Witch Clan: Warriors!, John Stormm [books to read in your 20s female TXT] 📗

century long silence of the room.

"Everything is exactly as I left it," the Elder said. "This place was built to my own specifications, you know."

"I take nothing for granted in this plane," Shabriri replied. "These men are creatures of convenience. They honor their fallen and then rob them, make pacts and then break them according to whatever philosophy presents them convenient justification."

"And if this mission succeeds, brother mine," Shan said. "We will have a great deal more interaction between us and these men you seem to loathe. Are you certain you can cope with this?"

"Of course, I can." Shabriri said, running his fingers along a wall plate. "I don't hate men. I am merely a realist when it comes to dealing with them. If I am prepared to deal with humans at their worst, they can hardly burden me with unpleasant surprises. If in the course of the next twenty or thirty years, our little wizard inspires the race to a higher level of honor, then it is I who will be pleasantly surprised. Either way, I'm not likely to fail."

"It pleases me to hear that," Shan replied. "Your self torture devices are stored in the far crypt. Push up on the name plate and they open."

"Excellent, I am eager to get out-of-body," Shabriri said, opening his storage area. "I can spend a few days assessing the mission without having to cross planes so often or suffer the disorientation each time."

"I just hate hooking those evil looking things up to you, my brother," Shan said in disgust. "The wounds they cause heal quickly and easily enough, but it is such a grisly task forcing your spirit out of your body. It's too bad you weren't born a catalept as well."

"That would be nice," Shabriri said, smiling. "But as convenient as catalepsy may be for sleeping away the years, it loses much in conscious focus. I don't feel a thing when I get free of my body, and I'm wide awake and capable of interacting on the waking planes. Most humans don't perceive ghosts. Those that do, only barely. This is the perfect way to tutor our Sidhe princeling."

"I, for one, don't want to end up as the boy's father did," Shan said, distastefully, moving to his own storage niche. "He came into this plane an Emerald, and got blasted out of it like a Formorian madman. How one falls so far is beyond my imagining."

"I think he was drunk with power," Shabriri said as he prepared his pallet. "After so many centuries away from the race of men, and then immersed in their culture with all its inherent pleasures and distractions. For all of their accomplishments as a civilization, they still live less than a single century. One so ancient as Shamblynn among so many mere children, gave him a heady taste of power. Being an Emerald of the Danaans might have even heightened his disdain for such a heavily industrialized society as this. They have little care or concern for Mother Danu, which is especially manifest in the ways they poison Her water and air, therefore; he had little concern over their lives. But that is just my own speculation. We can only guess at what goes through the minds of the mad."

"True," said the Elder. "I have no desire to number myself among them. A century or so ago, when I first came among these people and set up this place, it was trying enough. I think it was my focus on all the prophecies that kept my mind on the proper track. The Sheehan family practically worship us as gods. I had to insist that they impose no more than an angelic sculpture or two and a Celtic cross upon the features of this shrine and that they allow no human remains to be interred here, but rather fabricate that there were. They would have done anything for us."

"They wanted to do more than this?" Shabriri said, indicating the mausoleum.

"Terrence Sheehan would have built a monument that would have scandalized their church and their family," Shan explained, "had I let him have his reins. They value their ancestry and are proud. But all the wealth they possessed wouldn't have bought them much leeway with the ruling church. Not for very long anyway. I couldn't be certain when the events would unfold to bring us back into prominence among the world of men, so I needed a structure that would weather the times in anonymity until we could arrive and take a hand. This is what we settled upon."

"Good thinking." Shabriri nodded appreciatively as he set up his apparatus. "This is quiet and allows us the privacy we'll need and the ability to have our base in this plane to conduct our work. The dead are not likely to complain or take notice of couple more disembodied spirits roaming about. I think I'm about ready to take my place now. Will you assist me, please?"

Master Shabriri took his place on his stone pallet, and began centering himself for the pain that was to follow. Elder Shan made numerous incisions near strategic nerve endings in the Master's flesh and inserted clamps to hold the flaps of skin open to the air. Great care was made to sever no major blood vessels. As the Sidhe are nearly immortal, the wounds are made only to facilitate the Master's consciousness residing outside of his body, as it remained in a comatose state, unable to fully heal, and unable to die. Elder Shan, being a natural cataleptic, was able to self induce a state resembling death and disembody himself. However, most of his will was tied to his body so he would best serve at the beck and call of the Master as needed. His duties would require him to revive periodically to administer fluids and nutrients to them both, and do remote searches for information or join wills with the Master for the purpose of amplifying Shabriri's power.

The procedure was complete and the Master's breathing and nervous system shunted itself to the bare minimum needed to sustain his corporeal life. His ethereal form manifested next to the pallet.

"It's time for you to join me, brother," Shabriri's shade spoke to him. "We will take in the sights and circumstances of the city to get a better idea of how to proceed."

Shan took his place on his own pallet and seemed to sink in on himself as he vacated his body in a deep dreamlike state. Unseen by human eyes, the pair of specters left the cemetery to roam the streets of Rochester.



Teachers! Teachers! Teachers!

It was a long day for Johnny. He lay in bed, meditating on the day's events. Little Fox had trained him relentlessly after school and in order to spend more time on lessons, the Mohawk war hero had insisted that he bring his book work with him. Between chapters of Math and Social Studies, Little John had insisted that he stand and work on his breathing and blocking. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Upward block, downward, inward, outward, right hand, left hand. Exhale sharply on the strike. Push from the diaphragm. Even going over the school work, there were ways to breathe to help unclutter the mind and promote clearer thinking and sharper memory.

He was learning that John's karate wasn't just punching, chopping and kicking. It was a whole way of living, breathing and thinking. Sometimes it was almost too much, and then the little warrior would show him results and progress he would never have previously guessed at. Johnny wanted to be better. Not better than anybody else, he wanted to always be a better Johnny. Little John showed him how. It was, and it wasn't in the fighting. It was a struggle with one's own ignorance about themselves and others. It wasn't in striving against the world but honing one's own members and faculties to a fine degree, allowing them a greater freedom of endeavor.

John had forbade him to engage in any form of fighting at school or afterwards. If trouble came, he was simply to run like hell. The man had told him that until John's karate became his karate, it would be too much to expect him to be able to deal with a conflict with any measure of competency. Endless repetition of movements and techniques would engrain these into his own body's memory until the execution of technique would not require thought, only circumstance. His opponent's initiation of violent force would be their own undoing.

Johnny was also learning something else. Something that scared him. John was the mightiest warrior, bar none, that he had ever heard or read of in any tale. He was present when the little titan had taken out four much larger men in a matter of mere seconds. If Mr. Schneider was to be believed, John had killed over three hundred enemy soldiers in a single day's fighting. The thing that scared Johnny the most, was that he was taller, faster and stronger than his master. All that killing made John a man to be feared. A gentle man, true. But deadly as a loaded gun. Would that make him an even greater killer? A monster? He knew he was somehow different. Everybody had said as much in so many ways. But this?

Grandma had an answer. It came in the form of a Celtic cross pendant on a thick silver chain. Originally, it had been made for his father, to welcome him into the clannadh. Grandma wore one just like it, only smaller. It was said that