COF 2: The Soul Spells

Foreword

For the millionth time, I wished I hadn't taken this job.

Oh, it's glorious the first few days—running around and going places—but let me tell you: most days sucked.

This was the tale of how I destroyed New York City.

Or at least, a small part of it.

It was sunny—a little too much for my taste. Pulling on my headscarf lower to hide my face, I navigated through strings of daily commuters. Blend in, I say to myself as much as I wished I hadn't taken this job. My eyes flitted everywhere, drinking in even the minuscule details. After everything I've sacrificed to get here, I can't afford to get sniffed out again.

The past few days have been hectic. I can't even remember what it's like to sleep for eight hours. My eyes were heavy and I lived off of my savings, buying donuts and instant coffee. As I walked through the city's winding streets, I noticed a man in shades reading a newspaper in the nearby cafe. Looks suspicious, if you ask me, or maybe I was just getting paranoid. Most people in New York have shades and read newspapers.

I lengthened my steps, eyeing the subway entrance. At least, if those creatures attack me, there would be less witnesses. Or more, depending on the rush hour. I checked the cracked watch on my wrist. Huh. 11:30 AM. Good.

People streamed past me, brushing me in the shoulders and tripping over my orange suitcase where I stashed the journals, my laptop, and a few sets of clothes. Most of the people didn't give me even a sideways glance, used to tourists looking lost in the streets of this vast city. No one bothered me, of course, until the moment I reached the first step of the stairs.

I was yanked backwards. My suitcase and my scarf flew back; the orange case skittered across the pavement. Every head present in the street turned to look at me. To them I must have been a poor, confused girl sprawled on the ground, looking like someone pooped on her.

They weren't seeing what I was seeing.

The newspaper man in shades morphed into a tall humanoid with fire for hair, burning with orange flames sticking up to the sky. Pointy ears stuck at both sides of the humanoid's head; his eyes flashed with magma-like intensity as he swept his head around the vicinity.

Panic gripped my throat as I scrambled back with my hands towards my fallen suitcase. The humanoid stepped forward, his clothes alone were enough to power a Girl Scouts' campfire. He took his time, one step at a time, as he swept his hand past a sheaf of napkins by the white table by his right, it promptly burst into flames.

People started screaming. I yanked my suitcase up. What were they seeing, even?

No time to wonder about that. I dragged my suitcase into the nearest curb, crouched down, and wrenched it open. The journals greeted me in the most insulting manner as I snatched them out of their cage. I looked behind me where the screams had faded into a couple of hushed whimpers. Flames feasted on a nearby table umbrella. Just great.

I hugged the journals close to my chest, stood up, and ran for the life of me. Praise heavens for cloud storage that let me leave my laptop without a thought.

I rushed past the hordes, slamming shoulders and tripping commuters. Some cursed at me, muttering gibberish swear words in their accented English that I only hear in movies. I ignored them. They weren't going to be fried to a crisp the next minute if a flaming man caught up to them.

The journals dug to my chest as I tore through New York's lengthy manicured pavements. Screams and cars screeching harassed my ears as my footsteps deepened. My breaths came in short, quick gasps as my eyes searched for a building where my best friend said he currently stays at. I needed to get to him before the campfire fairy got me.