"Listen, Yank," Red started, drawing close to Wyland's face and lowering his voice, "it's, uh, unusual fer some'un to come callin' fer teh boys without advanced warnin'. What's this all 'bout? An' what's yur name?" Red had less of an accent than everyone else here, and Wyland could make out what Red wanted without thinking about it.
"Wyland. My name's Wyland. I've been investigating some things, and have stumbled across some very important info that the , um, 'Boys' need to hear right away. They also have some information which I need."
Red puffed up suddenly. "You're the Journalist, then? Askin' stupid questions 'bout Daddy Cunninghill?"
"Not exactly." Wyland blushed and shrunk, then remembered the taser, and got his confidence back. "I lied to that cabbie to get some info, I'm not a journalist, I..." He considered playing his hand, starting the plea, but thought better of it again, "I really just need to talk to them, I have no interest in Eustis' business dealings."
Red snorted, and grinned that big, dangerous grin. "A'right, then. If'n you'r talkin' 'bout who I think you'r talkin' 'bout, that lil' rat cabbie's stupider than a box a' rocks, anyway, I don't blame ya fer lyin' to 'im! Let's all go outside." And Red, still grinning, strengthened his grip on Wyland's shoulders and led him back outside.
The air had a thin hint of ocean salt in it, and the cool, grey clouds hung lower and a bit greyer than they had this morning. Blue was sitting by the old truck on the other side of the dirt expanse, spitting brown tobacco spit onto the dirt. Wyland and Red walked down the few dusty steps in front of Central Point, as dirt rose from a distant truck coming up the road.
"I'll tell ya," Red started saying, "no sudden moves, no stupid stuff, no funny words, and you'll be a'right."
Funny words? Wyland thought about this for a moment, and this confirmed that he was on the right track. Wyland felt a sudden rise in temperature, and a light shiver ran down his spine. Finally, he would get some answers! After all this time, and so many dead ends, here, coming up the road, were cursers! Wyland's face scrunched. No, that's not right, not cursers? No, wizards? Maybe? Necromancers? Shaman? Magicians? No, no, none of those were right. There were so many terms in fantasy and lore, but none of them really matched what these men were. Warlocks, maybe that was what they were.
He stood in silence, with Red standing nearby, behind and to his right, looming over him, as the two warlocks drove up to Central Point. The truck's tires locked up as it slid through the dirt to a full stop. A bit of dry dirt filled the air, though the tire tracks showed that the soil was still wet only a bit under the surface. The cool wind hinted that it would all be wet again soon.
A thin faced man with blondish hair sat in the driver seat, and a slightly plumper man with dirty brown hair sat next to him. They were obviously brothers, they both had high cheek bones, and thin necks, and sharply defined temples. The blond one flung the door open and hopped out. He smiled a big grin to Red, which showed off a missing tooth. The other sauntered around the truck slowly, searching and scanning his environs, his eyes piercing through Wyland, checking for weakness, zeroing in on his neck, boring through his forehead to his skull, killing him multiple times with thought bullets. Good thing looks couldn't kill, although Wyland wasn't so sure with these two.
Crom walked strongly and briskly up to Wyland, who up 'til now had kept a quiet composure, with his hands clasped before him, and his head high, as if waiting for a business associate. Crom, without saying a word, walked right into Wyland, and pushed him over into the dirt.
"You teh fecker been askin' 'round fer us? Well, heah we are, fecker! What 'bout it, now, huh?" He screamed at Wyland, kicking dry dirt at him as though he were a miffed baseball coach talking to the umpire. Wyland put up his hands in front of him and softly shushed Crom, as though to calm a spooked and braying horse.
Red now stepped in between Crom and Wyland. "Oi, Crommie, calm it!" Crom stepped back, and walked off in a huff. Oliver now stepped before him. "Greenie said the Yank was heah, and lo, heah 'e is!" He swept his hand over the scenery, as though acting (poorly) in a play. Then, in a really bad Texas accent, "I'mma big dembfeck American in Scotland, stickin' meh nose in someone else's arse, not expectin' to smell shit!" Red and Blue both laughed.
Oliver then leaned in close to Wyland, his hand crawling through Wyland's protesting hands slapping him away, grabbed his shirt collar, and, much to Wyland's surprise, helped pull him up from the ground. "Get up, yeh sorry feck!" He was surprisingly strong, and Wyland found himself lifted up as though he were still a little kid.
Wyland stumbled as he got up, and dusted himself off. Oliver now stepped uncomfortably close to Wyland. "Well, yeah said we needed to heah somethin', so 'ave at it, now!"
Wyland cleared his throat and began, sounding as professional as he could muster. "We must first reach an agreement. I have information you really need to hear, I promise you, and you have information I need, desperately." No one said a word, they were all just staring at Wyland. "The agreement is as follows: I will tell you this vital information, that will save your life, or at least your freedom, and you will teach me about curses and blessings. Specifically, how to remove a curse."
Silence. The die had been cast, the arrow was in the air, the guillotine blade was falling. The physics of the mind could be seen on everyone's face. First, acceptance of what was just said, then, a sudden realization: Wait, what? Curses? How could he know? Then, shit, who else knows? Then, double-shit, he knows who else knows. That's what he's selling, and fuck if we don't need to buy it.
Then, the reactions shifted according to character. Crom's face showed a flash of anger. Oliver's showed concern. Red was already scanning the horizon for signs of danger. Blue, slower than the rest, showed confusion.
Crom was already advancing on Wyland again, muttering something like "I'll feckin' kill ya, ya sumbitch" but Oliver put his hand out and stopped him. Crom immediately obeyed. Oliver was obviously the elder, and obviously the power and mind of the duo.
A full minute passed now, in silence. Oliver was obviously weighing his options.
Oliver let out a long sigh through puffed out cheeks. "A'right. Yeh got us by the short n' curlies, don'tcha? Deal." He reached out his hand, and Wyland shook it generously.
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