Blazing the Trail
Phil Morgan
Copyright © 2016 Phil Morgan
All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Prologue
I’m going to let you in on a secret.
Monsters aren’t a figment of your imagination or a scary story you hear at a slumber party. They aren’t some slimy CGI creation on a movie screen. They haunt more than just abandoned factories, grimy alleys, and creepy old mansions. Far more.
It’s all real. All the monsters from the fairy tales, all the ghosties and ghoulies and wee beasties, and some of them are way too close for comfort.
You don’t see them often because they have their own place. It has lots of names but most everybody just calls it the Shadow. Technically, there is a treaty, an agreement struck ages ago. The monsters stay in the Shadow and leave man’s affairs to man. In return, mankind doesn’t show them who the real monsters are.
Sometimes, a monster is allowed through for this reason or that and as long as all the permits are signed and all the rules followed? Everything works out fine.
Sometimes though, something slips through, using those holes in the world where the laws of reality have worn thin. When that happens, death and destruction usually follow. There really are things that go bump in the night. It’s my job to go and check out the noise.
Yeah, you heard me right. I stand between regular humanity and those creatures of nightmare and legend, a bulwark against the tide of death and sin and every other bad thing you can imagine.
And a few you can’t.
My name is Cassidy Blaze. That’s not my real name, of course. What sort of secret monster-fighting agent is going to use her real name? One that doesn’t stay a secret monster-fighting agent for very long.
I work for a sort-of secret organization that’s been around a lot longer than most countries in the world. What I mean by sort-of secret is the fact that every major government and religion knows about us. Every major magickal whackjob, every major doomsday cult, every stripe of ghost or goblin knows about us. It’s just you regular people who are out of the loop.
When a government needs some high-priced hitman like Allen Crowley or supernatural bounty hunter like Harry van Helsing? We arrange the meet. When some cutthroat capitalist needs a few dozen redcap goblins to crank out the latest hunk of consumerist junk? We issue the work visas. When some vampyre is about to be run out of a podunk town and needs to relocate? We provide a new drinker’s license.
Officially, we don’t exist but then, the things we oversee, license, and occasionally kill don’t either. Officially. We are called the Cerberus Convention, because people who make ancient pacts are terrible at naming things.
I’m the computer and technology specialist, though knowing about smart phones and tablets isn’t enough to get me a gig with the Convention. To work for Cerberus, I need to bring something more to the table than being able to whip up a spreadsheet or hook up a network.
In my particular case, I’m a level one pyrokinetic. I have the ability to control any open flames around me, nothing more, nothing less. I can’t summon up fireballs or infernos. I have to keep a lighter handy if I wanted my power to work.
Being able to control fire and having access to more advanced tech than a nerd girl could dream about in three lifetimes sounds really handy when dealing with the supernatural. Don’t get me wrong, they are but there are things out there fire can’t burn, things that computers can’t understand. Cerberus realizes this. Which brings me to my partners.
Greg Chant is a great, big, abrasive, gruff, teddy bear. Oh, he wants you to think he is this bad-ass knight of the Order of Righteous Slaying. He stomps around in spiked boots and chainmail armor, carrying more weapons than a gladiator movie. He shaves his head every day with a dagger. (Because he doesn’t want anybody to notice his bald spot.) Underneath it all though, he is this big softy. He’s the type of guy who lets a gold-digger take everything he has. (Coincidentally, he doesn’t get along well with his ex-wife.)
Eric Reader, on the other hand, has never been seen with a girl. At least, not by anybody in recent memory. Couple that with his effete manner, penchant for purple, and the fact he drives a Prius? Some people assume he is gay. (I have caught him looking down my shirt, so I am not so sure.)
In my opinion, Eric loves his books and artifacts more than any person. He’s a full-fledged adept in ancient Sumerian magick. (Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know what it meant when I first heard it either.) Basically, he has to carry around this crusty old book and read spells out of it when he wants to do magick. I don’t think it means he has to wear those horrific purple robes of his but I have never thought to ask.
Greg is the muscle of the Triad, his faith and training as dangerous as the weapons he carries. Eric is the leader and as such can be more than a little bit bossy. That’s what happens when you put a man in charge.
You can’t say we are the best Triad in history but we are far from the worst. (Extra medium is how I like to describe it.) Our jurisdiction covers North and South Carolina and while it isn’t the most glamorous posting, it does have more than its fair share of responsibility. Even monsters enjoy comfortable weather, sweet tea, and BBQ sandwiches.
Who doesn’t, really?