Craig Richtor had asked me to meet him at Central Park.
For people who have never been to the City, the size of Central Park tends to confuse them. It’s huge. It’s not a place where you can say ‘let’s meet up there,’ and expect to run into each other like a local neighborhood park. It’s smack dab in the middle of Manhattan, and I’m pretty sure it runs about two or three miles from top to bottom. Also, there are hundreds—if not thousands—of joggers, families with strollers, and dog-walkers at any time of day.
“He didn’t tell me where in Central Park,”I muttered.“How convenient.”
I crossed the street to avoid a horse-pulled carriage. The horse stared mournfully in the brief moment that I was in its vision, eyes reddened from lack of sleep and overworking.
Wol stared quietly at the carriage, then said, “There must be a reason to it.”
“He’s testing me. Shit,” I muttered. “Tracking spell?”
Even before I finished the word, Wol shook his head. “You know better than that.”
I nodded, having realized why it wouldn’t work the moment I said the words. I had nothing that belonged to Craig Richtor. For a thaumaturgical tracking spell to work, I needed something to connect me to Craig Richtor. A sort of connection that I could tug on to trace his location.
“Hwari?” I asked hopefully.
She rose a little above my eye level. ‘I could attempt it, Caller. But it would take time.’
“Right,” I said. Hwari could submerge into the shadows, spying on people. But a widespread search like this? Wasn’t her specialty. She was better at looking around the immediate vicinity, or espionage.
My talents lay in Conjuration, Abjuration, and Thaumaturgy; my strength in each discipline waning in that order. Now, if I had been a proper Practitioner in the last few months, I would have a conjured that I could rely on at a time like this. Maybe a small critter that relied on a sense of smell or sight; maybe even fly so that it could get a bird’s-eye view. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been. I’d been moping around, crying ‘woe is me’ (which I still wanted to do).
Which meant I had to get creative. Luckily, I wasn’t all out of tricks yet.
“Look for pigeons,” I said.
“Pigeons?” Wol said.
“Yeah,” I said.
I could sense Wol’s hesitation. “Owing another favor to the Intellect Transit is ill-advised, Practitioner.”
I scoffed. “Wol, I’m not going to call in a favor to a centuries-old, eldritch-infected preternatural being just to look for the guy. There are easier ways.”
‘Over that way,’ Hwari chimed in.
Looking in the direction where Hwari pointed, I found a flock of pigeons. No more than five of them, cooing and walking aimlessly. I immediately made my way over.
The pigeons scattered without really flying away. They just jumped and flapped their wings to get away from me, but didn’t fly away. That’s the thing about pigeons in New York; they’ve grown so fat that they’re not as lean or fast as the pigeons in other major cities. They don’t scare easily either. They lingered nearby, watching me. Perfect.
Looking around, I made double sure no one was being too curious. But this was rush hour, and everyone was too busy on their morning commute to see what a straggly semi-homeless teenager was doing around pigeons. So I dug in my pockets and took out the candy bar that the homeless man had given me earlier. Taking a bite, I crushed up the rest in my palms and let the fine powder fall to the ground.
The pigeons went ballistic, immediately rushing in my direction.
But I was ready; I bent down and drew a chalk circle around the pile of crumbs and me. As soon as I finished the circle, I felt the Wol power it, and the circle hummed to life. Invisible to the mortal eye, but a sort of vibrating sensation on a Practitioner’s senses. I paused, thinking. This was too general. I needed something more specific.
“Wol, any symbols you know for birds?”
“Draw the shape of a bird,” Wol said. “Though it’ll be weakened because it’s done through chalk and not an ink brush.”
I did so.
The pigeon stayed and watched.
The simplest of conjuration workings can be broken down into parts. An Offering, a Place, and an Invitation. In this case, the offering was the crumbs of the candy bars. The place? Always a Circle. And for an invitation… the Chant.
I thought of the sounds a pigeon makes, and thought of all the different literary techniques with rhythms similar to it. AP English was my friend at this point.
“Coo coo,” I muttered, trying to get the sense of it.
“Practitioner?” Wol said.
“Ssshh, trying to focus here,” I said.
I ignored him. Stressed followed by an unstressed meter; a trochee. Then there was the repetition…
“Who knows, who knows,” I chanted, feeling less confident as the words came flying out. But I’d already started, and to stop would weaken the overall working—and I had a feeling the pigeons wouldn’t be keen if I messed up. There had to be strength in my invitation. So I continued. “A black man with a great black hound. Where, where goes he? Speak true, show true, chocolate for the wings that guideth me… er, true.”
While I spoke, more and more pigeons had gathered. But not just pigeons. Blue-birds, crows, even freaking seagulls. They all stared with the blank eyes of birds that knew naught but preying. I was starting to earn some stares. Nothing crazy. But not good.
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Then I smudged the circle with a foot, breaking it.
But the birds didn’t rush forward right away. They stalled, standing just outside the circle. Then they broke up into separate groups, crowding around themselves. The groups made their strange bird calls, then flew up as one great flock in an impressive display. Feathers fell as they all flew in different directions.
“Well, I think that worked better than expected,” I said.
“Not bad,” Wol said dryly. “Explain the working?”
An exercise that we used to do, where I’d do something, and Wol would have me explain it. Apparently, I pulled off a lot of things by feel and instinct, and although it helped me scrape by, it was no different than what a dabbler did. Practitioners had a completely different amount of talent, and understanding the why behind the how would help us do more.
“Well,” I started. “I just thought of it as a conjuring. No rule says I’m limited to conjuring things up from different planes or that they have to be supernaturals. At the core of it, conjuration is just an exchange of goods and services.”
“What of the other birds?”
I tilted my head, questioning.
“You obviously meant to only deal with the pigeons. Yet, other birds joined in. Tell me why, Practitioner.”
“Because…” I stalled, thinking. “My chant went out… but it wasn’t really the pigeons that heard it. But all the birds?”
“Close,” Wol said. “Only those of druidic lineage can enthrall creatures in such a way. What you did was make a deal with the beings that surround those birds, who enticed them.”
“Beings that surround the birds?”
“Those of the Korean Peninsula would call them spirits. Just as there are spirits for the trees and for the rivers, there are spirits for those birds that walk alongside the birds.”
I frowned. “I didn’t see them. Just how small are they?”
“Too small to be seen. Too non-consequential… to a reasonable degree, of course. It would take a very special sight to see them. Nonetheless, it was those spirits who answered your call, and swayed the birds to accept your deal.”
“What do the spirits get out of it?” I asked.
“Everything. They are a part of the birds. The world. The karmic cycle. It is a partnership, much like you and me.”
“You’re telling me pigeons have familiars.”
“I wouldn’t call it that, but the comparison fits.”
I had an imaginary picture of tiny mite-like spirits floating in the air around the birds, whispering in their ears. Parasites and symbiotic relationships between birds and spirits; that was a new one. Then again, I was still a newcomer to this world and was still on tutorial, so to speak.
Wol nodded. “Nevertheless, it was creative. As I said, you have a keen mind for the Practice.”
Feeling abashed, I didn’t say anything. I don’t do well with genuine compliments.
I waited a few minutes, licking the chocolate off my fingers. The moisture made my hand cold, so I wiped it off on my pants and put on the gloves that the homeless guys had given me.
It was warm.
I thought of the interaction. I’ll be honest, I’d been just like every other New Yorker. Homeless people are just another background of the City; they’re everywhere. In my mind, they had really been no different than the pigeons I’d just dealt with. A staple in the living conditions of the city, going about their business and... Well, kind of being a nuisance. And I think every other New Yorker is a lot like that; you just pass by them, try not to make eye contact or take too many breaths near them.
The interaction had made them more real somehow. Looking around Central Park now, I noticed more of them than I had ever before. But it’s not that they’d suddenly appeared. My mind was conscious of them now. A homeless guy rummaging in the garbage, trying to look for a quick meal. The old lady behind him with her cart, waiting for her turn so that she could take the plastic bottles; another guy unable to lie down on the warm vents on the sidewalk because of the raised bars. Hostile architecture, they call it.
All sights that I’d seen before. But I’d never really looked.
I’d never felt.
Before I could think more on the matter, a group of birds returned. It was composed of two pigeons, a crow, and a giant seagull. One of the pigeons came forward, then picked out the biggest crumbs. When it was done, it looked at me expectantly.
“You found him?” I asked.
It did a little bob, then hopped-slash-flew a few feet away.
I followed, and its friends helped themselves to the leftovers.
It took me a few minutes to find Craig Richtor. He was standing in line at one of those breakfast stands.
Craig wore a dark brown tweed coat that came past his thighs and a matching hat. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, and his leather-gloved hands held onto a walking cane. The giant Black Dog was nowhere to be seen, but he had to be nearby. There were plenty of trees and bushes for the demon-dog to hide.
Saying goodbye to the pigeon, I walked up and joined him in line.
He acknowledged me with a grunt, then glanced at his wristwatch. It had the logo of a golden crown. “You’re late, boy.”
“Central Park is huge,” I said. “I had to find you.”
“Ain’t much point if you can’t do that simple thing,” Craig said, a note of challenge in his voice.
I stopped myself from shooting back a tart reply, then shrugged instead. “Well, I’m here.”
The old man kept up the challenging glare, but just when I thought he’d say something, it was our turn in the line.
“Sausage, egg, and cheese. Hot sauce and pepper. Also, a cup of coffee,” Craig ordered.
I’m not one for charity. I hate being offered help, and even more than that, accepting it. This morning was different. Accepting help from them had felt… strangely okay. But I’d be damned if I accepted a Society Practitioner’s help because they felt pity for me. Yet, the small part of my mind that had the hungry, childlike Jain in it held some sick, twisted hope of ‘what if Craig asked what I wanted’ and that he’d pay for it.
Craig didn’t.
The lady wrapped up Craig’s sandwich in a jiffy. Craig picked up both the sandwich and the steaming cup of coffee, found a bench, and plopped himself down. Instead of sitting next to him, I stood opposite, hands in my pockets.
Craig took a sip from his coffee, then took a huge bite from his sandwich. Steam rose from the sandwich, and that classic New York breakfast sandwich scent wafted through the winter air.
“Stare any harder, and your eyes will fall out, Boy,” he said between mouthfuls of sausage, egg, and cheese.
I tore my eyes away. It took some effort. But I couldn’t completely block out the sound. “Didn’t mean to.”
He chewed some more, taking another sip of coffee. “You hungry?”
“No.” The reply came out too fast, too eager, and a little too petulant to be true.
Craig Richtor barked out a laugh. “Don’t lie to me, Boy. You think you’re the first hungry warlock I’ve seen with no home?”
Wol bristled. “Jain is not a Warlock.”
“Not yet,” Craig said, baring his teeth. “Dusty!”
There was a soul-sinking bark—a bellow, really—and the Black Dog rose out of the trees like some horror-flick abomination, tall enough to look unnatural.
“Sniff him,” Craig ordered.
My hand automatically reached for my knife.
The dog smiled, lips stretching too far back to be benign. ‘Stay your hand, Warlock.’ His words reverberated in my brain.
He fucking spoke right into my mind, and it freaked me out.
“Get your dog to back off,” I said quietly. I hadn’t flicked open the knife yet, but held it down at my side.
Craig took another sip of coffee. “Or what, Boy?” he asked, his voice hard.
“I’m not a freaking Warlock. I don’t even know what that is.”
“One who sells parts of their soul for power,” Craig said. “Contracted to daemons, daevils, and infernal beings thereof.”
“I didn’t,” I snarled.
“Then let’s find out,” Craig said and gave a sharp nod to his dog.
While we were talking, the Black Dog—Dusty—sniffed the air near me, his neck elongated to an unnatural length. I remained deathly still, the palm hurting where I was holding my knife. He retreated, satisfied.
‘Not yet,’ the dog agreed. ‘But he smells.’
“You been dealing with daemons, Boy?” Craig asked, one eyebrow raised above the line of sunglasses.
“I—“ I closed my mouth, scowling. “Last time I checked, it’s not against Societal Law to do so.” I actually wasn’t sure.
“Societal Law be damned. Too much damned space between the lines. But us old bones all agree on one thing, and Warlocks are a different matter, Boy. Even them fancy Society suits say so. Dip one toe in, and you start wanting to go skinny dipping. That’s how them deals work,” Craig said. “Honest to soul, I don’t give one lick about your mother. Now, she was a bad seed, but I don’t care about that. It’s your daddy’s side I’m here to look at.”
“I’m not a freaking Warlock.” I was growing frustrated. “And I’m not interested in becoming one.”
“Bullshit,” he said, drawing out the ‘bull’ part of the curse. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Right before this,” I said, thinking about the bite of the candy bar. Technically, it was true.
He scoffed. “When’s the last time you had a wash?”
I didn’t answer that.
“You stink like shit, Boy.”
“Can we just get on with the interview?”
“Boy, this is the interview,” Craig said. He finished the last bite of his sandwich and downed the coffee too. He cleared his throat, squishing the empty wrapper into the cup. He limped over to the trash can. “But you’re right. I don’t got time to grill you on how badly you stink or why bums like you go hungry.”
I followed behind him, and the Black Dog positioned himself right behind me as well. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up in response. It didn’t exactly feel like I was being hunted or stalked… but I was being studied. Analyzed. All the proportions of the Black Dog were off; a little bit too round, too long, and eyes too wide. Like someone who’d only heard tales about a dog had made a clay model of it, except they’d made it the size of a large horse.
“I have a few jobs to do, some people to meet. You’re going to follow. Maybe I even let you help.”
“Is that part of the interview too?”
“The interview is what I say it is,” Craig Richtor snapped. “You always have dumb questions, or something smart to say?”
I felt something harden in my jaw. But when I tried to think of something to say, there wasn’t much I could think of. Craig Richtor was here to audit my character for god’s sake, and my citizenship to Society banked on it. I didn’t even want to know what ‘protective custody’ meant, but knowing them, it was nothing good.
“No,” I said coldly.
“Good.”
Craig gave a sharp whistle and flagged down a cab. The Black Dog had disappeared, nowhere to be seen.
I tried to get in after Craig, but he stopped me with a look.
“You got money?” Craig asked.
“No?”
“You ain’t even going to split the taxi bill, and I have to sit next to your stinking ass? Find your own ride, Boy. You ain’t got the money; you walk.” Craig snarled.
Then he slammed the yellow cab door in my face, and the taxi cab drove off into traffic.
I frowned.
“Practitioner, we should get moving,” Wol said.
“The fucker didn’t tell me where he’s going.”
Hwari danced in the air, reading the subtitles from a nearby TV store where a movie was playing. ‘Run, Forrest, run!’