(Just to show the Coyotes that I haven't abandoned Spencer and James. This is a work in progress, and work on Four on the Floor is helping me get back into writing and working on this one. Enjoy the sneak peek! :) ) Chapter One In Medias Res Watch any movie, any TV show where two people start going out, especially one where the fans have been rooting for the couple for a long time, and there’s one thing you can count on. Sex. It provides the payoff for the audience, whether it’s the “woo-hoo!” or “finally!” kind of reaction, and it can provide a few easy B-plots if you’re dealing with a sitcom, because suddenly all your friends are rolling your eyes at how much you’re doing it, or you’ll want to do it at completely inappropriate times or places, usually in public. After that the couple will cool down and sometimes fret that they’re not having as much sex as they used to and will use that as a yardstick to measure the strength of their relationship. After that, you either break the couple up, or deal with the common issues of being in a couple and the relationship ascending to that next level until it’s time for May sweeps and someone proposes. I’m currently only in the third day of my newly minted relationship, so we’re still mostly doing it whenever we get a minute alone. There are times I wish I lived in a sitcom, I’ll admit, because the concept of everything working out in a half hour and the status quo always improving for the core cast is appealing, but every now and then something zany will happen to remind the audience that hey, it’s still a comedy. For example, imagine two crazy kids who just never seemed to be single at the same time. Now imagine they’re in the middle of teaching a none-too-experienced sorcerer how to help a much-more-experienced, dashing, charming, and all around awesome Coyote get his rocks off without getting horrifically sore. They’re in a loft over a diner, the room having a massive skylight (that ran a quarter mil, I might add), and they’re pounding away on a well-pounded futon with some AC/DC playing to drown out their occasional grunts (which might traumatize the dragon who not only runs the diner downstairs, but is also thankfully out for the night). So yeah, it’s a quirky kind of sitcom that’ll probably be cancelled after seven episodes, but just go with it. How can it be a sitcom, I’d imagine someone would ask? When a red Ferrari F40 crashes through the skylight, the shards showering everywhere but the humping couple, the car landing flat on the stereo and utterly demolishing the collection of cock rock on vinyl, and a large fat man with a white beard is behind the wheel, the passenger seat having a giant red sack with wrapping paper and bows peeking out, it had damned well better be a sitcom, because I don’t want to consider the other genre possibilities. Like say... Horror, or action, or action-horror, because those are definitely not sitcoms. Given that there’s a rotting corpse on the hood of the car and it’s still smacking at the windshield, it’s completely understandable that someone would react to the whole occurrence by screaming in varying shades of falsetto and emerge with their masculinity still intact. “What the...” says the man under me, who has elected to pursue a confused angle to the situation, while yours truly, a totally manly Coyote, rolls off the futon to snatch a silk-wrapped bundle from underneath. I pull off the silk and brandish a sawed-off shotgun, the barrels inscribed with an arcane language, and loaded with two enchanted diamonds. With the gun leveled on the zombie, just before pulling the trigger, I utter a one-liner so badass and witty that anyone who heard it, even myself, would find their minds blocking out the sheer coolness of the words, and instead, to preserve their own self-image, only remember some pathetic and staccato squeaks of terror. It’s a blessing, really, it humanizes me and keeps me approachable. The ends of the barrels glow for an instant with a melded ball of blue energy which dissipates in the form of twin forks of lightning that slam into the shambling undead, splattering it in a shower of viscera that coats the windshield as well as an oversized poster of Angus Young. The room goes dark, the power out, snow filtering down through the recently opened ceiling. “Light.” It sounds weird when I hear the word, but that’s normal when someone’s working magic, as it’s done in Sigil, a language so arcane it does its own bad English dubbing. Still, the room is alit, as if by a lantern, and when I look behind me I see a young man in his early twenties, shorter than me, red hair with a white streak in front, green eyes, and he’s completely naked, a tiny ball of light floating above his outstretched hand. He’s also sweating, likely more from the previous exertion than the magic. I’ll avoid any descriptions of his equipment, as open skylights and winter weather aren’t the most flattering of environments for a guy. He’s also still electing to go with confusion. “Spencer, what the fuck?” He motions to the car, the crushed stereo, the splattered apparent zombie, and maybe a few scorch marks on the wall. He then glances up at the skylight. “Oh, Jesus, not that, not that! Oh shit, do you remember what happened the last time that...” He glares at me. “Don’t just stand there! Check the driver!” It turns out when a Ferrari falls from the sky, the doors are kind of a bitch to yank open, especially when the handle has some unknown fluid on it. It comes free after almost a minute, the sorcerer pacing back and forth around the room, muttering thanks that Dave, the dragon who owns the building, isn’t home tonight. Inside the car I check the man first for bite marks, but it appears he’s breathing, though his skin is cold. I tug the beard, check for a pulse, poke his belly, the coat lined and accented with fur. I look over to James, who’s stopped pacing, giving me a shot of his thin, toned behind that I was in the midst of filling right before- And now I have an erection in front of Santa Claus. My life has now tread into parts of the Internet I had preferred to think didn’t exist. “James! Toss me a blanket or something?” It’s then that I notice that he’s already got the comforter wrapped around his body. “Where are your clothes?” I snort and point. “Under the car.” He grumbles and points severely at me, once again murmuring in Sigil. “Clothes now make here you yes much warm.” It turns out that being the Sorcerer King doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to be good at it. Still, in seconds I feel wave of energy flow over me, and just like that I go from naked to fully clothed, dressed in sweatpants, wingtip shoes, driving gloves, a knit cap, and, well, let’s just say I’d win every Ugly Christmas Sweater party in the City in a walk. “Ugh...” He looks around the room, surveying the shattered glass, and since I’m already aware of the damage, I take advantage of his divided attention as well as the unconscious St. Nick, and cloak myself in attire that at least can agree on one theme. Coyotes are con artists, the best con artists, I might add, so we have to be able to dress the part for whatever scam we’re pulling. The trick? Well, their attention is divided, so who’s to say that I didn’t change into a finely tailored suit from a top-end store in Allora while their backs were turned? It could happen. “Spencer, is he okay?” James then tilts his head at me. “Uh... Are you cloaking?” Well, sorcerers can see through it, which is a pain in the ass, but it’ll work on everyone else. I wave James off and nudge the fat man again, then again, then yet again, poking his head and his furry hat, which knocks it askew and... Reveals pointed ears. Pointed ears. “Santa’s a Fae? Aw man, but Fae are...” My eyes quickly dart to the bag of presents in the passenger seat as he stirs. “Just, uh... wonderful people, really. Wouldn’t steal from them at all. Totally wouldn’t do anything, uh, naughty to them.” “Your reputation would say otherwise, little boy.” He grunts, groans, reaches up to give his neck an adjustment, many loud cracks to make me wince. “Declaring the sidhe as targets of your clan? Taking advantage of your friend at one of his lowest times? And naughty? The King of the Phouka would certainly-“ So I put my hand over his mouth, I’m not too wild about James finding out that I learned the lion’s share of my sexual prowess from his many-times-great-grandfather. Not too wild thinking about that, either. “Yeesh, be cool, Santa.” I pull back my hand and then motion to the car. “If anyone’s got some explaining to do...” I also point to the splattered zombie. “Plus I want credit for not totally freaking out right now, because a car dropping through a skylight is normally... No, it’s not normal at all, it’s so out there I can’t even come up with a pop-culture reference, that’s how fu- er, messed up it is.” Yeah, like I’m going to drop an F-bomb in front of Santa Claus and probably get coal shoved up my ass. “The Cobalt Order...” He coughs heavily. “They’ve been murdered.” He slumps over the wheel, eyes closed, but thankfully he’s still breathing. “The Cobalt Order, who’re they?” James is on the other side of the car now, peering through the window at Santa. “An order of sidhe nobles that until recently was responsible for kidnapping and killing half-blooded Fae, twin bloods. You know about them, right?” “Remind me? I think I’ve met a couple, but...” He motions to the disarray. “You can understand my focus not being a hundred percent?” “One Fae parent, one human parent, the human usually goes crazy, the kid gets disavowed by the Fae, and until recently they were regularly hunted by the nobility. That bar I go to? Under the Bridge? The one with the troll you patched up a few days ago? It’s a commoner bar, twin bloods are welcome there, which is why a Cobalt Order member shot up the place, and got shot herself.” “And they’ve been murdered?” He stands up to look across the roof of the car at me, reading my expression. “Spence, you know who did it?” I set my jaw. “The guy who did it is already dead.” I know this because the guy who did it was my father, and he did it to save my life, and even with that I’m still not quite okay with it, and murder only tends to lead to more murder and a lot of shattered lives, so I’d prefer it didn’t go in that direction. Besides, the sole Fae survivor of the massacre is going to be busy with all the tricks being pulled on him. I’ve already taken out seven payday loans in his name and dumped the proceeds to some twin blood would-be pool hustlers at Under the Bridge. That sidhe is going to have a rude awakening next week. “Still doesn’t explain why Old St. Nick here drove his car into a zombie and then through the skylight. Plus, could he have waited a few more seconds? I was just about to-“ “Spence. Focus.” He runs his fingers through his hair rubs his face, which only serves to open that comforter and divert my focus. Hey, like I said, I’m trickster that’s only three days into a relationship with a Ra’keth, I’m amazed I’m capable of rational thought at all. Sorcerer Kings are the Mark of All Marks to tricksters, and us ‘yotes tend to prefer more... physical forms of entertainment. “Then put some clothes on, okay?” I avert my eyes, and he grumbles, but mutters something about it being cold anyway as he goes off to find something warmer than a blanket. In the meantime, I nudge and poke the Fae until he finally wakes up, blinking, reaching up weakly to rub his eyes. “Where... How...” Okay, time to get a little aggressive. I’ll scam my Christmas gifts if need be. “You crashed your high-performance sleigh through my skylight. A skylight that ran about a quarter million, so I’d start talking or bust out your insurance information. Explain the zombie on the hood, why you give a damn about a bunch of bigots getting snipped off the loom of Fate, and what possessed you to go out. It’s Christmas Eve, sure, but it’s after midnight.” “What...” He blinks several more times, and then looks back and forth frantically. “My...” Then his voice gets just as frantic. “What happened? What’s that on my-“ He jabs his finger at the windshield, pointing out the splattered bits of zombie there. Santa’s breathing picks up, becomes more ragged. “I don’t know how...” Oh shit. “Are you about to tell me, Santa, that you have no idea how you got here, why there’s a dead zombie on your hood and my wall, or why you would drive through a skylight?” I visibly sag, take a deep breath as James comes back up wearing a T-shirt and jeans, untied shoes and no socks. “James, he has no idea what no idea what just happened.” The sorcerer starts to say something, his mouth partially open, words trying to find their way out, and then there are a few sputtered syllables, half-started sentences, and if anything it’s making me feel better, because that kind of reaction only happens in movies with comedic elements, though obviously we’ve left pure comedy at this point. James motions up to the now open skylight. “Spencer, do you remember what happened the last time that thing broke?” “Yeah, it cost a quarter mil. We’ve covered that.” “And it could destroy the whole damned block!” As if to accent, the framework of the remaining skylight sparks and arcs bolts of magical energy with all the foreboding crackling sounds that accompany them. I chew my lip, glancing upward. “Yeah, now that I think about it, that’s a really big design flaw, you know? Dave seriously has to come up with a better way to get free electricity. God, when I was living with my mom I managed to get free cable, free phone, free internet... Free electricity just needs a few heavy duty extension cords and-“ “Spencer. Focus.” He points at the still mentally scattered fat man, and runs his fingers through his hair. “This is definitely not how I wanted to contact Ozzie again.” His ex. As of three days ago. Who broke up with him after seeing him in bed with yours truly. “Y’know, James, you are a sorcerer, can’t you like... conjure something? I’ll say glass in Sigil, you’ll shout it at the skylight, no one’s the wiser...” Plus even though I did have it coming, I’d rather not get slugged in the stomach again. “Or how about this? Just... instead of replacing the skylight with all the enchantments, how about we just put in a regular damned skylight? Dave has a sorcerer and a Coyote as roommates now, we can at least chip in toward utilities.” James seems to ponder a moment, before eventually nodding. Guess he’s not ready for a talk with Ozzie yet either. “I should get up to the roof, then, start dismantling the enchantments. It’s a hell of a lot easier to dismiss and destroy enchantments than put them in.” With that, he heads for the stairs up to the roof, taking a small rod with him on the way that he extends to the length of a staff. It’s his focus, the symbol of his reign as Sorcerer-King, and it was, by the way, constructed for him by his ex-boyfriend. So yeah. That feels nice. I kneel down next to the Ferrari and work the seatbelt free, helping him out of the car, and it’s a bit straining, I will admit. Santa’s supposed to be big and jolly, yes, but you never really imagine one of the Fair Folk as morbidly obese. “Easy, easy, I just want to ask you some questions. How about we get you some coffee, huh? Or something warm to drink? There’s a diner downstairs, I’ll help you.” It’s a bit of a bitch as the stairs are narrow, but luckily he regains his footing, still rattled. The diner’s like most you see on TV with the long lunch counter and booths along the wall, pass-through from the kitchen, all that, and understandably it’s closed, lights off, locked up. I sit him in one of the booths and get some coffee brewing behind the counter, because we ran out of hot cocoa today. While I wait on the percolating, I start the questions. “First, are you actually Santa Claus, or did someone just put you in that suit?” “Santa Claus is just... a dream.” He coughs several times, thankfully no blood comes up. “But a powerful dream, a good dream. We were created from dreams.” He sounds a bit drunk, but that’s understandable, considering he’s probably in shock. “I know, that’s what Fae are.” I learned that from Rourke, King of the Phouka. “But how does a sidhe end up as Santa Claus?” “Not a sidhe.” He shakes his head. “Brownie.” I arch a brow. “The servant caste? I mean, I guess it kind of makes sense, but... Okay, what’s the last thing you remember before you crashed through the skylight? You said something about the Cobalt Order being murdered before you passed out. You understand why I want answers, right? You did nearly kill us.” “I... I don’t remember. I didn’t mean to...” He looks around at the diner. “This is...” He covers his mouth with one hand, fright crossing his features. “This is where the Lightning Rod...” Of course, at that time the coffeemaker beeps, letting me know it’s finished percolating. I turn around to get it because I could use certainly use a bit myself. I take the pot, grab a couple mugs from under the counter, and set to pouring the joe. “You take it black? Cream and sugar?” No answer. “C’mon, help me out here,” I say, turning around. “Everybody’s got a-“ Santa Claus has a sword against his throat, the blade held by a tall woman wearing all black, but her face is tinted slightly green, her eyes a brilliant verdant green, her hair so blonde it’s nearly white, and tightly braided in an elaborate spiral around her head, ears sharp and pointed. Santa looks terrified, understandably, so hey, we’ve got something in common at last. Still, I’m a Coyote, there’s a protocol to these things, a special type of smartassery that’s required in the face of situations that go from casual to super deadly serious. This will demand the best of ascerbic wit. “Uh....” Okay, okay, I’m half-Coyote. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to consider me worth her attention, speaking rapid-fire at Santa in a language I don’t really understand. He doesn’t answer, so, thanks to that, she levels her gaze on me. “This place.” There’s an accent, sibilant, but with an edge, which is difficult to pull off. I’d give her props if she wouldn’t likely run me through for speaking out of turn. She appraises the diner, and exhales softly in disappointment. “This is the home of His Majesty?” I don’t respond. Hey, it worked for Santa. Maybe she’ll start interrogating the coffeemaker for answers. Still keeping the blade at the brownie’s neck, she remains in silence while I stand there, holding two sugar packets I was about to add to my coffee. “It is known that the Lightning Rod keeps a dwelling, though I was not expecting it to be...” She gestures with her free hand. “This.” Growing up in the City and running with the crowds that I do, and having the sort of life and revenue generation strategies I have, I’ve learned how to talk to cops. You keep your voice even, measured, calm, almost submissive, but most importantly non-confrontational. Cops expect and demand cooperation, and given my track record with Fae over the last week? I’ll treat her like a cop. “I’m afraid I can’t speak to that. Would you please tell me how you got in here, ma’am? If there’s a lock that needs repair, I’ll need to address it quickly.” That at least registers some confusion. “Your eyes. Are you moonblooded, or...” She makes the barest of noises that resembles a scoff. “A Coyote?” I’m not allowed to answer, she waves me off before I draw breath. “It is no matter, words can be trusted from neither.” Still, in true Fae fashion, she avoided answering the question, as the Fair Folk are incapable of lying. “How did you get in here? How did you get in here? There. Asked three times, you owe me an answer.” I will admit I smirk a little. “I was supplied with a curse for the lock. I will leave recompense for its repair.” She keeps her attention on me, narrowing her eyes slightly. “That was more than I intended to tell... Ah. You are the Bard.” Bards collect stories, and we can’t really do that if everyone’s tight-lipped, so as a result it’s pretty easy to let things slip around us because otherwise we wouldn’t be telling stories, we’d be giving press releases. “Yep, that’s me. So about we save ourselves a couple hours of the dance of polite conversation and petty honesties and you just tell me why you’re holding a sword against Santa Claus’s neck in my favorite diner?” “He attempted to assassinate His Majesty. While Her Majesty is yet to convene with the Ra’keth, our people are not as... disrespectful as some.” She gives Santa the subtlest of glances before continuing. “The Lightning Rod still lives, as we would be aware if another took the throne. Still, any attempt on his life must be met with proper justice.” Okay... “And proper justice would be?” She blinks, genuinely surprised. “For attempting regicide? Execution.” “Wait!” I say this because I’m pretty sure Santa might’ve just pissed his jolly red pants. “You can’t do that!” “Despite your clan’s recent entrance into our politics, our policies are still none of your concern. Out of respect for His Majesty, however, I will do the deed outside.” She sheathes the sword and yanks the brownie hard out of the booth, and he’s trembling, knees shaking, then buckling, but she never misses a beat, dragging him toward the door. “Wait! No! I think he was coerced or cursed or enchanted or something, he doesn’t even know how he got here!” I hop the counter and run to the door to block her, causing her to place her hand on the hilt of her blade. “Move.” “Give me today, I can prove he didn’t do it. There’s something going on, you have to at least give me today to figure it out. I can’t let you kill him.” She scoffs. “Is it his childish fantasy of acting out the dreams of human children? Another can always take his place and none would be the wiser. Humans are gullible fools.” “No, because he was manipulated, and you showing up minutes afterward is way too convenient, what if you’re both being tricked?” “A Coyote is seeking to undo a trick?” She stares hard into my eyes, shows gritted teeth. “Midnight. I will hold my sword until then and keep him in custody. If you can prove that he and I are misled, I will spare him, but you will give me the name of the transgressor, no matter their allegiance.” “Deal.” I spit in my hand and extend it. “Spencer Crain, by the way. I should probably know who you are if I’m going to find you at the end of all this.” “Lady Elera Dawnblade, of Her Majesty’s guard.” She then, with no small measure of disgust, spits in her hand, and shakes mine. “We have an agreement.” I step aside, letting her take the brownie away, take Santa away. I glance at the clock, it’s almost two in the morning. I have twenty-two hours to save Christmas.

Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://vaughndemont.com/2018/07/19/sneak-peek-wayward-son-broken-mirrors-5/