Disclaimer: Characters and concepts property of Walt Disney Pictures, etc.

ARCANA CABANA, NEW YORK CITY, 4:39 PM

Balthazar Blake was well on his way to being completely drunk, and he planned to get there within an hour, at the latest. His feet were planted on the corner of his cluttered desk, his arms sprawled over the cracked leather of an armchair, his hands tightly around a dusty bottle of something amber colored and vile tasting. A few weak rays of sunlight struck his face, dying as the sun sank below the artificial horizon of the buildings crowding his own little emporium. He hit the tumbler on his desk, scuffing a mark into the ancient oak (not the first), and poured himself another.

Gritting his teeth, he gulped it down and made a face. The bottle was half gone and he could still taste it. Better pick up the pace, then.

Things, to put it mildly, had not been going well. The Seer in Calcutta had told him thirty seven years ago that he would "find his destiny in New York". That had been a lucky break. Thirteen hundred years of searching, and he finally had some idea where to be looking. Balthazar had been to every continent on the planet dozens of times, even Antarctica, looking for Merlin's heir, and until he met that skinny old woman in the slums of India, he'd had no indication of where he should be looking. But that was thirty seven years ago. Now, sitting here in his dusty shop for going on three decades, he had to wonder if the old woman might have been a fraud after all. Even if Darius had sworn she was right almost all the time. Besides, what did "find his destiny" even mean? Could be he was going to win the lottery, or finally uncover the perfect pair of shoes that didn't pinch his toes or cause counter-productive conducive currents, or—

Or find a way to free her.

The sunlight had faded away now, and Balthazar's vision was beginning to go just a tiny bit fuzzy. He waved a hand through the air and a half dozen candles sputtered into flames, providing some illumination. He groped around the surface of his desk, pushing aside piles of papers and parchments and bits of old bones until he found it: the Magic 8 Ball.

He'd acquired it from a chap in New Mexico during Prohibition, who'd said it never lied but only told the truth in the direst of circumstances. Balthazar was still trying to figure that one out. He held the small black enameled ball, the white parts yellowed from age, smoothing it in his fingers until it gleamed with an almost supernatural glow. He downed another shot and stared at it.

"Is the Prime Merlinean here?"

The black figure 8 briefly squirmed, then melted and rearranged itself into a fluid script:

You ask this one too much.

Balthazar bit back the urge to shake the stupid thing. He tried again, vaguely aware of his slight but noticeable slur, "Is the Prime Merlinean in New York City?"

Ask again later.

"How much later? I've been waiting for centuries!"

The Magic 8 Ball did not reply.

"Am I going to find the person I seek?"

You seek much. Seekers will be finders.

"When?"

Yes or no questions only, please.

Tiny sparks flickered in the air around him, his own frustration taking physical form. He stared at the glassy ball, the black script now faded into the familiar 8.

"Will I ever see her again?" he whispered.

The future is cloudy. Try again when you're sober.

Balthazar chucked the Magic 8 Ball across the room with an ensorcelled pitch that sent it hurtling through a pane of glass to land somewhere in the Arcana Cabana room proper. He reached for the dusty bottle, watched it slip from his fumbling fingers and smash on the ground an instant later. He could feel the Grimhold, buried within the brick walls, pulsing like a heartbeat, matched up with his own, like it'd been since the day he'd locked her up in it.

Balthazar Blake closed his eyes and tried to forget everything.

A/N: Next up, Balthazar and Ursula meet.