|The Spell Crafter
Author: Deena PM
What’s the only thing worse than being kidnapped by a Demon who wants you to use your Craft to help him cause ruckus in Heaven? Wanting to be screwed senseless by said Demon! It’s a classic case of Morality vs. A Really Hot Time! -Slash-Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Supernatural - Chapters: 3 - Words: 9,962 - Reviews: 112 - Favs: 104 - Follows: 108 - Updated: 08-21-05 - Published: 01-17-05 - id: 1809873
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This fraff here features supernatural humour, swearing, loud foreigners and boys liking other boys. If any of this offends you then beat it. Or give it a try, what the hell, there's nothing gratuitous here yet. I'll warn you when things start to turn racy.
This idea has been chewing on my brain for a while so I thought I'd give it a go to get away from the heavy grief of writing 'The Gravedigger's Daughter'. It's an outrageous plot with antics galore so let me know what you think, won't you?
CHAPTER I : Double Dating is a Double No-No
"So I am thinking that me and you should go to do this double dating business."
At the sound of that heavy South Indian accent, I looked up from the oil-paint-drying tedium of my Differential Equations assignment with a healthy dose of alarm.
"Dr. Ram Chandra Narayana is a very dashing kind of man, no? He is not having any balding, did you take notice? So much white hair, very thick and distinguished looking. And such a nice, round tummy! It is like Ganesh, full with ladoos. I have always preferred the healthy looking mans. You want to be able to have something to hold on, is my way of thinking. You Western folks, always with this skinny minny business. I am not wanting any sack of bones in my bed, no thank you very much."
The concept of double dating, much like the concept of regular dating and all other kinds of dating, is what I like to think of as a bunch of foul bullcrap. Dating is like being a contestant in a dog show. You primp, you pramp, you shave, you gel, you put on clean boxers and for what? The opportunity to hump the judge. The pimping up of oneself, either on the conversation front or in the sack, is a continuous undertaking.
Of course I know all about the current political tension dominating the Sudan.
Yeah that totally -is- the biggest dick I've ever seen.
Or well it would be like that if I ever decided to start dating it up. Recently, as in during the past three years, I went on one date and that wasn't what I'd call a hot time. Dude turned out to be a German half-goblin werewolf with a spanking fetish...as in he wanted to spank my buns toasted. Yeah dream on Herr. I'm the kinda wimp who needs support meds and a two-day bed rest after accidentally catching sight of some yodeling lady turding out a kid on one of those operation-live shows on Life Network. I wasn't about to let some weirdo have a go at my arse after we'd scarfed down two donairs a piece, even if he had been a studley blond chunk of supernatural gob-wolf.
I decided to hell with dating after that pointless though enlightening experience and resolved to stick to the queer version of dating...blowjobs in the backrooms of gay clubs downtown. Yeah so it's not much on the romance front but at least I know my ass is safe...from a ruler anyway.
Auntie Swaroopakuntala, who isn't my Auntie at all but who everyone refers to as Auntie, blabbed on, oblivious to my growing distress. "Dr. Ram has told me that his son Gopal is also an engineering student. Could you imagine it? I am not knowing if Gopal likes the fellows as you like the fellows but we should try the double dating anyway and see how it will turn out, yes?"
I went on a double date once, back in high school. My best friend's sister Allison conned me into going on a date with her best friend Jessica. I'd already known at that point that perky tits and little skirts weren't enough to do it for me. It was a damn shitty deal double dating with your buddy's kid sister but when your current best friend, an ample forty-two year old East Indian woman looking for love, has paired you up with an engineering F.O.B. who may or may not be gay...well any monkey could tell that there is just a cluster-fuck waiting to happen.
"No," I declared loudly, twisting around in my chair. I gave Auntie Swaroopakuntala the firmest, no-nonsense look I could scrounge up. "We are not going double dating, no chance, not ever. Especially not with no damn friggin' engineer." I made a production of gagging and shuddering. The only thing as shitty as being in the Chemical Engineering program were the people in the Chemical Engineering program. A bigger bunch of nerdy, fobby science snobs who looked down at all Arts students I'd never had the misfortune to be a part of...and be part of it I had to. A Chemistry background was a necessity if I wanted to further my line of work.
Auntie Swaroopakuntala wrung the long end of her peacock blue and gold sari in protest. Her matching glass bangles jangled theatrically. "But why tell me? You are never wanting to have any fun, Spencer! You did make such the drama after I arranged you do dating with Ulsef, you refused even to have socializing with Ming Zuo outside of the shop and you are never wanting to do any friendship-romance thing with me. Are we friends or only just business cohorts I ask you!"
"Ulsef wanted to spank me while I called him Daddy and begged him for it! Ming Zuo wanted to suck the marrow out of my bones which isn't the kind of sucking I like!" I was indignant. I wasn't going to fall victim to her cheap attempts at making me feel guilty. Auntie Swaroopakuntala had this thing about setting me up with any supernatural schmuck who walked into her Apothecary, never mind such piddling little details like maybe they weren't interested or weren't gay or were friggin' psychotic. Of course her meddling wasn't always restricted to the supernatural sort, if this Gopal loser was any indication of matchmaking to come. "You don't even know if Dr. Ram's kid is gay. He sounds like a real dipshit if you ask me. He probably doesn't even know what gay is. I'll bet the only communication he has with anyone is through the text messages he receives on his graphing calculator."
"You are having stereotypes," Auntie Swaroopakuntala accused, waving a stubby, bejewelled finger in my face. "This is like saying all black mans have cobras in their trousers." She paused and stroked her sparse moustache thoughtfully. "Do you think this could be true?"
I rolled my eyes but continued lecturing so that she would know how serious I was. "There's always some truth to stereotypes you know. You should check out all the nerdy Indian and Chinese guys in my classes. And anyway, I seriously doubt that Dr. Ram is gonna wanna double date with his kid."
"He will because he cannot resist me," Auntie Swaroopakuntala bragged. She thrust her silk-covered, pendulous bosom my way. "These are like the ripest of coconuts. I should be in a Bollywood film you know – how womanly my form would appear in a wet sari dance. All the young boys would go deranged with desire."
Yeah they would, if they were into big boobs and big belly and big butt. Auntie Swaroopakuntala wasn't a lot more than boobs, belly, and butt. She also danced like a hippopotamus being sodomized by a two by four but I refrained from saying anything. You talk crap about Auntie Swaroopakuntala's weight or her dancing and that's the end right there. She'll take her slipper off and pelt you with an unending deluge of smacks and slaps and Hindi and Tamil mixed-cursing and let me tell you, your eardrums won't ever be the same.
"You wouldn't be able to man the Apothecary while being a jerk-off fantasy for every ruffian in Bombay," I told her in a flattering kind of voice. I figured I needed to butter her up so she'd piss off about bloody stupid double-dating with fobs. "We need you here too much to let you go, Auntie."
Auntie Swaroopakuntala swelled, until she resembled a bungalow, with pride. "It is true, it is true. See how I make the personal sacrifices for what my birthright is commanding? The karma I will receive for such a thing...it will be like a temple full with gold biscuits!"
Auntie Swaroopakuntala has a the tiniest traces of Healer blood in her. Healers usually only marry other Healers so that they can produce more strong little Healers. Auntie Swaroopakuntala's Dad ditched the norm and married a powerless fish monger so Auntie Swaroopakuntala can't brew potions and create spells like a proper Healer can. She can still run the Apothecary though, which is her birthright but relies on permanent help from a certified Spell Crafter – me.
She easily could have ditched the whole Apothecary deal and pursued her own dreams; low grade Healers aren't much of a use to anyone other then selling magical items and potions created by Spell Crafters. The Apothecary she used to run in Banglore was victim to a wyvern's wrath and since she was next on the list, Auntie Swaroopakuntala decided to hoof it out of India for a while. She came here to Canada to visit with a cousin of hers. The cousin, who'd been running an Apothecary of her own, had had enough of brewing and blending and upon Auntie Swaroopakuntala's arrival, handed over the shop rights and ran off with Lebanese Warlock. Apparently he's a right old animal in the sack and the cousin is happy and so is Auntie Swaroopakuntala, even if she complains that it's too cold and rainy and foggy and snowy all the time.
"Platinum would be worth more," I replied, shoving my Differential Equations assignment back into my schoolbag. Who was I kidding trying to work on it when I knew that I was going to copy off of Aziz Sharif like I did every assignment.
Auntie Swaroopakuntala snorted with all the pomp and vigour of a wild boar. She doesn't believe that any metal is more precious than gold. She ought to know since the amount of gold jewellery she owns is practically twice her weight...and that's a big-ass haul. "You Western people have not any appreciation for beautiful things. Nothing, I am telling you. All gray buildings and fogs everywhere. Chee, so much ugly!"
"I appreciate beautiful things just fine," I exclaimed dreamily, thinking of all the ripped studs I'd ogle as I passed the turf on the way to class. When the going got tough and the shirts got going, it was a ticket to hardon junction, local populous me.
"Boys only wearing their under-trousers do not count," Auntie Swaroopakuntala scoffed, right on the nose with my thought process...not that it was any profound mystery, my thoughts. "This is why we must do this double dating business – you have too much boys on the mind."
"I'm a twenty-two year old guy, cut me some slack."
"I am just not understanding why you will not give Gopal a chance."
"Because even his name sounds like a shitty engineer," I griped as I stood up and stretched. "You know how I feel about engineering. It's a waste of time and I'm crap at it and I'm definitely not going to date one."
"Any Hindu boy would be proud to have the name of Gopal," Auntie Swaroopakuntala retorted, narrowing her Bambi-like eyes to slits. "It is the another name of the Lord Krishna and it is filled with divine grace."
"Are you saying that it'd be like me dating a guy named Jesus?"
"You are a very ignorant kind of chap."
"And you're a pushy kinda lady."
"Behind of a water buffalo!"
"Behind of that fat guy who works at Petro Canada!"
Auntie Swaroopakuntala gasped. We'd born witness to fat guy's fat, furry behind whenever he changed anyone's oil on many, many occasions. "You are a travesty of humanity!"
She grabbed hold of her thick, black, jasmine-oiled, butt-length braid and whacked me in the face with it. I sputtered, my hand flailed about and I smacked her in her great, doughy gut.
Everything disintegrated into a brawl after that.
"What in the bleedin' fock is happening in here?" a cranky, gruff, thickly-accented voice demanded. "I've got a focking customer waiting to be cleared."
Auntie Swaroopakuntala, who me writhing in a killer headlock, my face mashed up into her meaty shoulder/boob area, took pity on my weinerness and shoved me away. I slammed into the dank stone wall, sucking in air as I went. I considered myself lucky; at least she hadn't tried to suffocate me in her ginormous bosom again.
"Some Apothecary this dump is," Ogilvy MacDougall complained in his cantankerous Scottish voice. "A fat Paki beating up on a poofter – aye I'd come round this place to have potions made. You're a shame to your craft, the pair of you. Why I've gotten stuck with two thick slags I'll never know."
Ogilvy MacDougall was our Keeper. All Apothecaries are required by law to be protected by a Keeper. Since Apothecaries are the only places in the world where supernatural ingredients can be bought and potions can be made legally, they're targeted for a lot of criminal activity. Let me tell you that there's nothing worse then a nutcase Witch attempting to rob you blind in the hopes of performing illegal Death Magic. Potential customers can only enter an Apothecary when granted entry by the Keeper. Keepers are strong, stronger then Sorcerers in some ways, and have their own protective brand of magic.
Ogilvy MacDougall was seventy-six years old and looked about ten hundred. He had been tall once but was now stooped, shuffling about like a skeletal hunchback. He walked with a wooden cane, not because he needed it but because he liked to whack people with it. He was mostly bald, his pink scalp covered with liver spots and the occasional bout of psoriasis. What little hair he did have left formed half a ring that stretched from ear to ear and was a grey, gristly mess that resembled steel wool. His eyes were a faded, watery blue colour but they were still sharp. He may have looked like a walking corpse straight out of Northwood Nursing Home but he was one of the strongest Keepers in Canada. He was also a crabby, crotchety, offensive pessimist who hated every single thing in the world and let you know about it.
Secretly though, I'm sure he likes us.
Auntie Swaroopakuntala and I did some hasty rearranging to make it look like we hadn't been doing what we'd been doing. Ogilvy watched us disgustedly, thumping his cane on the floor and tutting loudly.
"So what's the customer?" I asked, smoothing down my black hoodie. Okay so I wasn't the most fashionable Spell Crafter in the country – yeah I liked dick but that wasn't enough to make me start shopping at Le Chateau – but even a hoodie should be wrinkle-free in the eyes of a customer.
"I am hoping it is not any vampire," Auntie Swaroopakuntala muttered as she fiddled with the gold stud that adorned her three-leaf clover like snozz. "I am too sick of this fat-people-so-much-blood business. Who is there to say I am fat? I am no fat. This is how a woman should look. These Western womans with the body like a bamboo stick – their husbands must be feeling so much bamboozled. How will they give the birth? A baby cannot come out of the bamboo stick!"
"Who bloody gives a shite?" Ogilvy growled, looking as though he'd just eaten dung. Talks of womanly forms made him gassy. "There's too many little bastards running all over creation as it is. Focking kill them all I say. Miserable, screaming, spoiled little heathens, all of them."
In Ogilvy's world, a heathen is the worst thing anyone can be, even worse then being 'focking Irish'. Ogilvy's wife had been Irish and there wasn't much Ogilvy hated more than he hated his wife.
We all left the basement, trooped up the rickety wooden steps and entered the Apothecary, where we got the biggest shock of our lives.
The customer was already inside the Apothecary.
Which was utterly impossible, not to mention highly illegal since Ogilvy hadn't granted him permission to enter.
"Bleedin' Irish heathens!" Ogilvy was the first to react, since me and Auntie Swaroopakuntala were too busy catching flies with our gaping yaps.
Shock number two...Ogilvy's protective magic had no effect on the trespasser.
I'd seen Ogilvy in action a few times before and his magic was always enough to eject whatever supernatural asshat was intruding on us straight into the stratosphere. Keepers were extremely powerful when it came to defending their chosen turf so if they could do jack shit...
"I don't like to wait so I let myself in," the trespasser drawled out in a deep, smooth voice.
...that meant trouble. Of the big-ass oh-shitsticks variety.
Ogilvy decided to join me and Auntie Swaroopakuntala in our gaping. He may have been a Keeper for fifty-four years but he had never before had to face a creature upon who his magic didn't work.
"I'm not planning on stealing anything from your precious little store. " Trespasser looked straight at me and smirked. "What I need are the services of a Spell Crafter."
I told myself that now would be a really, really stupid time to get a hardon.
Because hell yeah I'd service him any day.