One Step Closer

There's got to be a way. Quentin was exhausted and tired of thinking. Tired of going over the spells he knew—which wasn't much. He was pacing again; had been for hours. At least the floor was polished rather nicely.

Think Quentin, think! He can't be invulnerable—nothing is. The laws of reality don't allow for it. There were books open everywhere. He had spent hours in Brakebills library, searching for any reference to the Beast he could find.

Knitting his brows once again, Quentin was only mildly aware that his face hurt. Too much thinking.

The information must exist. If only he could get to that library in the Neitherlands himself.

He looked around the room helplessly, then sank to the floor with his back against the wall. Ok, Quentin. Start over. Use logic. Again... He grabbed the nearest notepad and began scribbling notes.

The Beast

Who: A super powerful jerk-monster-pedophile.

What: What does he want—aside from eyes—and why me?

Why: Because...?

How: How do we win? Can he be killed? If I can't harm him, can I imprison him?

            Trap him??

Quentin looked up from his notes, thinking. The light pouring through his window had been moving across the floor all afternoon. Quentin now watched as the light slowly crept up the wall.

Evening approached. Quentin hadn't moved, still lost in thought.

"I know, Quentin... I do." An all-too-familiar voice cut through his thoughts. "I know what you're looking for," it said, barely more than a whisper. "You're not going to figure this one out... not without help." A cold, lilting laugh shivered its way up his spine. The abruptness of the intrusion jolted Quentin's whole body so hard, he bit his tongue. "Would you like my help, Quentin Coldwater?"

Shit! Not yet. I'm not ready! Tasting blood, his eyes darted wildly around the twilight-shrouded room for something—anything—that might be useful. He saw a whole lot of nothing.

"No, you never are." The Beast laughed again.

Fumbling through his pockets, his fingers grappled with lint, some loose threads, and...

...still nothing. "Shiiiitttttt..."

And then his clammy fingers wrapped around a familiar shape. His room was rapidly growing very cold. He was out of time. Flicking the lighter to life, all he got was a brief glimpse of the room before a roaring gust of wind blasted the flame out. Papers whirled around the room while all sorts of things clattered to the floor.

The wind died, leaving his room in utter darkness. Quentin shuddered as the pulsing, inky blackness embraced him.

He began to feel heavy as the temperature dropped. He fell to the floor, but the expected impact never came. Quentin was falling. His mind reeled as he lost all sense of his surroundings. Time and space disappeared. And he still couldn't see anything.

Just as he had gotten used to the sensation of falling endlessly, he stopped. It was odd, considering there was no concept of up or down. He had simply stopped.

A single ray of moonlight penetrated the void, beckoning Quentin forward. "I— I'm not going to play these games," he shouted. "Show yourself... Plover." Not choking on the words felt like a small victory. At least there was that.

"Ahh, the words of the hero, this time." The voice came from everywhere, all at once. "Still weak." He accented the last consonant with viper-esque grace. "I have something for you, Quentin," the Beast whispered into his ear. "A gift."