“To stop at the truth is more difficult than to arrive at it.” – The Vakshah of Wisdom, Naya al-Hamaya

  Incense burned low in the ceramic dish, sending up curling wisps of exotic fumes. The apartment was warm and filled with the hum of a record spinning in lazy circles. Shelves and surfaces were swarmed with popular titles, curative creams, fractal illustrations, crystal pyramids, crystals in other shapes, all sold as attuners. Emil St. Marcelin slumped on the couch, distant from the scents, sights and sounds. A glass of liquor was tilted in his fingers. Avasca stood by the window, adjusting the curtains to let just a sliver of the nightly cityglow slip through. It painted her silken, florid kimono a shimmering gold-blue. Her soft, honey-warm Reshanaha side was being drawn back by age, as the Vanahan in her cooled the tone of her beige skin and sharpened her features.

  “Marcel,” she cooed, turning towards him. “You’re drinking like you don’t have work tomorrow.”

  He huffed and took another sip. “Maybe I don’t, and today was my last. How was yours?”

  “I’ve told you plenty of times: You don’t have to ask me that.”

  “Why not? You always ask me. Even when it’s obvious.”

  “Because I’m trying to make you feel better,” she said and lowered herself onto the couch beside him. Despite his attempts to blur it with alcohol, the day’s toll was clear in how he plunged between the round cushions. No pit, but they preserved him. Avasca rubbed the weight in his shoulders before plucking the glass from his hand.

  “Is this the only reason you came tonight? To sulk and drown in drink?”

  St. Marcelin gave a small shrug. “No… Maybe. Give it back. What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Drown in me,” she whispered, straddling him all the way. The hem of her robe pooled around her thighs and ankles. One hand stashed his drink far away while the other began to trail the curve of his crescent horns. Kalzanaha in conception and Andhanaha in attitude, they grew low in his curls, crescent-curved, and milk-white. Visually, they were the only unusual thing about him. “How are you so wrecked but quiet tonight?”

  “Don’t have much to say… Give it back.”

  Avasca tilted her head, deepening her caresses. “You don’t have to say anything. Touch me. Let me help you forget”

  “Forget? How do you plan to do that? Still fancy yourself a witch?”

  The woman pressed her ample chest against his face, wiggling in his lap. St. Marcelin breathed in and closed his eyes. Shame, frigidness and undesirable excitement kept them shut. For a moment, he sank between the paired pleasures. Enough to distract him from the questions of life and death he had pondered prior. The soft rustle of pooled silk hemmed him in. I don’t deserve this. I don’t. Most of his body loosened under her weight. “Maybe your problems are complicated. But you’re still a simple man,” she purred, kissing the hair between his odd horns.

  “Mmmm….,” he mumbled, his hands hovering near her waist but never quite settling. When she pulled away, his eyes were teary. “Not tonight,” he managed to mouth while staring at the ceiling.

  Instead of pressing him further, she reached for his hand and held it, lacing her fingers through his. Her grip was strong, but brief. “I owe you something… Wait here.” Avasca disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two new glasses. The stuff inside was darker than before.

  “Ink?” he asked and confirmed with his lips. Dull, but it burned his throat incomparably. He coughed and took more.

  “I kept a pinch of it, from last month.” She returned to his side and sipped carefully. “Seems like you need it tonight. Am I right?”

  The black streaks at the bottom of the garnet liquid held St. Marcelin’s attention. They rose, floated and dwindled. “They don’t even hide it from me,” he announced, unaware of her question. His voice was remote and obscure. “They don’t care that I hear things, see things. They know I won’t say a word. New building, bigger budget… and nothing’s changed.”

  Avasca stayed silent and continued to caress him while the words poured out like poison.

  “They do whatever they want. They ignore, they take, they hide, they sell, they… Look me in the eyes while they do it because I don’t matter. They even talk about it in front of me. They don’t even consider me worth bribing or threatening. They… that’s what they are, and I’m nothing to them. Not even a liability. Just a nobody you don’t have to worry about. It’s all fucked. Gone awry. Ha-ah.” His guffaw devolved into a cough.

  “You’re worth more than they believe, Marcel. They don’t see the real you. Not like I do.”

  “I pay you to see me, Ava,” he huffed. “That makes it easier.”

  Avasca responded with a slap against his already rosy cheek and sprung up. “You pay me because you’re a miserable dupe. I accept it because I feel bad for you. You think I do this with anyone else anymore? No. I’m far too old for this…”

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  “Ava, please… I’m sorry. Sometimes, I forget how long it’s been.”

  “You forget often. Exactly what and when it suits you,” she shouted while scouring her handbag for something in a distant corner of the room.

  “I know, I’m sorry… Please come back,” he begged languidly as Avasca lit the cigarette and tightened her kimono. “Avasca.” He tried to get up but slipped and collapsed against the cushions. The inked drink spilled quietly.

  “Don’t make me pity you any more than I already do. Marcel…?” She saw his limbs loose and heavy, hurrying over. The positioning seemed painful, but the tension had drained from his face.

  *

  The first thing St. Marcelin registered was the sound of boiling water. It raised him from thick, sticky sleep. He rushed to get up, but the headache toppled him. A stale smog lingered in him, making his thoughts limp after his senses. Ink. Shit… St. Marcelin swallowed, trying to push himself upright, regretting it as the room wobbled around him. The sheets fell aside, and his eyes turned toward the kitchen, blinking to unclog his vision. Avasca was standing there, one hip cocked as she poured coffee. She was in her black underwear, her frizzy hair free and reaching her bra straps. Only then did he realize he himself was undressed.

  “Good morning,” she said without turning.

  “What happened last night?”

  “Not much. You drank, cried and fell asleep. Almost broke a glass. The usual.”

  “Did I… say or do anything stupid last night?”

  “Nothing original.” She came closer, carrying a steaming mug and a thermos bottle. “Does your cheek still sting?”

  St. Marcelin tensed as he put a hand over the left side of his face. His heart dropped into his stomach and his spine jabbed at his mind. His tone revealed neither. “I must have been nasty. Did you give ink again? This headache’s too much.”

  “A bit. Sorry for hitting you.” She saw his uneasy expression and rolled her eyes, setting a thermos on the table. “You looked like you needed it. Was I wrong?”

  “No, I just don’t remember…” he trailed off, rubbing at his temples. “I should get out of your way.” He pushed himself off the couch with effort, shoulders aching as if he’d fought rest. They could test me. Especially if I look like a mess. He swayed slightly as his thoughts finally caught up all at once. “Ava…”

  “I know,” Avasca said before he could panic properly. She reached into a small drawer near the sink, pulling out a plastic bag. From it, she gave him a single glossy, dark pellet. “You need one of these.”

  “What is it? Purifying charcoal?”

  “A work of wonder, made to detoxify the body of nasty stuff. Great for hexes and hangovers. Friend of mine got them from a trip East.”

  St. Marcelin scoffed at it warily. She still buys into everything, as long as it’s shiny. The room was filled with such promises. No tomes or scriptures. To most it was all harmless and nonsense. The pellet seemed to be either and he swallowed it dry. Avasca nodded and watched him in a haughty fashion.

  “It’ll leave your system in about an hour,” she said. “You might feel a little empty when it’s done. Make sure to eat well after, not before.”

  St. Marcelin exhaled and let his eyes drift toward the armchair by the low table. His shirt and trousers were neatly folded over the armrest. A gray tie, discarded during some distant night, was placed gently on top. Everything looked ironed and ready. His throat tightened.

  Avasca shrugged, sipping her coffee. “You dropped early last night. I had a few hours. And you didn’t throw up on my carpet this time – so take it as a sign of gratitude.”

  “You’re a real thaumaturgist,” he muttered, meaning it.

  He dressed quickly, noticing the cleansing effects on his body. As always, he left the Eisenmarks in a bunch on the table.

  “Don’t come by tonight,” said Avasca as he was getting into his shoes, her voice firm above him. “I need a night to myself. Maybe two.”

  “Yeah. That makes sense,” he conceded and straightened.

  “You should hurry. Don’t want the artifact to start kicking in while you’re on the metro. ID’s in your coat pocket. Other one.”

  “Right. Thanks. I’ll do better.”

  “It’s alright if you don’t,” she replied and leaned in to kiss him. “Make your own day, Senior Investigator St. Marcelin.”

  The door shut. He gripped the thermos and lowered his head.

  *

  The new kitchen was small, tiled in squares that already began to yellow. It was a quiet corner within the General Arcana Division. St. Marcelin stood in front of the counter, waiting for the coffee pot to finish dripping. The worst had passed through him hours ago. The light above was replete, and he thought of nothing. Two unmistakable voices sounded to end his short peace. Buoyant and fresh for the hour, he listened to them without moving.

  “…told you it was a Western brand. My guy can get us bulk. They’ll go for a fortune soon.”

  “Yeah, sure. I already have one. But you know my wife… she’ll settle for a dozen. At least!”

  They laughed behind the rattle of the auxiliary copier starting up between them. Scum. He kept his head down, feigning absorption in the sugar tin and stirred slowly. Meanwhile, they talked like men convinced of their invisibility. The copier hissed and spat a few warm sheets onto the tray. One of them cursed about the poor color. Papers shuffled, then their footsteps receded. He waited until the clock above was louder.

  When he turned around, one sheet was still resting on the tray, face-down. St. Marcelin hesitated before stepping closer, stared before he had gathered the courage to turn it around. A photograph. A body. Burnt to the texture of bark and charcoaled, cowering in a corner of a white, clinical backdrop. The features were gone, the remains personless. The right arm reached forward, thin fingers folding and falling. Holding or pleading. What the fuck… His eyes refused to part with the sight. The same heavy ache that had sunk and submerged every night for years resurfaced now. Guilt, anger, grief. More than he could name or carry. Something almost tender in their brutal midst. He heard footsteps in the hallway. Quickly, he slid the photograph back onto the tray and turned to his cup, lifting it to his face just as one of them stepped in again. The other Senior Investigator snatched the photo without a word, gave St. Marcelin an unalarmed glance, and left.

  St. Marcelin exhaled. The mug steamed between his hands. The photograph. The body. Floating in front of him, unshakable. Check the active logs. Then the records. Archive? If it’s there: nothing. If not… Make your own day. He smiled; thin, twitching, and true. The Mystery became his Secret. Resolved, fortified, he walked out of the kitchen with more than mug in hand.

  Emil is the most common masculine given name in Eisenstadt. St. Marcelin’s given name is Emil, though he prefers the nickname Marcel. Marcel is the sixth most common given name in the city. Marceline and Marcie are also common feminine names. Among Northern Kalzanaha, surnames frequently honor Saints of the Nychthemeron. In parts of the Western realms, you can sometimes meet people whose full government name is something like Marcie St. Marcelin or Claire St. Klara.

  is a hobby. (She is basically a crystal mommy.)

  Comments appreciated, questions welcome.