FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Delicious smells wafted through into the lounge at 131 Forest Avenue, Ilchester, England, as a swarthy male aardvark flicked the pages of his Country Life magazine. He sank down into the plumped-up cushions that had been carefully arranged on the spacious, soft black leather sofa. The evening sun was slowly setting, bringing with it deep golden hued rays that bounced off the top of the glass coffee table and hit his dark grey eyes, blurring the print of the article he was reading. With a frown, he reached out to the little plastic handle on a string attached to the cream vertical blinds that ran along the panoramic window and gave it a sharp twist, closing them up slightly, shading the dying light, clearing his vision again. The view of the long, neatly manicured garden and the ancient forest that lay beyond were gone. He gave his magazine a shake and settled back down to read.

While he scanned the text there was a clatter of crockery from the kitchen. He didn't look up, "everything alright, dear?"

"You haven't had a call from work today, have you?"

"No?" his long head whipped up at the mention of work, tall ears pricking. His eyes moved from the Hunter wellington boots advertisement on the glossy paper to the white cordless telephone handset on the coffee table in front of him. It hadn't rung for a long time. "Nothing." He said.

"And what about your mobile?"

He pulled a face. His Nokia 6310 was in his official robe's pocket and said robe was hanging up on a hook in the entrance vestibule. The Nokia was set to vibrate only. This was for plausible deniability in case the office got any funny ideas about contacting him.

"Probably dead," he hoped. "Why?"

"Well... this is probably going to sound strange..."

With a sigh, he gave up on the magazine altogether and dropped it down on the tabletop. Something strange could really be anything when you had a career in the Underworld and some acquaintances in very dark places. "Has the Waitrose oven-ready chicken sprung to life?" he asked, only half-joking.

"Don't be funny, dear! I'm being serious."

His wife appeared in the lounge doorway, flour on her Good Housekeeping apron and a wooden rolling pin in her beautifully manicured hands. Her green eyes flashed, her blonde ringlets trembling on her slim shoulders, "I think you should come see this," she said, pursing her ruby lips.

"What's going on?" he asked, concerned at both the mention of work and the look of genuine upset on his elven wife's dainty, porcelain features.

She smartly about-turned on her high-heeled shoes and tottered across the Axminster carpet to the front door where she promptly opened it, sweeping her graceful arm to the wide double drive where their silver Mercedes A-Class was parked.

He stopped at the threshold, a sudden chill bringing goosebumps to his grey skin. But he wasn't cold.

"You tell me!" she snapped.

There, in front of the house, on the gravel drive next to the family car, was a bright red Ferrari. It had vents in the doors. It had pop-up headlights. It also had, from what he could see at this angle, half the front bumper hanging off and deep gouges along the body panels.

"It's his, isn't it?" she hissed, a hint of a wobble in her voice.

A deep yawning chasm opened in his stomach. He felt dizzy.

"Peregrin! Look at it! Look at the state of it! What's happened to him, Peregrin? Is he alright?!" she was now clearly becoming hysterical.

He knew this day would come. He'd been fooling himself for years, embracing denial, telling himself he was worrying for nothing. But now it was here.

Not wanting to spend another moment looking at the wrecked Italian sportscar that had suddenly appeared at their luxury, four-bedroomed detached residence, where it was already getting attention from nosey neighbours who undoubtedly thought he was having one Hell of a mid-life crisis, he reached out behind him for his long black work robes.

"I'll find him," he promised, pulling out his Nokia (which surprisingly still had 14% battery charge in it after all this time.) As if on cue, it vibrated sharply in his palm.

Text messages flashed on the square screen, each one more panicked than the last, until finally a call came through.

"But is he alright?" she insisted, grabbing at his voluminous sleeve as he brought the handset up to his ear, answering the call.

His eyes told her that he didn't know, as he spoke clearly to the person on the other side. "Yes, my Lord."

With a roll of his strong shoulders, he spread out skeletal wings that clicked as they opened wide, their pale ivory bone contrasting against the deepest black of his demonic attire. Long, curving horns reached out to the darkening skies as a bony tail whipped around his feet, that were now magically covered in pointed, tassel-tongued brogues instead of the comfy slippers he'd had mere moments ago.

No longer an ordinary, everyday handsome, middle-aged aardvark, Peregrin Warlock was now something entirely more monstrous and evil. He was an executive. The woollen sweater was gone, replaced by a burgundy Saville Row hand-stitched shirt with black silk paisley print tie. His neat fingernails turned to talons as he smoothed himself down and tried to give his lovely wife as confident a smile as he could muster with his fangs. "If anything has happened to him, I'll make sure they pay."

"If anything has happened to my baby, I'll make sure YOU pay," she bristled, her fingers crackling with magical energy.

His smile vanished. With a flick of his wrist he clicked open a small, round, compact device and a blue light shone forth, dazzlingly bright, as an array of strange sigils and signs sprung out around him in a circle.

A mystical link connecting two very different places.

A doorway from the mortal realm to the land of the dead.

With a brief flash of fire and the stink of sulphur, both he and the circle of light were gone.

Delivered to Hell and all its torments.