The emptiness throbbed and pressed around Gezza, its inky blackness sucking away all light, runes flickering like a submerged dying flame, the low hum buzzing in his chest like a swarm of angry wasps.
The cold cut his back and he gasped in a sharp panicked burst of breath, the marks of the claws on his back burning in the cold.
The voice of the Playbook had just made known the cult--slayers of the last bearer, their threat a blade in his bowel. Hell no, I have not lived long enough to die! Gezza screamed and his voice broke and there was a hiss of the non-existent dark, and it was lost in a hiss of non-existent electricity.
His heart beat against his ribs, fear was raw and electric.
The Playbook chuckled, with a deep guttural rumble that shook the emptiness, and the runes glowed with blood-red, throwing the jagged shadows over the shaky form of Gezza.
This shit is not funny, jerked his head up, burning his eyes with his defiance and terror.
His fingers tore strangled in his wet hair, his fingers caught in rough gasps, the noise a ragged noise in the blissful silence. The voice of the Playbook dropped in like wet lead, slow and deep, as it said out its words.
You believe that power such as mine is so light? Without enemies hunting you?"
Gezza grit his teeth as his stomach twisted and his fists made popping knuckles.
It went against his voice, a hundred voices of scorn and fear, the runes throbbing more intensely, their hum becoming a whine of rustling, grating sound.
"Be prepared..." runes swirling tighter, searing his eyes, its voice had faded into a chilling whisper: the Playbook intoned.
Wait, I have not, I have not, I shouted, Gezza, and then the hole swallowed his words in a whoosh of low suck and threw him back into the motel room.
The red buzz of the neon made its way past the curtains, the feet of the sloppy bed yearning at the weight of Elena sleeping in it.
She was lying beside him and her breath was soft and her flushed face was relaxed as she smelled of jasmine mixed with the stuffy smell of sweat and sex.
Gezza looked at his backpack, frowning, and said to it: Tsk, thought you wouldn't be cryptic, bitch.
He leaned back on the bed, the springs creaking, his mind a whirl of fear and anger. Be prepared, replied in his head, A pounding hammer upon steel. It was not Mike who was the main threat, this cult, nameless and faceless, operating with magic that he could not understand. The mission he had the first, find info on them. But how would he fight them?
The magic on the Playbook worked only on women and only with their proper name. Bad, bad, thought, hastier than the other, and with trembling in his heart.
The hand of Elena was hanging on his chest, a dozy movement of love.
A heavy sigh full of possessiveness, and with the gentlest touch lifted it, left her warmth on his skin, reminding him of her fidelity-so long, though how long?
He rose and tapped his feet on the worn carpet, the noise dulled in the crowded room, and wandered off to the restroom. What the fuck, he growled, hitting the door sharply against the frame that vibrated the cheap wood.
The drip-drip throughout the faucet irritated his nerves, and the air stank of mildew. I'll just do it outside. He opened the door of the motel, creaking on its hinge, and looked out into the hallway.
The wind was fine and silent in the night, the stars cold chips.
At the end of the corridor a woman lurked, her purple dress and her hooded cape blowing in the wind, one of her legs curvy poking through a hole, and her figure angelic but misplaced.
Her head went up, and her smile was sharp, and her finger waved. The jeans of Gezza fussed his way up, his head swivelled to the thought of her body, and the way that he wouldn't be able to stop it pressing against his--then, bang, he slapped the door, the bang resonating with his head and the locks clicking as frantically as possible, he turned his back to the door, his heart aching like a drum, his breath gasping in short jolts.
Elena awoke, and spoke in a lazy tone. "What happened?"
Nothing, don't worry, Gezza said, pressing composingly, but feeling himself being ripped apart inside. She dropped back under the sheets with a low breath and her breathing evened.
She is not normal, he said, and his heart was still beating. "Who wears a hooded cape in 2025? It ain't fucking October."
The warning of the Playbook caused him the fear, the shadow of the cult, declaring one a menace in every stranger.
He needed to pee, his blander seized but the toilet smelled like bad and their someone in Halloween clothes outside. Argh, he grunted, uniting to the bathroom, I have no choice squealing the low stench at the cheap, humming a low, nervous melody.
He burst out, he was gasping, and crawled to the bed, the frame grumbling, as he lay between Elena, the neon whispering and humming, feeling sick with fear, with lust and a shimmering of his old cockiness.
The following day, the sun beamed through the curtains leaving gold on the face of Gezza and it was warm but harsh. He flinch and his eyes opened and the coldness in the room stung his flesh. He swiveled around in anticipation of seeing Elena form the curves, yet the bed was vacant, with dishevelled bedclothes.
"Elena?" he called, with all his worry, in a hoarse voice. One of the papers rustled on the table as he grabbed it.
I had something to attend. Text you later. Elena ~xoxo
He drew in his breath, in a sharp inhalation, impatience like a match. Where the hell's she off to? He pulled his hoodie, the texture scratching against his hands, zippered his pants, a metal zip, threw his pack on his shoulder, which burned with the weight of the Playbook.
The clerk scratched his pen when making the payment and walked out of the store, and the morning was alive, with rattling cars and singing birds.
He was drawing his hood down, concealing his face, paranoia searching the hulking bulk of Mike, his sneakers making loud gravel crunch with every step of tension.