Sabbath tended to get herself lost in thought, and when those dark-chocolate eyes went black like that, Farfarello might have given something very precious to possess Schuldich's mind-reading powers. It wasn't that he was so interested in her mind, necessarily. It was that she was so deeply into whatever she was concentrating on that she didn't even notice he'd been dragging her by the arm for the last ten blocks or so, out of their way and not toward the hotel. Even though he made no effort to steer her around others, she did it automatically, slipping through the crowd behind him like a being of shadow. When they had to stop at a crosswalk, he shifted his grip from her upper arm to her hand. More maneuverability that way. She had very small hands, very fine-boned. Delicate. A clench of his fingers and he would feel those bones grinding together, a harder clench and maybe they would snap.

She didn't 'wake up' until he pushed open the door of a small café and tugged her inside with him. The warm orange and yellow of the walls seemed to draw her out of her stupor and she dug in her heels, stumbling when her resistance proved to be weaker than his momentum.

"Farfarello?" she asked sharply, and for a moment he thought it odd how her voice didn't sound like that of a waking dreamer. She hadn't awoken, she had snapped back to reality as though her consciousness was tethered on an elastic band. "What are we doing here?"

"I'm hungry," he told her simply, taking his place in line and ignoring the stares he got for his odd appearance.

She dissolved into a smile. "Gomen, Farf, you should have said something," she scolded, giving her head a good shake to clear it. He raised an eyebrow. Japanese?

"You were dreaming," he told her, stepping in closer and towering easily over her slight frame. "Where did you go?" His head was tilted curiously.

She rolled her eyes at him. "None of your business," she said, but there was a teasing tone in her voice that made it not-insulting. "Why here?" She looked around the small café.

"Soup," Farfarello told her candidly, turning to eye the menu.

She laughed. "Had a craving, hm?"

"I like chicken and wild rice soup." He glanced back at her, golden eye flashing. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Chicken and wild rice? Is it any good?" She slung her arm through his so that she could squeeze closer to see the menu. "Oh, goddess, portabella mozzarella sandwiches…." Her reason seemed to return to her and she faltered. "Um, Farf? Do you have any cash?"

Long fingers slid into his boot, past the hilt of his ever-present knife, and found the small stack of bills curled around his ankle. He counted the edges from the outside in and removed a twenty and a five. "Eszet's agents are well paid," he said flatly, and then he broke into a glittering, unsettling smile. "You will allow me to treat you to lunch."

"Was that an offer or an order?" She hiked and eyebrow and folded her arms, gazing at him with expectant amusement.

"Would you take orders from me, if I gave them?"

She considered that. "Probably."

"Then it is an order."

She laughed and shook her head. "If Crawford hadn't specifically told you to 'take good care of me' and feeding me didn't fall under that category, I would tease you mercilessly about asking me out on a date."

He shrugged. "Do as you like. Schuldich will anyway."

"I believe you," she said fervently, stepping up to the front of the line and placing her order with crisp efficiency; half of a mushroom sandwich, a bowl of soup, and a lemonade. Farfarello then absently informed the young cashier that he wanted three of the soup bread-bowls. She looked mildly surprised but did not comment, and that was probably a good thing. She didn't stare at him either, and that was a VERY good thing.

Sabbath carried her own tray as they went to sit down and picked a table in an uncrowded area, one that only seated two.

"Why 'Farfarello'?" were the first words out of her mouth when they sat down, and he was not altogether surprised.

"That's none of your business," he told her, faintly mocking her earlier tone, and she smirked.

"Okay. Then it's none of my business. But I'm nosy and I want you to answer. Why an obscure demon from The Divine Comedy who is only mentioned once or twice?"

"Farfarello has many meanings," he explained, stirring his soup and carving down the walls of the bread bowl. "The demon was described as a vicious bird that tore at the flesh of its prey. I am that. Farfarello was also a hater of liars. I am that. And the name is often translated as 'evil ghost', a concept I somewhat resemble, as well as being mistranslated to mean leprechaun…."

"And you're Irish," she finished, nodding. "A highly appropriate choice."

He showed her his teeth in a barbaric sort of grin. "I think so."

"Do you ever use your real name?"

He felt a flash of anger, but it fled. She had not asked him what his name WAS, merely asked if he ever USED it. There was a difference.

"Only Schuldich and I still know it. He only uses it when he intends to irritate me and has forgotten the consequences of irritating me."

She nodded to that and settled down to pick all the onion slices off of her gooey, cheesy sandwich. Farfarello let her finish her sandwich and get started on her soup, allowing him time to eat one of his bread-bowls and finish half the other, before demanding, "Why did you renounce The Liar?"

She glanced up, slightly confused, and he clarified for her.

"God. Why did you turn on him?"

"Because he was an inflexible bastard with a stick up his ass who allowed for nothing fantastic and nothing magical in my world and tried to restrict me everywhere I turned. Freedom and Power. That's why I denounced Christianity and its God," she told him after a moment of thought.

"That's not the only reason," Farfarello accused, eye narrowing. "Tell me the whole truth."

She looked mildly surprised, then broke into a knowing smile. "You're good at that," she said simply, eating a bite of soup and brushing at her lips with the napkin. "I turned to The Craft because there was darkness in me that I was totally at peace with, and that was an insult to the Christian faith. There isn't supposed to be darkness in God's children if they are filled with the light of the Son. You know that as well as I do. The things I wanted to know, my rage and lust, my hunger… as a Christian, I would have to fight against those sides of my nature all of my life and be eternally tormented by them. Why should I do that? There is darkness in every human soul and my sins are a part of me. They don't hurt me. They don't suck me down into a vicious spiral from which there is no escape, like the counselors told me. They don't drown me… they are my life raft. Rage and bloodlust allowed me to kill those agents you saw when we first met, but love drove me as well. It all mixes, and it's a delightful brew, and emotions are power if only you know how to use them. I became a Witch because I wanted to live a life not ordinary. I wanted to feel the strands of fate under my fingers and twist them. I wanted to walk in magick and know all the ancient secrets there were to know. I wanted to embrace and be at peace with myself. And now I am, and GOD could never have done that for me. He would have me crawling through life on my knees, begging him for succor only so that he could pat me on the head and tell me that withholding his aid was his way of 'teaching' me. Teaching me longsuffering, teaching me patience, teaching me FAITH." She shook her head, eyes narrowed in loathing. "I have faith, thank you very much. And I have hope, and I have love. And I'm whole, not a part of me missing, everything where it is supposed to be. I am not a broken puppet on sackcloth strings."

Farfarello was grinning. He couldn't hold it back. Her hatred for The Liar did not rival his, no, but it was strong none the less, and venomous. And she hated him for good reasons, just not the same one he had. That was fine. There were many reasons to curse God. She saw his grin and offered him a hardened smirk that was almost a sneer.

"And you renounced God because he lies," she said simply, not needing to be told. "What did he lie to you about?"

"The Three Things," Farfarello told her solemnly. "Faith. Hope. Love. He made them all into lies for me and took them away from me." His lyrical accent gave beautiful cadence to his words. "And so I have replaced them with Desecration, Despair, and Hatred. These three things I will give him in equal measure until one of us goes crashing to the ground."

"You can't kill God," she said simply. "You have to know that, don't you? God is the essential animating energy of the universe. If you destroyed 'God', everything that is would cease to be."

He was about to snap at her, but she went on.

"No. You can't kill God, Farfarello. But you can sully his name if you like, destroy his image, cause him such pain that his heart twists and tear down everything precious and everything sacred to him. You can put a knife in his heart and twist. Don't argue with me, you know I'm right. Is that enough for you or are you really out to end everything? Or should I even ask?"

"All the world is made of lies," he told her sharply. "To bring it down would be the grand finale. And if that is what it takes, that is what I will do."

"You're ambitious," she said, and laughed. It was not a condescending laugh. If it had been, he would have torn her throat out where she sat and damn the consequences. No, this was a wry, resigned laugh, the laugh of one who knew the future and knew there was no changing it. He had heard Crawford chuckle like that, once or maybe twice.

He shrugged. "I am focused, and I hate. That is not ambition. That is… a driving goal. An obsession."

She smirked at him sultrily. "So tell me, devil," she purred, stirring her soup slowly and then licking off the spoon with small flicks of her tongue. She was only playing, so he smirked at her dramatics. "Are you obsessed… or possessed?"

"Both and neither."

They smirked blackly across the table at each other, her resting her elbows on the table and leaning daringly forward toward him, he leaning against the back of his chair with one arm hanging over it and playing idly with the stud in the chair leg. After a moment, they broke the stare mutually. It was not a contest, after all. Sabbath returned to her soup and Farfarello to his.

Compelling little witch. She was cunning and she danced a fine line with his temper. That might have irritated him into making plans to kill her under other circumstances, but her daring amused him. How far would it go, how deep would it extend?

How far would she trust him? It would be entertaining to find out.

X-X-X

Crawford wasn't irritated when they returned to the hotel, as Farfarello had anticipated that he might be. Instead he opened the door before Sabbath knocked and gave them a slow, knowing smirk, before courteously standing aside and letting Sabbath slip past him with a murmured greeting. He gave Farfarello an appraising look, which Farfarello ignored as he stepped into the room. Crawford's hand closed around his forearm and he stopped as the Oracle quietly shut the door.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Crawford shifted closer and spoke into Farfarello's ear. "Don't… become too fond of her," he murmured, his tone deadly and simultaneously amused. "She is a tool for us to use to prevent harm to Eszet. Nothing more."

"I am Eszet's tool," Farfarello said dully. "What does it matter what tools do when they're not in use?"

"You are MY tool," Crawford hissed. "You do as I say, you follow my orders. Keep that in mind, and go to your room."

Finding his wrist free, Farfarello stood right where he was, a slow smirk spreading across his face. Crawford might be precognitive, but his powers didn't precisely function as they were supposed to in regards to Farf. Even when he saw visions, Farfarello often moved too fast for the Oracle to react.

But he would not kill Crawford now. He needed a better excuse than the blood hunger that had just made itself known in the back of his mouth. Instead, he went to his room after having made it perfectly clear that if he didn't want to, he didn't have to. And he shut the door as Sabbath sat on the coffee table, next to her sleeping friend.

"Any change?" she inquired when Crawford made his presence known behind her.

"None," he said truthfully. "How long do you intend to wait?"

She thought that over for a moment, then said, "I don't. Give me a few hours. I'll see what I can do." She moved to the cot and lay down on her back, arms at her sides.

Crawford watched her with interest. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to go ask for some advice," she said matter-of-factly. "I'll tell you what I find out. It involves a nap, so even though I hate to impose, could you ask the others to keep it down?"

He hiked an eyebrow, then stood and straightened his glasses. "Certainly. But if I may ask… who's advice is it that you're seeking?"

"Hecate, mother of all Witches."

To his credit, Crawford didn't say a word.

X-X-X

Schuldich was mildly surprised when he emerged from his bedroom to find Sabbath lying on her back, hands at her sides, breathing quietly and looking for all the world like a vampire about to rise from her coffin. No one else was in the room. A curious brush against her mind showed activity, linear thought… not the stuff of dreams. What was she doing? Meditating? Odd posture for it, if she was. Schuldich slipped in closer and watched her carefully, becoming unnerved the longer he stared at that pale and serene face, utterly devoid of expression. Any minute now, his imagination whispered, those eyes would fly open blood red and she would hiss, showing fangs. Or so it seemed.

There was a footstep behind him. Crawford. Schuldich turned and the Oracle put a finger to his mouth, signaling him to remain silent. Schuldich hiked an eyebrow and resorted to mental communication.

What's going on? She's dreaming, but her mind is wide awake and clear.

Crawford smirked. I haven't the foggiest. All I know is that it somehow applies to her friend here, and whether she's going to have to kill him or not.

She expects to find that out in her sleep?

She said she was going to get advice. Crawford paused before elaborating. From the mother of all Witches.

Schuldich almost burst into laughter, but another signal from Crawford reminded him to shut up just in time.

The mother of all Witches? What is she on, a vision quest? He turned dark blue eyes at Sabbath and smirked slowly. I suppose I could always take a peek and see…

Don't disturb her, Crawford cautioned, but then he turned and moved away. Schuldich gave the girl lying on the cot an evil grin. There was a lot he could do without disturbing her. Kneeling, he pressed his fingers to her forehead, closed his eyes, and dove in.

When he opened his eyes, he was in an entirely different setting. To call his surroundings 'strange' would have been a gross understatement. It was night, a waning crescent moon providing milky, ghostly light through wispy clouds that meandered through the sky, matching the tendrils of fog that clung to the ground around his feet. Behind him, a fir tree forest stretched back, black and forbidding. He was standing on a wide dirt road that led out of that forest. Ahead of him, the road branched, one path heading back into the darkness of the forests and one vanishing into a broad field of tall, slightly bent grass. The behavior of the trees and the grass suggested a breeze, and a brisk one, but he couldn't feel it.

Looking down, he was somewhat surprised to find himself in a mesh shirt and leather pants. Clubbing gear, all black, in which he looked his most wild, his most seductive. Was that part of his imagination or Sabbath's? This had, after all, been what he had been wearing the first time she had seen him.

Standing where the roads forked was a woman who struck Schuldich as very odd in appearance, though at first he couldn't figure out why. Then he realized that where her head and body should have faded into sides and a back, there were instead two other faces to her. One, a middle-aged woman of great and terrible, dark beauty, faced him while the face of a young woman looked off down the path into the forest and the face of an aged woman looked off into the field.

Standing in front of this woman was Sabbath.

The young Witch was dressed in a sleeveless black robe that fell in soft folds around the contours of her body, belted at the waist with a black sash. Her hair was blowing in the phantom wind, and she turned when she saw him, face contorting with anger. She spoke, but he couldn't hear her, and he left his spot on the path to approach the crossroads, curious to hear what she had to say about this dream and his intrusion.

There was a small cauldron at the feet of the three-faced woman, which spewed the smoke around his feet, and a few other objects he could not identify. Sabbath interrupted his investigation.

"Schuldich," she said sharply, her tone imperious. "You aren't supposed to be here."

He sneered and started to tell her that he could be anywhere he damned well chose when the three-faced woman spoke. Unlike Sabbath's, her voice resounded with power, the voice of three people speaking at once. It seemed to fill the whole environment, inescapable, and it rocked Schuldich to his core. He had never believed in divinity before, not even in the God Farfarello hated so much. This was like hearing the voice of everything, like the whole world speaking, but not in a human voice.

"Let him come," She commanded. "He has the mark of the moon-touched, and all who seek answers are welcome at the crossroads." Her eyes fixed on Schuldich and suddenly he felt very, very small. His forehead was on fire as though someone had pressed a brand to the spot just above and between his eyebrows. "What is your name?"

"Schuldich." His gut clenched and he ground his teeth together. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel so rotten for lying, for giving her his assumed name instead of the one he had been born with? She assessed him quietly, and he knew suddenly with a certainty that she knew he was lying. He glared, not liking the imperiousness of her gaze, not liking being dressed down.

"Schuldich," she repeated. "You have come here unasked through the portal of my daughter's mind. What questions would you lay at my feet? Three questions, three answers, you shall have."

"I don't have any questions," Schuldich told her, scowling at Sabbath. This was her mess. She could get him out of it at any time. "I was just poking around. Your brain activity was odd," he told the Witch, and she rolled her eyes.

"That's what happens when you dream walk," she told him scathingly. "Now, get out of my mind. You don't like all the other voices being in your head, I don't like you being in my head."

He smirked. "I don't think so, princess. Your mind is an intriguing place. There's something here I rather like… I think I might settle in and stay."

She bristled, but the woman intruded. "Then you choose not to ask your questions now?"

Schuldich eyed her suspiciously. "I suppose. I already know all the answers I need, ja?" He folded his arms across his chest and stood hipshot, beautiful fallen angel, beautiful sin.

"I have my query, My Lady," Sabbath said quietly, and the woman turned her gaze to the slender Witch.

"Yes. Come, gaze into my cauldron, daughter of my sister aspect. See that which you seek. For I give you Power and I give you inspiration…"

Sabbath knelt before the kettle and the woman's hands settled on her shoulders as she gazed into it.

Schuldich was unprepared when the wind picked up, so strongly he could barely feel it against his skin even though his hair and Sabbath's were whipping around as though there was a typhoon. The fog gathered into a whirling funnel and Schuldich let out a yell of surprise that was muffled by the rushing air, the howl of which was just becoming audible, a dull, all-encompassing roar. Suddenly he couldn't see the woman or his surroundings anymore, so he flailed for Sabbath, hands finding her shoulders as he gripped her. Her voice came to him as if from miles away.

"I've got it!"

And then he was being rocketed upward at breakneck speed, terror making his heart thrum fast and his blood drain and his breath catch, until he slammed into the ceiling on that dream world and jerked away with a wild cry.

He picked himself up off of a carpeted floor, body still tightly curled in an attempt to protect itself from a high-speed collision. Jerking himself upright, he panted, lapis eyes dark with rage.

"What the fuck was that?" he snapped even as Sabbath drew in a quick breath and her eyes fluttered open. "What did you DO?"

She turned her head and saw him, and a smirk flitted across her lips. "Poor telepath," she murmured as she stirred and sat up. "Didn't you like that? It serves you right for diving into my head. I hope Hecate haunts you every night for the rest of your life."

"Who is Hecate?" He picked himself up off the carpet and brushed off his pants, lip curling as he watched her sit up and pull her shirt straight.

"The Goddess of Witchcraft and the crossroads," Sabbath told him blandly. She got up and snatched a pad of paper and complimentary pen from the end table next to the couch, scribbling on it hastily.

"So there's a goddess living in your head," Schuldich said sarcastically. "Aren't you blessed."

She ignored him, lips moving silently as she scribbled.

Schuldich made an irritated sound and reached out, cat-quick, snatching the paper away from her and holding it out of her reach. "What are you doing?" he demanded with a sneer, looking over her rounded print. "Quartz, spider web, bell, sandalwood… witch's shopping list?"

She glowered at him. "Spell components. Give it back."

He smirked and waved the paper above his head. "Oh, I don't know, sweetheart. What's this for, anyway? Something to get your friend's soul back in his body, I'd wager." From the flash of her eyes, he knew he'd struck home. "Do you really think this can work? Magic isn't real, sweets. You might have repressed psychic power, but you're no Witch."

Sabbath flared, snarling at him. "And you're a blind idiot with a god-complex. Give me my list before I tear out your throat."

Schuldich's eyes narrowed and he relaxed somewhat, tone deadly. "Careful who you threaten. I have no problems with popping your head like an overfull balloon."

"And I would bring you down with me," she promised, teeth grinding together as she circled him slowly.

He sneered. "Unlikely. Come, then, pretender. Get your precious spell if you can reach it."

Her smile was quicksilver and her lunge was too slow. He slipped to the side and batted her away, but she took the blow on her shoulders and twisted, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her feet tangled with his and he went down with a yelp and a thud, clenching the paper list in his hand where she couldn't get it. Even as he hit the ground, he lashed out at her with his mind.

Sabbath's body jerked and she screamed in agony, writhing on top of him, half trying to escape and half trying to attack. He increased the pressure, filling her mind with the voice of every man, woman, child, and dog in New York City, making them a cacophony that overwhelmed her with madness and pain. She threw herself backward, raising layer after layer of shields between herself and the voices, but Schuldich tore through them like tissue paper and swept them aside.

Dimly, he was aware of someone shouting, someone who wasn't the witch. The next thing he knew, the back of his head met the wall with a painful crack and he lost his concentration, and the screaming stopped. He slid down, groaning, and opened his eyes just as Sabbath staggered to her knees and threw herself at him, nails and teeth bared, pupils contracted to deadly pinpoints, letting out that same enraged, coughing yell that he'd heard from her back in the ally.

She was caught as if she was a giant rag doll and held still as Nagi stalked over and glared at the both of them. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded of Schuldich. It was obvious, from his expression, that he thought the telepath was at fault, despite Sabbath's feral growls as she struggled to free herself from that telekinetic hold.

"She attacked me!" Schuldich protested, hauling his aching body off of the carpet.

"Yes, I noticed," Nagi said dryly, folding his arms across his chest. "What did you do to deserve it?"

"Oh, fuck you, chibi-Crawford," Schuldich growled, brushing off his pants and jacket. He noticed the balled-up paper in his hand and flicked it at the stationary Sabbath, bouncing it off of her hair. "Fuck the both of you," he muttered as he stalked toward the door, slamming it on his way out.

Nagi raised an eyebrow, then appraised Sabbath curiously before slowly letting her down. She crumpled on the carpet and then struggled to her feet, looking decidedly pale. Blood trickled from her nose and ears. "I would introduce myself," she said shakily, "But if you don't mind, my stomach hurts." She made her unsteady way toward the bathroom and Nagi nodded. He knew very well what the aftermath of one of Schuldich's psychic attacks felt like. He went and sat down in one of the chairs, closing the bathroom door behind Sabbath so he wouldn't have to listen to her throwing up.

She finished quickly, and when she stepped out of the bathroom, she was steady again and there was no blood on her face. She looked pissed, and Nagi couldn't blame her. He was fairly certain that the telepath had provoked her attack just to have an excuse to take her down a notch or two.

"Good evening," she said a bit stiffly, stooping to pick up the ball of paper. "We haven't met. I'm Sabbath."

"Crawford told me about you," Nagi said politely. "Nice to meet you."

She nodded. "Thank you. For interfering, I mean. That would only have ended in someone's death, I'm afraid, and I don't think it would have been Schuldich's."

Nagi smiled faintly. "You seemed pretty sure it would be Schuldich just a moment ago," he said conspiratorially.

Sabbath returned the expression. "Yes, well," she said, her tone dryly imperious. "When I'm pissed, I'm a bit of a hellcat. He's stronger than me because in a fight I only have my physical body to rely on, and DAMN but he's fast . . ." She shook her head ruefully. "It hurt. I didn't believe it could hurt that much."

He nodded sympathetically. "Never make assumptions where Schuldich is concerned. I learned that the hard way." He straightened his jacket and tilted his head, azure eyes blinking slowly at her. "Crawford told me you were here," he amended, "but he didn't tell me much about why. You have a sick friend we're protecting and there are some very nasty people after you who could also threaten Eszet. That's about the gist I got." He tilted his head, obviously inviting her to elaborate.

She smiled warmly at him and smoothed her list against her thigh as she sat down on the coffee table. Seeming amused by this, Nagi sat in the chair. "They're called The One," she began, and with the same intensity and cunning concentration as Crawford, tinged with quite a bit more innocence and curiosity, Nagi listened.

X-X-X