At Least He's Not On Fire: A Tour of the Things That Escape My Head by Chris Philbrook Page A
Authors: Chris Philbrook
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tears of relief. Tesser couldn't understand her, but as she threw her arms around his bare shoulders he knew the essence of what she was conveying. Gratitude. She cried until the man on the ground got his breath back, and started to moan complete words, begging for help.
"Sweet Jesus, please! You fucked my arm up, man! I need help. Call 911! C'mon!" He cried out, rolling around on the ground in agony.
"Go fuck yourself, you North Shore guido! You and your fucking homo friend!" The woman yelled back, clearly out of control. She let go of Tesser and started to rear back a high-heeled shoe to kick the man in the groin.
Tesser again didn't know what she said, but could piece it together. He snatched up her wrists firmly, moving his body between hers and the man he'd just beaten senseless before her kick could reach the hurt man. He made eye contact with her, peering into her blue eyes with his golden orbs.
"Your eyes…" she said softly, entirely forgetting about the man who had planned on attacking her. The gold glittered like its namesake and she was entranced. Her rage melted away.
Tesser knew one word's meaning, and knew already it was nearly universal, and he spoke it softly, "No." He shook his head to match it, indicating that her behavior was too much. She simply nodded, all the will to be cruel gone.
Tesser smiled genuinely, happy that she was safe. He let her wrists go and turned, his long naked body causing the woman to catch her breath. His human form, the same as his rat form, was perfect. Tesser caught the tiniest whiff of her unconscious arousal and smiled. It pleased him enormously.
He crouched low and leaned down to the injured man.
"No, please, man. Take all my money! Take my ring; it's worth three G's! Just don't kill me!" The man scrambled on his back, getting his clothing dirty in the garbage. His shirt was covered in his own blood.
Tesser shook his head in disgust as he stood and walked down the alley, leaving the man and woman behind to sort out their futures. When he could, he stepped behind one of the large metal refuse containers and shifted down into rat form and disappeared. They had seen nothing.
The woman wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara terribly, and reached into her tiny purse for her smart phone.
Chapter Five
Abe Fellows
Mr. Doyle's home was expensive; everything inside it was expensive as well. The Beacon Street brownstone would list on the market for well over five million dollars and that was a fraction of the value of the artifacts that the reclusive sorcerer had stored in it. Where Mr. Doyle had earned the money to own such a home was beyond the young man.
Abe let himself in and walked upstairs. He entered one of the upper floor study rooms and sat at the corner of a long mahogany table. Intricate scrollwork ran along all four edges of the table. Words and runes were delicately carved in a very precise and magically powerful fashion in languages that were spoken no more. The table had been enchanted over a century earlier to be used as a place for experimentation. The spells cast upon it would contain and nullify any accidents, protecting those sitting at the table and the rest of the room. Abe called it “The Error-Proof Table”. It alone would fetch half a million dollars at the annual arcane auction in Paris should Mr. Doyle want to sell it.
But the old man would never do that.
His employer sat at the head of the table. The British man had a receding hairline that was quite gray and a round face edged by soft wrinkles. Abe knew that was wrong. The wizard had been slowing the decline of his aging body for some time, and there was no way to tell just how old he was. Mr. Doyle had told tales of experiencing the First World War in person, and that would put his age at no less than a hundred. He didn't look a day older than sixty.
Mr. Doyle sat at the head of the table, leaning over the invisible wall of runes at the table's edge and examining a large pocket
"Sweet Jesus, please! You fucked my arm up, man! I need help. Call 911! C'mon!" He cried out, rolling around on the ground in agony.
"Go fuck yourself, you North Shore guido! You and your fucking homo friend!" The woman yelled back, clearly out of control. She let go of Tesser and started to rear back a high-heeled shoe to kick the man in the groin.
Tesser again didn't know what she said, but could piece it together. He snatched up her wrists firmly, moving his body between hers and the man he'd just beaten senseless before her kick could reach the hurt man. He made eye contact with her, peering into her blue eyes with his golden orbs.
"Your eyes…" she said softly, entirely forgetting about the man who had planned on attacking her. The gold glittered like its namesake and she was entranced. Her rage melted away.
Tesser knew one word's meaning, and knew already it was nearly universal, and he spoke it softly, "No." He shook his head to match it, indicating that her behavior was too much. She simply nodded, all the will to be cruel gone.
Tesser smiled genuinely, happy that she was safe. He let her wrists go and turned, his long naked body causing the woman to catch her breath. His human form, the same as his rat form, was perfect. Tesser caught the tiniest whiff of her unconscious arousal and smiled. It pleased him enormously.
He crouched low and leaned down to the injured man.
"No, please, man. Take all my money! Take my ring; it's worth three G's! Just don't kill me!" The man scrambled on his back, getting his clothing dirty in the garbage. His shirt was covered in his own blood.
Tesser shook his head in disgust as he stood and walked down the alley, leaving the man and woman behind to sort out their futures. When he could, he stepped behind one of the large metal refuse containers and shifted down into rat form and disappeared. They had seen nothing.
The woman wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara terribly, and reached into her tiny purse for her smart phone.
Chapter Five
Abe Fellows
Mr. Doyle's home was expensive; everything inside it was expensive as well. The Beacon Street brownstone would list on the market for well over five million dollars and that was a fraction of the value of the artifacts that the reclusive sorcerer had stored in it. Where Mr. Doyle had earned the money to own such a home was beyond the young man.
Abe let himself in and walked upstairs. He entered one of the upper floor study rooms and sat at the corner of a long mahogany table. Intricate scrollwork ran along all four edges of the table. Words and runes were delicately carved in a very precise and magically powerful fashion in languages that were spoken no more. The table had been enchanted over a century earlier to be used as a place for experimentation. The spells cast upon it would contain and nullify any accidents, protecting those sitting at the table and the rest of the room. Abe called it “The Error-Proof Table”. It alone would fetch half a million dollars at the annual arcane auction in Paris should Mr. Doyle want to sell it.
But the old man would never do that.
His employer sat at the head of the table. The British man had a receding hairline that was quite gray and a round face edged by soft wrinkles. Abe knew that was wrong. The wizard had been slowing the decline of his aging body for some time, and there was no way to tell just how old he was. Mr. Doyle had told tales of experiencing the First World War in person, and that would put his age at no less than a hundred. He didn't look a day older than sixty.
Mr. Doyle sat at the head of the table, leaning over the invisible wall of runes at the table's edge and examining a large pocket
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