Watchmen and Bullies

A flash fiction bit about a school for those who train to fight monsters, and the one student who trains to fight the fighters. Which came from the thought, "What if useless sidekicks actually had ulterior motives and training?" ...and how much high school sucks.

Watchmen and Bullies

Blood pools, salting her lips before it falls to carpet the color of soggy oatmeal. Principal Shaw flinches, which makes Charlie smile. She finishes probing at a likely broken nose and flicks off another flutter of red snot.

"She bit me," Serena wails.

"My bad. Isn't that the kind of thing you're into?" Charlie wiggles a broken front tooth with her middle finger.

"Enough." The salt and pepper woman in front of them levels a hard gaze.

"But Principal! I was assaulted during training."

Serena is still smudged with blood, but Charlie can't find any bruises. No hissing flush, angry scratches in her creamy complexion. Disheveled blonde hair is already recompiled into effortless, balmy curls. Her hair pools into coils of light.

Heroes tend to mimic their prey. Serena's family hunts beautiful corpses. Cold and enchanting.

Which is what she's doing to the Principal. Shaw's dopey blue eyes fade gray beneath even dopier glasses. Charlie bangs her toe against the metal foot of the desk. Principal Shaw twitches and shakes her head.

"Charlotte, this is your third incident this week." A pivot and suddenly those eyes aren't so dopey. "Please explain yourself."

"Everyone was fighting monsters but me. I got bored." Charlie shrugs. "Serena was dinking around, playing with that stupid creeper, so I thought she might be bored too."

Bored and sadistic. Charlie remembers the crunchy sound the revenant's knuckles made under Serena's heel. Serena sniffs before she can taste bile in the back of her throat again.

"Maybe you should try attacking the monsters for a change. Oh. Wait. You can't."

Chin swivels like a canon. Fists tighten. Charlie narrows her eyes at the taller girl. "Say that again."

Serena smiles. "Sidekick."

"Necrophiliac."

"Dead weight. Damsel."

"Sadistic bi-"

"Ladies." Shaw pats at her perm as if they, too, could be brought in line with more hairspray. “No matter what family history brought you here, you're both going to have to learn to work together. I suggest that you remember that everyone is here for training unique to their role. No more, no less."

"Some less than others," Serena mutters.

"One week after-hours service in the underworks for both of you. To be served together."

"I was the one attacked!" Serena's voice takes on a shrill note, which makes Charlie smile.

"And you were the one to turn your back on your duty to strike a fellow human," Shaw says.

"The rev was nearly dead. I had it under control."

"And that attitude will get you killed outside. Just ask your widowed aunt. Now go."

Charlie nearly makes it to the door before a low voice cuts her off. "A moment, Cooper."

Serena casts a razor-bright smile as she passes and Charlie waits for the door to close before she turns. Shaw rests her knuckles on the back of her desk. When she straightens, it's a transformation. Salt and pepper soccer mom hair seems suddenly darker, eyes sharper. Shabby mother figure is shrugged off like a cloak.

"You had an assignment, Charlie. Report please."

"Serena hits like a truck." Charlie tries to drop herself into the vacant chair but bounces back up as something in her torso protests. Broken rib. Maybe two. Add to that to the inventory. "Took getting personal before she even got a bruise. If that's half power, I don't wanna see her after her dad dies and she graduates."

"And what did you learn from that?"

"That her family is a bunch of snobby sadists? Wait, no. Already knew that." Dried blood cakes her sleeve and there's a tear through the Black Widow logo. Charlie grimaces and picks at the flakes as she thinks.

"She was reluctant to fight, but when she did, she favored her left hook. Likes to toy with her targets, especially undead. Gets distracted. Her family's thing is anything undead and human. Those are unique in that they can often talk, think. I think that's why she likes to hear them suffer. I...guess I could use that if necessary." The prospect leaves a sour taste in Charlie's mouth.

"That's a start. You can gather additional data during your punishment together. I expect a five-page report by the end of the week." Shaw gives a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You're warming to the part of bully."

"To be a bully, I think you actually have to win a fight once in a while...I'm just the year's suicidal asshole." Charlie inspects the carpet and steps on another smear of blood. She lies fiercely. "Doesn't bother me."

"You will need to analyze each of your classmates and their families in order to graduate. Please keep the larger goal in mind, Charlotte. You are the safeguard.”

"Who watches the watchmen. I get it. You gave me the speech on week one."

"Power can be intoxicating. Everything needs its check and balance," Shaw starts on a familiar lecture.

"No one sees me as their 'check'. They see me as their loser sidekick." Charlie spits the word. The Coopers. The no power, no talent trailer trash with hero blood. Professional sidekicks. "And they're right."

"A counter measure is most effective if it's never needed. Second, if it's never expected. You are to keep your training private."

"Yay," Charlie mutters.

Shaw gives her a hard look. She's even less inclined to accept back-talk when she's in General Principal mode rather than Mom Principal mode. "You look sloppy, Cooper. Do you require a pass for the nurse?"

"Nawh." Charlie pauses to wiggle the broken tooth with her tongue again. "I can sleep it off. Only power I got, right?"

"As you say." Shaw's gravel eyes seem on the verge of sympathy, but they dart away. She turns to her tablet, already dismissing the bleeding girl in front of her. "Go pull yourself together. Next week's assignment is Miss Wolfgang. Here's her profile."

Charlie pales even as she catches the disk the principal tosses. "Wait, the girl in anime club? Specializes in dryads? I don't need a--She breathes lightning!"

"Indeed. Best you not miss lunch."

Hellhound Valentine: A Hell's Librarian story

An almost-too late Valentine's story set in the Hell's Library universe. Wherein we find out how Hell celebrates Valentine's Day, what gifts demons give, and the adhesive powers of Hellhound saliva. Set prior to the events of THE LIBRARY OF THE UNWRITTEN. Enjoy!

Hellhound Valentine

Of all the holidays Claire expected to hate in Hell, Valentine's was the surprise.

You wouldn't think that demons would be fond of a holiday named after a Christian saint, but when you're an immortal creature, you have a way of taking an interest in anything that promises a change, a way to differentiate one sunless, timeless day from the other in the afterlife.

Of course, that didn't mean Hell would be celebrating it traditionally.

A screech of talons on metal shuddered through the Library's thick double doors, sending a fine mist of dust spiraling through the lamplight. The teacup rattled in it's saucer and Claire reached out a hand to still it without taking her eyes off her book. She turned the page, muttering as she kept count.

The battle raging outside didn't concern her; the Library's wards were made to weather the worst of Hell's moods and stormfronts. Nothing--especially not a demon skirmish--would trouble it. Every year on February 14th, Hell settled in to sort out it's valentine deliveries, and the Library weathered it out.

It was one of the few days a year the Library was closed. Valentine's in Hell was about a kind of love, but being demons and other infernal creatures, everything came down to power. Love was possession. It was the day a year when the more powerful demons and players in Hell set about snapping up unaffiliated assets in the realm--lesser demons, wandering spirits, and dead necromancers. And since it was Hell, these little valentine deliveries resulted in war-like responses. Love confessions were a bloody business when accepting meant eternal servitude.

Which explained the towering mess of horns and scales that was slowly but surely turning new and exciting shades of white on her couch. Claire wasn't in the habit of sheltering strays on Valentine's Day, but she'd made an exception this year.

"I--is Miss Brevity coming back soon?" Poliver chewed on his thick bottom lip with his fangs.

He wasn't the largest demon Claire had ever met, but close enough. A wall of solid scale and a face like curddled concrete. He also clutched a rather tattered workbook delicately in his hands. He would have made a fine prize for any demon on Valentine's Day, which is why Brevity begged he be allowed inside the Library's wards for a Valentine's Day lesson instead. The Library occasionally tutored demons, and Poliver was Brevity's latest project.

"Soon. She's just went to see to the ladies in the damsel suite. Valentine's Day isn't a day that holds a lot of fond memories for the damsels so they get exceptionally rowdy this time of year," Claire said. "Perhaps I should arm them and throw them outside the wards. This whole bother would clear up in an hour."

Poliver started to answer then jumped again as something large and quite possibly electric boomed against the wards. His shoulders were doing their level best to turtle into his ribcage and make himself smaller. An impressive feat for a demon that weighed half a ton.

"You're studying Shakespeare with Brevity?" Claire asked, distracting him. Even Claire was known, on occasion, to have a heart. A fact she preferred to keep to wild rumor.

"Oh, y-yes, ma'am. We're reading The Tempest right now."

"Good choice. One of my favorites. Is it for an assignment?" Demons often were sent to the Library for research on humans before being sent to the mortal world. "Or personal interest?"

"No...not an assignment, Miss Brev--" Poliver turned an entertaining shade of cherry. He creaked a bit as he rubbed his chin. "Miss Brevity, she recommended so..."

And there was the personal interest. Claire bit back a smile. "Librarians do know best."

Demons could feel affection, love even, but it usually came out slightly askew due to their natures. Love became violence, jealousy, control, possession. None of those words were usually associated with Poliver or Brevity. It would bear watching, but if any demon could navigate to his better nature, Claire suspected it was ones like Poliver.

"If you don't m-mind me asking, ma'am, what're those?" Poliver intruded on her thoughts with a cautious nod to the space near her desk.

And Claire sighed.

"A damn nuisance," she said as she kicked back a tarantula that was tapping her foot.

The Library of humanity's unwritten tales, of course, was it's own kind of unaffiliated asset. Even Lucifer couldn't quite claim possession of the Library and the sleeping books within. But most demons were wise enough to not attempt to approach the Library with violence on Valentine's. Claire saw to that. That didn't mean they gave up, though, and many tried to appeal to the Library's innate human sensibilities.

Gifts were presented and compliments plied. There was really only two ways to deal with it, in Claire's experience. She rejected every approach with a firm word, sending bitter and muttering demons stalking out the door.

Brevity, alas, took the opposite approach. Being a muse spirit, it wasn't in her nature to reject hope and ambition, so she accepted everything. Everything. Every strange treat and tchotchke that a deranged demon mind could deem pleasing, Brevity accepted with enthusiasm and promised to give due consideration. Because she treated every demon the same, none could precisely claim they won and the Library remained a neutral party.

But lord, for the clutter.

It wasn't chocolates and flowers. These were demons, after all. Through out the day, the pile had slowly grown: dark artifacts (which would need to go to Valefar's collection), burnt offerings (which would need to be further incinerated), poisonous asps and one hairy tarantula the size of a house cat. Claire had drawn an ink ward to contain the worst of it. It kept the asps from nesting in the stacks but did nothing for the eyesore factor. Claire hated eyesores.

"Gifts from Brevity's gentleman callers," Claire explained. Poliver's face had taken on the look of a confused hachet.

"Oh!" Confusion gave way to concern. "No one told me Miss Brevity liked g-gi...that kind of thing. I didn't--I should...uh, oh." He twisted anxiously towards the door until Claire stopped him.

"It's okay, Poliver. Something tells me the gift of your company is enough. No need to cross the battlefield."

"..o-okay." The demon deflated and eased back onto the couch. "Is that a spider?"

"Yes," Claire approached the pile and neared the edge of the ward. "I'm not certain on the species but wher--"

Species speculation was interrupted when her ink ward exploded.

A blur composed of shadows and terror burst from the depths of the pile and arrowed directly at Claire's head. She barely had time to drop her book to the desk--Librarian instincts winning out over self-preservation--before something large and spikey viced around her chest and the ground disappeared beneath her.

"Are you...alright, ma'am?"

It took a moment for Claire to open eyes she hadn't realized she'd squeezed shut. Puckered scales and worried eyes were in front of her. Claire dangled from Poliver's grasp. His scaled claws curved very carefully under her armpits and, judging from the sickly pink staining his rubble-cheeks, he was not accustomed to human flesh.

All that was rather secondary to the clammy feeling of something's saliva drooling off her heel. Claire looked down.

A feral clot of shadow clamped around one ankle. Light did not so much fall on it as get sucked in, though the outline of the nothingness resembled a bobble-headed terrier. The thing evidently had a mouth, which it again ferociously worked over her ankle with churrling smacking sounds. All Claire could feel was clammy, surprisingly hot gums. It was, thankfully, toothless.

Claire gave her leg an experimental shake but the ink creature stayed put. "I will be, if you can perhaps put me down and extricate that instead."

"Sorry, sorry!" Poliver clumsily tried to set her down--made more difficult by the creature hobbling one foot. He gingerly pinched the creature at the scruff. The trilling growl increased to a pitiful squeak and Poliver cringed. "I don't want to hurt him, ma'am."

"You really are a horrible excuse for a demon," Claire said. She hurried on before Poliver could crumple any further. Such a sensitive soul. "I understand your hesitance but he did emerge from a pile of poisonous beasts and this really is my best pair of sneakers so..."

This did not seem entirely convincing to Poliver, but he did keep hold long enough for Claire to roll and yank her ankle free. Her foot came loose with a wet sound and she frowned at the way her sneaker was already beginning to discolor under the infernal drool.

"It don't look dangerous, does it?" Poliver said. "You get lost, lil fella?"

When she looked up, the creature gave a hungry mewl from where it was cradled in Poliver's lumpy arms. It was all bobulous head and morphing tail. It's eyes were over-large and half buried beneath swirling void-fur, but when Claire saw the pupils entirely made of scarlet whirls, she jumped back.

"That." Claire retreated behind her desk and frankly had to resist the urge to barricade herself in her office. "...Is. A Hellhound."

"A hellhound?" Poliver frowned. "What would a critter like that be doing in the Library, ma'am?"

"....BREVITY," Claire yelled.

---

"It was a gift, boss. I couldn't just reject it!"

"You most certainly could! On account that it's bad form to adopt things that eat your coworkers."

"Technically he's only kinda tasting you so far," Brevity insisted as she shoved the exploded pile of oddities back into the reconstructed ink wards. Claire had abdicated the clean up to her assistant, in favor of perching at the edge of a chair strategically near her office door. Farthest away from the Hellhound pup.

A pup which was held by a very, very distraught Poliver. The demon cradled the infant beast more like a shield, peering over the fur to flick uncomfortable glances between the two librarians as they hollered at each other.

The hellhound, for his part, seemed not at all bothered by it. It was comfortable enough in the crook of Poliver's massive arms. Claire did not care for how it seemed to drool as it stared hungrily at her, however.

"A hellhound is not an appropriate Valentine gift," she said again as she rubbed away her goosebumps.

Brevity huffed seafoam curls out of her face as she straightened. "He's a baby, though. Don't even got his soul-teeth in yet. And everyone knows Hellhounds can only really eat human souls if they try to leave Hell. You ain't, right boss?"

"As if I look like that big an idiot," Claire huffed. "Fine. It was a gift. Who the hell thought a Hound was a good idea?"

"Uhm," Brevity fidgeted. "Crowley, I think it was."

"Crowley," Claire pronounced the name with the same inflection one would reserve for maggot. "Nevermind. This wasn't a gift. It was an assassination attempt. Or a joke. Probably both, now that I think of it."

There were few humans who earned a permenent title in Hell. Most humans simply served their time, purging their souls of what punishment they felt they needed, before moving on without making much of an impression on the rest of Hell.

But some humans stuck around. Claire was one, through no virtue of her own, as Hell's Librarian. Aliester Crowley was another. For some reason, Lucifer had taken a liking to the drunken bastard when he'd arrived. Not, Claire suspected, for any service he really contributed to Hell during life or death, but more for his ridiculously offensive imagination. Lucifer's favor was irritatingly whimsical like that.

And Crowley was nothing if not whimsical.

"That settles it," Claire said. "Poliver, go ahead and strangle the mutt."

"Boss!" Brevity protested as Poliver shrank into the bookcases. "You don't mean that. Look at the widdle thing."

"I had a great view when it tried to digest my foot," Claire relented. "Fine, we can't keep him, though. Hellhounds grow fast, and I'm positive Crowley did not just pick one up from the pound. Stolen, probably. Malphas is probably looking for him right now so wh--...Poliver. What did you do with the mutt?"

The giant's arms were suspiciously empty and he had the grace to hunker down. "It was a gift for Miss Brevity, ma'am. You said to--I couldn't hurt it--"

Claire spiked a sigh through her lips. "I was joking. Why can no one tell when I'm joking?"

"It's the scary face, boss," Brevity offered.

"So where is it?" Claire ignored her to wheel on Poliver.

"Uh." The demon rubbed the back of his neck. He looked significantly down the Library's stacks that stretched back into the shadows.

"Oh bloody perfect," Claire said.

---

Hell's Library was as infinitely deep and convoluted as human dreams. By the time they'd made a search of the front most stacks, even the war outside had died down to an occasional dull thump. Though they occasionally heard a far off squeaking growl, the Hellhound pup eluded them.

Where ever it was, Claire just hoped it was housebroke.

"This is my fault," Poliver looked ready to sink into the floor.

"Nah, it's my gift. I'm awful sorry, boss," Brevity said.

"Apology accepted. You are, of course, on inventory duty for the next month, no, decade." Claire stopped and leaned against the shelves. They were in the depths of the interactive fiction section, and the hyper-active unwritten tomes vibrated and jostled at her tired back. "I suppose there's no helping it then."

Brevity perked up. "You got a plan?"

"I've got a calculated indignity," Claire corrected as she wrinkled her nose. She really had hoped to avoid this. "What we're about to do doesn't leave the Library, got it?"

She waited until her withering look extracted a meek nod from Poliver. Claire straightened and strode down the aisle.

She formed the idea in her mind. A careful thought she didn't normally allow her self to indulge in but had an entire afterlife to perfect. She envisioned Hell's wards and pathways. Envisioned the steps she'd take, preparations needed, and--

Something fluffy and rabid collided with the back of her neck.

Claire flew into the shelves with a shriek. The Hellhound pup tangled in her long braided hair and began to snarl and flail, caught half between slavering growls and pitiful squeals.

It stomped unhelpfully on Claire's spine for another few moments until she felt Brevity wrangle it off. "Easy, buddy!" Her assistant was a bit too cheerful about her near-mauling.

Poliver reached down to help her up. Her hair was a solid mass, glued together with foul-smelling saliva and void-fur.

"But how'd you do it?" Poliver asked curiously.

"I presented it with the right bait." Claire rubbed her neck with a wince. "Young or not, no Hellhound can resist a soul escaping Hell."

Brevity's fuse-gold eyes widened slightly. For a Hound to respond, it couldn't be a passing thought or fancy. A soul would have to present an earnest desire and intention to subvert their sentence and abandon Hell. If Brevity thought it alarming that her human boss could summon that scandalous mindset at will, she didn't say so.

Instead, she stroked the Hellhound pup soothingly. "So, what can we do with him?"

Brevity really was kinder than a soul like Claire deserved.

Claire finished grousing at her hair. The Hellhound coiled around one of Brevity's arms, gumming curiously at her tattoos as if trying to taste the residual human dreams contained within.

"We can't exactly return him to Malphas with the Valentine war outside." Claire said. Brevity positively glowed with hope. "If you're going to fuss with him, we have to keep him confined. He can stay in the damsel suite tonight. They'll love it."

"Really?" Brevity didn't quite cheer. Quite.

"Tomorrow he goes back. To Malphas. And Crowley is banned from the Library for a year, got it?" But Brevity was already dragging a reluctant Poliver down the stacks, trailing the sound of happy chatter and hungry Hell beast.

"I really do hate Valentine's Day," Claire said to no one.

A Gift of Ravens

A news story made the rounds on social media a few months ago, about a girl who regularly fed crows and the crows, in return, brought her little trinkets as gifts. So I wondered, what would happen if those crows were ravens? And those ravens were Munin and Hugir? And what would happen if they brought a little girl something more important than a bit of plastic?

And what happens when Odin, the All-Father, is forced to understand the challenges of a girl growing up in the modern world?

The Gifts of Ravens

Odin had a problem.

It had not started out as a problem. It started out as a charming mishap, as most disasters do. Munin and Hugir may have been his memory and reason, but they were also ravens. The birds regularly brought back tidbits and treasures from their daily trips to Midgard. Sparkling things are, after all, the domain of all black birds everywhere.

But the day Gugnir went missing was the first time they took something to Midgard.

Gugnir, his treasured spear, which changed to fit the hand of the wielder. He really should have been more concerned what two, fickle black birds would do with such a prize. Odin didn't even realize the spear was missing until the birds returned from Midgard that evening, empty clawed and nothing in their beaks but gravelly news. He suffered a rare moment of dread when he put it together. The ravens had not delivered his prize weapon to Astur, Lord of Chaos, at the very least. They had not returned it to the dwarven realm. They had not even delivered it to Loki and his tiresome, troublesome schemes.

Upon reflection, that might have been preferable.

Instead he found himself in a busy park, shabbily disguised and sweating under a long coat as he frowned down at a park bench. A park bench that held a small human child. A child with dark, bushy hair and sticky hands.

"Give it to me."

"No," The girl raised her chin but barely looked up from the device in her hands as her legs swung in a wild meter beneath her. "Finder's keepers."

"As I explained, I am the rightful wielder of Gugnir--"

"Nah, I call it Galadriel. I twisted it into a ring, see?"

The girl held up one hand to display a bit of silver wire twisted clumsily around her forefinger. Familiar runes winked at him and Odin felt a decade stolen from his immortal life in a spike of horror.

"Gugnir is not a elf! Or a ring for a passing adornment! It's--" Thunder interrupted his words and Odin paused to bring his frustration under control. He sought for words that a child would understand. "It's a weapon. For adults. For Asgardian adults. I must wield it when we ride to herald in Ragnarok, to slay the mighty wolf Fen--"

"Slaying people isn't very nice," the girl interrupted him. "Yelling isn't nice either."

She was not wrong, Odin had to admit. He attempted to lower his voice. "I have not the time for this, young one. I will take back the weapon--"

"It was a gift."

Odin halted, knitting craggy brows together. "Excuse me?"

"It's a gift. From the black birds. They bring me things, sometimes. Broken earrings, bottlecaps, string... Because I feed them."

The little girl wiggled her hand towards the flock of birds pecking stray crumbs out from between the sidewalk cracks. It was a mad assortment of black birds, crows, starlings, and the occasional raven. Odin mentally cursed his birds again. "Every day. I bring them food. Sometimes they bring me things too. It was a gift."

Odin did not like the look that had appeared in the girl's over-large brown eyes, "Be that as it may--"

"You told me your birds are actually you, right? Like, your thoughts and stuff?" The girl did not wait for agreement before barreling on. "So if they gave me the gift, it's like you did, right? You can't take back a gift after you give it. That's rude."

She paused, adding as if clarifying: "No take-backs."

Odin stared at the girl with his one good eye. There were such rules of hospitality in Asgard. He did not think such a rule applied here, but being a god meant being more concerned about proper customs than was healthy, and so Odin suddenly found he could not take the sword from her by force. His fist bunched in his beard as he considered.

"Fine, human child. I will honor your Notaykbaks and return in a fortnight with a gift more fitting for a child of man. And then you'll accept a trade?"

"Maybe. Sure, whatever." The girl said, attention already fading back to the small, dark device she held in her hand. "Just don't be late. If you're here when Mom picks me up she'll be pissed."

"I swear you shall not lose honor with your war chief," Odin promised then hesitated. "What do they call you, girl?"

"Sophie. Sophie Thompson."

"I trust Gugnir to your care...for now, Sophie, daughter of Thom. Until we next meet." Odin intoned and disappeared in a thunderclap that startled all birds but two.

#

Odin had considered for a long time what to bring back to the little girl. She was a mortal child, a slip of one at that, and he supposed he could have won back his spear with any grand thing in his sizable treasury. But honor--and, Odin was forced to admit, pride--required him to offer something that was worthy of trade for Gugnir. Like for like. But what was legendary enough to be equal to the weapon of a god, yet appealing to a human girl?

Perhaps because it was prior to the evening feast, Odin had settled on apples.

It had taken a veritable fountain of sweet words and powerful promises to get Idunn to part with one of her precious apples. Odin did not have Loki's flair for negotiation. He could have ordered Idunn to grant him one from her orchard, but he had lived too many ages to not understand that when pressed, Asgardian women simply take their due in a different manner. Finally, a promise to honor the goddess and her husband, Bragi, at the next feast, allowing Bragi the opportunity to perform one if his interminable poems, won him an apple.

He drew his disguise around him and returned to Midgard with some confidence. What child, after all, could resist such a sweet treat, and eternal youth as well? Loki was not the only one who was clever. Odin was in such a good mood that when he located the child and she announced she was hungry, he indulged her.

"Your best cut. Elk if you have it." He ordered the butcher grandly.

The man behind the small, metal stand gave a flat-eyed glance between the All-father and the girl. "You want mustard on that?"

"No thanks." The girl accepted a strangely tubular cut of meat between two squat slabs of bread. When the man stood staring at Odin, the girl nudged him. "You gotta pay 'em now."

"Oh, yes. I keep no debts." Odin reached into the depths of his cloak-like coat and sorted through the contents before dropping three gold pieces on the butcher's stand. "You have my blessing."

They left the man where he stood at the gold pieces. Odin hummed with a particularly magnanimous feeling as they found the girl's typical park bench surrounded by birds.

He presented the apple and he was still internally congratulating himself on his wits when the girl struck her blow.

"Nah."

Odin sputtered, "No? I am offering you a chance at immortality, eternal youth and beauty. An offer the likes of which have not been made to a mortal in an age and you say...nah?"

"Why would I want to be a kid forever? Older kids get to do all the good stuff." The girl chewed on her food and peered up at him with a scrunched up face, "Besides, I don't like apples that much."

"Don't like..." Odin wiped a long hand over his face before he gathered himself up in his long coat, holding himself with all the dignity the All-Father could manage. "Take the apple."

"No."

"I command you to accept this gift, daughter of Thom!"

The thunder got away from him this time and his voice reverberated around the park, backed up by a rumble that shook the trees and spooked the food vendor into moving his cart inside. The old god stifled a sigh and with a wave of his hand the clouds parted again.

"No thank you." The girl repeated the word like a oath, bottom lip taking on a particularly stubborn jut.

She played with her silver ring--spear, Odin corrected himself--and winced as she twisted the ends tighter. The girl then swung her small knapsack to her back. She waved as she turned to run down the path. "Thanks for the hot dog, Mister Odin."

#

It took Odin time to calm down, but when he did, he believed he'd found a proper trade for the Sophie's 'ring.' The apples had been silly, in retrospect. He was thinking too grandly. She was a child. Never trust the young to value youth. A foolish mistake, but the All-father had it now. He returned to Midgard with the answer wrapped up in a fine velvet cloth in his pocket.

When he arrived in the park, he was surprised to see Sophie already entertaining company by her bench. Three boy youths clustered loosely around her, one tall, one short, one fat. Odin found it difficult to gauge their ages--they would have been blooded and married in times past, but they bore the bearing of children. The light shoulders and inward-turned hearts of spoiled youth.

Odin couldn't hear the shouting until he drew closer.

An argument was underway, about what, Odin couldn't discern. Sophie stood back up against the bench, looking fierce with her chin upturned as she scowled at the boys. Even the squat one was several inches taller. The tall one dangled Sophie's familiar purple battered knapsack in front of her until the girl, moving faster than anticipated, leapt to snatch it back. The short one rolled his eyes, "Jeez, bird girl. Don't freak out."

"She's such a creepy bird girl. Heh. Turd girl!" The chubbiest of the boys seemed to hit on a winner and the others took up the chant, "Turd girl and her turdy hair."

A small hand flew to her puffs of corkscrew pigtails and Sophie's face screwed up tight. In the next moment, the girl threw herself at the nearest boy. She hit him solidly in the stomach and, despite her smaller size, they tumbled to the ground with a grunt. "Take it back!"

The boy recovered enough to grunt a refusal. He drew his knee up and kicked as Sophie swung again, but Odin had seen enough. He came to a decision and was across the remaining grass in a thunderclap.

"PEACE."

Interjected between the girl and the boys was not an old man in a shabby coat. It was Odin, All Father, staff in hand and dwarven chainmail worn over flowing robes the color of stormclouds. Lightning trailed from his one eye as he turned his gaze to the youths.

Once he had their attention, he drew his power around him like a cloak and glowered at the gap-mouthed children. "Be gone. Do not return until you've found honor in battle."

The boys scrabbled off the sidewalk and fled. Presumably to battle.

Odin slowly diminished as he turned, until only an old man in a shabby coat and wide-brim hat reached down to help Sophie up. "You acted with honor in the face of brigands, daughter of Thom."

"Mom said you gotta stand up to bullies." Sophie retrieved her knapsack, grimacing at the tear that had appeared in one side. "Oh man. She's going to kill me."

"Perhaps if you bring home a treasure worthy of the gods, she will see mercy."

Sophie made a disgruntled face which was universal even when Odin was young. "Ok, ok. What do ya  got?"

"I think you'll find this far outshines your ring."

Odin produced the velvet cloth with a flourish. He flipped back one end to reveal the rippling cords of gold, looped in countless delicate braids. Pearls as pale as Idunn's skin dotted each complicated knot. The necklace was worth the net wealth of any number of modern kingdoms.

The gleam of gold reflected briefly in Sophie's eyes. Odin warmed in the glow of victory. The girl's grubby hand, still wearing Gugnir as a bauble, reached out and carefully touched one of the jewels laid in gold. "What's it do?"

"Do?" Odin had never had anyone question such a treasure's functionality before. He furrowed his brow and searched for the most tantalizing answer.

"It is the finest dwarven craft, from Freyya's own collection." Odin did not dare describe what he'd had to do to part it from the goddess. "The beauty of it will make you desire of all men. The envy of all women. None who behold such beauty will be able to deny you anything, daughter of Thom."

The light faded from Sophie's eyes even before Odin finished talking. "It's very nice, Mister Odin, sir. But my ring is better. Tell Miss Freyya thank you anyway. Sorry for the trouble."

The girl's rejection he could withstand, but pity? For the All-father, king of Asgard? Odin felt a stab of hot temper, beginning in his gut and starting to rise as he clenched his jaw. "And just how is Gugnir better for a human whelp?"

Sophie's dark face broke into a sunbeam, pudgy cheeks nearly breaking at the grin. "It's got power! Just like Galadriel's ring. It brought you here when those guys showed up, didn't it? We showed them good."

The heat faltered in his chest as Odin considered. Then he called to mind the youths and the way the girl had flung herself at them, a tiny valkyrie, and his anger died completely. Odin was an old god, not prone to sentimentality or charity, but a thought grew in his mind. The old god grunted and straightened.

"Wait here."

#

Odin reappeared a moment later, in a thunderclap that sent the pigeons flying. Sophie waited by the bench, though she fidgeted impatiently, dancing from one foot to another. Her eyes lit up when he withdrew a thin blade of silver.

"This...is Hrotti." Odin said, schooling his face serious. "It is wielded by champions of Asgard and it's bearer can not be struck any mortal blow. It imparts the skill of my people and it will always strike true."

And then, because he saw the light in Sophie's eyes and because Odin was not the All Father without having raised a few children himself, he pulled the blade back out of reach and added, "...if, and only if, the cause is just. Am I understood?"

Sophie's eyes widened even further. She pulled her entranced gaze away from the blade to nod solemnly. "What's 'just,' exactly? Is it like playing fair?"

"Yes and no." Odin thought grimly that fairness and justice were never as close as they should be in Midgard. "Justice means not merely thwarting wrongs, but raising up rights. Fair ensures all start on equal footing, but justice ensures all have the same goal in reach."

"Oh. Galadriel wasn't very just then." Sophie frowned down at her ring. "So more like Wonder Woman?"

Odin had no idea what gods she was speaking of, but it was farther than he'd gotten with previous gifts so he nodded uncertainly. "Will you return Gugnir if I grant you Hrotti?"

Sophie paused mid-nod. "Ma won't let me keep a sword unless it's the foam kind. There was a lamp, see, and..."

Odin could not stomach the thought of Hrotti exiled as a toy. His gaze fell on the silver twist of Gugnir, still a ring on Sophie's hand.

"Perhaps I can see to that."

The ragged edges of his coat fell over the blade as he worked, pulling runes with gnarled hands. A puff of light and he withdrew a small black cylinder to lay in Sophie's hands.

"A pen!" Sophie turned it over with delight. She twisted one gold-capped end. "There's no...trick with this, right? Not like the apples. Does it work on tablets?"

Odin had aimed for an inconspicuous tool of the law--he'd envisioned a staff or a book, himself--but rune magic was fickle and he didn't have the heart to take it back as Sophie clutched the stylus to her chest. "No tricks. It will serve you well in any form. Now, Gug--...your ring?"

"Oh. Right."

Sophie took care to stow Hrotti in her pocket and pat it tenderly. Then she twisted the silver off her hand and held it out with a somber face to match Odin's.

"It will serve you well," she intoned.

"It will indeed." Odin's beard hid the smile that he fought to contain. "Be just, Sophie son of Thom. The gods will be watching."

The girl pet her pocket again before shouldering her pack to go. "You too, Mister Odin."

#

The gods may not have watched, but one god did. As years passed, Odin found pleasure in hearing Munin and Hugir's reports on Asgard's youngest champion. He found himself retiring to the well of Urd and turning visions away from the future towards the present, as Sophie navigated the labyrinth of the modern world. He was pleased to see that, with Hrotti-the-pen, neither greedy acts nor hurtful words carved the scars in Sophie's young soul that others carried. It was a pleasant surprise when he noted that Hrotti remained a simple tool, and Sophie grew into a rare warrior of words.

He was even more pleased to see when she turned her skill to defending others as a modern justicar, a law-yer. True to her word, Sophie was not just fair but just. She wore somber armor in courts and dueled in a way to make any Asgardian proud, and Hrotti was always in reach.

Which was why Odin did not intervene one day. On the day when a strange man broke into the courtroom, armed with desperation and a gun.

He only watched as Sophie shoved down her client and twisted, terrified and yet terrifying, Hrotti in hand. And in that hand there there was a glimmer of black turning to silver steel.

And the All-Father smiled.

Character sketch: Hell's Librarian

Update: Hell's Librarian started as a character sketch, a writing exercise to get a particular image of a particular character--Claire--out of my head. I posted this drabble on my blog long before I wrote the book, and now that it's written I thought it'd be neat to preserve a peek at the very early days of the idea.

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In between working on my current novel, I've taken breaks by writing character sketches and scenes for other stories I want to explore one day. One of those is the idea of a librarian in the afterlife, charged with the care of all the creative works that never got written, painted, or otherwise created--the banished, unwritten works that never made it into the world. Hell's Librarian, if you will. This is her sketch.

If you enjoy Claire and would like to read more of her story--let me know! I'm always trying to decide what to write next.

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The demon was dripping sulfur on the library’s antique rug.

The normally pleasant library smell of sleeping books and teakwood was marred with a hiss of rotten eggs, scalding Claire’s nose. It was an antique rug, peacock blue and intricately dreamed by a master artisan. Unwoven, of course, as was only fitting for Claire’s wing of the afterworld’s library. The Librarian frowned and peered over the rim of her reading glasses at the him, “A message?”

“Yes, ah…” The demon was a young one and he fidgeted uncomfortably in a suit a half size too large for his knobby frame. He twisted anxiously at one cuff and shook loose another bead of acidic sulfur which hit the rug with a dull hiss. Claire winced and the demon ducked his head.“For the Librarian of the Unwritt—eh, Restorations wing?”

Claire ignored the slip, instead opting to push her glasses up her nose, set down her scalpel and reluctantly close the book she was working on. It was proving to be an unruly one anyway. She leaned forward and pressed one elbow on it to keep it from creeping off. “You’ve found her. What’s his Grinchiness want now?”

The demon’s eyes widened and licked his lips nervously. “You can’t…you can’t call him that.” He was a lesser demon, naturally, but the boss never typically sent more than an imp messenger—when he bothered to communicate at all, which he didn’t. A lesser demon meant something important so Claire bore the smell of sulfur and disintegrating wool with silent annoyance. She raised one brow and waited for the messenger to continue. “His unholiness sent an assignment for Restorations. A book has gone missing and must be returned.”

Claire gave the demon a disgusted squint and turned back to her work, “You’ll want Collections, then, not Restorations. Follow the hallway widdershins until you reach the next wing, look for the non-euclidean gargoyle. Can’t miss it.” That problem solved, she dismissed the demon and turned back to the desk. She adjusted the desk light to a better angle and considered her work. The brown leather book was twitching. Claire tapped it thrice on the spin before it grudgingly flopped open again. She frowned at the squiggly text and again picked up her scalpel.

“No…” The demon gawked at the moving text and then warily shot his eyes around at the stacks of books and neatly loaded shelves surrounding them. He was obviously not a reader. Claire tracked this out of the corner of her eye and snorted under her breath: whoever sent him down had a cruel sense of humor. The Library was one of the quietest places in Hell, but it was also one of the most curious. And everyone knew the dangers of curious places. “The boss wants you to collect it. I’m supposed to tell you…it’s…ah, one of yours.”

Claire jerked her head up. “In what way?”

“The report says the book was unwritten. Early 21st century unauthor.”

That was still alarming, but Claire relaxed her shoulders a bit. At least it wasn’t one of hers in that way. She sighed and clamped her hand down on the swirling page so the book couldn’t close on her again. “Stolen or lost?”

The demon seemed relieved to have his message even partially accepted. He pawed around a volumnous inside pocket before withdrawing a small stack of computer paper sheets to squint at them. “Ah, lost. They suspect runaway, actually. No recent check-outs or invocation alarms.”

So not summoned or stolen, but an unwritten book on the lam in the universe. That did sound like trouble. Claire sighed, “I suppose this is an official assignment?” The demon bobbed his too-pointy chin nervously, sweating another puff of sulfur. Her poor carpet was going to be ruined at this rate. Claire rubbed the bridge of her nose briefly, shoving her thick braided hair back before shooting out her hand, “Give the report here. Any lead on the location?” She released her hold on the open book and it happily snapped shut, barely missing her fingertips.

The demon deposited the paperwork in her palm and hopped nervously out of reach as the book stacks on her desk murmered sleepy growls. Claire shushed them with a guttural noise but the demon raked a hand over his bald head nervously. “They think it went to find it’s author. Somewhere in America, Seattle.”

A groan escaped the librarian as she squinted at the paperwork. Nothing was stronger than an unwritten book’s fascination with it’s author. Problem was that relationship was not always friendly or healthy; for the author or the unwritten book. She flicked her eyes over the author bio and sighed, “Seattle. Americans and their atrocious coffee.”

Claire closed the folder and flicked a sour gaze to the demon. "Fine, I'll need transport for my intern and myself." She pushed herself back from the desk and rubbed the crick out of her neck before raising her voice to the shadowy corners of the towering towers of books around them. "BREVITY!"

photo credit: Flickr