Hazel Albright - Post Chapter Two (Patreon)

A/N Post Chapter Two, while the MC is meeting with Belladonna

“What do we do, Mr. Billows?”

Hazel sat, legs curled beneath her, staring into the small fire in the upper area of her home.  The little area was hidden by stacks of books and grain barrels piled high but nearly empty.  It used to be her mothers. The place she sat and composed her spells.  The sigils she had burned into the floor were all but faded now.

It was darker back here than the rest of the shop, the walls lined with dusty old jars, swimming with things Hazel would rather not think about. The hearth back here was made of bleach white bone and the alter that was placed in front of it looked to be marble. Hazel knew better of course. Her mother never was one to make something of such importance out of such a common material.

In her lap, the grey cat was curled, purring and offering comfort.  Hazel ran her fingers softly through his mane, knowing he must have sensed her discontent. It wasn’t often he decided to stay.

“I mean, I know I should tell them. About Malcolm. About the Gatekeeper. But…” she sighed. “I don’t want them to be mad at me.”

Before her, a bowl of glass sat on a dais. It was colored a dripping black and stood in jagged protrusions from a chipped golden bowl.  A soft glow of sickly deep green glowed from the depths of it.

“Do you think they’ll be mad?” she whispered. Mr. Billows nudged at her palm, licking at her fingers and nipping at the pad of her thumb.  “They seem sweet,” she said.  “Lost and confused but very sweet. I want to help them, Billows. I really do. But…”  she trailed off, staring into the bowl.  She had begun the spell four days ago. Tonight was supposed to be the fruition of her labor.

“Oh, Billows,” she sighed. “I just want everyone to be happy.”

The light from within began to flicker, rising with crackling smoke into the surrounding air.  The floorboards creaked and shuddered and the screams from the alley beyond became louder and louder.  Hazel sat up a little straighter, holding Billows close to her chest and staring hopefully at the dais. Black sludge began to drip down the side, pooling on the ground and creating a small vortex.  The nebulous reach began to flow outwards in vain like tremors, filling in the dips in the floor.

“Come on,” Hazel whispered. “Just a little more. Just a….”

She yelped as the jars around her began to shatter, viscous liquid dripping to the floor with the remnants of old bones and suspicious looking organ like shapes.  Smoke rose in a great big plume above the bowl and the sizzling of acidic burns across peeling wallpaper singed the air with rot.  Immediately, Hazel rushed to the cat who had jumped from her arms at the first sign of danger.

“Oh, Mr. Billows, are you okay?” she asked, her eyes shining bright with worry as she scooped the cat up and held him tightly to her chest.  Billows only leaned forward, licking the blood from her cheek and bumping his head against her, as if to ask her the same question.

Hazel slumped back down into her chair.  “Why won’t it work?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why won’t any of this work? I don’t get it. I’ve followed the directions. I’ve made all the proper sacrifices.  How much more do I need to give?”

Tears began to slip down her cheeks, ones she wiped at angrily.  A painting hung across the way. One old and burned around the edges.  Malcolm had painted it for their mother when he was little. Chubby little fingers making crude figures of trees and butterflies.  Their mother had thrown it away. Tossed it in the pile of things that needed burned.

That night, Hazel had saved the small painting. Sneaking out from their room amongst Malcolm’s soft weeping. From the embers of the fire, she had plucked it, keeping it under their shared bed.  Now, she hung it above the altar.  A promise that she would save him as well.

“You were supposed to be home already,” she told the picture. “But I suppose you just can’t get here.  Maybe your injuries are worse than you thought or the Night Market is just taking longer.  But I’ll find you,” she promised.  “I’ll bring you home if you can’t get to us.”

Every day she waited. Every day she stared at that door, wondering if the next person to walk through would be him. He would sweep her up in his strong arms. Twirl her around like he had so many times before.  He would hold her close and laugh as she wept, telling her he was finally home. That he had kept his promise.  Hazel could feel it in her bones. Her brother would return one day. He would.

Against her, Mr. Billows meowed, knocking Hazel out of her reverie.  She blinked at the large grey cat. “You’re right. We do need to clean up.  We have a house guest and this is entirely improper for them to live in.” Again, Mr. Billows meowed. “No,” she blushed. “Of course not! I mean, well, yes. They are nice to look at but that’s not why I’ve been cooking so much. I just want them to feel comfortable. Things have been scary for them.”

When Mr. Billow’s meowed, knowingly, Hazel felt a blush spread across her cheek.

“I think Milo is coming for dinner and cards tonight,” she said happily, scratching the cat behind his ears, paying him back for any insinutation he meowed at her about their new house guest..  “Won’t that be nice?” Mr. Billows hissed. “Really now, Mr. Billows. You need to try and like him. Just a bit.”

As she left the upper landing, the bowl on the dais tipped over.  Old and congealed blood spread across the floor and beneath the floorboards, their mothers old sigils burned bright.