‘The Watcher, the Lamb, the Nail.’

April 19th, 2000 — Late Afternoon

Admittedly, trying to observe a public area for suspicious activity during peak hours has not been my brightest idea. There’s a swamp of people surrounding the thirty-foot obelisk monument in the middle of The Ridge, taking pictures, making stupid poses, generally just hanging around. Said monument is located in the middle of a ritzy plaza, brand name store fronts all around. These brand names act like magnets, drawing in folks like crumbs of honey bread in a colony of ants.

I lower my binoculars, giving up on manually scanning the crowd. There’s just too many people to study individually — I’ll have to hope my intuition can sense suspicious peoples.

I found a perch, the rooftop of a multi-storied chain store, but a bird’s eye view is only hindering us at the moment. Too much shit flying around; dumb tourists throwing around bread is attracting flocks of seaguls. Doesn’t help that there are already huge abstract white statues everywhere. They look like somebody bent a giant spatula in two and called it a day.

“There’s a lot of people here,” Felix says, frowning.

“Another astute observation,” I mutter.

Sometimes, I forget that Sapphire Isle is a tourist city. We’re far enough in the south that late spring and early autumn are the optimal times to visit — that’s when the southern part of the city, the island itself, booms with visitors.

In truth, Sapphire Isle is more like two cities conjoined underneath a single name. The northern section that’s on the mainland is where most of the development happens — the contractors that build around these parts take great care in not ruining the natural beauty of the isle too much. The Ridge is the exception.

To protect the rest of the isle, all the fancy buildings and tourist stuff has been condensed into around sixteen blocks of pure fanciness, an artificial venus fly trap people can get stuck and lose all their money in. Around the First Founders Monument (I think that’s what city council is calling the obelisk these days) are a collection of the finest luxuries money has to buy. I’m almost certain this is by design, a win-win. Snobbish rich assholes can laugh at the layman from their partitioned cafes, and the layman can pretend to be rich for a day or two. The intended result of the Centurion mall, now in an even better location.

I sigh and grab a bottle of iced tea we bought earlier. It’s lukewarm, but good enough for me. “Yeah, no, this is going to be impossible. No way I can pick up on any individual signals here.”

This place does indeed seem to be the intersection of Ren and Pelchat’s emissions, but trying to figure out exactly what’s going on is impossible. The enemy caster was smart enough to obfuscate the signal and send up what’s basically a smokescreen of dense mana in the area. And if they’re smart enough to do that, then they’ll have some safeguard in play if I run up to the obelisk and manually study it.

Felix rolls his shoulders and takes out his IR-scanner and sketchpad. “Let me try to make this thing useful.”

“Toss it to me after,” I say, looking down at the crowds.

While Felix does some of the heavy reconnaissance lifting, I pick up my binoculars and scan the crowds again. There are no shortage of eccentric looking individuals — I don’t think I’d win a game of ‘Is he a tourist, wizard, or just has a terrible fashion sense?’ with this crowd.

What’s more concerning is that everybody I know just happens to be here, on this exact day of the week, at this exact hour. I’d be less concerned if it was a weekend, but it’s only wednesday. Responsible people don’t go out on a wednesday night.

Gabriel is out with his sports team, a whole swarm of pre-varsity-clad dudebros. An entire crowd of nothing but trouble.

Adrian, the theatre kids — there’s some suave-looking schmuck with them, a guy trying his best to bring back the greaser’s slicked back hair and aviators.

Aniya is with a guy I’ve never seen before. Doesn’t seem like a romantic meet; they’re chatting on the second floor balcony of a fancy cafe, passing off notebooks. There’s a pin I don’t recognize on his grey vest, a pair of feathers crossed underneath a circled octagram.

Some of my other loose acquaintances are around. I mentally shut them out and let out a sigh. “What a terrible day for scouting.”

“At least the weather’s nice,” Felix says, handing over the sketchpad he’s been working on.

In a span of a few minutes, he’s managed to sketch a full landscape. A plaza of dreams, devoid of people, a walled garden. In the middle, a vortex of falling petals, a storm frozen in ink. Not exactly a masterclass drawing, but impressive nonetheless. “Not bad, but… how many artistic liberties did you take with this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What do you mean?”

I look back at drawing — a tornado of force centers around the black stone, blowing away all signs of life. There are no people left.

I reach over and snatch the IR scanner from Felix’s hand. He doesn’t resist.

Through the lenses of filtered pixels, a world of blue broken by a spiral of white. A revolving storm that drives a lance through the obelisk, drilling deep into the earth. Impossible, artificial storm.

“Is that not what mana is supposed to look like?” Felix asks.

Inertia. A drill, powered by the collective unconscious. If this were a proper drill, the part that does all the digging — the bit — would be the mana harvested from dreamers. The rest of the energy is provided by the people, funneled by a deceptively kind wind. Anybody who finds themselves in the vicinity of the storm will experience a barely noticeable drop in vitality, much like how a mosquito only draws a few droplets of blood.

But a few droplets per person ends in a bloodbath.

“Not even close,” I mutter. I toss back the IR scanner and sit back, staring at the overpopulated plaza. “Somebody’s collecting mana here, but not enough to hurt anybody. It’s all going downwards, like they’re trying to excavate... something from the ground.”

“...Is there anything to excavate?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

I can’t even begin to fathom what my enemy is actually after. Their techniques clash with their actions so much that I don’t know what to think. For a magus, they’re doing everything short of just asking us for permission — I don’t know why they wouldn’t just try negotiating instead of doing all of... this.

From what I can tell, their objective is to usurp our territory and prepare for an attack on me and Erika. But they’ve been keeping a low profile, avoiding conflict with us, and minimizing collateral damage, even resorting to utilizing actual nightmare creatures just to scout. Whether out of benevolence or caution, I have no idea.

Back during the final dash on that rainy night, just over a week ago now, something caused that gunslinging magus to crash. There was a wound inflicted by a beast’s claws on the chassis, a rake. Assuming that was my enemy’s handiwork, then they left the final blow, the dirty work to me.

They could be among the crowds right now, and there would be no way to tell, besides asking — or hurting — everybody in the premises.

I suppose that would be the easy way out. If I start cannibalizing the mana and a few of the people here, I might have enough to replicate that faux black hole from the other night. That would get rid of all my problems very quickly.

—No. I could, but I won’t. As much as that alien compulsion is pushing me towards the path of least resistance, I still have enough willpower to realize that it’s a horrible thought. Even if I won the battle with such means, the entire arcane world would come for my head and execute me as a beast that’s lost control.

I lean back and huff, resting my head on my hands. Concrete scrapes my knuckles as clouds shift over a red and purple sky. “...What a pain in my ass.”

“There’s certainly a lot of people around here,” Felix observes. He seems to be doodling something else on his notepad now. “Think somebody managed to convince everybody to come here?”

“Probably. No shortage of ways they could use a dream to influence people.” I close my eyes and focus on the sound of the wind. Oceanbound breeze, mixed with sounds of the city. “I’ll get Erika to deal with this when she gets back — she can probably figure out a proper plan. Hopefully she can explain what’s actually going on, too.”

“Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

Since this isn’t a straight forward smash and crash problem, my usefulness is limited. “I wish. We’d just be wasting our energy doing private eye work. At worst, we’d give ourselves away.”

“What about disrupting that spiral, somehow?”

“We’re also trying to keep a low profile, remember? You’ve already seen what I can do — if somebody finds us midact, they might assassinate us.” I point a finger gun and fire. “—Bang.”

Felix actually flinches. “H-Hey, don’t be so scary…”

“Hah. Sorry. Not really.” I let my hand flop to the ground, limp, casings spent. “Gah. If only they could just reveal themselves and do a monologue or something. A bout of fistacuffs to settle all of this. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

Felix raises a hand to his chin, deep in thought. Ideas appear and disappear on his lips, vanishing without even a sound. It’s almost cute how hard he’s trying. Then, as an evening bell tolls in the plaza, something clicks — his eyes widen. “What about the church?”

I cringe a little at the thought. “I was hoping you wouldn’t suggest that.”

“You said The Order was a witch-hunter organization, right? You seem to already have a relationship with them… maybe they would help a bit?”

“Well, I may have been oversimplifying…”

I was oversimplifying a lot. We do not have the greatest of relationships with the local catholic church for reasons that should be obvious, but merely asking might open us to future exploitations. Ask for an inch, take a mile, that kind of thing.

“Couldn’t hurt to try, right? I know Jules, maybe I could ask on your behalf.”

Oh boy. Now he can embarrass the both of us — a two-for-one deal. But he might have a chance. “If you think you can pull off a miracle, Jesus Boy, go for it.”

I sit up and cast my gaze towards the busy plaza once more. I can’t see any of my friends anymore; they’ve poofed off to who knows where. If I couldn’t notice Aniya’s emotions, then my emotive deductioning skills could be lacking as well.

Despite my attempts at becoming a reclusive hermit, I’ve ended up fumbling into many social encounters and met too many people to remember. Up until now, my life had been rather plain — I suppose despite my excuses, I lived more as a normal girl than a proper mage. But that doesn’t mean anybody else was willing to wait to make their move. As the crowd writhes and sloshes onto banks of cafes and shops, I can’t help but feel like I missed something painfully obvious in those ordinary days.

Felix keeps his distance from me as we wait for the priest of Closure Point. The corrupt nun that stays here doesn’t even offer either of us a basic greeting as we step in, just a monotone “please wait here” before disappearing into whatever heresy that lies behind the door to the priest’s quarters.

‘Here’ refers to a row of four austere wooden chairs underneath a statue of Saint Mary. Given my frequent visits to this damned place, it’s almost like they chose this place on purpose to spite me. Now, more than ever, I can feel those insincere stone eyes sneering at me from behind a heavenly smile. Felix chose the farthest seat away from me to contemplate whatever’s going on in his head, so I can’t even make conversation to pass the time.

Can’t really blame him, though. Seems like he’s having back to back existential crises — I don’t think I could help him, even if he did decide to open up about his problems. The only thing I can gleam from watching is some concern with his watch. Could be broken or something.

Out of curiosity, I look up and study the worn saint. Only on the rarest of occasions do I come here without Erika — she’s usually my negotiator. Whenever I come here alone, I always feel like the statue is scowling at me in particular.

The mother of God. The patron of ‘humanity.’ Is she mourning for a lost child, or scorning a sinner beyond her reach?

I’m not very religious for obvious reasons, but I’ve always wondered how people have such faith in things they can’t see. Most folks will never interact, yet alone glimpse the spirits and saints they venerate. Faith itself is a near constant in all of history, so what exactly keeps this belief going?

The best answer I can think of is community, the idea that one can be part of something greater than themselves. It’s a bit of a letdown, but the most ‘human’ answer. Humans, after all, are creatures that learn and imitate one another. Social creatures. Loving creatures. Creatures adapted to faith. If you think about it enough, there’s not much different between believing in God and believing in others. Either way, you’re relying on something out of your direct control.

One could say that the magus, a existence far removed from the normality of faith and belief in others, instead withdrawing entirely unto themselves to explore the gaps within humanity, are no longer human. A diverging existence with no place in the world bound by a paradoxical mix of faith and common sense. Maybe that’s why The Order, the self-imposed ‘defenders of humanity’ despise us so, the real reason behind the bluster and zealous self-righteousness.

I lean over and prod the resident human in the shoulder, distracting him from his thoughts. “Oi,” I whisper, “do you believe in God?”

The question has the same effect as a full-speed tackle. His eyes crease and his mouth gapes. “Uh, are you feeling alright, Marie?”

“I’m the one that should be asking you that,” I say with a small scowl. But I push aside that thought and follow my curiosity. “Do you think God is real? Maybe just gods in general.”

“Um.” Felix regards me with his soft grey eyes, probably trying to check if I’ve spontaneously gone insane. “That’s a tough question…”

“Give it your best shot.”

He thinks about it for a few moments. “Well, I guess there’s a lot of different kinds of gods… the only constant is that God, Buddha, all the others loom over humanity. They’re creatures that can keep us in check.”

“Accountability, huh? Is that all it takes?”

Felix rubs his neck, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he contemplates. “There’s also the element of the supernatural, too. Some religions think if enough people venerate an object, it might ascend. People worship things like ideals, places, and artifacts to the point where they have real power over lots of people...” He lowers his shoulders, glancing my way with a smile. “But I feel a little silly saying all that in front of somebody who can destroy reality on a whim.”

“Hey, I’m not that irresponsible,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Hmm.”

“Hmph.” I had another question in mind, but I turn my chin and scoff like the petulant child I am.

Felix gets a single short chuckle from my reaction, but whatever was worrying him prior quickly returns. He looks away from me and sighs gently. “Hey Marie. Can I ask you something?”

I stop my half-serious sulking and tilt my head. “Just shoot, no need to ask.”

“Alright…” He heaves a long sigh through his nose, then nods. “Alright. How much of ‘you’ consists of your memories? Say, if somebody else had all of your memories and personality, would that still be you?”

He plays around with the motion detector in his pocket while he speaks. I can’t be sure, but that might be the source of the question.

But I’m going to need a bomb squad to unpack that question. I take a deep breath, struggling to decipher the intent behind such words.

“That’s a question that comes down to consciousness, doesn’t it? Although, if you were to consider the magical perspective, souls are a one and done kind of deal. It’s all just real… finicky.”

‘Finicky’ is my stand-in word for all of the proper metaphysics. I don’t think Felix would appreciate hearing about just how fragile humans are, nor the impossibility of bringing the dead back to life. Such miracles are lost to modern witchcraft, but… “Honestly? I think it’s just a matter of perspective. The human mind can convince itself of anything — you’re the ultimate decider in what flies. You can deny or accept anything if you try hard enough.”

A vague, selfish answer that doesn’t really mean much, but it seems to be enough for Felix. He nods slowly and whispers a quiet thanks. He even begins to say something else, but stops himself before he words leave his mouth.

Yet I can still read the words on his lips.

That’s very much like you.

Before I can say anything, the door beside us creaks open. It swings open just a crack, and the vaguely threatening voice of Sister Jules oozes through.

“Father Kozlow is ready to see you. You best be on your best behaviour, Marie.”

Father Kozlow’s quarters is not a priest’s quarters. I’m not one to tell people how to worship or live their lives, but in my humble, secular opinion, priests do not have a billiards table in the sacristy.

I put myself between the liquor cabinet and electric fireplace, the spot I know I’ll get the least attention in. And from Felix’s stunned, slack-jawed reaction, I can tell this is the first time he’s seen any of the local clergy’s true colours.

The gathering room smells of fine scotch and burnt maple, a scent usually reserved for high-end bars and bourgeoisie getaways. Suave radiance spills from holes in the roof, the finest in mood-light technology. A fine layer of red velvet covers everything, firewood crackles, smooth jazz blasts from a gramophone — Father Kozlow himself is sitting on a recliner in front of the fireplace, unraveled parchment scroll in one hand, tequila in the other. I can smell it from here.

Poor Felix has somehow ended up in the seat next to the priest. He’s splayed out on a green velvet recliner like a hit-and-run victim, a bewildered look on his face.

“I believe this is the first time we met,” Kozlow says, rolling up his scroll. “I hope Sister Jules has been both treating you and gathering faithful well in my unfortunate absence.” He offers a dainty, slow hand to Felix. They shake.

Of course, Father Kozlow is doing his best not to acknowledge me. I can sense the tremble in his lower jaw every time he happens to look in my general direction — I can at least respect Jules for not being afraid. But this fraud of a priest isn’t worth anything but my scorn.

Said Sister is standing by the door, guarding the exit diligently. She makes no effort to suppress her hostility towards me — she’s glaring at me with her entire body from the other side of the liquor cabinet. I do my best impression of an apathetic statue in response.

“Uh, it's nice to meet you,” says Felix, sinking further into his seat. I can bet his impressions of this church are sinking much faster, though.

“As local overseer, I have a responsibility to hear the concerns, demands, and hopes of those in these lands. Tell me your concerns and I shall assist in any way I can.”

The priest rests his clasped hands in his stomach, quite relaxed. For a man who’s in his early forties, he certainly doesn’t look the part. A close-fitting cassock, slicked back grey hair, and still-sharp features give him a veneer of youth. There’s a small platinum brooch embedded into the collar of his uniform made of three nested leaves connected at their base, a slightly obfuscated triquetras.

“Um, me and Marie have run into a little trouble, we were wondering—”

“I’ll be happy to clean this mess up right now,” interjects Sister Jules. Her hands limp to her sides as she regards me with the nastiest sidelong glance I’ve received in my life. “What do you say?”

Father Kozlow shoots a pleading glare that Sister Jules can’t see. “Sister, please stand down.”

She does, but with no small amount of irritation. Felix seems to be the most alarmed among us; he’s starting to fidget.

“He doesn’t know anything besides the basics,” I say in his defense. “He’s under my protection, as well.”

Kozlow nods, still pretending to not hear my words. I can’t really feel that offended — the one he’s acutely terrified of is Erika. From what I’ve garnered through hearsay, there’s some history between them that predates my existence. As far as he’s aware, I’m a person that can easily control Erika, her master. A monster far beyond human.

It may be actual psychological warfare, but I’m not complaining.

“Unfortunately,” Kozlow continues, “depending on the nature of your ‘issue,’ our intervention may be limited.”

Having already been shot down, Felix grimaces and looks at me from the corner of his eye.

I can tell what he is trying to say at just a glance: he wants to throw me into the negotiating ring. I roll my eyes and start talking. “We’ve run into another territory dispute. Another magus is having a go at our land. Again.”

My statement plunges the hall into silence — the priest regards Felix with emotionless eyes, hoping his reaction speaks for itself. An abridged version of the stages of grief plays out on his face over the course of five seconds. It ends with a quiet statement filled with confusion.

“But… Why can’t you help? You’re part of the church, right?”

I get two pairs of eyes accusing me in the wake of his question. An admonishment from Kozlow for not explaining more, and just more hatred from Jules. She’s been openly hostile these past few weeks — something strange is going on with her. Did she actually have some sort of infatuation with Felix?

“Our current role in the settlement of Sapphire Isle could be likened to that of an observer. Noninterference in local affairs. A neutral party in the tumultuous world—”

“You could stop mincing words any moment, Kozlow.”

“...It was not my intent to conceal our purpose here.” The priest clears his throat and raises a hand towards the artificial fire. “Although we would not normally tolerate the existence of mages and their heretical ways, your companion has a special arrangement. While the most effective way to purge corruption are sacraments and blessed weapons, not all branches may find themselves with suitable tools. Thus, to protect our faithful brethren, some swear by the Steel Vow and use… less acceptable tools and means to achieve our goals.”

“We’re the heretic’s arm dealers,” I say, sparing Felix a full flowery history lecture. “These two keep an eye on us and act as our proxy.” I cast a glance at the bottles of bourbon in sparkling crystal bottles. Those weren’t there before.

Kozlow clears his through even louder. “In exchange, as per the agreement established by the last head, Kasimira Weiss, we would guarantee our nonintervention until the current scion is eligible to inherit both the legacy and secrets of the Weiss bloodline.”

Or in other words, be a pain in our ass until Granny finally keels over and her secrets end up tumbling into my lap.

“But there are innocent people at risk,” Felix says, gesturing around himself. “People could get hurt! There’s some sort of phenomenon in The Ridge, and creatures are popping up at night—”

“I have already evaluated the situation upon my return. Our assistance is not required in this current moment in time.”

“But—”

“Only in the most dire of situations, where public welfare and the sanctity of God is threatened are we allowed to intervene. You have my word that we will assist should the conditions be fulfilled, but until then, the situation will have to settle itself.”

What he really means by that is it’s not the church’s problem until it is. They’re more than happy to watch me struggle and do all of the dirty work myself. They only want to take over when we’ve worn ourselves out and can go vulture on our corpses. I don’t know what was going through Granny’s head when she made such a terrible deal. There had to have been better forms of insurance.

Felix deflates with something like a sigh. I try my best to give him a sympathetic gaze instead of a ‘told you so’ look. But he doesn’t seem to need it. He squares up his shoulders on his own and looks the priest right in the eye. “Then, Father… may I discuss something with you? In private?” He gives an apologetic look to both me and Jules — both of us are caught off guard.

There’s a grave look on Felix’s face. He seems to have figured something out in that tiny head of his. I throw up my hands and start walking to the door.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Kozlow says, looking at Jules as well.

For the first time, I see an emotion besides passive aggressive hatred and smug self-satisfaction on her mug. Something close to shock, but not quite. Her eyes are wide, but her mouth is pulled into a tight frown. “Father, what about your safety—”

“I am more than capable of protecting myself. Please.”

“...Very well.”

I help myself to a snide remark as I hold open the door for Jules. “Guess we’re both getting kicked to the curb for mano-a-mano hour, huh?”

Her only response is a crestfallen “shut up.”

We wait in mutual quiet contemplation for a while, listlessly shifting in our chosen spots. Jules waits beside the door to the priests quarters, occasionally fiddling with her blonde hair.

This is the first time we’ve been forced to wait together. Usually, it’s just been one of us purposely delaying the other for as long as possible. Now we’re both on the ass end of patience.

I don’t think she’s ever liked me. Even on the first day we met, when both of us were mere children, she kept her distance from me. I remember the way she stood on the altar while Erika and Kozlow negotiated, a fresh doll that looked down upon me from above. She disappeared for years at a time, but whenever I would see her again, that emotionless mask looked down at me from above.

Now’s no time for sentimental bitterness. This girl is probably one of the only people I know about who could take me down in a battle of brutality. Last thing I want is a two-front war.

I take a deep breath and wave in Jules’s direction, flagging her attention. “Oi. If you got a problem, out with it. I’d rather we be in a half-decent relationship.”

No response. She’s looking into the cathedral’s interior, expertly ignoring me.

“Like, I don’t want to fight you. Maybe we could just have a good fistfight now and call it even.”

Nothing. Radio silence.

“Ooooooi. Oi. Oi. Earth to Jules—”

“Stop running your mouth, filth.” Jules’s scarred eyes narrow — she looks directly at me. She doesn’t even try to hide her scowl. “I’d like nothing more than to dispose of trash like you. You’re… disgusting. More than ever now.”

Desperation. Her unseeing eyes are crawling all over me, condemning me with a critic’s eye. Her skin pales further as her breath quickens — she looks genuinely nauseous.

This is something that goes beyond mere fashion sense or body odour. I raise my hands in surrender and step away. “Ooookay. Relax. I’ll fuck off.”

“You’re marked. That miasma is all over you now — what are you doing here? What do you hope to accomplish?”

She isn’t talking to me. Something pungent enough to distort Jules’s common sense is taking her attention, withering away at her restraint. I put enough distance between us to calm her nerves; one whole pew lengthwise.

Jules calms down after a while. She holds her forehead in her palm, wincing. A sudden migraine.

“C’mon, help me out a little here. What miasma? I legitimately have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She looks at me and shakes her head. “...Marie. If you aren’t intentionally doing whatever you’re doing now, turn back before it’s too late. Leave this city while you can.”

Cryptic and vaguely threatening. My favourite. “What do you mean by that? For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Although, I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything wrong.”

But Jules returns to her silent vigil, shrugging her shoulders involuntarily. Not like I expected much from this girl of cloth.

“I’ll just wait outside.” I place my hands on top of my head and start walking again. Always falls to the heretic to be the bigger woman, I suppose.

Felix comes out of Closure Point about four times more disgruntled than he did coming in. Which, considering the initial existential crisis, means he looks shaken to the core. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting — didn’t really keep track. The sun’s a lot lower than before, that’s for sure. Sky’s turned into a purple smear, a fresh bruise, the aftermath of a bloody sucker-punch.

He hobbles past me wordlessly, acknowledging me with only a nod. His footsteps are staccato things, irregular hobbles in the general direction of home. I watch him from behind, staying close enough to prevent him from throwing himself in front of a car should the occasion arise.

Jules’s words still weigh heavily on me, an insistent nagging with a dagger to the base of my skill. Somebody like her wouldn’t hate without a good reason. She’s never liked me, but something surely changed with Felix’s visit.

An invisible miasma that sends a corrupted nun into a near bloodlust. A warning from somebody who knows nothing of magic. It might just be a violent verbal reflux, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s any merit to her words.

A single question lingers as I walk home in silence, a thought that I can no longer ignore. A question that’s directed to both of our cowardly inner hearts, a query painted in an ugly shade of yellow:

What are we doing here in the first place?