A Piece of History: When Danger Strikes

     When the fire escape creaked, the figure settled against the rail winced, putting a hand against the rusty metal as if to silence it. The last thing Jonas Foster needed was something making noise. Stealth was second nature to him, but this overly cautious attitude he’d adopted was showing itself in a myriad of ways: the tabi boots he had not worn in over ten years, the extensive measures taken to remain in shadows, the utter silence he clung to… Admittedly, the death mage had been shaken by the look he had exchanged with the Gift of the Dreaming. Never before had he suffered such a complete loss of nerve, and it had taken Jonas a week to work up the courage, shrouded in such illusions of invisibility and cloaks of silence as he could create, to return to the fae’s home and lurk about. She had been frightened by the unknown man on her balcony, that much was clear by the newly installed security system (a paltry thing he could trip, reprogram or silence as he wished) and the changed locks on all of the doors. It was perhaps a measure of her lifestyle that Diamanta Rothwell had not run away for protection, but merely taken the measures advised by Bertram Jumoke and then resumed her routine, albeit with an eye over her shoulder. By this, the death mage knew: she had long since learned the error of complacence, and took care to avoid the pitfall.

     It was perhaps because of this most recent lesson, learned by both, that Jonas was so high above the street she would walk down, rather than trailing a few silent yards behind the fae. It was perhaps this brush with what could have been danger, had the mage wished to harm her, that made Dia a bit more…edgy, her wings pinned tightly to her back. She clung to her small bag of oranges, (‘Always with the oranges,’ Jonas mused,) and walked with a decided lack of hurry. Is it always those who try the hardest to not look like a victim that become one so quickly? Or perhaps it was just the Gift of the Dreaming herself that drew misfits, sadists and the viciously curious in panting droves. The edginess of the past few weeks, that which Jonas had noted increasing in all of the fae, was sharpening to a razor’s edge, and as Dia walked along the sidewalk below Jonas, he saw the…thing at long last.

     It was…by the turning of the Wheel, what was it? The mage’s mind could not fully comprehend the twisted thing below him, claws extending from the shadows towards the shining light that was the fae. It was as if some childish nightmare had crawled from beneath a nearby bunk bed and slithered its way out into the mortal world, ravenous and gibbering. Gibber it did, making the most obscene noises Jonas had ever heard, and …ropes? Tentacles? Tendrils? …arms? Appendages for certain, some glistening, others a dull matte black, some sparkling with what could have been drops of congealing blood…they all reached out to tangle with the speed of horror alone in the pristine feathers brushing so near. To her credit, Dia did not scream. No…it made Jonas blink the way she trembled violently, the bag falling from her hands, and half-turned to the monstrosity, tears already streaking her pale cheeks. She did not cry out as it dragged her back into the alley it had squirmed from, merely dug her heels in and tried weakly to grip the edge of the nearest building, the side of a dumpster, the fire escape’s ladder dangling just over her head. The rent in reality, for that was all it could be, shrieked a wordless cry and yanked her roughly to the filthy alley ground, those twisted appendages tearing feathers and hair, bruising and reddening her milk-white skin, ripping clothing as it squirmed half atop the struggling fae.

     He had watched, silent and aloof, as she had eluded a would-be rapist. His eyes, dark as freshly-turned soil, had not blinked when she had taken a vicious blow and walked away mopping the blood from her face. No…he had not even flickered a muscle when she had fallen from a wobbling ladder and sat for long moments holding her broken wrist. Jonas Foster was a mage of mortality, merely one of those who assisted in turning the Wheel of Life, and he understood death in all forms. This was merely another turn of the wheel, and should be treated as such.

     …but it was his shadow that fell over the tangled heap of pale flesh, blood-stained silver feathers and howling, hissing insanity-given-form on the ground below.