Somewhere in this world is a ravenous green forest. From the ends of a steep ravine it bloomed, verdant treetops reaching for the heavens above. The flush green acts as a lure for the weary wanderer, who plummets to the depths to feed the forest's appetite.
At the birthplace of the deadly forest in its darkest corners is an unusual construction. So far from human life, a beautiful manor is erected. To further isolate it, every single window is barred and bolted by wooden planks, not a chink to be found in its armor.
Hidden within the fortress's finest hole is an old man who mourns, for he has lost his beloved son. Somewhere in the world, the soft beat of his kin's heart gave out, leaving his father to do naught but weep.
During the nights, he agonizes over the cruelty. During the days, he dreams peacefully of justice. He prays, the time for penance is nigh.
***
Sylvester is decisive, of the type who can make a possibly life-changing choice at a moment's notice, like merging into a different lane mere moments after he flicks the turn signal on while I sit on plastic-covered fake leather in the backseat behind Irene, who fiddles with the radio.
Enjoying the now warmer wind on my face, the agreeably clean and smooth roads, and the appearance of an occasional lone tree, trimmed to geometrical perfection, I'm pleased to find that tart voice slowly diffusing into the deeper recesses of my consciousness. Sometimes, it feels as if everywhere I go, I'm bound to encounter types like that. Is it normal for people to be so ridiculous? As we head up a highway, I remind the captain,
"Don't forget to go right when it opens up. We're going to the 'Super Bazaar Center', right? You'll know the sign when you see it…"
Sylvester doesn't respond, but Irene says, "We should make it quick. I've created a large window for us, but nonetheless, we can't become used to dilly-dallying. After we're through with everything, it's straight home for us. We still need to set up a proper medium for scrying."
"And how long should that take?"
"Not more than an hour. Why'd you ask? Could you be meeting somebody?"
"No, no, I haven't gotten in touch with anyone yet. But, I can't coop up in the house, it gets me antsy. We can go get lunch, right?"
"I do not object. Until you're well rested, we won't do anything too taxing." She peers at me through her side-view mirror, her black eyes still, reminiscent of the lens of a camera. I lean back into the cushions, feeling the soreness of my joints, the weariness of my overextended muscles, and most importantly, the near emptiness in my chest.
My body hasn't restocked on the fuel needed for spellcasting quite yet. Mirth and warmth well up in the space of emptiness, my gratefulness towards the savior rising up again, in spite of her personal failings.
The car swerves to turn and we begin a downwards path, the age-old shopping center revealing itself tucked between two large buildings, advertised by a wilting yellow print and explosive red letters on a billboard, all the same age as myself.
The car moves to-and-fro three or four times before Sylvester parks satisfyingly, and the three of us embark into the center. I've been here often enough to know the finest and most serviceable clothing store that's also affordable.
It may seem ridiculous to worry about money as our payday looms with a friendly grin, but it's a principle among all rational people to not spend what you don't yet have. Into 'Bargain Bin' I step, and am met with a long room, decorated with nothing but white wallpaper of the same texture as crumpled paper, and a long assortment of clothes hung on racks, a rainbow with black and white speckled every few steps. Exactly the same as before.
Irene strides straight through into the shop. I stand at the threshold of the shop for a deliberate moment, before a voice calls out, "Watcha looking at?"
I flinch away from Sylvester reflexively, tearing away from his intruding voice. A glacial instant flits by, before I reply, "Sorry, what'd you say?"
"Nothing much," he provides, following Irene. The four-eyed clerk casually glances towards us with something like indignation in his arched brow, or perhaps entertainment. That brand of nastiness won't get him anywhere in life.
Following the pair down the gallery, picking out clothes turns out to be trying. It goes without saying that uniforms should be uniform, but nothing in this place is, beside the enclosing walls and the faint blue tile floor.
At the least, there's a real surplus of black. Will we have to go down that route? I remark, "This doesn't have to be the last outfit we ever get, you know? It just needs to be a little presentable and we're good to go."
"It's a real pain to redesign. We ought to afford ourselves a bit of creativity now."
Sylvester nods in agreement, wrenching a green T-shirt up to get a better look at the bullish bluish frog illustrated on it, covered in hideous warts. To present an alternate solution, I grab a wooly black coat, suited well for this winter.
"It is getting warmer already, but it's a working idea," swiftly concludes Irene.
Thus, generic passes. Twenty five minutes later, the three of us wait at a cafe table in the grey cobbled courtyard of the center.
It's suddenly gotten a lot busier than it was when we first got here as the sun inches towards the very apex of the sky. We stand out a little bit, being dressed so similarly and so inappropriately.
I sip lemonade to keep my body cool, even though I took my jacket off five minutes ago. Every month, something insane like this happens; you can't call it freak weather if it's a completely regular happening.
"So, think we'll be done by tomorrow?"
Irene peers at my watch before responding, "Sooner. The Association is usually more punctual than this. It's already a fifth-to-twelve."
"Are we really gonna meet 'em out here? It's getting real crowded." Sylvester states to us the obvious.
"Cava, that's not something you should dwell upon."
And then, we were four. Out of thin air and over the table leans a man with a shaved head. In a ringed finger, he gingerly holds a glass of mint lemonade, not spilling a drop of the drink Sylvester knocked off the table in surprise. My eyes are glued to the appearing phantom, and I manage to ask breathlessly, "Who are you?" After yesterday, I think a surprise entry like this can't manage to get me off balance for even a minute.
He remarks, "I did not mean to draw such a reaction. Irregardless, nobody looking in from outside will glean a thing. Please, let us begin."
Once Sylvester has settled shakily back into his seat, the mage starts, "My name is Ethel Bloom. Pleasure to meet you, mages of 'Last Minute'. It was pleasing to be assigned to be the bearer of good news," he says while looking at Irene with a toothy grin, which he shortly puts away.
To grab his attention, I ask, "Well then, Mr. Bloom, what've you got for us?"
"Straight to the point, I suppose. I have three gifts. First of them all, thank you for your service in the obliteration of an actively dangerous monster. Killing a vampire is no small chore. We at Regulation appreciate you."
Without giving us a moment to savor the praise, he reaches into his pant pocket, drawing from within a crisp white envelope. "And second is this. Your check, my friends. You can deposit it at any of the banks listed in the envelope…"
Taking the envelope from Bloom, my finger teases the green wax seal, but I decide against opening it now, tucking it into my coat pocket. I can hardly let go of it, and my heart pounds with excitement. The man's speech slows as he continues,
"And last, and most certainly not least, we have identified the vampire you executed." At this, the woman at my left finally shows some sign of surprise at the suddenness of all this, merely furrowing her brow. She interjects,
"That was quick. Was it of a notable lineage?"
Bloom says, "Indeed. It didn't take long at all to match the remains to a certain line of kin in the records. The dead vampire belonged to the Whitt family. A rare find; we were nearly sure they'd been wiped out about two centuries ago or so…"
Irene sits back in her chair and rests her head on her fist. The gesture worries me, so I say, "Interesting fact, but is that all?"
As I deliver my question, his face twitches slightly. He replies, "No. Take this warning to remain vigilant. The revenge sought by a vampire is vicious."