Sparks in the Darkness

At least it wasn't hard to find.

Oscar approached the series of arched, art-deco front doors, expecting to find them locked, but they opened easily. A wide room, two stories tall with multiple escalators and fountains for dramatic appearance dominated the interior, but there was also a large desk. During working hours, there would likely have been several members of the office staff working here - but for now, there was only one, and a pair of security guards.

Unconsciously, Oscar scanned the room's size, counting the number of paces from the desk to the escalator, front door to the guards, checking for cameras - even as he approached the desk. One of the guards absently glanced at him, but kept watching the football game on his monitor; the other played absentmindedly on his phone. The secretary, a middle-aged woman in a modest dress with a dark pixie cut, looked up at him, and smiled.

He smiled, and forced an awkward laugh. "Hi - I bet you get this a lot. I ... was meeting Zoey daCosta here tonight, and ...", he began.

The secretary nodded, "Of course, Mr. Olsen - we've been expecting you." She smiled at him brightly - and professionally. "If you'll just sign into the log, I can give you an elevator pass." Oscar nodded, and took the offered pen to sign the book.

With the plastic elevator key in hand, he entered the main elevator. As the secretary directed, once inside, he pressed the scan-code on the back of the key to the scanner beside the elevator buttons; it dinged, and the doors closed, and silently the elevator started into motion.

Oscar noted the elevator was covered in mirrors.

Slightly over fifty stories later, the door opened, revealing what appeared to be Zoey's living room.

The room was exquisitely designed, with floor-to-ceiling windows to show a beautiful vista over Blyde Square. The furniture was in whites; the walls in light beige, making the whole room look clean, to the point of being stark. There, seated on a bean-shaped 14-ft-long couch was Zoey, watching a half-dozen silent TV screens, all tuned to different news channels. As the elevator doors opened, she bounced up from the couch, and held her hand out; the TV remote leapt from the long, curving, elegant glass coffee table to her hand, and she clicked the screens off, as she said, "Hey! Thanks for coming. The kitchen will be sending Thai up in a few minutes. The SnaRe team's latest photos are on the table."

Oscar crossed over to the large glass table as Zoey crossed the room to him, absently carrying a vape pen in her left hand. This time, her dark hair was held back in a simple pony-tail; she wore tight jeans, slung below her waist, and a crisp black t-shirt that read 'Something Pithy Here', in florid script.

Oscar tried to focus his attention on the pictures, not her. "SnaRe? You mentioned them before." he asked.

"Supernatural Research. It's a new division of the Halcyon Police. Trying to bring in magic to help with police work," Zoey replied, then exhaled a cloud of lightly peach-scented vapor. "They're ... awfully raw. But they're trying."

Oscar assessed the pictures, relative to each other, and relative to the photos he'd already been shown. The photos were obviously taken over a series of days, and in a variety of locales; Astoria, Croatoa, Perez Park, Faultline. Some burned, some traced in blood; dark, stale blood, but not - unless Oscar missed his guess - human blood.

"Goat's blood," he thought out loud, and Zoey nodded.

"Got it in one. SnaRe had to rush the DNA test to be able to figure that out." Zoey said, taking a draw from her vape. "They were able to note it was three separate goats," she added, with a smile, before turning her head to exhale away from Oscar.

"Not one really big one?", Oscar said, gesturing with his hands, and Zoey gave a half-laugh. "Same problem with the circles. The base is correct - they're framed properly, well drawn; they're good circles - they're using a string, a board, something to keep their diameter so consistent. But still no runes, making it impossible to know what they were for."

Oscar felt Zoey set her hand on the back of his chair, leaning over him to share his perspective on the photos as she said, "Okay, explain the rune thing to me. I'm not a geomancer, I'm a spellcaster. I say funny latin words, make a few hand gestures, boom, magic. What's the rune for?"

Oscar nodded, and said, "Okay, so - think of the completed rune circle as ... as a car, but without, uh. Without an engine. It's not useless, and a really well-made car - solid frame, aerodynamic build, good tires - is important to getting the best out of your engine. But no matter how well you make the car ...", he paused.

"Can't go without the engine," Zoey said, nodding, and sneering. "So, they can't be leaving the runes off, or the circles wouldn't be doing anything. So, they must use the runes, just in some way we can't ... see?" Oscar nodded. "Do the runes work if you trace them in invisible ink?"

Oscar laughed lightly. "The caster would have to see them, to focus on them. So they were present; they've just been purposefully removed. Whereas the rest of the circle was deliberately left."

"Yeah, about that - why leave the circles?", Zoey asked, walking around the table towards the bar. "They could wash them away, trace them with sand - or just the saline! So they want the circles found. Why?"

Zoey poured herself a drink, and Oscar caught his eyes watching her posterior, as she turned her back on him. He cleared his throat, and said, "That's not my field. That's more psychology than the study of magic. But maybe they ... want to show off? I mean, this circle is technically impressive, the result of a practiced hand. They got results. Maybe it's advertising, making themselves known, getting a reputation; 'I'm not just a kid with black candles, I'm serious about this'."

The elevator made a chiming noise, and a voice intoned, "Arrival from - The Kitchen." Zoey made a mild shriek in response, saying, "That's our Thai!", and headed in the direction of the door, carrying her glass.

Oscar stood up and went over to help, as the doors opened. A tray occupied the center of the elevator, covered in silver lids; a delicious set of smells escaped into the room. "Mmm, I love this. Do you do Thai very often?", she asked, as she pulled the cart into the room.

Oscar took the cart from her, and wheeled it towards the table. Zoey crossed to the table in front of him, and pushed the photos aside to make room for their meal. "Not, uh," Oscar started, shaking his head. "Not so much. I mostly stay home. Cook for myself, mostly."

Zoey watched his face, and smiled empathetically. "And Princess," she added, with a giggle. Oscar laughed, himself.

"Yeah, and Princess, true," he nodded, as Zoey took the lids of the numerous dishes. "It all looks so good, but I don't know what anything is."

"Can I fix you a plate?", Zoey asked. Oscar smiled, shrugged, and motioned for her to go ahead, and she began serving onto his plate. "I got the chefs to tone it down from my usual. I didn't know where you were at for spicy," she said, with a smile. Oscar nodded. "So, cook for yourself, don't eat out much, gig jobs ... what do you get up to with your time?", she asked.

Oscar shrugged, as he sat down, Zoey setting his plate in front of him. "I work part-time; remote data entry. Meditation. Television. I work out - walks, some lifting, lots of cardio. Therapy. I volunteer, sometimes, at the library. "

Zoey nodded, watching Oscar's face. He felt himself turning red. He tried not to feel evaluated, or judged - no, that's not quite true. He tried to allow her to judge, and allow that judgement to wash over him. As he paused, Zoey gathered herself some food from the trays. Quietly, she asked, "How are you? Physically, I mean?"

Oscar nodded. "I'm ... fine. I'm good. I'm feeling better. You remember the cough? It's cleared up; lungs are better. It's ... it's a lot like the recovery phase from a serious illness. You know, you just ... take the time to get well."

Zoey continued, "What's it been?" She sat opposite Oscar at the table, and loaded a fork with food. "Three years?"

Oscar corrected her. "Two years, five months." They both paused, looked at each other, and laughed.

"At least you don't know how many days," Zoey said with a smile.

Oscar held a finger out. "... eight days," he added, and they both laughed again.

As their mutual laughter died out, and they both ate a forkful of food before Zoey said, "You know, it's strong." Oscar tried to shake his head, but Zoey reached out, and took his hand. "No no. Like before, when I tried to push away your, your - recognition, of the past? Don't look past this, either. You are different. Over two years without Dark Power - that's will, Oscar. Real will, and that's - that's admirable. That's real strength. And - and I'm not going to let you make light of that."

He paused, studying her hand, then looking up at her face. He found that her eyes were studying his face, maybe with the slightest sheen of tears. He nodded, and Zoey added, "The person, the - the thing that you were, back then? They weren't strong enough to offer that apology. Thank you."

"Thank you," he murmured, and the both fell quiet for another moment. Then, as the silence dragged a little too long, he added, "This is really good, but ...", and laughed. "Definitely glad you went light on the spice."

"I'm very considerate," Zoey responded. "So I like your idea - the circles are being left as advertising, bragging, boasting. As if the willworker is ... showing off. They're proud of it, they want their work known."

"But purposefully leaving out the runes they use," Oscar added, expanding. "Because they want people to know they're good at it, but not ... enough to learn?"

The two of them locked eyes a moment over the Thai food, and Zoey smirked at him, a crooked, wicked, clever smirk, as if she knew something clever that he didn't. She added, "Like a prospective student ..."

And Oscar replied, "... and a mentor."

Chapter Three

Small Victories. A Celebration.

The text messages were clear enough.

"U were right!!"

"Def 2 necros. Fought them. They tele'd away."

"Older woman, younger guy. Big MILF energy. Mentor like u said!!"

"Meet @ my place? 1 hr? Dinner -- u choose!" She then included an emoji of a cartoon ghost.

Oscar scanned the texts, particularly the cartoon ghost. He and this therapist had talked about "making amends". They were working through the allure of Dark Power, taking it in steps, treating Oscar's use of it much as one would drugs or alcohol. Making amends - apologies, yes, but deeds to try to make the other person whole - was important.

When they'd been fighting, when Ghost ...Fantisma, got one up on him, she'd had this ... smirk, this specific, shit-eating grin that crawled over her face. It was smug, condescending, and it made him want to hurt her. She'd made it again when he consulted four nights ago. He felt his stomach twist at the memory of this now full grown woman, confident and self-assured. She smirked, and glanced at him as if they were sharing a punchline nobody else in Halcyon City could understand.

But last night, in his storage locker, he'd thought he'd heard ... something. It wasn't, it couldn't have been, a whisper; it was too quiet, too low, too far -- too long ago. He could have confronted it; he could have investigated. With the faintest shimmer of the Dark Power, he could have drawn out whatever spirit or spectre it was, lured to his modest library.

Instead, though - he'd left, leaving his thermos of tea in the locker in his rush to leave. He'd told himself that he would take a week off.

But. Making amends was important. And - maybe he could make her laugh again.

Eight minutes after Oscar got her messages, he texted back, "OMW".

Again, the front desk smiled as they presented Oscar with a new elevator card, calling him, "Mr. Olsen". This time, when the elevator reached the penthouse suite, to Oscar's surprise, the back of the elevator opened.

He turned, and saw that he hadn't come to Zoey's suite, but to Fantisma's.

Zoey's rooms, from the previous night, were tasteful if understated - whites and beiges; glass tables, expensive furnishings, white leather couches; upscale, certainly, but impersonal.

Fantisma's room, on the other hand, was black and red. The room was lit by imitation candles, flickering LED lights; a centerpiece to the room was a roaring natural gas fireplace shaped like Chernabog. A pair of curved half-circle couches embraced the fire pit, and a black marble bar at the back of the room had a collection of bottles of expensive liquor. The shelf-space around the sides of the room was decorated with curios and trophies from superhero battles - a skull, a gun-like weapon that looked like it belonged in science-fiction, a seemingly empty oversized aquarium, an amber pendant, the seal to The Book Of Going Forth By Night.

And on the walls, mirrors. Reflecting the whole room, the mirrors added depth, and reflecting the fire pit's shimmering glow. He hesitated, and ran a hand over the couch.

Corinthian leather. Obviously. Well aged, too.

He had twenty minutes still to wait. Oscar set his messenger bag - made of rough hemp, instead of rare Llama leather or something else ridiculous, like Zoey's would be - down beside the sofa, and tried to persuade himself it wouldn't be a faux pas to pour himself a glass of mixer. He was almost convinced when he felt a familiar, almost forgotten, sharp pricking feeling in his left thumb. He put the thumb in his mouth and tasted blood - just as the balcony doors blew open.

As a chill wind whipped through the room, causing the gas fireplace to flicker, Fantisma drifted in. Whereas Ghost Princess had - long ago - incorporated light hearted if not downright comical 'child's Hallowe'en' elements in her costuming to offset her eerie nature, Fantisma did not. She wore a pair of thigh-high jet-black boots with wicked heels, a black leather bolero, and a white-and-black Harlequin patterned dress that was daringly short and form-fitting to her petite body. On her head was a white witch's wide-brimmed hat. She set off the outfit with a wide black belt & brass buckle, that hung around her hips.

As Fantisma settled down to her feet, her heels clicked on the marble floor, with a tik-tak. With less than a gesture, a clove cigarette spun through the air, settled between her fingers, and lit, with no obvious source of flame. She took a lengthy draw from it.

Oscar knew better than most that Zoey and Fantisma were the same person ... and yet, here she was, and it was like - literal - night and day.

Fantisma exhaled the blue smoke of her cigarillo through pursed, blackcurrant lips. "Oscar," she said, as the corner of her lip curled. She spoke his name with a cat-like purr to her voice, with an upturned, amused inflection at the end of the word; Oscar felt as though she was telling a joke only she would get.

And then, faster than the eye - Fantisma was gone, and Zoey was back.

Zoey was in a business suit, but almost immediately removed her jacket, passing the cigarillo hand to hand to do so as she walked towards the bar. Once there, she slipped out of one of her heels and dropped 4" in height. Oscar noted that her eyes were lit up, glittering with excitement, as she said, "You were right! Two necromancers. One's obviously more experienced." She held the cigarello between her lips, and she reached down, and pried off her other shoe. "She's kind of a C-U-Next-Tuesday, but she's got some definite energy, and I'm not just talking about magic. I'm talking Julianne Moore, straight up - oh, I'd love a cognac, please - hot, older than your Mom energy. Ugh, I hope this isn't a weird Game of Thrones thing."

Oscar poured for Zoey, as she motioned with her hand, and he poured again - and again, before she shrugged, and took the triple, and gulped half of it back. As he returned the lid to the bottle, she set her nails on his wrist, sliding their manicured edges against his skin, "Pour yourself one; the cognac. It's good! It's expensive. Live a little."

She turned, and headed towards the black couches. "They're new, though. I summoned my wraiths, and they tried to dominate them, so they didn't realize they were infernal, not necromantic. Oh! And the young one, the guy. Dark hair, about your height, slight build; green eyes. He had a gun, which is like, very reasonable, but feels so gauche. You never tried to shoot me. That's just professionalism. That's craft. Am I talking too much? Whoo! I just feel so ..." She shivered. "It's been a while since I took on a decent willworker! Just a good ol' human, instead of some alien space monster, or invulnerable super-soldier. It's refreshing."

Zoey threw herself down on the black couch with a flop, sighing as she sank into the cushions. She took a long drag off her cigarillo, as Oscar walked across the room, set his - still empty - glass on the table, and asked, "What made it clear she had more experience?"

Zoey set her glass on the table, and poured Oscar three fingers of cognac, and herself another two. She set the bottle on the table, and pulled the cigarillofrom her lips, tilting her head slightly so as not to blow the smoke straight at Oscar, but instead into the fireplace. "Good question. So. She had ... presence? Like, she had all the toys. A censure, black cloak, tight leather outfit, style. If this bitch wasn't straight-up evil, I would definitely be like, 'Yes, Mommy' right now." Zoey glanced at Oscar, who was frowning. "What's up? Don't go for the leather look?"

"No no, leather's good," Oscar answered, distracted enough to be surprisingly forthright, as Zoey smirked. "But, uh ... Those who use the Dark Power don't have, uh, the ... verve you're describing. Sallow, cold, gray. Maybe for someone who's very into domination and control. But they're not ..."

Zoey interjected, "Sexy. Huh. No, you're right. Even the apprentice looked like he was doing okay. But she was, like. Warm. Tanned. Fuck, I hope I look that good at ... sixty? ... Sev ... en ... ty?"

"The Dark Power uses the body, like ... a filter. Like smoking. Or drinking." He glanced into his own glass, then set it, unconsumed, on the table; Zoey ploughed ahead in pursuit of the bottom of her glass, very much choosing not to hear. "It leaves something behind. Too much - and it doesn't take much to be too much - and you become marked."

Zoey leaned into the conversation again, brow furrowed. "So, how does she avoid that? Because she was full casting; no trivial drains, either - these were big hits I was having to counter, or avoid. It could have withered someone just a little less experienced."

"You don't," Oscar said, his tone uncertain. He reached past Zoey, to his messenger bag on the ground; he fumbled with the clasps, as she took another long haul off her cigarillo. "There's some simple charms, meant for general apprentices; protections, to allow simpler necromantic effects to drain surrounding plant life, or animal energies. But that's for communication effects, sensory magics. Life drain, soul drain, mana drain, animation, compelling - all of those are too direct, too powerful. I guess maybe if you're keeping elephants, or kodiak bears, maybe..." Oscar pulled out the photos of the circles burned into the grass from their previous encounter. "Aha. Here."