It Will Have Been Worth It (Urban Fantasy)

Chapter 0 - Hellbound​

Rain hit the taxi's roof, creating a constant stream of noise which almost drowns out the rumbling engine. You should have worn boots. And brought an umbrella. Walking through the streets with a downpour above your head is a terrible idea.

If you were lucky, it wouldn't be as bad when you finally arrive at the new place. You turn your head, staring out of the rear window. The obscuring sheets of water create a thick film and blur the lights into indistinct shapes. You turn back. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The rain was bad enough that even the quick wiping on the windshield wasn't helping. The driver doesn't seem bothered. The traffic light took forever to turn green.

"You don't look like a tourist," the driver spoke up suddenly. You start, denying your hands the urge to reach into your bag. His voice is soft. Your stomach hurts. You feel sick.

"Nothing in particular," you lie. The hoarseness makes for a reminder that you haven't had anything to drink the past twelve hours. No time to grab something to drink at the airport. The man's eyes reflect the street lights in the rearview mirror, and you become aware of what he could see.

So your mouth snaps shut immediately.

He looks old, in his early fifties maybe, with a large scar that traveled from his right cheek down to his neck. Gray, short hair sat at the crown of his head.

You try to tell yourself that nothing is going to happen. That nobody is going to notice anything wrong about you. Nothing was following you.

You are safe.

"Are you alright, Miss?" He asks, not looking particularly disgusted or shocked, giving you the assurance that he hasn't seen anything strange. His eyes turn back to the road quickly as a loud noise behind us announces an angry driver, getting his money's worth of that car horn of his. Your driver's foot becomes lead and the sudden acceleration presses you into the carseat.

"Yes," you say, keeping your head low to make sure he can't see your mouth. "I'm just a bit sick. Not very talkative, I'm afraid."

"I see," he says, nodding. You can still see the occasional movement of his eyes to the mirror. Perhaps you'd feel more at ease if you knew what he was looking for. If you did, you wouldn't have to twist your head around to stare out of the rear window all the time. "Please tell me beforehand if you're gonna throw up, I can roll down the window."

That doesn't sound like a joke. You smile. It must look strained, you realize, but it was the first time in a few days you are able to use these muscles. It feels genuine, at least.

The ambience does your mood no favors.

"Do you mind if I turn on the radio?" he asks, his hand already moving to the buttons to his right.

"No, I don't mind," you say without any hesitation. Any distraction is going to be welcome. The button press comes just a second later.

The music is loud, some new song you keep hearing but never remember the lyrics of, by some famous artist whose name you can never recall. He turns it down when the weak signal makes way for white noise in between every other line. Your heart pounds. It is just a weak signal, nothing more.

He doesn't say a word as he turns it off, shrugging. "Not in this weather, I suppose."

Your lack of responses doesn't stop the man. It's as if the lack of interest makes him even more eager to talk. You can't really fault him for that. You aren't very comfortable with silence either.

A nod instead of a word from your lips, your mouth drawn into a thin line. You face the window to your right, the reflection of your face so clear it could have been a mirror. Your hair had once been every color under the sun, now left in pale reflections that gave way to brown hair. Your eyes, a similar color, look even darker in the flowing water. You breathe a sigh of relief—

And your breath comes out as thick as clouds.

The temperature drops so suddenly that the taxi driver overcorrects to a worrying degree. You shiver and try to stave off the coming panic. It grips your heart, and then your throat, choking any sense of relaxation out of you. You can no longer separate your fear from the cold, shivering all the same. The car comes to a halt, the grumbling motor whines and dies.

"I apologize, ma'am," the driver said. "That's usual, it will work again in a few seconds."

Your teeth clatter together, and the semi-transparent sheet of water turns blue and white. Bits and pieces of ice form but seconds after.

The car doesn't turn on again, and the loud honking behind us turns into a stream of angry noise as they pass the taxi.

You can see it. In the distance, down a side-street to your right, through the blurry view of the rain-slickened window. It stands in the middle of the road as cars pass far around it, unaware of the thing that walks the line. Whenever one gets too close, it twists and turns and makes way like a bag swaying in the wind.

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands tremble. You grab the bag at your side, take out a large bill stowed inside and lean forward to put it on the passenger seat next to the driver before opening the door.

The door almost shuts the moment you open it, cold and wet wind blowing and ripping into your skin until it touches bone. No way around this. You step out, ignoring the waterfall that weighs down on you so heavily.

"Hey!" Came the driver's shout. But you ignore him, slamming the door shut. You hear that some of the worst rains in this city can flood the streets, and pray that it doesn't happen today of all days. Moving to the back of the car, you grab the luggage from the trunk, once again ignoring the driver's urging to get back into the taxi. Slamming the trunk shut, you look back.

The thing approaches, not fast, but it isn't going to take the long way around. The distinct wrongness makes you uncomfortable, and then hungry.

You bite your tongue.

The dark sky and rain don't make it easy to get a good look at it, and the way its hips keep swinging in angles that would have broken any normal person's spine make you even more desperate to go.

Long arms and legs kicked around heavy raindrops as it takes another, longer step. A body so thin that it is more bones than flesh. It glows, in a very strange shade of blue that you've seen on the car window before.

You step onto the sidewalk, making your way down the street with quick steps. The downpour emptied the streets of all pedestrians. Opening your mouth slightly, you look up and let some of the rain in. Still dry and uncomfortable, but you must keep moving. Stopping right now is suicide.

The thin sneakers kick up water every time you step into a puddle. Maybe your toes would fall off at this temperature. The ankle length trousers are just one of your many regrets tonight. Your quick steps lead you down three blocks without any sign of the thing behind you catching up.

A brightly lit café appears at the end of this long road, filled with people even at this hour. Relief floods through you, the tight grip around your neck loosening.

Being wet was the worst. The rain is simply too much even for the nice coat you bought before your trip here. You are soaked in seconds, the rain running down your neck and leaving your hair completely flat, sticking to your skin.

Nothing you can do to change that now. You step in, leaving the rain behind as the door closes. The sound becomes soft, almost calming. Some people look towards you, some mind their own business. All of them look quite young, awake to stay at a coffee shop this late for whatever reason.

"Oh dear," a woman's voice cuts through the chatter. She wore an apron over normal clothes, bleached hair tied up into a bun. Her nose scrunched up slightly. "I'm afraid we can't let you sit down while you're drenched like that."

"I don't mind," you say quickly, looking towards the window. Wonderful customer service. 'At least I had a place I knew I wouldn't come back to later.'

The thing hasn't caught up yet. Good. "I'd just like to stay for a while, until the rain stops."

The woman looks a few years older than me, maybe in her early thirties, maybe in her late twenties.

"If you're willing to order something," she says, still managing to sound polite. Of course. Buy our overpriced coffee, or else. You sigh through your nose, pulling out your wallet from the bag as you roll the luggage toward the wall and out of the way.

"One coffee, please," you say, not able to sound polite at all. She gives a thin-lipped smile as you hand her the money. The light flickers and the rain on the window glows. The coffee is poured, and you feel voracious.

You see the reflection of a man approaching, stepping up to with something in his hands. When you spin around quickly, he stops, smiling. "Please, take this."

A towel in his grip, he reached out to hand it to you. You smile back. Your clothes are still too soaked to sit, but there was a place to stand near the large store window. Attempting to dry your hair, you leave a few streaks of water in the table that you attempt to wipe away, making the situation even worse.

All you have to defend yourself with isn't something you want to pull out in a crowded place.

The light flickers again and the cold returns with a vengeance.

The waitress brings the coffee, putting it down on the counter in front of you as you keep staring out the window, checking the blurry street lights. Once more, the light flickers.

The coffee in your cup immediately lost all heat, the steam above it vanishing, your hands trembling too hard to pick it up. For just a moment, all the lights on the street stopped working. The light in the café flickers one last time, and it appears.

In the middle of the road, staring at you.

Now that it was so close, you could really see it. Its fingers are long and narrow, reaching forward to touch the window, the palm of its hand slowly pressing against it. It doesn't have any eyes, none that you could see, at least. Despite that, its 'face' turned into your direction, staring back at you through the window.

The rain on the window froze slowly, the blue glow replaced by frigid white as the window began to crack.

Its face opened up with a thin line that spread from temple to temple. A mouth of sorts, that spoke with lipless courage: Just a single word.

"Blacktongue," it says, the high pitch of its voice sending shivers down your spine and vibrating the window, so similar to a nail scratching on a blackboard.

You force your hands to stop trembling, picking up the iced coffee and taking a slow sip.

It doesn't want to fight, it just wants to scare you. You think. You hope. But hope is an insidious thing in situations like this. When you are facing the terror of death and stare it in the eye, begging for your life from people who see you as a means to an end.

The relief of the soothing liquid finally offering your throat something less dry is accompanied by a bitter taste that you deserve for forgetting to ask for milk and sugar.

The thing takes it as a dismissal, its fingers curling against the window in what you can only assume to be anger. The cracks spread, making a loud noise this time and drawing all the eyes toward you. Nobody can see it. Nobody can see it and help you.

You can only help yourself.

More and more eyes are at your back, the customers' quiet whispers muttering about the strange phenomenon. The monster's mouth opens again, cold and watery breath turning into sharp icicles that look like teeth. Knowing it wants to scare you doesn't make it easier not to feel scared. But whatever panic you feel, what kind of success it reaches, it cannot show on your face. It cannot show in your actions.

Instead, you gave it your best glare.

You open your mouth wide, staring at the reflection of your pitch black tongue in the store's window as you reveal it to the monster. It snarls, fingers curling more, spreading the cracks on the window even further. Your throat feels dry again.

It snarls, and for one moment when the lights flicker again, you can feel its fear and it makes you brave.

It stops, the hand sliding down the window without any pressure against the glass. It closes its mouth, snarling much like a cornered beast. Its skin ripples, the rain that soaked it becoming an armor of ice. For one moment, it looks ready to jump through the window, ripping into you and leaving nothing but a bloody pulp.

And then it turns around, vanishing into the rainy night.

The lights don't flicker again. A frozen sheet of ice holds steadfast over the cracks minutes after the monster left, your eyes not leaving the store's window the whole time.

The coffee is horrible. Why didn't you order water instead?

###

You are Anna Everett, and your life has been bound to the arcane through a choice that was none. This made you a few powerful friends, who owe you after being unable to protect you.

Debts are very important, and in exchange they offer to help you through these difficult times. Unfortunately, this meant leaving behind a half-finished degree, an okay job, and most importantly your friends and family.

The result matters. You are here now, and even if you had to leave the taxi halfway to your new home, you'd make your way there once the rain stops.

So which of them are you running to?

[ ] Old Man Thomas: The Lord of Breaches, an arcanist responsible for the eradication of demon worshiping monsters. The kinds of monsters that would carve the throat of a college girl out and leave her bleeding to summon something even more monstrous than them.

[ ] Lahar: Witch of the Circle, the youngest of the burdened young. Unaging record-keepers who steal their names from ten deities. She was responsible for the seal that kept your creditor locked up and failed to uphold that duty.

[ ] Grace: Purpose in Divinity, the matriarch of a church-like organization. The ritual was done in her place of worship, with stolen keys, leaving bloodied handprints over the ancient stones that became the foundation of her church.