Færie Patrol

Okay, so that’s the working title.

Comprised of, mostly, teenagers with powers, monstrous or mythological ancestry, and/or connections to The Otherworld.

They are part of a group that strives to protect the Earth from those creatures of myth, legend, magic, and even the occasional alien that would threaten it

They station themselves near the convergence points of ley-lines. For Salem, Massachusetts the only thing standing between it and invasions of redcap goblins, mad sorcerers looking to subjugate the mortal realms, and the expansionist Zerliptain empire is an unlikely, ragtag group of super(natural) heroes.

Meet Theresa O’Neal. She’s a nymph which gives her power over water and the ability to sense and open the gateways and portals between our world and the wild land of fairy. It’s hard to be a teen girl who would love to find a nice boyfriend but has this irritating tendency to accidentally mesmerise and seduce them (girls too, come to that, but the fairer sex aren’t half so fun). She also would really rather work on her bike and play video games, but that whole fate of the world thing comes up, and if the evil magi win, then there goes electricity and, with it, her consoles.

Sylvia DeLacour. She’s a Dhampir. She has skin that is very, very pale, she has hair like midnight, her eyes beguile and her fangs are adjustable. By and large she likes her lot in life — for one thing, she’s essentially immortal, inhumanly fast and strong, can become somewhat immaterial and fly, and she has the kind of figure that would turn anyone’s head in any century. She has to drink blood to survive, but that’s never bothered her.

Sir Frances Lochsleigh. He’s dead. This can be very advantageous in life threatening work, but it has its drawbacks. For one thing, it’s difficult to get through the universe while insubstantial … well, actually, it’s extremely easy which is a big part of the problem. Sir Frances’ biggest problem isn’t even one he recognises: The man died in the thirteenth century. In the past eight centuries (give or take a few decades) he’s finally starting to get with … the sixteenth century. If you could imagine Don Quixote and Sir Galahad‘s bastard offspring then you’d likely have Sir Frances on one of his better days.

Ilyanna Romanov. She’s a gypsy, or that’s what many would call her, but never to her face (a second time). She’s Romani, damn it. She’s also a witch, not a Wiccan; that irritates her too. She is a manipulator of aethyrial energies with a strong reality potential — that’s fancy talk for she casts spells, and sometimes bloody powerful ones.

Nym Celebduilleog. He’s a sprite. He’s three inches high, has the fighting spirit and attitude of someone eight feet high on too many steroids, and tends to fancy himself Robin Hood or some other swashbuckling hero … if anyone could readily name any such with an insatiable appetite for spiced wine and dalliances who’s over a thousand years old and completely addicted to cinema.

Last, but not least, I present Robert Diaz. Robert is a telepath, and telekinetic, and sixteen. The only other thing there is to say about him is how much he hates the ruination to his manicures when he has to fight certain monsters.

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