An Elf With No Name (The Spires Saga Book 1) - Mortimer Langford

An Elf With No Name (The Spires Saga Book 1) by Mortimer Langford

Book excerpt

Damian groaned weakly as he dragged himself off the couch, frustrated with the current state of his hangover. Head pounding, he stumbled into the kitchen, making his way to the refrigerator. Gripping the handle of the door, Damian slowly pulled the door open and immediately wrenched his free arm up to shield himself from the intense, bright light flooding out from within.

"Gah! Fuck!"

Scrunching his eyes as tight as possible, Damian carefully reached in, and felt for his desired treasure. His fingers flexed and wrapped around the precious bottle of Superade. Damian pulled back, retrieving the beverage before closing the door. Slumping against the fridge, he unscrewed the top and knocked his head back, taking in the liquid, as well as a few capsules of aspirin. He sat there, eyes closed, willing the throbbing to leave him in peace once more. After all, it was 1 p.m., and he had a lot to do today.

With the pills and drink starting to settle in, Damian forced himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom to judge the damage. He brushed his dirty blond hair out of his bloodshot eyes and scowled at the bags that had formed under said eyes. He stuck his tongue out and immediately winced; despite the Superade, his throat was dry and desperate for lubrication. He gave a hard swallow and addressed himself directly, pointing at the mirror.

“Alright, Damian Spires, now you listen to me,” he commanded. “Last night was fun. I’m not about to deny that. But between you and me? You fucked up. Get your shit together.” He played with his hair, then splashed water in his face, before leaning in and taking a long, desperate, thirsty gulp of sink water, straight from the source. He then stood back and turned, so that he could observe the side view. He was only of average build, but Damian was more than happy with that. For someone who was fifty-nine, he didn’t appear a day over twenty-six.

Such was the blessing and the curse of being a War Mage. He only ceased to be asked for his ID upon entering bars when he reached his early forties.

Still got it, he thought to himself, before grabbing his toothbrush. Damian did not want to be arrested for attempted assault on behalf of his breath. When he was done, he made sure to change out of his dirty black shirt, replacing it with a clean black shirt. He took off his jeans and tossed them into the hamper, put on clean underwear, and searched his closet for a clean pair of jeans. He then pulled his dirty jeans back out of his hamper and put them on, remembering that he had yet again failed to do laundry.

Damian pulled out his phone to add “laundry” to his to-do list. It was already there. “Cool,” he said. “Real cool, Damian. Just… batting a thousand today, aren’t you, bud?” He slipped his phone into his pocket, pulled his black leather trench coat on, and grabbed his messenger bag.

He scanned inside to make sure he had everything he needed: Money. A knife (sometimes poker night with demons could get rowdy). A first-aid kit (real rowdy). He closed the bag and grabbed his hat, which appeared to be some kind of halfway point between a fedora and a cowboy hat, only covered in dirt and scratches. He bought it because he thought it would make him look cool. He had been dismayed when he got home and found that it, in fact, did not.

Damian opened the door, but stood there, running through his mental checklist. Was there anything that he was possibly missing? If so, what? He was dressed, functional (mostly), and had everything he needed for poker night. What else was there?

Oh. Duh. Of course.

“Artemis!” Damian called out, reopening his messenger bag. “Let’s go! We’re leaving!”

There was a rustle and a flutter as a pile of pillows in the corner of the living room shifted and fell aside, revealing Damian’s spellbook, flapping its pages as it soared through the air towards its master, before tumbling into his bag. Damian pulled it out and looked it over briefly. It was blue, and quite old; the covers and spine were cracked in places, with upturned, scrunched corners. But it was the most important thing that Damian owned. He could forget everything else. In fact, he had forgotten everything else at one point. But he could not forget this.

Despite the fact that he had just very nearly done so.

Damian carefully peered out of his apartment. If he timed it right, he could get out of the building without running into his neighbors. He quickly stepped out of the door, closed it, locked it, and gave the handle a quick tug. It was pointless, seeing as the door in the thirty-four years that he had lived here had yet to budge, but it was habit at this point. And habits are hard to break. Damian let out a breath, quickly walking away.

“Are you heading out, Damian?” a voice asked in a sultry tone that never ceased to make his skin crawl.

Damian scowled, inwardly cursing, and slowly turned around.

Standing outside the door of the next apartment over was a devilish monster of a woman, standing only 5’6”. She had short, thick, black hair that nearly concealed brilliant blue eyes. Her face was oddly symmetrical and perfect, which Damian found the most unsettling about her. Her body was slender, but not frail; while her waist was slim, her breasts and rear were anything but, threatening to burst out of the black, lacy undergarments that she was currently wearing. They were the only articles of clothing that adorned her currently, revealing to the rest of the world her enticing red skin. This fashion choice also ensured that Damian could easily spy her black, forked tail, which whipped slowly and lazily from side to side, like a cat, enjoying a moment of playing with its prey. It was almost as unsettling a sight for Damian to behold as her horns. He never understood why, but the horns were the part of demons that troubled him most, even if they were short and smooth, like hers.

“Yeah, uh…” Damian trailed off, slightly nervous, before catching himself and strengthening his resolve. “I was… was going to visit Pop Pop, before heading to poker night.”

“After the performance you put on last night,” she purred, “I would think you’d be eager to avoid such frivolous activities. But then again, you’ve always been known for your… stamina.”

Damian tried to look away from the succubus.

“Come on, Lilith,” Damian warned. “You’re going to get a ticket for public indecency if you keep walking around like that.”

“What?” Lilith gasped in mock shock. “Are you trying to slut shame me, Damian Spires? I would’ve thought better of you!”

“Not slut shaming,” Damian replied meekly. “I’m just saying. It’s happened before.”

“I will not be ashamed of my body,” Lilith explained smoothly. “I am perfectly covered.”

Damian swallowed. Hard.

“You know,” she added, slyly slipping a hand behind her back. “If this was Germany, I wouldn’t even need this bra. America is such a prudish, restrained country.”

As she started fussing with her bra, undoing the backing, Damian blushed and looked down, refusing to watch. He ran several possible scenarios through his head, trying to figure out which would be the least painful. A voice shot out from inside Lilith’s apartment.

“Lilith!” his ex’s voice shouted. “Leave him alone! I’m sick and tired of the neighbors complaining about seeing your tits!”

Lilith froze, cloth barely clinging to her chest, a look of absolute terror frozen on her face. She quickly fastened the bra once more. “Just having some fun,” she offered with a wink to Damian. “I can’t help it that he’s so easy to tease.”

A woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a brown pantsuit with a similarly brown tie. Her lengthy hair was done up in a bun to keep it out of her brown eyes, which peered out from a pair of simple, round black glasses. She glanced at Damian momentarily, before turning her indignation towards Lilith, glaring at her with the full extent of her scorn.

“Hey, Marcie…” Damian croaked.

“How are you, Damian?” his ex asked, with a tone suggesting that politeness was the only factor in asking this question.

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, if you’re not going to be cordial with your ex-boyfriend,” Lilith offered, “I can be cordial enough for both of us.”

“Alright, back inside. Now,” Marcie demanded, gripping Lilith’s ear by the pointed end. She gave a firm tug, forcing the demoness to follow. “Have a good day, Damian.”

“Bye, Marcie,” Damian started to respond, but was cut off by the door slamming shut.

He turned and used the reprieve as a chance to escape. Damian’s complaint with his neighbors wasn’t due to his relationship with Marcie. He had moved on months ago. It would have been amicable, even, if only Marcie understood the meaning of the word. No, Damian’s issue with the pair was twofold: First, that the walls of the apartment were almost paper thin, which meant that, save for nights like the previous in which he blacked out halfway through the journey to his bed, he would have to listen to their… nocturnal interactions. Second, that he would have the experience freshly engraved in his mind the next morning, when the more vocal, open, and flirtatious of the two heavily tried to seduce him and, failing that, desired to go over the juicy details in full because “we’ve both been there, right?”

No, Damian would mentally reply. No, we have not. I would remember anything causing those types of noises. They would be neatly written down in my medical records as the cause of my night terrors that I would be heavily medicated for thereafter.

As Damian hopped onto the elevator, he fished out his phone and checked the time. It was 1:56 p.m. He was doing surprisingly well. Damian was severely lacking in the time management department, so he was pleased to see that his conversation with Lilith was shorter than usual. It was certainly not the best interaction he had ever had with her, but it was also far from the worst. If he kept this up, he would perhaps even have time to grab a coffee before hitting up Saul's.

Stepping out into the sunlight, it was soon apparent to Damian that he had forgotten his sunglasses. The throbbing in his head threatened to return as he raised his arm to shield his eyes, immediately walking into a light post. He staggered back, murmuring angrily at the accursed sun.

"Rough night, Damy?" a voice called out.

Damian turned to see Rosie, the demon who lived a floor below him. Her skin was the color of old, worn leather, with cracks here and there, scars acquired from the days when she was feral. Currently, she wore a black tank top and gray sweatpants, her standard attire. Also standard attire were her bare feet. Damian's continual warnings as to the various dangers that awaited her on the sidewalk, from broken glass to thorny plants to even wild imps, did little to sway the demoness into wearing something practical.

Such was the way of Rosie.

Damian glanced down and saw that she was cradling a small imp, which was cooing harmlessly in her arms. Damian gingerly reached out to touch the imp with his finger. The imp snarled and snapped at him. Damian pulled back.

"How's fostering, Rosie?" he asked. Rosie swept her long black hair out of her face before answering.

"Goin' pretty good, Damy," she replied. "Got a few more rehabilitated and let loose in the woods, so if you get more imps, you send them my way, you hear? I don't want to hear about Grognar eatin' any imps 'cuz you couldn't be bothered to find me."

"No problem, Rosie," Damian said with a smile. "Anything that annoys Grognar is good in my book."

"Oh, and one other thing," Rosie added, shifting the imp to her shoulder. The imp babbled and reared back, before sinking its teeth into her shoulder. Rosie didn't react. "I wanted to ask you about my eye. It's been actin' up real bad." Rosie leaned in so Damian could get a better look at her eye. It was twitching slightly, her pupil darting to the right. Damian frowned and stepped back.

"You're right," he concluded, "You should probably see a doctor about it." Damian considered his audience. "Or a vet," he added.

"Actually, I was hoping you could do somethin' about it." Rosie pouted. "What with you and all the magic and stuff."

"Rosie, I've told you before," Damian argued, "I can't use those kinds of spells. It goes against the order of the council." Damian heard a rumble as the bus pulled up, slowing to a stop behind him, waiting.

"Well, it was worth a shot," Rosie said. "Say, I'm surprised you take the bus everywhere. Would be more convenient to use a car."

"I like the bus," Damian explained, stepping back towards the vehicle. "Any chance at interacting with other people should be welcomed."

"Hey Mac, you getting on the bus or what?" the driver of the bus barked. "Ain't got all day, you know."

"I'll get on when I'm fucking ready!" Damian shouted back. "Prick."

"Bye, Damy," Rosie waved.

"Always fun to ride," Damian concluded, walking up the steps of the bus backwards, waving to Rosie.