Chapter 2: First Dose

"Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol, morphine, or idealism"
- C.G. Jung

"You're sure about this?" Devi asked. Nearly a week had passed, during which Crowley had thumbed through numerous dusty tomes, sent out minions for ingredients, and quizzed her extensively about any previous visions. Devi found that the more she talked about them, the more she remembered. Each time, she'd been looking through someone she knew well, seeing and hearing as they did. There was even a slight bleeding of emotions from the observer. Everything she had seen had been happening in the moment, but she was more likely to have visions while she slept, something about being more "open to the subconscious," as Crowley had said. He'd had her attempt scrying as well, staring into a silver bowl of water or a quartz globe until her eyes crossed and her head ached. This had proved fruitless, but led to a serendipitous discovery as she'd glanced into the fireplace for a moment to rest her eyes and became mesmerized by the flames. The shifting, dancing shades had slowly coalesced into the shape of her father, speaking to a police officer. Crowley called it a promising start, but said she needed to cast her gaze further afield.

"If your family is such a distraction," he'd chided, "I could bring them here, if that would ease your mind."

Devi took the threat to heart, devouring the reams of information she'd been given on Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord. "Prophet," she'd asked days earlier, "does that mean he's like me?"

"Not quite," Crowley replied with a chortle, "Much rarer for one." He'd been evasive, but had at last explained that a Prophet was able to decipher certain texts that contained secrets about particular creatures, specifically any weaknesses they may have. She examined a snapshot of him for the hundredth time, noting the close-cropped black hair, dark eyes, and the subtle signs of worry in his expression: tightness around the mouth, the wrinkle in the brow. Of course, if the picture had been taken while Kevin was in Crowley's keeping, that was all perfectly understandable; Devi would bet she wore a similar look now. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, scanning the dossier.

He was a smart kid, brilliant, in fact, though his high school schedule looked just next door to impossible. It was like he'd mapped out his entire life in fifteen-minute blocks – she was surprised he hadn't included bathroom breaks on his daily planner. He'd aimed at going to Princeton, she saw, would have likely got in too, even without a glowing recommendation from Dick Roman. Wonder how he managed that, Devi mused. Of course, that was before the otherworldly had hit his life like a semi. He'd run off into the blue, talking of divine callings, vanished for a while, presumably kidnapped, and had reappeared briefly in one of Surcocorp's development centers, which was then destroyed by an undetected gas leak gone critical.

Kevin was still listed as a missing person on several national databases, but nothing solid had surfaced in nearly a year. Even with his extensive network of spies and informants, Crowley had only a handful of unconnected sightings. He'd kept a watch on the prophet's mother and girlfriend, but Kevin had yet to make contact with either of them.

Devi turned back to watch the demon across the table, who was currently adding a measured pinch of a dirty white grist to a stone bowl. Bunches of various dried plant parts, piles of powder, and a number of claws, teeth, and bones were laid out on a sheet of leather in front of him.

"Perfectly," he said in answer to her earlier question, not bothering to look up, "this formula has been used by psychics for ages; it'll sharpen that sight of yours right up." He treated her to a smile that he probably intended to be reassuring; it wasn't.

For one, psychics weren't quite the same as seers – Devi had read earlier that week that psychics were generally able to read traces of past events left on places, people, or objects, whereas seers saw things that were happening elsewhere, but in the present. Selecting a sprig of dried foliage that smelled strongly of pitch, Crowley rolled the small leaves between his large fingers to crush them, scattering them in the bowl.

"But what about directing it?" Devi objected, "I've still never been able to find any specific person if I don't know them."

"That's what this is for," he replied, holding up a tuft of clipped black hair, "just a touch of the man we're after." He struck a match and set it to the lock of hair, letting the ash crumble into the bowl, before dropping in the last smoldering strands. A reddish pool of flame oozed across the surface, and Devi wrinkled her nose at the smell. The substance, which had been a dull dark green, took on an oily sheen, black streaks smudging the surface. Devi watched dubiously as Crowley selected a distressingly large syringe from a tray of tools, and drew a quantity of the potion into the chamber. It looked like at least thirty milliliters. Devi felt herself sinking into her seat, wishing dearly to disappear.

Crowley straightened and looked at her, eyes crinkling at the corners with delight, "Are you sitting comfortably?" He looked like a cross between a mad scientist and child with a new toy, and Devi fought the urge to get out of the chair and start backing away towards the door.

"Sure," she answered shortly, "Fire away." Crowley set a thick stub of a candle on the table in front of her, lit it with a snap of his fingers, and set the picture of Kevin against it.

"Coat," he said, and Devi sighed as she shrugged out of her fleece. She wasn't quite sure where the warehouse she was being kept in was, but every room in the place seemed a hair too cold; she couldn't recall the last time both her hands and feet had felt warm enough at the same time. Taking her left wrist in hand, he stretched out her arm so that the inside faced him and began probing for a vein. Devi watched him with rising apprehension, but she doubted she could pull out of his grip. She winced as the needle entered her skin, and choked back a gasp as the plunger descended, pushing the mixture into her arm. A lacework of green spread out from the injection site, following the blood vessels, and almost immediately a burning sensation followed. It reminded her of when she'd run into a fire-ant mound while playing soccer.

"Is it supposed to do that?" she gritted through clenched teeth, but Crowley wasn't paying attention. Instead, he watched the lines of green moving down her arm with a morbid sort of fascination, before turning to study her face, focusing on her eyes.

"Now," he said, laser-like attention unwavering, "look at the flame." Devi shifted her gaze to the candle and found her vision already clouding towards the edges.

"I think..." she began, and that was the last she remembered.