Chapter 11: The Road More-Or-Less Traveled By
It is one of the blessings of this world that few people see visions and dream dreams.
- Zora Neale Hurston
"Easy on there, pet," Crowley admonished, "You'll make yourself ill again." Devishi paused from shoveling oatmeal into her mouth to glare at him. Crowley had moved their work from his office to another, larger room. Devi supposed it was the library. There were book shelves on three walls, and fireplace occupying the whole of the fourth. The fireplace was open at the back, offering a glimpse of another room beyond, the features of which were hidden in the shadows. Before the fireplace was set a number of cushy wing-backed chairs with matching ottomans. A plush Persian rug carpeted the sitting area, abutting against a wide stone hearth level with the floor.
"I haven't had solid food since Cheyenne, and you sent me to bed without supper that last night," she argued, pointing at the demon with her spoon.
"A mild penalty considering your misbehavior," he replied coolly. Devi snorted to herself, returning to the more pressing matter of breakfast. She had been on a convalescence diet during her recovery, and chicken stock, juice, and Jello just didn't satisfy. At least she could stand and walk unassisted now. When she'd first tried to get out of bed, her legs had trembled under her like a newborn foal's. She sighed contentedly as she took a generous swallow of hot tea, strongly brewed with plenty of milk. Crowley looked over at her with an amused smirk on his face.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"Enjoying yourself?" he solicited.
"Your people have only been feeding me twice a day – forgive me if I'm in famine mindset," she groused, "You might want to remind them that I get hungry as often as they do."
"Wouldn't do much good, darling," he shrugged, "Demons don't eat."
Devi frowned, bewildered, "But you drink all the time. You're doing it now." She pointed to the tumbler at his elbow.
"It's the little things that get me through the day," Crowley said, taking a sip and smacking his lips with relish.
"So, demons can eat or drink if they want, but they don't have to?" she said, connecting the dots.
Crowley turned to consider her closely, "Inquisitive little kitty, aren't you?"
The seer colored slightly. "Just trying to figure out the rules," she murmured, looking down.
"Why?" he pressed, drawing out the word with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
She met his gaze, and her expression hardened. "Because I like knowing precisely how screwed I am," she answered firmly.
He chuckled, regarding her with what, for him, passed for fondness. "Just remember: curiosity, cats, and all that," he said, and she dropped the subject.
After a moment, she took a different tack. "At the auction, when they were selling the hammer, that skinny, old guy was bidding," she began, "he was going to lose, but then he threw in roughly half a virgin, and won." She waited until Crowley issued an affirmative grunt before asking, "Why was that valuable?"
"There are a lot of creatures out there that consider fresh virgin a delicacy," Crowley replied distractedly, "badly-aging demigods included."
"Oh for the love of- Really?" Devi slammed her hands on the table, causing Crowley to glance up, eyebrows raised. "It's not enough that the whole human race is obsessed with who's-screwing-who," she went on, "now the monster mash is keeping tabs, too?" She was unpleasantly reminded of her grandmother nagging her about the value of "purity" in the marriage market.
The demon gave her a sly smirk, "Concerned for your safety, darling?" Devi scowled, but said nothing, letting him return to his task. She chose not to voice the next question swirling in her mind: whether demons were among the "creatures" Crowley was speaking of.
Devi glanced over the various paraphernalia strewn across the heavy oak table in front of her. Several large maps were half buried under piles of herbs, bowls of powders, a mortar and pestle, and several alchemy flasks, as well as a burner and stand. Crowley was brewing again.
"Is there any cinnamon?" she asked, "Or allspice, maybe?"
"What for?" Crowley responded, not looking up from his ingredients.
"For the oatmeal, of course," Devi said. Crowley rolled his eyes at her request. "Invade half the world for spices," she muttered, half to herself, "the least you could do is season your food..."
"If you're quite done," Crowley said shortly, "can we work?" The seer sighed, scraping out the last of her oatmeal before pushing her bowl away. She drew her bare feet up beneath her, taking up her mug of tea and holding it in both hands. She was cold again.
"What do we have on these other prophets?" she asked, her tone conciliatory.
"A name," he replied carelessly, "Dennis Adams."
"And?" Devi pressed.
"That's all at the moment," Crowley said slowly, watching her response.
She looked disheartened, but then pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, the name might at least suggest something," she theorized, "What kind of person we're looking for, maybe even a broad location." Crowley raised an eyebrow, but she went on, "I mean, odds are Dennis is from Europe or North America."
"Thin," he said skeptically.
"It's something," she defended.
"Fortunately, we will have more to go on shortly," Crowley smirked, "once this location spell is finished."
Devi looked at him askance. "And you were keeping this to yourself and letting me freak out because...?" she said, annoyed.
"You seem determined to make this a team effort, dear," the demon smiled patronizingly, "I wanted you to feel involved."
"Oh, well, thanks for making me a part of this," she snapped, "Is there anything else I can do for you, or did you just need someone to be impressed by your hocus-pocus?"
Crowley cocked an eyebrow at her, pursing his lips. She was getting feisty again; apparently, feeding her had that effect. "You will take this," he slid her a glass of greenish yellow liquid, still steaming slightly. The seer was immediately leery.
"What is it?" she asked cautiously, holding up the glass.
"It's diviner's sage; it's used by shamans in South America to achieve an altered state of consciousness," Crowley explained. She looked uncertain. "Compared to what you've been on, this is tame," he reassured, "Drink it down, and go sit in front of the fireplace. Focus on the name."
Still dubious, the seer drank the brew, surprised at the relatively pleasant taste. She rose and crossed the library, taking a pillow from one of the chairs and placing it on the floor, then settled on it with her back against an ottoman. She crossed her legs in lotus position, figuring that if she was to take a stab at this, she might as well do it properly. She worked her hands into the sign for opening the third eye: middle fingers straight, touching at the tips; the others folded, back to back; and thumbs together, pointed back at her solar plexus. Devi wasn't sure if any of this was helping, if her sight was in any way connected to her body's position, but it couldn't hurt. Unbeknownst to her, Crowley was attentively watching the proceedings, which he found highly entertaining.
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, staring into the flames as she tried to relax her mind. She had never been very good at meditation – she found it hard to keep her thoughts from wandering or jumping from one subject to another. Having the fire to watch seemed to alleviate that issue, at least partially. As the draught took effect, she felt a gradual disconnect from her body. It wasn't painful, but the sense of unreality reminded her unpleasantly of the sight potion. She was lightheaded, and her thoughts seemed to rush past her before she could fully grasp them.
"Relax," Crowley said above her suddenly, causing her to jump. She glared up at him. "You're trying too hard," he continued, "and I think you may find this helpful." He leaned down to place a smooth slab of stone in her lap.
"Is this... it? The tablet?" she asked, running her fingers over the incised lines.
"That's it," he confirmed, "That's our connection to the other prophets: the Word wants to be read."
"You think it'll, I don't know, call to the other prophets?" the seer inquired, continuing to examine the stone. "Like the One Ring to the Nazgul?"
"Sure, something like that," he said dismissively.
Yeah, pretend you don't understand that reference, she thought snidely, attempting to regain her concentration. She heard Crowley step back towards the table, and wondered if he even expected anything to come of this. He didn't seem too concerned with the results. Maybe I should just be glad to not be under the microscope anymore, she consoled herself, at least for now. She pressed her hand against the cool surface of the stone, feeling it take warmth from her skin. She had expected to sense something odd from the tablet, a tingling maybe, but there was nothing; for her, it was just a carved bit of rock.
Behind her, she could hear Crowley working at the table: rustling papers, the clink of glass, the sound of ingredients being shifted about. There was the hiss and flare of fire, the smell of burnt parchment, and the demon hummed in approval.
"Oklahoma," he said, "Aim for that." Devi murmured in agreement, choosing not to bring up the fact that she hadn't the vaguest idea how to "aim" her sight. She took another slow, even breath. The sense of being adrift was stronger now, along with a impression of being pushed or pulled gently. It was like laying in bed after a day spent in the ocean, still feeling the rise and fall of phantom waves. Comparing it to that pleasant experience made it easier to sink into sensations, letting her mind drift.
Sounds began to trickle in: mechanical squeaks, groans, and hisses, followed by the acceleration of a slow, heavy engine. The feeling of rising and falling coalesced into the gentle bump and jostle of large wheels on tired pavement. The funk peculiar to public transit hung about, and Devi saw a cityscape through a wide, smudged windscreen. The vehicle slowed and crept alongside the curb, crawling to an unsteady stop. The doors hissed open, and Devi's view shifted to watch people troop up the steps. A bus, she realized, I'm on a city bus. The doors closed, and the bus lurched forward again.
Devi started looking for signs or writing, trying to get a fix on location. On the dashboard, there was picture of balding man standing next to a small barbecue grill with a grin on his face, his arm around a middle-aged blonde woman. There was a pair of boys in swim trunks chasing each other with water pistols through the background. As the bus approached the next stop, she strained "her" eyes to read the placard: #5453. As the doors opened, she noted the bus itself was green. Many of the people getting aboard were her age and carrying backpacks, suggesting they were students. One had on an "University of Tulsa" ball-cap. Pulling away, she saw a street-sign for E. Admiral Plaza.
Devi breathed deeply as she opened her eyes to find herself staring at the ceiling. She felt at ease, warm and relaxed, and some contrary part of her distrusted that. She straightened her back from where she had slumped against the ottoman, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Well?" Crowley spoke from one of the chairs. He was leaning back, elbows on the armrest, fingers steepled, looking at her with a supercilious air. Devi hadn't heard him come over.
"He's in Tulsa, I think," she said, brushing back a lock of hair from her face, "driving a bus near Admiral Plaza. He just left stop 5453." Crowley nodded briskly, then gestured to a man standing by the door whom Devi was sure hadn't been there before. The man left the room quickly, and Crowley looked back at her.
"Not a bad day's work," he said, "if a bit tedious."
"Tedious?" Devi asked with a frown, "How long was I out?"
"Just an hour or so," he replied, unconcerned.
"Damn it," she muttered. She felt a headache starting behind her eyes.
"Cheer up, darling, you did fine," Crowley waved a hand, "Told you that you'd get the hang of it. Now we just need to find a way to keep you in a seeing state without knocking you out completely," he continued airily, "Something more stimulating, maybe cocaine..."
"You're not turning me into some junkie guinea-pig," Devi said flatly. Potions and herbs were one thing, but street drugs were another matter entirely.
"Now's no time to dig your heels in, pet," he chided, "You volunteered for this, remember?"
"Being press-ganged is not the same as volunteering," she contested, "and I'm only doing this-"
"For the folks back home, yes, I know," the demon cut in, his voice taking an edge, "which is why you'll do whatever it takes to get results." Devi pressed her lips into a slim line, but didn't argue further. Crowley gave her an appraising look. "We're done for today," he said, snapping his fingers for a minion.
A tall, black man came in to escort her back to her room; he would have been attractive if it weren't for the sinister quirk of his mouth. "And remember to get her something to eat," Crowley added as his man left with the girl. It would slow things down if she kept passing out on him. That was likely what had happened in this instance – seer's sage usually didn't cause users to lose time. The girl wasn't back at one hundred percent, that much was clear, but he couldn't wait. Best to strike while the iron was hot. Speaking of which, he smiled to himself. It was time to pay another visit to the angel in the basement.
