A Message In Blood

“I think there’s something wrong with me.” Jensen murmurs.

His best friend sets down the mixing bowl. “What makes you say that?”

Jensen lowers his head into his hands. “Something feels missing inside of me.” He digs his palms into his temples. “I just know something is wrong.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress, lately, Jen.” Adrian’s hazel eyes are soft. “These back-to-back concerts, the tension between you and the guys—”

“It’s not stress.” Jensen snaps and Adrian pulls away. Jensen exhales and tips his head back. “Sorry, it’s just—tell me you haven’t noticed anything. Tell me there’s nothing going on. Because I think you know there is.”

Adrian shrugs and kicks his ankles up on the coffee table, crossing his arms.

“What do you want me to say, Jen?”

“The truth.” Jensen turns his red-rimmed, wild eyes to his closest friend in the world. “I just want the truth.”

Adrian presses his lips together. “Okay, fine, you’ve been weird. You’ve been like obsessed with your career. I mean, I know you’re ambitious, but it’s like been all you’ve been thinking about, all the time. And I mean there’s always been that thing with your past—”

“My past?” Jensen’s brows furrow. “What about my past?”

“Well, I mean, you never talk about it. I don’t know anything about where you came from. You always deflect—”

“Why would that be important?”

“—like that.” Adrian arches his brows, point proven.

Jensen rolls his eyes. “You don’t tell me about your past.”

“I have.” Adrian says. “But you don’t listen. You change the subject immedietly.”

“I do not.” Jensen replies. “Are you gonna let that cake just sit there?”

Adrian rolls his eyes and stands up. “You just did it again.”

“Did not.” Jensen huffs.

Adrian returns to the kitchen and pours the cake into the pan. He slides it into the oven and sets the timer.

“So then tell me something.” Adrian counters. “Tell me something about your past, cause I know nothing past the point where you became famous.”

Jensen glances out the window. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

Adrian plops back down on the couch. “You told me you think something’s wrong. Maybe this has something to do with it. So, come on, spit it out.”

But Jensen’s brows furrow. He tries to think back to where he came from, but his brain keeps branching off onto different subjects, his bandmates, his girlfriend, bills, maybe getting a cat but he could be allergic to cats, perhaps a lizard, his guitar needs new strings, but he was thinking about his past, what was his past?

He cocks his head to the side.

What was his past?

“Did Jackson say he was going to meet me at the studio today?” Jensen wonders.

“You’re getting off topic, but no, he said he’d meet you tomorrow.” Adrian answers.

Jensen gets to his feet and walks to the window, overlooking the city thousands of feet below him. He remembers his conversation with the head of Glacier Studios three years ago, the conversation that kickstarted his career. He was seventeen. But before that…

His head starts to ache, and he reaches out and places a hand on the cold glass.

“Adrian—” He breathes. His legs go weak, and his knees buckle underneath him, and he can feel himself falling until everything comes to a slamming stop.

Jensen’s eyes blink open to the ceiling of his bedroom. He lifts himself up onto his elbows, and his arms burn from the movement. He glances down at himself and gasps. His arms are covered in blood. There’s a knife beside him and—oh god—deep slashes run up the length of his forearms.

His eyes raise and his heart drops to his stomach. All around him are symbols drawn in deep dark red, still wet, still fresh, dripping down the walls, across the tables, over the floors. He’s surrounded by them. He stumbles to his feet and his eyes fall to his bed and his blood runs cold. Written across his pristine white sheets in his own blood, are two words.

Kill him.

He places a blood-stained hand over his mouth.

What the hell did he do?

Someone knocks on the door and he jerks around, his eyes flitting rapidly from his arms to the symbols to the message.

“Jensen, you awake?” Adrian calls. “I thought I heard something.”

“Don’t come in!” Jensen yells. His heart lurches and his mouth runs dry. “I’ll be out in a minute. I’m getting dressed.”

“Don’t take too long, cake’s getting cold!” Adrian’s feet pad away, and Jensen trembles as he makes his way around the symbols, careful not to step on any, and into the bathroom. He yanks down the first aid kit from the top shelf of the closet and drops it lightly onto the sink. He runs his arms under the faucet, oblivious to the pain as he stares incomprehensively at the stream of red flowing down the drain. He scrubs off the rest of the blood and bandages up his arms. He’s going to need stitches, but he can’t worry about that now. If he went to the ER like this, they’d admit him to the psych ward. They’d think he tried to kill himself.

His head pounds and he stares down at his arms.

He didn’t, right?

He shakes the thought from his head and washes his face. Then he pulls on a long-sleeved shirt and sweats and tiptoes back through his room like its filled with tripwires. He cracks open his door just enough to let himself through and locks it behind him.

Adrian’s in the kitchen, cutting out two slices of the chocolate cake, the only thing that ever made Jensen nostalgic about his mysterious childhood.

“Hey,” Jensen smiles as he enters the kitchen.

Adrian smiles and hands over a slice of cake.

“Happy 20th birthday, Jen.”

They go and sit down at the kitchen table and dig in.

“I think that was the shortest nap you’ve ever taken.” Adrian chuckles. “Did you even sleep?”

Jensen hesitates. “Yeah, um, I—”

“Chill dude.” Adrian laughs. “I’m not interrogating you or anything. I was just a little worried after you fell that you might have a concussion. Napping was not a good idea, but hey, you were persistent.”

“I am stubborn, aren’t I?” Jensen stares down at his cake.

He felt sick to his stomach.

He didn’t remember any of that conversation. He didn’t remember anything from when he fell to waking up on his bedroom floor surrounded by his own blood.

“Hey, Adrian, I know we said we’d spend my birthday together, just the two of us like old times, but I’m not feeling too well, and I think I just need to rest.”

Adrian’s face falls, but he nods. “Yeah, course.” He gets up and places his plate in the dishwasher. “I hope you feel better soon, Jen.”

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jensen’s back in his bedroom. He roots through his desk for a spare notebook and stands in the middle of the chaos, quickly sketching down every single symbol on every surface. He ignores the bloody symbol on the lid as he takes his laptop to the living room and powers it up.

He flips through page after page of symbols, scanning website after website for answers, but with each symbol he looks up, his stomach only tightens more and more.

The symbols span across cultures and time, but they all had one thing in common.

They meant the end of the world.

He was going to throw up.

Why would he draw these?

A notification pops up on his screen. His brows furrow as he reads an email from some ‘warlockhuntress85’.

‘I’ve picked up on your recent search history. Interesting stuff, isn’t it?’

He frowns and writes a quick reply.

‘Who are you?’

A new message appears: a smiley face and a link to a video chat.

Against his better judgment, he clicks the link.

It takes a second to load and then he’s face to face with a girl, no older than twelve, with two French braids and bright blue braces.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Jensen’s jaw clenches.

The girl rolls her eyes. He could see her bedroom behind her, bright pink walls and purple sheets on a bed still covered in stuffed animals.

“As if.” She grins. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I don’t understand.” He grits out. “Who are you and how did you track my search history?”

“I’ve been tracking everyone’s search history.” She says as if it were obvious.

“And why were you doing that?”

“I’ve been looking for you.” Her deep brown eyes sparkle. “And finally, I’ve found you. The great Warlock Killer.”

“Warlock Killer? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Language, please.” She clucks her tongue. “You were the most notorious hunter of warlocks in this century. You went after the greatest warlock of them all, so obviously you put precautions in place. You sent me this letter.” She holds up a tattered piece of paper. “You were scared. And you were right to be.”

Jensen’s eyes narrow. “And who are you in all of this?”

“Genevieve.” She replies cheerfully, and at his blank stare, she huffs and elaborates. “You know, huntress of nefarious creatures, demon slayer—”

“Oh, I get it.” Jensen’s face relaxes. “You’re talking about some kind of video game—”

“Not talking about a video game, buddy.” Genevieve grins. “This is real life. We’re going to summon the greatest warlock of all time. And you, my friend, are going to kill him.”

Jensen should have laughed. He should have clicked off the call right them. But he can still feel the burn of his arms, see the blood on his walls, and the message on his sheets.

Kill him.

A heavy feeling settles in his stomach.

He felt like something was wrong. He felt like something was missing. He can’t seem to remember his past. Something is going on.

And there is a little girl on the other line claiming he used to be a warlock hunter and that she was one too.

“If, if, you’re telling the truth,” Jensen starts, “I was seventeen when I started my music career, and what are you, twelve—”

“Eleven, actually.”

“—so why one earth would a bunch of kids be hunting warlocks and demons and other ‘nefarious’ creatures?”

“Oh, that’s simple. We’re not just any kids. We’re the Alja.”

“The what-zhuh?”

Genevieve laughs. “The Alja. A superhuman race, per se. We’re the only ones powerful enough to kill warlocks and other creatures. We start training really young and get to pick our specialty at 8.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jensen drops his head into his hands. “We’re not just talking about warlocks now, but superhumans?” He lets out a breath through his teeth. “And you’re saying I’m one of them.”

Genevieve nods. “You must be. You sent me this letter.” She holds up the tattered paper again, taunt as if Jensen could read it through the low-quality resolution.

Jensen raises his brows.

Genevieve sighs impatiently. “You said you were going after the greatest warlock of all time, but you were worried you wouldn’t make it out. So you set precautions in place. You contacted me, the renowned tech genius and said to keep an eye out for anyone doing research on the exact set of symbols you were just looking up. And you said to contact you and tell you to complete your mission. Kill the warlock.”

“And did I say why I was killing this warlock?”

Genevieve rolls her eyes. “Didn’t need to. Warlocks are inherently evil. We all know that. To accumulate their powers, they need human sacrifices.”

Jensen grimaces.

“And the more they kill, the greater their power.”

“So…” Jensen hesitates, “…this greatest warlock…”

“Must have killed a whole ton of people.” Genevieve finishes.

Jensen’s jaw clenches. His stomach spun at the thought. He was basically dealing with a notorious serial killer here.

“And why do you think I would have any chance at stopping him?”

“Because you’re the great Warlock Killer.” She pops a piece of gum in her mouth. “You’re the most proficient and effective slayer of warlocks this century has ever known.”

Jensen shakes his head. “But I don’t remember any of that. How will I—”

“It’ll all come back to you.” Genevieve grins. “Trust me.”

Jensen stares down at his hands and he can see the bandages on his arms out of the corners of his eyes.

It’s ridiculous, absolutely preposterous, but what other explanation is there? That he’d gone crazy? He doesn’t feel crazy. He feels saner than he ever has. Something pulls him towards this girl’s explanation, a twist in his gut, some kind of inner intuition. He didn’t know what to call it, but he couldn’t shake it.

And if what she said is true, if he was that guy, then he was a hero. He went after murderers and ended their reigns of terror. His life had a purpose like he’s never experienced.

Making music, standing up on that stage, performing, it was a high like no other, and he loved it. God, did he love it.

But this is making a real difference. This is saving lives.

How many had he saved? He wonders. And how many had died in the three years he had spent becoming a famous musician?

He looks up, meets Genevieve in the eye.

“What do I have to do?”

Genevieve grins. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”

She pulls out a giant book that looks like it’s a thousand years old and flips through it.

“Well first, you summon him.” She scans the page. “And then you take a blade coated in something meaningful to your past and stab him with it.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Jensen’s pitch wavers.

“Yah.” Genevieve slams the book closed. “So, I’ll email you the summoning rite, kay?”

“But—”

The screen goes black.

He sets his laptop on the coffee table and sits back, his eyes blank on the tv across from him

What the hell did he just agree to do?

His laptop dings with the email from Genevieve and he opens it up and gets to work. After clearing out the living room and prepping the floor with more symbols—drawn in marker this time—he fetches the biggest knife he can find and runs the blade over the icing on the cake, coating it in chocolate.

Something meaningful to his past. He hopes this will suffice.

He returns to the living room and begins to chant the phrases Genevieve had given him.

Chocolate drips from the tip of the blade to the floor in a repeated tap-tap-tap, and something inside of him is stirring.

But when he finishes the chant, nothing happens.

He tries again, and still nothing.

He sighs. Must’ve been a prank after all.

“Lorrien.”

Jensen jumps at the voice behind him, thick with malice and hinted with laughter. He spins around and a coldness settles in his chest at the sight of the tall, cloaked figure standing before him.

“I was wondering when you would figure it out.”

Jensen curls his fingers tighter around the blade but suddenly he isn’t so sure. He’s never even maimed a bug before. What had made him think he could kill a person?

“Oh, Lorrien,” the warlock breathes, “just look at you. So afraid, so fragile.” He shakes his head. “Oh, to see how far you’ve fallen.”

Jensen swallows. “You did this to me.” His voice shakes.

The shadow of the warlock’s lips turns up into a cruel smile. “Beautiful work, isn’t it? Had you going for three whole years.” The smile drops. “I gave you everything. The perfect life, money, independence, love.” He steps towards him. “And you want to throw it away? For what?”

Jensen steels himself. H stands on the balls of his feet and his fingers shift on the edge of the knife.

This man is a killer. A murderer.

He owes this to all those people that had died at his hands. And he owes it to himself. Whoever he was, whoever he had been, this warlock had stripped it away. He’d taken away his identity, his past, his meaning. He’d taken away his life.

He may have given Jensen everything anyone would have ever wanted. But Jensen isn’t just anyone.

And right now, he feels more alive than he’d felt in the whole three years he’d spent ignorant of who he truly was.

Jensen inhales a steady breath. There’s a stillness inside of him, an even chill in his blood, and he feels like he can take on the world. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s done this before, probably hundreds of times. His body knows this sensation like it knows the taste of chocolate cake.

He adjusts his grip on the chocolate frosting coated knife and lunges, but the warlock disappears in a whirl of his cloak. Jensen stumbles through the air.

“You can’t defeat me.” The warlock appears behind him. “You’re just going to get yourself killed.”

Jensen turns around, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But if you could just kill me, why go through all the trouble to erase my memories and give me a whole new life?” A sly smile crosses his lips “You can’t kill me, can you?”

The warlock laughs. “Of course, I can kill you. I was just testing out the limits of my powers, having a bit of fun.”

“You’re lying.” Jensen snarls.

He runs at the warlock and something deep inside of him takes over. The warlock whirls away, but Jensen spins on his heel and slices his blade across the warlock’s reappearing form. The warlock hisses and backs up, and Jensen stalks towards him. His eyes are glittering, his lips curled up into a grim smile.

The warlock draws a sword from thin air and the two blades clash with a metallic scream. They dance around each other, Jensen nimble where the warlock is fierce.

Then the door to Jensen’s apartment opens and Adrian walks inside, rifling through his messenger bag.

“Hey, Jen, I think I forgot—” He freezes. “The hell?”

Jensen’s gut lurches, and in his distraction, the warlock raises his palm and sends a gust of wind flinging Jensen across the apartment.

“Adrian, run!” Jensen gasps as he picks himself up off the shattered remains of his coffee table, but it’s too late. The warlock’s sword cuts across Adrian’s chest and sends him sprawling backwards across the doorstep.

Jensen screams and throws himself at the warlock who flicks his finger and sends him flying into the couch. Jensen’s wrist strikes the couches arm, knocking the blade from his hand, and his head slams against the floor. He stares, dazed, into the glassy eyes of his best friend across the room.

The warlock’s fingers grip Jensen’s shirt and he drags him up onto the couch. He slips off a glove and touches his fingers to Jensen’s temples.

“Goodnight, Lorrien.” There’s a tenderness in his voice that Jensen doesn’t understand.

“Wait—” Jensen’s fingers wrap around the warlock’s wrist, and he can feel the rapid beat of the warlock’s pulse. The warlock doesn’t move, even as Jensen reaches up and slips the hood off his head.

Jensen’s hand lingers beside the warlock’s messy, ink-black hair. He’s young, Jensen’s age, and his cheeks are soft and freckled, his eyes a bright green. He looks so normal, and Jensen almost forgets who he is as he gets caught up in the sorrow leaking out of the warlock’s eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” Jensen breathes.

The warlock’s voice is dangerously soft as he replies.

“To keep you safe.”

Jensen’s eyes grow heavy, and he can feel himself slipping away.

The warlock’s hands fall away from him. He turns away.

“From yourself.”