I do confess that I don’t like the title of this story and it may get changed later, but I’m really tired so for now it can stay as it is. As with the others, this short story hasn’t been edited – I just finished writing it a minute ago – so please forgive any errors
Made From Magic.
There’s always a guy with an eye patch.
“Do you guys buy them in bulk?” I asked.
The guy who was guarding me ignored my question and continued looking ahead. He stood with his back facing the door, arms folded behind him. He was stocky, about 5’9” – short for a werewolf but I doubt anyone ever told him that. That must have been one hell of an injury to take the eye of a were.
Suddenly he stepped aside. A moment later the door opened and a thinner, more classically handsome man, walked through. He was greying at the temples and had equally grey eyes. The door closed behind him and the werewolf resumed his place in front of it. But this guy was no wolf.
He circled around me. I kept him in sight for as far as my head would turn. They’d bound my hands behind the chair and my head was restrained with a strap.
Eventually he came into view again. I had a sudden image of him making faces behind my back and I burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.
He frowned at me. “You have a strange sense of humour. For someone in your predicament I’d have thought you to be more…” He paused. One hand circling as if winding something up in order to find the right word.
“Can we move this along?” I said, bored of his time wasting.
His mouth snapped shut and his gaze hardened. “Very well. I’ve never known someone in such a hurry for torture.”
At a flick of his wrist the floor in front of me vanished. The spell was one I didn’t know. One that only he, or those he deemed worthy enough to tell, would be able to use. And one that I’d been waiting for him to cast.
I whispered a few words under my breath and the werewolf sprung forward. His eye widened in horror as he realised his fate. As he fell into the hole at my feet I finished the words of the second spell I had on my lips and my sorcerer captor stood as still as stone, his hand half way through a flourish. A spell that I’ve no doubt would have hurt like hell.
I worked my hands out of the rope I’d loosened hours before, and undid the strap at my head and the one at my feet.
“Now,” I said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
I reduced the intensity of the spell enough so that he could talk.
“We bound your hands!” He cried out. “You can’t cast!”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t work like that.”
I flexed my wrists, they were stiff after being bound for so long.
“You’re an abomination!” He shouted.
He was probably right. I didn’t come from a magic user family. I came from a spell gone wrong; I was made from magic, not born into it. The same rules that they had to live by, didn’t always apply to me.
“But that’s why you wanted me here, right?” I asked, taking a step around the hole towards him.
His eyes followed me and he clenched his jaw. He didn’t need to answer, I knew it was why they’d brought me here. It was what I’d been counting on.
“The thing is,” I said, flexing my arms above my head. “I wanted me here too.”
He tried to watch as I walked behind him, mimicking his movements from earlier. I stopped at his back and said a spell that pushed him forward towards the hole.
“Because I don’t like you,” I said.
It wasn’t the whole truth but I’ve seen too many Bond movies to stand around talking about my reasons for killing the guy before I do it. As he vanished over the edge, his scream echoed around the room.
Well, that was the easy part. Now to get out of here.