Odds and Ends

Odenton University, Byvale District, Elberon — April, 1996

“…Which is why, according to Francis Annesley’s theory, there is an indirect correlation between asomatous Magic and endogenic Magic but not between temporal Magic and exogenic Magic.”

And with that, the bell rang. I watched the students file out. Very few of them had any real interest in Ethereal Chemistry. It was a requisite course along with Magical Theory and Magical Taxonomy. One or two stopped to ask for clarification on the lecture, and I answered their questions to the best of my ability before impatiently ushering them out.

My attention was fixed on the man waiting in the back of the room.

He was thickset, with scraggly tawny hair and a nose that could charitably be described as prominent. He held himself in something of an “at ease” position, with shoulders back, feet spread and arms clasped behind his back. The wool cape and double breasted jacket that he wore marked him as on of Ellwood’s men.

“Professor Crane,” he greeted, proceeding down the rows to meet me at the front of the class. His wide-shouldered gait, reminiscent of a sailor’s, drew attention to the gun at his hip.

“Mr…Creighton, isn’t it?” I asked, “I believe we met last year at Ambrose’s Yule celebration?”

He nodded. “I remember.”

I forced a smile onto my face as he thrust out a heavily scarred hand. I shook it and felt callouses. It brought me inappropriate amounts of pleasure to know that I was responsible for at least some of those scars.

“You’ve been placed in charge of the investigations regarding the recent terrorist attacks, haven’t you?” I tried not to sound unduly curious. Creighton’s mere presence was a big indication that I was already in some deep shit.

Wrinkles of surprise appeared on his forehead. “And how did you come across that piece of information, Hadrian? May I call you Hadrian?”

No, you insufferable boyscout. “Of course, Gareth. I heard from Midas Giehl.”

“Ah. And are you and Mr. Giehl good friends?” I nodded. “Then you shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he’s been cleared of all suspicion.”

“Of course.” As if I would allow him to leave the evidence just lying around.

“You know, I recently came across a copy of The Torch. It’s an academic journal. Couldn’t understand half of it.” Imagine that. “A bunch intellectual drivel. But I found an anonymously submitted essay titled ‘Analyzing the Effect of Hate Crime and State Crime on Dark Mage Extremism.’”

I struggled not to grind my teeth, shoving my hands into the pockets of my tweed jacket so that he wouldn’t see them shaking.

“Fascinating,” I said dryly. “Though I fail to see the relevance—”

“Well I did some digging,” Creighton continued, “And easily traced the article back to you.”

I lifted an eyebrow, “Easily? You insult me, Gareth.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “Can’t say I agree with all of your conclusions, though.”

The other eyebrow rose. “Oh?”

“Yeah. The bit about Cain's motives. You made them sound very...noble."

I forced my voice to sound level. “I have never made it a secret that I agree with Daedarus Cain’s ideology. He fights for equality. I believe in equality on principle.”

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Professor.” You have no idea. “Sympathizing with Cain is like wearing a bright neon sign that says ‘terrorist.’”

Cry me a river, you miserable shit.

“Yes, and I am certainly terrorist material.” I scoffed, making a point of pushing up my glasses. It had taken years to assemble this persona of an inconspicuous, harmless university professor and I was not yet ready to make my debut as a politician. This conversation was happening a few years too early.

“Hhm. Have you ever heard of personality profiling?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the Psych Department’s description of Cain's groupies have been fairly predictable. Dark Magi, between the ages of twenty and forty, probably living in Draunt. Mostly single males.”

“Sounds very unspecific,” I said dryly.

“I agree. Not very helpful. You’ll enjoy their profile for Cain, though,” he said, “A Harbinger, obviously, but we have no way of detecting that. Neurotic and borderline sociopathic, suffering from—whats it called—an ‘attachment disorder’, obsessive–compulsive tendencies, impulse control issues and 'unpleasant or disturbing thoughts.' Highly educated with no criminal background, unmarried and…” he paused, dark eyes drinking in my sweater vest and scruffy wingtips, “…unassuming.”

I had to refrain from strangling the man as I was psychoanalyzed. I felt my eye twitch. ‘Impulse control issues’ indeed. But I couldn’t kill the man here, as much as desired to. No, that would all kinds of suspicious. And, while it may be Plans-R-Us in my head, I was still averse to watching my current plot go up shit creek.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting that—”

“No," he said, "Not officially, anyway. Ambrose has a great deal of faith in you, Hadrian. He’s been keeping you clean of suspicion. It’s why I can’t organize an official investigation against you.”

“So instead you dropped by under the pretense of a ‘friendly visit’ to see if I said anything incriminating.”

“More or less,” he said. I detected no shame in his voice.

“I assure you I am not secretly plotting the downfall of the government.”

That was perhaps the most boldface lie I had ever uttered.

He smiled thinly “I see that." I'm sure you do. "Well, I’ll leave you to your work, Professor.”

He slapped me on the back, sending me stumbling slightly.

I righted myself and cleared my throat. “Ah, yes…thank you.”

On his way out, Creighton passed through a patch of sun coming from one of the massive sky lights.

I dearly hoped it was carcinogenic.


Cain Family Manor, Near The Outpost of Canton, Elberon — October, 1967

The Cain Family Manor was located at the edge of the Cynefin and was concealed by so many trees and vines that few knew it even existed. It gave off a horror-story ambiance, with its ancient, rotting foundation and moaning staircase and extensive cobwebs. It was haunted by Manes and Mares and every kind of unsavory spirit imaginable.

I thought it was beautiful.

I returned home after a long day of tormenting Serafina’s forces and put the kettle on. I would need all the caffeine I could get before the upcoming meeting.

A figure stepped out of the shadows—a woman, with black curls and skin of an unnatural pallor. She wore a white cocktail dress with a large black ribbon around her waist and matching evening gloves. Around her long neck was a simple pearl necklace that shone in the amber light of the gas lamp.

Or, at least, it appeared to be a woman. There was something not quite right about her movements. They were jerky and uncoordinated, as if she were a puppet being held up by string. This could have been dismissed as inability to walk in high heels, if not for her eyes. They were entirely white. Like solid marble.

I rolled my eyes and released an exasperated sigh. “Lilith, I have warned you about stealing people’s bodies. Repeatedly.”

Lilith was a statue of an imp that I accidentally injected with sentience when I was twenty-one. The lovechild of an intoxicated mind, a burst of asomatous Magic and a fig Shade that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The body that she currently inhabited quirked a thin eyebrow. “I don’t see what the big deal is.” When she spoke it was with two overlapping voices, one echoing the other. I grimaced, thoroughly unsettled.

“Is it dead?” I asked, forehead wrinkled with displeasure.

She nodded and twirled around. The back of the dress was stained a reddish brown and at the base of the corpse’s neck was an ugly wound. Bits of bone could be seen through the mangled flesh. “It’s fresh, if that’s what has your knickers in a twist.”

“That’s hardly the issue, Lilith,” I snapped, “There’s the minor matter of the missing person’s report, not to mention that any stray Magical trace left at the scene could potentially lead the MHA to—”

“Alright, alright, calm your tits,” she said, the corpse’s hands held out in a placating gesture. “It won’t happen again.”

“Very well. Make sure it doesn’t. Next time I will not be so lenient.” I meant the words to be more threatening than they sounded.

Lilith tittered and clutched my arm, “Don't be so dramatic. Come on, the sooner we get there the sooner we can leave.”

I couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment.


Arington Manor, Langdon District, Elberon — October, 1967

We arrived at a Victorian brick mansion with an intimidating metal gate and a garden overrun with weeds. I heard Lilith’s recently acquired corpse make a sound of profound distaste as we ascended the rickety front steps.

“Honestly. Would it kill them to keep this dump at least semi-livable?” she complained.

The door opened, revealing a short, portly young man with a ruddy face and bad teeth. When he saw me he froze.

“You.”

“Me,” I agreed.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Get your father, Richard.”

He glared, trying to appear intimidating. He failed quite spectacularly. “It’s Ricky. And why should I? You’re a monster and a freak. And rude, to boot.” This all sounded terribly hypocritical to my ears. “Ordering me and my family around in our own home, endangering my father, disrespecting my mother…”

I sighed. He continued.

“…Treating Light Magi like cannon fodder. You’re just using us for your own agenda. And don’t think I don’t see the way you look at my sister, you creepy old pedo—”

I snapped my fingers.

‘Ricky’ collapsed on the ground, shrieking and thrashing, his beady eyes growing wider than I thought them capable.

Lilith made a face. I poked my head inside.

Seconds later a jolly looking man with a sharp goatee and green suspenders entered the foyer.

“Ah. Elias. So good to see you.” I gave a small wave.

“Hadrian!” The elder Arington dabbed at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “I wasn’t expecting you so early. Esmeralda is around here some—Oh my.”

Elias caught a glimpse of his son, who continued to roll on the ground and gurgle pathetically. He sent me an apologetic look, but otherwise dutifully ignored the sight.

He peered past me. “I see you’ve brought a guest.”

It was apparent that he had gotten a better look at my companion when his skin lost most of its coloring.

“How rude of me,” I said, “Although I do believe you two have met before. Lilith, this is Elias Arington. Elias, allow me to introduce you to the body that Lilith is wearing tonight.”

Lilith curtsied. Elias frowned and fiddled with his goatee.

“That’s…uh…”

“Exactly as disturbing as it sounds,” I said.

“Yes, well…um…why don’t you come in?”

We stepped inside, careful to avoid the flailing form of Richard Arington. He was beginning to foam at the mouth so I, having nothing against dear Esmeralda’s lovely Persian rug, grudgingly released him from the pain.

As a group we proceeded down a long hallway. The walls were lined with portraits of dead people who all held a vague resemblance to Elias. I took a passing interest in the assorted paraphernalia out on display. I spotted a sianach skull, a vase covered in Germanic runes, a lamp that hissed softly and gave off an eerie blue light, a hibernating ember lily, and a twisted wooden spiral with holes that I recognized as a wind instrument from the late sixteenth century. I always enjoyed visiting the Aringtons. Their mansion would be more aptly described as a museum.

Lilith stumbled slightly, unaccustomed to moving in her current body, and found herself staring into a crystal ball. Whatever images she saw must have been upsetting, for she jumped back a moment later, an ugly scowl twisting her lips.

We entered the parlor, where an assortment of interesting characters were already gathered. Arlen Claiborne and Gerard Valentin occupied the only loveseat, while Midas Giehl and Tabitha Arington sat in the antique Fauteuils across from them. Esmeralda would have made quite the portrait, gazing pensively out the window, her strawberry blond hair falling neatly around her porcelain shoulders.

The room itself was rather ostentatious, with intricate white trimming, golden wallpaper and garish red drapes. All of the furniture was vintage Victorian and solid mahogany. Having grown up in the late nineteenth century, I was reminded vividly of my childhood. A mammoth marble fireplace rose from the far wall.

Hallam Bender, who was leaning nonchalantly against the mantle, was the first to notice us. Hallam was a short, gaunt man with pasty skin and poor posture. On his bulbous nose were perched a pair of spectacles.

“It took you long enough,” he said by way of greeting. “I was beginning to get bored.”

I turned to Elias. “I thought you said I was early?”

“Yes…well…so was everyone else, I suppose…."

“Nobody wants to arrive after you do, boss,” Hallam said, “Arriving after you do would make us late.”

I hummed thoughtfully before sitting in my typical chair by the fireplace. It was a leather wingback and my unofficial seat for every visit. Lilith sat to my right, looking bored as the conversation turned to politics and the recent revolts by Elberon’s self-fashioned ‘socialist party.’

Eventually Richard came slinking into the room, though he lingered near the bookshelf, away from the adults.

He truly was a repulsive little shit stain.

His long, greasy knots and shabby rags contrasted with his father’s thin comb-over and decent apparel. A victim of the Magi counterculture. The members of Richard’s generation had adopted a strange mix between the attitude and behavior of the Mundane youth movement and, surprisingly enough, the current trends in Vampire fashion. The resulting style can only be described as ‘post-apocalyptic hippy.’

“And Galster, that son of a bitch, has thirty-six seats. Thirty-six. That’s three dozen too many, if you ask me,” Arlen was saying.

Arlen and Gerard had been exchanging subtle glances and light touches throughout the entire discussion. But it was only then that I noticed the matching rings.

“My congratulations,” I said, raising my glass in a casual toast.

Arlen turned pink. Gerard looked up from swirling his wine.

“Pardon?”

“On your betrothal,” I said, “Though I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me.”

There were suitably surprised ooh’s and ah’s from around the room, followed by some polite clapping. Gerard beamed while Arlen wrung his wrists sheepishly.

“Thank you, sir,” Gerard said, “We were going to make the announcement later this evening. The wedding was small and only between immediate family.”

I gave a cordial smile. “Of course.”

"This is why I'm so glad you're pushing that anti-segregation legislation, Hadrian," Esmeralda said, "With any luck, Midas and Gerard's children—given that they decide to have any—won't have to grow up surrounded by prejudice."

I nodded. “Yes, I’m happy to see progress being made in regards to—”

“Dim.”

Someone dropped their glass.

All heads turned to see Richard with his teeth barred and lips curled in disgust.

I felt decidedly unsurprised by the outburst, and wished I had just stayed home.

“Richard!” screeched Esmeralda.

The surly teen stuck out his chin defiantly and plowed foolishly onward. “He’s the devil, Ma. All o' his kind are. They're gonna ruin Elberon."

The other guests were all looking at me as if they were afraid I was going to rip Richard’s spine out through his face. I found the mental image therapeutic.

Elias’s face had gone an unflattering shade of puce. “That…that’s enough!”

“Oh, yes, let’s all just ignore the behemoth in the room, shall we? He’s a Dark Mage. We’re not. And yet you all feel it’s necessary to hide behind a man of lesser birth and kiss the ground he walks on as if he’s some sort of Messiah.”

Huh. And Tabitha had always seemed like such a pleasant girl.

“Tabitha!” said a scandalized Esmeralda.

I took a sip of my wine. “Do continue, Ms. Arington.”

The young woman was now standing and pointing in my direction. It was some of the angriest pointing I had seen in a long time. I felt honored.

“I don’t understand how you can swear your loyalty to this—this—this insignificant little worm.”

I laughed. My minions all looked appropriately horrified. Like with Pavlov’s dog, they had become accustomed to laughter preceding the literal ‘rolling of heads.’

“Well, that’s nothing to feel ashamed of,” I said, “I wouldn’t expect anyone with an IQ in the double digits to understand the complex web of loyalties that must necessarily characterize a war to overthrow the government of the second largest sovereign magical state in the entire modern world.”

Tabitha had since turned the same shade as her father. “And that’s another thing! You lord over everyone you like you’re master of the house! I see the way you frighten them all. Like little children.”

“But I do not frighten you.”

Tabitha sniffed imperiously. “Of course not. You’re just a Dim.” More gasps all around. “How am I supposed to be scared of you with Daedarus Cain running around? He would crush you like a bug.”

“He is certainly a powerful fellow,” I agreed.

Lilith nearly spat out her wine. She gripped the arm of her chair and swallowed forcibly before proceeding to cackle madly.

Tabitha sneered. “Is something funny? Does your little whore know something we—AAAAAH!”

The young woman had tumbled unceremoniously to the ground and was convulsing violently. Her tortured shrieks were the only sound for almost a minute. It was a much more potent bout of Magic than I’d used on Richard.

Esmeralda had one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. Elias refused to watch, gazing instead into the hearth. Arlen and Gerard were frozen. Midas, the sheltered bureaucrat that he was, looked ready to pass out and by the way Richard was shaking, I surmised that he was reliving his own experience under my Magic.

Hallam was the only one who looked mildly undisturbed, but his hands still trembled around his glass of scotch.

“Esmeralda, dear,” I said gently.

She turned toward me, eyes wide and watery.

“Y-yes?”

“Have you any biscuits?”

“I…w-what?”

“I think we’d all appreciate some right now,” I said. “And some jam, if you would.”

“B-but…”

“They’re always better with jam,” I reassured her, “Trust me.”

Tabitha shrieked again.

The sound seemed to jolt the poor woman out of her stupor. “R-right away…”

She vanished into the kitchen.

Next to me, Lilith looked far more amused than was appropriate. Together we watched in morbid fascination as Tabitha began to strike her head against the floor, presumably to escape consciousness.

“Hadrian.”

It was Hallam who had spoken.

“T-that’s enough,” he said.

I blinked. This was new. “What did you say?”

“It’s enough. She’s had enough.”

“I decide when enough is enough, you fool.” Pause. “It is enough.”

I released the girl, who immediately curled into a defensive ball and started sobbing.

“Elias,” I said.

The man jerked as if I’d shoved a fork through his testicles. “Y-yes, sir?”

“I’m feeling rather fatigued. I trust you won’t mind if Lilith and I retire early?”

“I-I-No, of course not. If that is what you…what you wish.” He seemed understandably distracted.

We all three rose and, after I exchanged some parting pleasantries with the others, proceeded to the foyer.

“Tell your wife I said thank you.”

“Of course. And…” he hesitated. Lilith tapped the corpse’s foot impatiently.

“Yes?”

“I apologize for the children’s misconduct. If I had known they were going to act that way, I would have never have let them—”

“It’s quite alright, Elias. Children will be children.”

I opened the door.

“Oh, and Elias?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Enjoy the biscuits.”


Byvale District, Elberon — February, 2003

I made the mistake of arriving early to the annual charity banquet thrown by the Ministry of Home Affairs. Barnabas Gorrell accompanied me, looking particularly dour and unapproachable. I suspected it was Isadora who had put him in such a foul mood. The woman was notoriously temperamental and, if Barnabas’s perpetual state of misery was anything to go by, overbearing.

In the middle of our conversation, the short man turned an interesting shade of green.

I turned to see what had caught his attention.

In our direction sauntered a vulture-like man with a winning smile and an obvious toupee. He donned a truly hideous purple paisley waistcoat along with white slacks and a ridiculous red cravat. And they call me a monster.

Barnabas excused himself to use the restroom and wasted no time in legging it, leaving me to fend for myself. He would get his, I promised myself silently.

“Mr. Crane?” I nodded, albeit reluctantly. “My name is Harold Prick.”

I blinked. “My condolences.”

He laughed and we shook hands. I promised myself I would wash mine at the earliest opportunity.

“I thought I should introduce myself. We’ll be running against each other in next year’s election.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed rather impressively whenever he spoke. I couldn’t quite tear my eyes from it.

“Indeed?”

I doubted that with a name like ‘Harry Prick’ this man would be any real threat to my campaign.

He nodded fervently. “Oh yes. You are planning to run for First Minister, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“And I’ve heard through the grape vine that your running mate will be Midas Giehl.” He put the strangest inflection on dear Midas’s name.

“Yes. I have known Midas for years.”

“Good, good,” he eyed me curiously, “But you are a Dark Mage, are you not?”

Yes. Yes, I am a member of Elberon’s persecuted minority. Reminder appreciated, you pathetic waste of DNA.

“By the standard definition, yes.”

He peered at me much like a bird would its prey. “Well, pardon me for asking, but how do you expect to win the primaries as a Dark Mage?”

What an asinine man. I resisted the urge to curl my lip.

“By acquiring the majority of votes, Mr. Prick. How else?”

The man flushed scarlet. “Well, yes, but I mean—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Prick,” I said. “And I would remind you that the party I am running for is liberal when it comes to Magical affiliation. The same cannot be said for yours, however, can it?”

“No, I don’t believe it can.” The man narrowed his beady black eyes. I had the sudden urge to gouge them out with a spoon.

Just then, Barnabas returned with two glasses of champagne.

He passed one to me and I sent him a look that said ‘I may be a megalomaniacal mass murderer but at least I’m not the asshat who leaves a fellow alone with Harold Prick.’ You will learn, dear reader, that I am very talented in the art of silent communication.

“Ah! Gorrell! I thought I saw you lurking around here somewhere,” Prick said.

“Prick,” Barnabas acknowledged stiffly.

“Mr. Crane and I were just discussing the upcoming election. Have you considered running?”

“No.”

“Just as well. You’ll be sparing your reputation.”

What an utterly moronic thing to say. I saw Barnabas’s hand tighten around his glass. Prick gave no indication that he was aware of his own tactlessness.

Typical Lumie.

Barnabas gritted his teeth. “You’ll forgive us, Mr. Prick, but Hadrian and I have places to be.” I chose to interpret that as ‘fuck you and your fancy waistcoat, you bagelwanker.’

“Very well,” Prick said. He offered Barnabas a nod. “Nice seeing you, Gorrell.” He then turned to me and foolishly attempted some ‘humor’. “Until next time, rival,” he said with a wink.

I very nearly gagged.

Harold Prick had just moved up five places on my 'to-kill' list.

“Rivals would imply that we are equals, Mr. Prick, and we are not equals,” I drawled. “Good day.”

I turned sharply on my heals and, with Barnabas following closely behind, left the aptly named Mr. Prick to marinate in his befuddlement.


The Cynefin, Elberon — June, 1989

As a Villain, I never was one to conform to the stereotype of creepy, dark, forbidding lairs. No, my lairs were all brightly lit and full of plants and books and other things that I enjoyed. Besides, what kind of Villain would I be if I had to rely on my surroundings to make me seem intimidating? I was perfectly secure in my own ability to terrify.

The whelp being shoved before me was evidence of this.

Terrance Clemens was a nebbishy man, sallow-skinned with glasses that seemed to dominate his entire face. In a few minutes, however, I suspected he’d be little more than a blood stain on the carpet.

He was looking around wildly, demanding, “Where’s Hailee? What have you done with her? Where is my wife?!”

“Your wife, while charming, was surprisingly flammable,” I said from where I sat, sprawled haphazardly in my favorite wicker chair.

His face went white as his eyes landed on my form. His distress would have been confusing to any onlookers, given our surroundings, if it were not for my minions looming threateningly in the background.

He began to tremble. “Y-you! You’re Daedarus Cain! T-the terrorist!”

“Mmh. Yes. Now, Mr. Clemens, if you wouldn’t mind answering some questions regarding your academic work?”

Clemens went stiff as a board.

“I…I don’t…I’m only a professor! I-I’ve published a few things, but nothing—nothing major…”

I drummed my fingers listlessly against the arm of my chair. “You would call your theory on 'Finite Magic' nothing major?”

His oily brow furrowed. “W-well…yes. I would. It’s a simple theory, the evidence to support it is all around us, just look at—”

“Oh, please, Clemens. The only 'evidence' is that Magic is ‘disappearing’, and it supports hundreds of different claims, not just yours. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Law of Conservation of Magic?”

“Of—of course, but it—it’s just conjecture! It was debunked in ‘34 by—”

“Elsebeth Wesmer. On false evidence.”

“B-but—”

“Tell me, Mr. Clemens, in what year did the Magical community adopt the Baconian method?”

His eyebrows shot up. “1942…” he breathed.

“Yes. What most people don’t know is that Elsebeth Wesmer was horribly uneducated. Not only that, but she based her findings on guesswork. Her readings were utterly contrived.”

“But that means—”

“Yes. I will give you thirty-seconds to justify your theory of finite Magic based on this…revelation. Starting now.”

“That’s impossible! I couldn’t—couldn’t possibly defend my thesis if the Law has yet to be debunked. T-that kind of uncertainty does not allow room for—”

“Twenty-five seconds, Mr. Clemens.”

“Alright, alright! Um…well, first off, we’re functioning under the assumption that Magic is an entity—or, um, an element—that exists all around us much in the same way that oxygen does. Th-there is no source, it is just there, and has been there since the dawn of mankind. And, l-like oxygen, we take Magic in and use it. And when we’re done using it, it is d-discharged from our system and into the surrounding atmosphere—”

“Ten seconds.”

“—And once this occurs it is no longer usable! And, unlike with oxygen and carbon-dioxide, there is no process like photosynthesis that can replenish our supply of Magic, thus making it plausible that—”

“Time’s up, Mr. Clemens."

"W-wait, I-I haven't even gotten to—"

The lifeless of Terrence Clemens body hit the ground with a dull 'thud.'

"Such is life. Consider your theory debunked, Professor."


Crane Manor, Langdon District, Elberon — March, 2013

I had always been fond of the Langdon manor. The architecture was distinctly postmodern, and yet the interior furnishing was traditional, inherited from my loathsome Father.

The conservator was undoubtedly my favorite room. It was massive, with a twenty foot tall ceiling and walls that were made almost entirely of glass. Outside could be seen the solid hedge that enclosed the entire manor and towered even higher than the conservatory walls. A variety of exotic plants framed the central sitting area.

There were a handful of armchairs and one camel-back couch currently occupied by the slumbering form of a young teen.

Elie looked so peaceful while he slept.

I couldn’t wait to ruin his life even more.

I was flipping through a copy of Erroll Ducksworth’s Ancient Rituals for the Morally Ambiguous when his pale blue eyes finally opened. He groaned and sat up, clutching his head.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Like Dmitry Ivanov should be publicly executed.”

I snorted.

“If that’s the case, you’re in good company.”

“You mean because he’s an utter dick?” The end of the sentence was muffled by a yawn.

“Well, yes, and because he’s Communist.”

“Really? I would’ve thought anarchist.”

“He’s Russian, dear.”

Elie seemed to think on that for a moment. “I don’t know much about politics,” he admitted at last, “I go by what my uncle thinks.”

“And what does your uncle think?”

“That communists should be shot.”

“Oh. Yes. That uncle,” I said, “Well, while I’m inclined to agree with you on principle, it would be rather hypocritical of me, being an evil despot and all that.”

And as an evil despot, I still had to deal with annoying bureaucrats. Perhaps it was time I seceded from Elberon altogether and declared my own sovereign city-state. The Caindom. Ha. Ha ha.

Elie noticed my book. “What were you reading?”

I showed him the cover. He nodded, suddenly adopting an uncharacteristically uncertain expression. “Last Yule, when you said that thing about being lucky that the sacrifice wasn’t…wasn’t…you don’t actually use human sacrifices, do you?”

“And if I do?”

Elie bit his lip but remained silent.

“Would it really change anything?” I mused, “You’ve already accepted by proclivity for murder.”

He said nothing so I continued.

“The world may not be black and white, as you’ve hopefully come to realize by now, but it isn’t gray either. It’s full of color.”

The boy's expression suddenly darkened. “Don’t think for one moment you can justify anything you’ve done with some vague, meaningless platitude,” he seethed.

I gave him as ghastly a smile as I could conjure. “Do you think human life is worth preserving, Elie? All of it?”

He hesitated for only a moment, no doubt sensing a trap. Smart lad. “Yes.”

I nodded shortly and spread my arms out in a grand gesture. Hundreds of opalescent bubbles exploded from the center of the room, filling the conservatory with a cascade of color. I turned to Elie, who was watching with a mixture of awe and bemusement. “Each of these,” I began, “Represents a life. You have to keep each of these bubbles alive for a good seventy-plus years. And every time one of them pops, there is a dreadful deal of anguish and misery and ceremony.”

He continued watching the bubbles with wide eyes. I wondered if that meant he’d had some glorious epiphany, but quickly decided that was just wishful thinking. I had not been expecting him to change his views. I just liked being right.

“Go on,” I said, “Catch them. Stop them from popping.”

By now half of the bubbles had already popped. Elie turned to scowl at me. “But people aren’t bubbles. People have families and emotions and personalities—”

“And so do you. What has anyone else done to warrant your time and effort? Your sacrifice? Is this,” I flung out an arm, “What you want for a life? Is it, Hero?”

“And is that what you did?” he challenged, “Did you just decide that everyone else isn’t worth your time and move on?”

I frowned. “Have you ever seen inside another person’s head, brat? It’s a shock. You take a look and realize you have nothing in common with them and never will. We’re a different breed, Elie. It is our inherent right as individuals of power to—”

“Do you know what a snow globe is?” he asked.

I quelled my irritation at being interrupted. “Of course.”

“Well, Elberon will only ever be ‘yours’ in the same way you can own a snow globe.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded, his confidence in his own metaphor growing. “You can turn a snow globe this way and that, shake it, admire the scene inside. But you can never live in it. Not as a home.”

“But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s still mine,” I said, “I could break it, if I wished.”

I reached out and popped a bubble as it passed.

“But you haven’t," he said, "You won’t.”

“Of course I won’t. Why would I break my favorite toy?”


Laufenthal, Germany — Beltane, 1971

I first met Albert Newell in the forests surrounding Laufenthal.

I watched from the safety of the trees as he repeatedly dropped a heavy tome on his foot while screaming the German word for blackboard at the top of his lungs. Mind you, this didn‘t exactly communicate mental health.

“TAFEL! TAFEL! TAFEL! TAF…thank fuck.”

He opened the book, sat down, and began reading.

I made the mistake of approaching him.

“Hello, I—”

“Shush,” he snapped, not bothering to look up from the page.

“Are you a Mage?” I asked.

“Of course. Now shush.”

He spoke with a heavy accent that I didn’t recognize.

I crouched down in front of him and tapped the book. “Is that a Hebridean Almanac?”

That seemed to get his attention. He closed the book and watched me with wary eyes. It was no wonder. Hebridean Almanacs are very rare and very valuable. “You…have heard of them?”

“What an inane question.” I stood, the other man rising as well.

He seemed to have noticed my druid’s glass.

“That is druid’s glass,” he said.

“It is.” This man had extraordinary talent for stating the obvious.

He looked me up and down assessingly. “You are a druid?”

“One of the best,” I said, unencumbered by anything so dreary as modesty.

Recognition flooded his features. He snapped his fingers. “Ah! You are…Daedarus Cain, no?”

I preened. “Yes, yes, very good. I take it you’ve heard the rumors of my prowess?”

“No. Renwick mentioned you. He called you a—ah—I believe the term was…headcase?”

“And do you know what I call him?”

He shook his head.

“Dead.”

The man laughed. It was a deep, rich sound.

“I take it you’re not a fan?” I asked, smiling with vicious satisfaction. Any enemy of Basil’s was a friend of mine.

“Not quite,” he agreed, “My name is Albert Newell.”

He offered a hand. I took it.

“I come from Heiligbloem,” he said.

Heiligbloem was the Magical city-state of South Africa. The largest on the African continent, I believe. That would account for Albert’s accent. It also meant that by ‘Tafel’ he meant ‘table’, as the word meant in Afrikaans, not ‘blackboard’, as it meant in German. This revelation did very little to reassure me of my new friend’s sanity.

“And what is your business here?” I asked.

“I am trying to unlock the secrets of this book.” He waved the Almanac in my face.

“By yelling ‘tafel’ at it?”

He nodded fervently. “Most certainly.”

I felt my expression contort into one of profound intellectual agony. “But why?”

“Well, you see, the man who gave me this book put a seal on it. It only opens if you say the password.”

“Which is…table?”

He dipped his head. “Yes.”

I stared. He stared back. I coughed. He continued to stare.

“Er…you recognized my druid’s glass.”

“Yes.”

“Are you…a druid?” I asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” he said. “Although I am also a clairvoyant. And you are a very troubled man.”

I stepped back, affronted. “I’m sorry?”

Albert nodded sagely.

“You should be. Your soul is rotting, Daedarus Cain. Rotting from the inside out. It is like a disease of the spirit.”

“Is it, now?” I mused. If so, this was the first time I had ever heard about it.

“Yes. Renwick’s soul suffered from much the same.”

“Do not compare me to that folly-fallen fool,” I fumed, “We are nothing alike.”

Albert tapped the flesh right next to his eye. “You would be surprised, if you could see what I see.”

Overcome with indignation, I struck out violently with my Magic. I didn’t even have to focus it; my mind bent it and snapped it like a whip.

Albert evaded the attack, but only just. He gyrated out of the way and landed near the edge of the clearing.

“You’ll find what you’re looking for, Daedarus Cain,” he said, “And you’ll fear what you find.”

He abruptly disappeared into the foliage.

It would be another decade before I encountered him again.

Good riddance, was all I could think.


The Byvale District, Elberon — September, 2011

Dear Daedarus,
I came home and all of the Oreos were gone. I don’t know where they went, but I suspect the butterflillies.
Please do not investigate this further.
Hugs and kisses,
Lilith

I fingered the note in my pocket as I entered the supermarket. Butterflillies my ass. “The Devil take you, Lilith,” I grumbled.

The dull artificial lights flickered overhead as I sought out the cookie isle. It was ten-thirty at night. The store was mostly empty, so I didn’t bother to put any glamours in place. My natural face wouldn’t be recognizable to anyone who hadn’t met me in real life.

And of course it was just my damn luck that I should run into one such individual.

While scanning the shelves of brightly packaged cookies, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a man had stopped to stare. I didn’t bother to pause in my browsing.

He approached me cautiously.

“...Cain?”

I turned and smiled. “Kavik. What can I do for you this fine evening? I assume you have a reason for interrupting my biscuit run.”

“'Biscuit run?’” he asked incredulously.

"Biscuit run. We just ran out of these," I waved a box of Oreos. "And I quite like them.”

Blinkage. “Are you taking the piss?”

I smiled wider. “What can I do for you, Kavik?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Where is Elliot?”

Someone wasn't wasting any time, then.

“I’ve not the slightest,” I said, “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. You should be glad I don’t know his whereabouts.”

Kavik grabbed me suddenly and forcibly by the front of my sweater.

Really, what an unpleasant man.

“Listen closely, you bastard—”

“Self-made orphan,” I interjected cheerfully.

“—I want you to stay the Hell away from my nephew. If you hurt him, I’ll kill you. I don’t care how long it takes, but I’ll find a way.”

Was that a popped vein in his forehead? I thought it might be considered rude to ask.

“I see.” I delicately peeled his fingers from my sweater. I normally wouldn't have bothered (things become delightfully awkward when you simply acquiesce to being manhandled), but it was cashmere. “Well, while you’re here, is there any chance I can tempt you to join the ‘Dark Side?’ We could certainly use someone with your—ah—enthusiasm.”

He ignored my offer. Pity, really.

“He’s just a kid, Cain.”

“He betrayed me,” I said, “His life is now forfeit.”

Kavik ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “He didn’t know what he was doing! He was naive!”

“He knew exactly what he was doing,” I reasoned. “I would know. I taught him how to do it. And then he betrayed me. I made him my student, my equal, my…”

I felt my expression twist into a pained grimace, but immediately ironed it out into the usual mask of indifference.

Horrified understanding dawned on Kavik’s pinched features. “Don’t tell me he’s like a son to you.”

'Well, no,' I wanted to say, 'I would never say something so horribly cliche.'

“And if I did?” I asked instead. I didn’t think I did. No. I was not the boy’s father and I did not wish to be. I didn't know what I was to him, what name could be given to our relationship, but it was a relationship nonetheless. “What would be so wrong about that?”

Kavik looked at me as if he couldn’t even fathom my existence. “You want to kill him!”

“So what?”

“YOU’RE AN IRRESPONSIBLE FUCKING SOCIOPATH! THAT’S WHAT! You're not what he needs as a father-figure.”

I nodded slowly, considering the accusations. Finding nothing wrong with them, I proceeded. "And you think that you're what Elliot needs as a father-figure? A sour old misanthrope? A man who wouldn't even give him the time of day? I may be an evil bastard, Unkee John, and I may not be able to give him a lot of things, but at least I gave him my time. Can you say the same?"

"Fuck you, Cain."

"If we’re done tossing insults around like a pair of children, I’ll be taking my leave.”

I summoned my best Cheshire smile before turning to walk away. I could feel him trying to burn a hole into the back of my head with his glare alone.

Halfway down the isle, I turned and called, “Mr. Kavik?”

“What?” he snapped.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join the Dark Side?”

He didn’t say anything, merely stood there looking vaguely apoplectic.

I held up the pack of Oreos.

“We have cookies.”


Istanbul, Turkey — August, 1948

“What will victory look like?” Hallam asked, gazing into the dancing flames as if they somehow held the answer.

I was beginning to suspect he’d had too much Absinthe. That was fine though. So had I.

“Like a shitload of paperwork,” I predicted.

We were holed up in Istanbul, trying to hide from Renwick. It would have been impossible, but for the presence of dear Serafina. Being a Light Harbinger, her Magic and mine canceled each other out perfectly.

The beautiful redhead was curled up on the chesterfield like a cat, while Hallam and I occupied the closest armchairs. In her gargoyle form, Lilith paced on the carpet in front of me.

“What do all the people in Italy say about me?” I asked Serafina.

“That they would like to kill you.”

Lilith snorted. I kicked her as she slunk past my chair. “Ow!”

“You can’t feel anything in that form,” I dismissed.

“You’re so insensitive!”

“But at least I’m not made of stone.”

“I'm going to bed!” she huffed, climbing the stairs on all four paws and disappearing to the second floor.

“Doesn't she know it's only six?” Hallam wondered.

“Bless her,” I said, “She's trying to be dramatic.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Serafina felt the need to ruin my calm.

“Daedarus. I need to talk to you about your sister.”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this,” I mumbled, taking another sip of Absinthe.

As per usual, she ignored my antics. “Specifically how she…how she died.”

Fuck. There wasn’t nearly enough Absinthe in the world to be having this discussion.

“Why? What are you hoping to achieve?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like that, Daedarus. There’s no agenda. I just thought that, if you could help us figure out what went wrong with the ritual, we might be able to…to…”

“To what? To fix me, Sera?” I sneered.

She shifted uncomfortably. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I like being this way? That I like not having to care? That I don’t miss the part of me that feels?”

“So you’re content with forgoing love? Don’t you ever feel alone?”

“This is getting too deep for me,” I heard Hallam slur. He was sitting criss-cross on the ground like a child, staring forlornly into his empty glass. We ignored him.

“Existence is a lonely thing, Miss Platania. It’s easy for you, though, isn’t it? You’re not mad.”

Serafina watched me with the kind of insufferable pity that made me want to carve her pretty face off with a blunt knife.

“Have you ever heard the saying that you never really know a man until you see him die?” I asked.

She looked faintly disgusted. “Do you really believe that?”

“No,” I said, “You never really know anyone else at all.”