The Trials of Gideon Book 2: Steal the Dark

Chapter 7: I bring a zombie to a family renunion

Okay it's not technically a family reunion it's brunch with my adoptive mother at a Welsh pub. It's at a Welsh pub because I don't want her in my house. I think that's fair she honestly didn't really want me in her house for fifteen odd years. It's also a Welsh pub because 'Westminster Abby is not your safe space Gideon' and 'you can't have a conversation standing in front of tombs I don't care how happy they make you please pick a restaurant'. Mariah, my step sister, was only so good of a wingman setting this up. Anyway, that's how we wound up at a Welsh pub, so that I could at least be near my people.
I magic us back to the 21st century, where I'm meeting Dancer and Sadie, who are bringing Kat with them. We meet at Dancer's father's house, which is like, where I live when I'm in the 21st century which I'm not as a rule.
Kat rushes to my arms immediately, Dancer and Sadie angle to get custody of the Bastard.
"I need a majority share on our shared braincell, which includes our shared impulse control. That means he stays with me, because if I have the braincell he will convince you two to help him liberate France in under fifteen minutes. Also he drains magic and I can withstand it longer," I say, tugging on the Bastard's arm as he stares around the posh townhome.
"Okay but consider, maybe we want to liberate France with a zombie," Sadie says.
"I'm not gonna argue he's completely right I'd do that," Dancer says, giving the Bastard a pair of glasses, "You need to wear these."
"Why—?"
"Your eyes look like zombie eyes," Sadie says.
"Oh, lord you can tell," the Bastard sighs.
"Hey, do you have a translator spell, or are you content not to talk?" I ask.
"Yeah we've all got amulets," Dancer says, holding up his wrist, "That's why you understand us."
"No, I'm good, the ah, Templars got sick being cursed at in French, wanted me to hear them tell me to shut up," the Bastard says, holding up his left wrist which has a simple chain on it.
"Fair," I say, putting on a crew neck. I've mastered the art of, looking passable in two different centuries. Dark drab colors, basic tunic like designs, and leather jackets. Now it doesn't look totally normal in the 1400s, but I am a wizard so it doesn't stand out like, say, a t-shirt. Kat is in 14th century boy clothes, which mostly look just like little kid clothes so that works.
"I'm home, who have you kidnapped today, children—hello," Dancer's father is halfway in the doorway then leans in it.
"Pleasure," the Bastard smiles.
"No—no absolutely not. He's a zombie and he's also French forget about it no—," Dancer basically tackles his father.
"Hello I'm Jay, this is my talented son and his talented friends."
"They're kidnapping me," the Bastard says, sort of leaning on the counter, smiling.
"I did know they were talented are you staying? Why don't you stay?""
"He absolutely is not! You are not allowed to flirt with people I bring home we talked about this last Thursday!"
We do get out of the house eventually. Dancer drives me to the restaurant, and Sadie comes along with. She's taking Kat home after since we're still on a quest sort of so Kat can't hang out. I mean she could she sometimes hangs out on quests but I draw the line when the quest remotely involves Henry. The Bastard attempts to stay with Dancer's father which does not work because I can apparently bodily tow a man one and a half times my weight while carrying my five year old.
"Glamour," Dancer snaps his fingers, when we get to the parking lot.
"What? You two are not sitting at another table," I sigh, "You don't have to do that."
"We do and we don't want her to recognize us, we were all on the news the first time Henry burned Harlech down—,"
"Why don't you rebel against this person? Seriously?" The Bastard isn't helpful.
"We got him off the island, shh, okay yeah fine," I sigh.
"Glamour, one of you helpful people," Dancer says.
"I'm terrible at these, Oisin is trying to show me," Sadie says.
"If you're just trying to make everyone think you look different that's much easier than trying to look like something specific," the Bastard offers, helpfully.
"I know I'm trying to make us specifically look like the Men in Black," Sadie frowns.
"Cultural reference, come on, I'll buy you a pint," I say, moving to get out of the car. I and he sat in the back with Kat, who is unbuckling herself.
"I don't drink," the Bastard says.
"Have ice cream with me," Kat encourages.
"All right then," the Bastard actually smiles at her.
"Thank you both," I say, patting Dancer's arm.
"We're your get away car, raise your left hand in a finger gun and I'll come and pretend to be MI5 arresting you," Sadie says.
"Don't tempt me," I grin.
We are to the pub first, which was by design. The Bastard, though he stares around a bit, is mostly subtle, he's wearing the hook which isn't really out of place, and while he jumps at odd noises he doesn't stand out worse than we do. He does surprise me by being quite polite to Kat, smiling for her and entertaining a couple of questions.
We sit down at a bar, him next to me, Kat in my lap. She's throughly used to just clinging to my shoulders, or balancing on my hip, or perching on my knee, through various court dinners and state affairs, so she's pretty used to this sort of outing. That said I'm sure she's picking up my tension, because she leans against me.
Kat tugs on my shirt, "Is he a wizard too?"
"Yeah, you can ask him, in Welsh it's fine," I say.
"You're a wizard too?" She asks, in Welsh.
"Yes, I am," he says, nodding.
"Me too, but we can't do magic here," she says.
"No, we can't, but look," he spreads out sugar packets on the table, four of them. Then he picks one up, and turns his hand over, twice, to show it's no longer in his hand. Then he reaches behind her ear to pull it out.
Kat giggles, "That was magic."
"No, not really, look," he turns his hand over to show as he flips the sugar packet between his fingers. "Quite simple once you see the trick. Then you can't unsee it."
Kat grins, leaning on the counter. She's the quiet one of the family and is quite good at making conversation with grown ups. I order the children ice cream and myself fish and chips that Kat and I will both eat.
My mother shows up just when the food arrives. I ordered her a drink just, preemptively and if she doesn't want it I'll drink it. My mother looks well, I suppose. She's here with some charity thing apparently according Mariah I was told I had been poisoned so I didn't pay a ton of attention.
"Remember, our cover is ordinary humans, not magic wizards," I say to Kat, picking her up so I can stand up when my mother comes in. She stares at me. I know perfectly well how I look. I'll assume she used the internet to appraise herself of my scars but that's different from seeing them in person. White lightening bolt like patterns on my face, neck, hands, it's quite visible on my dark skin, and at the moment I'm sure I'm sporting questionable life in the Middle Ages related bruising including the fact that I'm acting like I got stabbed in the shoulder last night. Which I did.
"Hi," my mother says, forcing herself to stop looking at me and looking at Kat.
"This is my little one, Kat. Kat this is my mother, I lived with her when I was your age—mother this is a work associate of mine he's just riding around with me today," I say.
"Hi," the Bastard waves unfortunately not with the hook.
"Hello," my mother nods at them.
"Glad you could come," I'm doing so well at this. Why did I do this? Because I'm an idiot. Shut up inner sarcastic commentary.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet me you look—you look like you're doing well," my mother says, sitting down across from us and sort of holding her purse for comfort.
"We are, we're good. My son Myrddin had a doctor's appointment today he's with his mother, so he couldn't come," I say, quickly, she knows I have two kids. I asked Mariah to tell her so I wouldn't have to talk. I silence my phone because Mariah is texting me 'I believe in you' texts and also 'if you find out if my dad is dead, then please tell me'. I like having a step sister.
"Oh um, that's too bad but I'm glad—it's nice to see you two," she says, really awkwardly, "What's um—,"
"Myrddin, it's Welsh, Mur-th-in, very soft," I explain, quickly, before putting my fist in my mouth. I see her seeing me do it and feel my back tense as I quit. I was not supposed to do that in public. But I'm an adult with my five year old daughter and my Undead kidnapping victim here with me. And I can stim if I want to.
"Murthin, sorry, I'm not good at um pronouncing it—Kat?" She tries.
Kat nods smiling, she's really nice.
"Is he um, older? What's he like?" My mother asks, nervously.
"Myrddin is very calm, and low maintenance," Kat says, seriously. It takes me off guard so I wind up laughing, which I try to hide but wind up just leaning into the Bastard's arm he's currently leaning against me and shying away from another diner wearing headphones which are making noise. Anyway, I crack up because last week it took me two hours to get Myrddin dressed because he was lying on the floor in an unconsolable heap because he couldn't decide which flowery cape to wear. To bed.
"He's fun, they both are," I say, struggling not to laugh.
"Good, I'm glad," my mother says.
"What about you? This is seeing England for the first time right? Go to Wesminster, and the Tower, they know me there but you might not mention knowing me, cause they do know me there," I say idly.
"Yes um, it's just a layover I delayed to um—to see you," she says, and I realize she's kind of looking at the Bastard.
Oh damn it.
So here's the thing. It has really not been relevant to the plot till now, because whatever. But, the Bastard generally acts well, how to explain his mannerisms? Ah, envision, an overly dramatic Shakespearean actor, whose only stage direction was 'slut'. He's currently draped half across me like a lizard on a heating rock, and he's wearing mirrored sunglasses inside, and we're in matching black leather jackets because these are my emergency 21st century stagger to a hospital clothes.
Also, the Bastard is probably about five or six years older than me? Like he was about in his mid to late thirties when he died. And death doesn't make you look great plus he's been through it the last few days. So he definitely if you had to guess looks past forty.
And I, for the record, have a baby face, always have. I had Kat at a playground and people asked me what I'm doing out of highschool. Now my mother knows I'm twenty eight but for whatever reason I still look like I'm probably eighteen.
All that's to say, it completely looks like I brought my older boyfriend with me, and me saying 'work associate', did not make it sound less gay. To be clear I am gay, but this is not the person I'm being gay with. And I was hoping to get through this lunch on merely the 'yes I stim and am autistic get over it' not including the queer thing. Because throughout my formative years the powers that be couldn't decide what was worse and I really don't feel like tackling both at once but oh well.
All that is only reinforced by the fact that Kat is occasionally whispering to the Bastard in Welsh, or handing him something. And he's taking it because you know whatever, he's apparently fine with kids, but like they are acting like they know each other. They don't, Kat is just used to sitting in my lap and chatting over dinner with grown ups but like it's not making this look like less like this is our kid.
"Are you working at all?" My mother asks.
"Um, been pretty busy lately, ah, got another couple of books, material, probably, going," I say, stopping the Bastard from picking up a thing of toothpicks because I don't think he needs that. The salt and pepper shakers are already gone so you know kleptomania is cool I guess. I don't know what the fuck he thinks he's going to do with those. "That's it really, I should get writing here, doing research at the moment."
"That's ah, good," she nods, "Are you still living here, in London?"
"In Wales mostly, a bit here," I say, wincing a little. Right, so I now have a Welsh accent. I've said that before but I've not really explained it for you so here it goes. Most people can't identify a Welsh accent just hearing it, they think it's an English accent. Welsh accent is similar to London, but it's kind of like a Chicago accent is to a New York accent. You've got some similar sounds about the vowels but all together flatter. Welsh is just kind soft, musical a bit and you can hear it deeper in vowel sounds and it's sort of spoken hushed almost and steady. Just a bit different of a diction, Welsh actors, like Christian Bale, Catherine Zeta Jones, and Micheal Sheen, will almost always be presenting with an English or American accent in their films, you never hear the real thing really. So, anyway, point is, I sound to an American lightly British. Hence the question I don't sound like I'm fully a Londoner but you can still hear it. Kat, has a thicker Welsh accent because she actually speaks Welsh like, as her first language. I have given her and Myrddin translator amulets so they can understand and be understood in the 21st century but as a rule you can still hear our accents. For example, the Bastard has a French accent.
"You still um, at that hospital?" I ask.
"Yes, um, yeah. It's a training thing they sent us on, ah—I saw you'd published, the books, with Mariah she told me, when she set this up, um, I'd tried to find you on social media."
"I don't go on there, I leave that to Riah, I just write the things. Did you read them, ever?" You've read them, reader, she's in there. I don't know if it's a good depiction. But it's true. So that's good isn't it? Perhaps the truth isn't fair.
"No, no I didn't ever—it would be too much I would think," she says.
"Just adventures. That's the point, really for anyone, to read it," I say, I know I'm drumming my hands I have been the whole time. The toothpicks are now gone how did we not see him do that? What does he think he's gonna do with those? Never mind, I'll take them back in the car.
"That's good um—does, are you living by yourself now or—are you married?" She asks, awkwardly, sort of shifting in the chair.
"No," I say, because that question can't help but feel like, can you live on your own? Were the doctors right when they said you couldn't function? Or are you now magically okay for other people?
Blessedly at this point the waitress comes back with the drink.
"Red Wine?" The waitress looks confused by the order.
"Thanks, um, that's us—do you—?" I gesture.
"No, I'm ah, not drinking," she says, "I don't anymore."
"That's good," I say, sliding it over to my self, "Good for you."
"Don't say it like that," she sighs.
"I'm not doing anything," I shrug.
"Why did you agree to do this?" She asks, sighing a little.
"Is that what you want to talk about?" I ask. Not my kids, not my books, not my degree, not even my french associate? Nothing? Just what makes you feel better?
"Gideon I missed you," she says, sighing a little.
"Okay," I say.
"That's it?"
"What else do you want? We both know why I moved out, I don't think you really thought that was a happy home I think you liked to pretend it was. So that's absolutely fine I'm not debating that with you but I'm also not justifying what I've done because frankly I don't have to," I say, forcing myself to take a sip of the wine and stop drumming my hands because she keeps staring at them. Then I remember I should not drink wine in public around normal people because I am used to drinking wine from about noon until midnight, as a primary liquid and I will drink it like it's water and have a crazy tolerance for it now which in the 21st century makes me look like an alcoholic.
"I wanted you to come home," she says, tears in her eyes.
"Then you should have made it a home for me to come back to."
"I did you can't—you can't do this—,"
"I'm not doing anything. I was fifteen, and I found someplace safer than your home. And I don't need anything, from you," I say.
"All you do is punish me, for what you feel like happened, and I'm sorry—,"
"You don't have to be sorry. I don't want that. I don't want you to feel bad even. Because I'm completely fine, I'm happy. It's over, my childhood is over. I'm living a really, really good life. I agreed to come to be nice, because I hope you are too, and I thought it was decent you knew I'm okay and saw the kids. Because if you do love me like you say then you'd want me to be happy, where I am now. Because I think we both know I wasn't happy there," I say.
"No, you were only ever happy shut up in your room," she says, quietly, she's crying now. This scene sounds, like, incredibly emotional but it's my duty to inform you reader that my five year old and my zombie kidnapping victim are quietly making some sort of siege machine out of chips. Like very maturely and completely silently, with catsup dots it's like very advanced. The temptation to join in is outstanding.
"That's because I was safe," I nod. Safe in my room. With my notebooks and and my boards, and books and and my laptop. My entire kingdom back then. Battle lines drawn in the dust on the windowsill. Reading letters and studying conquests.
"Do you ever go to therapy anymore?" She asks.
"No, I um—," don't actually need my hands tied up so I don't stim stimming never hurt anyone. "No. I mean go to doctors obviously. I get hurt all the time, don't I, Kat?"
"Yes," Kat says, still working.
"Is that WarWolf?" I ask, because I have to.
"Yep," Kat says, "Not to scale."
"If these things would glue together properly," the Bastard mutters, he's very diligently using tarter sauce to glue the fries together.
"No not to scale. I bet your uncle Jac can help us build a scale one," I say, "That'd cheer Mydrinn up huh?"
"Yes," she says.
"I didn't know you talked to them in that," my mother says.
"Their native language which is Welsh yeah we try to keep up with it, the British government, only allowed us to teach it in schools, like this century it's very important that the younger generation you know, carries it on," I explain, quickly biting my tongue. She is not going to want more information on the Welsh language.
"So are you um—living with their mother now?" She asks.
"No," I say. Because who I'm sleeping with is none of your business and it's really not relevant.
Kat is used to me lying so she says nothing. She's a really great coconspirator. I love her. Not that I like, lie all the time but like, we don't talk about her mom being the queen of Wales, in public. That type of thing.
"Where did you go? After you ran away?" She asks.
"I had a friend here in London, then I was crashing a bit with Kat's mother in Wales, then I went to school, like, what it says on the dust jacket of the books Mariah wrote it better than that," I say, shrugging.
"Is that all you do? You write those books and—live in your fantasy worlds? Still?"
"So what if I do, if I'm happy?" I ask, frowning.
Kat leans against me, singing quietly. It's a football sort of pub so they're playing 'Yma O Hyd', before the match. Most of the pub patrons are singing. it's a Welsh folk song, modern, well the 1980s anyway. It's become associated with our football club, the Red Dragon, and we sing it at games and such. Since when we're in the 21st century I want the kids to still hear Welsh I turn on Welsh programs that's how I know that. Anyway, Kat knows the song and sings it softly.
"Go on, you know the words, sing it out," I say, shaking her. She's shy so I sing a few bars with her. The tension in my neck melts away as she leans against my chest, singing softly in Welsh. She thinks my arms are the safest place in the world. And she thinks I'm great. That's all that matters really. She doesn't stare at me when I put my fist in my mouth or drum my hands. In fact nobody that matters does.
"Do you come here a lot?" My mother asks, watching as Kat claps at the end with the other patrons.
"No, it's our song, it's for the football team," I say.
"You seem like you're really doing better, with, other people," she says.
"So I'm an adult, and I'm happy, so that would do it," I say, "Look I'm um, glad we did this but, we've got an appointment later, so we should get going."
"That's it? You're just—going to go?" My mother asks.
"Pretty much, what else do you want from me right now? Cause I can't go back, and be a boy who didn't get diagnosed with autism, and didn't spend all his time in his room studying ancient history, and didn't stim constantly and put his fist in his mouth, and sleep under mattresses and have to talk about warfare for at least an hour before bed. I would say I'm sorry. But I'm not. I wouldn't go back and change it if I could. I like being me. I like sleeping under mattresses and I like knowing everything there is to know about the 100 years war and I like talking to dead people in museums and I like seeing the world the way I see it. I guess what, yes I am queer, and I like being queer, which I can get more specific than queer but I don't owe anybody that anymore than I owe them to stop stimming in public because it makes them uncomfortable. It's my world too, and I deserve to be comfortable in it, and it took me far too long to realize that," as I say it I stand up and pick up Kat who just wraps her arms around my neck. She knows what autism is. I've told her. It's a word people sometimes use for people who move their hands like I do, or think through things in different ways.
"I never wanted you to be anyone different," my mother says, standing up too.
"Then why did you strap my hands down, so I couldn't stim, and take my favorite things away, and tell me that I was supposed to think a certain way, and talk to people a certain way, and take me to doctors who strapped me to a chair, and let him tie me down so I couldn't play with my hands while I ate, because all those things meant nothing to you but they meant everything to me," I say.
"We didn't know what to do! you were a lot, you were hard to handle and we were trying to make you better—,"
"I wasn't broken. I was a child."
"—you wouldn't listen. And you screamed, you screamed for hours—we didn't know how to handle you," she shakes her head.
"That's obvious, yeah, and I don't even care why. That's the thing. I don't care. You did your best I'm sure and it was—very terrible for me I still have nightmares, about the time I was locked in that fucking closet so you know, I really don't care, how hard you tried, I don't need to hear it," I say.
"So you're just going to go? You're still angry?"
"I don't care. If I were angry, I'd write biographies about it, and try to press criminal charges of neglect or something. I'm not. I write story books for other children to escape and I walk around castles and I play with my kids. I don't care. Today was so that you wouldn't think I was unhappy. Because if one of my babies, were away from me, I'd want them to be living their best life and I'd want to know they were happy cause that's the idea I should think," I say.
"You're not going to let me meet my grandchildren? Again?' She asks, wiping her face with her hand.
"These aren't your grandchildren. You have to earn that. They have plenty of family, that loves them, and me, for who we are, not because they think they deserve us," I say, putting down money on the table to pay, "That should cover it um—if you have something else to say then you know you have Mariah's information. But I think that covers it. I wish you well."
I turn and leave, the Bastard blessedly follows, looping an arm around the middle of my back as we walk out. He partly needs the magic or he could just be leaning into the gay thing now.
"Don't cry daddy, she was awful, I didn't like her energy," Kat says, wiping tears from my face with her little hands.
"Thank you button, you're fantastic you know that?" I ask, kissing her forehead.
"Yes. Don't cry, my mamas will hug you too," Kat says.
"Yes, they will," I laugh.
Sadie and Dancer just bolt from the car to crush me.
"We watched through binoculars and we learned we can't read lips at all," Dancer says, hugging me tightly.
"Unless you were talking about Iowan cornfields in which case we read lips great," Sadie says.
"No, just typical, I'm fine, really, I am," I say, sniffing back my tears, but accepting the hugs.
"That was miserable, can we go?" The Bastard sighs, leaning on the car.
"Not just yet, here Kat go to your mama," I say, handing her to Sadie, "I've got to frisk a Frenchman."
"What—ow—help—help—," the Bastard wiggles as I feel down his pockets. He tries to drag me away with the hook in my jacket collar which almost works.
"Nope Nope—why did you think you needed the silverware?" I ask, holding it up.
"That's good metal!"
"So—?"
"I don't know now."
"Ugh, here," I empty all the contents of his pockets, which is in fact everything that was on the table, and hand it to Dancer for safe keeping.
"I should get to keep it—it is mine—,"
"It completely is not, in," I push him in the back of the Volvo.
"Wesminster Abby?" Sadie knows my safe space and loves me.
"No, let's go back to Harlech," I sigh, buckling in Kat.
"Which means put the car at my dads then magic to Harlech," Dancer growls.
"I did know," Sadie says.
"Are you just kidnapping me now or what? You're not even trying to kill me you're just adopting me is that it?" The Bastard asks, suspicious.
"I mean," I shrug.
"We don't mind you," Dancer says, "We approve of your cause."
"That's how I got both of them, and how we got Oisin, and like, that's how we get everyone," Sadie says.
"I have revenge to take." He tries to escape two more times.
It does not work. But that doesn't stop him.
"You're being aggressively kidnapped into a found family, please comply," Sadie says, she catches him trying to bolt before the car is in park.
"Seriously let's just go back to Wales, Oisin may have more information," I say, leaning against the car.
"I asked my dad, he's gonna get locations of Templar temples which only does us good in this century, but it's a try," Dancer says.
"Your pretty father is a Templar?" The Bastard asks.
"Pretends to be a Templar. To murder them mostly."
"There's something wrong with you people."
All of us: "We know."