Sparks in the Darkness Pt. 03

Chapter Seven

Investigations.

Zoey had a solid grasp on spellcasting, but as a diabolist, didn't need the full trappings of 'simple' willworkers. Magic was easier, and faster, for her than it was for any others; the reward for the sinister price she'd paid. Some magic - her telekinesis, her command over fire, a few simple glamours, and the ability to conjure wraiths - was intuitive to her; inborn abilities, as effortless to her as breathing.

For willworkers - who weren't diabolists - working magic was not, despite appearances to the opposite, a simple matter of gestures and some gobblety-gook words. Magic was willed into existence, a manifestation of the caster's focus, intensity, and force, and given shape and form by each individual caster. While any two gris-gris bags by two novice casters might bear similarities, experience inevitably brought variance - and what workers referred to as one's magical style.

One's magical style was half intention, but half accidental; things you deliberately practiced, and things you picked up. Maybe you had to draw your circles with your left hand; maybe you lit your candles before mounting them in your candelabras; habits became ritual. One caster, themselves emotional and passionate, could learn to prefer the chaos of a turbulent thunderstorm during their rituals, while another, even-keeled and temperate, prefers a clear, calm night. Or - it could be the other way around; one with turbulent inner life might seek peace in their magic as a counterbalance, and one who naturally finds balance might feel that magic is an exceptional, chaotic, and external force.

In the end, though - the thing that most simple willworkers like Oscar, and the succubus' prey had in common was ritual. Aside from very powerful spellcasters - or very simple magics - for most willworkers, virtually all magic was the stuff of ritual; preparation, repetition, casting, and rote. Even at the height of his power, with ... too much Dark Energy surging through his body, Oscar's sinister alter-ego Octagon could not have managed anything but the palest feats without relying on these tools.

And rituals took components. For simple effects - glamours, charms, simple curatives or divinations - the components were simple, and hardly exclusive; bells, books, and candles, or perhaps eye of newt and toe of frog. But more complex effects - controlling the weather, animating the dead, draining the life-force of another, compelling minds - required more rarified, hard to find, or even unique ingredients; water purified under moonlight, or baby's breath, bottled in the new moon. Harvesting such esoteric components, purely and correctly, could be the work of hours, or days ...

... or - you paid for them.

And, if you paid, there were only so many sellers. It had been years since Oscar had called upon any of them - but he doubted there had been major changes.

Zoey's driver was a large man, whose tailored driver's uniform suited him. It was obvious he continued to take pride in his appearance - as he should - as he closed in around forty. He tipped his hat as Oscar approached. "Mr. Olsen," he said, with a smile, as he opened the car door.

"Uh, Oscar, please," Oscar replied, and the man nodded, smiling broadly. Oscar sat in the backseat of the car.

"Sounds good, Oscar. You're the boss today," the driver replied. He closed the door, opened his, and climbed into the front seat. "Miss daCosta let me know you might be headed around town to a few places today. Just want to let you know, she made it very clear you're calling the plays."

He effortlessly flipped a navy-blue business card into his white-gloved hand, and passed it back over the seat.. Embossed on the card in gold lettering was a phone number - and no other information. Oscar stared in a moment of confusion. "My number," the driver clarified. "In case we get separated." Oscar nodded.

"Right," Oscar said, taking all this in. "And you are ..."

The driver shrugged. "Mr. Howell. Miss daCosta calls me Sam," he answered, extending a gloved hand. Oscar took it, and shook.

"Sam?" Oscar said, making sure Sam accepted the familiarity, and his question was answered by a broad smile.

"You're getting it," Sam answered. "It's okay if you find it a bit weird. Most folks do, at first. But - think of it a bit like - a personal taxi. That gets you started," Sam said with a nod. "Where to?" Oscar considered for a moment, and then gave an address downtown. Sam nodded, and started to pull out into traffic.

"So besides a taxi ..." Oscar asked, evaluating the spacious backseat.

"Well, I help Miss daCosta where I can. I can handle pickups, drop-offs. Important documents. Dry-cleaning. I picked up those shirts this morning," Sam nodded, meeting Oscar's gaze in the rear-view mirror. "I knew you'd go for the cotton tees, but Ms daCosta was very insistent there be dress shirts."

Oscar glanced down at his shirt. "Have we ... met?"

"Oh, no Sir; sorry. It was the lady who gave your measurements. Looks like it could have been a bit smaller in the chest." Oscar raised an eyebrow; the shirt wasn't exactly roomy. "But part of this job is, you get a feel for people, you know. Anticipating," Sam said, with a shrug. "It is nice to get to meet you, though. We're about ... twelve minutes out, with traffic."

Oscar nodded. "There's a ... book shop around there, further down Providence. If you miss it the first time, that's fine, just let me out, and come around. I'm going to need to head inside, while you park."

"Ah, Leede's," Sam said, naming the store. Oscar did a double-take. "I know the place. You're right - the door can be a bit tricky to notice, if you're not looking for it. I'll keep an eye out for a spot when we get close."

Tricky to notice was an understatement. Leede's Rare Books had a simple but effective ward over its doorway; it was missing from most photographs, and the majority of the people in the city could have walked past it a hundred times without noticing its presence. Oscar regarded Sam, wondering if he'd underestimated the driver.

Sam glanced back at Oscar through the rear-view. "Miss daCosta's been a few times," Sam said, answering the question written on Oscar's face with a nonchalant shrug. "Took a ... couple visits, before I could find the place."

Oscar leaned back in his seat, and stared a moment out the car window, watching the city drift by. He noticed electrical plugs in the center console, and took a moment to stretch out his legs in the roomy interior.

"Don't think we're going to get a lot closer than this," Sam said, pulling into a parking spot. Oscar nodded, and shifted across the seats.

"If I'm more than ... twenty minutes," Oscar said, hesitantly.

Sam nodded, and replied, "I advise the lady right away."

Oscar nodded. Good enough, he thought, and he headed into the shop.

As he walked towards the shop, Oscar examined the curious, almost crooked building, nestled between two skyscrapers. It had a certain feel; it was hard to explain, but once one had become ... accustomed to the supernatural, it had a prickly sense about it, a sensation that made its presence known. For the last few years, that vibe was a sign to Oscar that he should stay away.

But for new willworkers, just learning their craft, sensing the supernatural for the first time - that same aura made Leede's Rare Books one of the places they were likely to end up.

There was no bell or chime as Oscar pushed through the door. The shelves were perilously close to the door, and overstuffed with dime-store recycles, airport greatest hits, and former best-sellers. Passing beyond those, Oscar walked on past rare books - translations from around the world, reprintings of ancient texts, or low print run copies of works peculiar to a specific author, or specific time. Some of these were relevant, but some had as much value to Oscar as blank paper.

Seated behind a counter at the back, the shopkeeper was a young man whom Oscar had never met before, heavy-set and crouched on a stool. The young man's skin had an unseemly pallor, gray-green; his eyes hung in their sockets, and his mouth was two wide, protuberant lips. While Oscar wouldn't have said it out loud, 'repulsive' was the descriptive word that came to mind, as the man looked up from a crossword puzzle to note Oscar's approach.

"Help you?', the man said; his voice sounded belched, and his tone implied that the answer was no.

Oscar fixed the man with a stare. He stared back a moment - and Oscar felt their wills touch. Almost immediately, Oscar was certain this man was no spellcaster; his will was far too weak for that. Oscar's eyes narrowed, as the creature's eyes widened, Oscar's will pressing against it's glamour.

"Bartholomew," Oscar said, naming the store's proprietor, his tone, and will, making the name a command. The creature - Oscar was coming to doubt it had ever been human, in any real sense - nodded, and waddled to a door behind the counter, into the back. Oscar was confident it would obey. It was what this being knew.

A few minutes passed. Oscar considered going out and extending his time with the driver, but opted against - let's see Bartholomew before we make that choice.

And then Bartholomew emerged. Just as Oscar recalled, he was tall - unseemly tall. He towered over Oscar - probably nearly seven feet in height. He wasn't willowy, either; he was wide, thick; his limbs and shoulders built for her size.

"Mister Black," Bartholomew said, using one of Oscar's old aliases. His voice had always been a strange fit for his body; lilting and light, mostly in high tones. It sounded as if a bird had been taught to speak. He did remember him.

Oscar nodded, respectfully. Bartholomew's assistant pushed open the counter, and waddled past Oscar towards the door. Bartholomew continued, "It has been a long time," he said, nodding his head back towards him.

"It has," Oscar answered, dismissively. "I'm looking for someone. Well, something." Bartholomew smiled, his teeth shining white and her eyes bright - and eerily yellow-gold. "A ... different creature. A demon." Bartholomew's eyes narrowed, and he studied Oscar as he continued. "Our legends name it a succubus - a demon that feeds on lust. It's here in Halcyon City, finding emotionally vulnerable young men with an interest in magic, and luring them to the dark arts. The creature teaches them, and ... consumes them, as they succumb to the Dark Power. She hides her true form, somehow. She appears as a redhead, older but not haggard, skin unblemished - but there's age to her eyes, and hands." Oscar paused.

Behind Oscar, the servitor locked the door, and turned the sign to Closed, then turned back towards the counter.

Bartholomew stared at Oscar, and blinked, once - a deliberate, practised motion, unsettlingly unnatural. "Have you seen this demon?" Oscar finished.

Bartholomew curled his lip, disdain on his face. "No demons here. They would not," he paused, considering his words before finishing with, "... be welcome." and then he smiled, like a crocodile.

Oscar grunted lightly. He knew that Bartholomew was a fae of some description.Such beings were not Oscar's field of speciality, but it was certain that Bartholomew was being truthful - not that he would ever accuse him otherwise! The Fae and the creatures of Hell were ... both cousins, and enemies, often at odds with each other. "I see," Oscar said, with a nod. "I've been ... out of the business for a while. Do you have a suggestion for where such a creature might be acquiring its supplies?"

Bartholomew laughed - a sound that traveled up and down Oscar's spine; delightful yet unnerving. "You have been gone, Mr. Black. There is a new vendor, of ill repute. He deals in ... common goods." Hallicent waved dismissively. "Dried sage; rosary stones; wax candles and bottled waters. Children's toys." The servant pushed back past the counter, huffing, and settled back into his chair, puffing.

Oscar shook his head. "Tools. Poor tools, granted, but that only makes them more dangerous in the wrong hands. This vendor - he'd sell to a demon?"

Bartholomew's lip curled. "If the demon had money, I'm sure this merchant would sell it to them. The merchant is overly enamored with coin and wealth."

Oscar joined Bartholomew in a disapproving sneer. "Do you know how to reach him, this new vendor? An address, a phone number?"

Bartholomew contemplated 'Mr. Black' for a moment. He gestured at the homunculus seated in the office chair, and it opened a drawer on the desk, rooting through papers to pull out a notebook. It began to copy a phone number onto the back of a business card, as Bartholomew asked, "Would you do him harm, this vendor?" he asked, his voice cold.

"Not if he gives up the demon. Hell, if he's in it for money? I'm willing to give him exactly what he's looking for." Oscar answered, truthfully.

Bartholmew's smile, still with subtle menace, returned, as he shrugged, seeming almost indifferent. "Perhaps it would be better for many if harm did come to him, yes?" He took the business card from the homunculus and offered it to Oscar, with a nod. Oscar plucked it from his overly- long fingers.

"Do kindly reverse the sign as you leave," Bartholomew added, his yellow eyes shining.

Oscar blinked, stepping from the darkened shop back into the sun. As he approached, Sam - standing within a few feet of the Rolls - called out, "You still had three minutes."

"Good sense," Oscar replied, with a sigh.

"Get what you came for? Sam asked, taking a last haul from his cigarette. Oscar nodded.

"We'll need to stop at a convenience store. I'll need a burner phone. And cash. Enough to look like a wad." he said, as Sam opened the rear door of the car. Sam chuckled lightly, and leaned down over the door.

"Burner phones, I got. I swear to ya, Ms da Costa must buy them in bulk. Gives 'em out like party favors. Cash, well," Sam chuckled. "She keeps, uh, some petty cash on hand, too."

Oscar smirked, as Sam pushed the door closed.

Chapter Eight

One hunt ends. A trap is set.

At the opposite end of the park from the statue, Oscar climbed out of the back of the Rolls. Sam rolled down the window, as Oscar leaned down towards it.

"I'll be about half-block away," Sam said, with a nod. Oscar patted the top of the car twice, as the window rolled back up, and pulled away.

Oscar stepped into the park, making his way towards the agreed-upon meeting point. The burner phone was, for the time being, still in his left pocket, and a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills was in his right. He was about half-hour early - if Peter had any sense, though, he'd have been even earlier, checking out the area - checking lines of sight, and lines of fire; clearing any ambush.

But Oscar had used this space for meetings before. He knew the lines of fire here; knew the escape routes. He'd used this location before, to ...

He felt himself shiver, despite the sun's warmth. Memories came back to him - Dark Power sizzling up his spine and rippling through his body - then the gurgling sounds, the distinctive scent of burning flesh.

Oscar shook his head to clear the memories, and settled himself onto the bench, overlooking the defiant-looking statue. He cast his gaze around the monument. A mother and daughter, moving through; an unhoused person, sleeping on one of the distant benches. He let his knee tremble, and leaned heavily forward in his seat, letting his head bow, trying to look innocuous, inexperienced, and as if he had just begun to encounter powers beyond his ability to control.

About twenty minutes later, it turned out he needn't have bothered. The gray van with the airbrushed wizard pulled up, no more than twenty yards away, in open sight of the statue. The driver, a young man in his early 20s with dark hair and green eyes, popped out after no more than a few moments. He glanced either way as he pulled out his phone, and typed a message.

Oscar gave it a moment, not checking his burner for the message right away, to judge the man's next actions, but they were dull; he glanced at the statue, then looked around the base of it - not with a discerning eye, but as if to confirm he was in the right place.

Oscar hesitated. The vendor was acting entirely unsuspicious, incautious. Either he was very familiar with the area, or very confident ... or he was some kind of fool.

... and Oscar made the error of leaning towards his being a fool.

Oscar rose slowly, trying to continue the appearance of being cautious, but also bordering on overwhelmed. He reviewed the backstory he'd prepared - he was having experiences in his apartment; doors opening, sounds of someone walking, strange foul smells. The kind of initial, incidental contact that drew normal people towards the supernatural.

Despite the warm day, Oscar rubbed his arms; every newcomer he'd ever met had always found themselves cold, continuously cold. Then, he pulled out his phone, glanced at the message, and looked up at the van. He made eye contact with the driver; the other man didn't smile, but did nod at him lightly.

Oscar closed the distance. "H-hey, uhm," he started, and the driver nodded, again, smiling slightly.

"Peter," he replied.

"Oh, okay, hey, Peter," Oscar continued. "Uhm, I was looking for, uh. Uh, I'm not sure. Candles, I think? Something to ... ... look, I have ... around my apartment, uhm." Oscar did his best to shift uncomfortably, as if uneasy with the topic of ghosts or the supernatural.

Peter nodded, but his feigned patience radiated impatience. "Hey, I get it. I got blessed candles, I've got sacred oils ..." Peter started to walk to the back of the van, and Oscar glanced all around, and then followed. Peter opened the back doors of the van, showing that it was well-stocked with merchandise. "Exorcisms and banishings aren't normally my thing," he continued, "But, I try to make sure to keep all the basics on hand, you know?

As Peter stepped up into the van, Oscar took hold of both of the doors, holding them partly closed, and lifted his knee, leaning into the van. "So here's how the rest of this goes, Peter."

Peter's eyes widened, and he turned towards Oscar. A smirk played across Oscar's lips, as he moved his hand from the rear door to the built-in metal shelves. It had been a while since he'd had cause to be intimidating, but the years of experience pressed through the thirty months of change with eerie ease. His voice hardened; darkened, and the expression faded from his face. Just as Zoey could become Fantisma - Oscar could still remember how to become Octagon.

As he slipped back into the role, he felt the Dark Power edge closer. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. He was glad Zoey wasn't here to see it.

"So, Peter." Octagon stated, his voice a banal, even, tone that was surprisingly effective when threatening people. "Normally, this starts with you acting like you're not intimidated. You probably get out a weapon; a knife, maybe a gun. Here's the thing, though - I've been stabbed before. And, I've shot people before. And I'm willing to bet you haven't, Peter. Have you?"

Peter's breathing became audible, as he shook his head no. His eyes flicked to the metal shelf beside him, then back to Octagon's cold, deep, gaze. Octagon tilted his head, frowned, and gently shook his head. "Peter. I know how to make it hurt, Peter. Not the gunshot, obviously. That hurts no matter what; hot and cold and exquisite. But after - I know where to put the sand, so the wound never heals right. How to press on the back of your knee with the hot barrel to make you scream." Octagon nodded again, eyes locked on Peter's, pressing his will against Peter's. "So, I'd rather we skip the part where one of us -" he nodded at Peter, for emphasis, "- gets needlessly hurt, Peter. Let's skip ahead to the part where - " he dug in his pocket, and pulled out the roll of hundred dollar bills " - where I offer you a lot of money. Yeah?"