Bran was going to vomit.
“Crosses! He’s gonna throw up!” Clyde scrambled to back away from Bran who was leaning against the outside rear wall of the high school. Blood dripped from Bran’s nose onto his scattered homework. He barely kept his breakfast down.
“That’ll teach ya to blaspheme in my school, Pagan.” Clyde crowed.
“Beat the dirty Pag!” One of Clyde’s cronies jeered.
Bran’s vision was hazy. His face throbbed. His stomach roiled with fear. I can’t let them win. I need to fight. Masking all of the turmoil he looked up with a smirk.
“Heard you and Felica were shooting up Devil's Tongue at the Bible retreat last weekend. It’d be a shame if your daddy fount ou-”
“Shut up Pag!” Clyde said, again he slammed a fist into Bran’s stomach causing him to double over and vomit onto his shoes. Dammit, those are my nice pair! “Like anyone would believe gossip from a dirty wretch like you!”
Wrinkling his nose at the smell Clyde steepled his fingers and intoned a proclamation in the manner of the Pastor Dei Educate, “I think he learned his lesson my brothers. May he repent. Or else.”
The group of seniors strutted away as Bran slumped to the ground. He tipped his head down and his pale green eyes watched drops of blood soak into his dark red jeans. Rage flickered darkly in the corners of his mind. Someday I’m gonna beat Clyde’s head into a mushy pulp. He tried to wipe the vomit from his shoes onto the grass and wondered, not for the first time, why God had chosen to abandon him? What had he done?
At eighteen years of age every human being receives a boon from God. A holy power granted to carry out His will. A select few with powerful boons become holy warriors. Even fewer still are granted the ability to lead the church. Renowned Saints that pull the reins of history. Most boons rank between decently strong and mildly convenient. Like the ability to grow flowers that heal stomach aches or a divine magic boon that summons a small orb of light. Without fail everyone receives a boon, except for Bran.
Three months ago, at the exact moment he turned eighteen (which was 3:33am on a Tuesday,) Bran had a nightmare. In his dream he stood alone in a dark forest glade. Flame flickered from a molten rift in the ground several feet in front of him. He peered into the rift. The stench of rotten flesh assaulted his nostrils. He stumbled back and fell to the ground as a clawed hand reached up from the fiery pit and a figure crawled out. Bran was frozen in place as it approached, and became visible in the flickering glow of the pit. The monster was bug-like and each of its six legs ended in a cruel looking humanoid hand with metallic feline claws. No feet, just hands. Lava rolled off its smooth obsidian shell. To Bran’s horror, its eyeless face opened its jaws. Smoke rolled out between barbed teeth and it spoke with a cruel voice like tearing flesh, “Cursed son of Babelon! Fate and death call to you. Behold it comes, a mark to twist your mortal soul. Harvest the souls of the dead. Prove yourself to the Prince of Hell. Fail and be cast into oblivion! We are watching you!”
Then the creature rushed forward with a guttural squeal. Bran threw up an arm to protect himself and the creature's terrible teeth bit down on it. He woke up screaming in pain. His arm seized in agony as a baleful glowing green skull seared itself slowly into the back of his wrist.
“What in the unholy hells?!” Bran’s father burst into the room with a baseball bat. His mother behind him with a heavy Bible raised high and turned on the light.
“What’s wrong Bran?!” His mother asked.
“This!” Bran said, holding out his arm. His parents looked at his arm and looked back into his eyes.
“Did you break it?” His father asked.
“What? No! The skull. The freaking skull burned into my arm!” Bran said. His mother stepped forward and looked closely.
“Sweetheart there isn’t anything on your arm.” She looked at him suspiciously, “Did you take drugs?”
Bran laughed in disbelief.
“So you see nothing! Nothing at all?” Bran’s panic rose. “No mom, I'm not on drugs. I had an awful dream and then this mark burned into my arm!” He waved his arm emphatically in front of her.
His father strode forward, caught up Bran’s outstretched arm to examine it and then locked Bran with a stern gaze, trying to gauge his son’s intent.
“Bran there isn’t anything on your arm. If this is a joke it’s not funny!”
“But-”
“Enough! Go back to sleep! I have an important address at a college later - today I suppose. You will do extra chores for waking us up.”
They really don’t see it.
“Sweetie, I think you will feel better in the morning. It’s your eighteenth birthday! I’m sure God will bless you with something amazing.” His mother said with a quick hug.
If there was one rule in the Killinger house it was that his Father’s decisions were final. He was a big man. His presence alone demanded respect from everyone. A man of principle and seriousness. Bran had to fall in line or face his wrath.
As they left, Bran flopped back onto his bed, shaking with adrenaline. After a moment he examined the skull closer. Dark Power? He started as a hiss of indistinct whispers filled the air and the glowing green brand morphed into gothic letters of smoke that filled his vision:
Necro Drifter - Level One
Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak
Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.
Overwhelmed he shook his arm and the words disappeared. He focused on the crest and the words appeared again.
“I’ve lost my mind. I’m straight up crazy. I’m too young to be crazy!”
“Be quiet!” His father shouted from across the hall.
Silently he paced his room trying to make sense of this insane situation. OK maybe it's a weird boon. Ms. Mulgrem can talk to fish. Maybe it’s something like that. But levels? I’ve never heard of anything like that. Some boons get stronger. Maybe I can just see the numbers behind mine? Like the supernatural code they use for mobile tomes. But that “thing” didn’t seem very Godly… is this boon-curse-power even from God? The questions flowed with very few answers until the sun rose. Avoiding his parents, he left for school. One thing he was sure of; he definitely wasn’t going to go around touching corpses.
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Several days later, Bran found himself seated in a Pastoral Advisor’s office between his parents. The advisor was a disapproving man with a gray suit and thinning white hair. He leaned forward and began speaking in a serious tone.
“What I am about to tell you may be upsetting. There are documented cases of boonless individuals. While very rare, it appears that your son is one such individual.”
“Obviously!” His father shouted his voice on the edge of hysterical. He rose out of his seat and put his hands on the desk. He loomed over the Pastor and continued through gritted teeth.. “I apologize Pastor, I just find this difficult to believe. My family is among the most righteous in this city! Maybe the county! Why would my son be abandoned by God?”
The pastor leaned away from Bran’s father. “I understand your frustration. To be honest, no one knows for sure. The Church Supreme’s official stance is that those without boons are harmless.”
“Oh so it’s not so bad then,” His mother interjected hopefully.
“However, it is also their stance that those not granted a boon clearly have,” he blinked nervously, “dark unrepented sin or a familial blood curse. They consider the lack of a boon a sign of the final judgement of God.”
“Surely there is something to be done? Some kind of special ceremony to cleanse the boy?” His father asked.
“As far as the church is aware no boonless person has ever earned a boon. No matter how much they repented.”
“What about this skull nonsense that he thinks he sees?!” His father asked.
“I don’t know.” The Pastor peered down at Bran. “Perhaps it is a mental break. As a result of unrepentant sin.”
“Seems to me a lot of Bishops should be having a ‘mental break’.” Bran said with a defiant sneer.
“Silence!” His father roared violently, turning Bran’s chair towards him. “What did you do, son?”
Bran said nothing.
“Mr. Killinger! I know you mean well, but you cannot force repentance!”
His father stormed out of the room.
Bran looked away flushing with shame at the way the advisor was peering at him judgementally. His mother began to sob quietly.
The ride home in his father’s pristine truck was silent. So was dinner. The silence stretched on, then, that evening, Bran overheard his father ranting to his mother behind the closed door of his office.
“What did I do wrong Michelle? Did I not discipline the boy enough? I have half a mind to beat him until he confesses this - hidden sin.”
“No Sterling, I have hope! We have to trust God and his judgments.”
“I-I know. I’m sorry for yelling. I just had such high hopes for him.”
“We both did.” His mother said quietly.
Bran’s chest tightened as his breath came in bursts. His eyes burned as he quietly fled to his room. Foundations of trust that he hadn’t known were there crumbled to dust. First God abandoned him, now his parents.
After that, it didn’t take long for Bran’s friends to find out the shameful truth. Excited questions about what his boon was turned into awkward condolences, which turned into awkward conversations. One by one they stopped greeting him in the hall. Julian, his best friend since childhood, was the last to stop talking to him. Whenever Bran entered a room Julian always found a reason to be in conversation with someone else. One day he confronted Julian in the bathroom.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Hey Jules you got a sec?” Bran said.
“Oh hey. I really gotta get to class.” Julius tried to push past him and leave. Bran reached up and grabbed his arm.
“I haven’t changed. I’m still me. Why won’t you talk to me?”
Julius looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
“It’s my parents. They threatened to take my tuition money away if I was seen hanging with you.”
“Oh.”
“So yeah, sorry man. I know it’s not fair but I can’t throw my future away. You understand - right?”
“I - understand.”
“I’m sure things will get better when you get out of here right? High School is hell!” Julius said with a forced smile.
“Sure will.” Bran returned the smile as his heart tore in two.
As the days passed word got out to everyone. Bran received dirty glances wherever he went, worse were the notes offering to pray for his “condition”. It’s too late for prayers. As if God would do anything for me. He thought as he threw yet another note away. Anger and grief over what was happening to him were slowly replaced by loneliness and desperation. His attempts to befriend anyone were immediately ruined when they learned who he was. What he was. The World Divine Psych-net recorded everything discussed and searched. Reaching out to others like himself was a dangerously blasphemous activity.
Bran tried to find books or articles discussing curses. The general consensus was that the less curses were studied, the better. The curse was confusing and vague. Even if he wanted to, and he didn’t, it was difficult to find corpses just laying around in a major city. Especially with boon-powered holy disintegration being the usual means of body disposal. However, fate had other plans.
Three weeks after receiving the curse mark he was riding home on his bike from school. There was a screech of tires and yelp of pain. The car sped off as Bran ditched his bike to check on the dog laying motionless in the road. The poor animal whimpered with wide terror-filled eyes and feebly wagged its tail. Bran knelt and stroked its head gently. He could tell from the injuries that it wasn’t going to recover.
“I - don't know what to do.” Bran checked the collar. “Daisy. It’s gonna be OK girl. Just rest here.”
Daisy shut her eyes and seemed to relax. Her breaths began to slow, after a few minutes her breathing stilled. She was gone. Suddenly Bran’s green eyes flashed and wisps of baleful green energy streamed from the dog into his chest. Indistinct whispers just behind Bran made him snap his head to look. No one was there. The whispers came again louder and rushed to a crescendo as Bran lost his grip on reality and his vision faded to blackness.
Bran was awake! Sniffing the air, it danced with many smells but he picked out the scent of his owner. It was going to be a great day! Bounding up the stairs of his home, he nosed open the bedroom door and laid his head on the bed patiently awaiting morning scritches. His owner rolled painfully to face him with kind blue eyes and a gentle smile. A gnarled hand patted his head.
“G’mornin Daisy. Want to go outside?”
Daisy? Wait, that's not right. What in all the unholy realms! I'm not a dog! The memory pulsed with greenish energy as Bran’s soul tried to wrench itself from Daisy’s form. He succeeded in lifting his incorporeal ghost head up from Daisy’s resting form. Like a human-ghost-head hat. With rising claustrophobia Bran looked about the room.
Laying on the bed was an old man of at least eighty. It was a small room filled with a lifetime of memories. Pictures of his family, and knick-knacks from all over the Holy Christo Empire. The old man groaned and began to rise. Bran wagged his tail in anticipation! No not my tail! Before he could ponder it anymore, Daisy's ecstatic joy of beginning the day blotted out his thoughts.
After enduring the taste of what Bran could only describe as dry meat cereal, Daisy’s owner let her outside into the neighborhood. Apparently Daisy had a routine which involved smelling everything and chasing cats. Damnable cats, his mortal enemy with their lazy swishing tails. Always looking down on him. Today he would finally catch one and then - well do something to it. He was sure the cat wouldn’t like it. Bran shook his head. I don't hate cats, where did that come from? He strained to further separate from Daisy. He managed to pop out his arm. It trailed limply in the wind as a joyful Daisy dashed off to chase another cat.
Snap!
Bran collapsed on the road next to the now-deceased Daisy as the final wisps of energy flowed into his chest.
“What the Holy hells!” He gasped. Ghostly words appeared in his vision. Bran paused as the information processed through his overstimulated brain.
Corpse Drift complete.
No memory harvested. A random memory growth aspect has been assigned:
Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance.
His entire body was alight with pinpricks of sensation, especially his nose. He needed to sneeze but couldn’t. After an excruciating moment the feelings passed. Bran became acutely aware of the scent and location of every nearby cat. Feline enemies? How do I harvest powers when I couldn’t even control my own body? What kind of stupid power is this?
Shaking his head in resignation he took a moment to write a message to the Seraph’s Station about the accident in his Mobile Tome. With a final pet of Daisy’s head he whispered, “It looked like you had a fun life. Sorry it ended this way.” The disconcerting experience had unlocked a curiosity about his curse. It itched at him and wouldn’t go away.
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One month passed. Despite his efforts to ignore them Bran had accrued an accurate count of feline enemies in his neighborhood. Thirty-three cats and six kittens. No other opportunities to explore his curse ability had presented themselves thus far. Today his senior class departed for their mandatory field trip to the Hall of the Saints.
“Class C will proceed with the guided tour as A & B sit in on the presentation.” His teacher called out as the students unloaded from the buses in front of the enormous museum. The gothic building was covered in garish stained glass depicting famous bible stories and saints. Bran trailed at the back of his group as they followed the tour guide through the red carpeted halls.
Wooden display cases gilded in gold and silver held relics and ancient writings of the great saints. Many cases featured preserved body parts of those saints as well. It was weird. One particular Saint, Thomas de Soothe, was a renowned Seraph of the pagan wars. His skull sat out in the open on an ornate purple pillow on a pedestal of stone. A polished gold cross was inlaid into the forehead. Only a velvet rope barricade separated it from the tour group. Bran pretended to read the display as his group passed around a corner out of sight. Unsurprisingly, no one noticed his absence.
Seraph’s were holy warriors. Their boons were always ranked as extremely powerful. They filled the roles of soldiers and law enforcement. Three years ago a veteran of the Pagan Wars was consumed by the horrors he had witnessed in combat. Who could blame him? Those wars killed millions. Fireworks during an All Saint’s Festival set off his PTSD. He activated his blood rage boon and murdered several innocent bystanders in a shopping district. The local Good News station recorded psych footage of a Seraph Suppression Squad arriving at the scene. They hit the pavement like golden meteors and simultaneously skewered the former war hero. It was over in seconds.
Bran rubbed his forehead in indecision. What am I doing?! I’m pretty sure manhandling a saint’s skull is a special kind of heresy. ‘Boonless arrested for desecrating priceless relic’ that would be great! Then he dreamed of having an energy shield or spear. Or even better holy wings! Oh what the hells! He stepped over the barricade and carefully brushed his finger across the ancient skull.
Baleful green energy rushed towards him, but this time he could see the memories trapped in it, playing out like small psych projections. As time slowed he focused on one particular memory that felt hot and shone brighter than the rest. He felt himself drawn into it and lost consciousness.
Bran jerked his head to the side, dodging an energy-spear thrust. He could smell the searing heat of it as it passed. He lashed out with his own spear and impaled his opponent through the stomach. Blood gushed as the pinned man tried to free himself. With a lurch of willpower Bran turned away from the grisly sight and managed to separate his soul from the Saint’s body. Except for one foot. He found himself landing flat on his back and unceremoniously drug across the concrete as Saint De Soothe strode forward to finish the job. Fighting raged around them in the center square of a residential block. The signs on the building were in a language that Bran couldn't read. It was the dark of night and bazing crystals of holy power hovering in the air illuminated Saint de Soothe’s golden armor so that he shone like an angel.
“Soothe, the slayer of children.” Said the dying man on the ground spitting blood. “Your sins will repay you someday!”
“Perhaps,” said Soothe in a deep voice. “But not before I purge every last blasphemer from this land.” He cut the man’s throat with a dagger and jerked his spear free. With a casual air he began to move towards a nearby house. “I will end your line first, Heretic.”
Bran was horrified to see children peeking out from the smashed doorway. He finally managed to free his foot from the Saint’s.
“Stop, they're just children!” Bran said.
The Saint paused as greenish energy rippled through the fabric of the memory. He turned his helmeted face towards Bran. Bran felt fear rise in his stomach. The Saint could see him! How? Isn’t this just a memory?
“You don’t belong here, Necromancer.” The saint said in a voice that sounded like a thousand whispering voices combined. He raised his spear and charged at Bran.
“Wait no!” Bran cried as the spear darted toward his heart.
Snap!
Bran was heaving breaths as the memory faded and he was back in the Halls of the Saint’s. The final wisps of green energy dissipating.
“Hey Killinger! Why are you touching that skull? Gonna steal it?” A fellow classmate named Kathryn was looking at him with a smirk.
“Huh?” Bran said.
“You’ve been standing there touching it for like a whole minute. Don’t tell me being boonless makes you stupid as well? Teacher said to come find you.”
“Oh I uh, just wanted to know what it felt like.” Bran quickly stepped back over the velvet rope and rejoined the class ignoring Kathryn’s glare. Then he received the good news.
Corpse Drift complete.
No memory harvested. A random memory growth aspect has been assigned:
You have six toes.
The tickling was torture as his toes transformed. He tried to mask it by bouncing a bit and humming to avoid screaming. No one noticed or cared. It was yet another useless power and now he would have to spend his birthday money on shoes that actually fit.
As the days dragged on, it was cemented in Bran’s mind that no one wanted to be associated with God's rejected son. Dirty looks from other students were replaced with spitting and shoving him in the halls. Church Supreme law forbade boon discrimination. However, one cared to stop discrimination against a vile boonless. Surely someone rejected by God himself deserves scorn. He missed the quiet evenings spent with his mother and father. They would talk about their day. Discuss the weather. Boring normal things. Now they wouldn’t look at him. They only spoke to him in commands. Hatred hid in their mouths just waiting for a reason to let it out. Recently, the school bullies decided that his presence was sin itself. They were more than willing to dole out their version of righteous punishment.
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Three long months had passed since his 18th birthday and now he was sitting battered and bleeding behind the school. With vomit on his shoe and blood on his clothes. Bran’s chest ached as a hot tear traced its salty trail down his cheek. Hastily he wiped at his cheeks and tipped his head to rest on the school wall as the nosebleed ceased. The warm springtime sun pierced his eyes. As he raised an arm to block the light, the sleeve of his faded black leather jacket slid back to expose the skull and its mocking smile. Directing his thoughts, Bran commanded the skull crest to awaken.
Necro Drifter - Level One
Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak
Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.
Memories harvested: Two
Harvest growth: Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance. You have six toes.
Bran’s thoughts rushed back to the present moment as a squirrel chittered angrily in the tree above him. The bullying was over for now. Right now Bran desperately needed to pass Holy Finances 101 and Mr. Slate did not tolerate tardiness. Bran staggered to his feet and headed to class.
The vaulted stone entrance of Eccasties Grace High School was guarded by the school Minor Seraph. The slightly overweight law enforcement officer wore a spotless white uniform with silver trim. His wings were folded neatly and the crackling holy spear he held brimmed with power. An unlucky fly disintegrated in the protective divine shield that surrounded him.
“Watch yourself Killinger.” The guard muttered as Bran passed. Compared to what I’m walking into, the fly had it easy.
The main hall of the school was packed with jostling students and aglow with holy boon powers. One girl walked along the wall leaving glowing footprints. Her hair acted as if the wall was down for her and anything else she touched. Bran ducked as a swarm of silver locusts streamed down the hall towards a garbage can.
“No, you know that’s not good for you!” A nerdy looking boy raced after them.
A tall boy with supernatural good looks and glowing golden hair flirted with anyone that walked by. Several students stood silently as they chatted using their holy psychic boons. As if putting holy in front of a power name makes it more morally acceptable. A strong looking girl in athletic wear was followed by a glowing clone of herself with wings and sheathed sword.
Arriving at class, Bran took his seat and braced himself for boredom. Mr. Slate was about ten minutes into a lecture on tithing law when Bran’s attention drifted. Then, as if no time had elapsed, The bell rang, awakening Bran from his daydreaming. Slinking from tree to tree he fled the school. Arriving safely at home he smiled. After tonight everything would be different. He would harvest a useful power and finally make his curse powerful. With enough power he could prove everyone wrong.
He needed a shovel.