The Blabbermouth And The Alcoholic Apprentice Mage 

Alcoholics cannot be choosers.

The Blabbermouth And The Alcoholic Apprentice Mage

In the morning I had a nasty quarrel with Alex because the little furball still did not disappear from the apartment. We didn't talk to each other all day, and although we refused to say a word about the whole thing, the others tried to find out why. In one of the breaks, for example, Alice sat down across from me.

"Wanna talk about it?"

I almost toppled the table, then left. Is this a satisfactory answer?

My shift starts at eight at the local pub, but I usually arrive a little earlier to help the owner. I opened the black door and the smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes immediately hit my nose.

The pub itself wasn't too big. Next to the door, on the right side, was the counter, the wall behind it was decorated with forty or fifty glass bottles, the mere sight of which made the mood to start drinking.

On my other side was a small podium, a kind of cheap stage, on which usually only chairs were stacked on top of each other because there weren't many people around here who would provide live music to this small brasserie.

Next to the stage, on the left, there were three slot machines, in the opposite corner there was an ancient jukebox, and near it, there was a dart machine. A pool table and tables for two or more people took up the space in the middle area. 

Next to the counter on the right was the boss's office, and next to it rose the kitchen and liquor chamber, to the top of which a staircase led up, this could be called a sort of second floor.

There was a white railing around the top behind the black curtains, and although there were tables up there, half of the customers were forbidden to go up to the second floor — for it was specifically reserved for the monsters. I have to say that for some incomprehensible reason, the place was much more popular with monsters than with humans.

Quite a few patrons were sitting at the tables, sometimes they were calling for me and their next beer. Most of them were regular customers, so they knew my name. The same way as in school, here as well, they mostly thought that Shay was just something like a nickname for me. All of my documents had the name Ádám Roubál, but when I was called "Ádi" by a few teachers, I usually needed a few weird, piercing looks to realize that they were calling me. I got this name partly from Alex. My mother's last name was Roubál, and the werewolf added something to it out of the blue.

When I met him, I had nothing but my name. Shaytan. You know, like Satan. It's not hard to guess. My name came from a misunderstanding. When I was a child, adults would often refer to me as "Satan's spawn" (or Satans Brut, die Brut des Satans, Satansbraten as they were mostly speaking German), which I didn't understand at the time. and other cute nicknames.

As a little kid, who did not speak any foreign languages at the time and wasn't given a fancy translation amulet, I only grasped that they were talking about me. I think my mother's choice of name (more precisely the lack of it) shows perfectly how much she loved me. It's hardly surprising, though.

She was raped by a monster, and then she had to carry the evil little creature to term. I was parasitizing her for nine months and it was a miracle that she survived my birth. After that, I couldn't really say that she was raising me, but she tolerated my presence in her house, she gave me food, and she only talked to me when she wanted to curse me to hell with all the other evil beast infants, monster children, and demon kids.

I couldn't complain much because even if she said those kinds of things, she didn't want to send me to my death — at least not physically. In words? Well, that's another question. I swear, all the people I've met in my life so far haven't cursed me as many times as she did in the twelve years, she had to live under the same roof with me – in my defense, I've done more horrible things to humans than existing.

I turned my gaze to Weasel, who, gesturing with huge movements, talked to his gang. A rumor was spreading among the monsters about this pub.

There is an organization called Behemoth that offers monster protection to the surrounding pubs in exchange for money. Anyone who does not accept this protection can start to prepare for war with the gang. Still, this small brasserie is almost the only independent one in this whole town.

It is said that the boss of the pub is hiding some terrible beast that even a large and extensive organization like the Behemoth fears. This beast, if needed, sometimes shows up at the pub, and if someone offers enough money, he does some nasty work. No one knows exactly when he'll arrive or just how he knows about it, but if someone searches for him, he'll definitely show up. It's mysterious, isn't it? The White Demon.

"Few know what the bastard looks like," the Weasel continued with great acting. "Some say he's a giant, but others swear that he's a beast with the flexibility of a cat... Only one thing's certain though: because of his infamous cruelty and bloodthirst..."

I put the mug of beer on the table, but I must admit, with slightly greater force than I intended. The small group of shapeshifters, who had leaned as close as possible to Weasel, suddenly moved away, but at least shuddered in fright. Weasel looked up at me, and his lips curled upward again with the sloppy smile that upset me each time I saw it.

"Hello, Shay."

"Your beer," I said.

Though all I said was that, the guy perfectly felt the threat in my voice. He chuckled.

"Thanks," he replied and immediately took a sip of the alcohol.

I sighed deeply and walked back behind the counter, all the while feeling the shapeshifters' eyes on me. Demon so, beast so. Everyone is so fond of him and talks about him as if there were no other topics in the world. I was getting tired of this.

"Who was that?" one of the shifters inquired.

The Weasel carelessly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and answered only after that.

"The bartender."

"I have hardly noticed him before, but now..." a girl whispered thoughtfully, "What strong presence..."

"No one noticed that he'd been standing at the table for a while and wondering if he should break my neck or nah." The Weasel shrugged and took another sip. "He's really good at hiding his presence."

Most nodded pensively.

"He's really handsome," another girl added blushing.

The Weasel laughed. "Give up, honey! No one's good enough for this loser. Doncha want to date me instead?"

"I'd rather not," she immediately rejected him, breaking Weasel's heart into tiny pieces.

(...)

Hours later, the patrons started to disappear one after another. Eventually, only the most loyal alcoholics remained, whom I asked to leave. The regulars have already learned something. When I say we are closing and hand them a cute plastic cup, there is no room for negotiation anymore. If they have to go, they have to go, and the only thing they are allowed to murmur under their noses is a goodbye.

I picked up the empty bottles and took them back to the liquor chamber. I also wiped the tables, then stacked the chairs on them. I grabbed a bottle of peach and honey-flavored pálinka1*, after which I closed the place.

I took out my cigarettes and lit one. I slowly inhaled the prickly smoke as I looked at the pitch-black sky. It was not covered by a single star, and the waxing moon also disappeared almost imperceptibly behind the thick clouds. On nights like this, monsters become even more bloodthirsty.

I extinguished the cigarette but immediately lit another one. The wind grabbed wildly at its smoke and tore it apart. I pulled together my coat and set off. I was lucky; I just caught the bus. I only needed a three-stop ride, so I did not sit down. I watched the dense shadows of the night outside.

Then I got off at Hird, the village next to Vasas. I wandered on the deserted streets for a while, turned right, then turned left, paying attention to my every move. When I reached the last row of houses on the street, I climbed up the concrete stairs on the edge. The front door was made of wood with just a horizontal cut-out for the post.

I did not tire myself with knocking; I just opened the door. I think it was locked, though. Maybe they'll need a new lock.

The alcoholic apprentice immediately popped out of the kitchen. The first thing I saw was his cute little apron.

I showed him the bottle of pálinka. "Shall we have a drink?"

The Weasel had chosen this very moment to leave the bathroom. He was wearing a dark blue bathrobe and a white towel around his neck. His reddish-brown hair clung to his forehead, and water was still dripping from the tips. When he saw me, he grinned, and when he saw the bottle of alcohol, he grinned even more.

"Hey, Shay," he greeted me, more sober than I expected.

He quickly stepped in front of me, took the pálinka out of my hand, and disappeared humming into the room.

The mage apprentice sighed and turned back to the kitchen. I followed him, wondering what he was juggling again. There was a pot on the stove, some disgusting green juice bubbling inside. On the kitchen table, bouquets of different plants were lined up with half-cut herbs on a cutting board. Slightly further away were ground ingredients, mortars with powders, and vials with sandy matter.

"What kind of potion will it be?" I asked.

He looked up at me, a sly curve on his lips. "The kind that the customer wants."

I didn't ask anymore; I just watched him as he picked up the silver dagger and, with practiced movements, started to cube, dice, chop, hew, and who knows what else he was doing with the ingredients. Sometimes he stirred the hodgepodge with a glass rod. He threw some ingredients into the pot, then stirred one last time before shutting off the fire.

"I've stabilized the potion," he declared with a stiff grin. "You arrived at a good time, now it has to rest for a while."

He dropped his apron on the chair and marched into the room. Their apartment was practical, but at the same time, maybe a little empty. There were no pictures hanging on the walls; only a few old relics or magical devices were placed on top of the wardrobes in their shared room.

The only place that really reflected who was living there was this room. The walls were painted a pleasant blue color, with many plants around the huge window that the mage kid had grown for his potions.

The beds were located at the two ends of the room, both messy, with clothes lying on the crumpled blankets. One of the ancient wardrobes was forgotten open, a pair of black jeans hanging from the door, the other one standing closed opposite.

In the middle of the room, next to the glass coffee table, the Weasel sat, filling the glass cups with pálinka, humming quietly. Water was still dripping from the tips of his hair, his locks standing in every possible direction as he must have run his hand through it before. In any case, at least he dressed up.

The mage sat down next to him, and I was reminded again how different they were. The Weasel was half a head taller than the other, and maybe that's why, or because he spoke most of the time, the Weasel seemed to be the older of the two.

He had reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes, while the mage kid had light blonde hair, always misty blue eyes, and an annoyingly cheerful grin — I blamed it on the alcohol always present in his blood. Weasel was usually seen with this drunken mage buddy of his. It was the Weasel who, though drunk himself, usually carried the guy on his shoulder after a whole night of drinking.

The first three cups were sipped without any words spoken. Then the Weasel began to talk about all sorts of things. About women, money, and more women. The mage kid sometimes told idiotic stories about the Weasel, and then the Weasel either got into a heated argument with him and started killing the other guy or nodded in proud agreement. We quickly ran out of pálinka, and the mage kid got another bottle from somewhere.

Hours passed like this. Towards the end, the alcoholic apprentice laughed so annoyingly that I felt a serious urge to strike his nape, and I could see from the Weasel's expression that he was also considering it.

It was about three in the morning when I straightened up, looked out the window, and slid my cup onto the table.

"Finally gone?" asked the Weasel a little bored.

"Yes," I replied.

"Who were they?" he inquired.

"Vampires," I told them, "they arrived shortly after you'd left."

They must have smelled my scent around the crime scene, and maybe they thought it wise to follow me for a while. Since they left early, they could not have been too suspicious.

"Why didn't you just cut 'em off?" Weasel wondered.

I rolled my eyes. "Because I don't want to get their attention?"

"Don't get me wrong," the Weasel said, and even though his eyes didn't look hostile or angry, his voice was really serious, "but why didcha lead them here? If you simply went home, they would not suspect ya either."

"Come on, Saci," the mage waved, "He's protecting his sweet lil' werewolf."

Though the mage kid just wanted to eff around with me, he was close to the truth — too close.

"Either way," I interrupted before he could think more about the issue, "Alex has nothing to do with this."

"The wolf has always something to do with you acting stupid," the alcoholic apprentice continued undisturbed, then curled his lips to a predatory grin. "How much do you think this information is worth?"

People tend to forget that dealing with neutral mages is dangerous. Even if these gray mages look like innocent, drunken lambs at one moment, they curse your ass the next moment if you don't pay attention. One moment they are on your side, the next they can become your enemies. They balance brilliantly across borders, always between white and dark mages, and that's why they are perhaps more dangerous than their black fellows.

The Weasel's face tensed, but he said nothing. The apprentice mage stared at me confidently.

"They would pay for it generously," I replied, and his triumphant smile widened.

"But," I added roughly, "I don't think it's worth to you as much as your life."

We looked into each other's eyes for a while, then the guy laughed.

"I was just kidding, Shay, I was just kidding."

You can never be sure in the case of grays. I cast another warning look at Weasel to keep an eye on his buddy because they wouldn't want to be my enemies. People also often forget that there are monsters among the grays.

"Have I ever told you how much I like your jokes?" I just said.

"Um, you haven't mentioned it yet," the mage muttered.

"For a reason."

The smile faded from his lips for an instant, only to be replaced by a grin again the next moment. Maybe I didn't make my voice threatening enough?

"Don't worry," he smiled gently as he looked at me with innocent puppy eyes, "I wouldn't even think of betraying you."

Uh-uh, of course. I cursed again the day they first turned up in my pub. The mage laughed annoyingly, and the Weasel just sighed.

"So?" I turned to the Weasel.

First, he was quite surprised.

I rolled my eyes. "I know there's something you want. You were staring at me pretty conspicuously the whole night when you thought I couldn't see it."

He swallowed hard and remained silent for a moment. Maybe he was pondering how likely it was that I would kill him for what he would say. Eventually, he must have realized that he would spare himself a lot of suffering if I didn't have to force the information out of him because he started to speak quietly.

"Someone showed up trying to gather allies by calling himself the 'White Demon,'" he declared.

I did not understand what was new. Sometimes such monsters pop up.

"A vampire, Shay," he added.

At this point, I still didn't feel a burning desire to resolve the matter.

"He's collecting the ignobles and kidnapping humans," he continued, "They're probably being sold to someone."

"Troublesome case," I sighed uninterestedly and stood up.

The two guys looked at each other. Anyway, I wasn't really interested in the issue.

"Any other developments?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Mages are relatively quiet," the alcoholic apprentice replied.

"All right," I nodded, put some paper money on the table for the broken lock, and walked out of the room.

I got my coat and shoes in the hallway. The Weasel leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded, and the mage stood beside him.

"Take care, boys," I said, stepping out into the night, carelessly waving to them.

The mage nodded, while the Weasel just grunted something under his nose. None of them really said anything. They didn't try to stop me because they knew the way I arrived, I would disappear in an instant. They didn't ask how I found out their address. They never knew exactly what I was up to, and they never tried to figure it out. They just knew I would come when I needed them.