Teenage Warrior Angst
A "Living with Your Past Selves" Teaser
Being a warrior is hard. But what about being a modern American teenager whose past life memories suddenly awakened? Taliesin Weaver (Tal to his friends) had been a warrior—several time over. He’d served with King David, Alexander the Great, and King Arthur (for whom he was also a bard and a sorcerer), among others. But now, he must contend with a need to keep his past secret. He has to deal with parents who no longer understand him and friends who are suspicious of him. And of course, no amount of past life experience can entirely overcome teenage hormones.
Unfortunately for him, he’s not the only supernatural being in town.
We join Taliesin Weaver Tal right after a car accident just outside the high school.
Okay, so I was being a little over-dramatic. The car hit at about half a mile an hour, not enough to kill or maim in this case, but certainly enough to make an ominous sounding thud, knock me over (since I was a little off balance anyway), and send my shoulder bags flying in different directions. I had been so distracted by Stan that I hadn’t realized we were standing right in the middle of the street. The incident ended up being more embarrassing than anything else. The driver turned out to be one of the mothers dropping off her daughter. She seemed torn between fussing over me and getting hysterical. Getting hysterical won pretty quickly, with the result that we drew an uncomfortably large crowd, including several girls who I wished had not seen me sprawled out in the middle of the street, and Ms. Simmons, the high school’s principal, who eased back on her usual sternness to fuss over me herself. Needless to say, that too was embarrassing.
There were, however, two good things that came out of the fiasco: Stan couldn’t keep questioning me, and Ms. Simmons sent me to the nurse’s office to be checked out—which meant I got to check out the nurse!
I’m not complaining, but really someone should have more common sense than to hire a smoking hot twenty-something nurse with long blond hair and the figure of a Playboy model for a high school. Usually, students just try to get sent to the nurse’s office so that they can miss class, but at good old Santa Brígida High School, the guys had an additional reason for faking illness. You practically had to be dying, though, before most teachers would let you out of class. Clearly, they knew what was going on.
“Tal, your heart rate is a little fast.”
No kidding! (Yeah, I know, I should have been thinking about what to do with Stan, and the Gwrach y Rhibyn [a Welsh spirit that warns of approaching death], and the myriad of other problems I had, but again I’ll point out that the combined wisdom from my previous lives couldn’t completely override my sixteen-year-old body.)
“Adrenaline, I guess, Nurse Florence. You know, from the accident.”
“Probably.” God, even her voice was sexy. “I don’t see anything else wrong with you.”
Funny, I don’t see anything wrong with you, either.
“But,” Nurse Florence added, “I should call your mother, just to let her know what happened.”
Well, that was certainly one way to derail the porno movie I had started scripting in my head.
Switching into Welsh, I said, “That won’t be necessary. There is no need to call my mother.”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Nurse Florence smiled, and said, “Well, I guess there really isn’t a need to call your mother—but come back here if you notice anything wrong. I mean anything.”
You can count on that. “Yes, Nurse Florence.” It was good to know that my Celtic mojo was still working, even if it didn’t work on Stan for some odd reason.
I pulled on my backpack and left the office as slowly as I could. As I closed the door behind me, the bell rang. I must have missed first period. As they say, it is amazing how time flies when you’re having fun.
I’m sure someone out there is silently cussing me out for objectifying women. Guilty as charged, but at least I don’t act on every impulse I have. Indeed, I don’t act on most of them. Say what you will about my parents—and certainly I have said my share about them—they brought me up to respect women and to set moral boundaries, and I really do. At least my brain does—I can’t always vouch for the rest of my body, but my brain manages to stay in charge—and this despite the whisperings from some of my past lives, during which society had a quite different sexual morality. You know I’m not just putting you on. Given my unique abilities, think what I could do without moral restraint. Hell, give me a guitar and a chance for a little lunchtime concert, and I could have the whole female population ready to jump into bed with me right on the spot. I could, but I don’t.
Damn morality! Damn free will!
And damn…down the hall came Eva O’Reilly, a fellow Celt, straight at me.
My self-restraint was certainly being tested today.
Eva was about my height, strawberry blond with deep green eyes and a curvaceous figure. She wasn’t quite Nurse Florence, but I knew my heart rate was a little too fast again. Now that she was closer, I caught a whiff of the jasmine perfume she liked to wear.
“Tal, are you okay?” she asked softly. “I heard you got hit by a car.”
“Rumors of my death have been much exaggerated,” I said, trying to be witty—nearly always a mistake. Somehow, Eva never seemed to get my humor, even though I’d known her for years. Apparently, she didn’t get Mark Twain’s humor either.
“Well, I knew you weren’t dead,” she replied in her stating-the-obvious voice. “But anyway, I’m glad everything is okay.”
“Yeah, Weaver,” came a loud voice from right behind me, “next time look twice before crossing the street.”
I didn’t need to turn around to know that Eva’s boyfriend, Dan Stevens, was right behind me.
Yeah, boyfriend. The way my luck was going, you would have to figure Eva was attached.
Except for some well-hidden tension, Dan was stereotype incarnate: varsity football quarterback, and looking pretty much like the all-American boy from Central Casting, with blond hair, blue eyes, deep tan, and well-muscled body. He stood about a head taller than I did and infinitely higher in the high school social hierarchy, so naturally, he made little attempt to conceal his general contempt for me. Our relationship hadn’t always been like that, though. There was a time when we had been friends—close friends actually, almost as close as Stan and me—but that seemed very long ago now, like in another lifetime, though ironically that particular memory came from this one.
“Yeah, I’ll try to remember that next time,” I quipped. Dan looked as if he might have wanted to get another dig in, but Eva probably wouldn’t have liked that, so he pressed his lips together and said nothing.
“Anyway,” I said, turning back to Eva, “thanks for asking.”
“Well, I’m just glad you’re okay. I’ll see you later.”
I smiled my best fake smile and nodded as she walked off with one arm around Dan. Women are so superficial.
Suddenly I realized what should have occurred to me a while ago: I had my backpack, but not my guitar or fencing equipment. Since the nurse’s office was closer than the front of the school, that’s the way I headed.
“Nurse Florence, I was carrying my guitar and fencing stuff this morning. Do you have any idea what happened to them?”
She pondered for just a second.
“I think your friend Stan picked them up.” I thanked her and headed out into the hall. The students still milling around meant passing period wasn’t quite over. Stan and I didn’t have the same period two, and I wasn’t sure exactly where he was, so I pulled out my cell phone and gave him a quick call.
He took a longer time to answer than I expected, and when he did, he sounded half dead.
“Stan? Where are you?”
“Still at home sick,” he responded, almost in a whisper. “I admire your faith, but sorry, no miracle cures this morning.”
“When did you get sick? You seemed fine this morning.”
“You didn’t see me this morning. I texted you not to come.”
“Sorry to bother you, Stan. I’ll call you later, to see how you are.” He mumbled a goodbye, and then I started sorting through my texts. Sure enough, there was one from Stan telling me he was sick, and that I didn’t need to come by his house. I had been so frazzled getting out of the house that I hadn’t noticed it.
However, a missed text was the least of my worries. The fog hadn’t been so bad this morning that I couldn’t recognize my best friend standing right beside me.
Ever since my past selves had awakened within me, I had remembered many encounters with supernatural beings, but all of those had been many centuries ago. Except for my own abilities, I had never experienced anything out of the ordinary in this life, and I had pretty well decided that such encounters with the supernatural no longer occurred. Then, less than a day ago, the Gwrach y Rhibyn had shown up, and I now apparently faced another, much more immediate supernatural visitor.
There was a shape-shifter on campus, and he had stolen my stuff!
Perhaps more than just a shifter. He—or it—not only looked like Stan but acted like Stan. Either the thing had observed him quite a bit, and that thought chilled me more than I can say, or the thing had some kind of telepathy, which wasn’t a much more comforting thought. I didn’t remember any telepathic creatures, though. Then another thought struck me.
I had counted very carefully. I knew I was at the right door this morning, though I now realized that “Stan” had actually popped out before I had a chance to knock.
The thing had come out of Stan’s house.
Obviously, Stan was still alive. I was half tempted to call his parents to make sure they were still alive, but I couldn’t think of any particularly plausible reason to have called if they turned out to be alive. Anyway, Stan, even groggy as he apparently was, would certainly have noticed if his ever-hovering mother was not around. And there was still the problem of the shifter, who was running around loose at school, with at least one particularly dangerous piece of equipment.
The bell starting class rang, but I ignored it. I couldn’t chance the shifter getting away with what it had stolen. I moved down the hall as stealthily as I could; even at that, I had to convince a couple of teachers that I was supposed to be out of class. As I looked around, I tried to figure out how to find the shifter. It hadn’t waited for me in the nurse’s office, which suggested its mission the whole time had been to steal from me. Its mission accomplished, it would probably get as far away as it could with its loot. Logical enough, but what good did any of that do me unless I knew in what direction the thing was moving or at least what its destination was?
The Celts practiced a number of methods of divination in ancient times, but most of them were impractical right now. My best option was to get outside and look for signs in nature. The high school, also a Spanish colonial revival structure, featured an enormous courtyard in the center that was almost more forest than courtyard, but enclosed nature like that wouldn’t do me as much good as the real outdoors. Anyway, more people could potentially spot me, especially from the second-floor windows, if I was out in the courtyard, and I didn’t want to have to magic every adult on campus. There was also a wooded area near the back entrance of the campus. It wasn’t a real forest, but an artifice of the developers. Nonetheless, the trees were real enough, and perhaps they would speak to me if I were patient. Patience was in short supply at the moment, but what choice did I really have?
I got out of the back entrance of the school, across the parking lot, and almost ran toward the “woods.” In their own way, they looked nearly as out of place as the ubiquitous palm trees, but even I had to admit they looked as if they had grown there naturally, though some types of trees were not native to the area. Doubtless, they, like the palms, had been brought in full grown.
As soon as I hit the edge of the woods, I reached out and touched each tree in turn, trying to hear any message that it might have for me. I was expecting that this process could take hours, but the third tree I touched actually did speak to me, though not quite with the message I had anticipated.
“HE’S HERE!” it shrieked, and the wind seemed to echo the cry. My body tensed into combat readiness, and I crept slowly around the next turn in the path.
“Stan” was indeed there. Having tossed my guitar case down roughly on the ground, he was rummaging through the fencing equipment, tossing the foils on the ground one by one, clearly disappointed so far. Without hesitation, I lunged for the guitar case. I was quick, but “Stan” was quicker, noticing my presence, charging in my direction and smacking me aside before I could get within ten feet of the instrument. I rolled and was back on my feet almost before I hit the ground. However, “Stan’s” blow had been much harder than Stan, or probably even Dan Stevens, could have administered, and it left me a little wobbly. Indeed, if the thing had pressed its advantage, I might have been dead. Instead, it made a grab for the last foil in the bag and then gave a triumphant, un-Stanlike scream as it raised high above its head, not a fencing foil, but a real sword. Its blade flashed in the sunlight as the last bits of the foil illusion that had surrounded it melted away.
Why I felt the need for a real sword when I had never faced a serious threat until today, I never knew, but it is said, “A sword always finds a wielder,” and this one must have called out to me hard enough to get me to manipulate my parents into vacationing in Europe. The finding of the sword, to say nothing of the difficulty concealing it from my parents and from customs officials, was an ordeal for which even I couldn’t understand the reason—until this moment. Perhaps destiny had led me on the sword quest precisely to save me today. The problem with that theory was that the shifter was the one with the sword and was charging in my direction, hell-bent on impaling me with it.
The shifter was clearly stronger than the real Stan, so it had the muscle to swing the sword, but not the months of practice to really make those swings count. I dodged without difficulty, though I knew I could not keep that up indefinitely. I started to sing a couple of times, but the physical exertion made me short of breath; the sad fact was that I couldn’t very easily sing and dodge so fast at the same time.
The shifter was losing his “Stanishness” in an attempt to master the weapon. He was now a head taller than the real Stan, with longer arms and legs that bulged with muscle. The face remained superficially like Stan’s, but the sheer malevolence of its expression destroyed the illusion almost completely.
I knew my music could affect the shifter now that I knew what I was dealing with, but since I could neither play (the guitar being well out of reach) nor sing, my theoretical ability to win that way was of little practical use. I continued to commune with the trees, but this forest was not sufficiently used to magic to make a very effective contribution to combat. Nor was there much wildlife, and I doubted the couple of squirrels I could sense would be much of an obstacle to this adversary.
It was then I realized that I might die today.
The shifter wanted me dead; there was no question of that. I was in decent shape, but there is a big difference between fencing, or even practicing with a long sword, and actual combat. Sure, I had seen plenty of action in my past lives; one of me had even served with Alexander the Great, and another with King David. The problem was, though I had their memories, physical skills depended to some extent on the body, and my current body, I now belatedly realized, just wasn’t up to the job yet. I had been practicing the skills, but not building enough stamina. I could still dodge successfully, but my breathing was getting pretty ragged, my heart was pounding, sweat was getting in my eyes—the damned sword looked like it was getting a little closer each time. Then “Stan” managed to nick me on the left arm, and I felt blood begin to trickle down.
I could run, but I doubted I could outrun the shifter, whose stamina seemed considerably greater than mine and who might well be able to lengthen his legs if needed. Hell, the shifter wasn’t even working up a sweat. Aside from that, leaving the shifter with my sword, just the proverbial stone’s throw away from a whole bunch of people who wouldn’t even know what hit them if the shifter took it into his head to go on a killing spree, wasn’t my first choice. I won’t lie—I’d probably do it if it were the only way I could survive, but not while there were other options.
Then I rolled just a little too slowly and got an even bigger gash on my left arm. My brain flicked into overdrive as I pawed desperately through the memories of my past selves, trying to find something, anything, that might save me.
I could make myself “invisible,” or at least make people not notice me, but I had never tried that move in combat. I’d never even been in combat in this life, but I had the feeling I couldn’t just vanish right in front of the shifter.
I could shift myself—in theory. Taliesin 1 had been able to shift, so I knew what to do, but I had always been too afraid to try, and combat didn’t seem like the place to make the attempt for the first time. Anyway, there was no guarantee I could beat the shifter at his own game; Taliesin 1 had lost his biggest contest in shifting.
I could pass into Annwn, the Welsh “Otherworld.” Taliesin 1 had gone there with Arthur and some knights, but I had always been too scared to try that, either. Annwn was fiendishly unpredictable under the best of circumstances. I could slam right into something far, far worse, than the shifter—and that was assuming the shifter didn’t follow me in, which he probably could.
Ah, there was nothing like having no options whatsoever.
Nick, this time on the right arm. At this rate, the blood loss alone would make me too weak to defend myself effectively.
I whispered to the trees, they whispered to the wind, and a call for help began radiating outward from the woods. Unless some benevolent supernatural being was nearby, though, the likelihood was that the call would go unanswered. Oh, one of the security guards at the school might get a sudden itch to take a little walk in the parking lot, but the trees would block his view, and the sound of a sword cutting into my flesh wouldn’t exactly be audible from a distance. Some of the students in classrooms on the back side of the building might feel uneasy and glance out the window, but again they would see and hear nothing. No, I couldn’t expect help, at least not from anyone around here.
I narrowly dodged a sword stroke that bit deeply into the oak tree behind me, so deeply the blow shook the whole tree. The shifter had hit hard enough to practically sever an arm. Clearly, he was getting tired of this fight and wanted to end it. He ripped the blade loose from the oak and came at me again.
Another lunge and the shifter would have finished me, but he tripped on a tree root and staggered, missing me by inches. I guess the trees had a little fight in them after all.
I struck with all the speed I could muster, grabbing the sword hilt and wresting it from the surprised shifter’s hand. I no sooner had control of the sword than the blade was engulfed in flames.
Yeah, this was no ordinary sword I had brought back from Wales. It was Dyrnwy, White Hilt, the sword of Rhydderch Hael, one of the thirteen magic treasures of Britain, brought back from Annwn by Arthur and Taliesin 1. Damn good thing it found me worthy enough to flame for me; that sword was pretty temperamental, or so it was said.
The shifter’s eyes became slits, and he backed away a step or two, hissing at me. Knowing I had no time to lose, I pressed forward, keeping the flaming sword between us.
Fortunately, I had practiced with this blade, and I had worked on my arms enough to hold and swing it to good effect. As far as skill was concerned, I was a better swordsman than the shifter, and now I had the sword.
The problem was, the shifter wasn’t bleeding from multiple flesh wounds, and his arms hadn’t started to feel like lead. I could still lose if I didn’t kill him fast.
The shifter dodged me skillfully, staying just far enough away to tempt me to lunge too far and lose my balance. Luckily, I knew that game from my previous lives and did not fall for it. Unfortunately, the shifter had created a standoff. He couldn’t get close enough to me to try hand-to-hand combat, but he moved too fast for me to strike successfully with the sword. The subtle blurring of his outline told me that he was shifting constantly, somehow using his shifting as a tactic to dispel the fatigue poisons in his muscles. His breathing was still steady, his moves as fast as ever. I was pretty sure he couldn’t keep up the shifting indefinitely, especially at that rate of speed, but he really didn’t need to. I was already having trouble keeping the blade up, and the blood loss was making me light-headed; there was no way I could outlast him.
Then I realized what I had to do. The force creating the fire on the sword was magic, but the fire itself behaved as fire normally would—and I could manipulate natural forces, at least on a small scale, almost as easily as I could manipulate people. I had enough breath now for a quick chant in Welsh, and I used it. In response to my words, the flames shot out from the sword like a laser, blasting the shifter’s chest and igniting him. He howled and tried to beat out the flames with his hands, but the fiery stream, fed by the magic of the sword in a way I by myself could never have sustained, just kept right on coming. In no time he was engulfed in flames. His screams echoed in my ears, and the smell of burning flesh was everywhere. Once I was sure his attention was focused completely on the fire, I moved in and took off his head in one swift, clean stroke.
I need to preface what happened next by pointing out I wasn’t really as much of a wimp as I’m going to sound like. You just have to keep in mind that, for all my bravado, I had never had to deal with this kind of situation before in my current life. Many of my former selves had been hardened by numerous battles, and they took killing lightly, in some cases even when they were about as young as I was now. For me it was different. For four years I had had the echoes of those past selves in me, telling me to kill, sometimes for what seemed pretty trivial causes, like Stan’s poking around near my secret. In my wildest dreams, though, I had never actually expected that I would ever need to kill somebody.
Finding the sword, the training, so much else, I had done more or less instinctively, not really anticipating the immediate practical need for such things. For the last few minutes, of course, I had known that my life was on the line, that I needed to kill the shifter. But during the whole battle I had been running on autopilot, fueled by battle adrenalin and survival instinct, other feelings jammed down as far inside of me as they would go.
Now, as the adrenaline faded, I knew that everything had changed. I had sometimes daydreamed about myself as a fairy-tale knight slaying a dragon. But fairy tales don’t suggest any psychological aftermath. The prince finishes saving the damsel, perhaps marries her—end of story. However, my story had no end. Yes, I was alive, and that should have made me ecstatically happy, but I had killed, and I knew with a chilling certainty that I would kill again…and again…and again. Oh, it would be self-defense, or it would be defending someone else, but my current self could not yet handle the enormous weight with which such violence would press upon my soul.
As the gory reality flooded over me, I swayed, fell to my knees, and vomited repeatedly, my stomach continuing to convulse long after it was empty. The smell of burned flesh continued to assail me, and so did one sight I would never be able to forget no matter what I did—to the very end, the shifter’s face had looked like Stan’s. When he had realized he could not contain the flames, I saw the absolute, gut-wrenching fear in Stan’s eyes. And when I took the thing’s head, I could not shake the feeling that I was taking Stan’s.
I lay on the ground, feeling sorry for myself and disgusted with myself, not wanting to ever get up. I began to cry, gently at first, then in long, shaking sobs.
I might have stayed that way for hours, stayed until the school authorities found me, covered in blood, with a bloody sword on the ground next to me and charred human remains nearby. But then, as seemed to be the norm in the last few days, my life went through another crazy twist.
I heard someone clearing his throat nearby. Who was it, and what could I possibly say to him?
I twisted my head just enough to see Dan Stevens standing a few feet away, his face unreadable.
Want to find out more about Living with Your Past Selves or the Spell Weaver series in general? Check out the series page here:
Wow! Loved this and can't wait to read more. Tal and his past-lives are a fun ride! More, please!