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“Yeah, can’t take that job, buddy. Sorry. Better buy yourself another piece of shit.”
“Look at me, please.” Mort spoke calmly but firmly.
Tom swung around, ready to mouth off. But the arrogant aggression faded the second he saw Mort’s true face.
Mechanic Tom stared at him, slack jawed, in the way normal mortals responded to Mort’s presence. It was a trance state of sorts. Tom wouldn’t remember this conversation consciously, but it would still be somewhere inside him. Right now, Mort was speaking to the deeper, older parts of the mechanic. He’d bypassed all the social layers and was connecting with the real man.
Tom was about the same age as Tristan. Bulky, with the beginnings of a beer belly, brown hair and brown eyes. Handsome in the way Mort had always been indifferent to.
“Go to Tristan’s house and mend it,” Mort said, issuing the order in a calm but deep tone. “And lend me your vehicle. I wish to drive to the supermarket.”
He could almost giggle at having had to form that sentence. It was just so pedestrian, so mortal. He was enjoying playing at being a person, having concerns and cares that obviously didn’t matter at all and yet somehow seemed to matter more than anything.
Tom nodded in the way people tended to do when Mort asked them to do something. “Sure, I’ll go around to the old whore’s place, and…”
“That’s a disrespectful manner of speaking about the home of a client,” Mort corrected him smoothly.
“Uh. Sorry. It’s just what everybody in town has always called that house.”
“Then everybody in town is unkind.”
“Yeah, we’re a pack of assholes,” Tom agreed without hesitation, still in trance. “She was the prettiest lady around, and we all knew it. But she’d fuck other women’s husbands for money.”
“Sounds to me as though she saved them a burden.”
“They hated her. The women, and the husbands too. Nobody loves a whore. And nobody respects the son of a whore.”
“You will respect Tristan. You will treat him like a person. You will fix his vehicle, and you will help him if he needs help in the future. You will do these things because he is not the son of a whore. He is a man of strength and worth, due equal if not greater respect than the others of you, because his life has been harder. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “I understand.”
“Good. Then go.”
“What…the…”
Mort turned to see Tristan behind him. He’d put an old t-shirt on and heavy boots. Ass-kicking boots. He looked worried. And adorable.
“Hey, Tristan,” Tom said as he walked past. “I’m going to take a look at that truck of yours.”
“Thanks?” Tristan seemed uncertain as to how to reply.
Tom stopped and fished his keys out of his pocket. “Take my car as a loaner until I get yours going.”
“Uh…”
Tom was out, walking toward Tristan’s home. Tristan looked at Mort with surprised blue eyes.
“You came after me,” Mort noted. He also noted that he had none of his normal sway over Tristan. Tristan didn’t go blank and willing. He didn’t become an empty vessel for Mort’s commands. Instead, he stayed steadfastly himself, perhaps one of the most alive people Mort had ever met.
Tristan scratched his head. “Well, yeah. I was worried Tom would kick your ass. I didn’t think you’d be here talking me up to the school bully.” He looked at Mort with wonder. “I’ve never had anybody stand up for me before.”
“Get used to it,” Mort said. The response came easily and automatically.
Tristan went an uncomfortable shade of pink and broke eye contact. “Guess we should get some of that food you wanted.”
“Good idea.”
4
Another night, another dark visitor. Mort felt the disturbance while Tristan slept, and was determined not to allow this guest to disturb his boy.
Mort was prepared to dismiss another demon, but the visage that appeared on the porch was not of a generic entity spawned from the bowels of Hell. It was a familiar face, one he had long known. All the attitude drained from his face in an instant, all the dominance gone as a shining creature stepped through a portal of its own making, accompanied by the unmistakeable volcanic scent of myrrh.
He was tall and broad, and he wore armor. He carried a spear too, strapped to his back. It would not be crazy for someone to be afraid of him, but Mort knew he had nothing to fear from this particular damned warrior.
“Balthazar.” Mort greeted him on the front porch.
“There you are!” Balthazar said. “I have been worried about you.”
Balthazar was a king and a lifelong friend to Mort, in the way one’s father’s friends can be one’s own friends as one grows to maturity.
Balthazar had a well-trimmed beard and the type of face one sees depicted on ancient reliefs and relics. His eyes were deep and wide and expressive, his nose slightly hooked. His features were strong, as was his jaw and cheekbones. He was handsome beyond handsome and absolutely regal.
