Before the Clock Strikes Twelve [Book I of the Anti-Tales]

Chapter 1: You Have Been Cursed

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WHEN the severed head of a ram was found set upon the Coronation Stone in Kingston, Lynx knew her lazy Sunday was at risk, because another person had just been cursed.

Symbols written in blood stained the podium around it. Finger-painting took on a whole new meaning when drawn in blood. Today it meant another victim had been chosen.

When the headless goat's body turned up on the mage's front doorstep, they all knew who was doomed. The city rippled in anticipation. It wouldn't be long. The mage had until midnight.

When the clock struck twelve, she would disappear.

Lynx couldn't help but be thankful it wasn't her door. It was bitter sweet relief, because a day spared today, was a day closer to tomorrow. The mages were disappearing one by one and she was no exception. Today made it the fifth to be marked. Five days it could have been her.

There were only 33 registered mages, one for each borough in Londonderry. The rest had been methodically pushed out years ago. Only permitted to travel through, apply for short stay visas and the occasional business trip into the city borders. There were illegals, of course, and they clung to the streets of the East End, hiding between alleyway shadows and surfing beneath the radar in a difficult existence. This had been law to protect the mortals and reduce mage influence in the capital.

Her train of morose thoughts was rattled from its tracks, as a man stumbled up the three stone steps to her shop door. It stayed firmly locked even when the frame shook as he began to knock, looking directly at her through the picture window glass of the door. Sometimes she hated the damn design. It gave out too much exposure. Lynx cautiously stepped forward, eying the man with the bloodshot eyes and a bottle in one hand, clothes stained and crumpled from having slept in them. No doubt here for a quick fix brew to dull a pounding head from a night in the ale houses. Great. Another one. Nothing stood between them but the frail, beaten wood that she called a front door.

"Old is gold." She muttered wryly, her eyes taking in the flaking old paint and chipped edges near the rusty hinges of the door. "You're a vintage dime." She told the sensitive door.

She flipped the cardboard sign on the glass, turning it from open, to closed. The man watched her every movement scrupulously, as if not quite believing his eyes.

"That's right. Walk away." Lynx mumbled under her breath, feeling brave. She jumped back when the peeved off drunk tossed the half empty bottle at her door. It cracked over the wood and booze dripped down her stone steps, bottle green shards glinting in the light. "Son of a..." she inhaled sharply. "No, I'm a good person. I will not zap his bottom-" she said, even as her fingertips tingled with energy. The man jumped with a shout, and scurried away. She smirked. "Gotcha."

Lynx kept her shop closed on Sundays, her self designated day off, even if she was always forgetting to turn the sign. She took another look around her shop front. The well stocked and lined medicine cabinets were securely locked, the single master key hung around her neck on a silver chain, and the trap door behind the main counter leading to the stock room, was concealed beneath a threadbare carpet.

All other medicinal goods and merchandise were accountable for, and she could take inventory within five minutes if needed. The front door was locked, but the peering eyes of passers by couldn't be concealed behind the clear glass. All in all, the place was thoroughly watched, whether she wanted it to be or not.

Beyond the pink, orange and purple beaded curtain stood the bottom floor of her private residency. The first communal living room, or so she liked to call it, as its main function served as a comfortable and private consultation room for her customers and patients. It was a relatively well sized area, with ample space for a pair of two-seater sofas that faced opposite each other in a box, a wooden table between them, placed comfortably in front of the fireplace, that still had warm embers going. An antique framed mirror stood on the mantelpiece amongst scented candles and nicknacks. The windows fell on either side of the room, to the backs of each sofa, and let in shafts of morning light, piercing the room in fractured beams that shuttered in through the curtains. Dust particles highlighted in each misty ray made the place look ethereal and enchanting, almost magical.

She slumped further into the comfort of her sofa, and relished the heat of the fire soaking into her bones. "Don't mind if I do." She mumbled with a yawn. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she was very scared. Who wouldn't be? Mages were disappearing all over London. The sign was the same. A decapitated fauna to mark their door in blood.

Her eyes closed of their own accord, sleep heavy on her mind. She had stayed up late the night before, thinking today she would sleep in. So much for that. News spread like wildfire in the city, and gnawing fear had kept her restless all morning.

The giggling of childlike laughter stirred her from her slumber. Somewhere in her groggy mind, she knew that it was wrong. Because she didn't have any children, and she lived utterly alone.

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