The Dark Side of Eleanor Warwick

Eleanor steps out of Kim’s apartment. She turns back as Kim leans on the door frame.

“I don’t know what to say, Eleanor. Thank you for helping my mother.”

Eleanor smiles. “It was no trouble.”

Kim stares at her.

“It was some trouble, but I’m glad I could help. it’s kind of what I do.”

“Yeah. Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?”

With a laugh, Eleanor nods. “All the time. Gargoyles try to eat me. People try to erase me from existence. I’ve been beaten, shot, arrested, buried, and betrayed. I was chased by a giant snake once.”

Kim shifts. “That sounds…difficult.”

“It can be, but that’s life on the Shadow Side, I guess.”

Kim only nods.

Sensing she was overstaying her welcome, Eleanor prepares her exit. “Anyway, I should get going. I enjoyed myself. You know, before the unpleasantness. See you next time.”

As Eleanor starts to walk away, Kim speaks up. “Um, Eleanor. About that.”

“Yes?”

“I…uh…” Kim swallows uncomfortably, “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Eleanor’s brows peak in surprise. “What? Why?”

“Why? Because of everything you just said. You know my name but won’t tell me why. Then you tell me you’re a wizard. I…I don’t understand who you are. What you are.”

“I’m the same person I was the first day I walked in here.”

“Yeah. Maybe so. But all that proves is I’ve never known you. This is all about trust. I can’t trust you. You’re dangerous. Your world is dangerous. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

Every attempt at rebuttal dies in Eleanor’s mouth. She hangs her head, trying to ignore the heaviness in her chest. “I…understand.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry. You need to go now.”

With a wounded nod, Eleanor walks toward the elevator. Kim does not watch her go. She stares at the floor. She’s doing the smart thing. She knows. Still, she can’t shake a feeling of guilt.

Glancing down the hall to find no sign of her former client, she steps back into her apartment and closes the door.

“You okay?” Rita asks.

“Fine, Mother.”

“Come. Show me where you work.”

“You don’t want to see that.”

“Yes, I do. Show.”

Sighing, Kim takes her mother into her bedroom.

Alone in the room, underneath Kim’s couch, Eleanor’s phone furiously vibrates. It continues to go unheeded.

Eleanor slides into the driver’s seat of the Hornet. She starts the engine and grips the steering wheel, but does not go anywhere. She closes her eyes and takes a deep steadying breath.

She’s never considered herself dangerous. Magic was commonplace to her, though. To someone witnessing it for the first time, the power she wields must be terrifying. She must seem like something more than human.

As much as she tries to understand, Eleanor can’t shake a slight feeling of indignation. Once again, she helps people, she saves the day, and all she gets is a kick in the ribs.

She takes the long way home. Listening to some music and taking in the city helps ease her mind somewhat. By the time she pulls up to House Warwick, she’s managed to at least push her feelings aside and get on with her night.

As she passes between the trees leading up to her door, she slows. Eleanor looks around. Something feels off. She scans the walkway. There are some scuffs and light tracking. Was that there when she left? Would she have even noticed if it was?

Glancing across the street she sees Henry’s Mercedes. Further down is Marvin’s beat-up Honda. Chalking her concerns up to a desire to distract herself from the evening’s events, she turns and walks into the House.

Her red door opens to reveal a body and a pool of blood.

“Marvin!” she shouts. She hurries over to his side and struggles to roll him over. She gasps at the deep wound in his chest. A quick spell mends it, but blood is everywhere. It’s too late and she knows it.

“Marvin?” Tucking her hand up under his chin, she feels nothing. Her eyes water. “Oh, Marvin.”

Standing, she takes a long coat off her coat rack and carefully drapes it over him.

Looking around the room, she tightens her fists. “Jessie? Henry?”

She begins to head for the stairs, but the soft sound of turning pages catches her ear. It would have been imperceptible anywhere else, but in her House, it’s clear as a bell.

Slowly she approaches the study. Turning the corner, she freezes. A cold chill runs up her spine. She wants to gasp but doesn’t dare even breathe. It was as though she’d walked into the lion enclosure at the zoo.

Alexander Blackwell sits and casually flips through one of Eleanor’s many books. “I hope you don’t mind. You were taking longer to return than I expected”

Eleanor can’t speak. Her lip trembles as her hands fall slack.

“You know what I’ve always found to be an overstated piece of literary analysis? The concept that villains in stories never see themselves as villains. It’s something people say and it’s just accepted as gospel. Villains always see themselves as the heroes of the story. Not really true though, is it?”

He holds up the book he was reading. “Take Moriarty for example. One of literature’s best-known villains. He didn’t see himself as a hero. He reveled in being a villain. The world’s greatest criminal mastermind. He enjoyed being sinister and getting the better of the law and Holmes.”

Eleanor struggles to do something, anything, but her body is gripped in a terrified rigor mortis.

“Come now, Ms. Warwick.” He gestures around the room. “You are obviously well-read. You must have an opinion.”

“I…” is all she is able to rasp out. She swallows with difficulty, her throat as dry as the Sahara. “I- I think you’re being too literal.”

“Yes?”

She nods, gathering herself. “When…uh…when people say they see themselves as heroes, they don’t mean a hero like Spider-Man or something. They mean they see themselves as the protagonist. The main character. It’s their story.”

Blackwell nods. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll certainly consider that.” He sets the books aside and stands. When he does, Eleanor instinctively takes a few steps back. “Well, I suppose we should get to business.”

“Where’s Jessie?”

“Jessica is just fine. She’s with her family, where she belongs.”

“What are you doing with her?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why do I care? She’s my friend.”

“Friend? You bind your friends?”

Eleanor bristles. “I was trying to protect her.”

“I’m sure.”

“I know what you did to her.” Anger begins to push fear away. “You kept her in an attic. Experimented on her. You treated her like an object.”

Blackwell taps his finger on the top of his cane. “Funny thing about memory; it’s unreliable at the best of times.”

“What do you mean?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not concerned about the past. The future is far more important. Jessica has a role to play. Which brings me to you.”

“The bond.”

“The bond. I don’t know if it will complicate my interests, but I’m not willing to take that chance. I’m afraid you have to die.”

Eleanor shivers at the completely casual tone he used to announce his intention to end her life. She begins to flex her fingers, but to what end? This is Alexander Blackwell. She can’t beat him head-on.

“I must confess I had a look around while you were gone. Are those foils upstairs for decoration or do you fence?”

“Sometimes.”

He nods, a slight smirk on his face. “It’s been a while for me. So far my trip to your city has been painfully dull. You wouldn’t believe the banality I’ve had to endure. I expected more of a fight. It’s left me in the mood to be a little sporting.”

Eleanor tilts her head slightly, confused. “You…you want to fence?”

“Yes. If you would be willing to indulge me. Otherwise, say the word and I’ll end this quickly and painlessly.”

She knows what this is. Her life.

She’s never been a competitive fencer. It’s just something she and Henry would do to work on her focus and poise. Was he a good fencer? He’s older than her, but so is Henry, and he beats her pretty much every time.

Yet, if it came to spell versus spell, she would surely lose. Surely die. At least some fencing could give her time to formulate a plan.

“Okay. I accept.”

“Excellent.” He twists his cane and slides the Black Blade from its resting place.

“Oh. You have a sword already.”

“Surely you know a conjuration or two.”

Gesturing her hands, Eleanor moves them apart. A silver sword slowly materializes between them. She closes her fingers around the hilt. Taking a deep breath, she tests the balance.

Slipping off her jacket, she stretches. She notes her foe just standing there. “Don’t you want to get ready?”

Blackwell runs his finger along his blade. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Don’t even want to take off your blazer?”

He glances at her. “Stalling, Ms. Warwick?”

She shifts awkwardly. “No.”

“Excellent.”

He stalks toward her. Eleanor readjusts the sword in her hands. Suddenly this feels like a terrible idea. She notices the blade shaking in her hand and hopes she’s the only one. As Blackwell gets closer, she gives in to panic and swipes wildly at him.

Blackwell sidesteps the attack with ease. Eleanor follows up with thrusts and slashes. Her strikes catch nothing but air. Blackwell slides out of the way at the last second time and time again.

She swings her sword in a downward arc. Steel meets steel with a metallic clang. Blackwell stares at her underneath the Black Blade, held horizontally just above his head. Grip the hilt with both hands, Eleanor presses down. The swords don’t budge.

After holding a moment, Blackwell casually flicks his wrist and pushes her blade away. Eleanor stumbles, frantically parrying a follow-up slash. Falling into retreat, she backpedals. Her heels strike the bottom of her staircase and she falls onto the steps with a grunt.

Twisting to the side, she narrowly avoids a thrust. The Black Blade cuts into carpet and wood with ease. Casting a quick spell, Eleanor passes intangibly through the banister and drops to the floor alongside the staircase. She hurries through the swinging door to her laboratory.

Blackwell calmly circles around the staircase in reserved pursuit. He pushes through the door but does not find a lab within. He stands in a clean, modern kitchen. His foe is nowhere to be found.

Snorting in annoyance, he passes back through the door and returns to the study. Eleanor’s ability to manipulate her House is something be didn’t consider. It won’t save her, but it will prolong things. As he checks his watch, the door bursts open.

The kitchen beyond the door is gone. Eleanor rushes out of the lab and thrusts with everything she has. Blackwell pivots and swats the attack away. He parries another swing before launching a counterattack. Eleanor ducks the slash and runs back through the door.

Acting quickly, Blackwell slips the Black Blade into the passage before the door can close. Her attempted escape failing, Eleanor changes her approach. She shoulders the door. The passage jerks open, slamming into Blackwell’s face.

With a curse, he staggers backward. Eleanor sees an opportunity. She launches a series of slashes and thrusts, but they’re wild and frantic. Blackwell is able to defend until one catches him on the arm.

Rather than celebrate the successful strike, Eleanor recoils. She readjusts the sword in her hands. Blackwell looks at the cut in his jacket. The blow was so glancing, it didn’t even draw blood. Sighing, he looks at Eleanor.

“Well, you’ve managed to hit me with a door and ruin a $1300 blazer. Credit where it’s due; that’s more than a room full of people managed earlier tonight. Alas, my need for excitement is sated. I’m afraid it’s time, Ms. Warwick.”

“So that’s it? You think I’m just going to lay down and die?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Eleanor scowls. The gall to continually speak so casually of her death. The arrogance. He acts like someone who believes he owns the world. He is exactly the kind of wizard Eleanor despises.

“You want my life,” Eleanor mutters a few words. Flames run along the length of her blade. She holds it close to her face, casting a glint off her glasses. “Come and get it.”

Blackwell is unimpressed by her theatrics. He casually waves his hand. The flames dash as if blown out by a strong wind. Eleanor looks at her sword in surprise. “Huh?”

When she looks back, he’s on her.

Blackwell launches precise strikes, forcing Eleanor to scramble. After several clumsy parries, the Black Blade breaks her sword in two. Eleanor desperately backpedals. She conjures another sword just in time to block a death blow.

She’s able to push him away and create a bit of separation. Casting a spell, she summons slithering tendrils from a gold ring that appears at his feet. Before the tendrils can restrain their target, Blackwell spins the Black Blade horizontally. The sword leaves his hand and circles around him. It slashes through the tendrils like a buzzsaw before returning to his hand.

In near panic, Eleanor conjures more swords. They hover around her, pointing in Blackwell’s direction. With a word, the blades fly toward him.

With no word at all, he stops them in their tracks.

Eleanor stares wide-eyed as the blades fly back toward her, spinning end over end. She cries out as sharp steel cuts her arm, shoulder, and thigh, and slices off a bit of her hair. She drops to the floor, clutching her wounds.

Blackwell casually stalks toward her. “You’re only making this more difficult and painful for yourself.”

He grips his sword and prepares to strike, but movement catches his eye. He looks just in time to jump back and avoid the falling monster.

The fade drops before him. It menaces Blackwell with its insect pincers. It raises its tail, poised to strike.

Eleanor knows the fade can’t do anything more than provide a distraction. As a being that exists in another plane, it can only be perceived in hers. It cannot touch or be touched. She takes the opportunity to heal her injuries and stagger back to her feet.

The creature pops and clicks in an intimidating fashion, but Blackwell only stares. He touches two fingers to the Black Blade and runs them along the dark steel. A purple sheen appears along the sword.

Blackwell suddenly thrusts the Black Blade up. Eleanor’s mouth falls open in horror as the sword cuts between planes and into the fade’s throat. Impossible. Or so she has always thought.

The creature shrieks in agony. It twists and writhes, shocked by the attack. It flails its tail in an attempt to lash out, but strength quickly fails it. One leg after another buckles and its body drops to the floor. Finally, after a few more pained noises, Blackwell is all that holds up its head. The creature’s body slowly loses its color and vanishes.

“You did your best, Ms. Warwick. Believe me, better people than you have met this fate.”

Eleanor attempts to cast a spell, but she can’t think of one. Her mind refuses to move away from one thought: she is about to die. A tear runs along her round cheek.

Blackwell looks around as he slowly closes on her. “It’s a shame. House Warwick was remarkable once. This is exactly what I will stop from ever happening to my House.”

Eleanor manages to conjure another sword, but her hands are shaking. She fumbles with the blade, nearly dropping it. Gripping the hilt, she swipes at him. Blackwell leans back, avoiding the desperate slash.

He sets his feet and thrusts the Black Blade forward, burying it deep into her soft midsection.

Eleanor gasps. She slumps forward. Wide-eyed and trembling, she looks down at the sword in her gut. Blood colors her shirt and down onto her pants. She looks up at Blackwell. He stares back with no malice, but no pity either.

Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, Blackwell pushes her back against the wall and slides his sword out. Moaning in pain, Eleanor slides down the wall and falls onto the floor. She clutches her wound. She casts a healing spell, but nothing happens.

Blackwell casually returns the blade to its sheath. Eleanor looks up helplessly at him, her eyes welling with tears. He buttons his blazer and nods. “Goodbye, Ms. Warwick.” He turns to leave.

“You missed out,” she says weakly.

He stops and glances back. “I’m sorry?”

“Jessie. You missed out. She’s amazing. She may not be a wizard, but she would have been an asset. Your House would have still been strong and you would have had your youngest child and your wife by your side.”

She’s surprised to see his expression fall slightly.

“I…have considered that. Many, many times.” With a deep breath, his cold expression returns. “But we’ve all missed out, haven’t we? Me, a daughter. You, a father.”

Eleanor’s eyes flare.

He turns to her. “Did you know it was me?”

A trembling lip and a look of fury are the only answers he receives.

“Oh, yes. It was just as easy as killing you was. But at least I intended to kill you. You acted out of necessity and so, weak as you are, I have a certain respect for you. Your father was a fool who came to me looking for a fight. The truly unfortunate thing is I was not here for him, or you, or your House, or your backwater city. But he had to be the hero.”

He chuckles softly, gesturing his cane toward the study. “He had to see himself as the protagonist. I suppose he didn’t consider that such stupidity would ultimately lead to the fall of his House.”

Outraged, Eleanor tries to lift herself off the floor, but pain rips at her when she moves. With a shout, she flops back down.

He shakes his head. “I can’t watch anymore of this. It saddens me. Enjoy the final few moments of House Warwick.”

Eleanor hears the door open and close, but her vision blurs. She lolls her head about looking over her House. She struggles to keep her eyes open, but she slowly loses the battle. Her head drops and her body leans limply against the wall.