Here is the fifth installment of my little web serial.
It's been a difficult week in this writer's mind. Full of uncertainty, doubt... lack of confidence, which I know, is the one thing you really, really need if you want to be a writer. While I battle through my personal demons, it's nice to read over something I wrote just for fun once.
Good luck battling your own demons.
Enjoy,
LLH
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"
By L.L. Heberlein
(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)
CHAPTER FIVE:
It wasn’t an hour later that she arrived. India Blackwell walked into the restaurant dressed in tight black pants and a red leather jacket. Every head turned and looked. She was what can only be described as a spitfire; fiery red hair falling in curls around her shoulders, sharp green eyes and a cute button nose, cupid-bow lips with a dash of red gloss, only a touch of makeup to play up her eyes and tone down her freckles. Damn, how I loved those freckles. I loved everything about India Blackwell. She was my height when she wasn’t in heels, and just as thin. We made a scrappy pair, India and me.
It’s only fair to say that I’m madly in love with her. I always will be, and it felt like I always had been. India, I knew, would always be madly in love with me, too. Love was never our problem. It was the whole rest of the goddamn world, and all the stuff involved in “relationships” that was the problem. We weren’t together anymore, and it was for the best, but... damn, it was nice to see her.
I gave her my best wry smile. She smirked. “You look like shit, Davis.” She sat down next to me and gestured at the waitress for another cup like mine. “What’s the plan?”
Right to business. “Well, I was thinking… magic?”
India filled her mug from my carafe. “That’s it. That’s the plan. Magic?”
I didn’t speak. I drank from my mug as I tried to think.
She tapped one red-painted fingernail against her lips. “I guess I could talk to the guy at the place. See if I could charm him. Maybe get him to bring it to me. Maybe.” She tapped her finger some more. “You know, Davis, I could get in a lot of trouble for this. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring into my mug. “I know.” India is in underworld law enforcement these days. You could call her a cop for the supernatural. She works for the council, keeping an eye out for the bad little boys and girls.
India is, or was, human. Like me, she’s not any more. Though, unlike me, she’s not dead. She just doesn’t age; not like a regular human, anyway. I knew she was well past thirty, but you’d never guess a day over twenty-five. She just didn’t age any more. Maybe she never would. Maybe she was immortal. At least she was very, very hard to kill, I knew that much. And, skinny and scrawny as she was, India was immensely powerful. A tough pill for a powerless guy like me to swallow.
India paid for her share of the coffee, plus a huge tip. At least one of us had money these days. Must be nice to have a real job, I thought.
The warehouse wasn’t far, and India sat in silence for most of the drive. She did say “Nice car” as she climbed into the passenger seat. I didn’t mention it wasn’t mine.
I parked in a different alley, not too far away. As we walked up to the gate, India put her hand on my arm. “Go back to the car and wait,” she said. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come in and find me.”
I nodded. I knew I owed her a lot for this.
She walked a few steps, then turned back and said “Bad sweatshirt, by the way.”
“I know.”
“It smells like vomit.”
I sniffed my arm. It did smell like vomit. I shrugged.
She shrugged back, then turned around and kept walking.
I waited in the car. Five minutes, ten minutes. The time crept up on fifteen minutes, and still I heard and saw nothing come from the warehouse. Right at fourteen minutes and forty seconds, I saw India walk out, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in her pockets. She walked quickly, almost at a run, and got in the car.
“Drive,” she said. Her face was all red, the way only a redhead can get.
“What about the package?”
“You’ll have it tomorrow,” she said. “I promise. Just drive.”
I started up the car, put it in gear, and drove off.
“What happened?”
India turned to me with those green eyes lit up like emerald fire. “You really, really don’t want to know,” she said.
“Did you get the package?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nope. I’m sorry, Davis, but that item is absolutely stuck there until tomorrow. And I do mean stuck, as in magically stuck there. You couldn’t move it if you wanted to.”
It took me a moment to answer. “I was set up, wasn’t I?”
“Looks like it,” she said, nostrils flaring. “You want to tell me who your employer is so I can go beat her up?”
I laughed. “Not a chance.”
She glared. “Fine. Drop me off back at the restaurant. I’ve done more than my share for you tonight.”
“What did you do?”
“I said don’t ask,” she got out of the car and slammed the door. I rolled down the window.
“India? Indy, I’m sorry,” I said. She kept walking. “What am I supposed to do about the package?”
She turned back. “Whatever it is, it will find you,” she said. “But not until tomorrow. Go home, Davis. Get some sleep.”
“But I need that package!”
“Davis, that package does not exist for you until tomorrow,” she said. “Go home.” She kept walking, and I let her.
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