Eric was a man down on his luck. Since the day his ex-wife had left him – pretty thing she had been, barely out of her teens and with a lion’s temper that got the best of her more often than he would have liked, but she always made it up to him afterwards – his life had just been on a steady decline. The boss had told him to pack his stuff up and get out two (or was it three?) days ago, too drunk to be of any use, he had said. Which, Eric thought, was a bit unfair: he liked a pint with his mates after work, but he knew when to stop. He wasn’t a bad bloke overall; he didn’t get mixed up in police business, did his bit for the planet by walking to work, and all that. How did life reward him? No job, no girlfriend, and a headache that made him feel like his head was going to explode. Things couldn’t get much worse than this, and the whole damned city – the whole damned world, even – was a bloody miserable place to be.
So, when he heard singing – singing, of all things – coming from a nearby alley, his alcohol saturated-mind had him turning into it, his senses blissfully numb and thus oblivious to the host of unpleasant smells that greeted him as the air became chill and damp, to find just what the hell was going on, and who was so bloody happy, and whether they had any happiness to share or not, because Eric was a man desperately in need of some happiness.
A little girl – fourteen, fifteen at most, by his guess – was dancing in the alley, her sweet voice barely audible over the roar of the traffic…or was that Eric’s mind making that racket? It was a miracle he had heard her at all, really. So, she was singing to wake him up? Odd way to wake somebody up – Eric would have just given the bloke a solid kick to the ribs. It’d work just as well, perhaps even better. It’d teach him not to fall asleep in such a stupid place, where any old sod could just walk right up and take everything he owned, or worse. His gaze alerted the girl to his presence (funny, how that always happened) and she stopped singing and dancing, looking him up and down.
“Are you lost?” a mischievous little smile flitted across her face, making Eric twist uncomfortably where he stood. She probably wasn’t even legal, and she was flirting with him, a grown man twice her age! It was working, too. He cleared his throat, which quickly backfired and turned into a hacking cough, which took him almost a minute to get under control. The girl, if anything, seemed amused by his suffering, which only served to aggravate him further.
“Do I look lost to you, little girl?” he asked, a little more harshly than he’d intended. But then, it was difficult to speak normally when your throat felt like it was on fire. Something in the air, aggravating his sinuses, god knows what.
“’Little girl’?!” she said indignantly, puffing herself up, although the effect wasn’t particularly impressive, “I’ll have you know I’ll be turning twenty-one next week!”
Eric snorted at this, “Liar. What happened to him?” His words slurred slightly as he gestured at the body in front of him. That was odd. He hadn’t drunk that much…just a couple of pints or so, sometime yesterday, if the roar in his ears and pounding in his skull was any indication. But he was definitely in better shape than that guy lying on the floor, like some kind of…corpse. He was either stoned out of his mind, or he’d had more to drink than Eric last night…even though he, Eric, had only had a couple of pints…or so.
“He had a…change of heart. You should, too. Drugs do very nasty things to you if you abuse them.” The girl said in an offhand, bored tone, swaying slightly as she stood before him, a bright smile on her face. Just looking at her gave Eric the chills, she reminded him of his ex-wife. When she was looking for someone to torture with those words of hers – namely, him.
“I ain’t here for drugs.” Eric replied gruffly, although the thought appealed to him. Something to take the edge off this blasted headache. He took an unsteady step forward up to the prone body lying on the floor, looking over it. He was lying on his front – an odd way to lie – so he couldn’t see the man’s face, but he didn’t look familiar…it didn’t really matter anyway. He could be Eric’s best friend (if even had one) and he’d still pick his pockets.
“Oh? You’re not?” the girl sounded delighted, and something in her voice made Eric tear his gaze away from the body on the floor to study her again. She was much more interesting to look at, all of a sudden…for a minor, she wasn’t half bad, and she was definitely interested. Eric was a decent enough bloke: unlike half the other lowlife scum in this city, he wouldn’t play with a girl unless she asked him to. This girl was practically begging for it. But she was, he reminded himself, a minor. He had no particular desire to end up in jail again. First time had been a misunderstanding, easy to explain…but how would he explain that if someone else walked in on them in the alley?
“Piss off, you stupid whore.” He growled, kneeling down beside the man, rummaging through his pockets. Money, drugs, anything…it was the dumb bastard’s own fault for passing out there. “Go find someone your own age to play with.”
She brushed herself off, knocking her straps off her shoulder and down her arms – yes, she was indeed like his ex-wife – and stamped her foot on the floor, the sound a thunderous detonation in his head.
“Fine, you big meanie!”
Eric watched her march out of the alley – although not too closely – fighting the urge to chase after her. Strange girl, but not ugly, not by any man’s standards. But, no, he had more important things to take care of. Check this guy’s pockets – it was every man for himself, after all – and then get a drink to stop this blasted headache and ease his throat, before going job-hunting again. He really needed a new job. He sighed to himself, and then yelped, as something sharp pricked his arm. Astonished, he looked down.
There was something crawling up his arm, digging into his skin like shards of glass, although he couldn’t see what it was. Eric frowned, shaking his arm to dislodge whatever it was that was that was bothering him…only to find that he couldn’t move his arm at all. He squinted, to find something – a plant? – snaking up his arm with alarm speed, sharp thorns popping out of the surface, cutting into his skin. Drunkenness gave way to blind panic as Eric fought to stand, but found himself unable to move: the plant had ensnared his legs as well, and it was tightening its hold, as the thorns sank even deeper into his skin. Eric cried out then, the acidic taste of blood filling his mouth as the plant bit into his chest, constricting and then puncturing his lungs, bones snapping. He was dying. As the blackness took him, Eric wondered if this day could possibly get any worse…
---
Poppy sidled out of the alley and into the sunlight, the man’s frantic, muffled cries of distress already lost to her ears in the roar of traffic and general buzz of noise that was central London. She stretched, turning her gaze to the Sun, allowing its warmth to wash over her, suddenly noticing how cold she had been. She had never really liked dark, dingy places like alleyways…or cities, for that matter. So much noise, so much pollution, so many ugly people, barely fit to tie her shoelaces...assuming she needed someone to tie her shoelaces, anyway. Assuming she even wanted to wear shoes. At the thought, Poppy reached down, tugging her shoes off, swinging them idly in one hand, allowing the heat of the pavement beneath her to sink into the soles of her feet. There. Now they didn’t have any use at all to her!
She cast a glance back into the alley, seeing a vaguely human form encased in tightly wound, thick plant stalks, which were still coiling around his form, mangling it even further. In an hour, maybe two since it was a little dark in there, the flowers would start to bloom, and poppies dyed a deep crimson with his blood would litter the alley. Such a pretty sight it would be! It was his own fault, of course. Drunk or not, she needed to keep her secret safe, and he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. People weren’t supposed to see her when she was getting rid of the people who didn’t play by her rules.
It was too bad he hadn’t walked away…she might have let him go, for a while. It would have been fun to chase him down when he was sober – assuming he ever was sober – and see if he was any nicer to look at it when he wasn’t swimming in alcohol. Perhaps she could have taken him for a new pet. Her last one, a wonderful lady who always smelled of lilacs, had tried to escape, running through the sewers. Poppy liked a game of hide-and-seek as much as the next person, but not in somewhere as smelly as that. She had fought quite hard against the rats she had sent after her, but there had been far too many for her to handle, and they hadn’t been too pleased when she started killing him. It was a shame, but there were plenty more toys to be found.
She adjusted the straps of her dungarees, which were still hanging loosely from her upper arms, and then set off down the street, in search of something more interesting to do. Maybe she’d go shopping… it wasn’t like she had any shortage of money. Maybe she’d buy herself a leather trench coat; it didn’t have as many pockets, and she wasn’t keen on black, but it did have that “drug dealer” feel to it, and leather felt nice on her skin. Perhaps she’d find herself a new pet as well: after all, there were plenty of people in London for her to choose from. She could buy who she couldn’t charm, and she could kill who she couldn’t buy. She’d work something out. Either way, it was time for a change of pace…
---
Heath strode through the street, his height causing people to simply move out the way for him – which was just as well, given that their lives would be open books for him to peruse if they touched him. He preferred not to dive into the spirits of random strangers, however, flashes of memories, feelings, thoughts, were unavoidable. It was quite a nuisance, really. But then, these things came with the territory. So, unfortunately, did the attire. He was quite sure he was melting underneath this coat. Or, if not melting, then cooking in his own juices. But then, he reflected absently, it could be worse: his brothers would all be wearing metal armour, which was considerably heavier and far hotter…and equally as useless, should a witch decide to attack them. Heath knew, from painful experience, that armour was next to useless in the face of witch abilities: perhaps worse than useless, for moving about in armour was like trying to walk around with a car strapped to your back.
Heath turned a corner, stumbling back as he collided with someone – a young girl – who was sent sprawling by the impact, landing painfully on the pavement. He moved forward, to prevent her from being trampled by someone equally as absent-minded as he was.
“Sorry! Are you alright?” he asked, extending a hand, frowning at how little she was wearing. She was going to get a seriously bad case of sunburn, or worse. There were all sorts of psychopaths and perverts in London, even during the day.
An impish little smile lit her face as he helped her to her feet, “Oh, I’m fine. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“The arrogance of tall people wearing coats: you expect everyone to just move out the way for you. I’m glad you’re alright.” Heath shrugged apologetically, returning the smile with slight unease – she was just a little too friendly – and then turned away from her, continuing on through the crowd. Moments later, he stopped, frowning. Something was wrong…
…he had sensed absolutely nothing from her. Which could mean only one thing.
Heath spun, hand reflexively reaching for his short sword, concealed under his coat, staring around for the girl – vanished. Cursing, Heath plunged into the crowd after her, trying to pick her out amongst the crowd (there couldn’t be that many barefooted girls wearing dungarees and flowers on their head, after all) when a shriek, followed by retching, sounded from behind him. The sword came out, glittering wickedly in the sunlight, causing the woman right next to him to scream, which he ignored. The crowd parted before him like butter as he dashed forward, sword at the ready, towards the first scream.
Two men, both dead, lying in an alley, their bodies twisted and crushed beyond all recognition. Vicious-looking plants ensnared them both, still growing at an alarming rate. Sure enough, buds were beginning to appear along the stalks, and Heath was willing to bet, if left alone, they’d bloom into bright red poppies. So, it had been her, then. It looked like he was getting closer: that was certainly the first time he’d ever actually seen her. Poppy, his Tristana’s younger sister, a witch. Probably the Nature Witch, if the flowers were anything to go by. He had suspected that she’d decided to make London her home for a time – the trail of grisly murders she had left had indicated as much, anyway – but this was the first time she had killed someone…or, at least, the first time she had killed someone and left some evidence.
Heath sighed, tucking his sword back into his coat. It looked like it was time for him to call in some backup. She probably had a sense of him from when she touched him – unfortunately, his Spirit abilities went both ways if the other person also had their own abilities, and he had not expected to find her in such a manner – and she would likely do one of three things: run, go into hiding, or seek him out. Either way, he didn’t particularly wish to tackle her by himself...
So, when he heard singing – singing, of all things – coming from a nearby alley, his alcohol saturated-mind had him turning into it, his senses blissfully numb and thus oblivious to the host of unpleasant smells that greeted him as the air became chill and damp, to find just what the hell was going on, and who was so bloody happy, and whether they had any happiness to share or not, because Eric was a man desperately in need of some happiness.
A little girl – fourteen, fifteen at most, by his guess – was dancing in the alley, her sweet voice barely audible over the roar of the traffic…or was that Eric’s mind making that racket? It was a miracle he had heard her at all, really. So, she was singing to wake him up? Odd way to wake somebody up – Eric would have just given the bloke a solid kick to the ribs. It’d work just as well, perhaps even better. It’d teach him not to fall asleep in such a stupid place, where any old sod could just walk right up and take everything he owned, or worse. His gaze alerted the girl to his presence (funny, how that always happened) and she stopped singing and dancing, looking him up and down.
“Are you lost?” a mischievous little smile flitted across her face, making Eric twist uncomfortably where he stood. She probably wasn’t even legal, and she was flirting with him, a grown man twice her age! It was working, too. He cleared his throat, which quickly backfired and turned into a hacking cough, which took him almost a minute to get under control. The girl, if anything, seemed amused by his suffering, which only served to aggravate him further.
“Do I look lost to you, little girl?” he asked, a little more harshly than he’d intended. But then, it was difficult to speak normally when your throat felt like it was on fire. Something in the air, aggravating his sinuses, god knows what.
“’Little girl’?!” she said indignantly, puffing herself up, although the effect wasn’t particularly impressive, “I’ll have you know I’ll be turning twenty-one next week!”
Eric snorted at this, “Liar. What happened to him?” His words slurred slightly as he gestured at the body in front of him. That was odd. He hadn’t drunk that much…just a couple of pints or so, sometime yesterday, if the roar in his ears and pounding in his skull was any indication. But he was definitely in better shape than that guy lying on the floor, like some kind of…corpse. He was either stoned out of his mind, or he’d had more to drink than Eric last night…even though he, Eric, had only had a couple of pints…or so.
“He had a…change of heart. You should, too. Drugs do very nasty things to you if you abuse them.” The girl said in an offhand, bored tone, swaying slightly as she stood before him, a bright smile on her face. Just looking at her gave Eric the chills, she reminded him of his ex-wife. When she was looking for someone to torture with those words of hers – namely, him.
“I ain’t here for drugs.” Eric replied gruffly, although the thought appealed to him. Something to take the edge off this blasted headache. He took an unsteady step forward up to the prone body lying on the floor, looking over it. He was lying on his front – an odd way to lie – so he couldn’t see the man’s face, but he didn’t look familiar…it didn’t really matter anyway. He could be Eric’s best friend (if even had one) and he’d still pick his pockets.
“Oh? You’re not?” the girl sounded delighted, and something in her voice made Eric tear his gaze away from the body on the floor to study her again. She was much more interesting to look at, all of a sudden…for a minor, she wasn’t half bad, and she was definitely interested. Eric was a decent enough bloke: unlike half the other lowlife scum in this city, he wouldn’t play with a girl unless she asked him to. This girl was practically begging for it. But she was, he reminded himself, a minor. He had no particular desire to end up in jail again. First time had been a misunderstanding, easy to explain…but how would he explain that if someone else walked in on them in the alley?
“Piss off, you stupid whore.” He growled, kneeling down beside the man, rummaging through his pockets. Money, drugs, anything…it was the dumb bastard’s own fault for passing out there. “Go find someone your own age to play with.”
She brushed herself off, knocking her straps off her shoulder and down her arms – yes, she was indeed like his ex-wife – and stamped her foot on the floor, the sound a thunderous detonation in his head.
“Fine, you big meanie!”
Eric watched her march out of the alley – although not too closely – fighting the urge to chase after her. Strange girl, but not ugly, not by any man’s standards. But, no, he had more important things to take care of. Check this guy’s pockets – it was every man for himself, after all – and then get a drink to stop this blasted headache and ease his throat, before going job-hunting again. He really needed a new job. He sighed to himself, and then yelped, as something sharp pricked his arm. Astonished, he looked down.
There was something crawling up his arm, digging into his skin like shards of glass, although he couldn’t see what it was. Eric frowned, shaking his arm to dislodge whatever it was that was that was bothering him…only to find that he couldn’t move his arm at all. He squinted, to find something – a plant? – snaking up his arm with alarm speed, sharp thorns popping out of the surface, cutting into his skin. Drunkenness gave way to blind panic as Eric fought to stand, but found himself unable to move: the plant had ensnared his legs as well, and it was tightening its hold, as the thorns sank even deeper into his skin. Eric cried out then, the acidic taste of blood filling his mouth as the plant bit into his chest, constricting and then puncturing his lungs, bones snapping. He was dying. As the blackness took him, Eric wondered if this day could possibly get any worse…
---
Poppy sidled out of the alley and into the sunlight, the man’s frantic, muffled cries of distress already lost to her ears in the roar of traffic and general buzz of noise that was central London. She stretched, turning her gaze to the Sun, allowing its warmth to wash over her, suddenly noticing how cold she had been. She had never really liked dark, dingy places like alleyways…or cities, for that matter. So much noise, so much pollution, so many ugly people, barely fit to tie her shoelaces...assuming she needed someone to tie her shoelaces, anyway. Assuming she even wanted to wear shoes. At the thought, Poppy reached down, tugging her shoes off, swinging them idly in one hand, allowing the heat of the pavement beneath her to sink into the soles of her feet. There. Now they didn’t have any use at all to her!
She cast a glance back into the alley, seeing a vaguely human form encased in tightly wound, thick plant stalks, which were still coiling around his form, mangling it even further. In an hour, maybe two since it was a little dark in there, the flowers would start to bloom, and poppies dyed a deep crimson with his blood would litter the alley. Such a pretty sight it would be! It was his own fault, of course. Drunk or not, she needed to keep her secret safe, and he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. People weren’t supposed to see her when she was getting rid of the people who didn’t play by her rules.
It was too bad he hadn’t walked away…she might have let him go, for a while. It would have been fun to chase him down when he was sober – assuming he ever was sober – and see if he was any nicer to look at it when he wasn’t swimming in alcohol. Perhaps she could have taken him for a new pet. Her last one, a wonderful lady who always smelled of lilacs, had tried to escape, running through the sewers. Poppy liked a game of hide-and-seek as much as the next person, but not in somewhere as smelly as that. She had fought quite hard against the rats she had sent after her, but there had been far too many for her to handle, and they hadn’t been too pleased when she started killing him. It was a shame, but there were plenty more toys to be found.
She adjusted the straps of her dungarees, which were still hanging loosely from her upper arms, and then set off down the street, in search of something more interesting to do. Maybe she’d go shopping… it wasn’t like she had any shortage of money. Maybe she’d buy herself a leather trench coat; it didn’t have as many pockets, and she wasn’t keen on black, but it did have that “drug dealer” feel to it, and leather felt nice on her skin. Perhaps she’d find herself a new pet as well: after all, there were plenty of people in London for her to choose from. She could buy who she couldn’t charm, and she could kill who she couldn’t buy. She’d work something out. Either way, it was time for a change of pace…
---
Heath strode through the street, his height causing people to simply move out the way for him – which was just as well, given that their lives would be open books for him to peruse if they touched him. He preferred not to dive into the spirits of random strangers, however, flashes of memories, feelings, thoughts, were unavoidable. It was quite a nuisance, really. But then, these things came with the territory. So, unfortunately, did the attire. He was quite sure he was melting underneath this coat. Or, if not melting, then cooking in his own juices. But then, he reflected absently, it could be worse: his brothers would all be wearing metal armour, which was considerably heavier and far hotter…and equally as useless, should a witch decide to attack them. Heath knew, from painful experience, that armour was next to useless in the face of witch abilities: perhaps worse than useless, for moving about in armour was like trying to walk around with a car strapped to your back.
Heath turned a corner, stumbling back as he collided with someone – a young girl – who was sent sprawling by the impact, landing painfully on the pavement. He moved forward, to prevent her from being trampled by someone equally as absent-minded as he was.
“Sorry! Are you alright?” he asked, extending a hand, frowning at how little she was wearing. She was going to get a seriously bad case of sunburn, or worse. There were all sorts of psychopaths and perverts in London, even during the day.
An impish little smile lit her face as he helped her to her feet, “Oh, I’m fine. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“The arrogance of tall people wearing coats: you expect everyone to just move out the way for you. I’m glad you’re alright.” Heath shrugged apologetically, returning the smile with slight unease – she was just a little too friendly – and then turned away from her, continuing on through the crowd. Moments later, he stopped, frowning. Something was wrong…
…he had sensed absolutely nothing from her. Which could mean only one thing.
Heath spun, hand reflexively reaching for his short sword, concealed under his coat, staring around for the girl – vanished. Cursing, Heath plunged into the crowd after her, trying to pick her out amongst the crowd (there couldn’t be that many barefooted girls wearing dungarees and flowers on their head, after all) when a shriek, followed by retching, sounded from behind him. The sword came out, glittering wickedly in the sunlight, causing the woman right next to him to scream, which he ignored. The crowd parted before him like butter as he dashed forward, sword at the ready, towards the first scream.
Two men, both dead, lying in an alley, their bodies twisted and crushed beyond all recognition. Vicious-looking plants ensnared them both, still growing at an alarming rate. Sure enough, buds were beginning to appear along the stalks, and Heath was willing to bet, if left alone, they’d bloom into bright red poppies. So, it had been her, then. It looked like he was getting closer: that was certainly the first time he’d ever actually seen her. Poppy, his Tristana’s younger sister, a witch. Probably the Nature Witch, if the flowers were anything to go by. He had suspected that she’d decided to make London her home for a time – the trail of grisly murders she had left had indicated as much, anyway – but this was the first time she had killed someone…or, at least, the first time she had killed someone and left some evidence.
Heath sighed, tucking his sword back into his coat. It looked like it was time for him to call in some backup. She probably had a sense of him from when she touched him – unfortunately, his Spirit abilities went both ways if the other person also had their own abilities, and he had not expected to find her in such a manner – and she would likely do one of three things: run, go into hiding, or seek him out. Either way, he didn’t particularly wish to tackle her by himself...
