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xp_logsFollowing the confrontation with Lorna Amanda seeks the only solace she has left.
Contains violence and sexual references.
All you want is to be kind
Evil plagues the good you find
You gotta know that you'll be fine
If you run you'll still have time.
***
"Gimme a beer."
"You got ID?"
Amanda pulled out the fake ID Remy had made for the clubbing expedition, handing it over to the large, bald man behind the bar without comment. He gave a cursory glance, looked at her again, and then gave it back. "Cops give me crap sometimes about minors drinking," he explained shortly, reaching for a glass and filling it. "As long as they got an ID that looks real, I don't give a shit. That'll be two-fifty."
She pulled a few limp notes from her damp jacket and, after a moment's peering at the actual numbers (what kind of country made all its notes the same bleeding colour, any way?), slid across a five. Her sleeve left a wet trail on the bartop.
"You look like a drowned rat," the barman observed. He had the look of a former biker, all tattoos and heavy muscle and beaten, scarred face. He wasn't really interested in making conversation, but it was quiet, and the kid was unusual. Accent, soaking wet, looking like a walking corpse with her white face and dead eyes.
"'S rainin'." She accepted her change, and the beer, with ice-cold fingers, and drank down a large mouthful, barely managing to avoid pulling a face. American beer. How low she'd sunk.
"You'll catch your death," he said. She shrugged.
"Sorta the point."
The barman took the hint and moved off to serve one of the few other customers, the elderly alcoholic that inhabits the corner of every bar in the world. Left to herself, Amanda glanced around the bar impatiently, fingers on the hand not holding the glass drumming on the bartop.
'C'mon Patches, you bleedin' little weasel…'
It had taken her hours to get to town. She'd finally managed to hitch a lift with a slezoid salesman who had spent half the trip changing gears with her knee. For twenty bucks she'd blown him in the darkened car park of a rest stop, and lifted his wallet before he'd tossed her out of the car. She took another mouthful of beer to wash away the memory of the taste of him. Ditching the wallet and the cards, she'd walked the rest of the way into town and to this bar, the same biker joint that she'd sent Shinobi and Angelo to. 'Willy's' it was called, although she doubted that was the name of the guy behind the bar. A brief phone call, and her she was, waiting for her contact.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting' impatient for th' sight o' me, darlin'," murmured an Irish-accented voice in her ear. "Warms me heart t' see it, it does." 'Patches' wasn't his real name, but in the occult world, names had power, and he had been in the game far too long to have someone call the tune. The small, ratty Irishman was a purveyor of goods, the obtainer of the rare, the obscure and the just plain disgusting. Amanda had tracked him down last month via a pagan website, talking to someone who knew someone who knew someone, looking for certain forbidden books containing offensive spells after the attack on the school. He'd come through - for a price.
"You've got it?" she asked, ignoring pleasantries and getting to the important part of the matter. He waggled his finger at her.
"Patience, darlin', all in good time. 'Tis thirsty work, getting' an article o' this significance at such short notice. Make mine a whisky, an' we can get down t' business."
Amanda sighed. A game. They always had a game to play. She waved down the barman, gave the order, and handed over the money. "I know you ain't got it with you, 'cause I'd be able t' sense it if you did. Now are you yanking me chain or wot?"
"Ol' Patches has done ye proud, darlin'. You'll get your treat, soon's as I get mine." He tossed back the liquor and thrust the glass back at the barman. "Double, this time," he said, and the barman looked at Amanda. She nodded, wearily.
"Look, Patches, I don't mean t' sound like an ungrateful bitch, but I've had a real cunt of a day an' I'd appreciate it if we didn't have t' do this bloody dance. I got yer payment, you got me goods, how 'bout we do the deal an' you can slink off back t' whatever rock you crawled out from under." Anger and desperation flared briefly in those hollow blue eyes, dulling just as quickly.
"Righto me girl, getcher coat on an' we'll go. Just you keep a civil tongue in your head, or you'll not be getting anything from me this night." The man tossed back the second shot, grimacing at the rough spirit's burn, and plunked his bedraggled tweed hat back on his head. "Follow me, darlin'."
He took her out the back door, to the alley that ran behind the bar. It reeked of rotting garbage and urine, the smell bringing back not-so-fond memories of the streets of Brighton. Patches moved over to a pile of garbage cans, pulling a cloth-wrapped bundle from behind them. Her nerves tingled at the power she could sense emanating from it.
"Here ye are, darlin' the genuine article. Patches always comes through, even at a pinch." He held the bundle out to her, but when she reached out to take it, he jerked it back. "Deal's a deal, darlin'. Payment first - ye're not likely t' be in a state t' remember once ye get yer mitts on this little lovely."
She shot him a poisonous look, and sighed. "I'm no welcher, Patches," she said, awkwardly pushing the sleeve of her coat (with sweater and shirt beneath it) up until her arm was exposed to the dim light and the steadily-falling rain. "Just get it over an' done nice an' quick. It's fucking freezing out here."
"Colder 'n a nun's charity," he agreed, tucking the parcel under his arm and pulling an empty baby food jar from his voluminous coat. "Come over t' the shelter o' the doorway, darlin', no sense in muckin' up things with a bit o' rainwater." He reached around to his back pocket, under the coat, and pulled out a flick knife. Light flashed from the blade as he clicked it open. "Now then, darlin', just hold still. This won't take but a moment…"
Amanda made herself watch as the knife sliced across the smooth skin of her forearm, blood welling up and running over the curve of muscle and bone, into the jar Patches held underneath. The pain was brief, fleeting - Patches kept his knife clean and sharp for these types of transactions - and for that she was grateful. Another cut, still scabbed over, ran parallel to this new one, the payment she'd made last Sunday for the stuff Angelo had collected for her. The blood dripped into the jar, black in the bad light, her blood; there were people, Patches had said, who'd pay a pretty penny for the blood of a mutant witch such as herself. If names had power, blood had doubly so.
At last the jar was half-full, and Patches pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the knife clean and then passed it over to Amanda to press over the wound. "You take care o' that, darlin'. Can't have you passing out on us on th' way home, eh?" Screwing the lid tightly on the jar, he made it disappear back into his pockets, along with the knife, and then retrieved the parcel from under his arm and held it out to her. "Here ye go, sweetheart. Use it in good health."
Amanda let go of the cut long enough to take the parcel and tuck it into the crook of her arm. "Ta," she said shortly, making it clear she wasn't in the mood for after-deal chitchat. Patches took the hint, tugged at the brim of his hat, and strode off into the night, whistling a jaunty tune. Left behind in the filth-ridden alley, Amanda slid down in the doorway until she was sitting on the step, back to the peeling wood. She hugged the parcel to her stomach, feeling the power of the objects inside, the warmth of the energy they contained, and tears mixed unnoticed with the rain sliding down her cheeks.
***
Everything was dancing.
Amanda twirled slowly down the empty rain-swept street, head thrown back, arms outstretched. She felt so light, so free, so alive for the first time since the potion, and she laughed aloud with the joy of it. Every glimmer of light was refracted a thousand-fold to her eyes, shimmering like some kind of fairyland, and she tried to grab the sparkles she saw, giggling. Then a voice pulled her up short:
"It's awful late for a little girl to be out alone, isn't it, Charlie?"
"Very late, Randy. Think we should do the gentlemanly thing and walk her home?"
She focussed on the two large, blurry shapes in front of her. The voices were vaguely familiar, as were the names. Drinking, dancing… The club! Clarity swept back as she remembered Doug, and Marko's voice, telling her she'd nearly driven him to suicide. The high left her system abruptly, leaving her feeling cold and sick.
"Evenin' lads," she said, "Wouldn't have picked this as your part of town."
"It's not. We like to come here sometimes, have ourselves some fun," said the tall blonde one… Charlie, that was his name. "Don't I know you from somewhere…?"
"That club a few weeks back. Cute little English slut. Mandy, right?" Randy said, an unpleasant smile appearing on his handsome features. "Where's your little punk-ass boyfriend?"
"He's not me boyfriend," she replied automatically. "So, what's it t' be, lads? You gunna let me go on me way, let me get back t' me nice warm bed an' you do the same?"
"I don't think so, Mandy," said Randy, slowly, moving towards her. "You see, I seem to remember you making certain… promises before your little buddy stepped in, and it's not nice of a girl to make promises she doesn't keep."
She shrugged. "It was a night out, we'd all been drinkin'. You didn’t think I was serious, did you?" She began backing away, slowly.
"I thought we had a deal, Mandy. And I don't like it when people back down on a deal. Makes me disappointed, doesn't it, Charlie?"
Amanda backed up into a warm, solid body, and large hands came down to grip her arms tightly. "It does, Randy. I think the little English girl owes us, doesn't she?" Fuck. She'd lost sight of the other one, and now she was caught. This wasn't going to end well.
"She sure does." Randy came forward, gripping her chin in his fingers and dragging her face up. "She owes us big time." He leant down and kissed her, hard and brutal, his breath sour in her mouth. She tried to pull away, but the grip on her chin and arms was strong, their fingers digging in - she'd be bruised in the morning.
There was the sound of a car engine in an adjoining street, and Randy jerked away, letting go of her. "Shit. It's too open… Here, bring her over here." He gestured at a shadowed alley, and Charlie half-dragged, half-carried her over to it. She struggled, managing to kick him in the knee, but instead of dropping her he pushed her hard forwards into the pavement. She landed heavily on her hands and knees, tearing her jeans and grazing the palms of her hands. Blood oozed slowly from the wounds. Then their hands were on her again, jerking her up, turning her around, slamming her so hard against the wall the breath rushed out of her with an audible whoosh. Darkness clouded her vision as she fought for air, and she felt her coat being jerked down so her arms were half-pinioned by the sleeves.
"Not so cocky now, are we, bitch?" Randy's voice hissed in her ear and a rough hand squeezed her breast. "Think it's fun, to tease and run away? Well, now it's our turn to have some fun. Another hand between her legs, she couldn't tell whose, too hard, too rough. Then an arm braced against her throat, holding her still, as strong hands grabbed at her sweater and tried to tear it. The tough wool held, and Randy swore.
"Try this," said Charlie, and Amanda cracked opened her eyes to see him holding a knife like Patches'. She froze as Randy took it, trailing the blade lightly down the line of her face before using it to slice her sweater down the middle. He didn't bother with the knife for the shirt, handing it back to Charlie and grabbing a handful of material either side of the buttons and yanking. Buttons flew off, and the chill air hit her exposed skin.
"What the fuck…?" Randy pulled back, holding her shirt open and looking at the scars beneath in disbelief. "Charlie, get a load of this freaky shit."
"Huh?" Charlie's arm on her throat eased off slightly as he leaned back to look. "Shit, kid looks like a fucking roadmap."
The loosened hold was all she needed. Sucking in a shallow breath, Amanda used the power she'd absorbed earlier, channelling it into her telekinesis spell and shoving the pair away from her as hard as she could. Charlie hit the opposite wall with a sickening crack as something broke, and his muffled screams echoed through the small alley.
"Bitch," Randy snarled, picking himself off the ground and rushing at her. She tried a shielding spell, but she didn't have the power for it, and he backhanded her back against the wall, the rough brick opening up her cheekbone. The taste of blood on her tongue, the flare of pain across her face… memories of the attack on the school flooded back. Panic bloomed as he reached for her again, and words appeared in her mind's eye - without caring what they were, she recited them, her head full of the roar of dark energies.
There was an inhuman shrieking, a brief smell of ozone, and then the sickening smell of burned flesh. Amanda turned from the wall to see Randy backing away from her, his hands outstretched in front of him, the skin blackened and peeling. He was looking at them, and screaming, until she thought his throat would rupture.
"Mutie!" gasped a voice - Charlie, forgotten at the base of the wall, face pinched and white with pain. "You're a fucking mutie!"
There was only one thing left to do. Amanda ran.
***
There was a rest stop about five miles out of town. She walked the whole way, her buttoned-up coat the only protection against the cold, sobbing and gasping for breath. At last, exhausted, bloodied, she broke into the ladies' washroom, jamming the door shut behind her. By the dim light filtering in through the smeared windows, she pulled an object from her pocket, a square chunk of heavy black stone the size of a tennis ball. She'd already drained some of it tonight, but she'd had to use that power. Now she needed the rest. There were a couple of good-luck charms in her pocket as well, but they were mere baubles compared to this - a piece of altar-stone from an ancient temple. Centuries of power from countless rituals had oozed into it. With shaking hands wrapped around it, Amanda let that power flow into her, filling her blood, her centre. Then she cast a healing spell - the one she'd done for Angelo, recited so often she knew it by heart now. These weren't the best circumstances and it would take everything she had, but it would do.
When she felt the last of the healing spell leave her, she let the stone, a mere chunk of rock now, fall beside her on the floor. Weariness swept over her, more than just tiredness of the body, but of the soul. She was tired, so very tired of everything. The power was gone, leaving her cold and empty. And she was alone.
Amanda curled up on the cold concrete floor, and cried herself to sleep.
Contains violence and sexual references.
All you want is to be kind
Evil plagues the good you find
You gotta know that you'll be fine
If you run you'll still have time.
***
"Gimme a beer."
"You got ID?"
Amanda pulled out the fake ID Remy had made for the clubbing expedition, handing it over to the large, bald man behind the bar without comment. He gave a cursory glance, looked at her again, and then gave it back. "Cops give me crap sometimes about minors drinking," he explained shortly, reaching for a glass and filling it. "As long as they got an ID that looks real, I don't give a shit. That'll be two-fifty."
She pulled a few limp notes from her damp jacket and, after a moment's peering at the actual numbers (what kind of country made all its notes the same bleeding colour, any way?), slid across a five. Her sleeve left a wet trail on the bartop.
"You look like a drowned rat," the barman observed. He had the look of a former biker, all tattoos and heavy muscle and beaten, scarred face. He wasn't really interested in making conversation, but it was quiet, and the kid was unusual. Accent, soaking wet, looking like a walking corpse with her white face and dead eyes.
"'S rainin'." She accepted her change, and the beer, with ice-cold fingers, and drank down a large mouthful, barely managing to avoid pulling a face. American beer. How low she'd sunk.
"You'll catch your death," he said. She shrugged.
"Sorta the point."
The barman took the hint and moved off to serve one of the few other customers, the elderly alcoholic that inhabits the corner of every bar in the world. Left to herself, Amanda glanced around the bar impatiently, fingers on the hand not holding the glass drumming on the bartop.
'C'mon Patches, you bleedin' little weasel…'
It had taken her hours to get to town. She'd finally managed to hitch a lift with a slezoid salesman who had spent half the trip changing gears with her knee. For twenty bucks she'd blown him in the darkened car park of a rest stop, and lifted his wallet before he'd tossed her out of the car. She took another mouthful of beer to wash away the memory of the taste of him. Ditching the wallet and the cards, she'd walked the rest of the way into town and to this bar, the same biker joint that she'd sent Shinobi and Angelo to. 'Willy's' it was called, although she doubted that was the name of the guy behind the bar. A brief phone call, and her she was, waiting for her contact.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting' impatient for th' sight o' me, darlin'," murmured an Irish-accented voice in her ear. "Warms me heart t' see it, it does." 'Patches' wasn't his real name, but in the occult world, names had power, and he had been in the game far too long to have someone call the tune. The small, ratty Irishman was a purveyor of goods, the obtainer of the rare, the obscure and the just plain disgusting. Amanda had tracked him down last month via a pagan website, talking to someone who knew someone who knew someone, looking for certain forbidden books containing offensive spells after the attack on the school. He'd come through - for a price.
"You've got it?" she asked, ignoring pleasantries and getting to the important part of the matter. He waggled his finger at her.
"Patience, darlin', all in good time. 'Tis thirsty work, getting' an article o' this significance at such short notice. Make mine a whisky, an' we can get down t' business."
Amanda sighed. A game. They always had a game to play. She waved down the barman, gave the order, and handed over the money. "I know you ain't got it with you, 'cause I'd be able t' sense it if you did. Now are you yanking me chain or wot?"
"Ol' Patches has done ye proud, darlin'. You'll get your treat, soon's as I get mine." He tossed back the liquor and thrust the glass back at the barman. "Double, this time," he said, and the barman looked at Amanda. She nodded, wearily.
"Look, Patches, I don't mean t' sound like an ungrateful bitch, but I've had a real cunt of a day an' I'd appreciate it if we didn't have t' do this bloody dance. I got yer payment, you got me goods, how 'bout we do the deal an' you can slink off back t' whatever rock you crawled out from under." Anger and desperation flared briefly in those hollow blue eyes, dulling just as quickly.
"Righto me girl, getcher coat on an' we'll go. Just you keep a civil tongue in your head, or you'll not be getting anything from me this night." The man tossed back the second shot, grimacing at the rough spirit's burn, and plunked his bedraggled tweed hat back on his head. "Follow me, darlin'."
He took her out the back door, to the alley that ran behind the bar. It reeked of rotting garbage and urine, the smell bringing back not-so-fond memories of the streets of Brighton. Patches moved over to a pile of garbage cans, pulling a cloth-wrapped bundle from behind them. Her nerves tingled at the power she could sense emanating from it.
"Here ye are, darlin' the genuine article. Patches always comes through, even at a pinch." He held the bundle out to her, but when she reached out to take it, he jerked it back. "Deal's a deal, darlin'. Payment first - ye're not likely t' be in a state t' remember once ye get yer mitts on this little lovely."
She shot him a poisonous look, and sighed. "I'm no welcher, Patches," she said, awkwardly pushing the sleeve of her coat (with sweater and shirt beneath it) up until her arm was exposed to the dim light and the steadily-falling rain. "Just get it over an' done nice an' quick. It's fucking freezing out here."
"Colder 'n a nun's charity," he agreed, tucking the parcel under his arm and pulling an empty baby food jar from his voluminous coat. "Come over t' the shelter o' the doorway, darlin', no sense in muckin' up things with a bit o' rainwater." He reached around to his back pocket, under the coat, and pulled out a flick knife. Light flashed from the blade as he clicked it open. "Now then, darlin', just hold still. This won't take but a moment…"
Amanda made herself watch as the knife sliced across the smooth skin of her forearm, blood welling up and running over the curve of muscle and bone, into the jar Patches held underneath. The pain was brief, fleeting - Patches kept his knife clean and sharp for these types of transactions - and for that she was grateful. Another cut, still scabbed over, ran parallel to this new one, the payment she'd made last Sunday for the stuff Angelo had collected for her. The blood dripped into the jar, black in the bad light, her blood; there were people, Patches had said, who'd pay a pretty penny for the blood of a mutant witch such as herself. If names had power, blood had doubly so.
At last the jar was half-full, and Patches pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the knife clean and then passed it over to Amanda to press over the wound. "You take care o' that, darlin'. Can't have you passing out on us on th' way home, eh?" Screwing the lid tightly on the jar, he made it disappear back into his pockets, along with the knife, and then retrieved the parcel from under his arm and held it out to her. "Here ye go, sweetheart. Use it in good health."
Amanda let go of the cut long enough to take the parcel and tuck it into the crook of her arm. "Ta," she said shortly, making it clear she wasn't in the mood for after-deal chitchat. Patches took the hint, tugged at the brim of his hat, and strode off into the night, whistling a jaunty tune. Left behind in the filth-ridden alley, Amanda slid down in the doorway until she was sitting on the step, back to the peeling wood. She hugged the parcel to her stomach, feeling the power of the objects inside, the warmth of the energy they contained, and tears mixed unnoticed with the rain sliding down her cheeks.
***
Everything was dancing.
Amanda twirled slowly down the empty rain-swept street, head thrown back, arms outstretched. She felt so light, so free, so alive for the first time since the potion, and she laughed aloud with the joy of it. Every glimmer of light was refracted a thousand-fold to her eyes, shimmering like some kind of fairyland, and she tried to grab the sparkles she saw, giggling. Then a voice pulled her up short:
"It's awful late for a little girl to be out alone, isn't it, Charlie?"
"Very late, Randy. Think we should do the gentlemanly thing and walk her home?"
She focussed on the two large, blurry shapes in front of her. The voices were vaguely familiar, as were the names. Drinking, dancing… The club! Clarity swept back as she remembered Doug, and Marko's voice, telling her she'd nearly driven him to suicide. The high left her system abruptly, leaving her feeling cold and sick.
"Evenin' lads," she said, "Wouldn't have picked this as your part of town."
"It's not. We like to come here sometimes, have ourselves some fun," said the tall blonde one… Charlie, that was his name. "Don't I know you from somewhere…?"
"That club a few weeks back. Cute little English slut. Mandy, right?" Randy said, an unpleasant smile appearing on his handsome features. "Where's your little punk-ass boyfriend?"
"He's not me boyfriend," she replied automatically. "So, what's it t' be, lads? You gunna let me go on me way, let me get back t' me nice warm bed an' you do the same?"
"I don't think so, Mandy," said Randy, slowly, moving towards her. "You see, I seem to remember you making certain… promises before your little buddy stepped in, and it's not nice of a girl to make promises she doesn't keep."
She shrugged. "It was a night out, we'd all been drinkin'. You didn’t think I was serious, did you?" She began backing away, slowly.
"I thought we had a deal, Mandy. And I don't like it when people back down on a deal. Makes me disappointed, doesn't it, Charlie?"
Amanda backed up into a warm, solid body, and large hands came down to grip her arms tightly. "It does, Randy. I think the little English girl owes us, doesn't she?" Fuck. She'd lost sight of the other one, and now she was caught. This wasn't going to end well.
"She sure does." Randy came forward, gripping her chin in his fingers and dragging her face up. "She owes us big time." He leant down and kissed her, hard and brutal, his breath sour in her mouth. She tried to pull away, but the grip on her chin and arms was strong, their fingers digging in - she'd be bruised in the morning.
There was the sound of a car engine in an adjoining street, and Randy jerked away, letting go of her. "Shit. It's too open… Here, bring her over here." He gestured at a shadowed alley, and Charlie half-dragged, half-carried her over to it. She struggled, managing to kick him in the knee, but instead of dropping her he pushed her hard forwards into the pavement. She landed heavily on her hands and knees, tearing her jeans and grazing the palms of her hands. Blood oozed slowly from the wounds. Then their hands were on her again, jerking her up, turning her around, slamming her so hard against the wall the breath rushed out of her with an audible whoosh. Darkness clouded her vision as she fought for air, and she felt her coat being jerked down so her arms were half-pinioned by the sleeves.
"Not so cocky now, are we, bitch?" Randy's voice hissed in her ear and a rough hand squeezed her breast. "Think it's fun, to tease and run away? Well, now it's our turn to have some fun. Another hand between her legs, she couldn't tell whose, too hard, too rough. Then an arm braced against her throat, holding her still, as strong hands grabbed at her sweater and tried to tear it. The tough wool held, and Randy swore.
"Try this," said Charlie, and Amanda cracked opened her eyes to see him holding a knife like Patches'. She froze as Randy took it, trailing the blade lightly down the line of her face before using it to slice her sweater down the middle. He didn't bother with the knife for the shirt, handing it back to Charlie and grabbing a handful of material either side of the buttons and yanking. Buttons flew off, and the chill air hit her exposed skin.
"What the fuck…?" Randy pulled back, holding her shirt open and looking at the scars beneath in disbelief. "Charlie, get a load of this freaky shit."
"Huh?" Charlie's arm on her throat eased off slightly as he leaned back to look. "Shit, kid looks like a fucking roadmap."
The loosened hold was all she needed. Sucking in a shallow breath, Amanda used the power she'd absorbed earlier, channelling it into her telekinesis spell and shoving the pair away from her as hard as she could. Charlie hit the opposite wall with a sickening crack as something broke, and his muffled screams echoed through the small alley.
"Bitch," Randy snarled, picking himself off the ground and rushing at her. She tried a shielding spell, but she didn't have the power for it, and he backhanded her back against the wall, the rough brick opening up her cheekbone. The taste of blood on her tongue, the flare of pain across her face… memories of the attack on the school flooded back. Panic bloomed as he reached for her again, and words appeared in her mind's eye - without caring what they were, she recited them, her head full of the roar of dark energies.
There was an inhuman shrieking, a brief smell of ozone, and then the sickening smell of burned flesh. Amanda turned from the wall to see Randy backing away from her, his hands outstretched in front of him, the skin blackened and peeling. He was looking at them, and screaming, until she thought his throat would rupture.
"Mutie!" gasped a voice - Charlie, forgotten at the base of the wall, face pinched and white with pain. "You're a fucking mutie!"
There was only one thing left to do. Amanda ran.
***
There was a rest stop about five miles out of town. She walked the whole way, her buttoned-up coat the only protection against the cold, sobbing and gasping for breath. At last, exhausted, bloodied, she broke into the ladies' washroom, jamming the door shut behind her. By the dim light filtering in through the smeared windows, she pulled an object from her pocket, a square chunk of heavy black stone the size of a tennis ball. She'd already drained some of it tonight, but she'd had to use that power. Now she needed the rest. There were a couple of good-luck charms in her pocket as well, but they were mere baubles compared to this - a piece of altar-stone from an ancient temple. Centuries of power from countless rituals had oozed into it. With shaking hands wrapped around it, Amanda let that power flow into her, filling her blood, her centre. Then she cast a healing spell - the one she'd done for Angelo, recited so often she knew it by heart now. These weren't the best circumstances and it would take everything she had, but it would do.
When she felt the last of the healing spell leave her, she let the stone, a mere chunk of rock now, fall beside her on the floor. Weariness swept over her, more than just tiredness of the body, but of the soul. She was tired, so very tired of everything. The power was gone, leaving her cold and empty. And she was alone.
Amanda curled up on the cold concrete floor, and cried herself to sleep.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 04:19 am (UTC)2) OK, things have got to start getting better for Amanda, really bloody soon.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 04:24 am (UTC)2. They will. This isn't easy for me either, but I have an evil plot mind.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 05:53 am (UTC)Fabulously written, though, Rossi. Painful, but fabulous.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 06:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 12:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 02:18 pm (UTC)I hate my Plot Demon sometimes - he makes me do horrible things to characters I like.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 07:51 am (UTC)C'mon, go visit Manny again. Let's get things really fucked up before London...
no subject
Date: 2004-03-05 02:12 pm (UTC)...
Date: 2004-03-05 10:08 am (UTC)*flips through appropiate cards*
Re: ...
Date: 2004-03-05 11:09 am (UTC)"Chere, is dere a reason dat what looks like a goblin just rode another goblin down de stairs?"
:)
Date: 2004-03-05 11:15 am (UTC)