The mechanic sighed contentedly as he finally finished fixing the big sign.
"'Welcome to Calamity'," he read, "'The only part in America where magic is real'. Seriously, who's gonna fall for this thing?"
"Whoever has enough time to visit this place, apparently," his friend replied merrily. "As if that happens at all. But I think that stupid tagline works the best, though. This is definitely not the most normal town there is, and I don't think we can pride ourselves with the Witch House." He frowned at the mention of the House. "But hey, on the bright side, we finally got this job done."
"Which means we're getting paid," the mechanic agreed. "Yeah. Let's go check out that new restaurant that just opened by Bia's. I heard they made killer sandwiches."
"As long as they don't kill me, sandwiches sound good," the friend said. The mechanic bothered a second or two to give him some side-eyeing.
"That legendary tummy of yours doesn't need any sandwich," the mechanic finally said. His friend laughed and slapped his shoulder.
"But yours does," he pointed back. "Come on, we'll play some rounds there and if you can beat me two out of three, I'm paying."
The mechanic grinned. "Deal."
They were just about to turn around from the post that they just fixed when they heard a car's engine from afar. That stopped the mechanic and drew his friend's attention.
They both turned again and squinted to look at the far end of the street. "What was that?" the friend asked. The mechanic shook his head slowly.
"A car, I think," he said. "That definitely sounds like a car. It sounds like the engine's about to fail."
His friend groaned. "Really? Failing your engine in Calamity?"
The mechanic nodded. "Bad luck at its best."
The only way to describe Calamity was that it was a town in the middle of nowhere. The official address would mention Calamity, Oregon, but that didn't give any further clarity. There was only one lane heading to and from town, and the town wasn't the kind of town where any fuss would get documented into national TV.
Failing your car's engine there isn't exactly something you'd want.
"You know what, I'm gonna stay here and see if I can help," the mechanic said, patting his toolbox. "I've got my box of wonders here, and if I need anything, I know I can just call you."
The friend nodded. "You got that right. Well, I'll go get myself that sandwich. Then we can talk about proposing a name change for this town."
"They tried it two decades ago," the mechanic reminded him. "Didn't work out."
"That was two decades ago," his friend replied. "Today's today. See ya 'round. And be careful, you don't know who you're helping. And," he pointed to the sign, "magic's real here."
The mechanic nodded as his friend left. He has no idea, he thought. He waited patiently by the sign; the sound of the car drawing closer in. It shouldn't be too long until –
The car literally sounded like a mess of metal repeatedly saying the word wreck. The mechanic could tell that the car wasn't in too much better a condition than the word it was spitting out. But the nearer the car got, he could also hear some cursing – a woman's.
Then, as the car came into view, it stopped entirely, just as the mechanic had predicted.
The car was a bright-red vintage muscle car, and the mechanic couldn't help but notice that the paintjob was still sleek.
And custom.
On the hood was one thick racing stripe crossing over the middle, and the mechanic admitted that it was a pretty neat one. He was a mechanic, he handled cars, and he knew neat paintjob when he saw one. And this car's was definitely neat.
Too bad the machine didn't sound as neat as the exterior – the mechanic could see that smoke was seeping from under the hood.
"Oh, come on!" the driver yelled, knocking hard at the steering wheel. She tried to turn the car back on, but it wouldn't start. The mechanic approached.
"Excuse me, Miss," he said, drawing the driver's attention. Her hair was long and straight, and its bright shade of blond made it look as if it was shining against the sunlight. "Can I help you?"
The driver eyed the mechanic from head to toe – her eyes were deep brown, almost black, and the mechanic had to admit that she didn't look so bad. To add the cherry on top, she was wearing a loose red shirt over an extremely tight blue T-shirt.
Then her eyes fixed on the toolbox in the mechanic's hands, and the mechanic could see that understanding dawned on her. "Uh, yes," she said. "My car is a bit... moody, and it chose such a wrong time to act out!"
"Some cars can get that way," the mechanic agreed. "Come, I'll see if I can help you – this box can do wonders. I'll push the car; you drive it and pull over."
The driver nodded and laid her hands on the steering wheel again, and the mechanic put his box just under the welcome post. He then got into position and began pushing the car forward. The lady driver did as he asked her to, and she steered right to the roadside until she was out of the road.
"Wait here, I'll go get my box," the mechanic told her, and she just nodded. He jogged back to the sign and grabbed his beloved box – experience had told him to keep mobile. It never betrayed him before, and he believed it wouldn't ever.
The woman had left the car and was apparently checking under the hood herself. The smoke was hissing at her face and she got into a coughing fit as she tried to wave the smoke away.
"That didn't look good," she said as the mechanic arrived with his toolbox.
"Let me see," the mechanic said as he checked the engine out. His first glance didn't tell him that anything was wrong, so he decided the problem might get trickier. He'd gotten very good at detecting engine problems at first glance as long as he knew how the engine worked, and usually, when he couldn't find problems at a first glance, the problems could be pretty dirty. However, he couldn't use that as a professional opinion, so he decided to double-check everything and see if he could diagnose something before bringing the car over to his workbench. "By the way, it's quite the place you choose to come to, Miss."
The woman laughed. "What, Calamity?"
"Yeah," the mechanic answered, checking the valves. Nothing there. "It's not exactly a favorite tourist destination."
The woman laughed again. "Well, I decided to do some little traveling and tried to just randomly follow roads wherever they go and worry about the destination last. Wasn't so wise, apparently," she said as she tilted her head at her car's open hood. "Should've run some checkup first."
"True," the mechanic answered, his eyes darting around the engines. He couldn't find where anything went wrong. What on earth is this? "I'm sorry, but I can't find where it's gone wrong. It all looks just fine to me."
"Because it is fine," came the reply – and it startled the mechanic.
The reply wasn't from the woman – or, rather, wasn't just from the woman. The sound was like the woman's voice overlapped with a man's. The mechanic turned to look – where the woman once stood next to the car was a man, wearing leather black jacket and tattered jeans. The mechanic's heart sank as he saw the face – he recognized him.
"Frost," he whispered. The man who was earlier a woman – Frost – touched his cropped hair as if he was tidying them up.
"Yeah, me," Frost said calmly. "How's it going, Palmer?"
"Good," Palmer replied between clenched teeth. "Until you showed up."
Frost laughed. "Right, I just remembered! Blame Frost for everything, right?"
"Don't get sarcastic. It's your own choice when you decided to defect," Palmer hissed. "And it's none of my business."
"As a matter of fact, Palmer, it is," Frost said. "See, I decided that this place is the perfect place for the Coming. The sheer number of magi alone explains it. Every single line from the prophecy can be done here."
"You know I won't let you," Palmer said as his hand tightened into a fist. Frost didn't look particularly disturbed.
"I know," he said dismissively. "Isn't that what you Gravedancers do?"
Palmer charged.
Neither men made any move, but they could feel the energy blasting from each other. Both were hit by the shockwave and took a step back to balance themselves.
"Not bad, Palmer," Frost said, giving his most annoying smile. "Not too rusty. Was it because of the spirit you got from that girl form I took?"
Palmer growled under his breath, muttered something, and felt that the air around Frost grew hot. "Burn, Frost."
Frost caught fire.
However, Frost didn't panic. Out of nowhere, he had his arms held wide open and the fire was, that very instant, nothing more than smoke. When the smoke dissipated a little, Palmer suddenly realized that ice was melting from Frost's whole body.
"But I can't," Frost replied. "I'm frost, remember?'
With that, Palmer felt a strong wind pushing against his chest – the attack caught him off guard and he fell back.
Frost vaporized all the ice on him and stepped forward, looming menacingly over Palmer. The mechanic tried to draw in breath, but he could feel that his lungs wouldn't budge.
Before he panicked, he caught Frost's eyes. It was him. He was holding his lungs.
"You –" Palmer began, but Frost decided to hold something other than Palmer's lungs.
He held Palmer's heart.
He held both Palmer's lungs and heart mentally for a minute, and he could see that Palmer spasmed uncontrollably. Any second now.
And, as the thought crossed Frost's mind, Palmer went rigid. His eyes were wide open, and his expression was sheer terror, but he wasn't moving.
Frost scoffed. That was almost too easy.
"You're getting soft, Palmer," he said to the dead body. He crouched, put a hand over Palmer's chest, and the body began to grow slightly warmer.
That done, Frost returned to his car and opened the trunk – there was another dead body there. The original owner of the car.
He positioned the owner of the car just next to the car, about where Frost stood when he was disguising as a woman, and manipulated the little details – body temperatures and everything.
Then he set the body on fire with the snap of his fingers.
Palmer's body caught fire, too, and to make everything look convincing, he saw through the car's engine to see if he could make it explode.
Of course he could.
He walked away from the car and it finally exploded with the last evidence of his existence there. All that people could assume was that the car broke, and Palmer tried to help, but he and the owner of the car weren't fortunate enough to survive the car exploding from whatever the fault was with the engine.
Frost smiled. Perfect.
He didn't bring anything – he didn't need mementos or proof of wherever he had been. He didn't need ancient scriptures or any grimoires; he had had all the knowledge in his head. And he didn't worry about looks. He could change his appearance literally in a blink of an eye. Of all the skills he honed, he realized that it was by far the most useful. He could make himself look like anyone he wanted, even people he'd never met. And he would definitely need this skill to work for him now.
Time to settle for a semi-permanent look, he thought. I'll be here for quite some time now, and I need them to know me. Just so they don't get suspicious.
He closed his eyes as he walked the lane, and when he opened them, gone were the black leather and the jeans. Where Frost was standing was a man in his early forties, carrying a bag, and wearing glasses and a sweater – he looked like a writer traveling for inspiration. He couldn't help but chuckle. So perfect.
Welcome to Calamity, he read the sign, the only part in America where magic is real.
He half-smiled.
They have no idea, he thought as he entered the town. They have absolutely no idea.