” the man pants out, collapsing upon Nel’s lawn. Little notice is given as Agatha takes off like a wolf on the hunt when several series of gunshots rain out. Within moments, Agatha is near to the scene, Nel following soon after, shotgun clutched close.
Eyes wide, senses keen, Agatha can sense the violence in the air, taste the blood mingled with the moisture, and smell that oh-so distinct scent of copper and death.
“Stay back,” Agatha whispers, her voice providing no argument. Pistol out in one hand, her other hand behind her as a ward to Nel, Agatha knows it’s close. A crunching sound pervades her senses, and Agatha can hear the sound of sinew and tendons being ripped from bone before bone too is crunched down, followed by the drip and gurgle of fresh blood. A cart from a vendor out of town, closed down for the day, is knocked over, the side of it crumpled and splintered and spattered with blood. There is movement, a big, black hulking something that bleeds into the near blackness of night, leaned over and hunched before the cart, ripping and tearing with yellow-black fangs into human flesh.
It is a grisly sight for most, and Agatha can sense Nel taking a step back behind, can even feel the fear radiating off the normally steadfast woman.
For Agatha, it’s hardly a step outside of the normal for her.
Her mind is an archive of information upon monsters, and she flips through it like a well known book.
The beast is an Araquag. Taller than a large man, and stronger. Its body is black as inky water, and its broad, hunched back is covered in thick spines that form plating that protects its body from weapons. Wide shoulders combined with a narrow waist give it a triangular shape with gangly long arms hanging to its knees when standing. It has three fingers to each hand which it uses to handle its prey, each one tipped in a claw, some snaggled, others busted, all still razor sharp and dripping with gore.
Lifting her arms, aiming the pistol, Agatha calls, “Hey, you, ugly!”
Instantly the beast has reared up, turning around and discarding the length of intestine it had been shoveling in its now widely gaped maw. It screams at Agatha with a voice that is both shrill and deep at the same time, like the sound of nails over chalk board combined with a jet engine, while drawing itself to its full height, somewhere around nine feet, Agatha thinks. Its eyes are like hellfire, glowing orange globes, and its mouth is seemingly filled with the coals and embers of hell. It lacks a nose, only two slight slits for nostrils in a partial snout like protrusion.
It charges in the next instance, and Agatha knows there is only three weak spots. Two small eyes and that large, but now shutting mouth. Closer and closer it bolts forward, but Agatha stands her ground. She swears she can hear Nel screaming at her, swears she can feel Nel’s hand on her shoulder, but Agatha is detached. The shot comes to her and she snaps off four shots, the first ricochets off of thick carapace wrought by demon hands, the second bullet disintegrates an eye, the third glances off the snout, and the fourth catches the beast in the mouth. Howling the beast stumbles forward, almost about to bowl into Agatha and Nel by extension.
Agatha is quicker. Turning, she grabs Nel by an elbow and tugs herself and the other woman out of the way as the creature plunges snout first into the green grass that turns brown and rots by just the impure touch of a tainted beast.
Nel is shaking, Agatha can sense that, turning her head to Nel’s ear, Agatha eases the other woman back. “It’s going to get up in only a moment, it’s not dead, but if. . .when, it opens that ugly meat hole, I want you to shoot it there, you hear?” Agatha murmurs with predatory eyes aimed at the trembling and moaning beast. Nel nods, it’s shaky, but it’s a nod. Her green eyes are wide, Agatha can see that even in the dark of the night. But Agatha can’t fight all the battles, she can’t always protect Nel, Nel can’t be afraid. . .
Angrily it rises off the ground, red hot liquid not the color of blood running from its mouth and eye as it takes a heavy step towards the pair of women.
“Easy,” Agatha whispers, her hand braced against Nel’s back for support. Pistol still in hand, with two shots still left, Agatha relies on Nel instead.
It sidesteps, one good eye focused intently on the two women before it starts to circle slowly.
“Easy,” Agatha whispers again.
Then, after what had been a small eternity, it roars, and in time, Agatha speaks in a voice only meant for Nel. “Now.”
Nel pulls the trigger on queue, and the shot ends up blowing the entire left side of the beast’s jaw to pieces. It howls angrily, claws scrambling over its burning face. Yet the Araquag isn’t dead, not yet. It bounds forward, each step it takes unbalanced, but still full of momentum. Agatha only has time enough to shove Nel out of the path before the Araquag bowls into her and pins her to the ground. Its very touch not only burns her clothing but burns her skin, it’s like a hot brand being applied until the metal stuck to the flesh versus coming away clean.. Crying out, Agatha has enough cognizance to see Nel approaching the now still, but heavy Araquag that holds Agatha fettered.
“Don’t touch it!” Agatha shouts as she manages to wiggle free after a few, long, dreadful, painful moments. The skin on her stomach is raw, as is the skin on her shoulder, yet she’s alive, and she’ll live, or so she believes.
“Agatha?” came Nel’s worried voice.
Making it to her feet, Agatha muttered, “I’m fine. . .”
While she was in pain, Agatha was alert, looking for anymore of the beasts though she doubted she could take anymore on, especially after that. Some time during the scuffle, the town had roused the bells though Agatha only noticed them now. They rang loud and clear, sounds reverberating over the several square miles of which Ithaca was built upon, both to ward off weaker spirits who were affected by sound and iron, as well as warning the townspeople of harmful beings in the area.
Nel is by her side before she can argue with the woman. Now it’s Nel’s turn to support Agatha.
“Gods, Aggie,” Nel whispers, her voice almost graven as she glances between Agatha’s wounds and the dead Araquag.
Warning bells are still ringing, and Agatha, leaned against Nel, can see the dancing orbs of firebrands approaching. The night has only started, this Agatha knows. . .
***
The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, burning flesh and that distinct copper scent. A pile had been started at the center of the green where the Araquag had fallen. Doused with lamp fluid, then dusted with salt for purification, along with herbs of sage and logs of cedar for further purification lay the Araquag’s burning body and anything else piled atop of it, several of the slain included. Flames licked high into the air as Agatha watched the embers dance in the night air.
“How did it get in? The borders are all warded!” asked a distraught man, whom Agatha remember was the actual town’s current Sheriff.
With a roughly wrapped waist and shoulder, Agatha did her best to ignore the burning pain as she searched every nook. The wounds needed to be properly taken care of, which Nel had already insisted upon. Yet there were a few townspeople that had been found that had gotten in the Araquag’s path and lived to tell about it. Nel was currently attending to them.
Features knitting into consternation while eyeing the line of carts, Agatha passed by several people who were keeping a guard about the green. Araquags hunted alone, that Agatha knew, and had communicated as much. However, the problem was that other, lesser hellbeasts, often followed them in for the clean up. Striding up to the carts, paying particular attention to the ones from out of town, the slim woman checked each and every one of them out, even looking beneath them.
Coming to one, Agatha peaks under one and believes she sees a glistening fluid on the underside wood slats of the cart. Having retrieved her flashlight from Nel’s home an hour ago, a luxury in this day and age, Agatha flicked it on and smacked it against her leg to light the stubborn thing. Flashing the now bright light under it, Agatha’s features tightened.
“W-what is that?” a townsman asked, having followed Agatha to the cart. A firebrand was held in one of his hands, the other clutched a machete that shivered in his grasp.
“A spent egg sac,” Agatha replies as black fluid drips off the cart. At close inspection, she could see the stain and rot on the wood from that which was unpure. Below, the ground was brown and blackened, the grass completely melted away. Instead, black muck was all that remained.
“It grew that fast?” was the wide eye, worn-faced man’s question.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Agatha replies, her voice flat before she continues, “Get the others, burn it, and burn anything else that you find that has been tainted.
The man nodded, slow, but nodded before he tore off, yelling for help and assistance. Limping off, Agatha continued her rounds though she knew she was weakening. The wounds needed to be cleansed, but she should be good for an hour or two before the wounds started to poison her body.
“Are you alright?” Nel calls, brand in hand and looking quite dirtied with blood and dirt as she approaches while cleaning her hands off on her pants.
A pale faced Agatha looks to Nel before nodding weakly. Nel frowns.
Jogging up to Agatha’s side, fearing that the woman might pass out at any moment, Nel speaks, “No, you’re not, now we’re going home and I am going to look at those wounds of your’s, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Nel,” Agatha responds, too weak to argue as the other woman helps her home.
***
A cry broke her lips, a rare cry, and Nel knew Agatha was hurting as she applied a cleanser made from sea salt and alcohol. Seated at a kitchen chair, Agatha had her face turned away, looking all too pale with thick drops of sweat dripping down her trembling frame. The wound to Agatha’s stomach was the one that worried Nel most. By now, the wound had turned from what looked like a bad rash, to a wound licked by flames. Angry red skin that broke at contact caused Nel’s brow to knit.
“You should’ve let me see it earlier!” Nel curses.
“I had work to do,” Agatha rasps weakly before grunting as Nel padded more of the cleaner unto her ravaged flesh.
“Damn your work, Agatha, you’re going to kill yourself one of these days!” Nel chides as she sops the cloth back into the basis, ringing it out.
In response, Agatha can only sigh.
Anger draining out of Nel’s face, she murmurs, “Well, Agatha, you worry the hell out of me.” Sighing in turn, she lifts the rag before starting to probe at the rough bandage on Agatha’s shoulder.
“I’m going to take care of your shoulder now, alright?” Nel asks, looking to meet Agatha’s down turned eyes.
“‘Kay,” is Agatha’s faint response.
The woman remains quiet as Nel removes the bandages, though she hisses as the ooze from her broken skin sticks to the cloth bandage. As gentle as Nel is, it still hurts. Yet it soon hurts all the more as the salt and alcohol hits the wound. Moaning low, even wavering in her seat from the overwhelming pain, Agatha thinks she hears Nel telling her not to pass out. The thought to pass out is tempting, but for the moment she refuses even as the her vision narrows, the edges black like a dimly lit tunnel.
Head held low, her frame slumped, Agatha is grateful that Nel is done cleaning the wound.
“You stay there,” Nel murmurs as she rises from her seat, bowl of cleanser in hand along with the dirtied rag.
“Not going anywhere,” Agatha mumbles, thinking she’s going to be sick from the pain.
“Good, I’ll be right back,” Nel replies before hurrying out.
Soon, Nel is back, and Agatha looks up to the woman who has a new bowl in hand and rolls of bandage. Wordlessly, Nel sets to work, her features determined as she starts spreading a paste of what Agatha can only guess as a mix of aloe, rose petals, nettle and honey upon her burned flesh. At first it stings, prompting Agatha to gasp, but soon its soothing the wound’s pain away.
While wrapping the wound to keep the poultice in, Nel speaks in a firm tone, “I hope you know you are not leaving in the morning.”
“Nel, I have to,” Agatha replies lowly.
“No, you don’t, and you aren’t, and if I have to tie you to the gods’ damned bed, I will, Agatha,” Nel replies in such a firm voice that Agatha is left looking like a rebuked child.
Once her stomach is wrapped, Nel proceeds to apply the poultice to her shoulder, lips pressed in a firm line. No argument is offered by Agatha. It’s nearly morning, probably only a handful of hours away from the time she needed to be leaving for Denver. Exhausted, Agatha gives a heavy sigh as she leans against the table beside her with her uninjured side.
Having wrapped Agatha’s shoulder, Nel speaks, her voice falling to something much gentler, “Alright, lets get you to bed, alright? Then I’ll get you some tea. . .”
Agatha nods faintly, and it takes all of what remains of Agatha’s strength, as well as most of Nel’s, to get her back up. The walk to the bedroom is slow even agonizing, but Agatha looks at the bed, fairly large, as if it were a grand treasure. Nel is careful to lay Agatha down so she’s not resting on those tender wounds, but not before she’s pushed back the covers. The blankets are soft, old, but soft, made up of a patchwork. Some of the patches of cloth, Nel recognizes as part of an old shirt she had, other parts a bit of some rag Agatha had probably tried to insist was still good for wearing. Covering the sick woman up, she presses a kiss to her forehead before slipping out.
Warm, and somewhat comfortable, Agatha teeters between consciousness and rest. A candle flickers on the bedside table, and Agatha watches it from the corner of a steely eye for what must’ve been ten minutes before Nel returns. An old, earthen mug is held in her hand, and Agatha thinks she can see the steam rising up from the liquid container there within. Barely does Agatha note the weight on the bed as Nel sat at her side.
“Drink,” Nel whispers as she lowers the mug towards Agatha’s face. Reaching a hand beneath Agatha’s hand, the woman lifts her head off the goose-down pillow so Agatha can drink. The liquid is hot, almost too hot, almost hot enough to scald her tongue, but the taste is far worse. Still, Agatha listens, drinking the bitter valerian tea. She can also taste mint and honey, but they hardly can cover up the taste of bitter valerian root, but it’ll help with the pain. Drinking half, Agatha turns her head away.
“Tastes awful,” Agatha mumbles.
Nel smiles, setting the mug upon the bedside table before smoothing her hand over Agatha’s cheek. “Shush, go to sleep. . .”
Chapter: 1 part one, Bad Moon Rising
Word count: 6.5k words
Warnings: A girl on girl pairing. Nothing dirty or smutty. Far more gore than there is 'omg, 2 gurls n luv!' My muse is possessed by the way. Somewhat proofed, still expect errors all over the place. This is horror / supernatural related, basically, if you can handle SPN, this'll be fine or a cake walk, for the time being that is. Expect trippy stuff later.
Comments: This is the start of my first original fiction in almost four years. It's been awhile since I've tried to write a novel, and damn it feels good to be in the hang of things again. This is for my nano 2010, my first nano. If you have time and want to read, I'd love to get some feedback on this just to know I'm not too hairballed about this crazy thing.
Dust unfurls, curls in the air, only to be whisked away by the wind soon after it has been kicked into the air. Just as the wind sweeps the dust away, so does it sway the long grasses that are brown and dry, dead now, from the fifth drought in five years. Just as the grass is brown, and the dust reddish-brown, the sky is sickly, sallow yellow, with its highest reaches just barely tinged with blue, as if it had been bleached of all its color from the weary sun that is already beginning to make its descent towards the horizon in the west as the harvest moon rises from the east. The prairie air is hot, stifling, almost choking to the point that not a drop of moisture remains in the air.
But for the wind whistling through the bone dry blades of grass, the air is silent. It hadn’t been so some minutes ago, when the dust had been first tossed into the air. The prairie is strangely cut in half, between it runs an ancient stretch of highway that hasn’t seen true maintenance in years. While grass sprouts here and there, the surface is even, for the most part. The highway is dead silent, though a section is marred with fresh black streaks that resemble a child’s first attempt at writing his or her’s alphabet. It is a wild scrawl before it suddenly stops where the edge of the highway blends in with the edge of the prairie grass. There, the grasses have been flattened, and smoke rises up where dust had been. Still, an old beast of times long forgotten stands still, not yet reclaimed by time’s wear, though it too, will soon be the victim of the grinding gears of time.
Suddenly the air is alive again with noise, a roar of something that sounds like the death of a great predator. There is a squeal and screech as tires fight to free themselves from the soil that is now only loose sand and grit. The dreadful sounds continue as the iron beast tries to work itself free of the boulder which it has smashed itself upon. Grinding gears erupts from the dying beast, and as the clutch cables burn, the sound of a door opening is lost in the cacophony. A figure, with a bloodied face and tattered clothing, tumbles out of the driver’s side door, falling to the ground in a ball of numb limbs. There is no one else inside, but the car doesn’t stop, nor does its fit end. Door still open, it starts to creep back from the rock, metal crunching as it parts from unmoveable stone. The lithe figure laying upon the ground is weakly clutching at the dusty soil, trying to pull herself to safety from the two tons of angry, possessed steel.
The world is spinning for the woman, she can’t make heads or tails of anything. What way is up, and what way is down is a question she cannot answer. Everything is tan blur mottled red from the blood that is stinging her eyes. A crack to the head upon an old steering wheel has a habit of doing that, she thinks, dragging her body across the soil. She’s maybe three paces away when the old Cutlass rears back from what should’ve been its grave marker. Rolling onto her rear, as she scoots back, she starts to find clarity through the throbbing pain that is muddling her thoughts. It takes concentration, it takes years of training. The pain is pain, is only pain, is the mantra that breaks her lips.
It is still daylight, barely that is, but the Cutlass beams her lights right upon the still half incapacitated woman in the grass. With the front of the fascia crumpled, a broken head lamp, and the hood knocked ajar and crooked, the fastback Cutlass takes on almost a horrifying look, if it wasn’t horrifying as it was, driverless and homicidal. Gears grind again, as it shifts from reverse to first gear, before bolting towards the woman. Adrenaline is a funny thing, the woman thinks, as she finds her feet at the last moment and manages to roll out of the way. Brake lights bleed red light over the grass and smoke sputters from engine and exhaust both as the Cutlass stops, realizing its missed its mark with eyes it doesn’t have. White reverse lights flick on, and the gears grind again as it aims to try to back over the driver. Once again, the woman makes it out by the skin of her teeth. This time, she remains on her feet, running sluggishly, but running none the less.
Scrambling for the boulders which the Cutlass had impaled itself upon earlier, she scrambles up one poking just above the tall grass, and the Cutlass, gone berserk, rear ends the stone. Angrily, the engine roars as it shifts back into drive. With the right quarter now crumpled, it looks hardly like it had only ten minutes prior. The woman, catching her breath, hurriedly tries to think with a mind that is hardly capable of thinking. Her tools, are in the trunk and the back seat, all she has on her is a small pistol on her hip, and dagger tucked into an old worn boot. Blood continues to streak down from the gash in her forehead, causing the woman to wipe at it as she stood up, watching as the Cutlass trundled away, circling about with its chrome bumper dragging on the ground before it.
It’s nothing more than a rabid beast, she tells herself, no longer what it had been. It had went wild, she says, shoulders squared as she pulls the pistol from her hip, a pistol that’s older than she, but not quite as old as the Cutlass that was already turning its headlights back on her. Gunmetal eyes focusing despite blood creeping over her brow, she extends her arm in a smooth arc, pointing the gun and firing a split moment later. The shot is true, and blows the left tire, slowing the monstrosity that much more. Aim shifting marginally, she fires again barely flinching from the sound that pains her ears, nailing the right tire that blows with an audible pop. Hearing the engine rev hard, she knows she’s angered the beast that possesses her once loyal steed even more.
Then again, that was the risk, wasn’t it? It had always been possessed. A demon beaten and melded to the will of a Vanguard was still a demon, and it could always revert at any moment. She had been lucky, lucky that the Cutlass had stayed under control for so many years. As she clambers up onto one of the large boulders, she’s thankful of how incensed the Cutlass is, to the point it borders on pure, blind range. With two flats, the Cutlass ambles its way towards the boulder field, too focused on trying to kill the woman who had held it under control to notice the boulders for a third time. Once again it collides, smashing its front fascia even more. The sound of grinding metal and shattering headlights causes the woman to wince, but she doesn’t waste a moment. Scooting forward, she reaches her hands out before grabbing the hood. With it knocked ajar, she simply has to shove it back, and hard, so that it slams against the Cutlass’s cracked windshield.
Exposed, the Cutlass throws itself into reverse, but the woman is faster, as she clambers atop the exposed engine. Instantly, she can feel the heat of the metal stinging her through the thick pants she wears. A black sludge is bubbling from the engine block, and the smell causes her to wrinkle her bloodied features in disgust. It is a deep acrid smell, a smell that burns the back of her throat, to the point she holds her breath. The thick coppery smell lingers in her nose however until her eyes water. There’s no time for even registering such things, as the Cutlass jerks and jolts over the uneven landscape. Clinging with one hand to the side of the engine compartment, the woman’s other hand, still holding the pistol, she aims it before emptying the remaining rounds, iron clad and pure, into the heart of the bubbling black mass. A hard tremor shakes her as the final round buries itself into the mass hidden within the engine compartment. In the next instant, the engine falls completely silent, and the car becomes just as still. Shaking, the woman looks down into the engine compartment once more before she realizes her legs are still being burned from the heat coming off the now dead engine. Rolling off from the top of it, she settles onto the ground and leans up against the wheel well. A hard sigh breaks from her lips just before she passes out from her injuries.
***
Two Weeks Prior. . .
“Aggie!” calls a voice that just barely manages to grab her attention over the sound of the 455 small block of the Cutlass, which she stands before, making sure everything was running properly.
“What?!” she yells back as she peaks around the opened hood to a pleasant faced woman dashing out of a rough old building.
The day is a bright one, even at morning, the sun shines brilliantly, gleaming down on the little hamlet that is Ithaca, Nebraska. The little town is one worn and old, but still holds life. Little houses and settlements pepper the area, mixed between fields and barns. Green grasses and green fields are the only green in miles around. A river that sources from an underground lake runs to the west of Ithaca, supplying the town with clean, good water. The river also allows for a modest, well, extremely modest, hydroelectric plant that provides the town with some electricity. It isn’t paradise, but it isn’t hell either, not that the times are always good. But this year, Ithaca is without drought.
All the houses are small, simple structures. Some are made of brick, others are cobbled together with whatever the residents can find, others are structures that have been passed down the generations. Most lack a solid coat of paint or are else painted with a ramshackle mush of colors, but do have windows, windows that are wide opened to allow in the cool morning air, and little comforts like potted plants, though most are spice plants rather than ornamental. Some porches have wind chimes hanging from them, but they too, like the plants, are more than just decorative.
The other woman is wearing a bright smile, and she quickly strides up to the car. Reaching into the opened window, she turns the ignition to the off position. The Cutlass’s engine quickly dies, prompting ‘Aggie,’ to yell, “Hey! C’mon, I was working, Nel!” Her tone lacks anger however, just simple indignation.
“But it’s first thing in the morning, you woke me up, Agatha, again,” Nel replies, placing her hands on her hips.
A look at Nel, from Agatha, tells her that it’s indeed true. Nel is wearing that simple, bag shaped night dress she always does, and her sandy blonde hair, glistening under the early morning sunlight, is left out of its usual french braid, instead curled and crimped and hanging past her tanned shoulder blades exposed by one side of the dress slumped off a shoulder. There’s an annoyed expression on Nel’s face, one sandy eyebrow lowered, another up, while her green eyes are squinted from the light of the sun. Her lips, full and peach-colored, are turned into a slight frown.
“You know I like to get any work I do early in day before it gets too hot,” Agatha responds, her voice almost a whine. Wiping her hands on a cloth that had been stuffed in her pocket, she approaches Nel who seems apt to playing angry and annoyed. Where Nel’s frame leans towards a more curvy side, Agatha on the other hand is quite slim, practically underweight. Nel always insisted that Agatha needed to eat more. They are nearly the same height, but Agatha is a little taller. Where Nel has long hair that reaches past her shoulders dry, and longer than that after a shower, Agatha’s hair is short and nearly black. Any longer, and it’d be in the way, was Agatha’s reasoning. Her skin is not quite as tanned as Nel’s, but, then again, Nel worked outside every day, and there were far too many days that Agatha pulled the ‘night shift.’
Sighing, Nel tilts her head to the side before crossing her arms across her chest. “Well, I like getting some sleep, too,” she murmurs before shaking her head.
Reaching a hand out, she grabs for one of Agatha’s, the one not holding the rag. “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon again. . .Do you really have to leave tomorrow?” Nel admits as she rubs her thumb over the little white scars the crisscross Agatha’s knuckles.
“I know. . .and yes. . .” Agatha replies, looking down and to the side. “But an assignment is an assignment, and it’s only Denver. I won’t be too far, and it’s supposed to be just a few exorcisms. . .” Agatha tries to reassure.
“Than why do you need to go? Shouldn’t someone just call one of those holy men?” Nel asks with an upraised eyebrow.
“Heh, and let them have all the fun? No,” Agatha teased, looking up so she could meet Nel’s eyes. “Just be patient, I’ll be back soon, and I promise that I’ll take some time off, k?” Agatha asks.
“You’d have better,” Nel pouts before pressing a chaste kiss to Agatha’s jaw.
Agatha sighs at the kiss, eyes narrowing as thick black eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. “I will,” she whispers.
“You need another bath. You smell like oil and dead things, as always,” Nel chides as she embraces the other woman briefly before making an about face back to the house.
Agatha can only chuckle.
***
The beautiful morning turns into a beautiful day. Ithaca, while small, is busy. Everyone is out, both adults and children, or the few that have survived the hard years. At the center of town, people have put up a small market. Most vendors are locals, but a few of the merchants are from other places, some of which are far off, some just some miles down the road from the other small settlements. Most have just arrived to see what they can trade for. Vegetables and fruits, though small, are abundant this year, filling baskets of the booths arranged upon the village green. A small bakery churns out loaf after loaf of bread, there is still a store of last year’s wheat, enough to sell and enough to eat. Goats wander the green while their shepherds focus on selling cheeses and milks from the precious livestock.
Not everyone is at the market, however, though most are. For Agatha, the nice day with the right amount of breeze, was the sort of day to be spent out on the half rotted porch connected to Nel's home.
They had always talked that they were going to tear it down and start anew.
Things had always come up.
Chimes made of seashells that Agatha had picked up in a stint on the east coast clattered softly in the wind as a ward to ghosts and any other ill-meaning spirits. It was a calming sound, and Agatha hummed as she sat in a chair that was only a little less worse for wear than the porch. A table beside Agatha was covered with firearms in various states of cleanliness and completion. Brush in one hand, and the barrel off of some old rifle, Agatha's action were completely methodical as she cleaned each and every piece of weaponry.
Her feet, bare, are kicked up on a stool that hardly sits level with one leg shorter than the other two. Freshly cleaned from a bath in the river, Agatha’s jet hair hangs in loose coils about the crown of her head. It was hardly brushed, but Agatha had worked her fingers through it, though with it so short, there were few tangles to begin with. Her shirt is sleeveless, plain linen that hangs off her lithe frame. Her stomach is half exposed, her pants some sort of clingy synthetic, hanging half below her belly button and barely held up at that point by a belt.
When that was done, Agatha moved onto sharpening every blade in her arsenal. The sound of metal, some old, some new, on a whetstone that was needing replacement, and soon, was practically rhythmic, though it slowed as the slim woman heard the porch creak. A smile lit her normally tense features as she took in Nel’s visage as she strode gracefully over the creaky, rotted, grey wood of the porch. Her arms are laden in rough, burlap sacks containing the woman’s buys for the day. She wears a rough pair of sandals that have seen several repairs. Tawny pants, starting mid shin, and ending mid hip cling to the woman’s legs in a way that Agatha definitely finds pleasant. Nel’s shirt is of simple linen that had once been a deep maroon, but is now barely the color of the cherry blossoms that bloom in late spring on the river.
“You going to sit there all day?” Nel asks, lifting one of her thick, crescent eyebrows in consternation.
“Maybe,” is Agatha’s answer, though it comes with a smile.
Nel sighs, rolling her eyes up into her head until Agatha can see more white than green. The expression prompts an almost buck toothed grin from Agatha, who, gingerly sets her current project down, a small hand pistol with mother of pearl inlay upon its grip, to rise smoothly off the chair. Crossing the porch to take half or so of the bags in Nel’s possession, Agatha hums as she makes her way to the door that half hangs off its frame. Agatha does plan to fix that before she leaves.
Holding the door open, Agatha lets a brief smirk cross her features as Nel strides in with a sniff.
Following after, Agatha barely eyes the house within. Porch rotted, paint faded, the home inside is in considerably better repair. True, the walls haven’t been painted in years, and the furniture is worn, scratched, scuffed, but it’s still solid. As Nel says, it still has years of life to it. The home is clean, and even appears spacious. Sometimes Agatha had joked, much to Nel’s disapproval, that Nel was a witch with powers to make a house bigger inside than what it was outside.
Striding through the living room, with its old couch, rocker, and several bookcases mixed with books and e-pads, Agatha pads over the rugs as she follows Nel into the kitchen. The kitchen is simple, just as everything is in Nel’s house. Laying the bags on the counter, Agatha eyes the bags with great interest as she stuffs her hands in the pockets of her loose pants that are only held on by an old belt that is probably older than Agatha.
“You know, they say curiosity killed the cat, but you could help me unload all these,” Nel murmurs as she casts a look over her shoulder at Agatha. . .
***
Giving a low whistle, Agatha looks over the small bounty that has been unloaded from the burlap sacks. There’s tomatoes, around eight of them, carrots, even cucumbers; which are Agatha’s favorite, lettuce, apples, pears, several loaves of bread, and most noticeably a medium sack of rice. Rice was a rare commodity. Nebraska, even green Ithaca, was much too dry of a place for a rice paddy.
Nel is across the room, placing the goat milk, goat cheese and the fresh dozen of eggs in the icebox. “There was a merchant from the West coast, can you believe it?” Nel asks.
“Crazy bastard,” is Agatha’s response as she folds up the bags and places them in a cabinet.
Nel chuckles, “A lot of folks might say the same about you, Aggie,” Nel replies as she shuts the door to the icebox, making sure it seals.
“But I’m better armed,” Agatha says with a curt nod, as if it made all the difference in the world.
Sighing, Nel shakes her head before padding over to the counter. Taking an apple, one of the tart, green ones, she presses it into Agatha’s hand. “Go eat,” she says, changing the subject.
The limber woman frowns, quirks an eyebrow and is about to speak but is stopped by a slender, calloused finger pressed to her lips.
“I know you don’t eat much on the road, and what little you do is hardly good for you,” Nel murmurs, her voice concerned, head tilted to the side. Barely does she keep from saying, ‘You’re going to drive yourself to an early grave.’
Being one of the Vanguard alone had that effect.
Nodding, knowing that Nel would get her way even if she had to force it down her throat, Agatha takes a bite and is half delighted that it is crisp versus mushy.
Nel can only chuckle as Agatha wanders out of the house and back to the porch. Keeping that woman indoors during the daylight was impossible when she wasn’t on the road for a hunt. Nel really couldn’t blame her.
*****
The porch is silent but the for the shell chimes, even with both the women seated at the table. Agatha has long finished with gun, and instead divides her attention between the horizon and Nel beside her. While they are on either side of the table, Agatha has her hand clasped with Nel’s under the table. The sweet smell of sage fills her nose, and calms her as the sun dips below the horizon. It was now trained instinct for the taller of the women to become. . .tense and anxious at the dark. Combined with the gentle rubbing of Nel’s thumb over those myriad or so of thin, white scars that mar Agatha’s knuckles most predominately, the slender woman is almost at peace. Of course, there’s also the consideration of having a nice, filling meal of rice, bread, and vegetables to placate the woman. Sitting in the middle of the table is some earthen bowl that Agatha remembers Nel finding up stream some ways. A pattern adorns its sides, but its so well worn that any significance is lost. It is filled with ash, and stuck in the center is a tightly wound sprig of sage, the tips of it red with embers while smoke wafts from the slow burning herb and fills the immediate air around them.
Sighing, Agatha leans back in the chair that creaks with her every moment, that only has a few leather strands of the weaving that had filled in the open arch of the back. Glancing at Nel in the fading light, Agatha smiles, though Nel has her head tipped down. While one of her hands were tightly knit with Agatha’s, Nel’s other hand holds an e-pad, the dim light of it reflecting off of Nel’s gentle features. Her green eyes are cast almost blue as she reads from the digital text.
Opening her mouth at what must’ve been an hour’s silence, Agatha asks, “Whatcha reading?”
Without even a hint of annoyance, Nel looks up with a warm smile before answering, “You know, poetry. . .”
“Read one to me, please?” Agatha asks her expression almost becoming childlike for a faint moment.
It was quickly lost.
A scream cuts through the night air that has Agatha on her feet within the blink of an eye. Nel has discarded her epad on the table by the time Agatha has darted inside for her boots. Quietly, the raven-haired woman is cursing herself for his laxness as she tugs them on. In the next instance, she is wrapping a belt laden with a pistol and ammo, along with several knives around her slight waist. Nel is grabbing the shot gun.
“You’re not going,” Agatha chides.
Giving a snort, Nel replies, “The hell I’m not.”
They’re words that Agatha can’t argue with.
There are more important battles to fight, though Agatha knows she would shoot herself if anything ever happened to Nel.
Agatha first, Nel following, they’ve hardly made it past the door when a man carrying a firebrand and wearing the most terrified look as happened upon them.
“Monsters! On the green!” the man pants out, collapsing upon Nel’s lawn. Little notice is given as Agatha takes off like a wolf on the hunt when several series of gunshots rain out. Within moments, Agatha is near to the scene, Nel following soon after, shotgun clutched close.
Eyes wide, senses keen, Agatha can sense the violence in the air, taste the blood mingled with the moisture, and smell that oh-so distinct scent of copper and death.
“Stay back,” Agatha whispers, her voice providing no argument. Pistol out in one hand, her other hand behind her as a ward to Nel, Agatha knows it’s close. A crunching sound pervades her senses, and Agatha can hear the sound of sinew and tendons being ripped from bone before bone too is crunched down, followed by the drip and gurgle of fresh blood. A cart from a vendor out of town, closed down for the day, is knocked over, the side of it crumpled and splintered and spattered with blood. There is movement, a big, black hulking something that bleeds into the near blackness of night, leaned over and hunched before the cart, ripping and tearing with yellow-black fangs into human flesh.
It is a grisly sight for most, and Agatha can sense Nel taking a step back behind, can even feel the fear radiating off the normally steadfast woman.
For Agatha, it’s hardly a step outside of the normal for her.
Her mind is an archive of information upon monsters, and she flips through it like a well known book.
The beast is an Araquag. Taller than a large man, and stronger. Its body is black as inky water, and its broad, hunched back is covered in thick spines that form plating that protects its body from weapons. Wide shoulders combined with a narrow waist give it a triangular shape with gangly long arms hanging to its knees when standing. It has three fingers to each hand which it uses to handle its prey, each one tipped in a claw, some snaggled, others busted, all still razor sharp and dripping with gore.
Lifting her arms, aiming the pistol, Agatha calls, “Hey, you, ugly!”
Instantly the beast has reared up, turning around and discarding the length of intestine it had been shoveling in its now widely gaped maw. It screams at Agatha with a voice that is both shrill and deep at the same time, like the sound of nails over chalk board combined with a jet engine, while drawing itself to its full height, somewhere around nine feet, Agatha thinks. Its eyes are like hellfire, glowing orange globes, and its mouth is seemingly filled with the coals and embers of hell. It lacks a nose, only two slight slits for nostrils in a partial snout like protrusion.
It charges in the next instance, and Agatha knows there is only three weak spots. Two small eyes and that large, but now shutting mouth. Closer and closer it bolts forward, but Agatha stands her ground. She swears she can hear Nel screaming at her, swears she can feel Nel’s hand on her shoulder, but Agatha is detached. The shot comes to her and she snaps off four shots, the first ricochets off of thick carapace wrought by demon hands, the second bullet disintegrates an eye, the third glances off the snout, and the fourth catches the beast in the mouth. Howling the beast stumbles forward, almost about to bowl into Agatha and Nel by extension.
Agatha is quicker. Turning, she grabs Nel by an elbow and tugs herself and the other woman out of the way as the creature plunges snout first into the green grass that turns brown and rots by just the impure touch of a tainted beast.
Nel is shaking, Agatha can sense that, turning her head to Nel’s ear, Agatha eases the other woman back. “It’s going to get up in only a moment, it’s not dead, but if. . .when, it opens that ugly meat hole, I want you to shoot it there, you hear?” Agatha murmurs with predatory eyes aimed at the trembling and moaning beast. Nel nods, it’s shaky, but it’s a nod. Her green eyes are wide, Agatha can see that even in the dark of the night. But Agatha can’t fight all the battles, she can’t always protect Nel, Nel can’t be afraid. . .
Angrily it rises off the ground, red hot liquid not the color of blood running from its mouth and eye as it takes a heavy step towards the pair of women.
“Easy,” Agatha whispers, her hand braced against Nel’s back for support. Pistol still in hand, with two shots still left, Agatha relies on Nel instead.
It sidesteps, one good eye focused intently on the two women before it starts to circle slowly.
“Easy,” Agatha whispers again.
Then, after what had been a small eternity, it roars, and in time, Agatha speaks in a voice only meant for Nel. “Now.”
Nel pulls the trigger on queue, and the shot ends up blowing the entire left side of the beast’s jaw to pieces. It howls angrily, claws scrambling over its burning face. Yet the Araquag isn’t dead, not yet. It bounds forward, each step it takes unbalanced, but still full of momentum. Agatha only has time enough to shove Nel out of the path before the Araquag bowls into her and pins her to the ground. Its very touch not only burns her clothing but burns her skin, it’s like a hot brand being applied until the metal stuck to the flesh versus coming away clean.. Crying out, Agatha has enough cognizance to see Nel approaching the now still, but heavy Araquag that holds Agatha fettered.
“Don’t touch it!” Agatha shouts as she manages to wiggle free after a few, long, dreadful, painful moments. The skin on her stomach is raw, as is the skin on her shoulder, yet she’s alive, and she’ll live, or so she believes.
“Agatha?” came Nel’s worried voice.
Making it to her feet, Agatha muttered, “I’m fine. . .”
While she was in pain, Agatha was alert, looking for anymore of the beasts though she doubted she could take anymore on, especially after that. Some time during the scuffle, the town had roused the bells though Agatha only noticed them now. They rang loud and clear, sounds reverberating over the several square miles of which Ithaca was built upon, both to ward off weaker spirits who were affected by sound and iron, as well as warning the townspeople of harmful beings in the area.
Nel is by her side before she can argue with the woman. Now it’s Nel’s turn to support Agatha.
“Gods, Aggie,” Nel whispers, her voice almost graven as she glances between Agatha’s wounds and the dead Araquag.
Warning bells are still ringing, and Agatha, leaned against Nel, can see the dancing orbs of firebrands approaching. The night has only started, this Agatha knows. . .
***
The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, burning flesh and that distinct copper scent. A pile had been started at the center of the green where the Araquag had fallen. Doused with lamp fluid, then dusted with salt for purification, along with herbs of sage and logs of cedar for further purification lay the Araquag’s burning body and anything else piled atop of it, several of the slain included. Flames licked high into the air as Agatha watched the embers dance in the night air.
“How did it get in? The borders are all warded!” asked a distraught man, whom Agatha remember was the actual town’s current Sheriff.
With a roughly wrapped waist and shoulder, Agatha did her best to ignore the burning pain as she searched every nook. The wounds needed to be properly taken care of, which Nel had already insisted upon. Yet there were a few townspeople that had been found that had gotten in the Araquag’s path and lived to tell about it. Nel was currently attending to them.
Features knitting into consternation while eyeing the line of carts, Agatha passed by several people who were keeping a guard about the green. Araquags hunted alone, that Agatha knew, and had communicated as much. However, the problem was that other, lesser hellbeasts, often followed them in for the clean up. Striding up to the carts, paying particular attention to the ones from out of town, the slim woman checked each and every one of them out, even looking beneath them.
Coming to one, Agatha peaks under one and believes she sees a glistening fluid on the underside wood slats of the cart. Having retrieved her flashlight from Nel’s home an hour ago, a luxury in this day and age, Agatha flicked it on and smacked it against her leg to light the stubborn thing. Flashing the now bright light under it, Agatha’s features tightened.
“W-what is that?” a townsman asked, having followed Agatha to the cart. A firebrand was held in one of his hands, the other clutched a machete that shivered in his grasp.
“A spent egg sac,” Agatha replies as black fluid drips off the cart. At close inspection, she could see the stain and rot on the wood from that which was unpure. Below, the ground was brown and blackened, the grass completely melted away. Instead, black muck was all that remained.
“It grew that fast?” was the wide eye, worn-faced man’s question.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Agatha replies, her voice flat before she continues, “Get the others, burn it, and burn anything else that you find that has been tainted.
The man nodded, slow, but nodded before he tore off, yelling for help and assistance. Limping off, Agatha continued her rounds though she knew she was weakening. The wounds needed to be cleansed, but she should be good for an hour or two before the wounds started to poison her body.
“Are you alright?” Nel calls, brand in hand and looking quite dirtied with blood and dirt as she approaches while cleaning her hands off on her pants.
A pale faced Agatha looks to Nel before nodding weakly. Nel frowns.
Jogging up to Agatha’s side, fearing that the woman might pass out at any moment, Nel speaks, “No, you’re not, now we’re going home and I am going to look at those wounds of your’s, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Nel,” Agatha responds, too weak to argue as the other woman helps her home.
***
A cry broke her lips, a rare cry, and Nel knew Agatha was hurting as she applied a cleanser made from sea salt and alcohol. Seated at a kitchen chair, Agatha had her face turned away, looking all too pale with thick drops of sweat dripping down her trembling frame. The wound to Agatha’s stomach was the one that worried Nel most. By now, the wound had turned from what looked like a bad rash, to a wound licked by flames. Angry red skin that broke at contact caused Nel’s brow to knit.
“You should’ve let me see it earlier!” Nel curses.
“I had work to do,” Agatha rasps weakly before grunting as Nel padded more of the cleaner unto her ravaged flesh.
“Damn your work, Agatha, you’re going to kill yourself one of these days!” Nel chides as she sops the cloth back into the basis, ringing it out.
In response, Agatha can only sigh.
Anger draining out of Nel’s face, she murmurs, “Well, Agatha, you worry the hell out of me.” Sighing in turn, she lifts the rag before starting to probe at the rough bandage on Agatha’s shoulder.
“I’m going to take care of your shoulder now, alright?” Nel asks, looking to meet Agatha’s down turned eyes.
“‘Kay,” is Agatha’s faint response.
The woman remains quiet as Nel removes the bandages, though she hisses as the ooze from her broken skin sticks to the cloth bandage. As gentle as Nel is, it still hurts. Yet it soon hurts all the more as the salt and alcohol hits the wound. Moaning low, even wavering in her seat from the overwhelming pain, Agatha thinks she hears Nel telling her not to pass out. The thought to pass out is tempting, but for the moment she refuses even as the her vision narrows, the edges black like a dimly lit tunnel.
Head held low, her frame slumped, Agatha is grateful that Nel is done cleaning the wound.
“You stay there,” Nel murmurs as she rises from her seat, bowl of cleanser in hand along with the dirtied rag.
“Not going anywhere,” Agatha mumbles, thinking she’s going to be sick from the pain.
“Good, I’ll be right back,” Nel replies before hurrying out.
Soon, Nel is back, and Agatha looks up to the woman who has a new bowl in hand and rolls of bandage. Wordlessly, Nel sets to work, her features determined as she starts spreading a paste of what Agatha can only guess as a mix of aloe, rose petals, nettle and honey upon her burned flesh. At first it stings, prompting Agatha to gasp, but soon its soothing the wound’s pain away.
While wrapping the wound to keep the poultice in, Nel speaks in a firm tone, “I hope you know you are not leaving in the morning.”
“Nel, I have to,” Agatha replies lowly.
“No, you don’t, and you aren’t, and if I have to tie you to the gods’ damned bed, I will, Agatha,” Nel replies in such a firm voice that Agatha is left looking like a rebuked child.
Once her stomach is wrapped, Nel proceeds to apply the poultice to her shoulder, lips pressed in a firm line. No argument is offered by Agatha. It’s nearly morning, probably only a handful of hours away from the time she needed to be leaving for Denver. Exhausted, Agatha gives a heavy sigh as she leans against the table beside her with her uninjured side.
Having wrapped Agatha’s shoulder, Nel speaks, her voice falling to something much gentler, “Alright, lets get you to bed, alright? Then I’ll get you some tea. . .”
Agatha nods faintly, and it takes all of what remains of Agatha’s strength, as well as most of Nel’s, to get her back up. The walk to the bedroom is slow even agonizing, but Agatha looks at the bed, fairly large, as if it were a grand treasure. Nel is careful to lay Agatha down so she’s not resting on those tender wounds, but not before she’s pushed back the covers. The blankets are soft, old, but soft, made up of a patchwork. Some of the patches of cloth, Nel recognizes as part of an old shirt she had, other parts a bit of some rag Agatha had probably tried to insist was still good for wearing. Covering the sick woman up, she presses a kiss to her forehead before slipping out.
Warm, and somewhat comfortable, Agatha teeters between consciousness and rest. A candle flickers on the bedside table, and Agatha watches it from the corner of a steely eye for what must’ve been ten minutes before Nel returns. An old, earthen mug is held in her hand, and Agatha thinks she can see the steam rising up from the liquid container there within. Barely does Agatha note the weight on the bed as Nel sat at her side.
“Drink,” Nel whispers as she lowers the mug towards Agatha’s face. Reaching a hand beneath Agatha’s hand, the woman lifts her head off the goose-down pillow so Agatha can drink. The liquid is hot, almost too hot, almost hot enough to scald her tongue, but the taste is far worse. Still, Agatha listens, drinking the bitter valerian tea. She can also taste mint and honey, but they hardly can cover up the taste of bitter valerian root, but it’ll help with the pain. Drinking half, Agatha turns her head away.
“Tastes awful,” Agatha mumbles.
Nel smiles, setting the mug upon the bedside table before smoothing her hand over Agatha’s cheek. “Shush, go to sleep. . .”