This is (possibly) the beginning of a short series, as well as backstory for a character from a yet-to-be-published book.
Vague, I know.
I only warn you because if you’re looking for closure, you won’t find it at the end of this short piece. It’s really more of an intro I wrote on the fly.
The good news is that I like where it’s headed so I’ll probably come back to it. (You’ve heard that before, yes, but really, I mean it this time.) The bad news is you’ll just have to wait.
But while you wait, why not tell me what you think of what I have so far in the comments?
I don’t trust witches.
I know. That’s biased and unfair. But before you go calling me a supernaturalist bigot, hear me out.
I trust some individual witches. I’ve known a few good ones. Not Glenda-the-Good-Witch-of-the-North good — I’ve yet to see one riding in on a massive bubble — but some. I’ve had the pleasure of working with more than one caster who was out to protect humanity instead of cashing in on his or her power for personal gain.
But I’ve known a lot more than a few witches, and most of them have been of the second variety. The first one I knew well was no exception.
And here’s were things get real. Not only was he a selfish, self-centered bastard on some kind of spell-crazed power trip. He was also extremely likable. So much so that I trusted the asshole.
His name was Gordon. As names go he drew the short straw, no doubt about it. But he seemed to make up for that in both talent and intent.
I was running around in west Texas, dealing with, I swear I’m not making this up, a cult of Mexican vampires. Gordon was there, too, slaying away within miles of me each night. We were bound to cross paths.
When you’ve got vampire blood up to your elbows and you come across another warm-blooded body, you’re more inclined to give the benefit of the doubt. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
We talked shop for a while, and eventually agreed that it would be easier to eradicate the swarm if we worked together. For two weeks, we did just that. He saved my life half a dozen times, and I returned the favor.
Boy, could he sling magic.
I kept my guard up, though, mostly because I kept expecting him to hit on me. He never did. Not one flirty remark the whole time. Nope, he kept things nice and professional while we worked, sharing private information only after dawn broke and only in appropriate measure.
He was from Louisiana. Magic ran in his family, though neither his mom nor dad practiced. He hated football and loved soccer. Most of the time he preferred to work alone, but he felt we made a good team.
When we’d staked the last blood sucker, we decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to collaborate again. Honestly, all I cared about was killing monsters. He had more specific plans in mind.
I trusted him. Sue me.
But truth will out, as the English say, and it did. We partnered on and off for nearly a year, sometimes going weeks without even talking and sometimes sleeping in the same room for our own protection. Then he let his true colors show.
He was working in tandem with a coalition of baddies. A few vampires, a werewolf or two, and a small coven of witches and sorcerers. Cooperative efforts of that kind are so rare I didn’t see it coming.
Turns out, he and his cohorts were merely eliminating competition.
None of the jobs we’d done together had anything to do with ridding the world of evil. He was just carving out a nice, uncontested territory for himself and his cronies.
And wouldn’t you know it? The last bit of competition they needed to eliminate was little, ol’ me.