Except Apollo.
It’s hard to tell if the source of her attraction was influenced by his power, or if it was her own, but either way she suddenly started drinking coffee in the mornings for the first time since her university days. She liked his smile, his hair, and his sculpted arms. She liked the way the t-shirt he wore seemed to cling tightly to his shape, displaying the ripples of muscle. She liked the way he hummed lightly while steaming milk and pouring the velvety froth into her cup. She liked the way, sometimes, when he handed her the cup, their fingers brushed together.
But she was not the passive type. Their flirting—it was hard to tell if he was actively flirting with her, to be honest—was not satisfying. So she planned out her first move carefully. Perhaps slightly obsessively. She knew his schedule well enough to know he worked late on Wednesdays and opened the store alone on Thursdays. She watched, and cataloged, the volume of customers week after week to determine the best time to make her move. She had notes—detailed notes, the kind only a trained Hedge Magician like her could produce—on behavior and statistics and angles and architecture and sometimes she had to stop herself from describing Apollo’s calf muscles when writing her analyses of the environment.
And so it was, on a September Wednesday evening near to 8:30, when Killian came into the shop with a smile. Apollo greeted her in the otherwise-empty store and asked if she was working late and would she like a latte. She said no, and made a cheesy comment about how she was in the mood for some caramel.
Apollo leaned over the counter with a smile. That damned smile that made her stomach do a flip. Her eyes were tracing the shape of his jawline and she almost missed his retort about considering himself to be more of a mocha than a caramel. In the meantime she fumbled with her ring on her finger, tracing the rune there and waiting for an opportune moment. But she wasn’t as patient as she wanted to be that moment, and all of her academy training about self-control seemed to vanish. Triggering the rune, she hardly acknowledged the sound of all of the doors locking and the windows darkening before she had leapt the counter in a single bound and landed in the barista’s arms.
Apollo had to open the store the next day, and in her lightheaded state she could barely make out correct words, let alone goodbyes as she headed out the door. At work she couldn’t concentrate, her head still foggy and her body sore, easily explained by the significant amounts of physical exertion several hours before. For the first time in her career she left work sick, excusing it as some kind of passing bug.
But she didn’t go home. Instead she went to the coffee shop and sat inside, sipping a coffee and staring at Apollo. He looked at her a few times throughout the day, giving her a smile, but there was something odd behind his smile. Was it apathy? It hurt to think that might be the case. She stayed until the coffee shop was ready to close, and asked Apollo if he might want company for the evening. He agreed.
It was November when things changed. She was distraught one evening, coming home very aggravated. Home being Apollo’s, since halfway through October she broke her lease and moved in with him.
They argued that night. She held in her hand a formal warning about missing too many days, and that if her performance did not improve she might lose her contract with the company. There had been inquiries about substance abuse, and reports that her peers and superiors were concerned that she was no longer on top of her game.
Apollo wasn’t angry. He was reserved when he told her he was worried about her. Their conversation turned to addiction, and he explained, carefully, that he had never been with someone who had been so affected by his innate charm and abilities. He asked if maybe they should have some space.
She got angry. Angrier than he had ever seen, and she screamed foul words at him, denigrated him and his species, and when he tried to calm her down, she struck him and broke his lip before storming to the bedroom and locking the door. In the morning she apologized before leaving for work.
Apollo left a note before he took a bag of clothes, explaining that he cared for her and just wanted a little space.
For her credit, she gave him space for a few days, but they were tortuous days. Her skin crawled and she couldn’t concentrate. A trip to the Market was in order, to find a calming tonic of some kind. A goblin spotted her at once and sold her a box of some kind of enchanted chocolates that at least helped her focus, but the desire grew.
It was the first week of December that she returned to the shop. It was a quiet evening, with only one other patron in the dingy café. She talked to Apollo softly, soothingly, and he all but forgot the feeling of her fist across his face. She asked if he would come home.
He said he would, but under certain circumstances. She had to promise that her behavior would change, and that she would get some help for her addiction. She agreed.
It was near to Christmas that year when he told her he was going on a retreat with some friends in January. He’d be gone two weeks, and he was excited. She had gotten a lot better at managing her anger and her desires, and they had fallen back into a better routine that felt healthier. But this conversation seemed to frustrate her. The idea of being denied the things she desired lit a spark in her, and they argued again. She told him the addiction was his fault. He told her no, it wasn’t. Giving in to the addiction of his species was a conscious choice on her part, and that the point at which he might be considered to blame for her predicament had passed.
She didn’t strike him, but foul words poured from her mouth again and she left to go for a walk, slamming the door behind her hard enough to break it. When she came back, she was apologetic, and spoke so sweetly. She had also brought a small box of candy he liked and said that it was her fault all along. She encouraged him to take his two week retreat and he was happy again.
In January, he took his retreat. Out into the mountains of Colorado, he and several friends camped and hiked and had a good time. But a few days in, he caught her scent and knew that he wasn’t taking this retreat alone. Leaving the others behind, he doubled back and found her.
He confronted her and asked why she had followed him all the way out here. She said she was doing it to surprise him and it was meant as a romantic gesture. He wasn’t so sure; he asked her if she was jealous. She said no—why would she be jealous of Apollo’s other friends, who were clearly more gorgeous and talented and personable than she was? She laid the passive-aggression on thick, saying that if he didn’t want to spend time with her after she’d gone through all this trouble to be romantic, then that was his choice. Apollo got angry and Killian could see it, but he stifled his anger and said he would make it up to her by taking her on her own retreat, with just the two of them, another time. He left then, and rejoined his friends.
But she did not go home. She spied them, and now that she knew Apollo could track her she took extra steps to mask her presence. She watched from the trees as he laughed and joked with his friends. She felt a fire in her stomach that hurt her beyond measure.
One night he awoke in his tent. His other friends were gone and instead the tent had her in it, speaking softly and sweetly and tempting him with things. Apollo didn’t like this and asked where his friends were. She tried to dodge the question, but Apollo got angry and compelled her against her will—something he had never done before. She confessed that she had enchanted Apollo’s friends and sent them home.
Apollo became exceedingly angry, and he screamed at her for the first time ever. As the incubus within him grew to a great rage, she felt afraid for the first time in his presence. He seemed to grow in stature, and behind his beautiful façade she saw the demonic force below, whose presence had been so well-hidden. Apollo then fled, and she was left all alone in the mountains.
Snow was covering the coffee shop when she returned to Cincinnati, and she had in her hand more candy, and a love letter, and flowers. She went to the door with a smile on her face, and her hair newly done, and a calm, upbeat outfit. She reached for the handle and stopped.
She tr
embled. A powerful force held her hand back and she withdrew it. She tried again, but the handle seemed just out of her reach. She groaned in frustration and took a seat on the patio outside. Night fell, and she waited. Finally, Apollo met her at the door and told her that she couldn’t come in. He had taken precautions to ensure this. He gave her the keys to his apartment, because he would not be returning. She could keep all his things.
She started to scream and curse at him, but he sighed and closed the door. She tried to break the glass on the window, but it, too, was just out of her reach. She screamed out, collapsing in the snow and crying for what seemed like hours. Then she picked herself up and walked away.
She tried to text, but the messages always failed to send. She tried to call but the service always dropped. She tried to mail a letter, but they were always returned. Whatever incubus magic he had put on himself and the store, it was powerful enough to make all communication impossible.
She took a vacation from work, using all of her accrued time. She tried to plan and analyze, but inside she knew it was wrong. She had become an addict and an abuser. There was no answer. She fell into a deep depression and shut herself away from the world for as long as she could.
It was June of the following year that she got a text. The withdrawal of her addiction had cleared her, and she felt like her world was beginning to make sense again. The text was short, and succinct: I have an answer. Cafe, 8pm. Her heart began to race and the addiction surged, and she nearly lost her balance, steadying herself on the counter.
The next 8 hours seemed like days as she paced, sweating, in the apartment. Finally, able to take no more, she left and walked toward the café, staring at the sidewalk to focus herself. In what seemed only a moment she was there, standing on the stoop of the shop, her hand outstretched to the brass handle on the door. She still could not grab it.
Apollo was then at the door, opening it and stepping outside. He told her not to speak as soon as she opened her mouth. He told her that he had called in some favors, and that things would be different. He told her that there was a program to manage her addiction. It would take time. It would take a support group for people like her. He admitted he didn’t know such things existed, but he had done research while they had been apart. He offered her some paperwork and told her that he had made arrangements. He told her that he would be willing to see her again, as friends only, if she agreed to go to these meetings. He told her that, if she stopped going to the meetings, he would stop seeing her. He told her there was no argument to be had. She either accepted the terms or their interactions would end. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the shop.
She stood there a long time with the papers in her hand. The Cincinnati heat beat down on her shoulders and sweat beaded across her face, mingling with tears that already stung her eyes. But she was strong. With a trembling finger, she dialed the number on the pamphlet and walked away.
Chapter 15
The Betts House, I was told, was the oldest structure still existing in the Cincinnati area. Built in 1804, it was originally a farmhouse on a huge hundred-or-so acre farm and peach orchard. Now, it was a building nestled between others on the busy Central Avenue street.
Wherever the entrance to the Empyrean Society offices might be, however, was not immediately apparent. There wasn’t really a “porch” so to speak—there was a stoop in front of the white front door and a small path that led to the black wrought-iron fence that bordered the property. Apollo and I searched up and down the sidewalk, back up to the door, and all around the front of the property that we possibly could.
“You know of any spells that find hidden entrances? Like…’detect secret doors’?”
“What is this, D&D?” Apollo said through slightly gritted teeth, “want me to make a spot check?”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh great, you’re a D&D nerd, too.”
“Geeks dig me, Andy, that’s all you need to…hey.” I looked over to see him tilting his head at the welcome mat in front of the door. Curiously, I moved around the mat to get a look at what he was seeing from his perspective. “This mat looks like it’s secured to the ground. It might be a trap door. And…OK, tell me that that—” he indicated a brown stain on the edge of the mat, “—doesn’t look like dried blood.”
It did. “Maybe we have to, like, put a drop of blood on the mat before it’ll let us in.” Apollo looked at me quite worriedly, and I dug in my pockets for a penknife. Finding one, I unfolded it and held the blade over my palm.
Apollo stopped me. “No, no, Andy. This isn’t the movies. You don’t have to friggin’ slice your palm open to get blood. Like, prick the back of your finger or something, jeez.” I obeyed and got ready to jab the knife into the back of my ring finger. I trembled slightly, and just I lowered the tip of the knife to my skin—
“Excuse me,” a polite voice said, and I looked over to see a woman poking her head out the window. “If you’re trying to get into the Empyrean offices, you might have considered knocking and asking, you know.”
I didn’t actually have a response to that. Before I could formulate one, the woman ducked back inside, and the trapdoor lifted upward to reveal an entrance to a tunnel and a staircase. The stairs went down in a twisted, spiral mess that was quite dark, and as I took out my cell phone to light a flashlight, I took a glance at Apollo and saw that he had become slightly pale again. “You alright?”
“Never been here,” he remarked. “I’ve been a lot of places, but never here. I, uh…”
“Scared?”
He bristled. “I…have no way to confirm that without undermining my really cool façade.”
“So I guess you want me to lead, huh?”
“Yes. Wait—I mean—if you want to. I mean—it’s whatever.”
I headed down the stairs by the light of my cell phone, my fingers feeling along the wall for a light switch. There was none to be found, and I quickly pulled my hand back as I brushed the moist concrete. The stairway twisted and turned, going ever and ever downward, until finally we arrived at the bottom and at a green metal door emblazoned with a faded metal plaque: Empyrean Sanctum #433, Cincinnati, Ohio. Established 1803.
I reached out and pulled the antique doorbell. I heard it ring somewhere beyond the door, and a loud click announced that it was now unlocked. I shrugged at Apollo and went inside.
Within, the underground chamber opened up into a massive lobby, with checkered tile floors and a dusty old secretary desk in the very center. From the ceiling, brass chandeliers, each with dozens of candles, hung from the ceiling and illuminated the spiderweb-covered ceiling. All around the room, sweeping staircases went up to dozens of doors, none of which were labeled in any way.
I stopped at a dusty corkboard near the door, covered in employment regulations and announcements. “New Haunting Journeyman Courses Available.” “Sanctum President Carson to celebrate 120 years of Service.” “Do you or a family member suffer from ectoplasmidosis? You might be entitled to compensation.”
“Apollo, look at this. I think Empyrean is like…a union.”
“It is.” It wasn’t Apollo speaking to me. I spun and found myself face to face with the Moddey Dhoo. The black dog’s face when it was standing at full height was able to be level with mine, and the glowing eyes made my skin shiver like I had just dove into a bucket of ice water. To top it off, the dog smelled foul and was dripping water from its thick, shadowy fur.
Apollo stiffened quite suddenly, from what I assumed was because of the Black Dog’s sudden appearance. “Apollo, I told you about the Moddey Dhoo. Here he is, in the fur—” I furrowed my brow at the state of its fur, “—which is sopping wet. Why are you wet? Were you in my bathtub again?”
The dog gave me what I assumed was the glowing-eyes equivalent of a sideways glare. Apollo also did not reply, and I realized that his sudden discomfort was not from the dog at all: a long, hairy and bony appendage slipped quietly over his shoulder. Something was crawling up his back.
&n
bsp; “And…um…this is Iktomi.” He slowly pivoted so I could see the red, yellow, and white spider that was clamped onto Apollo’s shirt, nibbling on his dreadlocks.
“What is that thing?” I asked before I could stop myself, and as soon as the words had escaped my mouth I knew I had probably offended the creature. I seemed to just be unable to stop myself from being offensive every time I turned around.
“Trickster spirit,” The Moddey Dhoo interjected. “Yer incubus friend’s silencer. Makes sense, though, since Iktomi can see the webs that connect folks an’ such. See things before they happen. Useful if ya have a Lilin that might want to avoid, uh…messin’ around with the wrong kind o’ folk.”
Apollo looked rather embarrassed to have his situation laid out so plainly, and he looked away. I tried to diffuse the awkwardness. “What’s with all the spooky décor?”
“Hall’ween decorations,” Moddey Dhoo said indifferently.
“But Halloween’s not for another—”
“Some of us just like thinks a bit spooky ‘round here, ok?”
“Fine, fine,” I relented. “Why are our silencers hanging out here, anyway?”
“Because you are, stupid,” The dog growled, “An’ ya didn’t even warn us. We’re supposed to be here if’n ya ever need something with the Empyrean. Did ya miss that part in yer handbook?”
“It’s a big Handbook![23]” I protested. “I have gotten through a lot of it but it keeps, like, expanding.”
“Fine, fine,” The Moddey Dhoo held up a paw. “Jus’ do what yer here to do. I’m not helpin’ ya neither, so don’t even ask. I’m just yer escort.”
“Fine,” I said in a mock defiant tone, “Someone’s not getting a biscuit for being a good boy.”
“Now hold up,” The dog stepped in my way. “I dunno what yer playin’ at, but I know you di’nt just say that I’m not a good boy. I’m the goodest boy. The bestest, ya hear?”
The Wizards on Walnut Street Page 17