Mission 07: Hex of Old
To the shop they went, the old doors opening to his familiar footsteps.
She followed him like a bad drought, sucking up all the moisture of his peace and quiet. The lights were dim, albeit only made so by the pitch black outside. So dark was the sky that its colors faded away almost entirely, shifting to an empty, murky black. The interior looked like an old diner under this sort of lighting, the kind seen in strange towns not often visited. The scarred woman sat talking with him, bothering the devil man over his general schedule, what it was he was going to do from that point forward, and he did his best to roundly answer.
"I dunno."
It was as good an answer he could give.
She pestered him about being unreliable, but he had only one place in his mind. The Madam . . .
He told her to hang tight if she wanted to talk to him that badly, it was better this way anyhow. This wasn't the way to win, but he certainly knew how to lose slowly.
She got shifty on him, wondering why he was so reluctant. She wouldn't understand, not that she was incapable of wrapping her head around tonight anyway.
So, he left for the one place he knew he could get an answer, the only person he knew of who would have any inkling what it was they dealt with that night.
Another doorbell rung, another time at the Madam's house, the restless soul seeking audience here . . .
At the moment, Dante was slurping some sort of spiced soup from his bowl, as the butler discussed current events with Alice.
He wasn't here for that crap, not tonight. She found it odd he seek her now. Keen to steer things to his goals, he feigned interest, unconvincingly. Even though he was more interested in his soup, he occasionally added his own brief input to their conversation. He couldn't help himself, his personality was prone to seeking social interaction. He only became more engaged when he'd find himself staring at the bottom of the bowl, when Madame de Goyon and Grimswell were only half finished with theirs.
After a few minutes, the butler got up from his chair and took away their dishes. He walked out with the main course.
A nicely cooked steak, dribbled with some unknown jam or sauce on top, centered on the fine china surrounded by steamed vegetables covered in herbs.
It wasn't pizza, but Dante enjoyed it just as much.
He shoved strips of succulent beef into his mouth, his stomach thanking him greatly.
Both Alice and Grimswell were amused by his barbaric attack on their cuisine, looking at him and chuckling occasionally as she talked of some up-and-coming painter that was new to this city. Although Dante wasn't much for the subject of art, he still appreciated her passion for the subject, as she spoke of it so reverently; stopping his chewing just to listen to a few seconds of the conversation. Certainly, much more than if someone else was talking about it. The idea nagged him, that he was here tonight for something else, wondering why he needed to even see her. But he knew he must. That 'licking woman' . . . He knew she would know the source of its malediction.
". . .-So skilled at portraits. She has a unique way of capturing faces with these, I want to say, almost ethereal brushstrokes. I find that Miss Betrum's best work is taking classically styled portraits and adding a kind of impressionist flair to them."
She then looked directly at Dante, "Perhaps I should see if she needs a new masculine muse for inspiration."
Grimswell smiled but said nothing, simply taking a bite of dinner.
Dante shrugged his head casually, "I can't sit still for that long. Besides, if Miss Betrum is young and pretty, I'd have other things than art on my mind."
His comment prompted a brief fit of light laughter from the medium, though there was no response on whether or not Miss Betrum was genuinely young and pretty, to Dante's disappointment.
Grimswell returned the conversation to its originally serious and intellectual state.
"I appreciate this new generation of artists, Madame, but I'll always love pastoral landscapes, mostly for their vibrant colors and simplicity. I think that-. . ."
Dante's attention lapsed once again as he chewed another hunk of beef. It was so tender, it made his growling abdomen subside. He gazed around the dining room. Much like the rest of the house, it was like a time capsule of decades prior. Madame de Goyon had clearly done her best to conserve it as it originally was when it had first been built. She only seemed to add on what modern amenities she thought useful to the estate.
The only other exception was the art which she displayed in all the rooms in the home, some of which were by more current and forward-thinking artists, with all manner of depictions and subjects. In this space hung a few paintings of various types of birds, most of them flying through forests and over rivers and such. After wandering around the room a bit, his eyes focused on one painting. It was a simple depiction of two white swans floating on a clear pond. Though it was not as large as the others, there seemed to be something special about it. The artist took great care in their creation, even down to the ornate frame in which it sat encased. It suggested that this was a very personal and beloved piece.
He was almost tempted to interrupt the ongoing conversation to ask Alice about it, but he stopped short when something stopped functioning.
The light fixture in the hall leading over to it clicked off by itself.
The air around him changed, it became colder within the span of a second. Yet, he could only focus on the painting of the swans, and for a moment it almost seemed as if they were moving.
A feeling of gloomy isolation overtook him, corroding his chest as they swirled. A noise caught his attention. One of the books resting on the side snapped closed.
He realized he was wrong, it was actually the painting itself which was shifting and shaking, trembling where it hung on the wall, before it fell violently to the floor.
Alice and Grimswell both turned their heads, as the sound of it crashing on the floor caught their attention.
They all seemed to know something was amiss, for there were no windows in the room, no place for wind strong enough to come from.
Nothing else had been disturbed.
To Dante, it looked more like the painting had been ripped off the wall anyway.
In an instant the medium's demeanor changed. Her expression soured, becoming stern and cold. She wiped her mouth with a cloth and stood up from her chair.
"Gentlemen, I believe we must cut our evening short. Mr. Grimswell, please tell the cook that we will not be having dessert tonight. I would also ask that you both find alternate accommodations for the time being. Detra and I will be working well into the darker hours, and I fear that it would be best for those not involved to be elsewhere."
"Yes, Madame," the butler replied.
He began clearing their plates without another word.
Dante stood up as well, defiantly stating, "That's not gonna work for me, I came here for a reason. I'm not leaving till I get what I came for."
Alice turned to him, "I am always happy with your services, Dante, but I'm rather busy at the moment. I don't if know if I can help you at this present hour. I have other business, rather pressing business if I must say so. Your visit was appreciated."
She knew his name. He didn't recall telling her.
As far as he knew, he was just 'Mr. Redgrave.'
He gave her a cold eye, this was not his normal way.
"I came here for a reason. I need to know what you know," he replied, cynical.
She didn't know what to say, he'd never spoken to her so thuggishly.
"Do not presume I fear you like most other's, son of Sparda," her statements made him weary.
"How do you know that name?"
She scolded him, "Oh come now, you think demons are the only one's who know of your father's legacy? I knew both of Vergil, it should come as no shock to you."
Dante clenched his fists.
"Yeah, well, be that as it may, you tell me what I need to know, and I'll help you out with that little problem over there, if ya like," he pointed to the painting.
"That is none of your concern, Dante," she told him.
He didn't care.
"If there's a party, I'm gonna join. Unless you want me to stick around uninvited and find out for myself."
Silence dominated.
She sighed, "Haah, very well. I will permit you one question before you leave, and only one. Make it good, there isn't much time."
"Understand, I have no one else to turn to for this kinda stuff . . . d'ya know anything about a 'hexed tongue?' Something that can jump from body to body?" his question perplexed her.
It was an unexpected one, certainly. The mere idea seemed dodgy, but she knew of it. Indeed, a cursed tongue that leaps between different hosts— all too familiar.
"Yes . . . I happen to know a thing or two about lingua-curses. It's old magic, from a darker time. There shouldn't be anyone with that kind of power walking around though."
"'Shouldn't' does not mean 'isn't,'" his retort stung, and those serious eyes told her he wasn't being childish.
". . . What happened?" she asked him quietly.
"I fought one tonight and it killed someone. I need to know where it came from, and how to stop more," he told her.
Her face told him everything, she knew what must be going on.
"It's an old form of hex, one from another dimension. Long ago, before Earth was separated from the demon world Avernus, other planes of our reality were floating chaotically, nothing was anchored as it is now. Legends mostly say that this brand of magic came from one of those dimensions when it collided with ours, changing the fabric of our reality. But that was a long time ago, those curses should be weak, choked to near death. Nonetheless . . . should you find one . . . you need to kill it, before it spreads its essence to others. It is a type of blood magic derived from old Norse, crafted by merging an infectious disease into an organ's basic properties. Mortals like us know it as syphilis, but it has its true roots in this old sorcery. You must've encountered an ancient strain, but I don't understand how. All things change and evolve, even witchcraft and necromancy. Older practices fade with time, as numbers of the old dwindle in favor of the new."
So, the tongue hails from older times.
"Well, that's special," Dante sarcastically said, attempting to process the information as best he could. "What happened then? Why's something so old showing up only now?"
"My guess? Someone or something has tampered with the balance of things, they're trying to resurrect the old world and its brittle bonds to the earth."
He sought to ask more, but she lifted her finger, as if psychically knowing.
"No more, we'll speak later when I require your services," she told him.
God damn . . . she was playing him like a simple fiddle for her tune, every question a destitute string ready for the plucking.
So the man hung his head down and flashed her a peace-sign.
"Uh-huh . . . yeah-yeah-yeah, and I'll be back to see what's up with that when you need me," he pointed to the painting. "Don't be a stranger."
And like that, he left. Out from the classical house into the residential district and all about to the structured territories that surrounded it. The old streets were comforting in that strange sense, feeling untouched by the fear that drowned them all in that open terrain. Still, at least he had an answer now, even if it didn't sit well with him. He needed to return to his shop and sleep. This entire ordeal left him with a migraine. That vengeful lady would be there, her wispy face still stuck in his head. He changed his mind about her a little bit, for all the callous things she was. She wasn't incompetent, although she was certainly reckless. No doubt a gift from dear daddy.
But, there was a legitimate idea here for the work of her father, even if he disliked her initial draw.
He'd need help going forward, and he was sick of standing alone. He'd play it smart, but he wouldn't make himself appear too eager. Truth be told, he wasn't very keen on it for other reasons. Conflicted when he had returned, the shop was empty. She'd gone, but she'd found and taken one of his old, old, old, old-old-old-old, old business cards. Ideal. Forget about that then, he was on his own.
There was more work to do, and he already had an idea of how to do just that.
To Be Continued