Lin saw red.
It wasn't a violent color. It was
steady. The color of fire, live and vibrant. It pulsed like life's blood. Lin
followed that pulse, following its rhythm and design. He felt it guide his
motions, guide his hand. He didn't move, not intentionally. He let the color
move him. He could feel his cheeks flush at the thought of the heat in the
color, and the memory of the monsters he'd seen, the boy who became flame and
the Phoenix he knelt before.
Lin let the red flow through him.
When he opened his eyes, the design
was done. It was a simple piece of line work, which is sometimes the hardest.
No breaks, a focus on a continuous line. This one began as a pulse beat, and
then became the New York Skyline until it became the another pulse again. The lightly
tanned skin that bore the work began to glow with life and blood. Nearly an
hour of work and activity and energy would emphasize the color and lines there
for a few hours, maybe a day or two.
The girl whose wrist had been Lin's
focus for the past hour also glowed. She was coated in a patina of sweat, and
her cheeks were flushed. She looked like she'd just come back from a light jog
or had some mildly exertive sex. Lin knew some people where getting a tattoo
and getting laid were part of the same car pool, but he wasn't sure if this
girl was one of them.
She looked down at the ink and
smiled. "That," she said, her voice heavy as molasses. "That is
exactly what I wanted."
Lin returned the smile with a shrug,
"You gave me a good design. Glad you liked it." He dressed the tattoo
in plastic wrap, to avoid abrasions, a tube of vitamin E and a card with
directions for how to treat the tattoo when she got home. It was practiced and professional,
Lin had been doing this for a while now. "Follow that for about a week.
After that, you'll have an awesome conversation starter for the rest of your
life." He smiled at her, which in turn broadened the girl's smile.
She had eyes that reminded Lin of
olives, a subtly ripe green. Her skin was the light bronze that made Lin think
that her family was only a few generations away from some Mediterranean country
like Greece or the Southern end of Italy.
There was a heavy moment between
them, and Lin knew what was going to happen soon. "You said that this was
for your dad?" His words broke the tension, and his client blinked her
olive eyes a few times as if in recoil.
"Yeah," she breathed.
"My dad was a first responder on 9/11. He made it out, thank god, but the
cancer got him shortly after. He loved this City, and I don't think he ever
felt resentment for getting sick for doing his job."
"It shows," he said. The girl
smiled, but the question was clear on her face. Lin sat down next to her and held out her wrapped up wrist.
"You designed the pulse, right? It's been a long while since I'd been
hooked to an EKG, but that looks like an average pulse. I'm willing to guess
you're in the medical field, right?"
"EMT," she said.
"Which also explains the love
of the City, you know it intimately. You know the areas that are bad, and the
areas that are good. You know when something seems off and to recognize when
you're vulnerable. You've seen the bad moments and keep going." I pointed
to the pulse beat after the skyline ended, as if it went back to normal. "This
is a part of you, as much as it was for your father. You've pledged yourself
with this tattoo...am I wrong?"
The look she gave Lin was intense,
"How do you know all of that?"
He shrugged, "What people design
tells you something about them. It's a signature, a ritual, almost." Lin
tried to keep the wry sarcasm out of the last part.
They both kept silent for a moment
until she spoke, "Listen, would you be up for a drink some time?"
Lin pulled out his business card, a
simple design with the letters LD in sumi-e. His work number and email were
typed on the back neatly. He smiled back, "I'm always up for a drink and a
chat."
"I'm Callie," his client
said.
"I know."
Before the conversation could go any
further, someone knocked on the station door. Morgan was a blocky woman built
like Rosie The Riveter's punk granddaughter. She was well built and was covered
in tattoos, many of them contributions from the various artists who worked in
her shop over the years and probably a few she did on her own.
She looked worried, "We have a
problem. Duck's here."
Lin looked to Callie and said,
"Can you stay here a moment until I come back? I'll knock before I come
in." Callie, a little confused, nodded. Lin got up, brushed off his black
pants and t-shirt, and turned to Morgan.
His boss lead the way from the work
station to the front counter. Nolan, Morgan's husband, stood arguing with a
gentleman Lin had met once or twice. The man was tall and lanky, and looked
mal-nourished. His skin was a pale yellow and had the consistency of melted candle
wax. Badly drawn tattoos dotted his skin at random places, including a series
of black and white diamonds--the kind on a poker card--on his right cheek. His
hair was a knotted mess that once could have been blond but was now a colorless
mass. He reminded Lin of a scarecrow or some form of ritual moppet, a construct
of a human. His eyes were glassy and fever bright, the kind that only fanatics
or crazed truly get.
The man known only as Duck was
angrily banging against the counter. "I know Carlo's here, man! I know
he's here." He raised himself over Nolon, and yelled out to the store
behind him. "Come on out you coward, I need the Stuff!"
"Listen mate," Nolon said.
"Carlo's gone, we fired his ass months ago for selling that crap. Last I
heard he's in Riker's for a very long ti--"
"Don't you fuckin' lie to
me!" Duck slurred. He called out again, "Carloooooooooo! Get your ass
out here."
As Lin approached, he could see
Morgan and Nolon's muscles tense. Nolon was built just as well as Morgan was.
They had met in the army and stayed together when they were discharged. They
knew violence, and restraint, and they were both somewhere on the line between
the two. Duck's life was very much at risk.
Not good.
"Ducky," Morgan said,
joining the conversation. She kept her arms out and open to show she wasn't a
threat to him. That could change quickly, and Lin knew it. "Let's get you
some food, okay?"
"Stay back bitch!" Duck
said. He punctuated the sentence with the snap of a knife opening. The blade gave
off a dirty, greasy gleam. "Give me Carlo right now, give me the
Stuff!"
Nolon and Morgan both stopped dead.
Their bodies tensed with fear and apprehension, and also preparedness. Ducky,
Lin knew, had just gone from being a problem to a threat. Ducky would end up in
the hospital and then jail for reasons he'd never fully understand.
Not everything has to end in
violence, Lin believed. Not unless it has to. Lin found himself less paralyzed
by the sight of the blade. Not because he didn't realize the danger, but
because things like this lose their edge when a man wishing to vent his spleen
puts the tip of an honest-to-god sword to your carotid. You begin to appreciate
what it is and not sweat the details as much.
Lin could talk him down, but he
didn't want to take it to chance. He needed an edge. He looked inside him for
the right Color. Even after a year he still called them Colors, even though he
had long since learned their true name: Aethers. He knew of Black Empyrean and
it's control of Intelligence, of Green Geodyne and its focus on Strength and
Endurance. He knew of Red Vulcan's enhancement of Dexterity. He knew of them, and
that he could tap into them. He'd been able to tap into them for years now
without ever knowing what they really were. A year had taught him what they
meant, of the others who could use them as well and of the hidden war that had
been raging for centuries because of these Aethers. He knew now what they were,
and he knew how to use them right.
And he knew of the fourth Aether,
the Blue Ondine. He knew it the best, and standing in the tattoo parlor, he
found within himself a strong well of Blue. There were many sources, but he one
in particular was strong. He felt it, tapped into it, and let it flow through
him. Calm coolness and professional grace flowed through him. He felt wave
after wave of coolness take over him and let it stay there.
"Ducky," he heard himself
say. "Put the knife down. Look around you. What is a knife going to do to
get you what you need?"
Lin was perfectly, casually, still.
With Ducky a jittery mess and Nolon and Morgan so tense with restraint and
fear, it made Lin something of a fixed point in the room. Lin felt Duck's full
attention fall on him. For that moment, Lin was the junkie's whole universe.
So
if this fucks up, Lin thought. Morgan
and Nolon can hit him while he shanks me. We all win.
"Come on, Duck. Drop the knife
and let's get you some place where you can eat."
The coolness flowed out of Lin with
every word, until he felt it ebb out of him. The Color, the Aether, had run
out.
Ducky, his body jerking as if pulled
muscle by muscle in various different directions, dropped the knife. It
clattered on the floor with a dull thud. A split second later, Ducky dropped
just as suddenly. The smell of offal filled the room.
"Jesus," Nolon said. He
immediately moved towards the Duck's limp body. "Someone call an
ambulance!"
Footsteps thudded quickly from
behind Lin Callie, Lin's client, was running down towards them. She moved to
Duck's limp body and began checking his pulse. She didn't have her gear, but
she was moving with the professionalism of a trained Emergency Responder. She
began giving Nolon orders. Callie couldn't have weighed more than a hundred
pounds with weights on and had a swimmer's build, but the way Nolon responded
would have made you think she was an army Colonel on the field.
Lin sighed, the energy flowing out
of him. He would need to visit Lovecraft after this to refuel. He felt Morgan's
quiet presence next to him.
"You know," Morgan said.
"I've always known you were good with words, but seriously, Lin...."
she looked back to Duck's limp form. Callie and Nolon were propping him up and
EMS had been called in. "Damn, son."
"You can do a lot with a kind
word and an unblinking gaze than you can get with just a kind word," he
said weakly.
-----
An hour or so later, and the world
quieted down. Ducky had gone into an ambulance, the prognosis being withdrawal
and malnourishment. Callie went into the Ambulance with him, she seemed to know
the EMTs. Morgan and Nolon let Lin go while they took care of the shop.
St. Mark's carried on as it always
did, completely unaware that a knife-wielding junkie was just put down with a
word. They saw the ambulance, but many didn't pay it head and just moved on as
they did.
It was times like this that Lin
wondered if the Shaitan Oath was upheld just as much by people's willing
ignorance as their unceasing vigilance against revealing Magic to the 'Silent'.
Lin made his way down through the
streets and past the people as he made his way further into the East Village to
Lovecraft. The bar was one part meeting hall, watering hole and refill station
for the community of magic users known primarily as The Eldritch. It was a lot
of other things as well, as Lin found out in his research. A small iron key
hung around his neck, belonging to something in the lower reaches of the
building. Considering the bar's namesake, he wasn't in too much of a hurry to
find out. He just wanted to get to the bar, drink some absinthe, and refuel on
his Aethers. He was nearly depleted of his Ondines and his Vulcans, and of the
four Aether, he relied on them the most.
As he walked through Tompkins Square,
his phone buzzed his in his pocket. He didn't recognize the number.
"Hello?"
"Adolin," the voice said.
It was familiar, woman's voice. An old rage began to boil in Lin's chest.
"Go away," he said. It was
barely a rasp. He didn't want to draw attention to himself this late at night.
"But I'm worried about
you," the woman said pleadingly.
Lin's face tightened in a sneer,
"I doubt that."
"I'm your mother," she
said.
"Which is why I said 'Go Away'
and not 'Go Fuck Yourself'." He hung up the phone and tried to forget about
it. His mother had stopped factoring into his life choices long ago. He was
going to Lovecraft, he was going to get buzzed on Absinthe and probably stoned
on drawing in Aether from the Threshold buried in there. He wondered if people
developed an addiction to drawing in Aethers, or different types of them.
People definitely developed a euphoria as they let the power into them, Lin
himself one of them. Then there was the situation with Extract and--"
His phone rang again, breaking him
from his tangent. It was the same number. Part of him knew to ignore it, but
something in the way it vibrated in his hands made it feel like a challenge.
"What?" He said in the
phone.
"That," his mother's voice
said, heat in her tone. "Was rude. Ad--"
"You do not get to say that name," he rasped. Everything in his
worldview took on a momentary azure hue. He had let himself use the last of his
Ondine, out of rage. It was less of a calming tide and more an enraged Tsunami.
The energy coursed through him and around him. It was gone as fast as he had
said it, "You don't get to say it. Not until you tell me what it
means."
The one or two people around him
stopped and looked at him. He looked at them, acknowledging their presence, and
they all went back to what they were doing. No one wants trouble, and while he
didn't use magic, per se, they probably felt the strangeness coming off of his
and his words. They wanted no part of it.
His mother's voice held firm on the other end, "I have my reasons."
His mother's voice held firm on the other end, "I have my reasons."
"Yeah? Then your reasons don't
involve me. Leave me alone."
There was a pause on the other end.
Lin could practically hear her shore up her own resolve. He had to have gotten
it from somewhere, and his father died too early for him to qualify.
"Fine. Dear. We'll have this
conversation when you're in a better mood."
He had made his way out of Tompkin's
Square and made a turn South. "I'll be in a better mood when you tell me
the truth." He sneered, "It's not like you just conjured it out of
the Aether, right?"
Silence on the other end. Lin hung
up the phone, and shut it off.
Yes, now he needed that drink.
-----
The Lovecraft's basement smelled
faintly of water, that's what happens when you were one of the neighborhoods
submerged during Hurricane Sandy. The bar itself was a mixture of browns and brass
and stone. He wasn't entirely sure it had been built by the Magisters, or if
the Threshold and the magic around it told the designers that that's how it
worked. He didn't ask these things, the answers scared him some. But the place
was exactly as one expected with a name like Lovecraft: it looked and felt like
the Absinthe den of a long dead occultist.
He had long since refilled his Aethers at the
threshold, it was the first thing he had done. He could feel the colors back in
him. Blues and Greys, mostly, Ondines and Empyreans. A glass of bright green absinthe--his
third--sat half finished on his table. Two note cards laid next to it, and a
black brush-pen lay on top of that. There were two words on each sheet. One
read:
Adolin
Dain
And
the other:
Lin
Dain
Lin
had never known why his mother, Marjorie Dain, had named him Adolin. The name
did not exist before him. Where did it come from, why give it to him? He knew
so little of his parents' past. He remembered very little, before running off.
He remember rituals, and meetings. He remembered men who felt powerful coming
to meet his parents, and him he remembered. They were interested in him. And he
remembered a word: Babalon. When he read the word in the Libris Ex Arcanum, it
unnerved something in him, tore the hinges off something he'd shut down for
years.
Part of Lin was afraid that all of
this was connected. The magic, the monsters, and him. After years of running,
hiding, conning and stealing to keep away from his mother's legacy, he may have
ended up a part of it all. He didn't believe his mother was an Eldritch
herself, that would be impossible considering all of the precautions taken by
the Arcanum before the Century of Silence. But things had been known to slip
up, and there were other elements out there that were aware and waiting between
the two or three generations where the magic left and came back. None of those
options particularly thrilled Lin.
"What people design tells you
something about them," He said to no one in particular. He took the
notecard that said Adolin Dain on it
and placed it over his tables candle. The small flame burned a black and brown
hole into the card. It made him think of ritual offerings, of leavings for
prayer to some god. Lin wasn't sure if he believed in any god enough to worship
them. He'd met at least three beings in the past month that certainly qualified
for the distinction, but without naming names he let out a small prayer of
whatever plots and plans were in store to come over him.
He doubted anyone heard them.
He looked down at the last note
card, the one that read Lin Dain. In
a fit of pique, he grabbed his ink pen, uncapped it, and wrote out A, D, and O,
restoring his name back to full.
"What was your design with me,
mom?" he asked to the trailing plumes of smoke. "How am I your
signature, how am I your ritual?"
No answers came to him that night,
as they hadn't for all the nights he asked.
