Thelemule tried twisting to the right, but that was no good. The bed was comfortable, the room was dark, but something was off.
Next, he tried placing a pillow between his legs and counting to one hundred, but when he noticed the dull ache between his eyes, he had to remind himself that squeezing them shut would not, in fact, force you to sleep.
If only there was a spell for this sort of thing. He could cast one that would blow up a building, and he was damn close to figuring out how to fly. So why wasn’t there a spell to help you sleep?
He got up and took a sip of brandy, then walked down the stairs to the servant’s quarters. The door was open a crack.
“Stephan?” he whispered.
No reply.
“Stephan? Stephan?”
A groan came from inside. “What?”
“Are you coming to bed?” asked Thelemule.
“I am in bed.”
“I mean our bed. We haven’t been together for what, three months?”
“Ninety-seven days, and I’m in my bed,” Stephan, his butler-but-not-really, growled.
Thelemule huffed. “I only suggested furnishing a separate room to keep up appearances, propriety. If I had known you were actually going to use it, I would have—”
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“I’m not speaking to you,” Stephan spoke the words but then got up and approached, and for one brief moment, Thelemule thought he might have been forgiven. “Go to sleep,” said Stephan, “or fix it.”
“Fix what?”
The door shut in his face.
“Okay, I deserved that,” said Thelemule. “But she’s off with Drake now. I’m sure he’s fully capable of dealing with…” he trailed off, realizing he was talking to himself. Scratch that, lying to himself.
This was going to require more than a sip of brandy. He made for the parlor, to the liquor cabinet.
“I’ve never pretended to be anything but a greedy bastard.” He poured scotch into a tumbler, about a quarter full.
“The witch stranded me on a desert island for Verse’s sake.” He added another pour, the tumbler up to half now.
“I have every right to be mad.” The bottle went ‘glug glug’ as he held it upside down, and the tumbler spilled over.
More sloshed out as he lifted it to his lips.
And then the window shattered.
His heart beat raw as the tumbler dropped, fragmenting into glass beads when it hit the floor next to the object that had crashed into his parlor: A spark grenade mark three. His own design; it even had his maker’s mark.
Blue spark flickered from the ignition block. Thelemule calculated he had roughly four seconds. Scratch that, three.
He fell on top of it.
—Two—
The spark burned his hand.
—One—
His fingers, grasping for the ignition fuse, slipped off the scotch-covered brass.
—Zero—
“Oh crap,” he gasped.
—Negative One—
His fingers plucked out the fuse.
“Manufacturing defects. Thank Song.” Thelemule exhaled, half-crying from almost dying, half-laughing from still being alive.
He grabbed his silver owl cane and cocked it, loading the chamber, then charged out the front door as he commanded it to open. Momentum carried him over the front step so that he was in the air a moment, before landing in the snow.
“Where are you!?” he shouted, working himself to anger.
The street was clear, the night silent, and when he turned around, he saw it: the word ‘SHIV’ written in dripping red paint on his front door.
All are welcome. The invite link is
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