15 – i – The Warrior

Jasmine Vasila looked around the old laundromat. It was a dingy, depressing little hovel. Boarded up, barred windows were covered in a thin layer of paint: spray-painted symbols, tags, and other graffiti—all related to mundane gangs. An aged For Sale sign hung from the door, peeking out from under several other posters advertising everything from garage sales to fruit stands.

Hardly a respectable meeting place. One day, Jasmine reminded herself. One day and we’ll be in charge. When that day came, they could meet in over-decorated skyscrapers and the high-society restaurants. After today, perhaps they would be one step closer to that goal.

“Ostium, aperi te,” Jasmine intoned, talking to the locked laundromat doors. She wasn’t the best at verbalized magic, but she knew the basics well enough.

The door slid open on its own, unlatching itself in the process. A rusted metal bell chimed with a dull note as Jasmine stepped inside.

The interior wasn’t much better than the exterior. Someone had ripped out the washing machines, either for resale or scrap, but they hadn’t gone about it with much care. Tiles were cracked, odd hoses and cables dangled from the walls, and water connectors leaked with steady drip-drip-drips. A foul stench wafted up from the drains, and mushrooms were growing along where the water ran.

This, Jasmine decided, is the last time I let The Stalker pick a meeting location.

Luckily, it was nothing Jasmine couldn’t handle. She had come prepared. Slinging a small purse from her shoulder, a violet fabric bag with little silver clasps, she flicked open the latch. She reached in and pulled out a small baggie, upending it directly on the laundromat’s floor.

Sponges, brooms, scrub brushes, buckets of water, and more all spilled out, each sized for a decorative dollhouse rather than for actual use. With a snap of her fingers, the enchantments she had applied activated. The mops and brooms grew to full size, standing at attention before her, while the sponges and scrub brushes bowed on the floor as they engorged. The water expanded just a hint after the buckets, preventing a single drop from spilling.

Jasmine was particularly proud of that one.

With a wave of her hands like she was conducting a grand orchestra, the cleaning tools jumped into motion. The buckets and sponges danced with bottles of soap and cleaner. The brooms swept cobwebs from the ceiling with a wiggle of her fingers. Jasmine grinned as the stench of mold and mildew in the air faded, replaced with the scent of lemony-lime chemicals.

Times like these always made her wish she had a tall, pointed blue cap covered in stars and moons.

As the cleaning tools got used to their jobs, The Warrior had to direct them less and less. She turned her attention to other matters, delving back into her purse.

“Higitus, figitus,” she muttered, scooping up a collection of marbles. A light toss of her hand scattered them through the air. They slowed abruptly once they reached the apex of their arcs, like they suddenly found themselves trapped within a vat of sticky honey. Slowly, they began to glow like little fairy lights, filling the laundromat with more light than just what made it through the narrow cracks in the boards over the windows.

Next came a small napkin-sized cloth. With a whip of her wrist, like she was shaking it out, it grew to a full-sized rug. It matched the violet handbag she held, covered in intricate golden patterns that looked like old alchemical symbols.

Just as she reached back into her purse, a chime from the front door made her freeze. As much as she enjoyed all the motion around her, this was not the scene she wanted to present to potential recruits. A quick turnaround let her sigh in relief.

The Stalker stood in the opening, accompanied by Michael. There was no sign of their guests just yet.

Ignoring them for the moment, Jasmine pulled out a few doll-sized pieces of furniture. In moments, she had a large table on the rug, several chairs sat around it, a bright tablecloth, and even a little crystal ball.

The Warrior spun around and took a seat in the high-backed, throne-like chair in the center, settling in on the violet velvet cushions mounted on its dark wood. Crossing her legs imperiously, she stared at The Stalker and Michael. “Well? How is it?”

The Stalker’s face flickered. She curled her lip in distaste for a moment before quickly smoothing out her features. “It’s…” she stared, though she trailed off like she didn’t want to actually say what was on her mind.

Michael was under no such restrictions. “Ostentatious,” he said.

“That. Probably,” The Stalker muttered with an agreeing nod.

“Come now, dearies. It is so rare that I get to show off talents that don’t involve overwhelming magical power. We must impress, and first impressions are the most important impressions.”

“I guess… I tried to tell you on the phone, I don’t think she wants to meet because she wants to join up. She was asking about magic. I think she’s just curious.”

“Ah, what is curiosity but the first step toward loyalty?” Jasmine replied, her lips curling into a sly smile. “If she’s curious, then she’s already halfway through the door. There is no one more perfect to elucidate magic than I, no one else to turn to. The rest is simply a matter of presentation,” she said, sweeping her hands out before her. “Prestidigitonium!”

She snapped her fingers. The scrubbing brushes and sweeping brooms stilled instantly, their animation enchantments reset to blank. With a twist of her wrists and a curling of her fingers, they hopped closer, returning to her. Conducting them once more, they shrank and hopped right back into their bag. The place was clean enough; she wasn’t here to give it a full makeover. Zipping the bag shut, she shoved it into her purse before withdrawing several cups and platters.

“Tea? Or coffee, do you think?”

The Stalker got a thoughtful look on her face for a moment before suggesting, “Diet cola?”

Jasmine made a face. “Not very aesthetic,” she muttered. When witches gathered for a tea party, tea was expected. Coffee was acceptable. Soda? A faux pas of the highest order. Nevertheless, Jasmine was trying to be accommodating. “Michael, would you kindly go buy some from wherever is nearest?”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, the older man backed out of the laundromat, chiming the bell on his way.

Watching him go made her frown a little more. She wished she could brighten up the exterior. It would be too noticeable, unfortunately. While this laundromat was well and truly within The Puppet’s territory, The Eclipse still claimed dominion over the entire city. If anyone did notice, a fight would break out. While a fight could breed camaraderie, The Eclipse had become increasingly dangerous with regards to The Puppet as of late. She had lost several cultists the other month, and she didn’t have that many to begin with.

The Strategist strongly advised against enticing a fight from The Eclipse, especially with allied mortals in the vicinity.

“How far away?” Jasmine asked as she pulled a few enchanted mirrors from her purse. A quick activation of the enchantments grew them to large, full-sized mirrors. They were more to block off the view of the rest of the laundromat and keep the meeting table more enclosed. She could have enchanted the whole place to look beautiful, but that would have taken a great deal more time.

Admiring the dress-matching light yellow ribbons tying up her dark hair in one of the mirrors, Jasmine watched The Stalker’s eyes shift and shimmer as she turned slowly.

A heavy scowl crossed the woman’s face as she stared off southward, her eyes lingering there for an unusually long moment, but she eventually forced herself to move on. The Warrior didn’t ask. The Stalker saw a great deal, and a lot of it wasn’t interesting to her. Eventually, The Stalker stopped in another direction, still southward but a little to the east as well.

“She could be here in five minutes if she walked here. She’s sitting, probably in a car, around the block.”

Jasmine took a glance at her wristwatch on her inner wrist and shrugged. Cleaning had taken longer than expected. The meeting time was within the hour now.

“She’s with someone. A human, I think. I might have seen them before, but it could have just been passing them on the street. Something feels vaguely familiar, but not to the point where I committed anything to memory.”

Jasmine nodded, taking in the information. The Stalker could find anyone she had seen before. Her ability accounted for everyone she saw. If she visited a sporting event filled with a crowd of thousands, she could theoretically find every single one of them. Ten thousand random people weren’t particularly useful, so The Stalker did some mental marking of targets she was interested in.

It wasn’t foolproof. There was a range limitation where distance blurred the information she got to the point of being useless. It was also reliant on her actually looking. Not just attempting to find someone, which she had to consciously do, but also look in their direction as well. A target in a helicopter flying directly overhead would probably go unnoticed simply because people didn’t look up all that often.

“We can call her in once Michael gets back, if she’s willing to come early,” Jasmine said, clasping her hands together as she looked over the scene she had set, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. “Her friend, too.”

Jasmine’s first thoughts were of The Fixer. They knew The Agent worked with the elusive person. But The Fixer wasn’t supposed to be a human. The Stalker had confirmed that, assuming the individual they pulled from the pocket dimension in the museum had truly been The Fixer. That meant this was probably some cultist of theirs.

Jasmine had to remind herself to be realistic. Never something a mage wanted to be aware of. Dissatisfaction with reality was one of the many reasons she had delved into the art of bending it to her whims. Nevertheless, she was cognizant that The Agent worked with The Fixer and The Fixer was a vagrant. It was good that they had no ties to the politics of Chicago, but there was little hope in convincing The Agent—or The Fixer, for that matter—to permanently align with The Puppet.

A temporary partnership for as long as they were in the city, on the other hand, seemed eminently plausible.

They were here, tracking down some other group that Jasmine had never heard of. If she helped with that, would they be more enticed to stay for an extended time? Or would they be on their way the moment it was done with? Puzzles, puzzles.

“The Mummy,” The Warrior said, retaking her seat now that she had finished fiddling with her hair. “Faction or person, remind me again?”

“Uh…”

The Warrior slid her amber-tinted glasses down just enough to look over the top of the rim. It was a look that got The Stalker fidgeting in place. “You have been looking into this, haven’t you?” she said with the slightest note of disappointment carefully overlaid in her tone. “You asked The Strategist that we leave it to you.”

“I have,” The Stalker quickly said. “It’s just… not clear. The term seems to refer to both faction and the leader, I think, like The Puppet.”

The Warrior hummed, slowly sliding her circular pince-nez glasses back into place.

“The Eclipse is occupied with The Mummy too,” The Stalker said, eager to provide some information. “They’ve had The Hermit and The Hierophant on some project round-the-clock.”

That was interesting information.

The Hermit wasn’t much of an entity of Chicago herself. Just some old yokai that liked to play up the wise mentor type. She rarely took the field and fought. The Hierophant, on the other hand, was one of The Eclipse’s chief enforcers. Unlike The Hanged Man, The Art, or The Adjustment, The Hierophant was annoying in that it was impossible to tell exactly how they were going to fight. They were some kind of weird, cursed being forced to wear masks; each mask imbued them with different powers and abilities. It was like fighting someone new every time.

She wondered how The Stalker got a hold of that information. The Agent, perhaps? Except, rumors that had reached The Warrior’s ears implied that The Agent was no friend of The Eclipse. At least not after being carted away by The Hanged Man in a police van to some unknown location.

It was one of the reasons Jasmine was excited to meet The Agent. Most people, especially vagrants, bowed down to whoever claimed to be the local law without much question.

The door chimed with Michael’s return before she could think much more on the subject. At The Warrior’s command, The Stalker sent out a text message even as The Warrior pulled a shotgun out of her purse. She broke it open, loaded a wispy little shell into each barrel, closed it, and then aimed it further back into the laundromat.

A gust of wind erupted from the shotgun, flying through the laundromat as she pulled the triggers. Gone went the lemony chemical smell of settling cleaning agent, whisked off in an instant. In its place, The Warrior breathed in a crisp, mountainous smell of a summer morning. Light and refreshing.

“She’s on her way,” The Stalker said, eyes aglow. “Both of them.”

With a light sigh, The Warrior leaned back in her chair, shoving the shotgun back into her purse. A brief gesture to her side had The Stalker sitting as well. Michael stood a short distance back.

“Good. Cheerful faces, everyone,” Jasmine said, donning her brightest smile.

The Stalker looked like someone had a gun to her head as she pulled the corners of her lips into something resembling a grimace. Michael just stood, face set in his usual flat look.

“My kingdom for personable companions,” Jasmine said with another sigh, this one less wistful than the last.

Luckily for them, unlucky for The Warrior, the door chimed before she could straighten out their behavior. In walked two people, one after the other. Jasmine stood as she looked them over, politely welcoming them with a gesture.

Even if she hadn’t heard the physical description from The Stalker, identifying The Agent between the two would have been a simple task. Wearing a stylish black wool coat that went just past her knees, The Agent entered the laundromat with a certain confidence. The smoky makeup around her slate-gray eyes only served to highlight them as she flicked her gaze to each of the three people in the room—lingering on The Warrior more than The Stalker or Michael—before her eyes quickly roamed over the hovering lights or the faintly shimmering mirrors. She stepped forward with a genuine smile.

In contrast, her companion lacked any confidence. By all appearances, he was a young man—a late teenager, perhaps—with short brown hair and a bit of scruff on his face like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He wore a simple red windbreaker, the kind of thing that could be found on the racks of any department store.

“Welcome,” The Warrior said, lightly brushing her thumb against the bottom rim of her glasses as she spoke. “Please, come in and have a seat.”

Touching her glasses activated an enchantment. It was an attempt at replicating The Stalker’s abilities, though not a particularly successful one. The boy registered as human, though the faint aura around him might have indicated some minor psychic potential, which wasn’t anything unusual; a good half of humanity was sensitive to the supernatural and just didn’t know it. The Agent was absolutely not human. Unfortunately, the enchantment wasn’t detailed enough to tell more than that.

Jasmine quickly shut off the enchantment with another swipe of her finger along the bottom rim, an action she disguised by reseating her glasses on her nose. “I am The Warrior,” she said, reaching a hand across the table to shake. The Agent accepted without hesitation. “I trust you already know The Stalker and Michael.”

“I get along pretty well with The Stalker… and Michael,” the woman said, tacking on the latter’s name. “I am The Agent. This is David.”

There was a flicker of surprise across his face at the mention of his name. Which probably meant it wasn’t his real name and that the alias hadn’t been planned. That wasn’t unusual enough to make a note of. It was just a fact of this life that nobody used their true names unless they were with people they really trusted. Even Michael wasn’t her cultist’s real name.

Some people effectively abandoned their real names entirely. The Stalker, for one, and most other Specter-class beings, for that matter. There was something about dying and returning that made people want to leave everything behind.

“Can I offer either of you tea? Coffee? Or…” The Warrior tried to not let the distaste enter her tone. “Diet cola?”

“Soda, please,” The Agent said.

As Michael produced a glass bottle and slid it across the table, The Warrior accidentally glanced at The Stalker. Their eyes met and, for just a moment, The Stalker adopted a little smug press of her lips.

“And you?” The Warrior said to David, tearing her gaze off The Stalker before their guests could see her scowl.

He stared straight ahead before jolting, like he had just realized he was being addressed. “Oh. Um… nothing, thank you.” His response earned him a nudge of The Agent’s elbow, but it didn’t change his answer.

Cultists were an odd sort. Humans—ordinary, regular humans—who were nonetheless aware of the supernatural and usually followed someone supernatural. Sometimes, they were after power, sometimes thrill, sometimes they just worshipped the supernatural. Once upon a time, cultists might have been more culty, but the modern definition of the term basically amounted to henchmen. Normally, The Warrior wouldn’t have addressed him to begin with, but he sat at the table alongside The Agent, meaning he was likely somewhat important to her.

The Warrior poured herself a cup of tea. The Stalker didn’t get a choice—tea for her as well. Despite knowing he wasn’t going to drink it or even take his seat properly, The Warrior filled a cup for Michael as well.

“I understand you’ve developed an interest in magic,” The Warrior said as she filled their cups.

“Curses, specifically.”

“Ah.” The Warrior touched her glasses again, just a quick on and off to look over both of them. Cursed beings had an aura of their own, but neither looked cursed to her eyes. “Having problems with a cursed object?”

“More or less. It is useful, but they wouldn’t call them curses if the magic was solely beneficial, would they?”

“Do you have the object?” The Warrior asked. When The Agent flashed a guilty look and shook her head, she continued. “Understandable. It is generally wise to avoid touching cursed objects. Even using something like gloves might not be enough. Can you tell me the type of curse?”

The Agent hesitated a moment, leading to The Warrior asking one more question.

“How much do you know about magic, speaking generally?”

“Let’s say that it is a field I am relatively unstudied in.”

“I see. Without going too deep into the subject matter, know that magic applied to things typically comes in one of four categories. Enchantments are solely beneficial magic applied to objects. Charms are beneficial magic applied to living beings. Hexes are detrimental magic applied to living beings. And curses are negative magic applied to objects.

“However, there is some distinction to be made within the subject of curses. Malefic curses are typically wholly negative—consider an apple cursed to be constantly desired, thrown into the midst of your enemies, and they’ll fight each other for it. Enchantment is an expensive practice, much more so than cursing objects, so some enterprising mages will enact what is known as a geis curse, creating what is effectively an enchanted object with some negative to it to offset the price.”

The Agent considered for a moment, nodding her head. “I would say it is the latter option then. It is an old Roman sword that grants skill when wielded, but cannot be thrown away, must have blood on it before it can be sheathed, and somewhat possesses the user while it is unsheathed.”

“Ah, and here we get into nuance,” The Warrior said, leaning forward with interest. It was so rare that she got to discuss magic. Nobody else in The Puppet could wield magic, just her. “Something like that may be a full malefic curse, or it could be an enchantment where the creator saw no downside. Consider gifting an enemy king a sword like that. They might slaughter their whole castle, leaving you free to take over. Or consider granting a trusted knight a weapon that cannot be disarmed, grants skill, and even rids the fear of battle from their minds.”

“Does nuance like that matter?”

“Oh indeed it does! It is always best to know fully what you are dealing with before trying anything. However, I would agree that it is likely a geis curse. Needing to blood the sword doesn’t seem like it offers any positives to an enchantment.” The Warrior paused a moment, considering a dozen possibilities. “Then again, it is hard to say. Perhaps culturally, shedding blood was important to a warrior. Ensuring your trusted knight would not be shamed by sheathing a clean sword might be a good reason to include that attribute.”

“We did some research,” The Agent said, nodding an agreement with The Warrior’s supposition. “We’re guessing some Vikings cursed the sword—or enchanted it, I guess. There are a lot of similar-sounding swords in Norse folklore and, as you said, it was apparently bad luck to sheathe a clean sword.”

She continued to explain a bit more, going into its history in its current owner’s hands. It had apparently been used to disperse a ghost. There was clearly a bit more to the sword than she initially described. Most swords, cursed or not, wouldn’t kill a ghost—they were already dead.

“Ah! Excellent work,” The Warrior said as The Agent’s summary wound down. Praising people always earned some points, and it cost nothing. “A Roman sword, was it? Ancient Rome? Quite an old weapon, it could have traveled far and wide in its time. I’m sure the Norse are not the only culture around the world with such values, so it is important to avoid going blind by focusing only on them, but it is certainly a start.”

“We were hoping to find information on breaking the curse. I am confident that I can do that myself, but I was concerned about the unfortunate side effects that might result.” She paused a moment, eyebrows twitching as if a thought just occurred. “Actually, is it possible to lessen the negative aspects?” The Agent turned slightly to her companion. “Your dad did say it helped them out on occasion. A magic sword that doesn’t possess people sounds like it could be good to keep.”

The Warrior tapped the tips of her nails against the table as she thought for a moment. When The Stalker brought up this meeting, she had seen it as a recruitment opportunity. An offering of knowledge in exchange for some deeper alliance. She hadn’t expected an actual, practical problem. She was tempted to help out just for the fun and puzzle of it all.

It was so rare, these days, that her talents weren’t used to burn down buildings or whatever the rest of her enchanted cartridges got up to.

As the cogs turned in the back of The Warrior’s mind, she formed a new plan. One still with recruitment or alliance in mind, but going about it through a different method. Having heard The Stalker’s report on The Agent and now meeting the woman, short though their meeting had been thus far, it was clear that she valued loyalty and trust. She was helping out her cultist’s father with a cursed sword that sounded quite useful to leave as is, as it sounded like they had already mitigated most of the issues likely to arise from such a weapon.

If Michael had such a weapon, she probably would have left it alone. It would have made him far more useful as a full asset rather than just a henchman.

“I’m afraid I don’t know that I can offer much more advice,” The Warrior said, sounding appropriately sorry. It was true, but she didn’t feel as bad about it as she was hoping to imply. “I would have to see the sword in question and conduct a full analysis. I wouldn’t want to advise you to break the curse only for it to end up killing its wielder, after all, which many curses are known to do upon breaking.”

That admission made The Agent and David exchange wary glances.

“Given that it cannot leave its current owner, a proper examination could be complicated,” The Agent said slowly. “We would have to talk to some people and see if they would be willing to come in. If you’re willing to help out more, that is.”

“Of course! It sounds like a fascinating little puzzle,” The Warrior said. That wasn’t a lie in the slightest.

A few repeated meetings and recurring consultations, forming all those fun bonds of companionship and camaraderie, combined with the genuine offer to help out, might just end up ingratiating The Agent and her group with The Warrior.

“I am looking forward to hearing from you,” Jasmine said with a smile. “Now, was there anything else I could help you with while you’re here?”

The Agent, who looked like she had been about ready to stand up and leave before they even really got to know one another, hesitated. She glanced at her companion, who offered a shrug, before she settled back into the seat fully. “Actually, magic in general is something I’ve never had the opportunity to look into. I’ve fought mages before,” she said with a sudden dark look in her eyes. “But I was more interested in how one becomes a mage, what magic is capable of at its extremes, and probably just general basic knowledge.”

The Warrior took a sip of tea as she considered The Agent’s interest. Magic was something jealously guarded by those who possessed it. She had to rip and tear every last scrap of knowledge she had from the cold, dead hands of a miser in Northern California. Even now, several years later, venturing near his old territory would prove perilous because the mage-heavy population of the area would know that she held his trove of knowledge.

There was a saying among mages. An ally of today is a rival of tomorrow. Mages rarely took apprentices, only doing so when they absolutely needed assistance—often with exceptionally powerful spells which needed multiple casters—and couldn’t trust any existing mages not to stab them in the back. They would use the assistant until they proved too envious or until they no longer needed them.

Then they would dispose of them.

The Warrior had no interest in creating rivals, enemies, or allies. At least not of other mages. Non-humans typically couldn’t become mages to begin with—their own nature or ingrained magics interfered with the way mages performed their feats of bending reality. But that wasn’t to say that knowledge given to The Agent wouldn’t find its way into someone’s hands who could use it. Her companion could very well be a latent mage.

At the same time, she did wish to cultivate a relationship with The Agent. Flat-out denying all knowledge would harm that.

“If you’ve only fought mages before,” The Warrior said, placing her cup back onto her platter, “you likely saw them performing a whole bunch of nonsense, often saying some Latin phrases to go along with it.”

“Latin? Not English?”

That was an odd question for someone who had fought mages to ask. It made The Warrior pause for a long moment, longer than she intended. “Latin is traditional. I wouldn’t recommend any living language and certainly not English. The words help focus intent. If I instill in my mind that the Latin word aperta will open any door I speak it to, I can control when and where I affect the world around me. But if I focus instead on the English word open…”

“You’re going to open doors left and right, unintentionally. Including in this conversation, I presume. Anytime anyone else says open, even someone you’re just passing on the street, and you would instantly think it, and maybe open something?”

“That or I would be unable to open any doors, simply because it’s such a mundane word, one I’ve grown up with my whole life. It is hard to ascribe magical meaning to the word. It probably depends on how common the word is, how much I think about the word, and whether it is my native tongue or not. Dead languages are nice for that. Technically, a made-up language—or even focusing on specific ideas rather than words—would work, but Latin is nice in that I don’t have to try to keep it straight. I can just look up definitions online if I need to.

“In any case,” The Warrior said, getting back to the basics of mages before they got sidetracked with language discussions. “Unlike most other supernaturals, there doesn’t appear to be rhyme or reason behind what abilities mages display. This is primarily because a mage is someone who does not accept reality for what it is.” She paused, watching as The Agent listened attentively. It was just like being a teacher again. Donning a small, nostalgic smile, she continued. “There is a quote: I reject your reality and substitute my own.”

“Mythbusters,” The Agent’s companion said, earning him an odd look from the woman. “Sorry.”

“The quote is a bit older than that, but you aren’t incorrect,” The Warrior said. “As for the extremes… it depends on how strongly the mage rejects reality and what, exactly, they substitute it with.”

The Warrior continued, prattling about magery. Nothing specific, nothing that would lead to anything. Really, it was nothing more than what anyone who had even a passing knowledge of mages would have been able to tell her. The Agent listened and, by her facial expression, likely hadn’t heard any of it.

Jasmine counted it as a win. By the time their tea party wrapped up, The Agent left, and she started putting away all her things. She felt she had cemented her place in The Agent’s mind as someone reliable, trustworthy, and willing to help.

And if someone capable of breaking one of her enchantments wanted to help her in turn, should the situation call for it, well, that was just good business on everyone’s parts.