Four on the Floor, Part Thirteen - Steemit Exclusive Urban Fantasy

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Part Thirteen

I don’t recommend running for your life in Doc Martens.

There’s not a lot of shock absorption, the arch support doesn’t matter when you’re moving faster than a brisk stroll, and the cushioned sole loses most of its comfort when you’re dashing down elevated train tracks.

The station isn’t too far away, and since it’s the 90^th and V station out in the Benedict the only person there is the woman behind the bulletproof glass who’s distracted by, well, the train that just made an emergency stop a hundred yards away from the station. She doesn’t come out, because in the Benedict you generally want to stay behind bulletproof glass if it’s available.

Parsival vaults up onto the platform with ease. Me, not so much, but I still clamber up and chance a glance behind us to see the sidhe is not letting us escape so easily, giving pursuit despite the fact I’m not dressed for a lively chase.

I need to snark right now, because I’m getting the feeling that taking his sword was a Bad Idea and this might be my last opportunity to be witty as he’s likely stopped giving a damn about protocol.

Still, I would think that literally getting a kick in the head and a subsequent concussion would slow someone down, but that’s not the case, because as I’ve said, fuck today. If I were a normal, upstanding citizen I would stop, or call the police, or bang on that bulletproof window telling that woman that we’re being chased by someone that wants to kill us and we pulled the emergency brake when he attacked.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since I started working magic, it’s that people generally hate me. They take one look at me and every single negative stereotype about Goths, ravers, and women immediately takes priority. It’s why I didn’t get so rattled that Bjorn called me a witch, because it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I think the only reason Tasha can stand living with me is that I sleep in a storage closet, do the dishes, don’t eat her food, make the coffee, come up with my share of the bills, and I’m the sort of roommate that only comes home to sleep and then I’m often gone before she wakes up. If I wasn’t a necromancer, Tasha would probably think I’m a unicorn.

So, asking for help is out.

“Down to the street!” I can tell that Parsival wanted to add “C’mon!”, but apparently he only has permission to advise me, not command me. Fuck, I’ve got to find a way to break that, because no one should have to live like this.

I still follow him to the stairs and quickly descend to V Street, where… There’s a taxi?

“Get in!” The driver calls to us, and I comply, getting in the back while Parsival scrambles into the front just as the sidhe reaches street-level. A squeal of rubber follows as the taxi takes off, speeding away, the sidhe bellowing his rage but still shrinking into the distance.

“Thank you,” I manage after catching my breath. “Thank you.” I repeat it a few more times with each time I exhale, my lungs filled with gratitude that I don’t know if I can ever get out completely.

“Val, why are we driving away from a clearly pissed off sidhe?” The driver’s voice is female, roughened likely by smoking given that she punctuates the question with a cough. Either that or allergies. “And tell me why the fuck you have a sword or I’m stopping the car right now.”

I can’t tell much about how she looks, given she’s wearing a baseball cap to hide her hair, she’s wearing driving gloves, and a dark green light jacket. Sunglasses too. I’m assuming Val is Parsival, and I’d prefer it if that were the case. He’d likely prefer it as well, if he has to obey me whenever I use his name.

“He accosted us on the Blue Line. She subdued him, but not for long enough, so we ran and you know where it leaves off and picks up here.” Weird that he’s not looking at her while he’s talking. “As for the sword… It’s mine now, okay?”

“You stole a sword from a sidhe noble?” She’s speaking in that language, and her concern is evident, enough that she feels I don’t rate being part of the conversation. “You’ll get us all killed! You know we’re sport to them, and you’ve given them reason to wipe us all out looking for you and that damned sword!”

“It’s mine.” He keeps staring forward, jaw set.

“Twin bloods don’t get swords like that. We got our token knight, we slipped through our overlooked squire. This? Parsival, you’ve set all of us back.” There’s fear there now, disappointment, anger too. “And who is she? A new twin blood? Some human you’re dallying with?”

Okay, maybe Val/Parsival wasn’t kidding about that being the assumption.

“Pull over.” He doesn’t look at her. “Pull over, we all get out, and then I answer that question.” She drives on a few seconds, until he finally shouts, in Sigil, “Stop this vile conveyance this instant, sister! A proper introduction is required!”

There’s no slam of the brakes, more slowing down until we’re at a vacant lot across the street from an array of storage units before she puts the taxi in park. She looks back at me. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

I take a deep breath, and I’m sure my face is going through an entertaining sequence of befuddled expressions. “No. No, I am not. I met him a couple of hours ago, and no… I do not want to conceive a child with him. At all. And I will admit that the assumption about me that is related to such a line of questioning is… Insulting, to put it mildly.”

She shrugs. “Can’t blame me for asking.”

“Yes. Yes, I most certainly can.”

She gives me a plain look, or as plain as I can discern given how those glasses are obscuring her face. “The assumption speaks to him more than to you. Regardless, I apologize.”

“Accepted.”

“Splendid.” She exits the car, and I do the same. Apparently Val got out while her and I were chatting, and he’s looking a mite impatient with her, if she is his sister. “So, what is this about, brother?”

Guess she is.

Val turns his gaze to me. “What is the name of this sword?”

I have no damned clue, and I’m about to voice it, but he cuts me off.

“What is the name of the sword?” But he wasn’t accenting the word, he slipped into Sigil.

“I don’t know its name, Parsival.” At that, his sister is now staring, openly, her posture straightening.

“Because it doesn’t have one.” He nods, gently, prodding with his eyes to nudge me along.

He wants me to name it. Name it what? Well, he’s apparently my attendant, his name is Val, what name could fit it better than, “Valet.” The word slips out in Sigil. How the Hell am I doing this? Usually I need help from Pumpkin to get all of these weirdly complicated simple phonetics.

But the sword glows again, a darker aura, but not threatening.

“Brother? Who is this woman?” But the way she’s speaking implies she knows the answer.

“Sister, I am honored to introduce Lady Absinthe.” For a moment, his eyes glow, in a decidedly unnatural fashion, the air about us growing tense, a wind picking up, adding reverb to his following words. “The Shadow Dancer.”