Salem, Massachusetts
One Month Ago

The witch knelt upon a floor of oak planks, her dark robe draping from her shoulders like a silken, watery shadow. With her gaze downcast, the flaxen strands of her hair obscured the ethereal smoothness of her cheeks, and the stark azure of her eyes. All ten crimson-tipped fingers of her hands were splayed before her, pressing firmly into the five-sided center of the pentagram, which was drawn in gruesome red tallow upon the floor. All five points of the inverted star were marked with a burning candle--their shifting flames granting the only light to the bare room.

“Elemanzer, come to me.” The witch breathed, her voice filling the room.

“Elemanzer, come to me.” The room darkened, the blackness encroaching over the light of the candles.

“Elemanzer, come to me!”

Upon the third utterance of the witch’s command, the flames atop the candles roared. Tongues of fire spouted forth, licking high enough to lap at the plane of the ceiling. The darkness that had filled the room was banished in an instant, and every corner was bathed in intense, blinding light. The witch’s eyes lifted, wide with shock as the intensity of the flames pushed her off or her knees, and back against the closed door behind her. A scream built within her lungs, and her mouth opened like a gaping wound in the porcelain mask of her face, yet no sound escaped.

The gouts of fire began to pulse then. They took upon a rhythm, their light and heat wavering in exacting crescendos. It took only the breadth of a moment for the witch to realize that the beat of the flame matched that of her own racing heart. A second more, and she became aware that with each new thrum she could feel the force of her life draining from her body. Weakness crept over her, and she found herself melting towards the floor on atrophied limbs.

“No, not like this…” The witch mouthed soundlessly. “I have served you faithfully?”

As if in answer, the flames were extinguished. Three cracks resounded like rending bones in the now total dark, accompanied by the growing stench of smoke and brimstone.

“Faithfully, indeed, my child,” said a new voice amidst the dark, feminine, and soft as down. “You have served your master with distinction.”

“And thus we honor you,” said another voice, this one trill.

“Your soul alone has brought about the dawning of a new era,” a third voice sounded, slick like a serpent’s hiss. “With your sacrifice, you have gifted us passage, and a means to carry out the master’s command.”

The witch stared into the dark, her face now resting upon the floor. She was so weak now that the muscles of her neck could not bear up the weight of her head. Her mind raced, trapped within a husk that no longer could muster itself to her command. So many questions tattooed themselves upon her thoughts. She attempted to give them voice, but only a choking wheeze broached her lips. Terror was the only sensation her senses could perceive as her whole body wilted around her, and her soul became untethered from its mortal threads.

Boston, Massachusetts
3:30 AM Present Day

The incubus known as Atticus Mac Cléirich wretched over the balcony. From his place on the fourth story of the apartment building, the sound of his vomit splashing upon the concrete below echoed up from the alleyway, along with the exclaimed curses of an unfortunate passerby. Though mostly unseen across his covered flesh, the living tattoo depicted there writhed with angels and demons reacting in revulsion, mirth, and drunken pride as their benefactor swam in the storm of his drunkenness.

Wiping bile from his beard, Atticus stood, and brought his face to the overcast night sky. He breathed in the cold air, sucking through his teeth, and forcing the healing properties of his infernal nature to rid him of the worst of the alcohol’s poison. Atticus was sure to not banish it all from his system, however. He still desired to be drunk, and deeply so.

Behind Atticus, through the pane glass of a pair of closed French doors, the sounds of the orgy happening within the flat assaulted his keen ears. Humans and other supernatural beings met in a confluence of lust and mind-altered euphoria, and the din of their efforts was an organic maelstrom. It was a strange thing for a demon spawned of lust itself to feel disgust at what he had just partaken in, but Atticus felt it well within his throat nonetheless. Or was that the Jagermeister coming up again?

His crimson eyes were shot with black blood, and the lines of his handsome face were etched with deepened self-loathing. Running his fingers through the matted tangle of his greasy hair, and down the breasts of his rumpled suit jacket, his mind pulled towards the gravity of the past, and the associated guilt that swirled with it.

The years following the events of the thwarted Ragnorök had started off with a note of hope for Atticus. Love--that of the heart, and not of the flesh--had been the driving force within his life. He had given up his career as an active agent of the B&H company to fulfill this new dream, and he had taken to it with all the conviction of a devotee. Yet, the truth of his nature had called to him. It lapped at the banks of his soul, slowly and continuously like the coming of the tide, until the worth he placed in love eroded away. And as it washed from him, he had lost everything that had given him a higher meaning besides that of his basal existence.

He was nothing but an incubus now--seducer with a demonic soul, an illustrious past, and a future lacking in defining prospects. The thought of returning to his job was a constant presence within his mind, but so was his pride. Atticus had began his sabbatical form the B&H company in the wake of having taken part in saving the world. What more could one hope to accomplish?

Atticus scowled as his mind wandered. The demons on his skin silently mocked him, while the angels offered quiet looks of pity. Resolved to his fate and the reality of his present state, Atticus made to smooth his appearance before returning inside. Turning on the heels of his wingtip shoes, he took a step towards the doors when a silver orb, the size of a half-dollar, floated before his nose.

Focusing upon the orb, Atticus immediately made out the flourishing script initials ‘B&H’ engraved upon its metallic surface. A rush of excitement overpowered the self-loathing and the Jagermeister, and Atticus’ hand shot out to grip the orb. As he clasped it, the metal seemed to dissolve and evaporate in his grip, leaving in its place a handwritten letter.

Breaking the red wax seal, Atticus unfolded the pressed-paper, wetted his lips, and scanned his hellish eyes over the ebony script. His heart quickened as he recognized the handwriting.

Atticus,

It has been a long time since we have spoken, and I am truly sorry that our first exchange in so many years is one of business. Yet, it cannot be helped. The world turns in spite of our lives, and I need your help.

26 days ago, our regional seer detected an abnormally strong spike of demonic magic in Salem. As you know, such spikes are often associated with the summoning of a powerful demon. Pursuant to our agreement with the Vatican, we contacted the local archdiocese, and informed them of the event. Ten days ago, local police in Salem discovered a deceased woman whose whole body had been attrofied to the point of death. The woman was identified as Ms. Alice Trune, 32. From our records, she is a known witch of the demonic orders, and the site of death was the same as that of the detected spike in demonic magic. 6 days ago we entered into an investigative contract with the Vatican to look into Ms. Trune’s death, and determine what, if anything, she has to do with the possible summoning of strong demons into the mortal realm.

I have limited resources to spare on this. Most of the Boston field office is caught up in the werewolf turmoil, and other pre-existing contracts. Atticus, I kept track of you during your sabbatical, and I know you could do with some direction. Take this job--if nothing else, it will get you away from the booze for a few days.

Your team has already been notified by me personally, and will meet you at the site of the murder in Salem.

Warmest regards,

Sir Archibald Bain

Atticus reread the letter four times. He felt the once familiar tingle of intrigue spreading from his fingers, and up into his chest. For the first time in a long time, the first pulls of a true smile tugged at the corners the incubus’ mouth.

“Fuck pride.”

---


Salem, Massachusetts
2:00 PM The Same Day

Atticus, clean and fresh in dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket, leaned his back against the side of 4758 N. Elenore Ave. The house was small, quaint, and well off the main road. Hidden from view by numerous old-growth trees, and with its property butting to the forest, Atticus could instantly see what had drawn the deceased witch to such a locale. Summoning was not an event for spectators, especially the nosy mortal kind.

Police tape still wrapped around the porch posts, and CSI door seals still covered every entrance to the house. Atticus could’ve entered without a bit of fuss, but there was no point. He would wait for his team.

With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, Atticus absently rubbed at the smooth, cool surface of the stone dodecahedron within. The object, known as an obscuracon, was a magical fetish, and would hide his presence from all except those who knew to look for him. Archibald Bain had made contact with the rest of his team via the same silver-orb letters that Atticus had received, and he knew they would be explicitly seeking him out at this location, and at this time. The magic of the obscuracon would reveal him to each of the team as they approached.

A dark night where the soft whispers of the falling leaves rustle against dry branches; crisp air with a brisk wind – and the moon glowing soft through the clouds, shadows fleeting past as the current carries them along. A dark figure leans against the wooden railing – house all dark wood and cedar shake and knotted, tangled ivy crawling up stone walls – property nestled in a little crook of forested Maine wilderness. The soft red light of a fire leaks through the glass paned doors behind, but the figure's back is turned to the door. A glass rests on the railing beside him, half full with a pale, amber liquid. Smoke curls around his face, drifts off to merge with the breeze between each drag from the cigarette.

(And I reach a hand in my pocket for another – I always rather liked it here; thought maybe this time I'd stay to see the rest of fall and hole up for the winter, spend lazy evenings contemplating the fire, quiet days sauntering through the woods in those quiet recollections of times long past. I take another sip from the glass, let the burning liquor worm its way across my tongue before working its magic in my belly; spark the lighter and take a drag. Six months at least, I told myself. Then it'd be back to work. But I fully intended to take this winter for...

A buzzing, fluttering sound distracts me from my thoughts. Silver ball of hazy light streaking through the night toward me. Without thinking, my hand blinks out – snatches it toward me even as I take a step back.

“Goddamn it, what now...!” I blurt aloud. I had made it clear with my secretary I was on -vacation- for the next several months. Voicemail and E-mail responses to suit. I toss the now inert ball a few times in my hand, idly ponder whether I could manage to throw it far enough to clear the trees and hit the lake beyond. But an all too familiar voices drags me out of my thoughts.)

“Oooh.... No you don't, Nestor!” The man turns and glares at the speaker; a svelte woman, delicate frame perched up against the corner of the railing with all the grace of a model mid-shoot. Thin eyebrows arch ever so slightly as her piercing blue gaze jerks toward the device in his hand. “Besides, you -know- you want to. Admit it! Keep prattling to yourself. All this time out here good for the soul and good for the health and you'll have a grand old time tromping through the woods and romping in the bed with -him-” and here she juts her chin out toward the door behind them, gives a sly smile before adding “you could down all the single malt between here and Scotland for the next six months and still wind up in the same place.” Nestor snorts at that. Takes another swallow from his glass before flicking his butt across the porch toward her, the wad whistling just past her ear before vanishing into the night.

“Blow me.”

“I might, if you hadn't spent the last few months balls deep in that Siren you managed to fish out of the sewer; the smell is bad enough. Now just imagine what a fish's ass must -taste- like.” Nestor just glares back at her, presses his thumb against the ball and releases as the mechanism springs into life.

(Now, this was a surprise! Atticus, of all people. Wanting me? I'd heard the old bastard had gone off and tried drinking himself into a stupor... I still got the invites to his parties, every now and then. Couldn't help but feel a little bad I never at least showed my face. I glance at my glass and can't help but give a snort. Birds of a feather...)

But an instant later the Demoness had snatched the message from him – given it an icy stare of her own before positively shivering with excitement. “Atticus” she mouths, then gives Nestor a gaping, lascivious grin before laughing again. “Now there's one I might go for. Shame you're too much of a pussy to go to any of his parties. I hear they've been positively -vile-. Nestor just shoos her away with a light wave of his hand, drains the glass before turning and stepping back inside. Moments later, a tousle-haired face emerges from beneath the covers, blinks sleepily a few times before speaking:

“Goodness it's late... are you ever coming to bed? No? What? Are you seriously getting -dressed-?”

“Yeah. I'm off. Job.” The sleepy siren blinks a few more times, then bolts upright with a start and lashes back.

“-What-?”

“Duty calls, you know. Gotta go and all that...” Nestor purses his lips, a few moments passing as he eyes his outfit.

“But it was supposed to be just -us-. You and me! Whatever happened to all that?” Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Nestor turns and cocks a single eyebrow up at the irate Siren, lips pursing a moment as he runs his eyes over that perfectly androgynous form, then just shrugs.

“Guess you'll just have to stick around for whenever I get back?” He doesn't wait to hear the response, and moments later he's already out the door, waiting in the gravel drive as a garage door slowly opens, slick lines of a black Range Rover emerging from within.

(I open the door and slip inside. Give a nod to my Butler.)

“Evening, Sir. Where to?”

“Evening, Ned. Boston. Hit it.” The vampiric driver raises an eyebrow, asks:

“Hmm. Atticus again?” Nestor just nods in response, then reaches for his breast pocket to produce a flask. The engine roars into life, gravel spitting from beneath the tires as the vehicles lurches off; spray of dust and stones showering the door even as the still half-asleep siren stumbles through the opening, bathrobe barely tucked around his half-naked form.



It is a little after two by the time they roll to a stop not far from where Atticus waits. The engine remains running, sputtering quietly away as Nestor hops out and digs into the back. A moment later, he emerges again – a rather heavy, military style duffel slung over his shoulder. The vehicle speeds off, leaving him alone as he makes his way toward the waiting Incubus.

“Afternoon, Atticus. Been a while, eh?” Nestor offers a hand to shake, before dropping the bag down at his feet and turning to stare off at the building in the distance. He takes in a long breath.

“Yeah... stinks like demonic summoning alright. I got a glance at the team you've got together for this one... honestly not sure if we're trying to stop an apocalypse here, or start one!” He gives a grin, settles himself against a nearby tree before producing a pack of smokes. He offers one to Atticus before taking another himself, lighting up and preparing to await the rest of the arrivals.

"I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men."

"From the age that I could put a name to the vast expanse of water outside our manor, I held great fascination with the sea. If I was not swimming in it, nor frolicking at its shores, I was staring out at it, often in favor over my studies. White sands, palms, coconuts, and crisp, beautiful blue water form the crux of my earliest recollections of youth. The beaches of Georgetown and the warm Caribbean sea were more friend to me than any lily-white English child, more parent than the deadman who sired me, or the madwoman that birthed me. Entrancing and inviting through it was, the ocean carried an emptiness I could not place. In the look of eyes of dead fish upon the shore, or the sound of breaking waves, there was a meaning just outside the grasp of my infant mind. At times I found it much similar to the vacuous ramblings of my witless mother, cloistered in what had been my parents' bedroom."

Leonard Winfield read over his memoirs, penned in shaky script on salt-stained pages. It was the most he could do to keep from peering out the windows of the automobile, and revising his own writing kept his attention better than the textbooks that he had perused on the train. Even if the motorcar's motion kept him from being able to write any more, reading his scrawled reminiscences sometimes provoked new memories and revelations, which he would scribble into the margins so that they did not slip his mind. The Company doctors had given him the task of writing down all he could remember, in hopes it would help him recover more of himself, the life he once had. It had proved rather effective so far, as each page he penned brought fresh recollections, like flotsam drifting ashore.

He glanced out of his window and regretted it immediately, wishing he had a newspaper to obscure his peripheral vision. Looking out of a moving motorcar made him feel ill. This was not motion sickness, as he had never been as much as seasick in his life. Rather, the speed of the vehicle and its proximity to others operating at similar speed merely frightened him. Everything moved so quickly now. People spoke quickly, expected to be answered quickly, and commanded Leonard to travel quickly. It was all very stressful. The train ride had been pleasantly familiar once he had secured his passage. That had required assistance from one of his colleagues at the Company, but the effort had rewarded him with a delightful little charm called a Link Pass from the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority. However, the last leg of the journey had to be secured by taxicab, wherein Leonard now found himself. His colleagues had recommended that he "Über" his way to the rendezvous, but their usage of the German word-fragment confused him, and he was not able to make use of their advice.

The automobile stopped with a lurch, and the driver barked out the total fare. Leonard scrambled to stow his belongings before awkwardly scuttling out of the car with them. He retrieved his money purse and paid the man, though he had barely been able to put his weighty tip into his hand before he rolled up the window and peeled away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Leonard tittered at the poor service, and regretted tipping him at all. It was really a matter of principle rather than money; a twenty-five dollar fair for a twenty-mile trip felt hilariously overpriced, and the hundred-dollar bills in Leonard's purse felt like pretend money rather than real currency.

That matter settled, he donned his hat and strode forward with his doctor's bag in one hand, leaning heavily on his cane with the other. The cane was a prop, essentially, as he had no need of its assistance to walk, but on land his gait was half a lumber and half a stagger, and so it disguised him as a cripple rather that a creature not truly meant to walk the earth. It still didn't truly register with him; the fact that he wasn't human. He had to remind himself of that fact quite often. Between the visions and the changing, he had always known there was something unusual about himself, but he had assumed it to be some affliction or inherited condition. He had assumed that he was still a man, deep down, and had a man's soul. But that dream had ended, and now only the creature remained.

They looked like men as well, Leonard thought at he approached the two persons stood in front of the wooded cottage. More so than himself, admittedly. This was another thing that frightened him: these people, these monsters he rubbed shoulders with. It did not feel long ago that he was the only outcast in a world of men, but the curtain had parted and he liked little of what he found behind it. He knew what these two were from merely feeling them, though he recognized them from both employee dossiers, and by sheer reputation. Demons. Hellspawn. Devils in the flesh. Leonard had counted himself as a Christian man when he still was a man-- rather, still thought himself a man. These days he was not so sure. While he was not a Catholic, he wondered sometimes if their rituals and idolatry would give him comfort in his daily trials, grappling with how twisted his world had become in such short years.

Regardless, these were his superiors in the Company, and he had to maintain an amiable relationship. Priority in deference went to the senior employee, Mr. Mac Cléirich. His guardians had often gossiped that Irishmen were devils, heathens, and fornicators, but he had never thought that the accusations were so literal. Leonard offered the man a gloved hand to be shaken, his squamous flesh hidden under leather and wool. It did nothing to disguise his atrocious disfigurement, nor the unquenchable smell that surrounded him, but it spared the man from having to wipe his hands of Leonard's constant discharge of disturbing, ranine mucous.

"Mister Mac Cléirich, I am Doctor Leonard Winfield." Leonard's voice was deep and throaty, with a slight rasp, and his plosive consonants emphasized by his lack of a nasal cavity. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard a great deal about you from our mutual employers. I am still an apprentice to the firm, as it were, and I hope to learn much from working under you." Mac Cléirich's presence was a dark and tarnished thing, like pitted iron. At once both hircine and serpentine. Leonard felt in him the winds of a storm, but it was aimless and diffuse, buffeting and howling but never truly coalescing.

Leonard turned to the other party present and offered his hand to him as well. "Mister Grimsley, I presume. Charmed." This was a far more unpleasant presence. It reminded Leonard of the lifelessness and putrescence of the seabed, a desolation of silt and bones in the freezing dark. One of the few memories he retained of those long years spent beneath the waves. While he knew it was no fault of the other man's Leonard still begrudged the creature before him for making him relive them in some small way.

Ahanu The Ravenous One

---

The lights of Boston sparkled like an ocean of gemstones against the crude black of the concrete they were cast in. Countless millions of lives, stories which mirrored one another but scarcely intertwined. Untold thousands living in clouds of anger and resentment, with no idea how to reach those closest to them. Tragedy on display before ones eyes, like some cruel, bitter play on an endless stage. How many would die today? How many were lost? How many of those could be saved?

~The stench of this place. It reeks distinctly of all the things humans most despise. Rot & urine, refuse & vermin, stale sweat & excrement ground into the oil stained asphalt. These people, skittering about and over each other like insects.~

Give in.

~Why do you persist in a world that is not your own? ~

Feed.

The fog encroached menacingly, like a vast, wide pillow settling in to smother a peaceful sleeper. Soft crashes of the Atlantic could be heard over the gentle din of the slumbering city, though its waves remained nestled, hidden behind the fog bank. Ahanu cut a solitary silhouette amongst the machine workings of the rooftops, gazing blindly across the horizon.

~They march in as much ignorance to your efforts as they believe domestic cattle do to their own lives. The same disease afflicting the different beast. ~

Relax.

Perhaps that much was true. His dealings with the world at large left his mouth sour, his spirit dampened. Humans of this age were peculiar, and the denizens of the Veiled World did not fare much better. Impulsive, reckless, vague and covetous. They largely reminded him of his unwelcome companion.

~A paradigm seen echoed in every manifestable direction within our reality, wouldn’t you say? Mighty generous offer Bain & Hoyle floated your way, eh?~

Rest.

His eyes clamped shut against the stinging barb which rattled down his spine, his hand flexing closed, teeth grinding.
The hunger knew he was growing impatient. It had been three busy years. Perhaps he could have been more ‘available’ when they first sent word to his cabin. But how long had it been that they left him up there?

It felt like a lifetime. The supplies had stopped at some point....

… How long? ...

The days up north were not like the ones here. Certainly plenty of months spent in unending darkness. Many rounds of the sun holding fast in the sky. Perhaps it had been even longer than a single lifetime....

~This is who you protect. Look around, Ahanu.~

Sleep.

Perhaps it was selfish of him to wait until they promised him a cure. They had already managed to provide the enchantments which bound the hunger within him. Would they truly have lied?

~They are shackles. For this place? You shame us both.~

FEED.

For a moment, Ahanu felt himself fall inward, his consciousness slipping. The words had found their mark, he felt another piece of his resilience erode away like a castle of sand beneath a wave. Three years of near constant work. And no clearer picture than when he had begun.

He was weary. Not of the situation but of life. What purpose did any of this serve? Near as he could tell Bain & Hoyle had him chasing shadows of ghosts. Despite Ahanu’s successes, answers were strictly need to know and his inquires into the status of his own condition had been utterly stonewalled.
Virtually every member of the company he had met seemed on permanent edge, a soft shove away from plummeting into the abyss of their own minds, or worse. Fear made people, and their veiled counterparts, into piss-poor decision makers. Was B&H immune from such things simply because of their illustrious history?

Ahanu’s handsome features twisted into a grimace as the glowing wisp fluttered into view. The man’s powerful grip snatching the orb from the air nearly as quickly as it had appeared. His mouth turned further as he read across the pretentiously adorned parchment. Another job.

Heedlessly, he allowed the paper to drift from his grasp, the magics within the message reducing it to ash, which scattered in the breeze as Ahanu turned to ready himself.

---

A long, restless night had bled directly into the grim gray afternoons typical for Boston this time of year. Ahanu arrived shortly after the clock struck 2PM. His towering form cramped in a twist of irony within the confines of an old Jeep Cherokee. The vehicle’s army green paint was splashed with rust and approached with all the stealth of a locomotive, crackling across the gravel of the drive which led down long parallels of ancient trees.

~Ahh. That smell is far more pleasant, wouldn’t you say?~

Like oak, blood, smoke and magic. It permeated and pulsed the air about the dilapidated home, like a foul aura which oozed beyond the sight of mortal perception.

The group which awaited him only added to the bouquet as he wheeled the vehicle along side the building. He waited only a brief moment, eyeing the assembling crew critically before hefting himself from the Jeep. There was a distinct lack of sound as the massive man strode across the loose stone, the gravel seeming to hold his weight as if he were not there at all.
The murmurs of introduction between the others were drowned by the howling winter wind. Ahanu said nothing as he approached, simply giving the others, none of whom he recognized, a curt nod. His rich ebony eyes darted briefly to lock with those of the diminutive female who hung slightly away from the rest of the group, the hints of an amused smirk playing across her lips.

~Ahhh, She is intoxicating. Death lingers about her, she sees you for who you truly are, Ahanu.~

His features remained expressionless, but he turned to the group, finally speaking. “The foul magic of this place is waning. We should not linger, the trail already grows cold.”

Planar Prison was not as fun as Sal had expected.

She was cold, had a nasty couple of bruises, and she was hungry. Her companion, deprived of the warmth of the sun and the trees of her forest, was doing little better, and the dryad stared glumly at one of the stone walls that contained the huddled pair. The bobbling creatures that Sal had once summoned were however in far higher spirits. While the wizard and dryad sat shivering in the cold darkness, the diminutive monsters were busy hunting the alarmingly large insects that made their home in the depressing cell.

The woven collar of metal fastened around Sal's neck was heavy and buzzed with an arcane energy. It dug into the soft skin on the sides of her neck, reminding her of her bondage, and her imprisonment. But mostly, it reminded her of the fact that she couldn't manage much more than a cantrip without feeling like she'd run the better part of a marathon. She could feel how the cursed item stunted and constrained her magic. Her only coalescence was that the Warden hadn't managed to figure out how to enslave her with his strange magic, at least not yet.

Sal had lost track of how long she and her fellow travelers had been honored guests of the enigmatic cambion that called himself the Warden. She'd known it was a risk to take a shortcut between between the Astral and Ethereal planes. It wasn't the first time Sal had ended up in some uncharted plane of existence. And it certainly was the first time she had ended up chains. However, it usually didn't take so long to figure out a way to escape. The collection of thralls and hunters serving the warden were a problem. A problem she had no desire of addressing so long as she lacked the ability to summon a suitable protector.

Sal was contemplating whether the tasteless gruel of the day would be as tasteless as it had been every other day when a bright, perfectly marvelous orb in silver appeared in front of her. It was an amusing trick of magic, managing to send a small thing like that sailing across the planes, that caused the young wizard to smile despite her dour surroundings. Her companion watched warily as Sal grasped the orb and it was replaced by a wax sealed piece of parchment. As she read the letter, the young wizard could not help but laugh. It was a job. Bain had managed to send an orb across the stormy sea of the Astral plane just to tell her that she had a job to do.

The letter was enough. Salem. Ancient magic and great ley lines still coursed through that place. It would be a fine enough conduit to the material plane. Probably. If not, well, the young conjurer reasoned then it would at least send them somewhere less gloomy. She tried to imagine Salem, Salem as it presently was, and not as it was centuries ago. Sal hummed quietly to herself as she wove her magic around the curse of the collar that still restrained her, taking care not to push against the powerful magic that had forged the strange object. She had just managed it, feeling the wave of arcane energy surrounding her, when the dryad snatched the parchment from her hand and clasped her hands between her own.

"No! Sal, please, you promised. Home, I want to go home."

Sal felt a pang of guilt gnaw at her heart. Promises were promises. The darkness hit her as she gave in, and altered the destination of the spell at the last minute. And when she opened her eyes, they were back in the forest, and the dryad was standing over her. Her long, leaf-green hair once more full of life and blossoming flowers.

"You could have gotten us killed, Sal!" She shouted, down at her, pulling away the hand that had been softly stroking Sal's hair until then.

"Meera, please, we were guests, at worst they'd only torture us a bit," Sal suggested as she rose, nursing one hell of a headache. She did not quite believe herself. Cambions were a notoriously dangerous sort to socialize with.

Jabbing a finger angrily and repeatedly into the middle of Sal's chest, the dryad's voice was full of disappointment, which hurt Sal the most, "You'll always be a two-bit punk. You'll always be like this. I'm done. I'm out. Go lose yourself to the planes on your own. Vanish into the darkness, but keep me out of it!"

"I'm sorry, Meera, I know," Sal whispered, wrapping the sobbing women in her arms. "This was dumb. I miscalculated. I didn't think they'd catch us. It was just supposed to be an adventure. It should —"

"Just go!" Meera shouted, pushing Sal forcefully away. Her touch was full of power, far more than the lithe woman seemed capable of channeling. Sal could feel the earth beneath her move, and the trees surrounding her no longer looked so friendly."I wash my hands of you Sally Lou. You're not welcome in my domain any more."

Sal rose slowly to her feet. She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill past the edges of her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, only to find that there were not words to say. She couldn't fix it. She couldn't say the anything to make things right. It hurt. She hated herself in that moment. She knew. She knew she'd never see the dryad again. She'd never walk through her forest again. She'd never laugh with her again. She'd never feel—

"Let's go, Gir," Sal finally managed, leading the troop of bobbling creatures back through a familiar portal lodged in an ancient oak tree. The quiet sobbing of the dryad accompanied her back to the material plane.

---

Sal had suspected that she would be late.

Timeliness had never been her strong suit. Traveling between did strange things to one's sense of time. Across the many planes minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and even years shifted in meaning and moved at paces that had little to do with the predictable passage of time on the prime plane. Dimension doors, teleportation circles, and Sal's personal favorite, shifting across the astral planes would have been far more efficient and comfortable methods of travel than Delta Air Lines. However, such things usually took time, deep wells of arcane energy, and often a sacrifice or two, depending on the user. There was no time, Bain had said he'd wasted enough time trying to find her. And Sal had a gut feeling that she'd be needing her reserve of magical energy soon enough. It wasn't the usual supernatural errand job that she so loved, that had caused Bain to look for her across the arcane planes. No, he was desperate. And any affect in one of her employers, much less desperation, was never a good sign. It lead her to surmise that she'd actually have to earn her pay check for once.

Bain hadn't even let her have an artifact to use as a glorified battery to power a rush-job teleportation. He said she had to be discreet. He was the worst.

Of course, being discreet didn't mean that she couldn't use some small magic, the sort of magic that would be hidden by all the magic that had always existed in Salem. She wasn't going to hail a cab or rent some car, that wasn't very wizardly. Instead, Sal found herself battering with a spectral raven, trading the feather of strange, impossibly colorful bird for passage through through an elemental realm of air. It was windy. Very Windy. And in between dodging bolts of lightening that thundered from the endless clouds, Sal was very grateful for her warm sweater.

Sal appeared a short distance from the house, striding onto the scene from within a small cloud of black feathers that faded into nothingness. She counted five figures. She was definitely late. She would blame Bain. Despite the thick sweater that she wore she shivered. There was magic, heavy magic in the air. The sort of magic that accompanied grim deeds and ill tidings.

The fading remains of a cigarette were her right hand and a heavy leather briefcase was in her left hand that she was carrying with noticeable effort. The contingent of tiny extraplanar monsters that she had stuffed in between layers of clothing and arcane knickknacks was heavier than she'd thought. The masquerade had to be preserved, mundane mortals didn't react well to the bobbling things she commanded, but all the same, she wasn't going to go in without backup. She could have sworn that she heard the strange creatures grumbling from deep within the suitcase. She hoped the bottle of whiskey she had provided them with wasn't already empty.

Hefting the heavy leather briefcase onto the ground in front of her, Sal offered her most winning smile as a chorus of unintelligible curses escaped her bag, "Hi, I'm Sal, your resident wizard."

The Home of Alice Trune
Salem, Massachussets
2:20 PM

Atticus was smiling as he took Nestor’s proffered hand, and shook it warmly.

“It has been awhile, Nestor. Too long.”

A wave of welcome nostalgia lapped at Atticus as he accepted the cigarette from the demonspawn. The two sons of Hell had been comrades in the last battle for the salvation of the world, and it was a bond that Atticus was not soon to forget.

Snapping his fingers to produce a small flame, Atticus lit the cigarette, and gave Nestor a knowing look as he took a drag. “I haven’t worked with any of the others before, but most of their reputations precede them. If Archibald Bain called upon them personally, apocalypse certainly isn’t out of the question.”

Atticus’ crimson eyes tracked along with an approaching car, and when it was clear that its destination was the house, Atticus stepped towards the drive. He blew out a small cloud of smoke as he did so, and smirked at Nestor. “We’re getting too old for this shit, buddy.”

The car door opened, and Atticus moved to greet the new arrival. He was instantly intrigued by the figure that fumbled out of the vehicle, and into the cool afternoon air. Though dressed impeccably, complete with a fine hat and a bespoke doctor’s case, it was impossible for Atticus to not take note of the man’s grotesque features. The Veiled World was filled with all manner of creature and being, and Atticus was familiar with many. However, whatever classification this man belonged to was a wholly new one for the incubus. Atticus’ senses could glean little from the man that his traditional senses could not--the stench that wafted from him was almost all encompassing.

Atticus kept his expression pleasantly impassive as the man introduced himself as Dr. Leonard Winfield. Shaking the doctor’s hand, Atticus gave him a polite nod. “The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Winfield, and thank you for joining our team. I’m sure we’ll have the opportunity to both benefit from our time spent together on this case. If Archibald Bain sent for you personally, you must be a gifted prospect for the company, apprentice or not.”

Dr. Winfield moved to extend a greeting to Nestor, and Atticus turned towards the house. He took one final drag off the cigarette before smashing it beneath his boot. As he ground the cherry into the dirt, Atticus felt something ripple through the air. It was a nearly imperceptible disturbance, but it set the hair at the back of his neck to prickling nonetheless. Beneath his coat, the inked demons on his flesh narrowed their eyes suspiciously. In the next moment, Atticus heard the sounds of a sharp bark, and a canine whine. Turning towards the forest, his deep set eyes lifted along with his full attention.

The woman that emerged from amongst the trees was lithe, dark, and exuded a rough feminine quality that was both attractive and mysterious. This could only be the fabled ghostly-shapeshifter known as The Black Dog. Atticus knew only a little of her from her time with the Bain & Hoyle Company, and the few references made by the werewolf Reginald Hoyle.

“You must be Fei?” Atticus said. Facing her, he bent at the waist, and did his best lupin impression of a humble greeting. It was an affectation a werewolf friend had taught him years ago, and Atticus hoped he was not too far out of practice. “My name is Atticus Mac Cléirich, and I’m the agent in charge of this team.”

Standing erect, Atticus swept a hand back to encompass Nestor and Dr. Winfield. He was about to introduce them to the Black Dog as well, when a Jeep rattled its way up the gravel drive. Atticus fell silent, not wanting to try and talk over the din of the thing.

Atticus pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket as a massive, dangerous looking man stepped out of the Jeep. From the oil slick depths of his eyes to the broad set of his shoulders, the newcomer’s presence was imposing--even in spite of his utterly silent steps. Atticus could also feel the otherworldly power nestled within the man, and he knew that this had to be the being known as Ahanu.

Nestor was right, Atticus thought. Are we starting an apocalypse? Or ending one?

Nodding in agreement at Ahanu’s statement, Atticus moved towards the side door of the house. “You’re right, of course. We can get started, and I’ll catch up the last member of our team when she arrives…”

As he spoke, there was a flurry of fading black feathers, purple hair, and a wide, radiant smile. Atticus snorted a short laugh at Sal, and smiled. “Speak of the Devil, and apparently wizards appear. Glad you could make it, Ms. Lou. We were just getting the investigation underway.”

Turning back to the side entrance, Atticus gripped the doorknob. Focusing, his eyes narrowing, the incubus forced infernal energy through his fingers, and into the brass fixture. Inside, the thin tumblers and springs warped and twisted beneath the onslaught of the focused channel of hellfire, and in a few seconds the door popped inward with a screech of old hinges.

Stepping aside, Atticus turned to address the five members of his team. Tilting his bearded chin up slightly, Atticus spoke loudly and clearly.

“You were all handpicked by Archibald Bain for this assignment. That alone speaks volumes, so it’s an honor to get to work with you. Once again, my name is Atticus, and I’m the agent leading this team and this investigation. If you need anything, or have any concerns, come to me first. I’ll do what I can.”

Atticus paused to give the group a determined look. His eyes were bright with conviction, and the afterglow of what could only be a distant memory of boyish excitement. “Let’s get to work.”

---

Nestor offers a wry smile at the Demon's words. “Too old, hmm? I wonder how long we'll go on telling ourselves that. But I don't believe we know any other way. We'll always find ourselves pulled back in before too long... thrill of the hunt is too hard to resist.” He turns now, refocusing his attention on the newcomer as he offers an introduction.

The Demonspawn studies the face of the man before him a moment – then, blinks, as if pulling himself away from some thought and gives a nod. Accepts the offered hand. His grip is firm. In response, expression shifts close to a smile. Yet in the same instant. Grasping. Cold. Like something were searching with great interest from behind the disturbing depths of those eyes.

“Well... aren't you an odd one, hmm? A -pleasure- to make your acquaintance.” Dulcet, feminine tones caught between the ringing of frozen chimes ringing in the back of Leonard's mind. And then in the present – Nestor offers:

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Leonard –“ gaze shifting to the bulky doctor's bag at his side, he adds --”hope your medical knowledge is up to snuff! I've a less than stellar reputation when it comes to being injured.” But then his attention seems to be grabbed by something elsewhere.

(I scent the air. Something lingers above the cloying stench of the fishman before me: stronger, darker. Like rich loam caught between the roots of ancient trees in some primeval forest. Hear distant howls tearing across the barren scrub of distant moors; I turn toward the source, close my eyes to truly see the creature before me. Inscruitable, she flickers in and out several times before coalescing as that dreadful hound. I find my features creasing into a genuine smile. Unfathomable a creature as she might be, I always felt some shared kinship. Friendship, maybe? I was not even certain they held the concept.

“Good afternoon, Fei. I see fate conspires our paths to cross again.” Wan moonlight creeps through the shadowy windows high above. An ancient church, motes of dust caught between the silver rays of light. Shattered crucifix and rotted drapes adorn the barren sanctuary; at least, it was the same image always evoked in my mind when we met. That and the soft whisper of listless souls, drawn like a swarm to her presence.)

No sooner has Sal thrown down her suitcase while Nestor's attention diverts to Fei, than a slender figure emerges from behind him; she tiptoes lightly across the grass, pulling the soft laces of her light blue dress up around herself before kneeling down beside the piece of luggage. She offers the young wizard an impish grin – plump little lips parting to reveal a sharklike smile, pointed rows of razor sharp teeth lining her jaw.

“Now, now... what have we -here-!” She presses an ear against the fabric. Arches her eyebrows ever so slightly; covers her mouth with a slender hand and gives a juvenille giggle as she gazes up at the wizard, sharp blue eyes glinting with a mischievous light. “I wonder what might happen if we...” and with inhuman speed both hands flash to the clasps, face now morphing into a hopeful little stare: “Oooh, can I? May I!?” And it might be difficult to tell whether the Demoness has any intention of listening, or then again if perhaps she has no intention of opening the suitcase and were merely prodding for a reaction.

The moment passes. Both latches snap open with a click – the suitcase, already bulging under the pressure from within – springs apart as a shower of shredded fabric introduces the handful of occupants within. Unintelligible curses follow as the creatures come tumbling out one overtop the other. And at the end, a very clearly empty bottle clatters to the rocks. The Demoness gives a delighted squeal. Turns toward the Wizard as she reaches toward the nearest: “Oh, Darling – wherever did you come across -these-? They're positively a-dooor-able” And she over enunciates every syllable of the word; the creature she reaches for, meantime, doesn't seem too intent on making friends. He stabs at her hand with a makeshift spear, to little effect.

(I felt my attention waver. Blinked twice and glanced toward the chaos around the luggage case. She was getting out of hand already. I refocus – close my eyes a moment and take a breath. Feel the Demoness vanish away with the soft whisper of a winter chill. I give the Wizard a bit of an apologetic shrug. I couldn't exactly say I shared her taste in traveling companions, but who was I to be judgmental? All business now. I supposed it was time to get down to work... I empty the contents of my bag, survey the neatly packaged bundles before squatting down and beginning that ritual I had partaken in so many times before. Preparedness, I always told myself, was key – and as much as I might like to tout my uses as an investigator... I also knew my strengths tended to err more strongly toward the side of violence. I flex fingers over the hilt of my sword. It had been quite some time.)

Demoness taken care of, and greetings dispensed with, Nestor occupies himself with the task of strapping into his gear; a bit of a process, though if his practiced motions are any indication, it's something he's done countless times in the past. Finished, he tugs at the straps on his vest, gives a testing pull at the small crossbow strapped to his hip, then nods and follows Atticus as the latter makes his way to the building.

Drawing a breath after listening to the Incubus speak, Nestor wrinkles his nose and remarks: “I'd bet I'm not the only one smelling -that-”; he glances briefly toward the now open doorway before adding “something powerful made it through, I'd say. Maybe more?” (But then another scent catches my attention – one present. Corporeal. Burnt flesh and cindered bone.)

“I'm going to have a look around the back side. Don't burn the place down now, eh?” And Nestor trots off around the western side of the house, scent leading him toward the charred basin of a wretched burn pit. Grass and thorny weeds pockmark the ground all about its grey perimeter – a dull mist seems to linger in the air, distant haze hovering just about the grass. The Demonspawn crouches down – runs a hand through the ether and watches as the mist swirls and eddies between his fingers. Withdrawing a glass vial, he manages to scoop up a little of the stuff; screws the lid tight and tucks it away again.

(Now that was odd. Something the investigators wouldn't have seen from that side of the picture. I glance toward the pit – contents burnt and ground to dust, either that or they'd already carted away any recognizable bones. But I didn't need a lab to identify the scent of roasted human. Clearly something else had been burned here – something unnatural – as the fog seemed to emanate from within the pit itself. It had a scent I couldn't place. I shrug and straighten back up, mentally cataloging the scene as I eye the dreary eves of the dark New England forest sprawling across the cottage's back yard. Turn and make my way toward the back door. Wonder what the others have roused up inside?)

With a low sigh of frustration, Sal fished another cigarette out of the crumpled packet that she kept in the back pocket of her jeans. She wasn't sure about Nestor, having just met him, but Sal was sure, very fucking sure, that whatever icy demon he carried with him was trouble. Hell, she'd almost managed to start a fight, and if the bobblings appreciated anything it was a good fight. Lead by Gir the Mighty, the miniature monsters had settled into a simple formation that resembled a wedge, and were doing their best to menacingly eye the company employees, chief among them Nestor. Puffing up a small irritated cloud of smoke, she nodded in the direction of bobbling creatures and gestured towards the front door.

"Oi, bobblings. How's about you point your weapons in a useful direction. I told you on the way here, company employees are our colleagues. Colleagues? Allies, friends, whatever, you get the idea. As I was saying, we don't stab our colleagues, unless they are really asking for it. Savvy? Good, now go keep a lookout. You know, setup a perimeter or something. What? Yes, watch for people or spooky things. Yes, exactly, like that entity Eir just tried to stab. There shouldn't be anyone else arriving, this is practically the sticks. What! No! I said watch, not kill. If you see something you tell us!"

Watching the bobbling creatures fade out the door, Sal ran a hand wearily though her hair. Her small army was proving to be more trouble than she'd expected. And worse still, they'd already polished off all of her whiskey. Turning towards Atticus, Sal grimaced apologetically, "Sorry about that, boss, I figure it wouldn't hurt to have some backup, and the bobblings, well, they come pretty cheap."

Idly kicking her suitcase shut, Sal sauntered further into the house with the still burning cigarette lazily held between her lips,"I'll take a look at the room where the late Miss Trune, summoned whatever it was she summoned. There are only so many ways you can conjure something powerful enough to leave behind this bad of an aftertaste. Feel free to join me if you fancy hearing an expert opinion on summoning spells gone wrong."

Ahanu The Ravenous One

---

~You hear that? Handpicked. By the headmaster himself.~

Slave.

As if in response a brutal chill swept around the group, dead leaves scraping against the concrete like the giggling of the damned. Ahanu did his best to steal the skepticism broiling beneath his consciousness, though he felt his eyes narrow.

~How long, do you suppose your leash is on this one, Ahanu? They have hellspawn holding your chains, the very energies we have been sent to inspect. Seems an obvious conflict of interest, no?~

Such pointless games. Give in to me.

The arrival of the young wizard assigned to them caused a flurry of activity, rendering the others oblivious to the tremor which rode down Ahanu’s left arm, rattling the enchanted heavy stone bracer against his tanned skin. The lingering magics of this place felt like a great weight strapped to his chest, dragging his will to the pits of his stomach, an endless abyss from which he would never return.

~There is no trust to be found here, Ahanu, look upon how they see you. They let demons run free, but treat you as a monster.~

Consume.

Ahanu remained statuesque, though a nagging sense of foreboding tugged at the base of his skull. The combination of the mission statement, the dark aura of this place and the strange assembly which stood before him spoke of desperation. A desperation to avoid the end. Not of the end of his story, which would be some kind of welcome relief, but the end of all that was known. This journey they were about to embark on sought to undo them all, cruel tendrils of fate reaching across the cosmos, across realms, to entangle them for their interference.

~We have nothing to fear.~

But they do.

The eager chants of the bobblings rallying towards the derelict home snapped Ahanu from the insidious voice known only to him. Taking a moment to focus his breathing, shaking the scent of cigarette from his nostrils, Ahanu followed to two women into the house.

No.

A home. Or it had once been. Though there were odd shapes burnt into counters and carpet, terrible things spilling from the refrigerator, though heavy dust-riddled webs cluttered every nook and corner, there were still signs. Forgotten family photos lined the walls, a diploma lay smashed, crookedly dropped on the mantle where it fell. A teddy bear and a blanket sat upended on the ugly stained couch in the living room.

Ahanu was immediately struck by the sadness which seemed trapped within the very air they all breathed. This person, whoever they had been, was no evil mastermind. They were forlorn, and lonesome, likely misguided in their notions of savior. A false prophet who would be their undoing.

A tale told a thousand times.

~Your story.~

Or is it mine?

“Can you hear that which was not left behind?” Ahanu wondered in reply to Fei’s observation. “Sometimes…” Ahanu’s voice lowered, as if the words themselves bore the burden. “Sometimes a vessel loses their voice. As if they were not there at all.”

He reached a hand toward the nearest photo, stroking the frame of one which displayed a young woman with child. “A milk carton filled with orange juice no longer retains its identity, despite the form it wears…” He turned, his expression thoughtful.

“We’d likely benefit by investigating the woman who lived here. The ties she formed in life might clue us in to what we’re dealing with. It doesn’t appear she was began dabbling in the arcane until very recently… And where there is one novice, there are usually others, and a leader guiding them.” He nodded towards the bookshelf, lined with occult books and artifacts, pointing out a photo, newer than the others, of the same woman with stony eyed, skeletal man. “Those who seek to peer behind the veil rarely work alone.”

His eyes darted to the other members of the group, clearing his throat awkwardly. “...As I suppose we all know….”

"Woah," Sal exclaimed as she stepped into the summoning room. The cigarette she held lazily in her lips tumbled downwards, scattering ash and dying embers on the floor. She heard Fei and then Ahuna speak, but she wasn't listening, not anymore, not really. The young wizard wasn't sure what the others saw, if they saw anything she was sure she didn't want to know. Sal saw patterns. Heavy, jarring, and terrible patterns that made her feel like a knife had just been driven through her skull. An algorithm of damnation that she could only partially comprehend. Not that she wanted to. Usually, evil was a nebulous term. A philosophical idea or a subjective belief more than a reality. But the magic the now dead witch had woven into the ether was wrong. It was broken magic. Forbidden magic. Magic tinged with the delicate touch of entities that had no business communicating with the residents of the material plane. It was madness. And Sal knew, with an alarming certainty it was evil.

"Fuck me," Sal muttered, fishing another cigarette out of her pocket. Leaning against a wall, Sal gazed with wide eyes past the walls of the small house. She wondered if it was too late too late to quit. She wasn't really the "save the world" type of girl. Not for what Bain and Hoyle were paying her, generous as it was. And not when it meant possibly encountering the sort of creatures that responded to summoning rituals that involved dead magicians.

Sal had just prepared the teleportation spell when her eyes darted over the symbol that was scorched into the wood. Sal's eyes widened, but she did not feel fear. Instead, she felt a sense of curiosity that worried her even more. The symbol was evil, very evil. And yet. It was a work of art. To pierce the veil so cleverly and skillfully, required real talent. And power, so much knowledge. Sal shuddered. She was in over hear head. She felt sick. She felt afraid.

Swearing quietly Sal pushed off against the wall. Breathing in a welcome cloud of smoke Sal's growing apprehension faded as Fei's words finally caught up to her.

"On it," Sal replied. She brought out a heavy piece of tracing paper neatly folded into a thick square and a small stub of a graphite pencil marked softly by her teeth. Stepping further into the room, she bent low and ran a finger over what remained of the summoning pentagram. Lines of scorched wood, probably tallow, the rendered fat had fueled arms of fire. She hoped it wasn't human. Placing the tracing paper against the symbol, Sal began to slowly and carefully began to copy what remained of the arcane symbol.

Laughing nervously, Sal spoke aloud to Fei and anyone else within earshot, "You know, it's rare to find rituals that require human sacrifice any more—" Sal stopped and pointed towards one of the symbols visible beneath the paper. "This is old, very old, and it's not human. Now, I know what you're thinking of course it's not human. But it's not that, that name was never meant for a human tongue or a human hand. No wizard or witch writes like that. You wouldn't. You shouldn't...You couldn't..."