Title: So, it’s begun, then?
Fandom: None (original fiction)
Length: 489 words
Rating: Teen
Notes: Written for fan_flashworks  Amnesty#61, Challenge #89: "Family" and genprompt_bingo  "dread"
Warnings: adult language, mild gore, smoking, alcohol consumption
Summary: an unruly alarm clock and a surprise visitor



Cecil covered his ears and glared at the unruly alarm clock flying around his head. He'd picked it up at a little shop on Elm Street a few weeks back and each night since, it had awoken him in an entirely different manner. Tonight it was mooing at him, like some mechanical cow. Cecil reached out with his magic and smashed it into the wall. The clock fell to the floor with a whimper. "Sorry about that, but it had to be done," Cecil said. He bent down to have a closer look. There was no visible damage. He turned it upright and gave it a pat. "You'll be all right, no worries."

Once the infuriating noise had been silenced he was able to hear someone moving around in his kitchen. The arrow-shaped mole on the back of his neck tingled. He shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this.

His sister was in his kitchen. Tall and pale, with dark hair that looked as if it had been poured over her head and shoulders like a bottle of ink that had been turned over on its side. Angular and sharp-edged. She was breathtaking and sinister all in the same gasping breath. The one and only Esmerelda Black. A glass of red wine in one well-manicured hand and a wooden spoon in the other. She stood there in front of the stove stirring something thick and bubbling in a large black pot. "Where did you come from?" Cecil asked.

She turned her icy gaze on him. "Same place as you, our bitch mother's womb." She knocked back the wine and smiled with crimson-stained lips.

Cecil sighed and ran his fingers through his straw-colored hair. It was entirely too early in the evening to deal with his sister and her - idiosyncrasies. "What are you doing here, Esme?"

"Making soup." Esme put her empty glass on the counter.

She was definitely not making soup. Cecil took a step closer. He could smell rosemary, elderberry, vervain, and a touch of rowan. There was also the unmistakable scent of the ocean in a thunderstorm. "Who died?" Cecil asked. He knew a death cleaning tincture when he smelled one. Especially when it was his own recipe.

"Uncle Max," Esme's voice was devoid of emotion, even more so than usual. Cecil noticed the slight twitch of her left eyebrow and the feeling of dread lying low in his belly deepened. "What happened?"

"He was found in the street with his head bashed in." Esme put down the spoon.

Shit. "What street?"

"Oak."

Cecil sucked in a breath. The prophecy. He conjured a pack of cigarettes from the table by his bed, took one out, and lit it with just a touch of magic. He took a drag, leaned against the counter, and slowly let the smoke out of his lungs. "So, it's begun, then?"

Esme winked at him. "Welcome to the apocalypse, brother."