Chapter Ten
The trap is sprung. Twice.
Oscar slipped quietly down the alleyway in the direction of the meeting. The scent of dumpsters and waste filled the alley, and a few shallow puddles threatened his shoes. Somewhere overhead, along the rooftops, was Fantisma - hopefully.
Peter's call had come in later in the afternoon. Lucinda had reached out to him, and he'd made the discount offer Oscar had suggested (
insisted on
). A meet had been set up for 7 pm that night. A flurry of texts with Zoey confirmed that Fantisma would be able to make an appearance - and that she'd bring a cold iron dagger, to be able to finish off the Succubus when the time came.
The plan - such as it was - was that Oscar was to get into the meeting, and then, when Fantisma arrived, cover Peter to get him out, trying to incapacitate the succubus' acolyte, if the opportunity arose. Fantisma and Lucinda would battle, probably with a dazzling display of witchfire and telekinetic power versus a flaming lash and poisonous claws, until Fantisma was able to press the advantage and finish the creature off with the cold iron dagger.
That was the
plan
.
Coming to where the alley met a laneway, for delivery access, Oscar hesitated. He wasn't sure if he was the first to show - and didn't want to spook the succubus or her acolyte by arriving unannounced. He stole a glance around the building and observed the back of Peter's large, grey van, backed into the lane.
Good. At least Oscar wasn't the first one here. As he pressed his back against the building, taking a moment to breathe, he felt in his pocket - his little surprise was still there. That gave him some reassurance. He chuckled; he was bringing a figurative knife to what was probably going to become a literal
fire
fight.
A few moments later, he heard the click of heels on the pavement. It was similar, but distinct from, Fantisma's heels - not that he'd have said that to
her
.
He glanced around the corner again. Zoey was right - Lucinda, the creature, was
stunning
.
She was tall, taller than Oscar -
but
was in knee-high boots with challenging heels. She wore a tight pair of leather pants and snug black turtleneck, but was in the process of throwing a cloak around her shoulders. Her skin was a burnished tan, and her hair a coppery-red, tumbling down past her shoulders in waves. Her makeup favored her brilliant green eyes, and her plump lips formed a cupid's bow. The corner of her lip curled up just slightly, as if she was smiling lightly at some joke she was remembering, her mouth slightly open, as if lightly talking to herself. Her age - or,
apparent
age, as this appearance would only be a clever glamor - was betrayed only by a hint of silver at her temples, laugh-lines by her eyes and framing her smile; all serving to augment her appeal, rather than detract from it.
Oscar felt his jaw set.
He glanced back to the van - it hadn't moved, and the doors hadn't opened. The creature looked around, her eyes studying her surroundings - and Oscar pulled his head back around the corner. Enough looking - another look, and she'd almost certainly spot him.
He hesitated. He could step out, reveal himself, play it like he's also here to meet Peter. Or, wait until he heard the doors to Peter's truck, then step out, so Peter could back up his cover -
if
Peter went his way.
"Hello there," a confident voice called. Lucinda's voice was dark, and deep - a voice of maturity, confidence, and experience, yet with a pleasing, harmonic tone.
He was made. Time was up.
Oscar walked around the corner, his arms held up, palms towards the creature, revealing he had no weapon; he held his face in a slightly shameful smirk. "Sorry, sorry," he said. The succubus stood with her right hand on her hip, under her cloak, and her left hand holding the cloak's edge.
With a smile, Lucinda nodded to Oscar, saying, "Oh, why hello there. Who are you?" Oscar glanced at the succubus, making sure to see her only with her peripheral vision, avoiding her gaze. He had to be cautious; with more than a few moments of eye contact, the creature would sense his experience - but
avoiding
eye contact had the potential to tip Lucinda off, too.
"Sorry, uh," Oscar shuffled forward a little, trying to put on a show of timidness. "I'm - I'm Bryant. You're - you're Lucinda, right? I saw your circles, through the graveyards around. They were really tightly drawn."
Lucinda brought her left hand out from under the cloak, and gave a light laugh, bordering on a giggle. "Why, thank you," Lucinda said. "Peter has been working hard on them."
Oscar's blood turned cold as ice.
Peter
had made Lucinda's circles?
Peter
was the acolyte?
The back of the van opened up, and Peter sneered at Oscar. The young man, with dark hair, was holding a Glock in his hand. Oscar shook his head. He was no longer one of the hunters - he'd become the
bait
.
"Pleasure to meet you,
Bryant
," Lucinda smiled. Oscar glanced over to her, and as their gaze brushed against each other, he felt a warm comfort slide over him. Her smile was bright, and pleasant, and filled Oscar's field of view. He struggled a moment; his stomach flipped, and a fog moved in around the edges of his mind. The nagging feeling that he was forgetting something - something important! - played at the edges of his thoughts.
Lucinda crossed the distance between them, and Oscar felt himself smile at her. He fought the fog moving across his mind. "You've lost someone, haven't you, Bryant?" Lucinda continued, taking another step towards him. Almost immediately, Oscar felt tears well up, as he nodded.
"Too many," he answered, choking on his words. He struggled, as faces from his past drifted through his mind. He struggled, trying to pry his attention away from Lucinda's gaze, struggling to redirect his attention back to the
gun
, back to finding a way to warn Fantisma that they'd lost the upper hand.
His left thumb throbbed, under a sharp pricking sensation. Relieved, he extended his hands towards Fantisma - no, wait; not Fantisma.
Lucinda
.
Wait,
Oscar forced himself to think, through the fog that was covering more and more of his thoughts.
What the hell is going on right now?
The
pffst
sound of Fantisma's first green-yellow witchfire bolt raced past him, as Oscar struggled with Lucinda's will, struggling to wrench back control of his mind. Lucinda turned with a snarl, and Oscar felt his stomach drop. The feeling of knowing Lucinda was no longer reaching out for him made him wonder if he'd done something wrong - even as he fought to find Peter, get him to cover,
come to his fucking senses
. The succubus' power was
intoxicating
, literally; Oscar struggled to bring his will to bear against it, and the only immediate result was a sudden, sharp headache.
Oscar staggered, as he heard what
sounded
like an explosion in the air above him, but close by. He forced his eyes closed, and re-opened them, trying to focus - and saw Peter, coming hurtling towards him. "Hey, wait," he mumbled, but then buckled, as the younger man's shoulder caught him in the chest, hurling him to the ground.
The feeling of pain when his face hit the pavement gave Oscar a moment of clarity.
Fantisma
. He had no idea where either Fantisma or Lucinda was. He could hear Fantisma's voice, as she called out something, but was partly drowned out by a primal
hiss
from Lucinda.
Then he felt the distinctive, and uncomfortably familiar, feeling of a gun pressing against the back of his head, and heard the
cha-clunk
of the slide. He heard Peter's voice, loudly calling out, "I'll fucking do it!" and then,
silence
.
Oscar inhaled slowly. The Dark Power was
so close
, right beside him, right
there
, easily within arm's reach. He could rot Peter where he stood; he could wither his arm so that lacked even the strength to pull the trigger, his legs so he fell to the ground; or, forcibly pry his soul from his body, causing him to fall to the ground dead. A few words, a hand gesture ...
Oscar exhaled slowly, and he heard Fantisma's boots settle onto the pavement. He was wrong - they sounded
nothing
like Lucinda's. "Him for you," he heard Lucinda say.
There were other words, but Peter's heavy breathing obscured them; the young man murmured continuously, under his voice "Fuck, motherfucking, fuck, do it, tell me to do it," he repeated to himself.
Quietly, Oscar asked, "... have you ever killed anyone, Peter?" and he felt the gun
press
into the back of his head.
"Stop fucking talking," Peter hissed. "Fuck you. Stop fucking talking."
Oscar nodded, scraping his cheek against the asphalt. "It's hard, man. It's hard. Harder than you think. Gun, or magic, or knife - Peter, it
costs
you. Don't. You don't want to do this. If she wants me dead? She can kill me."
Oscar closed his eyes as Peter pressed the gun forcefully into his head. The bridge of his nose pressed into the asphalt. "I said
fucking shut up
, shut up."
Oscar heard a heavy, metallic
thunk
, about five yards from him, and then the clatter of a knife dropping to the asphalt. Peter laughed, pulling the gun away from the back of his head. Oscar didn't miss the opportunity; his eyes snapped open, as he whipped his legs towards the sound of Peter's laughter.
He had seconds - less - to take in all the information. Peter's ankles had gone out from Oscar's kick, but Zoey - not Fantisma, but
Zoey
- was standing in the alley, in her white blouse, with a tan skirt an inch above her knees. She was also wearing a heavy, dull-looking metallic arm binder that pinned her arms behind her body. Peter's gun was falling to the ground, and Lucinda ...
Lucinda was gone. In place of the attractive sexagenarian, there was a creature, like a feminine nightmare; widened hips, heavy breasts, with black-red flesh, and bat-like wings. In her right hand was a burning lash, and in her left, a cold iron dagger - Fantisma's cold iron dagger. Her head was turning towards the falling Peter.
Oscar didn't have time to think. He was already in motion, springing to his feet, surging forward, following the path of the gun. He heard Zoey yell, "Oscar,
no
!" but he didn't have time to obey. If he was getting out of this alive -
and he was
- he needed to get the gun.
He caught the pistol - a Glock 19 - being cautious not to put a finger on the trigger. His foot hit the pavement, and he
