Fluffy Cookies
Angelic Demon
It was December 24, 1926 eleven-fifty at night in New York City. The library was quiet. Silent with the exception of my soft footsteps on the red carpet, and the occasional loud automobile passing outside.
I glide my hand along the wall of books, each a different color and texture. Some had gold writing, some had silver and some had black. All except one. Its script was red and glowing with a gleaming dragon sigil by the author’s name: Frederick Van Helsing. I look ahead, then to my left between the rows of shelves, and finally behind me. No one saw. No one was there.
With a quiet sigh of relief, I pulled on the book, opening a door to a set of stairs. I could see the faint light of a fire and candles reflecting off the wall at the bottom. It must be pretty bright down there. Not too bright, of course. I entered the threshold and watched as I closed the shelf behind me. Still no one.
I could hear jazz music grow louder as I descended the stone steps. That, along with the sound of witches cackling and goblins yelling. It was mixed with casual conversation from elves and warlocks. My people. Our place.
It was a speakeasy. Alcohol had been banned for months now, but we’ve always had this place since we didn’t feel comfortable anywhere else.
The room was about sixty feet wide and forty feet long. There was dark wainscoting, almost a mahogany color, that went three-quarters of the way up the walls. The rest of the space was white cement painted with sound-proof coating. There was the same wood around the top as a trim. In the middle of the far wall was a decent-sized, open fireplace with three sofas in front of it and a coffee table between them and the fire. The floor was made of polished oak and a few spots were covered with area carpets that were red and black and gold. Spread out around the room were tall tables and high stools around them. Near the left side of the room was a pool table. Some goblins and orcs were having quite an intense game.
The bar was to my right at the wall. The counter had a polished stone top and a wooden base. The wall behind had shelves full of the finest whiskeys to the smoothest of white wines. Above the counter were a set of three hanging glass lights. One hung over the sink and the other two were over the ends. That’s where I was going.
“Hey, Wemmy,” Andrew greeted from behind the bar counter. His ears wiggled as if a fly had landed on them. In place of human ears were a pair of adorable goat ones. Andrew was a satyr which meant he was part goat. Yes, he even has a tail.
“Andrew,” I complain, pinning my hair up out of my face, “I told you to stop calling me that.” I walk behind the bar and hang up my jacket.
“Evening, Emily, I’ll take a double vodka-tonic and a whiskey neat, if you please,” Robert, an older warlock, requests, hobbling up to the counter. (Now, mind you, he looks a LOT like Radagast from The Hobbit). I smile despite the name mistake.
“Coming right up, sir,” I tell him. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa over there and have a smoke as well? It’s in the house.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he smiles and hobbles away. I began to make his drinks, starting with the double vodka-tonic.
“You should tell him that your name is just Emma, not Emily,” Andrew whispers to me while cleaning a glass.
“I couldn’t do that,” I say, “he reminds me of my uncle.”
“The one that died of a heart attack?”
“Yes, the one that died of a heart attack. He used to call me Emily and hobble around like that.” I explained. “I don’t want him to have an aneurysm over something that he's so used to doing. He’s old.” At that moment I left the bar to bring Robert his vodka-tonic and whiskey neat.
“Ah, thank you, Emily,” he smiles. “Have you figured out what you are yet?”
“All I can figure out is what I’m not,” I reply. “I’m not an elf, my ears would’ve been pointy since I was born. I’m not a goblin, my nose is small. I’m too tall to be a halfling or a dwarf. The sunlight doesn’t bother me. I don’t go nuts on a full moon. My voice is too soft to be an orc’s. I can’t do magic… I’m probably just a plain ol’ human, Robert.”
“Nonsense, I didn’t get my magic until I was twenty-three!” He exclaims. “And Helga was twenty-five. You still have a chance at being a witch.”
“Really?” I question. He nodded. “Alright, thanks for the nice chat, sir, I hope you have a good evening.” I then left the area and went back to the bar where Andrew was serving drinks to a few dwarves.
“So what did old man Robert have to say? Andrew asks me. I told him about our conversation. “You’re not a human, Emma. There’s no way you would've seen the glowing text and sigil on Van Helsing’s book.” He was rooting around in the white refrigerator for something and holding it behind his back. I gave him a suspicious look. “Anyways, happy birthday.” It was a cupcake. I hadn’t realized the clock had struck midnight when Robert was talking with me. I smiled and blew out the candle. I am now seventeen years old.
I glide my hand along the wall of books, each a different color and texture. Some had gold writing, some had silver and some had black. All except one. Its script was red and glowing with a gleaming dragon sigil by the author’s name: Frederick Van Helsing. I look ahead, then to my left between the rows of shelves, and finally behind me. No one saw. No one was there.
With a quiet sigh of relief, I pulled on the book, opening a door to a set of stairs. I could see the faint light of a fire and candles reflecting off the wall at the bottom. It must be pretty bright down there. Not too bright, of course. I entered the threshold and watched as I closed the shelf behind me. Still no one.
I could hear jazz music grow louder as I descended the stone steps. That, along with the sound of witches cackling and goblins yelling. It was mixed with casual conversation from elves and warlocks. My people. Our place.
It was a speakeasy. Alcohol had been banned for months now, but we’ve always had this place since we didn’t feel comfortable anywhere else.
The room was about sixty feet wide and forty feet long. There was dark wainscoting, almost a mahogany color, that went three-quarters of the way up the walls. The rest of the space was white cement painted with sound-proof coating. There was the same wood around the top as a trim. In the middle of the far wall was a decent-sized, open fireplace with three sofas in front of it and a coffee table between them and the fire. The floor was made of polished oak and a few spots were covered with area carpets that were red and black and gold. Spread out around the room were tall tables and high stools around them. Near the left side of the room was a pool table. Some goblins and orcs were having quite an intense game.
The bar was to my right at the wall. The counter had a polished stone top and a wooden base. The wall behind had shelves full of the finest whiskeys to the smoothest of white wines. Above the counter were a set of three hanging glass lights. One hung over the sink and the other two were over the ends. That’s where I was going.
“Hey, Wemmy,” Andrew greeted from behind the bar counter. His ears wiggled as if a fly had landed on them. In place of human ears were a pair of adorable goat ones. Andrew was a satyr which meant he was part goat. Yes, he even has a tail.
“Andrew,” I complain, pinning my hair up out of my face, “I told you to stop calling me that.” I walk behind the bar and hang up my jacket.
“Evening, Emily, I’ll take a double vodka-tonic and a whiskey neat, if you please,” Robert, an older warlock, requests, hobbling up to the counter. (Now, mind you, he looks a LOT like Radagast from The Hobbit). I smile despite the name mistake.
“Coming right up, sir,” I tell him. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa over there and have a smoke as well? It’s in the house.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he smiles and hobbles away. I began to make his drinks, starting with the double vodka-tonic.
“You should tell him that your name is just Emma, not Emily,” Andrew whispers to me while cleaning a glass.
“I couldn’t do that,” I say, “he reminds me of my uncle.”
“The one that died of a heart attack?”
“Yes, the one that died of a heart attack. He used to call me Emily and hobble around like that.” I explained. “I don’t want him to have an aneurysm over something that he's so used to doing. He’s old.” At that moment I left the bar to bring Robert his vodka-tonic and whiskey neat.
“Ah, thank you, Emily,” he smiles. “Have you figured out what you are yet?”
“All I can figure out is what I’m not,” I reply. “I’m not an elf, my ears would’ve been pointy since I was born. I’m not a goblin, my nose is small. I’m too tall to be a halfling or a dwarf. The sunlight doesn’t bother me. I don’t go nuts on a full moon. My voice is too soft to be an orc’s. I can’t do magic… I’m probably just a plain ol’ human, Robert.”
“Nonsense, I didn’t get my magic until I was twenty-three!” He exclaims. “And Helga was twenty-five. You still have a chance at being a witch.”
“Really?” I question. He nodded. “Alright, thanks for the nice chat, sir, I hope you have a good evening.” I then left the area and went back to the bar where Andrew was serving drinks to a few dwarves.
“So what did old man Robert have to say? Andrew asks me. I told him about our conversation. “You’re not a human, Emma. There’s no way you would've seen the glowing text and sigil on Van Helsing’s book.” He was rooting around in the white refrigerator for something and holding it behind his back. I gave him a suspicious look. “Anyways, happy birthday.” It was a cupcake. I hadn’t realized the clock had struck midnight when Robert was talking with me. I smiled and blew out the candle. I am now seventeen years old.
