Misfortune [Sept Short Story] Time-Marked Warlock

Hey peeps!

Here is the September short story. It's based off the Time-Marked Warlock cast (Finch and Bree, specifically). Hopefully you all enjoy!

Shami

Misfortune

            “I’m so excited to be in charge of my first ever case,” Bree said, smiling ear to ear.

            Adair Finch parked his Toyota Celica on the side of the road. The quiet city of Modesto was sleepy most months, and September was no different. It was hot—it was always hot in the central valley of California—and the trees had already begun to shed their leaves, coating the sidewalk in oranges and yellows.

            After a long exhale, Finch turned off his vehicle. “Most PIs don’t call their assignments cases. You sound like a Saturday morning cartoon.”

            Bree opened the passenger side door and leapt out. She had all the energy, and attention span, of a thirteen-year-old girl. Probably because she was one.

            “Okay, where do you think our evil spirit is?” Bree couldn’t stop smiling. “Should we just start questioning all the neighbors? Oh! Can I take notes? I brought a notebook!”

            Always prepared, Bree showed off her black backpack. It matched her black hoodie, and her dark jeans. She looked like a young witch, even if she didn’t like being called that. The only thing vibrant and bright about her was her blue eyes, that sparkled with delight, no matter the time of day.

            Bree opened her pack and withdrew a binder that had star constellations on the front. Then she pulled out a pen with a pumpkin.

             “Can I say I’m your assistant when I question people?” Bree asked.

            Finch stepped out of the car and slammed his door shut. “You are my assistant.”

            “I know, I just don’t want you to get grumpy when I tell everyone.” Bree gathered up her pack, closed the door, and practically leapt around the Toyota. “Okay, the facts of the case are—”

            “We don’t call it a case.”

            “—we’re being paid to investigate the strange occurrences on Maplewood Drive.” Bree tapped the pumpkin pen to her lower lip. “A strange spirit or creature has been causing disturbances in the neighborhood, and they’re getting worse and worse.”

            Finch smoothed his coat. It was hot, but he didn’t care. He liked his coat—he wore it everywhere.

            “The last occurrence was a BBQ that exploded.” Bree spoke with a matter-of-fact tone, as though she was in a dramatic TV show. “The man BBQing was injured and sent to the hospital. The local witch, who lives on this street, said magic was involved.”

            “Yup.”

            Finch turned his attention to the neighborhood. Maplewood Drive was boring. No dog barks. No people taking a walk. There were plenty of vehicles parked on the side of the road, and some faint music playing from people’s backyards, but other than that, nothing to remark on.

            The houses were all a single story, and likely built forty years ago. Chain link fences were the norm, but despite their low-class appearance, everything on the road was well taken care of. The people in this neighborhood still cared, unlike most of Modesto, which was affectionately called Meth-desto by the local law enforcement.

            “The strange occurrence before that was someone’s dog drowning in a pool.” Bree actually frowned after repeating that information. “The witch said magic was involved then, too.”

            “Yeah, I read the same email,” Finch said with a sigh. “Look, we’re being paid to figure out what’s doing this, and potentially more if we can stop it. Okay? Let’s start with the most suspicious house and work our way from there.”

            Bree glanced down the road. Most of the houses were painted white or blue. Some had American flags out front.

            “None of them looks suspicious,” she whispered.

            Finch pointed to a house four down. “That one is the most suspect.”

            Bree crossed her arms. “Ya know, in school our teachers tell us to show our work. You should tell me why it’s suspicious, that way I know, too.”

            After a short exhale, Finch gestured to the chimney. Grey smoke billowed up into the sky. “It’s a hot day. Why is that family burning things? Plus, we know for certain they’re home, so we should start there.”

            “Okay! Let’s go.”

            Finch pulled out his phone.

            5:10 p.m.

            He marked the time and then motioned for Bree to get close. She already knew what he was going to do, and even offered her pumpkin pen for those purposes. Finch took it, and wrote a symbol on the back of Bree’s hand: three lines down, and one across, so that it looked like three lowercase Ts.

            It was the Mark of Chronos.

            “Now we’re all set,” Finch stated.

            Bree gently touched the mark on the back of her hand. “Do you think I could make a pact with Chronos one day?”

            Finch pointed to the house. “Let’s just focus, all right? I want to figure this case out before it gets dark.”

            With a snort, Bree wagged her finger. “It’s not called a case, isn’t that what you said?”

            He frowned as he headed for the sidewalk. Bree giggled the whole way to the suspicious house. There were no decorations for the fall season—only dusty circles on the front porch, as though something had been recently taken away.

            Bree jumped in front of Finch before he could knock on the door.

            “I’ll do all the questioning, okay?” Bree held herself straight. “I want to solve this.”

            With a sarcastic wave of his arm, Finch motioned to the door.

            Bree knocked as hard as she could. Afterward, she shook her hand out and rubbed her knuckles. She had clearly knocked too hard.

            It only took a few seconds before a man answered. He opened the door wide, and stared out with a bewildered expression. He was overweight—close to three hundred pounds—but wore it well, since he was so tall. His face was puffy and red, and his eyes had acres of bags underneath.

            Finch figured the man hadn’t slept in a while.

            “Hello?” the man asked.

            Bree stood on her tippy-toes and held her notebook up and ready. “Hello! My name is Bree Blackstone and I’m a private investigator.”

            “You look a little young,” the man muttered, his eyes narrowing. They were bloodshot.

            “W-Well, that’s because I’m in training. And right now, I’m here to figure out who has been disturbing the peace of your quaint neighborhood.”

            The man shifted his weight from one foot to the next, frowning. He was rather pale—except for the redness on his face—and his eyes were a light green. His expression seemed set to a permanent state of sad.

            “I don’t have much to do with the neighbors,” the man said.

            Bree held up her notebook. “Can I get your name?”

            “Uh… It’s Ron. Ron Shabord.”

            “Excellent.” Bree wrote that down. “Ron—why are you burning things? I see smoke from your chimney, and that’s really odd.”

            Finch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Real stubble,” he whispered under his breath.

            “I’m burning things I don’t want anymore,” Ron said, half closing the door. “Look, I need to keep cleaning. Why don’t you—”

            “What’re you burning?” Bree slid closer to the door. “You don’t need to burn things you don’t want. You can give them to charity. That’s what my mum always said.”

            Ron—who was clearly not having this conversation—tried to shut the door. Bree shoved her foot in the way before it closed, but then she yelped and leapt backward. Her little sneaker was no match for the door.

            Concerned, Ron opened it halfway again and muttered an apology.

            “Look,” he said, firm this time. “I’m burning old photographs of me and my wife. Ex-wife. I don’t want them, and I doubt Goodwill wants them, either. Goodbye.”

            Ron slammed the door.

            Bree stood still for a couple seconds, and then glanced over at Finch. “I think he’s hiding something.”

            “All he’s hiding is an alcohol problem,” Finch quipped. “And he’s doing it poorly.”

            With a sheepish expression, and a flutter of her eyelashes, Bree hesitantly asked, “Can we try again?”

            “You want to question Ron a second time? Why? That wasn’t enough misery for one day?”

            “I think I felt… magic in his house, ya know?”

            Finch hadn’t been paying much attention. Perhaps there was? The neighborhood was rather devoid of it, but if there was a chance they could find something magical, he supposed it was worth a second glance.

            “I have a plan this time.” Bree tapped her notebook. “Please? I think I know exactly what to do.”

            After rolling his eyes a second time, Finch activated his magic.

            The world froze around him. All the leaves hung in midair, the faint music stopped in the distance, and the world was paused. Then the color drained from everything, melting away until it was a world of black and white. Finally, the objects melted, too, disappearing into a swirled, leaving Finch all alone in a void of white space.

            When he blinked, he found himself back on the sidewalk near his car. Finch stood next to Bree, right where he had marked the time.

            5:10 p.m.

            Bree held out her hand so Finch could redraw the Mark of Chronos. Once finished, she smiled’ You have to follow my lead,” she said.

            “All right,” Finch muttered.

            Once they arrived at Ron’s house, Bree poked at Finch’s arm until he knocked.

            Ron answered, the same sad expression he wore before.

            “Hello?” he asked.

            “Hello!” Bree smiled up at him. “I’m selling girl scout cookies!” She had lowered the pitch of voice so that she sounded just a tad bit younger. Then Bree motioned to Finch. “Normally, my mommy would help, but she… left… so it’s just me and my dad now.” Her last few words were accompanied by an exaggerated downward shift of her voice, practically depressed.

            “We need to get you acting lessons,” Finch whispered, more to himself than to her.

            Then he snapped his attention to her. He wanted to remind her that he was only thirty-seven, and that he wouldn’t have a thirteen-year-old daughter, but he held back.

            Despite her cartoonish-levels of acting, Ron seemed moved by her statement. His eyes grew glassy with a sheen of water, and he nodded once.

            “I’ll take some cookies,” Ron managed to choke out.

            Bree nodded once and then fumbled around as she attempted to write that in her notebook. With an adorable frown, she asked, “Do you mind if I use your table to write down your information?”

            “Uh, sure.” Ron stepped aside. “The kitchen is right here. I’ll take two boxes of Thin Mints.”

            After giving Finch a subtle smirk, Bree hopped inside and made her way over to the kitchen table.

            The house was definitely owned by someone who had just gone through a divorce. Half the furniture was missing, there were no photos on the walls, and everything smelled of dust. Finch followed in behind Bree, keeping his eye out for anything that might be magical.

            “Told you I had a plan,” Bree whispered to Finch as she slowly made her way into the kitchen.

            Finch was impressed—now they just needed to find something of interest.

            The kitchen table was a sad little circle big enough for three people max. The chairs were rickety, and Finch suspected this had once been outside furniture.

            Bree sat down and began writing a little list. “Two boxes…” Then she eyed Finch and glared.

            She clearly wanted him to do something.

            Ron walked into the kitchen and sighed. “Maybe make it three boxes of Thin Mints.”

            While Finch was tempted to make a joke, his train of thought was completely interrupted when he spotted a black cat sauntered into the kitchen from the living room. To a normal human, it was just a normal black cat—short onyx fur, and bright yellow eyes—but Finch knew better.

            “That’s it,” he blurted out.

            Bree and Ron both whipped their heads in the direction of the cat.

            The feline froze, its ears erect, its tail straight up.

            “That’s just Smudge,” Ron said, dismissively waving away the comment. “He’s my cat. I got him just recently. I, uh, was lonely.”

            Smudge took a step backward, his pupils shrinking to tiny slits as he stared at Finch.

            “That’s no cat,” Finch said as he stepped around the kitchen table.

            Bree leapt from her chair. “Oh! Really? What is it? A spirit? A demon?”

            “It’s just a cat,” Ron said, baffled.

            “It’s an oozla,” Finch said. “A creature born from a murder.”

            When a human loved a cat, and cherished it, a special kind of magic was born. However, if that cat were ever murdered, the shadow of the cat absorbed the magic, and the despair, and became an oozla. And whenever oozla were nearby, terrible things happened. The magic that poured from their black fur was that of bad luck and misfortune.

            Which was why the myth of black cats being unlucky spawned. Oozla were always black, just like the shadows they were born from.

            It was the same with the barghest. A barghest was a black dog born from the love and despair of a beloved dog being murdered. And just like the oozla, all black dogs were seen as unlucky.

            The keyword for both oozla and barghests was murdered. The cat or dog in question couldn’t just die of natural causes—they had to be killed in an intentional, and malicious fashion.

            Bree’s eyes went wide. “Wait! My mum told me all about oozla. Sometimes witches keep them as guard animals, to bring misfortune to whoever visits them.”

            “I said it’s just a cat,” Ron said, louder than before. “And I think you two need to leave.”

            “Not without the damn feline,” Finch said as he stomped around the table.

            Smudge, the oozla, hissed and then whirled around. He ran down the hall and Finch gave chase. As he went, he felt his anger building. The little oozla was causing so much trouble in the neighborhood that innocent people were being harmed. He couldn’t allow this to go on any further.

            Hot air rushed through Finch’s lungs. He was not only bonded to Chronos, but also to Ke-Koh, the Ifrit of Rebellion, which gave him access to magical fire.

            And oozla died pretty quickly when on fire.

            Smudge darted into a bedroom, through a barely cracked open door. Finch slammed through it, embers on his breath. He glared as he scanned the room, and immediately spotted the long black tail of oozla as it slipped under the bed.

            He stomped over, grabbed the frame of the bed, and lifted. Then Finch hissed and dropped the whole piece of furniture. A nail had been sticking out of the wooden frame, and he had pierced himself on it.

            How unlucky…

            The powers of oozla were quite potent. If Finch didn’t catch the creature soon, the misfortune that befell him would get worse and worse.

            Before Finch could light the whole room up with fire, Ron grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around.

            “You can’t have my cat!” Ron shouted, his face redder than before. “Get out before I call the cops!”

            Bree stood in the doorframe of the bedroom, her blue eyes wide. “A-Adair. Let’s just try again. Don’t hurt him, okay?”

            Ron’s grip on Finch tightened.

            Torn between just fighting his way through this and doing things the way Bree wanted, Finch forced himself to calm down. Once his concentration was back where he needed it, Finch rewound time.

            Everything froze. The colors slipped away. Then everything melted.

            Finch opened his eyes, and he was back on the sideway.

            5:10 p.m.

            Bree gasped. “We did it!” She bounded around Finch for a moment, clearly giddy. “Okay, we found an oozla. That’s a big step. We’ve almost cracked this case—I’m so good at being a private detective! Did you see that? First house? Super subterfuge? Did you see it?”

            “I saw,” Finch drawled.

            He ran a hand down his face and tried to clear his thoughts. They couldn’t chase an oozla forever. The bad luck would hound them and make it nearly impossible to catch.

            Finch knew he would have to kill it fast.

            “Okay, I have another plan,” Bree said. She tugged on Finch’s coat sleeve. “C’mon! We have to slash Ron’s tires.”

            Holding back a chuckle, Finch allowed himself to be dragged along. “We’re going to what?”

            Bree brought him to the car out in front of Ron’s house. Just like the inside, the vehicle seemed half empty and sad. Bree pulled a pocket knife from her backpack and then handed it to Finch with a gleeful smile.

            “Can you do it?” she asked.

            “Of course.” Finch went to the two back tires and—after some effort—managed to jab the knife into the tires. The hiss of air told the job was done.

            Bree pointed to the house. “Okay, once Ron runs off, we have to get inside and grab the oozla before he comes back. Got it?”

            Finch had agreed to let Bree handle the investigation, so he just nodded. In his mind, it would be far easier to just sneak into the house at night, or when Ron was at work, but he didn’t mind humoring the girl. If she wanted to bust in, metaphorical guns blazin’, he was going to let her have her fun.

            With a snicker, Bree ran to the front door. She pounded on it with the side of her fist. “Hello!” she called out. “Does someone live here!”

            The door flew open, and Ron wildly glanced around until his eyes settled on Bree. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

            Bree pointed at his car. “Someone was slashing your tires! We tried to stop him, but then he just ran off down the street!” She gestured down Maplewood Drive.

            “What?”

            Ron stepped outside and slammed his door shut behind him. Then he hurried to his car, saw his tires slashed, and promptly pulled out his phone as he hustled down the way Bree had indicated. While he was distracted, Bree grabbed the front door handle and turned. Unlocked, obviously—Ron hadn’t locked it on his way out.

            She slipped inside, and Finch followed afterward.

            While this wasn’t the way he would’ve handled things, he had to admit—he was having fun.

            Once inside the house, Bree hurried into the kitchen. Sure enough, the little oozla, Smudge, walked in. His yellow eyes went wide the instant he spotted them.

            “There you are, you little devil,” Finch said.

            Smudge took a step back and then arched his back. “What’s a pair of warlocks doing here?” he asked, his voice rather deep for how small he was.

            “We know what you’ve been doing,” Bree said, pointing at the black cat. “You’re under arrest!”

            “Private investigators don’t arrest people,” Finch muttered under his breath.

            The oozla didn’t stick around. He turned on his four pawed feet and took off down the hallway, just like before. Finch leapt over the table and gave chase, with Bree close on his heels. Since Finch knew which room the oozla was heading, he picked up the pace and slammed through the bedroom door at nearly the same time the cat.

            Diving for the feline, Finch managed to grab his back leg before the cat got under the bed. The oozla hissed and screamed, and then reached back and started clawing Finch’s hands.

            “Ow! Fuckin’ cat! Ow!”

            Despite the claws and teeth, Finch forced himself to stand. He held the cat by both legs and Smudge thrashed wildly, hissing and spitting with all his might. Oozla had plenty of magic, but it wasn’t in a direct fashion. Their misfortune only happened to the environment around a person.

            Finch concentrated on his connection to Ke-Koh, and the palms of his hands began to glow.

            “W-Wait!” the oozla hissed. “Don’t!”

            Perfectly prepared to cook the evil creature, Finch ignored Smudge’s pleas.

            The front door opened. Then it closed.

            Everyone froze. Bree, Finch—even the oozla.

            “That’s my human,” the oozla whispered, his claws deep into Finch’s hands. His yellow eyes narrowed. “He’s a sad sack, but he’s my sad sack.”

            With his tail, Smudge pointed to the bedroom window.

            “It’s not locked. You can get out of here without hurting my human.”

            “You care about Ron?” Bree furrowed her brow.

            Finch didn’t care about any of this. He did need to get out of the house without harming a magicless human, though. He hurried to the window and then gestured for Bree to handle it. She grabbed the bottom and pushed it up, the squeak of the movement just a bit too loud.

            “Hello?” Ron asked from somewhere else in the house. “Is someone here?”

            He sounded out of breath. Finch wondered how far the man had run.

            Without waiting a moment later, Finch leapt out the window, the oozla still clutched tightly in his hands. Much to his misfortune, he landed outside into a rose bush, the thorn digging into his flesh as he slid down the dirt. The sting was enough that Finch sucked in air through his teeth—but he never let go of the damn cat.

            The oozla snickered a hiss-hiss-hiss laugh at Finch’s pain.

            Bree climbed out afterward and carefully stepped down. Then she shut the window. Another squeak.

            It couldn’t be helped.

            Finch forced himself to stand and then ran from the side of the house to the sidewalk. Bree kept his pace, and even motioned to the Toyota. They took off, the animal still in their grasp.

            When they reached the vehicle, Finch had to let go of a single leg to fish out his keys. The oozla thrashed again, hissing and clawing, shredding his knuckles clean of skin.

            Finch grunted as he took a seat in his car, careful not to let the cat anywhere near his lap. He pressed Smudge against the top of his steering wheel, trapping the feline in place.

            Fire built in Finch’s hand, and the singed hair stank up the car in an instant. While he knew he would damage his vehicle if he used too much, he didn’t care. Blood was weeping from his torn-up hands, and it was getting all over his coat and jeans.

            Bree grabbed his arm and then yanked his elbow. He jerked his attention over, and she pleaded at him with large eyes.

            “Wait! Maybe we can… talk to him?” Bree asked.

            Finch already knew where this was going. His fire receded, and the cat in his hands growled something fierce, but it slowly stopped fighting so much. With his fangs sunk into Finch’s wrist, Smudge turned his yellow eyes to her.

            “You said you knew what oozla were,” Finch said through clenched teeth, the sting of his injuries flaring through his arms.

            Bree nodded. “Yeah, but… Don’t you think it’s so sad? The poor oozla didn’t have a choice that it was born.”

            “Remember why we’re here? Remember the man whose BBQ exploded?”

            “But Smudge loves Ron, and didn’t want us to hurt him.”

            Smudge slowly pulled his fangs from Finch’s flesh. Then he laid his ears back. “Love is a strong word.”

            “You still cared!” Bree glared at Finch. “We can’t just kill him. We should… save him, too! Maybe we can give Smudge to a witch who needs him. That way he won’t hurt the magicless mortals here.”

            Finch took in a deep breath, and then exhaled. This was Bree’s case, after all.

            “Fine,” he eventually said. “Fine. If you want to take the damn oozla somewhere, we will.” Finch pulled it away from the steering wheel and then offered the cat over to Bree. “But you have to hold him.”

            She hesitated. For a long moment, Finch thought she might not take the oozla, but then Bree pursed her lips together in a straight line, and held out her hands. Finch passed over the creature, prepared to rewind time if it started savaging her.

            But the cat didn’t.

            Smudge rested easy in her arms before he started licking the burn mark on his back leg. After a few licks, he laid his ears back and glared. “You were going to cook me!”

            Finch started the car. “It would’ve been quick.”

            “Still!”

            Bree gently patted his head. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, Smudge. We’ll take you to a witch. Maybe one of my mum’s old friends.”

            The little feline relaxed a bit in Bree’s arms. “Really? You two are… going to help me?”

            With a dramatic nod of her head, Bree smiled. “Of course. That’s what we do. We help people.”

            “That’s not really the job description of a private investigator,” Finch muttered.

            “Well, it’s my definition.” Bree snuggled the cat close. “We’re good private investigators that make everything better wherever we go, and we’re going to start by helping the poor little oozla. Okay?”

            Finch let out a long sigh. He supposed he knew this was coming.

            “What about Ron?” Smudge tilted his head. “He’s sad. And I mean that in more ways than one. He needs something to care for, or else he might stop caring altogether.”

            Sometimes, Finch couldn’t believe how many things he needed to save. With a long sigh, he said, “We’ll get Ron a puppy. And also a therapist. And maybe a few rounds of speed dating.”

            “Really?” Bree perked up in her seat. “You mean it, Adair? We should definitely do those things. Ron needs it!”

            Finch slowly turned his car and headed out of Maplewood Drive. “I mean. But first, let’s get this damn oozla out of my car before we get ourselves into a fatal accident.”