Shooting Stars 12: Chapter 3

Hailey Storm
Then

    I never knew my grandfather- not directly, at least- but everything I’d learned about him told me that he was a cast iron son-of-a-bitch with a heart of ice. When I was sixteen, I found three of my grandfather’s old journals on his private estate.

    That was my introduction to magic- nothing momentous to mark the event, just an angry young girl in a hidden basement workshop with some dusty old books. I know what most people believe- that a wizard’s books will be filled, cover to cover, margin to margin, with nothing but the most arcane and powerful sigils and spells, like some sort of magical recipe book. I won’t lie- there was definitely some of that, but not a whole lot. The vast majority of the tomes were just Grandfather’s daily ramblings.

    Ninety percent of his journals must have been just his daily musings; his feelings about different political candidates, his irritation with his university students, his utter alienation from his son. He talked about weather, and about the way a dewdrop trapped on a blade of grass reflected back sunlight in all the colors of the rainbow. The early pages… well, considering what I learned later on, the early pages were surprisingly sane and well-adjusted.

    Interspersed with all this mundane stuff, Grandfather also expounded on magical theory- symbols and their meanings, how gestures and sounds could be imbued with power, what substances were most attuned to what mystical forces. I learned, for instance, that blood is most closely tied to magic of both death and healing, while breath was tied to the soul. As the pages continued, his writings became more focused, more certain. I realized that at some point, he had moved beyond mere theory and had begun actual experimentation.

    Not everything he tried worked.  There were failed spells, some of which were horrors.  In one spell, he attempted to create a perpetual power source by siphoning the souls out of his staff.  It was… partially successful.  Three people died, their souls torn free and destroyed- his gardener, a cook, and one of the maids- before he determined that the energy to power spells couldn’t be supplied by anything less than scores of human souls and, fortunately, he didn’t have access to that many victims.

    He started keeping newspaper clippings at about that time, too, pasting one edge against a page in his journal, then neatly folding the article until it fit neatly in the space provided between the covers. He would editorialize each article, making notes on how ineffectual the city’s superheroes were, how the police were easily fooled. I got the distinct impression that, if he was not the direct cause of most of the major tragedies in his lifetime, he was at least a contributing factor- and he reveled in the chaos and fear he engendered.

    A team of heroes discovered his indiscretions.  They determined to bring him to justice.  I don’t know what evidence they had- if they’d uncovered his journals, I don’t suppose they would’ve needed to break into his workshop.  He was at the center of his power and nearly the height of his skill.  He destroyed them; all that he left of them was a scribbled note in the margin of one page: “Interfering metahumans; will dispose of what I cannot use tomorrow.”

    The thing of it was, that madness, that vindictiveness- that was an act. Rereading the journals, I could see that he was starting to become paranoid long before he really went nuts, and I suspect his seeming insanity was a carefully constructed lie. What his original purpose was, I do not know, nor have I had any luck finding out. His purpose by the end, though, was pure power. Some of the experiments he constructed went beyond simple madness into a place that was so purely evil that there could never be any hope of forgiveness for him.

    I certainly understood why my family had scattered and hidden Grandfather’s writings. They were terrifying, both in the implications of the things that he had accomplished and in the depth of depravity to which he’d sunk. They were also fascinating. I didn’t understand why my parents hadn’t destroyed his writings- perhaps he had laid a compulsion on them so they couldn’t- but I was certainly glad that they hadn’t.

*****

Hailey Storm
Then

    I was still pretty new in Angel Falls when I met Evin.  I had been cut off from the family money when Mom and Dad learned I was using magic, so I was alone in the big city, living in one of the low-rent apartments on Silent Hill and trying to make a living and a name for myself.  I was angry, poor, and, a lot of the time, probably not a lot of fun to be around.

    I was looking to unwind a little when I found the flyer for Scar’s Battle of the Bands contest.  Apparently, the owners of the bar had decided to put up a cash reward- a thousand bucks to the band with the best set.  That sort of money would definitely bring out some pretty good bands, I thought, and I deserved a night off.  It had only been a few weeks since I had curb-stomped a gang of demon-worshipping biker-gang cultists into a sticky paste and things seemed relatively quiet on the supernatural front.

    Okay, so it wasn’t ideal- it’d been a couple years since The Leather Whips broke up, and I missed having an axe in my hands.  There’s something magical about music, I think, and about rock in particular.  It taps into something primal and pure, and the only time I ever felt as alive as when real magic was flowing through me, burning my blood, was when I was on stage with music singing through my nerves.  Well, I wasn’t with a band, anymore, but, Hell- maybe I could get a contact high, right?

    Scar turned out to be a surprisingly dingy little club tucked into an alley just north of Sentinel Hill.  They had a pretty good sized parking lot, but they were so out of the way that I wondered how they’d ever managed to get together the prize money.  I put it out of my mind as I got inside, though- the place was packed.  I pushed, shoved, and occasionally elbowed my way to a small table along the back wall.  It only had two chairs, the others having been pirated by larger groups at other tables, which probably accounted for it’s being empty.

    One of the harried waitresses spotted me as I sat down and jostled her way through the throng until she was close enough for me to shout an order to her.  I ordered a glass of whatever was on tap- I never did get the name, but it was thick, dark, and had a slightly smoky flavor that was pretty good.  As she set it down, I scanned the crowd and spotted someone who looked sort of interesting.  Actually, spotting him was kind of a trick, as he was nearly a head shorted than just about anyone in the place- he looked like a damn kid.

    He had on scuffed jeans that used to be black, but were so worn they looked gray around his knees, through his thighs, and across his butt.  His t-shirt was in better condition, a celtic cross with the words “Conformity Dies; Jesus Lives” blazoned across the chest.  He had a cocksure attitude and a cheeky grin that I was immediately taken by.

    I pointed him out to the waitress.  “Hey,” I yelled, “get him whatever he wants- on me!  What time does the show start?”

    The girl nodded.  “We’re a little backed up,” she explained, “some of the bands got in a fight with some rowdy bikers out in the back- I think they’ve got things mostly sorted out n-”

    “Hey, I think we’ve got a problem,” a young man said, tapping our waitress on the shoulder, “our bassist jammed his thumb on some dweeb gang-banger’s eyeball.”  He was tall, just shy of six feet, and his blond hair and blue eyes could easily have made him a surfer dude, except he was too lean, all gaunt-leather toughness stretched over strong bones.  He was wearing a light denim jacket with mirrored sunglasses hanging out of the breast pocket, a clean, white t-shirt, and a nearly invisible five o’clock shadow.  I admit it- my breath caught for a second.  What can I say?  I like a pretty guy.

    “He’ll be okay, but I don’t think he can play tonight,” he continued, apparently answering the waitress’s question.  I missed it, whatever it was, taking inventory.  Shoot me.  It happens.  “That’s gonna kill at least half our set.”

    The waitress looked disappointed, so I butted in.  “Hey- excuse me.  Did you say something about losing your bassist?”

    He glanced over at me, then did a quite gratifying double-take.  “Yeah,” he said, “our bassist sprained his thumb.  Sod can’t play a damn note.  I’m Evin,” he added, then looked past me to where my friend was just finding the other empty chair and grinned.  “Who’s your friend?” he asked.

    The kid thrust his chin out and up.  “Esau,” he said.

    “Nice shirt,” Evin remarked a little drily, then looked back to me, giving me an appraising look.  “I can’t place you,” he said finally, “d’you play?”

    “Not for a while,” I admitted, “but I was pretty good…”

    Evin shrugged.  “Wanna try a few licks with us?”  My fingers twitched at the invitation and Evin gave me a little half-smile before adding, “You can bring the kid…”

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I've always liked the tradition of a play within a play; with this chapter, I'm attempting a story within a story... within a story.  Astute readers have already no doubt realized that this entire section takes place in the past.  Don't worry, we'll bounce back to the present soon enough...  This picture- and all the artwork for Shooting stars- is brought to you by the amazingly talented and lovely !  I have to admit, I kind of threw an unintentional curveball with this one, as I asked her to put Esau in the shirt he's wearing in the story; I got the shirt from this picture: .  What I didn't realize when I decided to use it was that had made the shirt up out of whole cloth, so to speak- there was no commercial image of the shirt design to be found anywhere, which meant that LQ had to design the whole thing from scratch!

Shooting Stars is an epic tale (okay, maybe that's pushing it, but I've always wanted to call something I wrote an epic) taking place in  and will feature characters by , , and an appearance of Esau by .

Hailey Storm and her evil, sorcerous grandpappy belong to .

Esau (later known as Testament) belongs to .

Pyrite belongs to .


You can find the previous section here: .
The next section is here: .