The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 117: A Christmas Eve Curse

Chapter 117: A Christmas Eve Curse

Samantha traveled thru the early afternoon streets of Mayfair in a surly mood, trying to shake the stench of that old witchfinder off her nice clean clothes. The coming victory had a bittersweet taste, and fell away from immediate importance as she sought out any establishment still open for the holiday shopping, and a washroom where she might regroup.

                Spotting a small sewing supply store, she darted in and whisked away to the lou, magicked the door close against prying interlopers, and checked herself in the mirror. After some light cleaning and refreshening with an aerosol odor repellant, she reapplied her make up and adjusted her hair, then grabbed the counter with both hands and made a forceful sigh.

                The she opened her eyes, and waited.

                Slowly, the reflection of the washroom disappeared and instead revealed, like a monitor, her "prodigy." Her little automation, her masterpiece, her "clockworks" wound to precession and setting forth with extreme pleasure and accuracy the goal for which she had been made. And none-the-wiser that she had a creator, or a beginning, or wasn't alone in her pursuit of the demon. Unknowing and unaware that without the constant implantation of the witch's persona transplanted inside her, she would fade away. It was only when she became weak that the knowledge sprang on her like a trap, and then the mother would have to intercede once more. But, the witch smiled to herself, finally allowing herself to revel in the thing's pursuit, that will not happen today.

                She slid her manicured finger along the surface of the mirror and it changed viewpoints. Now she saw the demon stumbling around in desperation, watched him fall apart, and his hysterical attempt to bind his eyes, and then the others finding him. So much glee peeled from her throat as a tinny laugh that she had to compose herself when her chest started to hurt.

                Well, enough of that.

                One more swipe of her finger and the reflection returned to normal. Sighing again, reluctantly now that her fun was over, she now withdrew a compact, opened it and tapped the small mirror inside.

                And a filthy looking ragamuffin duke appeared, deceiving in his disheveledness for his capacity to harm. He looked dull-witted, and impatient, and his soupy eyes hid the utter fury hidden underneath just waiting to be unleashed if she didn't perform her services as they had agreed.

                It took some time, and a few close-calls as he demonstrated to her with waking nightmares and near aneurisms what might await her failure, and she had to reassure him: the target would not prematurely expire before his wings were obtained. Things were not going too fast; she was preparing for two possibilities. Either the demon would die in agony, and after she overcame his witch vanguard at the cottage she would obtain them and then pursue the angel, who would be easy pickings once his poor excuse for a devil lover was out of her way. Or, and this was unlikely, they would revive him, lulling him into false security and giving her ample time to properly follow the original plan.

                "But your haste may have cost us the full potential of his power," Hastur snarled.

                "A little work and it can be recultivated once you have the wings," she gasped, trying to pull herself off of the floor. The headache receded, the hallucinations faded from her eyes, and she trembled and pulled herself up to her feet. With considerable effort, she looked back into the compact, avoiding looking directly into those eyes, and threw him a glassy smile. "You must be bendable in my line of work: things do not always go according to plan. You must strike when the iron's hot."