Who Will Stop the Rain? Part 1B

Sorry it took so long to get this up. Life has been chucking lemons at me with catapults. I am happy to say this period shall be over soon–not yet, mind you, but soon–and posting schedule will become normal. I have high hopes to add to my multichaps once a week, preferably Tuesday/Wednesday nights.

Without further ado! Meet Trevor!

—–

Who Will Stop the Rain?

Part 1B

If there is one thing to be said about Trevor, it’s that he’s cheery. Notice that he’s not happy, because Trevor is about as grumpy as you get, but he’s cheery. He has a way of finding a little vein of a-okay and celebratory purpose in all things. You take him to a bar and he’s your wing man. You take him on a road trip and he’s a decent companion. You lock him up in a house with some crazy lady and he’s still a good guest.

He tends to the fire most of the time. Sometimes he reads, but Lynette will pass him some looks that tell him she disapproves. It’s not a generalized disapproval—she’d be the last to support illiteracy—but it’s the disapproval of his tastes. Not that he’s expressing them now as he flips through a back-issue of Cosmo, but he had expressed them a few weeks ago and it will haunt him forever.

But what would you do if you were locked in a house with a psychic? Alright, not a psychic—she calls herself a Wicca or something. Honestly, Trevor should know; he should know since he’s been here three years and is becoming a Wicca-or-whatever-it-is himself.  Anyway, he had been locked up in this tiny house, learned all he could learn from her (and still pretty much sucked at it) and finally took a peek into the Grimoire.

And that had been where Trevor had done something entirely, irrevocably wrong.

Trevor pushes the magazine around on the scarred table. Lynette is bustling in the kitchen; probably fixing coffee. As she cracks open the canister of beans, he makes a little, gargled swoon that makes the Wiccan chuckle. Lynette can’t be mad forever. Trevor is unsure she can actually be mad in the first place. When she passes by to get water from the tap, she bumps his shoulder and mentions that she is thinking of making muffins.

“You need me to make a run to the stores?” he offers, picking Cosmo up again only to fiddle with something. Her rings click as she holds the glass pot and raps the sides a bit as she waits for it to fill. When Trevor had first come here, a little high and a little off his rocker, he had known right away she was the real deal. Lynette has a unique skill of balancing costume and credibility that Trevor fails to master. She looks every inch the Wiccan while Trevor looks unemployed at 26. “I might be able to hitch a ride with the Abominable snow man.”

Lynette laughs, a little louder and a bit scratchy from her habit of smoking. She gave it up when she took him as an apprentice, but he’s seen her sneak a few here and there. Trevor stands just as she’s sloshing the water into the machine. He wraps his arms around her and feels the familiarity his mother never offered—the give, the surrender, the love. Yea, Lynette isn’t mad at him and probably never could be.

“Fine, I won’t send you into the cold,” she admonishes, flicking the machine to ‘on’. When the smell of coffee starts rolling through the room like mid-morning fog; Trevor allows her to extricate herself. In return she lightly smacks the back of his head and says: “But I want you out from under my feet while I make them, so shoo!”

Trevor raises his hands and leaves the room.

He passes through the open doorway to living room. There once was a door but he kind of knocked it clear off the hinges with a bad spell his first year. He traces the charred grooves in passage and smiles. What was he trying to do again? It was probably some weather-thing; his first year he kept constantly trying to change the weather. Green eyes land on the frosted windows ahead, flickering with the firelight and framing the ratty sofa. The snow is heavy and the whole town is gone.

It used to scare him: just how easily everything disappeared. Lynette had told him that type of thought is very Wiccan. You have to understand that things can go away, not necessarily disappear, and that eventually everything sleeps. In the first few snows, he had tried to shovel and reclaim some ground. Now they just hole up for all of winter and work on translating old Gaelic texts.

Trevor crosses the room, the floorboards groaning under his socked feet. The fire burns his shins as he stands too close. It leaps and licks the air as he turns the logs. Out of his peripheral vision he can see the bookcase. Solid oak encases ancient texts and he knows that hidden among them are even older texts with dark writings. Most he can’t read; Lynette claims some are even in Hellspeak or Tongues. “Even Angels can’t read them,” she had explained as she carefully laid one in a charmed box his second year. “rumor has it that not even demons can.”

“Then who can?” he had asked and she had no answer.

It was stupid, really stupid, when he picked up the Grimoire a few weeks ago. But Trevor was shit at this Wiccan stuff and what was in the book—those spells—made sense. He didn’t practice any, just looked at them and mumbled a few chants to feel the words in his mouth. Lynette had caught him though, tore the book out of his hands, and cried. She had later admitted she cried because she was scared of losing him, too.

Her original tears don’t mean that Trevor isn’t royally miffed at her passive aggressive streak. Normally he helps her bake. Normally he puts the coffee on. Normally they work elbow to elbow or watch old movies and make fun of the poor plot lines. Now it seems like they’re living in separate rooms and it’s getting under his skin like bad sunburn.

If she didn’t want anyone dabbling in black magic maybe she shouldn’t have kept a book on the dark arts lying around. “You have to know what you’re up against” she had explained. All Trevor did was snort internally and think ‘all we’re up against is a double mortgage and rising utilities’. After all, he’s been this side of the world before he met up with Lynette. He used to see ghosts and other creeptastic things as a kid. It’s not that you’re necessarily up against them, just coexisting.

But maybe he’s wrong, he thinks miserably as he lounges on the couch.

He picks up an old copy of the Whiting Daily that is written by the local High School as some community effort. Most of the columns are gossip or celebrity exposés. He falls asleep with it on his face and untouched coffee that Lynette had left for him on the coffee table.

——

Reviews are welcome in the comments. And comments as well. Hopefully you’ll see 1C soon 🙂

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