VI.

The day began with a phone call to an old friend, Vivian Moir.

"It is not a question of who," she said, "but a question of why."

Then, a simple shopping list.

"Get for me a sheep's head and a jar of sand."

"Any sheep?" Jean asked.

"No!" She said, then laughed. "No, Jean. The dead. One who has been murdered."

And, finally, a six hour train ride to the border city of Trivitt—that wheezing metropolis to the east, built up from the bone fragments of its past by the resilience of its people.

"We must hope it speaks to us," she said.

Jean looked out of the phone booth and into the streets, his eyes lifting to catch a sleepy sunrise. He leaned into the receiver. "Will it?"

Beneath Trivitt's smog and general dirgeous atmosphere of slow-moving crowds, thrived a city of secrets. Secrets possessed by those who still remembered a time when their people were favored by the gods, when their small nation knew no shackles of occupancy, nor the sting of heresy. The catacombs were Trivitt's last standing cathedral, a haven for those who still believed in the world's magic—not as a mere tool, but a living system of trade. Of communion.

Alchemy became the heir to that magic. The next stage of evolution; Man's great self empowerment. A future power that, once understood, would surpass all others. But progress heralds controversy. Tension.

And, sometimes, war.

Jean stepped off the train at about six in the evening. The platform welcomed him quietly, as it had many years before: a modest scene of grime and littered cigarettes. Slinging his bag over his arm, Jean headed for the exit that would lead him to Main Street.

Few people bothered to come and see the old capital anymore—those that did, found only disappointment. The Palace all but kneeled in front of the old square. What remained of the temple was a rubble-ridden garden maze of thorns. From the bottom of the hill, one could see the statues sinking beneath the grappling vines, which reached for their throats and entangled them in darkness.

Maybe that Kotta Mekles woman was right. Maybe Jean chased shadows. Shalhope could very well have been just a skeleton in a body bag vaulted in a tomb—a case of imagination festering on coincidence. But Charlotte wasn't one to let such things carry her off. She was right to point him towards the Professor. Whatever visited them at Charlotte's was connected, and it sure as hell wasn't a conjured ghost. Something drew that creature near. Or worse: spawned it. A shadow did not cast itself. And now that alchemy was involved? Jean needed to be more careful.

A lot more careful.

There were several entrances to the catacombs. The most prevalent resided behind the hill temple, which was an hour walk from the train station. His stroll through the market made that time almost double.

Jean's footsteps echoed through the descending stone corridor.

"You're late."

The voice came from the chamber up ahead.

A large, well-lit room opened before him. It looked like a museum: polished, clean, spacious—oddly so, for something underground. As jean approached, he noticed the floor. Its designs were a marvelous interweave of onyx and jade, with etchings which crawled up the wall to overlap a mirrored ceiling.

Standing in the floor's centerpiece was Vivian. She looked as though she'd come from a dinner party, dressed in a plum velvet dress. Her shoes—a pair of silver heels—dangled loosely from one hand; a pearl-colored purse swayed in another.

He shrugged. "What can I say? I got hungry."

Vivian smiled. "It's better to do these things on an empty stomach."

Jean sat his bag down and opened it, frowning as he looked inside. "Yeah," he said. "You are probably right."

It took a moment to register exactly what surrounded her. It was a compass comprised of crystallized platinum. To Jean, it looked like suspended mercury.

"So," he tossed her the jar of sand. "How does this work?" He watched as she dropped the jar onto the floor and spread its shattered contents with her foot.

"Like anything else," she began, "it starts with a bargain."

"What with?"

"Water to cleanse the wounds, amethyst to draw out the poison, a pledge of future reconciliation."

Jean stepped into the array and handed her the head. "But the sheep is dead. What will cleansing wounds do?"

"For the flesh? Very little. But magic leaves scars," She explained. "We offer to cleanse its soul, in exchange for what it knows." She placed the rotting head down into the sand and produced an amethyst locket from her purse, along with a small vial of water. "Sometimes, they know nothing. Sometimes, they say nothing. Anger and pain are not easily wiped away."

"Okay," Jean said, nodding. "Okay, sure. Right. Cleanse the sheep."

Vivian looked up from the ground, lips pursing. "This is not parlor tricks. Did what I say not happen? Hmm? You come back to me because, why? Skepticism?" She shook her head. "No. It is because you do not know, and you trust these things that you do not know."

Jean laughed. "What?"

"You are led. Your mother was led. We are all followers—of what? It depends."

"What do you follow?"

She grinned. "Dumb men with deep pockets."

"Oh—"

"Now," she said, swaying the locket so that it moved counter-clockwise above the sheep's head. She raised an eyebrow. "Do you know the origin of amethyst?"

Jean shook his head.

She handed him the vial and told him to pour the water, slowly, down the chain of the necklace. "It is a bloodgem. A remnant of the first great wars, when nature turned on itself out of spite. So much blood seeped into the earth. So much chaos, and no laws to contain it."

She continued to spin the necklace while Jean emptied the vial. "Amethyst is a promise of recovery. It is a symbol of the world's power."

Vivian spoke of it as a slow and deliberate power, a cycle of life and death that brought order to the universe, gave purpose to chaos. But there were always those who wanted to play outside the boundaries, and those who were gifted with incomprehensible favor. The Bvarei were such a people, said to have been blessed by the ocean.

"Arrogance and jealousy destroyed them," she said. "But that is a different story to tell."

As the water dripped from the end of the locket onto the floor, the air thickened with humidity. The lamps flickered and grew hazy. His head filled with whispers—her whispers. Jean could taste salt. Hear waves. A shriek echoed through the room.

"That's it!" he said, his eyes darting from corner to corner. "Where is it coming from?" He turned to Vivian. Only her outline was visible in the encroaching palpable darkness. Wind had begun to blow—and what was that? Sea spray? He looked up to find the ceiling reflect that they were standing just feet from the cliff.

Jean shielded his eyes as sand began to fly about the room. Bleats streaked around him— another shriek—and then, snap.

Silence.

Something low began to crunch.

Down by his feet, Jean could feel the head moving. The head was moving. He jumped back as it lifted from the floor, its bloated tongue flapping loosely from a slacked jaw. He watched as it began to breathe—dead eyes contract and dilate—glow a cold, cold blue.

Then it screamed and began to garble, spitting up seawater and blood.

With a crack of lightening, Jean saw it. The monster: a crackling black entity of static mist, with a white face and white claws that seemed to suspend within the haze, thin and crinkled like rice-paper.

It moved towards the head, transfixed by the screams. Curious? Uncertain? And then, suddenly, hungry. Jean watched it shroud its victim. That was the crunch—not from a snapping maw, but from an invisible twist and grind. A pointless, voracious torture.

"I'm going to be sick," Jean groaned. "Vivian?" He was going to heave. "Vivian, make it stop."

It felt all too real. The sea, the wind, the stench of blood and fear, the cries, and the cold —that pervasive, uninhibited shiver which throttled him back into Charlotte's living room.

"Vivian!" he cried, clutching his stomach.

The world began to swirl. Jean felt his knees hit the floor. "Stop," he whispered. And then,

—Nothing.