Let me start out by saying this is a little embarrassing for me to share. It's something I've always kept to myself, almost ashamed of the childishness of my own writing. I think now I'm ready to share what I do.
This piece lands somewhere in the middle of this character's story line.. I decided not to offer much of an explanation as to what kind of world this story is written for. I want it to explain itself, so I apologize if it feels like you're missing huge pieces of the story.
While this excerpt story is a solo work, some of this story line involving was a collaborative effort with a few internet partners (a text based role playing). I will not include their writing when I post my stories.
This was written during the Summer of 2010. Excuse the lack of editing, it's a little messy.
Chelsea, London...
“I want to draw you a picture, Jules.” The man held his hands out in front of him, palms toward one other. Jules, sitting across from him, rested back into a black micro suede arm chair just watched with his mouth tightly pressed closed and his brow nestled firmly down on his face.
“I want you to imagine our operation, your job, this place, expanding.. With.. well, infinitely!” His hands swooped around in front of him like he was conjuring some miraculous picture, but Jules only held on to the words instead of the intended visual prestige.
“You. Us. Your mother. Your father, Jules. Everyone, huh? You’ll be fine. Your children will be taken care of. Your mother will live as a queen, your father will be.. the ehm.. The prince of Fulham, yeah?” Jules just continued to watch with a stern but flimsy understanding. He resisted the urge to tap his foot as to not appear impatient with the man’s explanation. Jules wanted desperately for him to get on with his story, to get to the point already.
He continued to explain with broken sentences. Grasping anything he could to inspire confidence in his young protege. He explained that “this side of the pond” had a very limited range for their particular interests. That if they could “erm, cross the pond, yeah?” they could expand their kingdom, and would never have to worry about well, anything.
Jules felt only excited because this man, this supposed mentor that he’d be assigned to the past six months, he seemed so excited and he didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Are these the Magistrate’s plans, Sir Dugan?” Jules finally spoke. His voice a gravely whisper that matched his reserve. He could tell Dugan’s expression changed, frantic at the notion.
“Don’t worry about them, my boy!” The sweat beaded. “This.. this yeah, Yes! This is what he would want.. once I convince him, you see.” There it was. The young Jules finally saw the picture. Dugan was desperate, and Jules confidence plummeted suddenly to match his mentor’s panic.
“Is there something you should be telling me, Dugan? I mean, if there’s something wrong, the council should know.”
“No no no no, m’boy. No no no. NO. no.” Jules felt anxious, and embarrassed for the man. Dugan was lying for the first time since he met him. Or at least his lying was fully apparent now more than ever.
“Well. Sir Dugan.” Jules smokey voice hung in the air a moment. “I’m being sent to America for.. other reasons.” And Dugan responded quickly with a pained, hurried nod and a wipe of the sweat from his tall forehead. Jules tried the best he could to be gentle on the man. His meal ticket was leaving the country in less than two days. His future, in the hands of the council at this point. He failed, and this was his last attempt at gaining a solid foot hold else where. Dugan will not be cleared to leave the country, nor will he be allowed to expand his operations overseas. Jules knew this. Dugan knew this, and he was terrified. “I’m sorry, Sir Dugan. I mean, I can’t do anything for you, mate. I have my orders. I shouldn’t even be here. Talking to you right now.”
Jules pressed his hands firmly against the arms of the chair and was stopped midway while getting up. Dugan lept to his feet and pressed his hand against the lapel of Jules’ suit. “Don’t go yet, m’boy. You’ve got to toss me a line, here. Have you forgotten what I’ve done for you? I’ve taken you in and taught you the ropes, boy.” His tone became rash and tempered. The anger in his eyes grew as the tears welled up around them. His face became a darker shade of red as he tried to stand over his younger and intimidate him.
Any sense of empathy he had for the man and his uncertain fate washed away. He stood up against the pressure of the man’s hand to his chest and crowded Dugan back down into his own chair. Jules leaned, bringing his face close down to Dugan’s but he remained composed, though his voice, deep and raspy before, took on a distinct level of seriousness that was unmistakable. “Listen here, you bloated old bag. You’ve done nothing for me, hm? Nothing. If anything, you only taught me which council members I could steal from. If you want to keep your fingers, you’ll retire quietly with whatever sentence they give you. Frankly...” He stood up and straightened his tie, still looking down his nose at the man. “The elder that assigned you as my mentor should be stripped naked and tossed in the Thames. You’re washed up, Dugan. I appreciate the hard work you tried to show. But this was your last chance, old mate. You failed.”
Jules turned heel and walked out the long hall to the entrance way, leaving the man in a sad simpering pile, crumpled with his head in his hands. The front desk he passed on his way out was empty. The receptionist that was once there, now long gone. On to better things, he hoped. Poor girl.
The Malleus Maleficarium. The Hammer of Witches. Jules stood before the embossed glass pedestal that held the original script of the centuries-old text. Just before the Elizabethan witch hunts, several texts began popping up on the subject of Witchcraft and Devil Worship; How to identify and destroy these heathens.
Ha! Jules chuckled the first time he heard the correlation, which was at a very young age. Witchcraft and Devil Worship. The sodding nerve of these people. He remembered his mother having to post-pone the lecture in the vaulted ceiling ball room that doubled as a vast and cold class room for the students. He was reprimanded in the foyer, still choking tears back between fits of laughter.
“Do they really think we worship the devil, mum? Were they all mad back then?”
“Practically, cherub.” But Annabelle had to hold her authority over her giggling son. “People still think poorly of us, and some for good reason. Things are changed now, dear.” She straightened his vest and lead him back into class.
Standing in front of the ancient text book now, Jules wiped his dry cheek of phantom laughter tears and stared intently into the glass case below his hands. If there was anything he wished he could have accomplished for the Magistrate, it would have been to retrieve this text himself. This book caused endless suffering for their kind centuries ago. There was an inner struggle, as he stood and waited, as to whether he would have turned it in, or burned it ceremoniously out of respect. Just to be rid of something so nefarious, something that fueled unspeakable atrocities against his kin; That would be the greatest satisfaction.
It was under close watch now, locked away under bullet proof, weather tempered glass. Protected from elements and from thoughts similar to Jules own. He turned and his eyes surveyed quickly over the room around him, various other cases on stands, each holding their own treasure, surrounded the perimeter of the great room. Niches along the wall held weapons, tapestries depicting all manner of events, both important to the blood lines and the mundane tasks of previous “wise women” as they were once called, artifacts of various interest to the entire council. He stood in the Magistrate’s own personal museum where the Malleus is the focal point. The value in this room alone was too astronomical even for Jules to fathom.
“Come now, mate.” The sudden booming voice of a rather large, black clothed body guard beckoned from massive gilded doors. Light drenched the room behind him leaving only the silhouette for Jules to squint toward as he began the echoing trek across the room. He knew the man as Beetle, one of the Magistrate’s closest goons.
“All right, Beetle?” He offered a nod to the man, and was giving one in return as he passed through the doors. They were closed quickly behind him and he was left in the sun filled office, a rare sight in London this time of year.. or any time of year for that matter.
An unlit, soot streaked fireplace lay to his right and a contemporary glass desk with brass embellishments to his far left. The Magistrate himself sat behind it, a laptop closed before him, framed in a massive piece of Baroque art on the wall behind him. His hands remained folded, half covering a devilish grin as he waited for Jules.
“My finest and brightest, Jule Prentice! Please, come sit and let’s have a chat.” The man’s face was genuinely happy to greet the boy, and he used the correct pronunciation of Jules name. He was one of the two that called him by his true name: The Magistrate and Jules grandfather.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” Jules sat into a wing-backed antique chair with modern upholstery. It’s twin sat empty beside him.
“Straight to business then, Young Prentice? I see. Well. You leave tomorrow, yes?” Jules responded with a quick bow of his head and he mimicked the Magistrate’s hand gestures by folding them in front of his face. “As you know, or may not know,” He watched the young man apprehensively. “The Proctors of Massachusetts have suffered severe losses in their family over the past few years. First the death of your father’s second cousin, I believe. Then the tragic loss of the young master to grief and madness.” Jules continued to listen patiently, knowing all this, these were the pretenses under which he was told he’d be sent to US. There was an understanding that the family may require an extra hand to balance their home amidst such great sorrow. There was little rationality behind it as far as Jules was concerned, he was not a butler or an accountant, not even a handyman. He had little idea with what he should do for them. “My boy, you see. There’s more than just the issue of a few lost souls, but in fact something much more grand may be lost and I’d like you to retrieve it.”
This was a language Jules could understand. “Why have you waited to tell me this, Sir? I was told I’d be consoling a grieving family, that they are blood and it was important for me to know these people.” Jules gravel voice asked calmly as to not anger the man before him. Few could question his motives and get away with their dignity. It was obvious the questions raised a bit of irritation in the Magistrate, but the moment passed. He found extreme patience when it came to Jules Prentice, unbeknownst to many as to not show favoritism.
“You’re quite right. But. They are your blood, after all. Any other reasons for your stay in America will be kept strictly between you and I. Just know this, young master. This will be unlike anything you’ve ever hunted down for me before. I can assure you that.”
Jules left the Magistrate’s building in a haze. There was a moment he stopped outside the swinging glass doors on the sidewalk and wiped his forehead. He still hadn’t received any solid information. Now he just knew that not only was this a matter of duty to his family but this will also be a matter of his professional advancement in the eyes of the council. If he could track down this item, or whatever it may be, the Magistrate promised Jules would become his first choice for anything high stakes in the future.
The idea was enticing, and Jules rode in the limo back to Fulham from Chelsea that night in dead silence. He would double check his luggage when he got home, making sure he had all the right paper work for his trip to the States.
Jules night was restless, and he left first thing in the morning for the airport.
“I want you to imagine our operation, your job, this place, expanding.. With.. well, infinitely!” His hands swooped around in front of him like he was conjuring some miraculous picture, but Jules only held on to the words instead of the intended visual prestige.
“You. Us. Your mother. Your father, Jules. Everyone, huh? You’ll be fine. Your children will be taken care of. Your mother will live as a queen, your father will be.. the ehm.. The prince of Fulham, yeah?” Jules just continued to watch with a stern but flimsy understanding. He resisted the urge to tap his foot as to not appear impatient with the man’s explanation. Jules wanted desperately for him to get on with his story, to get to the point already.
He continued to explain with broken sentences. Grasping anything he could to inspire confidence in his young protege. He explained that “this side of the pond” had a very limited range for their particular interests. That if they could “erm, cross the pond, yeah?” they could expand their kingdom, and would never have to worry about well, anything.
Jules felt only excited because this man, this supposed mentor that he’d be assigned to the past six months, he seemed so excited and he didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Are these the Magistrate’s plans, Sir Dugan?” Jules finally spoke. His voice a gravely whisper that matched his reserve. He could tell Dugan’s expression changed, frantic at the notion.
“Don’t worry about them, my boy!” The sweat beaded. “This.. this yeah, Yes! This is what he would want.. once I convince him, you see.” There it was. The young Jules finally saw the picture. Dugan was desperate, and Jules confidence plummeted suddenly to match his mentor’s panic.
“Is there something you should be telling me, Dugan? I mean, if there’s something wrong, the council should know.”
“No no no no, m’boy. No no no. NO. no.” Jules felt anxious, and embarrassed for the man. Dugan was lying for the first time since he met him. Or at least his lying was fully apparent now more than ever.
“Well. Sir Dugan.” Jules smokey voice hung in the air a moment. “I’m being sent to America for.. other reasons.” And Dugan responded quickly with a pained, hurried nod and a wipe of the sweat from his tall forehead. Jules tried the best he could to be gentle on the man. His meal ticket was leaving the country in less than two days. His future, in the hands of the council at this point. He failed, and this was his last attempt at gaining a solid foot hold else where. Dugan will not be cleared to leave the country, nor will he be allowed to expand his operations overseas. Jules knew this. Dugan knew this, and he was terrified. “I’m sorry, Sir Dugan. I mean, I can’t do anything for you, mate. I have my orders. I shouldn’t even be here. Talking to you right now.”
Jules pressed his hands firmly against the arms of the chair and was stopped midway while getting up. Dugan lept to his feet and pressed his hand against the lapel of Jules’ suit. “Don’t go yet, m’boy. You’ve got to toss me a line, here. Have you forgotten what I’ve done for you? I’ve taken you in and taught you the ropes, boy.” His tone became rash and tempered. The anger in his eyes grew as the tears welled up around them. His face became a darker shade of red as he tried to stand over his younger and intimidate him.
Any sense of empathy he had for the man and his uncertain fate washed away. He stood up against the pressure of the man’s hand to his chest and crowded Dugan back down into his own chair. Jules leaned, bringing his face close down to Dugan’s but he remained composed, though his voice, deep and raspy before, took on a distinct level of seriousness that was unmistakable. “Listen here, you bloated old bag. You’ve done nothing for me, hm? Nothing. If anything, you only taught me which council members I could steal from. If you want to keep your fingers, you’ll retire quietly with whatever sentence they give you. Frankly...” He stood up and straightened his tie, still looking down his nose at the man. “The elder that assigned you as my mentor should be stripped naked and tossed in the Thames. You’re washed up, Dugan. I appreciate the hard work you tried to show. But this was your last chance, old mate. You failed.”
Jules turned heel and walked out the long hall to the entrance way, leaving the man in a sad simpering pile, crumpled with his head in his hands. The front desk he passed on his way out was empty. The receptionist that was once there, now long gone. On to better things, he hoped. Poor girl.
_____
The Malleus Maleficarium. The Hammer of Witches. Jules stood before the embossed glass pedestal that held the original script of the centuries-old text. Just before the Elizabethan witch hunts, several texts began popping up on the subject of Witchcraft and Devil Worship; How to identify and destroy these heathens.
Ha! Jules chuckled the first time he heard the correlation, which was at a very young age. Witchcraft and Devil Worship. The sodding nerve of these people. He remembered his mother having to post-pone the lecture in the vaulted ceiling ball room that doubled as a vast and cold class room for the students. He was reprimanded in the foyer, still choking tears back between fits of laughter.
“Do they really think we worship the devil, mum? Were they all mad back then?”
“Practically, cherub.” But Annabelle had to hold her authority over her giggling son. “People still think poorly of us, and some for good reason. Things are changed now, dear.” She straightened his vest and lead him back into class.
Standing in front of the ancient text book now, Jules wiped his dry cheek of phantom laughter tears and stared intently into the glass case below his hands. If there was anything he wished he could have accomplished for the Magistrate, it would have been to retrieve this text himself. This book caused endless suffering for their kind centuries ago. There was an inner struggle, as he stood and waited, as to whether he would have turned it in, or burned it ceremoniously out of respect. Just to be rid of something so nefarious, something that fueled unspeakable atrocities against his kin; That would be the greatest satisfaction.
It was under close watch now, locked away under bullet proof, weather tempered glass. Protected from elements and from thoughts similar to Jules own. He turned and his eyes surveyed quickly over the room around him, various other cases on stands, each holding their own treasure, surrounded the perimeter of the great room. Niches along the wall held weapons, tapestries depicting all manner of events, both important to the blood lines and the mundane tasks of previous “wise women” as they were once called, artifacts of various interest to the entire council. He stood in the Magistrate’s own personal museum where the Malleus is the focal point. The value in this room alone was too astronomical even for Jules to fathom.
“Come now, mate.” The sudden booming voice of a rather large, black clothed body guard beckoned from massive gilded doors. Light drenched the room behind him leaving only the silhouette for Jules to squint toward as he began the echoing trek across the room. He knew the man as Beetle, one of the Magistrate’s closest goons.
“All right, Beetle?” He offered a nod to the man, and was giving one in return as he passed through the doors. They were closed quickly behind him and he was left in the sun filled office, a rare sight in London this time of year.. or any time of year for that matter.
An unlit, soot streaked fireplace lay to his right and a contemporary glass desk with brass embellishments to his far left. The Magistrate himself sat behind it, a laptop closed before him, framed in a massive piece of Baroque art on the wall behind him. His hands remained folded, half covering a devilish grin as he waited for Jules.
“My finest and brightest, Jule Prentice! Please, come sit and let’s have a chat.” The man’s face was genuinely happy to greet the boy, and he used the correct pronunciation of Jules name. He was one of the two that called him by his true name: The Magistrate and Jules grandfather.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” Jules sat into a wing-backed antique chair with modern upholstery. It’s twin sat empty beside him.
“Straight to business then, Young Prentice? I see. Well. You leave tomorrow, yes?” Jules responded with a quick bow of his head and he mimicked the Magistrate’s hand gestures by folding them in front of his face. “As you know, or may not know,” He watched the young man apprehensively. “The Proctors of Massachusetts have suffered severe losses in their family over the past few years. First the death of your father’s second cousin, I believe. Then the tragic loss of the young master to grief and madness.” Jules continued to listen patiently, knowing all this, these were the pretenses under which he was told he’d be sent to US. There was an understanding that the family may require an extra hand to balance their home amidst such great sorrow. There was little rationality behind it as far as Jules was concerned, he was not a butler or an accountant, not even a handyman. He had little idea with what he should do for them. “My boy, you see. There’s more than just the issue of a few lost souls, but in fact something much more grand may be lost and I’d like you to retrieve it.”
This was a language Jules could understand. “Why have you waited to tell me this, Sir? I was told I’d be consoling a grieving family, that they are blood and it was important for me to know these people.” Jules gravel voice asked calmly as to not anger the man before him. Few could question his motives and get away with their dignity. It was obvious the questions raised a bit of irritation in the Magistrate, but the moment passed. He found extreme patience when it came to Jules Prentice, unbeknownst to many as to not show favoritism.
“You’re quite right. But. They are your blood, after all. Any other reasons for your stay in America will be kept strictly between you and I. Just know this, young master. This will be unlike anything you’ve ever hunted down for me before. I can assure you that.”
_____
Jules left the Magistrate’s building in a haze. There was a moment he stopped outside the swinging glass doors on the sidewalk and wiped his forehead. He still hadn’t received any solid information. Now he just knew that not only was this a matter of duty to his family but this will also be a matter of his professional advancement in the eyes of the council. If he could track down this item, or whatever it may be, the Magistrate promised Jules would become his first choice for anything high stakes in the future.
The idea was enticing, and Jules rode in the limo back to Fulham from Chelsea that night in dead silence. He would double check his luggage when he got home, making sure he had all the right paper work for his trip to the States.
Jules night was restless, and he left first thing in the morning for the airport.
