Adrian Blackwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
witchoftheflesh) wrote2024-08-26 03:07 am
witchoftheflesh) wrote2024-08-26 03:07 am
Entry tags:
BWI Airport, Monday Afternoon
The massive black cat crouched inside his plastic carry crate, fluffy tail lashing with indignity. "I can't believe you stuck me in the middle seat."
"Would you rather I carried you in my lap?" asked the black-dressed man sitting in the window seat beside him. "And keep it down. Normal cats don't talk, remember?"
The cat lowered his voice to an angry hiss, which wasn't much of an improvement. "I'd rather not be on this flying death contraption in the first place. There's no anti-falling ward, no safety charms, no magic of any sort! We're just hurtling through the air in a metal cylinder powered by explosions." He turned his green-eyed glare on the happy family sitting across the aisle. "I'm amazed there are any scalies left if this is how they travel."
"Don't be rude, Boston," the man scolded, though he was secretly wondering the same thing as he stared through the window at the summer clouds drifting far, far below. He'd lost his fear of heights ages ago, but soaring through the sky on a broom you controlled was a very different experience from being strapped into a much-smaller-than-advertised chair while scale-eyed humans he'd never met decided his fate.
That was the part that bothered him most, actually. Some of his sisters hated the magic-blind portion of humanity, but he'd always tried to be open-minded. It wasn't the scalies' fault they'd been born with blinders over their eyes, and the things they came up with to compensate for their lack of magic were ingenious. He'd been legitimately excited for his first airplane ride--at least until they'd left the ground and he'd been thrust face-to-face with the reality that his life would be in the hands of someone who couldn't see for the next six and a half hours.
"I'm sure it's perfectly safe," he said, as much for himself as for his cat."
You could have at least sprung for first class," Boston grumbled, settling onto the plastic floor of his carrier with his paws tucked under his chest. "It's bad enough that we're having to travel this way in the first place, but what sort of self-respecting witch flies coach?"
"The kind who doesn't want to be noticed," the man replied, tightening his grip on the pointed black hat resting in his lap. "Now pipe down before you crack my Nevermind spell."
The people across the aisle were already starting to give him odd looks. The scales in their eyes kept them from seeing the delicate soap bubble of artificial unimportance that surrounded the man and his cat, but the witch could see the magic - and the cracks that were starting to spider across its rainbow surface - just fine. Fortunately, the captain chose that moment to announce they were beginning their descent.
The Nevermind spell seized on the interruption just as he'd crafted it to do, redirecting all the curious human minds toward checking their luggage, finishing their drinks, buckling their seatbelts, and anything else that wasn't the man and his talking cat carrier. Satisfied that he wouldn't have to fight a kick demon in the air today, the witch leaned back in his seat and gazed eagerly out the window for his first look at the city he'd gambled everything to reach--only to discover he couldn't see it yet.
Apparently, mechanical planes didn't go straight down like brooms did. Their descent was a long, slow coast, forcing the witch to endure thirty more minutes of white-knuckled anxiety before the winged tin can finally touched down, its wheels bumping so hard against the pavement that his cat carrier would have slid off the seat if it hadn't been buckled in.
"I am never doing this again," said the miserable voice inside.
The witch wanted to assure him this was the last time, but he didn't dare. Now that they'd landed, the scalies were everywhere, grabbing their carry-ons and hunching their bodies like sprinters at the starting line as they waited for the plane to finish its taxi. The moment the contraption stopped moving, they shot out of their seats, pushing one another out for a spot in the aisle despite the fact that the door wasn't even open yet.
It was clear foolishness, but the witch had to restrain himself from joining in. Now that the plane was finally on the ground, he wanted out of his cramped seat in the worst way. But patience was a core principle of witchcraft, so he blew out a breath and bided his time, waiting until the plane was nearly empty before he dismissed his Nevermind spell, tucked his pointed hat under his arm, and began unbuckling Boston's carrier.
"Finally," the cat huffed as they stepped off the plane into the strange, collapsible hallway that connected it to the airport. "We were so close to death up there, I practically saw the Holy City."
"Pray to the Old Wives that you never see that," the witch replied, slipping his hand into the left side of his long black coat. The right concealed over a hundred pockets, each of which was spelled to jump to his fingers with a thought, but the left was for quick use items—wallet, phone, that sort of thing. It was quite full at the moment with all the documentation required for commercial air travel, but a little digging turned up the cell phone he'd purchased at Logan earlier that day.
The phone rang twice, and then an amused voice that sounded like it belonged to a teenaged girl answered. "Look at you, using modern technology. I take it you've arrived at your destination successfully?"
The witch glanced at the colorful "Welcome to Baltimore!" advertisements covering the connector hallway's flexible beige walls. "I'm here."
"Proud of you. Your chapero--err, chauffer is already waiting for you in the Portalocity Lounge." He could practically hear her grin. "I believe there's a sign involved."
"We both know that you haven't misspoken since before I was born." The witch sounded amused and exasperated--a common mix of emotions when talking to one of the many, many women who made up his family.
"Well, we can't all be out having adventures, Adrian." She still sounded amused, but the reminder of why Adrian was here and what was riding on it had him straightening his spine a bit, his own amusement fled. "Payment's been taken care of from the family coffers, but it would be great if you could start sending money back home as soon as possible."
"I will," the witch promised and hung up.
"Did she hire a bodyguard out of an abundance of caution or because she...?" Boston asked from his carrier.
"Cute that you think Aunt Muriel has ever given me a straight answer in my entire life," the witch snorted as he slid the phone back into his pocket. "Now be quiet. I can't do a Nevermind while walking, and this place is packed." The cat grumbled but didn't say another recognizable word as the witch began marching down the disembarkation tunnel toward the sunny, crowded airport terminal. Time to find a bodyguard with a sign. "Could have given me a little more of a description, Aunt Muriel," he muttered.
And just like that, his phone chimed with an incoming text. He dug it back out of his pocket and saw the message was just a phone number and a name. Yelena Belova.
[Adapted from Chapter 1 of Hell For Hire by Rachel Aaron. NFB for off-island, and for the grumpy Russianbabysitter bodyguard.]
"Would you rather I carried you in my lap?" asked the black-dressed man sitting in the window seat beside him. "And keep it down. Normal cats don't talk, remember?"
The cat lowered his voice to an angry hiss, which wasn't much of an improvement. "I'd rather not be on this flying death contraption in the first place. There's no anti-falling ward, no safety charms, no magic of any sort! We're just hurtling through the air in a metal cylinder powered by explosions." He turned his green-eyed glare on the happy family sitting across the aisle. "I'm amazed there are any scalies left if this is how they travel."
"Don't be rude, Boston," the man scolded, though he was secretly wondering the same thing as he stared through the window at the summer clouds drifting far, far below. He'd lost his fear of heights ages ago, but soaring through the sky on a broom you controlled was a very different experience from being strapped into a much-smaller-than-advertised chair while scale-eyed humans he'd never met decided his fate.
That was the part that bothered him most, actually. Some of his sisters hated the magic-blind portion of humanity, but he'd always tried to be open-minded. It wasn't the scalies' fault they'd been born with blinders over their eyes, and the things they came up with to compensate for their lack of magic were ingenious. He'd been legitimately excited for his first airplane ride--at least until they'd left the ground and he'd been thrust face-to-face with the reality that his life would be in the hands of someone who couldn't see for the next six and a half hours.
"I'm sure it's perfectly safe," he said, as much for himself as for his cat."
You could have at least sprung for first class," Boston grumbled, settling onto the plastic floor of his carrier with his paws tucked under his chest. "It's bad enough that we're having to travel this way in the first place, but what sort of self-respecting witch flies coach?"
"The kind who doesn't want to be noticed," the man replied, tightening his grip on the pointed black hat resting in his lap. "Now pipe down before you crack my Nevermind spell."
The people across the aisle were already starting to give him odd looks. The scales in their eyes kept them from seeing the delicate soap bubble of artificial unimportance that surrounded the man and his cat, but the witch could see the magic - and the cracks that were starting to spider across its rainbow surface - just fine. Fortunately, the captain chose that moment to announce they were beginning their descent.
The Nevermind spell seized on the interruption just as he'd crafted it to do, redirecting all the curious human minds toward checking their luggage, finishing their drinks, buckling their seatbelts, and anything else that wasn't the man and his talking cat carrier. Satisfied that he wouldn't have to fight a kick demon in the air today, the witch leaned back in his seat and gazed eagerly out the window for his first look at the city he'd gambled everything to reach--only to discover he couldn't see it yet.
Apparently, mechanical planes didn't go straight down like brooms did. Their descent was a long, slow coast, forcing the witch to endure thirty more minutes of white-knuckled anxiety before the winged tin can finally touched down, its wheels bumping so hard against the pavement that his cat carrier would have slid off the seat if it hadn't been buckled in.
"I am never doing this again," said the miserable voice inside.
The witch wanted to assure him this was the last time, but he didn't dare. Now that they'd landed, the scalies were everywhere, grabbing their carry-ons and hunching their bodies like sprinters at the starting line as they waited for the plane to finish its taxi. The moment the contraption stopped moving, they shot out of their seats, pushing one another out for a spot in the aisle despite the fact that the door wasn't even open yet.
It was clear foolishness, but the witch had to restrain himself from joining in. Now that the plane was finally on the ground, he wanted out of his cramped seat in the worst way. But patience was a core principle of witchcraft, so he blew out a breath and bided his time, waiting until the plane was nearly empty before he dismissed his Nevermind spell, tucked his pointed hat under his arm, and began unbuckling Boston's carrier.
"Finally," the cat huffed as they stepped off the plane into the strange, collapsible hallway that connected it to the airport. "We were so close to death up there, I practically saw the Holy City."
"Pray to the Old Wives that you never see that," the witch replied, slipping his hand into the left side of his long black coat. The right concealed over a hundred pockets, each of which was spelled to jump to his fingers with a thought, but the left was for quick use items—wallet, phone, that sort of thing. It was quite full at the moment with all the documentation required for commercial air travel, but a little digging turned up the cell phone he'd purchased at Logan earlier that day.
The phone rang twice, and then an amused voice that sounded like it belonged to a teenaged girl answered. "Look at you, using modern technology. I take it you've arrived at your destination successfully?"
The witch glanced at the colorful "Welcome to Baltimore!" advertisements covering the connector hallway's flexible beige walls. "I'm here."
"Proud of you. Your chapero--err, chauffer is already waiting for you in the Portalocity Lounge." He could practically hear her grin. "I believe there's a sign involved."
"We both know that you haven't misspoken since before I was born." The witch sounded amused and exasperated--a common mix of emotions when talking to one of the many, many women who made up his family.
"Well, we can't all be out having adventures, Adrian." She still sounded amused, but the reminder of why Adrian was here and what was riding on it had him straightening his spine a bit, his own amusement fled. "Payment's been taken care of from the family coffers, but it would be great if you could start sending money back home as soon as possible."
"I will," the witch promised and hung up.
"Did she hire a bodyguard out of an abundance of caution or because she...?" Boston asked from his carrier.
"Cute that you think Aunt Muriel has ever given me a straight answer in my entire life," the witch snorted as he slid the phone back into his pocket. "Now be quiet. I can't do a Nevermind while walking, and this place is packed." The cat grumbled but didn't say another recognizable word as the witch began marching down the disembarkation tunnel toward the sunny, crowded airport terminal. Time to find a bodyguard with a sign. "Could have given me a little more of a description, Aunt Muriel," he muttered.
And just like that, his phone chimed with an incoming text. He dug it back out of his pocket and saw the message was just a phone number and a name. Yelena Belova.
[Adapted from Chapter 1 of Hell For Hire by Rachel Aaron. NFB for off-island, and for the grumpy Russian
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She pulled out onto the road and dialed the local police. “Hello? I’d like to report a stolen vehicle. I watched the guy steal it and abandon it at a gas station.”
She then rattled off the description of the minivan, the license plate, the gas station location and a “description” of the guy who “stole” the minivan. The description being the guy who owned the car she was currently driving.
What? He had it coming.
“So why are you going there?”
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There were several reasons, and while Adrian would happily spill at least most of them, Yelena clearly had a preference for short and sweet. And a penchant for not answering questions herself. "Supplying a store there with Blackwood products," he said vaguely. "We're...expanding outside of our usual markets."
Which just added to the danger he was already in. Because the only other markets were Gilgamesh's Anchor Markets, and if he or his loyal followers got wind that the Blackwoods were selling anywhere else, there would be Hell to pay.
Literally.
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She rolled down the window and chucked her burner phone into traffic as a precaution. Which was fine but now the window wasn’t rolling up. “Fantastic,” she said with an Eyeroll. “It’s already broken.”
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See how helpful she is?
Fanny started to whine in the back. American Akitas as a breed were known for not putting up with douchebaggery. “Not much longer sweetie!”
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In response to her acceleration one piece of the trim came loose and flew off.
“I don’t think that piece was important.”
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"So, the Avengers? Dr. Strange? A talking racoon? What are you talking about?"
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She faltered for a second an after one breath and regained her composure. “They saved a lot of people. They’ve a bunch of super powered who stop aliens and whatever. You have to know them. Iron Man. Captain America. Thor. Hulk.”
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And sometimes Adrian paid attention to either of them!
"What kind of 'super powers' are you talking about? Like Gilgamesh's Princes, or warlocks, or...?"
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She was silent for a second as she pushed the car a little faster.
“So maybe we’re both not where we used to belong.”
Melina did say that she planned to use this as a safe house from Dreykov. Yelena was beginning to think it was way off the beaten path.
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"What?" Boston demanded. "What are you laughing about, Adrian? Did you not hear her? Parallel dimensions! We could get lost! We could ruin timelines! She could be lying, or crazy, or leading up into a trap! Why are you laughing?"
"Just...Aunt Muriel," he said. "Just like her to send us to a parallel dimension and not say a word."
"We don't even know it's real!"
"True," Adrian said, sobering. "But even the idea is entertaining."
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“Ask Fanny! She knows I’m telling the truth. Fanny, if I’m telling the truth sit there and pant.”
Fanny in what could possibly be considered a response looked at everyone in the car and panted.
As she turned the corner on the road and near the shore, Yelena saw a causeway there that she swore hadn’t been there a moment before.
“I think we found our island.”
The car began to slow down on its own half way across the causeway. And weirdly enough it was now totally covered in rust.
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"Over under of this thing collapsing into a rusted heap before we clear this causeway?"
"I don't take suckers' bets," Boston replied primly. "Just like I don't take character references from dogs."
From the back, Bran rustled hopefully. Look, if their current conveyance failed, it only made sense to use the other one they already had. The one that had been made with care and craftsmanship by the Old Wife of the Bones herself!
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Just like how the care came to a complete stop on the causeway. And then all the wheels fell off.
“Well if you don’t trust me, Cat, fine. I don’t get paid to not deliver Pantalones here to the island. Where I’m going anyway, she replied and got of the car and then got her stuff out of the back as the entire car got… rustier?
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Typical cat.
He once more pulled his belongings from the back seat and then also helped Fanny to avoid any of the particularly rusty or sharp spots as she climbed out - just in time as the undercarriage began to fall apart.
"Not yet, Bran," he said and the broom's rustling got louder, more annoyed sounding. "We still don't know what's happening here or the rules. We didn't come this far just to mess it up by being impatient at the very end. I know this process has been a trial for all of us," he continued patiently as he slid the strap over his shoulders to secure the broom to his back. "But we made it! This is what we've been working toward for all these years! If we can't handle a bit of...transportation irregularities, we might as well turn around and go home."
"We could, you know," Boston said, looking up at him through the holes in his cat carrier. “They sell tickets back to Massachusetts."
"Absolutely not," he informed his familiar. "The coven is depending on us. So we're going to follow our lovely escort and assume that she's not lying or walking us into a trap."
"And if she is?" Boston asked.
"Then we handle it," Adrian replied. "But until then, I'm going to trust in Aunt Muriel's judgment and that, on the whole, people are better than not." A pause. "Warlocks and sorcerers notwithstanding."
"And loyalists."
"And loyalists," Adrian agreed.
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Fanny was grateful for Adrian’s help getting out of the douchemobile. He no doubt got a tone of fur on his black pants.
“You can put your hat back on,” Yelena said as she leashed up Fanny and threw her duffel bag over her shoulder. “Does it talk too? Maybe tell us what house we belong too?”
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"My hat doesn't talk, no," he said. "And I already have the house I'll be moving into." He unconsciously patted the suitcase.
And if either he was great at faking responses or Yelena's reference went straight over his
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"Well, I heard there was a tiny house craze but that's kind of taking it to the extreme."
Of course she couldn't let it go without a snarky response.
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She looked down at Fanny who was rubbing up against her leg and just leaving fur everywhere.
"You're going to need to step up your cardio, Fanny."
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Bran, who had only just started to rustle in excitement, sunk back down into the straps. Sulking.
"I wish to get out," Boston announced from his carrier. "We are no longer in the deathtrap."
"You really want to climb all those stairs?"
"Cat carriers are demeaning."
With a sigh, Adrian set Boston's carrier down and opened the door. "If you get tired, I'm not carrying you," he warned. Boston ignored him. Bran rustled again.
"Neither are you, Bran."
More sulking silence.
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Yelena immediately reined her in. "I don't blame you, Cat," Yelena agreed. "And if he won't carry you, I will."
She was still giving Adrian a side eye. Still. "Are you talking to the broom?"
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"Yes," Adrian said with a nod. "Bran. I can't take credit for him though. He was a gift from my Aunt Lydia."