The Föhn in my Mind
Some say the Santa Ana changes people. They say that when these grandfather winds start to build of steam, people begin to act… differently. They site the föhn winds of Europe, how suicide rates go up. How doctors get more reports of “depression” and “uneasiness”. They say that when the Santa Ana cuts across the desert, fire, lighting and fear boil out over the dunes and streak towards the human mind. Kind little old ladies break out their husbands old 44’s and stalk the night, looking for rattlesnakes one day. A burglar the next.
They say that the Santa Ana changes people, makes humans revert back to some darker, more primal state. Raymond Chandler once said: “Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen”.
Now I may not be someone’s meek little wife, I’m not that gay, but I still was of a mind to snatch up something sharp and go after the next jugular that presented itself. Anyway, as a rule, I don’t put too much weight into the Santa Ana and the whispers of human oddities. I grew up in Oklahoma, home of real granddaddy weather. I was caught under an overpass during the May 3 tornadoes, the day the f-scale was broken. Stories of wind and weather don’t scare me.
Walking down the surprisingly empty streets of Los Angeles, I felt itchy. Like I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as if a lover was breathing on it. Or an enemy, for that matter. It shouldn’t bother me after all this time, being watched, but I still get agitated on harvesting days. I get… ancy. Like a Thoroughbred being walked to the starting gate. I wanted to stretch my muscles, flex my will. But I couldn’t, not without having the magick users version of the mob coming down on my skinny white ass.
Back to Santa Ana, in all fairness, I shouldn’t be too derisive about those Santa Ana stories. Winds like these, föhn winds, do stir up forces that affect humans. It’s a little known fact that most humans are a least a little ‘sensitive’, so when winds like these blow into town, some people could change. Föhn winds, the Santa Ana, and most winds in Oklahoma that pop up on cloudless days, all pick up little magick particles. Then they blow said particles all over the damn place. These stupid winds pick up bits and pieces of excess power that radiate off natural ley lines and then fling them all over the damn place. Makes it hard to concentrate. No one knows why or how, no magic user or meteorologist has a clue. It’s just a fact.
These winds are a blessing and a curse. They give away such raw power, but they can also drive you out of your ever-loving mind. If you are too weak or unprepared, and you’re caught in one of these winds… well lest just say you won’t be needing those reading glasses anymore. If your body comes out of it with a mind, said mind will either mush or curled up in a little ball. Which really is no good for anyone.
Now humans, being the crafty little bastards that we are came up with Collection Guilds. Collection Guilds, like the one I was kicked out of, travel the country, and sift though these winds, taking out the magick bits. For a fee of course. Magickal communities, in most cases, simply don’t have the man power to patrol for stray power sources. So they pay for a third party. That’s where Collectors, like me, step in. Savvy?
Considering the fact that I was kicked out of my guild, I technically wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near a magickal community during a Föhn… but I always had this thing for ignoring technicalities. Which might tie into why I was kicked out of the guild. Maybe. Teachers will tell you that these winds have no personality. That they are simply power sources to be used and controlled. Rookies believe that. But if you have faced down a storm more than once, you know better. The winds recognize Collectors. They know you’re there to take away their power. They are never happy about it. At least they shouldn’t be; but that’s a story for another day. The winds watch you. Size you up. No really, they do.
Anyway, I walked down the almost empty streets and hoped to god I wouldn’t have to stay much longer. I didn’t like the taste of the Santa Ana. I liked Oklahoma winds. Santa Ana’s always have some malevolence to them; like if you don’t fight hard enough for their power, they’ll take you. I was only here to collect on an old paycheck, so hopefully this would be a short and relatively painless. Yeah. Right. I was not there to infringe of anyone else’s harvest, or break another of the million little rules that I never could remembered. Tell that to the Guild.
Now, modern day Guilds are kind of like the old style Italian Mob, expect with magick. And more attitude. Now, although I didn’t get kicked out of this guild, I was in fact kicked out a guild. Which means I’m black listed. Which is bad. These Guilds have the same fanaticism about family that the Italians did. Most guilds recruit young. When I saw recruit, I mean kidnap. They take gifted children, brainwash them, train them up. Guild children grow up surrounded by the Guild; it permeates their life. Then there are people like me. The oddities that escaped having their childhood ripped away. I became a member of the guild at twenty two; making me… gray listed. I could work for them, but I was never going to be “family”. Boo fuckin’ Hoo.
If I was caught by a guild patrolman, during a föhn, without a pass, that would be bad. But not as bad being unarmed, not paying the slightest bit of attention, and walk right into the middle of an ambush. Niiiiiice.
--------
I woke up, and discovered that I was tied to a bed. Laying down on my back, with my hands tied above me to the bed posts. Naked, and tied to a bed; to be specific. Which, if this stays between the two of us, I really wouldn’t mind as long as kidnapping wasn’t the means of getting me there. I looked up, trying to ignore the taste of three year old rotting meat in my mouth, and shifted my weight. Time to get my bearings. Not many people know this, but there is an art to being a captive. There is also a way to be tied to a bed and still remain to control. Or at least fake control. I strained into a sitting position, a hard feat when I was sans the use of my arms. Looking down at my body, I decided then and there that I would never touch another pizza as long as I lived. However short it turned out to be. No bruises, not cuts or bumps. My pale, pale skin was intact.
‘
Okay, I can work with this’ I thought as I tugged idly against the restraints. If they gave me enough time, I could struggle enough to sweat a little, work up some shine to my skin. One rule to remember when you find yourself a captive; keep your dignity, and if you think its safe, look good. I wouldn’t try and make myself attractive if some schlep off the street kidnapped me. But I knew I was safe. No guild member was stupid enough to spoil the goods. Guild captives were considered private property of the High Collector until he or she released them to the masses. No self respecting family member would ever go against the High Collector. Okay, maybe they would, but when the bad guys come in, expecting you scared and vulnerable, it feels great to look better than they do.
I’m such a fucking self centered idiot sometimes. Its going to get me killed and left in a ditch somewhere, I just know it.
I tried to get as close as possible to the headboard, pushing back until my shoulder blades ached. Rolling my hips painfully to the right; I stretched out almost on my side, hiding excess fat (shut up, we all indulge sometimes) and striking what I hoped looked like a casual pose. ‘I got this’ I thought as I tried not wince at the painful stretching of my skin. ’I totally got this.’ Yeah, right. A few more twitches of face and body had me a prepared as a captive could be.
The door opened: show time! Okay Jack, time to look pretty and save your skin! A man stepped in, I couldn’t see his face because of the poor lighting, but something about him tickled my memories. The fact that he was a man startled me. I would have sworn that the High Collector of this Guild was a woman. No self respecting High Controller would ever let someone meet a prisoner in their stead. Looses way too much face doing that. Suddenly, a though occurred to me. Had there been a coo? Was I now facing some new Lord? When a Guild is taken over, the new power has to act fast to stay in power. If there had been a hostile take over, I was most likely going to become the sacrifice that helped solidify the new power. I started to tremble. The man lifted his head towards me; scenting the air. I was going to prepped by the new power and then given over to the seething masses of the Guild. My power ripped away from me, to be added to cashes of the family, my body used and then disposed. The logic of it sent my mind reeling. It would be the perfect way to kick off a new régime.
The man shifted his weight, leaning casually in the doorway. Seemingly unaffected by my fear. He was dressed impeccably, I swear the smell of money and good breeding was soaking into my skin. Rat Bastard.
“Jack, you do realize that this is the third time you’ve been caught in a föhn, on another guilds territory. In fact, you actually can’t be on any guilds land now that you got the boot can you?” Wait a minute, I knew that I voice. I KNEW THAT VOICE! What an ass. His voice was still processed its knee quaking qualities, not that my knees ever quake. Michael Rabbigo stepped into the light, and my heart stuttered.
I once told Michael, as we were basking in the afterglow of spectacular sex, that he looked like those paintings you see in old churches. Paintings of those angles cast out of heaven. He’d simply laughed am thrown a pillow at me. Years later, tied to a bed and most definitely not his lover anymore, the sentiment came back to me. His face reminded me of the painting which convinced me that knowing too much will drive you mad. His brooding, diamond cutting face was currently looking at me like I was on my death bed. What a lovely reunion we had going. Instead of gushing words of affection, not that I ever considered that option mind you, I whipped up a wall of sarcasm to stop any words concerning our past.
“You do realize that this is 69th time I’ve felt the need to strangle you after you’ve spoken only one sentence.” Shut up, I was nervous.
“You’re in a bad way, Jack. The boss was two seconds away from putting a beacon on you and throwing you into the desert. This is serious.” As if I didn’t already know that. I snorted my distain at him and his little games before turning my head away. God this was uncomfortable.
“And I suppose you want me to ask, why he hasn’t disposed of me. And why I am once again stuck seeing your face. Again.” My voice echoed off the bare wooden walls like an undeserved eulogy. I heard him sigh, the kind of sigh he used to give me when I was being stubborn about dressing up for something or other. The sound of his footsteps saw me tensing like some wounded thing, but I couldn’t bring myself to relax. When I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I quickly shut them. A few long tense moments later I was assaulted by the scent of his expensive, utterly masculine cologne. Memories and sensations flooded my mind. Before I could become overcome with knowledge too far repressed, he cupped my chin.
“Jack, just because you’re blond doesn’t mean you’re stupid. You know I’m your only option here. So stop being such a stupid ass.” The warm, familiar glow of rage filled my belly. My eyes and mouth shot open, ready to explain to him that thank you very much—my tirade was stopped before it begun. My utterly plain hazel eyes met extraordinary green ones, and I was stopped in my tracks. As usual. Damnit, shouldn’t I have built up some sort of immunity or something? I mean really, I’m a grown man not a school girl with a crush. Tell that to my emotions. And my dick.
“I separated from you. That means I don’t want to see you. It means that you have nothing to offer my anymore.” I couldn’t tell if my words hurt him or not. That was no surprise, even when we were so enthralled with each other that our minds were almost joined, I could never read his face. His only response was to lean foreword and kiss the center of my collarbone. A few seconds later he rolled his eyes upward, he knew I was watching. Lips still connected to my skin he sealed the deal.
“Its not just a blacklist this time Jack. You are now officially on the “kill on sight” list. As much as you hate politics, you’ve just become its victim.” He waited, eyes holding mine. I could feel my pulse rate skyrocket as I lay their helpless; part fear part unwitting desire. This was bad. This was so freaking bad. I wouldn’t last two days with a kill order on my name. My short lithe frame wouldn’t be able to handle constant attacks from the physical and metaphysical realms. Damn. Damn. Damn. Michael timed the next part perfectly, because he’s a perfect little bastard.
“I can help you. If you would just please, please stop being a little pissant and cooperate. I know you don’t… approve my job, but damnit Jack, this is serious. You are going to die! I got the High Collector to accept my terms for us. If you’d just—“ He cut himself off with a violent jerk of his head. I tried to ignore the feel of his dark, silky hair on my bare skin.
“What exactly are your terms” I tried to peel the skin from his beautiful face with my voice. It didn’t work. He sighed against my skin, making shivers crawl up my spine.
“They will let you go. If you go with me; as my registered soul mate. I’ll even go to Oklahoma. You just need to go with me. ”
Sometimes, I really, really, really, wish I wasn’t so easy.
They say that the Santa Ana changes people, makes humans revert back to some darker, more primal state. Raymond Chandler once said: “Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen”.
Now I may not be someone’s meek little wife, I’m not that gay, but I still was of a mind to snatch up something sharp and go after the next jugular that presented itself. Anyway, as a rule, I don’t put too much weight into the Santa Ana and the whispers of human oddities. I grew up in Oklahoma, home of real granddaddy weather. I was caught under an overpass during the May 3 tornadoes, the day the f-scale was broken. Stories of wind and weather don’t scare me.
Walking down the surprisingly empty streets of Los Angeles, I felt itchy. Like I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as if a lover was breathing on it. Or an enemy, for that matter. It shouldn’t bother me after all this time, being watched, but I still get agitated on harvesting days. I get… ancy. Like a Thoroughbred being walked to the starting gate. I wanted to stretch my muscles, flex my will. But I couldn’t, not without having the magick users version of the mob coming down on my skinny white ass.
Back to Santa Ana, in all fairness, I shouldn’t be too derisive about those Santa Ana stories. Winds like these, föhn winds, do stir up forces that affect humans. It’s a little known fact that most humans are a least a little ‘sensitive’, so when winds like these blow into town, some people could change. Föhn winds, the Santa Ana, and most winds in Oklahoma that pop up on cloudless days, all pick up little magick particles. Then they blow said particles all over the damn place. These stupid winds pick up bits and pieces of excess power that radiate off natural ley lines and then fling them all over the damn place. Makes it hard to concentrate. No one knows why or how, no magic user or meteorologist has a clue. It’s just a fact.
These winds are a blessing and a curse. They give away such raw power, but they can also drive you out of your ever-loving mind. If you are too weak or unprepared, and you’re caught in one of these winds… well lest just say you won’t be needing those reading glasses anymore. If your body comes out of it with a mind, said mind will either mush or curled up in a little ball. Which really is no good for anyone.
Now humans, being the crafty little bastards that we are came up with Collection Guilds. Collection Guilds, like the one I was kicked out of, travel the country, and sift though these winds, taking out the magick bits. For a fee of course. Magickal communities, in most cases, simply don’t have the man power to patrol for stray power sources. So they pay for a third party. That’s where Collectors, like me, step in. Savvy?
Considering the fact that I was kicked out of my guild, I technically wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near a magickal community during a Föhn… but I always had this thing for ignoring technicalities. Which might tie into why I was kicked out of the guild. Maybe. Teachers will tell you that these winds have no personality. That they are simply power sources to be used and controlled. Rookies believe that. But if you have faced down a storm more than once, you know better. The winds recognize Collectors. They know you’re there to take away their power. They are never happy about it. At least they shouldn’t be; but that’s a story for another day. The winds watch you. Size you up. No really, they do.
Anyway, I walked down the almost empty streets and hoped to god I wouldn’t have to stay much longer. I didn’t like the taste of the Santa Ana. I liked Oklahoma winds. Santa Ana’s always have some malevolence to them; like if you don’t fight hard enough for their power, they’ll take you. I was only here to collect on an old paycheck, so hopefully this would be a short and relatively painless. Yeah. Right. I was not there to infringe of anyone else’s harvest, or break another of the million little rules that I never could remembered. Tell that to the Guild.
Now, modern day Guilds are kind of like the old style Italian Mob, expect with magick. And more attitude. Now, although I didn’t get kicked out of this guild, I was in fact kicked out a guild. Which means I’m black listed. Which is bad. These Guilds have the same fanaticism about family that the Italians did. Most guilds recruit young. When I saw recruit, I mean kidnap. They take gifted children, brainwash them, train them up. Guild children grow up surrounded by the Guild; it permeates their life. Then there are people like me. The oddities that escaped having their childhood ripped away. I became a member of the guild at twenty two; making me… gray listed. I could work for them, but I was never going to be “family”. Boo fuckin’ Hoo.
If I was caught by a guild patrolman, during a föhn, without a pass, that would be bad. But not as bad being unarmed, not paying the slightest bit of attention, and walk right into the middle of an ambush. Niiiiiice.
--------
I woke up, and discovered that I was tied to a bed. Laying down on my back, with my hands tied above me to the bed posts. Naked, and tied to a bed; to be specific. Which, if this stays between the two of us, I really wouldn’t mind as long as kidnapping wasn’t the means of getting me there. I looked up, trying to ignore the taste of three year old rotting meat in my mouth, and shifted my weight. Time to get my bearings. Not many people know this, but there is an art to being a captive. There is also a way to be tied to a bed and still remain to control. Or at least fake control. I strained into a sitting position, a hard feat when I was sans the use of my arms. Looking down at my body, I decided then and there that I would never touch another pizza as long as I lived. However short it turned out to be. No bruises, not cuts or bumps. My pale, pale skin was intact.
‘
Okay, I can work with this’ I thought as I tugged idly against the restraints. If they gave me enough time, I could struggle enough to sweat a little, work up some shine to my skin. One rule to remember when you find yourself a captive; keep your dignity, and if you think its safe, look good. I wouldn’t try and make myself attractive if some schlep off the street kidnapped me. But I knew I was safe. No guild member was stupid enough to spoil the goods. Guild captives were considered private property of the High Collector until he or she released them to the masses. No self respecting family member would ever go against the High Collector. Okay, maybe they would, but when the bad guys come in, expecting you scared and vulnerable, it feels great to look better than they do.
I’m such a fucking self centered idiot sometimes. Its going to get me killed and left in a ditch somewhere, I just know it.
I tried to get as close as possible to the headboard, pushing back until my shoulder blades ached. Rolling my hips painfully to the right; I stretched out almost on my side, hiding excess fat (shut up, we all indulge sometimes) and striking what I hoped looked like a casual pose. ‘I got this’ I thought as I tried not wince at the painful stretching of my skin. ’I totally got this.’ Yeah, right. A few more twitches of face and body had me a prepared as a captive could be.
The door opened: show time! Okay Jack, time to look pretty and save your skin! A man stepped in, I couldn’t see his face because of the poor lighting, but something about him tickled my memories. The fact that he was a man startled me. I would have sworn that the High Collector of this Guild was a woman. No self respecting High Controller would ever let someone meet a prisoner in their stead. Looses way too much face doing that. Suddenly, a though occurred to me. Had there been a coo? Was I now facing some new Lord? When a Guild is taken over, the new power has to act fast to stay in power. If there had been a hostile take over, I was most likely going to become the sacrifice that helped solidify the new power. I started to tremble. The man lifted his head towards me; scenting the air. I was going to prepped by the new power and then given over to the seething masses of the Guild. My power ripped away from me, to be added to cashes of the family, my body used and then disposed. The logic of it sent my mind reeling. It would be the perfect way to kick off a new régime.
The man shifted his weight, leaning casually in the doorway. Seemingly unaffected by my fear. He was dressed impeccably, I swear the smell of money and good breeding was soaking into my skin. Rat Bastard.
“Jack, you do realize that this is the third time you’ve been caught in a föhn, on another guilds territory. In fact, you actually can’t be on any guilds land now that you got the boot can you?” Wait a minute, I knew that I voice. I KNEW THAT VOICE! What an ass. His voice was still processed its knee quaking qualities, not that my knees ever quake. Michael Rabbigo stepped into the light, and my heart stuttered.
I once told Michael, as we were basking in the afterglow of spectacular sex, that he looked like those paintings you see in old churches. Paintings of those angles cast out of heaven. He’d simply laughed am thrown a pillow at me. Years later, tied to a bed and most definitely not his lover anymore, the sentiment came back to me. His face reminded me of the painting which convinced me that knowing too much will drive you mad. His brooding, diamond cutting face was currently looking at me like I was on my death bed. What a lovely reunion we had going. Instead of gushing words of affection, not that I ever considered that option mind you, I whipped up a wall of sarcasm to stop any words concerning our past.
“You do realize that this is 69th time I’ve felt the need to strangle you after you’ve spoken only one sentence.” Shut up, I was nervous.
“You’re in a bad way, Jack. The boss was two seconds away from putting a beacon on you and throwing you into the desert. This is serious.” As if I didn’t already know that. I snorted my distain at him and his little games before turning my head away. God this was uncomfortable.
“And I suppose you want me to ask, why he hasn’t disposed of me. And why I am once again stuck seeing your face. Again.” My voice echoed off the bare wooden walls like an undeserved eulogy. I heard him sigh, the kind of sigh he used to give me when I was being stubborn about dressing up for something or other. The sound of his footsteps saw me tensing like some wounded thing, but I couldn’t bring myself to relax. When I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I quickly shut them. A few long tense moments later I was assaulted by the scent of his expensive, utterly masculine cologne. Memories and sensations flooded my mind. Before I could become overcome with knowledge too far repressed, he cupped my chin.
“Jack, just because you’re blond doesn’t mean you’re stupid. You know I’m your only option here. So stop being such a stupid ass.” The warm, familiar glow of rage filled my belly. My eyes and mouth shot open, ready to explain to him that thank you very much—my tirade was stopped before it begun. My utterly plain hazel eyes met extraordinary green ones, and I was stopped in my tracks. As usual. Damnit, shouldn’t I have built up some sort of immunity or something? I mean really, I’m a grown man not a school girl with a crush. Tell that to my emotions. And my dick.
“I separated from you. That means I don’t want to see you. It means that you have nothing to offer my anymore.” I couldn’t tell if my words hurt him or not. That was no surprise, even when we were so enthralled with each other that our minds were almost joined, I could never read his face. His only response was to lean foreword and kiss the center of my collarbone. A few seconds later he rolled his eyes upward, he knew I was watching. Lips still connected to my skin he sealed the deal.
“Its not just a blacklist this time Jack. You are now officially on the “kill on sight” list. As much as you hate politics, you’ve just become its victim.” He waited, eyes holding mine. I could feel my pulse rate skyrocket as I lay their helpless; part fear part unwitting desire. This was bad. This was so freaking bad. I wouldn’t last two days with a kill order on my name. My short lithe frame wouldn’t be able to handle constant attacks from the physical and metaphysical realms. Damn. Damn. Damn. Michael timed the next part perfectly, because he’s a perfect little bastard.
“I can help you. If you would just please, please stop being a little pissant and cooperate. I know you don’t… approve my job, but damnit Jack, this is serious. You are going to die! I got the High Collector to accept my terms for us. If you’d just—“ He cut himself off with a violent jerk of his head. I tried to ignore the feel of his dark, silky hair on my bare skin.
“What exactly are your terms” I tried to peel the skin from his beautiful face with my voice. It didn’t work. He sighed against my skin, making shivers crawl up my spine.
“They will let you go. If you go with me; as my registered soul mate. I’ll even go to Oklahoma. You just need to go with me. ”
Sometimes, I really, really, really, wish I wasn’t so easy.
