The smaller man hummed to himself and pulled his ragged coat around his slender frame. He had put on weight in the last few weeks and no longer looked emaciated and wasted, but the lines of his face were still lean and unhealthy. The larger man put a bowl of soup in front of the smaller, steam smelling of garlic and spices and savory broth, clinked the spoon against the porcelain bowl.

“You must eat, my friend,” the larger man said, his voice not unkind, “You’ll do our purpose no favors if you wither to skin and bones.”

The smaller man released his hold on his coat, his long, thin fingers reaching toward the bowl. “Will we be finished soon?” he asked, his voice high and thin and worried. He picked up the spoon, slurped at some of the soup.

“Oh no,” the larger man said, “But we have enough strength to…make a demonstration, I think.” He sighed, deeply, “An announcement of intent. There are those who would challenge our plans. Meddlers. People who think they know what’s best for this world. We should let them know what we’re capable of now, because we will only grow stronger in time.”

The smaller man nodded, his head bobbing up and down more vigorously as the larger man spoke. His hair, long and lank, flicked around his head until the larger man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Finish your soup,” the larger man said, “Then we’ll begin.”


————

Morgan couldn’t quite decide what to focus her attention on. The rod - the magic wand, an [i]athamae[/i], burned in her senses, distracting and delightful, like the smell of a favorite meal when you haven’t eaten for a week. It caressed and teased at those deep and primal parts of her mind, gentle but with a almost irresistible allure. She felt drawn to the wand - or to the power the wand had clearly channeled - and that fact left her deeply curious. There were many things Morgan still didn’t completely understand about herself, things she’d learned over the long years to live with. But here, now, she felt that she wanted something - in an almost mechanical, compulsive way - and she didn’t know why. She might not know everything about why she had been brought to this world, but she certainly hadn’t given up on the idea of finding out.

Cat Baker, on the other hand, intrigued Morgan in a different way. Terrified at first, but slowly opening herself to questions, to acceptance, to believing that the men and women around the table believed her. Morgan watched as Cat’s shoulders relaxed, as her spine straightened. She felt the subtle changes around Cat as her breathing evened out and her hands stopped shaking. The grief and heavy sadness were still with her, but as Morgan watched, she saw the desperation, the hopelessness start to slide away from her. Her thoughts and emotions became less tightly-wrapped around her, and they brushed and flickered against Morgan’s own psychic senses, feather-soft touches of desire and curiosity. With well-honed discipline, Morgan kept herself from reaching out and pulling on those bursts of desire. All the same, whenever Cat’s eyes met hers, she felt her control almost slip. 

“Um,” Cat said, after Robert finished speaking, “Cat. My name is Cat. Even my dad hasn’t really called me Catherine since I was in high school. But um…the two by my apartment? They…one was wearing a long coat, and he seemed sort of hunched over, like he was hurt or he was carrying something. And…there might have been something glowing, maybe. Like a lantern or one of those old camping flashlights…”

Emmaline’s breath brushed against Morgan’s neck, a soft murmur of words while the others listened to Cat. She felt the electric tingle of the woman’s presence, felt her precise, ordered thoughts suddenly closer than she had expected. Emma whispered, and Morgan listened - both had been drawn to the [i]athamae[/i], though very likely for different reasons. Morgan turned her head, brought her lips to Emma’s ear.

“There may not be much to find, but perhaps Robert will surprise us,” Morgan whispered, “The runes are…sort of a mess. Some of the shapes look like Enochian letters, but…Shiloh will probably know more. I think Mandy’s right, we need to-“

From outside the conference room, the sound of something hard hitting the ground echoed, the sound a sharp blow against the quiet conversation. Cat looked up, her expression confused. Morgan’s head snapped around with a predator’s speed, eyes focused on the door.

“What was that?” Cat asked.

“Amanda?” Jacob called, his voice gently chiding, “Please be careful out there.”

No reply came from from the room outside. To those with magical senses, the air pulsed like the beat of a vast and distant drum. Treacle-slow, the tension of directed will and power filled the air. 

Morgan stiffened, her hand shifting on the table, palms flat on the tabletop and the back of her chair.

“Amanda?” Jacob called again, his voice tight. He stood, made his way around the table, his boots thumping on the hardwood as he headed for the door. Morgan rose, arrived at the door just as Jacob did.

“Emma, come with me,” Morgan said, her voice tight, “Something isn’t right.” She followed Jacob out of the room, her footsteps quick and precise.

“Mr. Miller, Miss Staten, I would appreciate it if you would join me in keeping Miss Baker company,” Sol rumbled, a look of deep concern in his eyes, “Perhaps we should turn our attention to this wand…”

Morgan followed Jacob only a pace behind, the two moving in fast, purposeful silence. There were maybe twenty steps between the conference room and the larger area where Amanda had been left to her own devices, but each one felt like a small infinity. She reached into her jacket, snapped the clasp on her shoulder holster, wrapped her fingers around the familiar grip of her pistol, held it low and ready, one thumb rolling the hammer back in a smooth, easy motion. The feeling of eldritch power pulsed through the air again, more directed this time, a lance rather than a net. She saw Jacob swallow, felt his fear, anxiety, the desperate love for his daughter, the soul-deep anger for leaving her alone.

Finally, the pair came around a corner into PHI’s main office, and a bizarre sight met their eyes. Amanda’s chair had fallen on its side, but she was standing on Jacob’s chair, a black marker in her small fist. Her arm moved in short, mechanical jerks, like a broken automaton, and the tip of the marker squealed against a laminated map of the city. Thick, ragged letters scrawled over the plastic, not in any child’s handwriting. After a moment, Amanda apparently finished her work, and the marker dropped from her hand. The little girl turned, her feet shuffling, until she faced the investigators. 

Her eyes were wide, hollow, and lines of red lanced across her sclera, the veins bloodshot or burst, and stared up and to one side at nothing. Her body seemed hunched, as though she couldn’t quite stand up straight, and her hands, now empty, were slack. Her mouth opened with the exaggerated movements of a poorly-operated puppet, her jaw crackling as the joint popped and her mouth moved.

“Do not meddle in what comes,” Amanda said, her high voice distorted and thick, “The balance of power will change. See that we can touch you where you work, where you live. Our power is without bound. ”

With that, the pulse of energy faded, the lance of will and power dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. Amanda blinked, her feet shuffling, her body relaxing from an almost seizure-tight tension. She blinked, looked around, and one hand went to rub her eyes.

“Daddy?” She said, “I don’t feel good.”

Then she collapsed, tumbling off the chair, landing on the floor in a tangle of arms, legs, and pink boots. Jacob ran forward, tossing his gun to one side and scooped up his daughter, checking her pulse, his fingers probing for broken bones.

Morgan took a step forward, weapon still held low and ready, her eyes darting around the otherwise-empty room, the power she felt lingering in her senses. She looked at the map behind Jacob’s desk, saw the thick, black scrawled letters, uneven and ragged.

[b]THE SHAMAN HAS COME
THE SHAMAN IS HERE
THE SHAMAN CALLS[/b]