Hunted|Haunted - Chapter 1 - Deal

“… things outside your control”

His body goes limp, the thick wood of the mask muffling his lone, blood-filled coughs. Snorks gave up whimpering and lay down beside him, cold snout pressed against his neck.

The noise downstairs. I wonder how many will survive, if any. He won't be one of them, for sure. Will he be remembered, or shunned? Will they bury him alongside his older brothers he never met? Or on the corner of the graveyard, where the cursed lie? Was he good enough to at least in death receive some recognition? What a joke. To follow the consuetudinary to the dot your entire life, to sacrifice your mind, body and soul, and still not be sure of your fate. What a joke. This institution is a circus.

“And I am just a few bells short of being a jester”

Senses fade, void filling where discomfort has been.

Death was... unfortunately boring.

No meeting the other deceased. No wish fulfilment. No other world. Not even eternal damnation.

Just void.

Boring.

He expected to go insane by now, but the more he thought of and questioned his life, the more something unravelled in his head. Something repressed and unfavourable by the Order. Thought free of control. What good is it now?

Having no way of telling how much time had passed, he decided to recount his appearance. That was the recommended tactic for keeping track of your sanity, after all. Even if those mental descriptions likely didn’t vary that much between soldiers.

Thick, black braid, reaching his waist in length. Dark green, Order-issued, steelwool flying coat. Unfortunately stained with blood. Dark grey pants. Weren't they dark blue at some point? Probably a false memory. Well-worn boots. Good thing he didn't come around to have them reissued, would have been a waste. Thin tail, with coarse hair, just down to where the boots started. At least the number of limbs matches. Did he use to have that many broken nails before? His face. He's missing his glasses. Could he recall anything about his face? Was there a point in time when he could? Well, he was told that he had the stare of a snake, playing dead. At least he remembered that much.

Chattering and clanking crept up his ears.

Void melts, and he finds himself in a cluttered attic. Old furniture stacked to the roof. Books, scattered around, falling apart. Chests and trunks, boxes and crates. And a child, wearing the wooden mask, right in front of him.

— Please don't tell mum I played with Nana's trunk stuff! — The child squeaked, freezing

— I… um… okay?

— Thanks for the pal bearing — the child unfroze and hurried to pack the mask along with some other trinkets back into the open trunk.

The child looked barely old enough to start learning to write, and so very tiny. If not for how well he talked, Neven would have thought he was a toddler, almost reaching his hip. Though Neven might not have been the most accurate measuring tool, being on the taller side.

Child's dandelion-like, curly pitch-black hair and tail, way too long for his body, made him more reminiscent of a jerboa than a ferocious apex predator he was supposed to grow into.

— Mind telling me where I am?

— You're weird. How do you wander into the attic and not know you went there?

— I know I'm in an attic, you-… Look, I'm pretty sure I wasn't here a moment ago

— Oh, I thought I just didn't notice you coming up

By this point, he figured out that the child simply didn't understand what sort of answer was expected and thought of a different approach.

— What's your name, kid?

— Toma. What's yours?

— My friends call me Coyote

“Friends”, yeah, sure. Only Valeryagn called you that. Still, he thought that outing himself as a Lowac straight out of the door might worsen whatever situation he's in.

— Why's that?

A child shouldn't know why Valeryagn called you that. Heck, no one should know the actual reason.

— Weird people have weird friends.

— Oh

— Say, kid. I don't remember seeing you at family gatherings, but maybe I know your parents? What are their names?

— My mum's Imeje, and my dad… uh… I don't think I've heard anyone call him by his name

Well. Shit. Imeje will most definitely bludgeon him with a rusty shovel on sight.

— What does everyone call him?

— Umm… We... don't really talk about him

— What happened?

— I don't know, but mum was very sad.

So… Krsto didn't succeed at killing father. Or at the very least, didn't last long after. Father probably lethally cursed him.

— It's okay, though. It was many years ago

From the looks of it, Toma wasn't okay with that in the slightest.

— Wanna go slug the stones?

— Sure.

Whatever that is, it will probably distract the child from thoughts about his dead father.

Turns out, being considerate of a child's feelings is much simpler than your nannies made it out to be. Pity you didn't babysit yourself.

Turns out, “slugging the stones” meant putting slugs on tombstones. Toma jabbered out some reasoning for doing this, but it was hard to piece together, as he was running all around the graveyard looking for slugs and being distracted by everything he saw and thought of. At least his mismatched hand-me-downs were easy to keep track of in the sea of monotonous, black granite slabs.

Eventually, they ended up at the grave covered in flowers and trinkets.

— Hi Yannie!

— Hello — he said on autopilot.

— This is my new friend Coyote. I found him in the attic. Coyote, this is my brother Yannie, he's my twin

Toma proceeded to chat with a tombstone. Not knowing how to react to that, Neven started looking around at the nearby stones until he saw the name he recognised.

His own.

— Hey, Toma? What year is it now?

— Ooh, you're a time traveller too?

— That's what I'm trying to find out.

4 years. He's been dead for 4 years. So has Yannie. Dead just weeks apart. Krsto probably disappeared around that time, too.

Poor Imeje. To lose both your husband and child in such a short time. Must be tough. At least, Toma didn't seem to fully grasp what happened yet.

The grass is passing through his feet, rendering them slightly translucent.

What was he? A ghost? An apparition?

He has retained his mind and didn't have any “missions” prior to death. He didn't feel the need for revenge, either. And Toma wasn't frightened by him, so his appearance probably didn't change too much.

What did the mask do?

— Are you okay? You look kinda... doggish

In his mild panic, he turned into a coyote. Curious. So he had retained some magic after all. Unless that is a mask side effect as well.

— Well, now you know why I'm called that.

After some time, Neven managed to turn himself back.

As Toma went around introducing his new friend to everyone, Neven learn multiple things:

• No one but Toma could see or hear him

• He was completely intangible

• Physics still applied to him

• Turning into a coyote was the only thing he could do

• He couldn't go too far away from Toma

• He had trouble remembering some things

• Despite that, his knowledge wasn't limited by Toma's

• His energy seemed to be tied to Toma's

• Having started this day as “Neven Lowac”, he ended it as “Coyote, Toma's new imaginary friend”

As he lay on the hardwood floor, looking at the hand-painted birds on the ceiling of Toma's room, Coyote wondered how to get out of this situation. No one will believe Toma's claims about there being a ghost only he can perceive for another 10 years at least, so the only way out would be to teach him either demon deals, soul manipulation or necromancy. All of which are extremely advanced magic schools. And with no Grobars being particularly skilled spellcasters, Neven would have to take the kid's education into his own hands.

— Say, kid. If I said there was a way to return your brother, would you believe me?

— Well, you haven't lied to me yet

— I own something that can be exchanged for a soul. I also know someone who can make a new, living body

— What does “exchanged” mean?

— If I give you an apple, and you give me a pear for it, that's an exchange.

— Ah, okay. So you can bring Yannie back?

— Not exactly. See, there's a magic leash on that thing

— Like on mum's scissors? She makes them appear in her hand

— Yes. But since I don't have a body and have no magic, I can't summon it on my own. However, I can teach you how to do it, and in theory, you could do it.

— In theory? Why's that?

— Well, I'm much older than you are, and older witches have way more magic than you do

— Are you old, like Nana?

— Not... quite that old, kid. More like your dad. So, in order to summon the thing, you would have to study and train a lot to get the required amount of magic and skill. And that would take time and dedication. Are you willing to study and train?

And so, the two struck a deal.