Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Five

The conclusion to my short story series about a father and daughter discussing the end of the world and her journey to save it. To start at the beginning, see A Conversation in a Cafe.

“And so it is done.”

As greeting’s go, it’s not the best. I slump down into the seat opposite my father, looking at him through narrowed eyes. So it is done. My usual cookie waits for me with a Diet Coke; he is holding a mug of tea but not drinking. Just smiling at me.

“Yep,” I say, reaching into my bag. I pull the sword out. A full blade, which should never have fit into my tiny handbag but of course it did, because, well, magic. Magic has been a constant in the last few weeks. The only certainty as the light filled the sky and the earth itself shattered. “Saved the world.” I plonk the sword down on the table. It clatters, and a couple of people look at us before quickly looking away.

“The world will never be the same,” my father says.

I laugh. “Look around. It’s been two days since the earth stopped shaking, and already people are back in the city centre having a latte and a croissant before they go to work. Life goes on. It’s only human.” He’s still smiling at me. His eyes sparkle a gentle gold. I sigh. “What?”

“You may have surpassed me in wisdom, daughter.”

“You know damn well that’s impossible.” I reach out and take a bite of the cookie. God, it’s good. I can enjoy it now. Maybe. I’m pretty sure it’s over. 

“But five of us still remain.”

I drop the cookie back onto the tray.

“The end of the world has stopped. I’ve killed eight. Eight bloody gods, and let me tell you they didn’t go easily.” 

They bled gold. I’m not sure whether that made it better or worse. When I close my eyes I still hear the scrape of blade against bone, still see the gold-splattered walls of my most recent battle. The sword gleams silver. Every time it struck a god and the god bled, it would absorb the blood, and grow more powerful. The fights got easier. The last one barely lasted a minute; it felt more like an execution.

Is that what I am now? An executioner?

“It’s over,” I say, aware my father is trying to catch my eye and deliberately avoiding him. “The end times are done.”

”But five of us live.”

”Death never really wanted the world to end; it doesn’t really have a purpose once that happens. The twins only really care about the trees, I lost them somewhere in the rainforest, but I’m pretty certain from some of the cursing I got from the trees that they’d rather the earth remained whole. And as for Loki – or Apollo, as he told me to call him, which is insane because Apollo wasn’t even a bloody trickster -”

”I believe that’s the trick.”

”He doesn’t want to lose his favourite playground. Not in the era of fake news.” I hesitate. My father hasn’t blinked. He’s still watching me. “That leaves you.”

”Yes.”

The cafe buzzes around us. Nice acoustic music is playing. Nice conversations are happening. Nice weather shines through the window. You would never guess the world almost ended, that millions died in the floods, that the hospitals were overrun with people who refused to die and the earth itself split. Life goes on. 

My father reaches out. Going for a bite of my cookie. 

No. He rests his hand on mine. His touch is warm, and soothing. It feels like safety. 

“Daughter, look at me.” I can’t help it; at the entreaty I look up, and I’m immediately trapped in those golden eyes. He’s still smiling. “I am so proud of you.”

I flush. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks. He squeezes my fingers, and then lets them go.

He grabs a bit of the cookie before leaning back in his seat. Because old habits die hard.

“I have a confession to make,” he says. 

My heart sinks. Please don’t say you’re pro-end. Please don’t say I have to kill you.

He sighs. The sound is heavy, like the weight of the world has pushed it out. “I ordered the cookies for you because it seemed ungodly to order them for myself.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. A couple whispering and holding hands at the next table glare at us; I just keep laughing. The sword gleams on the table between us. My father’s eyes, human eyes, watch me with an expression that is both amused and exasperated.

I laugh until I feel my ribs are going to crack, until the sound of my laughter is echoing louder than the music and the upstairs of this cafe is full of my amusement. Then I sink back into my chair, resting my head back to look at the ceiling, and whisper, “I need to sleep for, like, a century.”

“I’ll give you a couple of days.”

I glare at him. “A couple of days until what?”

“Until you show me how to retire and be human.” He takes another bite of the cookie and leans back in his chair with a content sigh. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think I’m going to like it.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Four

The penultimate part of my short story series which started as an exercise in writers block. A father and daughter meet to discuss her progress in stopping the end of the world. For the beginning, take a look at A Conversation in a Cafe.

“Death returns, and humanity thrives. You have done well.”

I snort into my Diet Coke. Done well. I’m not sure whether he’s being sincere or not; I kind of hope not. The undying plague is over. Death has returned. People have returned too, leaving their houses and their hiding and finding some semblance of normality in this crazy descent into the end times. The cafe around us has a quiet, pleasant buzz. The music is louder than any conversation, giving the semblance of privacy. Death has returned; life goes on.

I ache.

“Daughter?”

I jolt out of my thoughts. I’d been staring into my Diet Coke, clasping it so tight my knuckles are white. My father’s voice is gentle. He is giving me that smile, the one that suggests I am a child who needs rest.

He’s not wrong.

“Not well enough,” I say. “The world’s still ending.”

“But you have given people hope. Sometimes, hope is enough.”

I hold his gaze. Stare deep into those bloody golden eyes. “That’s crap. Hope isn’t enough, not when you’re fighting the end of the world.”

“Perhaps.” He takes a sip of his tea. “The underworld has hurt you.”

”A couple of scratches and bruises. Turns out Death really doesn’t like being disturbed.”

”I did not mean physically.”

I shrug his concern away. “I’m fine.”

I’m not fine.

The underworld was a writhing darkness, a hell-scape twisted horrifically into the form of a tower block. Every level brought new demons and new nightmares. Every step was torturous. And Death, Death was at the very bottom, waiting for me with a smile on her lips. His lips. I’m still not entirely sure what gender it was, only that it was, and it was surprisingly seductive.

It would have been so easy to close my eyes, and let it take me.

The music in the cafe is bouncy and happy. A couple and their kids are chatting away at the next table. It’s as if the plague of undying never happened, the blood red rain is a distant memory. But then, they don’t know what’s coming.

“The beast,” I say. “What can you tell me about it?”

”The beast is a fairytale,” my father says dismissively. “He will ride in on a wave of bones – it is a myth to express what humanity cannot understand.”

”So how will it happen?” He stares at me. I hold his stare. I’m not going to be intimidated by those golden eyes; I’ve stared down far worse these last few months. “I’ve fought the portends of the end of the world. That means the end must be coming, right? So how do I stop it?”

He reaches his hand across the table and, predictably, breaks off the corner of my cookie. I sigh. He takes his time, enjoying the bite, taking a sip of his tea. He’s stalling. I can’t believe it. This mythical, all-knowing being is stalling.

“Father.”

He sighs. Puts his tea down. “The end will come in a flash of light and burning rain,” he says softly. “There will be screaming, and endless torment. The underworld will break into the overworld; the heavens will fall and collide with the earth. The gods will leave. We have that luxury. But the people will die.”

My heart sinks. “So there’s no beast? Nothing for me to fight?” He says nothing. I feel sick. “You said that I could be the great warrior who rises to fight the beast. If there’s no beast, how on earth am I meant to fight it?”

The couple and their kids are leaving. One of the children shoots us a curious glance. Maybe I’m talking too loudly. I don’t care. If they aren’t aware what’s going on in the world, it’s time they were educated. The news is full of blood red rain and floods and undying and religious leaders warning people to make their amends and scientific leaders explaining theories that I don’t understand.

They’re all wrong. There are no amends; there is no science. There are only unknowable gods, who do not care, and never have.

There are tears in my eyes. I go to wipe them away; my father stops me and hands me a napkin.

“I care,” he says softly.

I glare at him. “You’re in my mind. Don’t do that.”

”I can’t do it very often these days,” he says, drawing back as I dab at my eyes. “You have grown strong, daughter.”

”Because you told me I had to. Now you tell me it was all for nothing.”

”I never said that.”

A young man and woman have started arguing at the next table. Their hushed, strained tones are a background to my father’s serious, unblinking expression. 

“There is a beast, of sorts. And the beast is known.”

I frown. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I am the beast.”

I can’t be dealing with this right now. “Drop the cryptic crap, please. I’m tired and I’m -”

“I’m not being cryptic. I am the beast. My brothers and sisters are the beast. Without us, there is no end. There is only the earth, ungoverned and free.”

Ungoverned and free.

I shake my head. “You’re saying I have to fight the gods?”

”You have fought one before. And won. That is how I know you are ready.”

I laugh. “I slapped a bit of sense into Death. I got it to do its duty. That’s hardly winning, that’s just being persistent.”

“And that is why I know you are going to win.” He smiles at me. “Because you are persistent. You are determined. You will never not try.” The smile grows a tad wistful. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

This is insane. “I can’t fight the gods,” I say hopelessly. “There are too many, and even if I managed to – if I found them all in time, if I managed to get close enough – I’d die first. Because I can die.”

”So can we. If you use the right blade.” He reaches for another bit of my cookie but then, to my surprise, pushes it into my hands. “Eat, daughter. You’re going to need your strength.”

I sigh. “Any chance I can take a break, and someone else can take over?”

“Do you know of any other demi gods?”

“No. Do you?”

”Yes. But they are all dead, powerless or moronic.” He closes my hand over the piece of cookie. “Gather your strength. The journey to the blade is not an easy one.”

I can’t help another sigh at that. “Of course not.”

I take a bite of the cookie. It’s good. Too good. Too much chocolate for anyone’s good. The cafe has a pleasant atmosphere today. People seem happy. There’s the argument at the table next to us and a crying child is being reprimanded in the corner, but the happiness is like a shroud. The world is getting better, as far as they know. Things are improving. If only. 

But maybe I can help.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Three

Another day, another morning writing session. The short story continues into its third part as a father and daughter meet to discuss her efforts to save the world. If you haven’t read the other parts, please start with A Conversation in a Cafe.

“The underworld is no place for a lady.”

This is my father’s response to my plan. Sitting here, crammed into the corner of our usual cafe as though we can somehow hide from the bright lights and cheery atmosphere, I don’t feel much like a lady. I don’t remember the last time I washed my hair; I’m pretty sure, from the looks I got as I walked through and headed upstairs, that I smell. Not that I care anymore. Greasy hair and a bad smell are the least of my problems.

“Well, no one else is going to go,” I say, crumbling a piece of cookie up between my fingers, letting the chocolate melt onto my skin. “And someone has to.”

”Why?”

I can’t help a small laugh at that. My father is an all-knowing being but I’m starting to realise all-knowing is not the same as intelligent. There is only one other table occupied up here at the moment; the cafe – the town as a whole – is quiet. The occupied table has a bunch of kids at it, pre teens or young teens or somewhere on that spectrum of adolescence. They’re laughing at a video on one of their phones. I can guess what they’re watching. They’re watching someone dying.

“You know, when the books warned about the undying I was expecting zombies,” I say. “This isn’t undying. This is the opposite of undying.”

He tilts his head to the side. “How so?”

“People are dying, they’re just not quite making it to dead. Which is why someone has to go down to the underworld and see what the hell is happening.”

He smiles. “What do you expect to find, child? A blockade? It is the end times; there is nothing to be found in the underworld but more pain and suffering. Best to focus your attentions up here.”

Talking of blockades.

“There’s nothing I can do up here,” I say. I reach out to take a bite of the cookie, but end up crumbling it between my fingers again. I’m not hungry. I don’t even know why I agreed to come. “I tried. God I tried.”

”I know.”

“You know,” I say dully. “So why don’t you do something? Because you can do more than try; you can stop this!”

I’ve raised my voice. The kids are glancing over at us, but they go back to YouTube and videos of people stuck in eternal torment. I’m never going to understand what some people find entertaining. 

My father is watching me gravely. I hold his stare, even though his eyes are gold and inhuman and he isn’t blinking. I hold his stare, and know that I am not blinking either, and that my eyes have flecks of that same gold in them.

He sighs, and drops his gaze. “I cannot,” he says gently. “I can encourage you. I can support you, as my daughter. But I cannot actively be involved in this. You know that. We decreed it centuries ago -”

”And centuries ago you were wrong.”

The flood came between the blood rain and the undying. It wasn’t actually as bad as I had imagined. For one thing, it was water, not blood, and that was an improvement as far as I’m concerned. Outside, there’s a certain wetness to the air but no more blood-slicked streets. Yet the place is empty. The schools are shut, the economy has ground to a halt. Things like that happen when people forget how to die. 

“Daughter?” I glance up at him. Lost in thought for a minute. He’s smiling at me again. “You will prevail,” he says. “Of this I have no doubt.”

He reaches his hand across, and tears off a corner of my cookie. Of course. I sigh. “Why don’t you just order your own damn cookie rather than always eating mine?”

He shrugs. “There is a certain … humanity in sharing yours.” I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to say to half of what he says. This is our third meeting in eight months – in the twenty-eight years prior I had met him only twice. Our relationship is developing. Into what? I think, Father and daughter, mentor and mentee, unhelpful god and helpless demi-god?

“You said you have a map of the underworld,” he says, drawing me back to the situation at hand.

”Yes.” I reach into my bag and take it out. He raises an eyebrow; I raise mine back, daring him to comment on the fact that I’ve taken a priceless map and folded it in half so it fits into my satchel. He doesn’t, and I am allowed to spread it out over the table in piece.

I reach for a bit of cookie; he reaches over and smacks my hand away.

“Hey!”

He looks up and smiles. “The folding can be forgiven. If you get chocolate on it, I may have to smite you.”

”You just did,” I say, waving my hand in an exaggerated manner. 

He ignores me. He’s looking at the map.  I wonder whether he’s having the same moment of awe I had when I first saw it: the intricate detail, the parchment itself woven to withstand centuries of time, the black markings of the ink in strokes so small you need a magnifying glass to read them. Unless you have golden eyes and a prior knowledge. He is reading it intently, eyes darting from the tunnel that leads to the underworld to the river to the caverns through to the pictures of writhing, desperate souls.

Then he laughs. I stare. He keeps laughing. He laughs so loudly that the kids are quiet for a moment, that the sound echoes off the walls and comes back louder than the music.

“Umm, father?”

“Oh, daughter, you did not tell me you’d seen my brother.”

I frown. “I told you, I went up the mountain and he kicked me off – but this wasn’t from him, this was from an old man in an antique shop in Lebanon, it took me ages to track down.”

”This old man, what did he call himself?”

“He didn’t call himself anything; he sold me a map, that’s all.”

I’m getting frustrated. I wish he’d just come out and say whatever it is he has to say.

“Did he have a tattoo?”

“I didn’t really look.”

“This would have been obvious. A lizard, the head would be on his neck. It would have had a blue tongue.”

My brow furrows. I feel it; can’t stop it. Because the man did have a strange tattoo. And the fact my father recognises it only means one thing. “He’s one of yours.”

“One of ours,” my father corrects. “Your uncle. Known by many different names: you would probably recognise Loki, the trickster?”

I stare at the map. “Oh God.”

”Exactly. Would you like me to correct it for you?” I nod dumbly, still in shock that such a beautiful thing could be a trick. My father lays his hand on the map. “Firstly, the entrance to the underworld isn’t one place, it’s many. And the underworld itself is similar to an office block, except each level will take you further down.” The map rearranges itself as he speaks. The kids at the other table are openly watching us now. “Upper management, so to speak, is on the deepest level. You will find who you are looking for there.”

He looks up. The map is finished. There is none of the beauty, none of the craftsmanship, but it certainly is easier to follow. 

“Daughter.”

I force myself to look at him. “Yes?”

”I would suggest you do not go looking for him.” He takes a sip of his tea. The saxophone music playing in the background jars against his words. He reaches out to take another piece of my cookie, and waves it at me as he says, “Madness lies in seeking Death.”

“I know. But if I can stop this…” I wave my hands around, trying to somehow encompass the whole world in the gesture.

He nods. “I understand.” He smiles. “So. Shall we share a cookie when you get back?”

I’m about to go on a quest to the underworld. Chances are I’m not coming back. But his question makes me smile and I find myself nodding. “Of course. For your humanity, if nothing else.”

And mine, I add silently, but from the sad look in my father’s eyes I think he hears me anyway.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Two

The second short story about a father and a daughter. The conversation in the cafe continues three months later. I’m not entirely sure where this is going, but I’m enjoying the ride. If you haven’t read the first one: A Conversation in a Cafe

“The ability of humanity to adjust and continue as before is astounding.”

My father’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of admiration there. I don’t see anything to admire myself. The cafe is busy. Six or seven tables full up here, and downstairs packed. Today, pleasant acoustic music is playing in the background, and there’s a gentle buzz of conversation. No one seems concerned by the blood-red rain streaking down the windows, but then it’s been over a month since it started and, as he says, people adjust. 

A man at the table opposite us is typing away at something vitally appointment. There’s a couple of students holding heavy books that seem to weigh them down far more than the events in the world over the last few months. A group of women, all in matching uniforms, are gossiping about someone or other at work. It’s a normal day, in this new normality.

I lean back in my chair. I’m so tired.

My companion smiles at me. “So, it’s not going well?”

I gesture to the window. “What do you think?”

I don’t recognise my own voice. Have the events of the last eighty days changed me so much? Where did that hardness come from?

But he continues to smile. “It will. I have complete faith in you.”

”That makes one of us.”

”Daughter.” He reaches across the table. He takes a bit of my cookie, then leans back. Once again, I thought he was going to take my hand. A sign of fatherly affection and reassurance. But no, it’s always the cookie he’s after. “This world should be dead.”

”Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say.

He laughs. It’s a weird, jarring sound coming out of his mouth. “I meant that you have slowed its demise. You feel that you are doing nothing; you are the only one doing something.”

I glance out the window. I can just about see the high street. And would you believe it, people are walking by with their umbrellas up. It’s funny how the horrible becomes the normal so quickly when there’s work to do and shopping to enjoy. But the rain is only the start of it. I know that now, with all the time I’ve spent with my nose buried in books so old they are tomes now, sneezing at the dusty pages and flinching at the graphic images.

He’s drinking his tea today. Perhaps enjoying it before he loses the opportunity.

“I have been watching,” he says calmly. “You are braver than you think.”

”Bravery means nothing when you’re up against all-powerful beings with a grudge.” I run a hand back through my hair. I’m surprised I still have hair left; I always do this when I’m stressed and there’s been nothing but stress since our last meeting. “I travelled to the mountains, like you said. I went and met my uncle. He told me to let this world burn. I told him no. The next thing I know I’m blasted back down that bloody mountain – do you know how long it takes for a human to get up that damn thing?”

“But you are not human.”

I look up and meet his eyes. Gold eyes. “No,” I admit. “But I’m not a god either.”

The steady click-clack of the keyboard at the next table slows just for a second, before beginning again with renewed vigour. The universal language for, Listening, me? Of course not. 

“What have the books taught you?”

“The books have taught me your scribe has too much time on his hands, and that library was never meant for mortal eyes, half-mortal or otherwise.” He stares at me. I sigh. “The books have taught me that after the rain will come the flood, and after the flood will come the undying, and after the undying the beast itself will appear on a wave of – and my translation was a little shaky here – but I think it said bodies.”

”Bones,” he corrects gently. “But don’t worry, we’re all a little rusty when it comes to Ancient Greek.”

“I was reading the Sumerian account.”

”Even worse.” He takes a sip of his tea. A plucky song about two people having each other has started playing. The women at the other table are laughing. The click-clack of the keyboard has resumed it’s normal steady pace. “What else did the books say?”

”They say a great warrior will rise to fight the beast.” He smiles at me, and I groan.

“I hate to disappoint, dad, but I’m not a great warrior. I’m not even a warrior.”

“When the time comes, you will be.”

He reaches across and takes another chunk of my untouched cookie. “How?” I sigh. “How on earth am I going to magically become a great warrior?”

“Because the world will need you to be.” He looks at me and for a second the cafe seems to disappear around us, melt away so that there is only the two of us, golden eyes clashing against golden eyes. “And you haven’t let it down yet.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe

A rather random short story written in a cafe. It has the potential to be a longer piece, but for now fits quite nicely into the mythology theme I seem to have going. The fate of the world is decided over tea and a cookie.

“This is not the place for this conversation.”

I can’t believe him. He keeps his voice so calm and level, like we’re talking about the weather or some similarly mundane smalltalk. The tea in front of him is untouched. He has a weary smile on his face and instead of drinking he is playing with the mug, pushing it from side to side, one hand to the other.

He’s infuriating. I want to punch him. I want to throw that tea in his face.

“So where is the place?” I struggle to keep my voice as calm and level as his. Don’t let him see you’re rattled. That message was drilled into me time and time again as a child. Never let him see you’re rattled, because he will use it against you.

He shrugs. “Not here. This is a happy place.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. There are only four other occupied tables in the upstairs of this airy, bright cafe. Two of them have a lone patron with a laptop and the universal harassed expression of the overly busy. One has a couple who are holding hands and smiling about something. The last has a similar couple, but leaning away from each other, and sitting in stony silence.

“This is a place,” I say. “Whether it’s happy or not depends on the people in it.”

“True.” He glances at the windows, and his smile grows a little more wistful. “But it is bright, and the music is pleasant. If you wished to have this conversation, perhaps you should have suggested meeting somewhere dark and dank and empty.”

I sigh. The urge to grab that tea and throw it in his face is getting stronger. “You suggested we meet here,” I say.

“Because I knew you would wish to have this conversation, and I knew I did not want to have it.”

He looks me straight in the eyes then. Two thoughts go through my mind. The first: I could kill him. The second: His eyes have flecks of gold in them.

The couple who are holding hands get up and leave. I watch them go. Better to watch them then watch him.

He leans back in his chair. The spell is broken; there’s no gold in his eyes now. “Eat your cookie.”

The dismissive tone is enough to test the strongest of wills. My hands have curled into fists. I want to throw this table over. I want to make a scene.

Instead, I reach out and take a bite of my cookie.

It’s good. Damn it.

I wanted to hate it, like I want to hate anything and everything he has given me. From cookies and clothes, to his attention and his powers. I don’t want those golden eyes. I don’t want to be able to feel what’s coming in my bones, so deep it’s like a crack in my skeleton. I don’t want to know what no mortal should know.

Your father is not a man, Mother used to say. Never forget that.

“When will it happen?”

“I said this is not the place for this conversation.”

“I know what you said,” I snap, and one of the lone patrons glares at me. I ignore him. “But we’re having it, just the same.”

He smiles. There’s a hint of sadness there. “Your mother always told you not to let me see when you’re rattled.”

”She did. But there’s some things I can’t hide.” I take a deep breath. I’ve let my guard down and he could have taken advantage. He could have broken straight into my mind, told me to go home and forget all about this. But he didn’t. Which means that this conversation is going to happen, and now I’m not sure whether I want it to. “When will it happen?”

“Soon.” He takes a sip of his tea. Finally. When he puts the mug back down he’s smiling. “This is good. We should have done this more often, whilst we had the chance.”

My stomach sinks. “So there’s no way to stop it?”

”I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. If that’s what you came to see me about, you will be disappointed, daughter.”

There’s nothing I can do.

I stare at him. His eyes are full gold now. “But something can be done?”

“It was decreed, millennia ago, that when the end times came we would do nothing. Every life has its course. The world is no exception to that law; we are no exception to that law.”

”So there’s no hope?” I can’t help the question. The words keep ringing in my head. There’s nothing I can do.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” He takes another sip of his tea, and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, they’re entirely human. “I do like this world,” he says. “I like what you’ve done with the place, so to speak. Who would have thought that by boiling leaves you could create something so pleasant? We never would have, but then we always were rather narrow minded.” I keep staring. I don’t want to speak. Speaking now could ruin everything. He meets my eyes, and smiles, and it’s the smile of a father, proud and gentle. “We gods all agreed to do nothing.”

“To just let the end times come.”

“Yes. It is the natural order of things.” He reaches out a hand. I think he’s about to take mine, but instead he breaks a part of my cookie off. “But you, daughter,” he waves the cookie at me, “you are not a god.”

My heart skips. One of the lone patrons is openly watching us now. He’s right. This isn’t the place for this conversation.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that if you wish this world to live, you must do something about it.” He eats the corner of the cookie, and leans back in his chair. “I hope you succeed,” he says, closing his eyes. “There is so much in this world to enjoy.”

He disappears.

I’m left alone at the table with a pot of tea I don’t drink and a half-eaten cookie. The lone patron is blinking, confused. Then he returns to staring at his screen. He won’t remember my father was here. No one will.

You must do something about it.

I rest my head back against the chair, and sigh. “Well, that’s just great.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

Soul-Snatcher

A short fantasy story about a thief and a necromancer with a long history.

There are many ways in which a man may be judged, Vincent thinks as he stares out over the audience. Theatre is one, of course. Everyone likes a good spectacle, and heckling a bad one is almost as fun. Sport is another, the joy of cheering for the underdog until your voice is hoarse.

Public execution, he’s decided, is a strange mix of both. The drama of the theatre; the uncertainty of sport that makes gamblers so gullible. Money exchanges hands below him. A small child with wide eyes is munching on a salted treat. There is the sort of buzz he associates with the races, just with a little more bloodlust.

The noose itches. He wonders if they’d untie his hands so he could scratch, but decides ultimately it would make little difference.

The constable asks if he has any last words.

Vincent shrugs. “Would it make a difference?”

“No, but we have to ask.” At Vincent’s blank expression, the constable adds, “It’s tradition.”

“Tradition is what got me into this mess in the first place.”

“No, stealing ceremonial plates is what got you into this mess.”

“It’s not stealing if they were yours to begin with.”

The constable ignores him. The plates are hundreds of years old and they belonged to the old gods that the town only remembers twice a year.

Hanging seems a bit extreme, but apparently they take tradition very seriously in this town. Seriously enough that the lack of evidence – there is never evidence – is not enough to deter them from passing the sentence.

He sighs. This is not the way he intended to die. Then again, to be fair, he never intended to die at all. Maybe, when he had reached his millennium, he might have decided to rest. But six hundred and twelve is no age at all.

They pull the lever.

The hatch drops.

Vincent stands to the side of it, looking in mild bemusement at the constable who shoved him out of the way. He mutters apologies to the crowd as he loosens the noose, and drops his voice a reverential whisper. “Milady of the shadows wishes to speak with you.”

“Hang me,” Vincent says, completely deadpan. “If milady wishes to speak with me, she can raise me when I’m dead.”

“Don’t be like that Vincent.” A gentle, familiar voice from behind him. He shivers. The small boy with his snacks is gaping at the side of the makeshift stage. There are no more yells of annoyance, no more buzzes of anticipation. A woman in a long white veil has joined the spectacle and there is silence. The madam of necromancy tends to have that effect.

He is released into her custody. She has a driverless carriage waiting. It pushes into a smooth, calming motion the moment they’re both sat down.

“Honestly Vincent,” she says, pushing her veil away to reveal a delicate tanned face and deep honey hair. “Can you go one century without getting yourself into trouble?”

“What’s with the get up?” She frowns. He gestures to the veil and the dress. “The bride of death look. It’s new.”

She sighs. “It’s been seventy years, dear, I was bound to have a new outfit. And people expect a certain look these days when they meet the head of necromancy. Pallid skin, black hair, dark eyes. I’m afraid my healthy good looks rather disappoint.”

“Head of necromancy.” Vincent shakes his head. “There’s enough of you to have a leader now.”

“Oh do grow up Vincent. We choose different paths to suit our different powers; you don’t hear me judging you for stealing your way through life.”

“And what is it you want me to steal for you?” She stares. He smiles. “Melissa, you wouldn’t have saved me unless you needed me. What does the mighty necromancer need from the lowly thief?”

Melissa holds his gaze before, finally, lowering her pretty blue eyes. “I need you to steal a soul.”

***

Melissa lives in a grand chalet on the corner of four countries that don’t quite meet, so that she is in a country all her own. It’s a world away from the cell Vincent’s spent the last few days in. With the Holy Wars raging, necromancy has become a booming business: there are hordes of mourners wanting to talk to their loved ones, and a fair few powerful men wanting soldiers who can’t feel pain.

He takes his time washing away the dirt of his near-death experience. It’s only the third time he’s been caught. The last two times he was young, just testing his limits, and he was sloppy. This time he was overconfident. He didn’t make his shadowy replica of the plates substantial to the touch, so when they went to use them in their ceremony their hands passed through the whispers of his magic. A foolish mistake. He would have been fine, except after he used his powers to escape his last death sentence and condemned an entire town to the shadows he promised himself next time he was caught, he would remain caught.

Fate stepped in. This time, he promises himself there won’t be a next time.

Melissa is waiting for him. She’s ditched the bridal get up and instead is resplendent in a long navy skirt and a loose white top, a world away from her milady of the shadows persona. She passes him a glass of some strong-smelling, dark liquor as he takes a seat opposite her. The smell makes his nostrils itch. He takes a sip, and makes a face.

“What proof is this?”

“Ninety percent.”

“It burns.”

“It cleanses. Can we dispense with the small talk? I really am on a tight schedule here.”

Vincent lowers his glass, a slow grin stretching over his lips. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since the coast lands declared all magic witchcraft and all witches terrorists. What’ve you got yourself into?” She bites her lower lip, working at it in a way that reminds him of when they were children, both under a hundred, and the towns were plains and the people were tribes who worshipped them. His smile disappears. “Lissa? Tell me about this soul.”

She waves a dismissive hand, but her smile is a little half-hearted. “It’s a soul. We necromancers deal in souls, don’t you know?”

“Lissa.”

She sighs. “It’s all just rather embarrassing. I’m being blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re the most powerful woman in the world.”

“And you’re the most powerful man, yet you were about to be hanged.”

“Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s stupid.” He holds her stare until she sighs, slumping back in her seat. “This war. It’s just the longest in a long line, and I’m tired. So I’ll help the widows and orphans talk to their loved ones, but I won’t raise the dead to fight another battle. I can’t do it anymore. The thing is, there aren’t any other necromancers who can do what I do.”

“Bit conceited.”

She smiles, a cold, hard smile. “Show me another necromancer who can stand at the edge of the battle and raise all the dead soldiers to fight for her, and I’ll apologise.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Carry on.”

“The various warlords –”

“They call themselves kings now.”

“- they’re all trying to persuade me the error of my ways. They shower me in gifts, rubies and emeralds, the occasional hematite. They all want me on their side. They tell me about how they fight for truth and justice, how theirs is the just war because it is holy, and I smile and nod and show them the door, and that’s fine. But one of them decided to take a different tact.”

“The blackmailer.”

“The blackmailer.” She sighs. “He has a group of necromancers working for him. Together, they attacked. And now I am down one rather important soul.”

“Whose is it?”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “I’m just curious. Do you keep them all in jars somewhere? How exactly does soul rearing work?”

She stares him down. “Suffice to say they have something that belongs to me, and they are holding it as leverage.”

“And you want me to steal it?”

“Yes.”

There’s a tremor to her voice. He has a sneaking suspicion: there was a man once. There have been many men and women in both of their lives, but he was her fairy tale ending. He withered, aged as mortals are wont to do, and she mourned him like she had never mourned before. If there was any soul precious to her, it would be his.

“These holy wars,” he says, shaking his head. “We were the first religion. Do you remember? The wastelands to the east, the tribes who bowed to us.”

“The God of Illusion and the Goddess of Death.” She smiles slightly. “I never liked being an object of worship.”

“Do you remember what they used to say about us?”

“We were omnipotent, and omniscient, and all other sorts of oms.”

“No. They said that we were benevolent, until wronged, when we would fill with righteous anger and strike down our enemies.” He smiles. His eyes sparkle. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty damn full of righteous anger right now.”

***

The king lives in a grand castle in the centre of his realm, and he may call himself a king but Vincent can see why Melissa insists on calling them warlords. There is no opulence or glamour in this court, only dour faces and armoured men on battlements that are built to withstand an army. Vincent isn’t sure which religion these men are fighting for, what God has made their war so just, but he understands the wariness and weariness in their eyes. They find no joy in conflict, not anymore.

He keeps his head bowed as he passes through the gates with other travellers. There is a constant ebb and flow through the castle’s courtyard. He wonders, for a man so used to war, whether the king has ever considered attacks may come from a single traveller, not an army.

He is able to walk through undeterred, until he turns and attempts to walk into the kitchens. A guard is there in seconds, his movements quick and trained, the spear blocking Vincent’s way.

Vincent sighs. “Can’t a man get some bread in peace?”

“Not from here,” the guard says sternly. Everything about him is stern. “Move along.”

“Yessir.”

Vincent steps away. At least, half of him does. The other half walks around the guard unnoticed, a shadow flitting over him just for a second, and into the dark halls of the kitchen. He can still feel the substantial half of him walking away, before it pings back to him. There’s a sudden snap, like an elastic band against his skin, then he is whole again and striding through the kitchens.

He grabs a bit of bread, and winks at the young girl standing beside it.

The inside of the castle matches its gloomy exterior. A couple of centuries before there had been real kings, kings so fat they couldn’t walk, kings with so much gold it weighed them down. Those kings died in horrid uprisings that filled the land with blood and fire, and the cycle began again. Vincent liked the old kings. They were corrupt and greedy, but they had a sense of humour. These new kings are too serious for their own good.

The soul is in a tower, locked away and defended by those pesky necromancers. This much Melissa was able to tell him. How she knew, she refused to say. Once upon a time they told each other everything, but he supposes seventy years is a long time to go without seeing someone and their different paths have pulled them apart.

Until now.

He walks in shadows, tiptoeing on the very edge of sight. Not that there’s anyone around to see him. It seems to be assumed that no one will get past the stern guards outside. He can hear the muffled sounds of people moving through the courtyard beyond the walls, but it’s like he’s hearing it from underwater. Otherwise, there is no sound. Just the very light footsteps of a thief, too quiet for human ears.

The necromancers are easy to spot. They wear long black robes and hoods and symbols that mean nothing but are probably supposed to be occult. There are three of them at the foot of a stairwell, sitting around a small table with goblets in their hands.

“It’s not that I’m complaining,” one of them says as Vincent tiptoes closer.

“Bill, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“Look, we’ve been stuck here for days. If she was gonna come she’d be here by now.”

Oh Bill. Vincent grins. The fear in his voice gives the poorly-named necromancer away, and Vincent moves closer, unseen, unnoticed, until he’s so close he can lean down and whisper in Bill’s ear. “She’s already here.”

Bill pales. He looks around, looks straight into Vincent’s eyes, but sees nothing.

“Sod this.”

The necromancer gets to his feet. One of his friends groans; the other laughs.

“The king’ll have your head if you leave your post Bill.”

“She’ll kill me if I stay.”

Bill runs. One down, two to go.

Vincent touches a hand to the tower’s wall. There’s the sound of footsteps. The necromancers share a glance. The footsteps are coming down towards them and the tension in the necromancer’s shoulders tells Vincent no one is supposed to be up there. He smiles, and makes the noise a little louder, a little more intruding. He waves his hand, and Melissa’s voice teases down the stairs.

“Ready or not…”

The necromancers flee.

Laughing, Vincent drops the shadows around him and starts up the empty stairwell. This is going better than he could have hoped. The necromancers don’t know his kind of magic; as far as he’s aware, no one else does. Melissa may have decided to teach others to use her gifts but he was never inclined to do the same. Now he just has to replicate the soul, take the real one and get out of here in time for Melissa to shout at him for taking too long.

He stops dead at the top of the stairs.

The tower glows.

In the centre of the circular room, on a plinth of diamond, is the soul. It’s not in a jar, it’s just there. Floating an inch above the plinth. Glowing a gentle gold that pulses through the room.

“Oh Lissa,” he says softly.

Her soul responds to his voice. He feels it, a sudden intensity in the pulsing, a brightening in the glow. It feels warm. It feels familiar. It feels like a childhood spent running in the wilds, when there was only the two of them and they had no idea why they came to be or how they had these powers but they were sure one day they’d know. It feels like the old days, when answers still seemed possible and everyday was magical.

He moves closer, and reaches out. The soul spins in the air, gossamer threads of gold entwining and expanding. His hands cup around it. It shrinks down into his palms and he clasps it to his chest, where he can feel it like a second heartbeat against his skin.

Getting out of here may be trickier than he thought. He hopes no one comes up to the tower as he’s leaving. He hopes the necromancers don’t come back with reinforcements too quickly. Replicating a normal soul is easy; replicating Melissa’s is impossible.

Footsteps pound on the stairs.

He sighs. The soul is bright under his fingers; he reaches down and pops it into his pocket, where it burns through his trousers against his skin. But he needs his hands. His trembling hands, he notices, raising them slightly. That’s new. Trembling is the thief’s undoing, but now his fingers won’t stay still and he knows why.

“They took her soul,” he whispers.

Righteous anger. That’s what the first tribe used to say about their gods. They are benevolent, until wronged.

The necromancers are dead before he’s fully turned to face them.

He strides down the stairs and into the castle proper. He doesn’t bother to hide in the shadows. The soul is too bright, and hiding relies on being unnoticeable. Instead he walks through the corridors of the castle, his feet barely touching the ground. No one bothers him. No one seems to want to. He sees one guard, but the guard turns away and pretends not to have seen him, this stranger who drags shadows behind him like a cloak.

The king is in his throne room. There are guards there too, but their spears stay by their side and they stare open-mouthed at the stranger. The cloak is clear now; it shimmers with darkness, twists and turns as the shadows move inside it. It’s how he hides in plain sight, but today he is not hiding. He allows it to be seen, allows himself to be seen.

The king stands up. “Seize him!”

Vincent is in front of him, one step carrying him from the edge of the hall to the throne itself. The king gulps. He is a small man, smaller than any king has a right to be, and he trips back into his throne as Vincent looms over him.

“I don’t like violence,” Vincent says softly. “I’ve made it a habit in my life to do no harm. But your necromancers are dead. There will be no more soul-snatching.”

The king whimpers. His guards are useless. No one seems to want to move.

“And you will lose this war.” Vincent’s voice deepens. The world seems to tremor with it. “When the army’s come, you won’t see them. They will be hidden in my shadows. And they’ll thank their gods, whoever the hell they may be, and your people will cry that their gods have abandoned them. And that’s fine. Because you’ll know it was me. You’ll know that this is judgement, and I have found you wanting.” He straightens up. His voice, when he speaks again, is back to normal. He even manages a small smile. “Sorry to ruin your fun.”

***

They watch the battle together on a cliff some miles away. They can only hear the occasional distant clash, the rumble of war. Melissa holds her soul in her hands, staring at it with her head tilted to one side and a small smile.

“It’s so much warmer than I thought.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your soul?”

“I knew you’d worry.” She glances at him. “I didn’t want to put you under too much pressure.”

“How long could you have survived without it?”

“Another day. Two, at the most.” She sighs, and the soul sinks into her breast. Her skin brightens. Her eyes sparkle. “There. Good as new.”

He snorts in disgust, shaking his head. “Can’t you go one century without getting yourself in trouble?”

Melissa laughs, and curls up to lean against his shoulder. Together, they watch the battle raging. The army came under cover of darkness, a darkness deeper than the night itself. The king and his castle stood no chance. The battle now is an afterthought, a final push from the defenders that will end with the invaders triumphant, declaring the victory for their gods.

“Do you ever think we should intervene?” Vincent says.

Melissa shakes her head. “There will always be war. We’d make peace once, and it’d happen again within years. Months, even. Let them fight. Ultimately, it’s up to them to make peace.”

“And what about us?”

“What about us?” Melissa gazes up into his eyes. “You will go back to thieving our once prized possessions, I will go back to my chalet and my veil. Or…”

“Or?”

“The east is lovely this time of year.” She smiles. “Perhaps we could go home.”

Vincent holds her stare. In the background, the fight rages on, but there is always a fight raging on somewhere. He puts his arm around her and looks into her beautiful blue eyes instead of at the fighting below.  “Home.” He smiles. “That sounds good.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

Time of Devils

A short fantasy story of a young woman on a journey for answers.

Better the devil you know, the old saying goes. But Ella knows some devils too dark to mention, and has always questioned the validity of old sayings and the people who say them. What if the devil she doesn’t know is better? Perhaps the devil she has never met has answers.

She keeps track on her bedroom wall. The devils she’s met. The devils she has yet to meet. Gods and goddesses, demons and angers – all devils to her. She’s met them at crossroads and places of mystical power. She’s met them at bus stops and cafes and, on one occasion, the checkout at Primark. And every time she meets one she asks it the same question.

”Why am I?”

The devils are tricky. They answer what and who but not why. The great god Woden told her she is both human and not; the erudite Apollo told her she is a twenty-seven year old humanoid of magical descent. The what is answered. In Japan, a Kami spirit told her her name is Eleanor; another cut in that she is curious and determined. The who is answered. But not one of the devils will answer why.

The closest any have come was a tribal deity deep in the American south, who shrugged with a gruff, “The Greeks were always procreating.”

Always procreating, perhaps, but the important word is ‘were’. Belief has waned. The devils rest. She is the first Demi-God in six centuries and all she wants is to know why.

As a child, she had simply enjoyed it. Things happened when she was around. Lightning danced for her. Clouds separated. The ocean waved. But then the devils closer to home started using words like freak and abomination, and she sought out the old devils for answers.

Her next chance was hard to find. He no longer keeps to the old ways; her usual channels could not reach him. In the end, whispers of her search found him and he approached her.

They meet in a rundown Wetherspoons in a busy British town. He is older than she expected, grizzled and grey rather than chiselled and blond.

“Sister,” he greets her.

The Greeks were always procreating. She has no idea how many brothers and sisters she has.

She takes the seat opposite him, not looking away from his eyes. The devils play tricks. But his expression is warm and his smile is kind.

”You have a question for me?”

She asks her question. The man nods.

”An intelligent question. Or an incredibly stupid one. You are because an old man met a young woman and thought he’d give love one last chance.”

There has to be more. She must have a purpose.

He smiles. “You are because the time of gods is over.”

Now is the time of devils.

“No. Now it is simply time. The gods and the devils, they have no place in this world now. But there is beauty, and that is why you are.”

She doesn’t understand. The devil-god smiles.

”Once, I delivered messages across the skies. I saw such beautiful, magical things. I miss that. But our father, he saw beauty and magic in the everyday. He saw it in the budding trees and the changing seasons. He saw it in the humans.” He leans closer, and for a second he looks younger, brighter. More godly. “You are because the time of gods may be over, but our father is content to be a man.”

So she has no purpose. No reason to be.

”Your purpose is to exist.” Her brother smiles. “Isn’t that enough?”