Cursed Times - Only Yesterday! Sequel to Wattys 2015 winner!

Chapter 11 - Metjen: Outclassed By Far

Metjen felt like slamming a door shut. Any door would do.

But there was only a stupid gilded curtain that swished from left to right without providing a satisfying sound. Given the lack of noise, he needed to find another outlet for the heat still bubbling inside his body. He stretched out his hand and directed his power towards the wooden water buckets standing at the rear of the bathing stall. With a whoosh, the buckets blew up; splinters of wood followed by a scorching fog rolled towards him. Metjen jumped backwards, stomped into his sitting room and threw himself on the heap of velvety cushions.

What am I doing here? 

On the other hand, people with his skills had not exactly been thriving in his old world either. Horror movies and fantasy novels were occupying their space. The only really scary critters had been the members of his family —as well as a few other magical beings scattered all over the world. Until he met Trueth, of course. 

Fog drifted by, carrying along the odour of woodfires.  

Of course, Metjen conceded, there had been the demons. They tended to get ignored, only the effects of their efforts showed all too well.

He should be so happy at having found beings who shared his talents. In a world ruled by his kind. Instead he was—what? An embarrassment? Lethal? Probably both. 

Something cold and wet nudged his bare ankles; he turned over and faced Mish-Mish. The cat stalked towards him across the cushions, owl-like golden eyes beaming from a face covered in tangerine fur. He grabbed his feline companion, pressed his cheek into treasured silkiness and felt Mish-Mish launch a therapeutic purr. 

Once the cat had settled on his lap, Metjen pressed his fists into his forehead. This could not continue.

Need to talk to Imhotep.

He snorted. Before arriving here, he had been a leader in his own right. Maybe he had not been entirely successful. Maybe he had been spectacularly unsuccessful—he had lost far too many of his people during that last stand at the portal. But he had done his duty. All he could do here was to dance to his ancestor's tune.

And he did not even know what it was gramps was orchestrating this time round. Thinking about it, Imhotep had been pulling his strings even before they ever met.

Gods, I hate that! 

Metjen   carefully placed the cat on a pillow and retreated towards the second room of relief. He ripped off his robe, grabbed another bucket and splashed cold water all over his upper body. The mirror above the table supporting the water basin reflected every single one of his movements. If he were a character in a novel, this would be the place and time to be noticing his eyes—hazel, with an empty expression. He would be admiring his wavy dark hair, his well-built upper body, and he would be doing so solely for the enjoyment of his readers. Female readers, mostly.

This is no novel. This is real.

He did not care about his physiognomy; it might have got him plenty of nookie, yet it had never got him a decent relationship. The one person who loved him he could not love back. In any case, romance was the last thing on his mind right now.

This has got to end.

Having dressed, Metjen shoved yet another glittery curtain aside and returned to the living room. The fussy furnishings was another reason he could not stand this place, how he wished he had at least brought some rock posters with him. When he passed the pillows, he found Mish-Mish and Blondie curled up in two neat heaps of fur, breathing softly next to each other. He tiptoed past them and carefully closed the door to his condo.