“…and so they locked the key away inside the heart of a human child. The idea,” he said, “Was that this would keep it safe, because no one would be willing to murder an adorable little kid to get to it. This plan was flawed in two respects. Firstly, because the world is full of unscrupulous people who will stop at nothing to get what they want. A little child murder is nothing to them.”
“And? What’s the other reason?”
“And secondly, because you have a natural talent for inspiring homicidal rage in those of us tasked with the responsibility of babysitting you.”
Also how is the kid alive? That key is in the heart, a rather active organ. At tge very least its got to feel like hell.
“Obviously it’s a magic key,” he snapped. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Blood-iron is a powerful substance. The key is more like a passcode programmed into your heart through sorcery. A lot of fuss and nonsense for such a weak security system.”
“Could it be hacked?”
“Well, yes – with a sharp knife and an upward thrusting motion. Less messy than you might expect, but it tends to stain most fabrics.”
“What if I get old like you and give my heart to someone else?”
He snorted. “This is magic we’re talking about, not some corny fairy tale. It’s all hard work and sacrifice. And a surprising amount of mathematics, actually. You’ll understand if you get older.”
“‘If’ I get older?”
“Kid, there are a lot of people who want to kill you right now. Well, technically they just want to cut your heart out, but that particular action happens to have a very high mortality rate. I am being paid handsomely to keep you alive and am confident in my job performance thus far… but I am also a realist, and I’m keeping my resume up to date. Just in case. Oh, no, don’t cry! I am uncomfortable when people cry in front of me. How do I make you stop? Do you need to be fed? Does, ah… does you diaper need to be replaced…?”
He had started crying because he was frightened, tired, and angry, and the events of the day were all catching up with him at once. He continued crying because it made the tall man look panicked.
“Emmett,” said the man sternly, brandishing a finger. There was a tone of desperation in his voice. “Stop doing that!”
Emmett screwed up his face, threw his head back, and let out a long, piercing wail. Grim satisfaction swelled in his chest as he cracked one eye open to watch his new guardian jump to his feet and clamp his hands over his ears. Emmett trailed off into racking sobs and the man backed away, putting as much distance between himself and the crying boy as the room would allow. He didn’t seem to have noticed that tears had stopped rolling down the child’s face minutes before.
“I don’t think I like children,” the man said, leaning wearily against the table.
Emmett wiped his mouth with his sleeve. It hadn’t been chocolate moose tracks, but the ice cream had improved his mood almost as much as seeing an adult pleading with him on his knees. “I know I don’t like you,” he said. “You’re an asshole.”
He’s expected the man to look startled and tell him not to cuss, but he just sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Have you been called… a bastard?”
“More times than I can count.”
“A pissbrain?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What about… an ugly baboon’s poopy butthole ass face?”
A laugh wrenched itself out of the man’s throat. “Actually, that might be a new one,” he admitted.
“Smelly-butt poop-licker? Pee-face poopstain goblin? Turd-munching butthead toilet baby?”
The man eyed Emmett’s spreading grin and suddenly felt very old and very tired. “Is all your humor so fecal in nature?” he asked.
“Assy buttsmell fart-sniffer?”
It was going to be a long night.
Published
SourFlame 