Guardian - Chapter One

This is the first draft of a novella I'm working on. Hopefully you enjoy it!

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And as ever, the party raged on. It was a near nightly occurrence, but not unexpected in an apartment full of college students. One floor down, Quentin studied on. It was only a matter of time before he’d be out of here, but first he would have to finish his thesis first. He sunk his hand on his chin as he stared at the printouts in front of him, trying to make sense of it.

His eyes flicked to the door as he heard someone jangle about some keys. His brother let out a heavy sigh as he let himself in, not bothering to make eye contact. That was the slump of a man who had his blind date leave early on him. Derek was in a poor mood after failing his job interview yesterday. It didn’t surprise Quentin that his brother’s mood carried on to his date.

Quentin frowned to himself as he looked down again. Time and time again, he had tried to cheer Derek up, but nothing he ever did seemed to work. “Leave it unlocked, because Marcela is bringing over dinner,” muttered Quentin as Derek took off his shoes. “You gonna want some?”

“You gonna pay her for all the food she brings over, or are you going to continue to mooch?”

Quentin clasped his hands together. “Nay, it is not our place to judge the blessings granted upon us by Mother Reyes.” He stood, one hand to his chest, while the other gestured dramatically forward. “We, the humble and underprivileged, must maintain our strength if we are to provide for ourselves and our futures.”

Derek stared at him in a weary manner. He then shook his head. “I have some freelance projects to catch up on. Don’t worry about saving anything for me.”

“Thou who denies thine bed forsakes the quality of tomorrow. Book of Antlericus, three fourteen.” Quentin yelped as Derek hurled a couch pillow at him.

“Quit making up bible verses!”

“The church of the Deer God is a real establishment.” He raised his voice as Derek went into his room. “I’m not going to save you any tamales!”

“Good!” Exclaimed Derek from the other side of the door.

Quentin puffed out his cheeks for a moment before he sat down at the table again. He had a jumble of photocopies strewn about. The more he looked at it, the more it looked like he was going to have a future similar to Derek’s life.

Unlike something flexible like a degree in programming, Quentin was working towards a masters in theology. He was hoping to transfer to a European school for a PhD focusing on mesopotamian religions. As far as future employment opportunities were concerned… Eh, he’d worry about it when he got there. What he was hoping for was a curator position, but it was difficult to say where he would end up.

He was still fumbling with photocopies when Marcela let herself in. She lived in the same complex as them, and had been friends with Quentin since the first day of classes. What mattered most was that her mom sent her a box of frozen home cooked meals every other week. Food had a way of bringing people together, and she was willing to share.

“What am I even going to do with thirty tamales? She knows that I know how much lard she puts in them. Every year it’s the same complaint, and not once does she listen.” She set down a steaming tray of the banana leaf wrapped treats and a cooking pot. “I brought six, and some stew because l need a balanced meal. Your brother hiding again?”

“Same as always,” muttered Quentin. “I bought more beer.”

“You saint,” she cooed.

“That’s blasphemy.” He looked over his shoulder as she began to raid the fridge. When she looked up, he shook a finger at her.

“Says the guy who studies demons.” Marcela returned and handed him a beer.

“I’m not the one becoming a minister.” Quentin opened the bottle for her before handing it back..

A heavy thud from upstairs made Marcela wince. This was followed by several more thudding that barely distracted from the muffled music. “I’m calling in a noise complaint again.”

“It’s the weekend. Let’s give them till midnight first.” He rolled his eyes as she took a heavy swig of her drink. “What are we working on tonight?”

Marcela proudly stuck her nose high in the air. “I’ve finished my work for the week already. I have volunteer work and Easter service tomorrow, but I need to make sure that you to to make some progress on your thesis.” She grinned widely. “I got something for you.”

She dug around in her backpack and pulled out an assortment of items. Crystals, a vial of red ink, parchment paper. All Quentin could do was stare at her blankly as she fiddled around with a feathered quill.

“No.”

“Learn to start saying yes to new ideas. Start appreciating me. Do you know how hard it was to find an occult shop in Chicago?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m certain that one was only a Google search away.”

She leaned over the table and flicked him on the forehead. He wasn’t amused by her antics. “To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention to your thesis other than the fact that it involves summoning something.” Quentin shook his head, and she clasped her hands together. “Please, Master Quentin, enlighten this poor soul!”

Quentin slid her a picture of a four sided column covered in cuneiform and art. “The Mesopotamians believed that everyone was born with a guardian deity. This spirit was neither good nor evil, and could be distracted by alcohol or other vices, or simply have a different agenda they need to follow, thus it was somewhat iffy how well protected you were in life.

These are what we believe to be teaching texts for priests. Each side represents one deity, for twelve in total, while the tops of them are all pieces of the thirteenth diety. I believe that there is somehow a code hidden within these texts, one that only the high priests would understand. A ritual to directly call upon the power of one’s guardian.”

“Uh huh.” Marcela stared at him unsuringly.

“The calendar is split between three seasons with four months each. If we were to consider the location of the temple where these were found, and plot out the trajectory of the moon’s path in relation to each month, along with the texts that have obvious misspellings in them, because why would there be misspellings in an educational te-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Marcela waved a hand about to get his attention. “This is just a conspiracy theory. If you look hard enough for something, you’ll see evidence of it everywhere you look. That doesn’t make the evidence true, but you don’t start out with a theory and work backwards from there. That’s how you end up with all these crazies pulling out random stuff from the bible and saying how it somehow predicted the last election.”

He couldn’t deny that she had a point. “I know that, but I still ended up with this.” Quentin handed her a paper covered in ornate circles. “A ritual that calls upon the power of three summoners in order to grant their desires.”

Marcela didn’t bother to look down at the doodle. “It’s not too late to change your thesis.” He frowned at her. “Sit back. Relax. Have a tamale. I’m speaking at my church this Sunday, and I could really use your help writing my sermon. I’ve got all the pieces I want to mention, but I’m not sure how to tie it all together.”

“You said you didn’t have any work,” replied Quentin in a dismayed manner.

“It’s not work. This is for the people, Quentin, it’s never work. It’s a pleasure.” She began to load up a bowl with stew and plopped an unwrapped tamale on top. “Eat some tamales, and-”

“Marcela!” Quentin cried out as a large drop of stew slipped out the bowl and landed on his precious summoning circle. “Dammit, Marcela! I didn’t make a copy of that yet!”

She quickly stood up and dampened a paper towel in the sink. “I got this, I got this. Don’t worry about it.”

Squeezing out the water, she quickly wiped up the dollop and set another damp towel on it. She then weighed it down with with a textbook on top. Her theory was that the sauce would slowly seep up into the napkin and leave the paper still legible.

Quentin buried his face in his hands while she cleaned up. She was right. He should just give up on his thesis. “Alright. Let me see what you have.”

It was better to lose himself in a different project rather than worry about his own work any longer. Even if he did somehow figure out the ritual, Marcela was right. It was only a theory. The best he could do for evidence was if he did the ritual himself and it somehow worked. But what good was a deity anyways? He certainly wasn’t having any sort of crisis going on.

Marcela left around midnight, and Quentin began to clean up. A lot of his work was tossed directly in the trash. He didn’t need it. His eyes fell at the damp mess hidden underneath the textbook. That could be saved for last. What bothered him more was the fact that Marcela had left behind all the occult stuff she had brought.

Derek didn’t bother coming out at all, but Quentin could hear his chair squeak every once in awhile. Yet another skipped dinner. It was something his brother did whenever he felt like he had messed up. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he worked on his thesis a little longer. Trying the ritual wouldn’t be a bad idea. Not for himself, of course, but for Derek. His brother was the one that needed help.

Thump.

The sudden sound made Quentin freeze in place. Was it rats? Did they have damn rats again? He began to look around, seeking out any signs or smells of possible vermin. An odd scratching sound was coming from the table. Like nails against a rough surface.

Thump.

It was the textbook. Something had pushed up on it from underneath, and it thumped when it fell down again. As Quentin looked on with horror, the textbook began to slide off of the paper. A hand was protruding from the center of the summoning circle and it began to grope around the table. After a moment, it also froze, seeming to sense that Quentin was staring.

The best idea Quentin could come up with was to duck into the kitchen and peek over the counter. His mind wasn’t able to comprehend what he was seeing. As the hand braced itself against the table, the flesh of its arm began to peel back. There was no room for more than just its wrist to make its way through, but it continued to pull itself forward. Strands of flesh were what followed behind it.

Still bleeding, the strands continued to ooze out of the summoning circle and weave themselves together. Quentin debated his options. If he shouted, he would end up putting Derek at risk for whatever danger this was. Running would do the same. He fumbled to pull a kitchen knife out of a drawer and kept low to the ground. Maybe if he wished hard enough, it would go away.

A figure slowly walked around the counter and looked down at him. It was a short man in a black hoodie. On closer inspection, the cloth appeared to be made of dozens of black feathers that had been woven together. His face was covered by a hybrid animal mask. Large eyes of a jerboa over the beak of a cormorant. Behind him, a long jerboa tail swished back and forth, and the tufted end of it seemed to have a soft glow.

Quentin reaffirmed the grip on his knife. “Go back to where you came from.”

“That is not your true desire.”

“I did not summon you here. Go back from whence you game, demon.”

The tail flicked back and forth as the demon held his hand forward. There was one of the crystals that Marcela had brought with her in his palm. Making a fist, the crystal was crushed into a fine powder.

“The circles were drawn, and the sacrifice of flesh was made.” Did he mean the stew that Marcela had spilled on it? “I have called upon in your time of need in order to grant your desire.”

He lunged forward, and Quentin did the best he could to defend himself. This involved thrusting the knife forward as he shut his eyes tightly. The demon grasped his wrist tightly, and Quentin hissed between his teeth as a horrid burning sensation flooded his skin.

A horrid sound filled the air. It almost sounded like chanting, but it was violently drilling itself into his ears. Quentin gasped loudly as his eyes snapped open, and he saw… Nothing. He looked down at his wrist and noticed that a tattoo had been placed there. A small brown moth with no distinctive features.

“You alright?” Derek’s voice called from the other side of the room. His brother looked over the counter and frowned at Quentin’s appearance. “Did you cut yourself? The knife and Quentin on the floor didn’t give him reason to be calm.

“I slipped, but I didn’t cut myself.” Quentin stood up and put the knife in the sink. “Marcela left some stew and tamales if you wanted some.”

Derek shook his head. “Not feeling all that hungry. Maybe for breakfast. Get some sleep while you can, I’ll be up late.”

Quentin watched as Derek went back into his room. He’d probably forget and eat something from the convenience store a block away. Doesn’t mean the food had to go to waste. Opening the fridge, he began to make room for the stew.

His arm brushed against one of Derek’s energy drinks, and suddenly Quentin’s vision went black. He saw himself hiding the energy drinks in his room. The world twisted about, and then Derek was sitting behind a desk. It looked like he had a job, as he was greeting people who walked past him and answered the phone when it rang.

The world spun again, and Quentin was staring at the fridge once more. His wrist was stinging. When he looked, he noticed that the moth on it was flapping its wings. A moving a tattoo, an ancient demon, and a vision of his brother living a better life.

Obviously it was the butterfly effect. Something small and seemingly unimportant would lead to large changes. That doesn’t mean he should go along with it. What if simply doing what he saw was somehow damaging for himself. Like his soul or something was in danger. He should simply do what felt natural, and not go out of his way to change anything, right?

But the other thought that came to mind was that the ritual was supposed to have three summoners. He fumbled to find his phone and call up Marcela. She was the one that spilled the stew on the circle. Obviously she had a part in it.

“W-wha..?”

“It’s Quentin. How is your hangover?” He began to pace back and forth across the room nervously.

“I only had two beers. You know I have to be up early, Quentin. What do you want?”

“Anything weird happen? Really weird? Did a guy in a weird bird mask break into your apartment and try to touch you or anything?”

There was a moment of silence. “Please don’t tell me that there is literally a guy in a bird mask breaking into apartments right now. Please. I really need to get my sleep. I don’t need to be freaking out about this. Did you call the police?”

“No I just… I had a strange dream.”

“You woke me up over a dream?!”

Quentin tensed up. “It was very realistic.”

“Okay, goodnight Quentin.” She clicked her tongue as he tried to tell her something. “I’m going back to sleep. Night.”

Quentin stared at his phone as she hung up on him. Maybe it was just him. If not her, then certainly not Derek as well. He found himself looking over his shoulder and at the fridge. Remove Derek’s drinks, he gets a job. What was wrong with testing it out? Any downsides should be his and his alone to pay.

He took the two energy drinks and took them to his room, hiding them under the bed. Quentin then went back out to finish cleaning up. Almost on cue, Derek wandered out of his room and went for the fridge. A minute of digging about was followed by a groan.

“You seen my Red Bulls?”

“Right, sorry.” Quentin waved his hands about apologetically. “Marcela and I drank the last two. It took a while to finish her sermon.” Derek glared at him until Quentin pulled out his wallet. “I have a five.”

Derek snatched it out of his hand. “Thanks.” He went to the door and started to put his shoes on.

“You’re not going to buy one now, are you?” Sure, the convenience store was open at all hours, but Quentin was terrified to go walking around Chicago past midnight.

“The coding I got is full of errors. It’s going to take me awhile to clean it up, and I need to send over what I have by morning.” Derek unlocked the door. “Be back in ten. Ask next time before you take one of my drinks.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Quentin wrung his hands behind his back as Derek walked out the door. Should he follow him, or would that defeat the purpose? The vision wasn’t that much clearer than that, but maybe that’s all he was supposed to do. He normally wouldn’t walk with Derek, and maybe the vision would’ve specified if he was supposed to do anything out of the norm.

He slumped over in his chair and said a silent prayer to himself. Hopefully he didn’t just send his brother out there to die. Or he wouldn’t have a demon suddenly popping up demanding that it was time to hand over his soul. Yet all there was was the normal silence, and that dread hanging precariously above his head was the worst thing he felt.

Submitted September 21, 2018 at 04:21PM by GrimAdelaide https://ift.tt/2xuiwYR