You are holding a piece of black parchment, glancing down at a message inscribed in gilded gold, the lettering flowing with curls and flourishes.
To the esteemed Mister Warren West, Destroyer,
You are cordially invited to the estate of Mister Edward Crenshaw, Illusionist, for a gala to be held on Saturday, the fifteenth day of July, two thousand and twenty-three, at eight o'clock in the evening.
Black tie attire. Please RSVP.
Such invitations are a dime a dozen for you. Thinking about it, you probably receive at least two a month, if not more. Wizards and their galas, their constant need to show off wealth and status and power – all things that you have an abundance of, but no desire to parade around. There’s no need, when everyone already knows your name. When the mere mention of you makes even the most seasoned of wizards pale.
But, it has been a while since you’ve made a public appearance. You don’t like to, not really, but to vanish completely off the face of the planet would be a hindrance more than anything else, so you decide you will go.
You don’t RSVP. You never do.
On the appointed night, you follow the instructions laid out on the invitation to create a portal to the Crenshaw estate, and step through into a foyer with dark marble floors and pale stone pillars. There is art in gilded frames and statues lining the entryway. Ostentatious. Gaudy. The host is showing off.
A young woman off to one side of the room starts at your appearance, a full hour and some change after the start time laid out on the invitation. She opens her mouth to say something, to perhaps scold you for being disrespectful, but then she looks at you. Really looks at you. You watch as realization dawns, and a subtle panic begins to seize her features. Like a frightened animal staring down a predator.
“M-Mister West, how good of you to join us,” she says. She changed her tune quickly, didn’t she? It’s no less than you expect, but now that you’re looking at her, following her down the hall while she stammers something about having you announced, you recall that Crenshaw has a daughter, doesn’t he? Ah, now the reason for your invite makes so much more sense.
Power and legacy are the currencies in these circles, and you have more than most. It serves you well because it means people are willing to look the other way more often than not, but it also means that plenty of them want a piece of what you have. How many proposals have there been? How many hopeful fathers shoving their daughters your way? You’ve lost count.
You are led to a pair of double doors, through which you can hear conversation and laughter and music. The girl slips through and a few moments later, another voice declares your name to the crowd. All of them go silent. You can feel the tension from here, and it’s so very satisfying. The doors swing wide to admit you, and you are met with a sea of anxious expressions, fear and curiosity in equal measure. Your eyes sweep the room, and you make sure to fully catch the gaze of at least one or two people, if only to watch them flinch and turn their gazes away. They always break first. You don’t even have to try.
Eventually, Edward Crenshaw himself scurries up to you, an absolute rat of a man with a mustache and salt in the pepper of his hair, to catch your attention for a little while. The room seems to be able to breathe again in that moment, now that you’re not scrutinizing them all. The music comes back up, and conversation resumes.
You do not enjoy your night, just as you thought you wouldn’t, but it’s an unfortunate necessity of who and what you are. The people who do not watch you warily from a distance slither up to offer favors and niceties, to see how brown they can get their noses before you tire of their uselessness. You even deign to spend a little time with the Crenshaw girl on your arm, if only to give her father a little sliver of hope that he might worm his way into your good graces where so many others have failed. An Illusionist is a useful thing to have in your pocket, after all.
The wave of invisible force slams into you hard enough to make you see stars, but you still have enough wherewithal to mentally reach for one of the spells tattooed across your back. It’s like flipping a mental switch, and you can feel a familiar strength flood your body, making you more durable, harder to hurt.
Which is just as well because half a second later you go careening through a wall. It doesn’t hurt too much, thanks to the spell you managed to activate at the last moment, but you’re still reeling from the hit. Something warm pours from your nostrils, and as you try to force air back into your lungs, your mouth is flooded with the taste of copper. Bastard broke your nose.
You have precious little time to worry about that right now. Bounding through the hole you’ve left in the wall is a wolf – bigger than any real wolf should be, its fur black as night, save the sheen of crimson around its muzzle. Oh, this is so far from any ordinary animal. This is a Summon, a creature born of magic, who still remains tied to the very source of that power, and on the other side of that connection? James Randall, a man who has lived for a thousand years, the scourge of wizardkind, and your mentor.
Former mentor, you should probably amend.
He brought you out here to this old house in the woods for some sort of lesson, or so he said, but now his true intentions are quite clear: he means to kill you. You won’t pretend you hadn’t considered the possibility. You’ve watched James pick up and discard plenty of others in the couple of decades that you’ve been with him. Still, some part of you had dared hope that this was different, that you were different. Apparently not. No matter how much you hoped this man might take the place of your father, he has only ever seen you as a tool.
You scramble to your feet to bolt out of the room, just as the Summon bears down on you, teeth catching the edge of your jacket. You shrug out of the garment and leave it behind, taking to the hall at a dead sprint for the front door, propelled by fear and adrenaline and the magic pouring through your limbs.
“Oh, Warren,” says a voice behind you, far too close for your liking. It is so calm and cold, that voice. If James was trying to sound pitying, it’s undone by the layer of ice in his tone. “I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to do this.”
A plume of dark smoke shoots past you, coalescing into the shape of the Summon in front of the door. The wolf’s haunches are up, its teeth bared. You stop short, nearly tripping on the living room rug, and wheel around to see the figure of James Randall looming toward you. He’s a tall man, not quite as tall as you, but he still seems larger than life. A man made of myth and legend, and lifetimes upon lifetimes of unspeakable deeds. And you helped him. You hoped to be like him.
James looks at you, features twisting into a sneer. At first glance, the only emotion in those brown eyes is contempt, but you know him well. Perhaps too well. Perhaps that’s why you’re here now, running for your life from the one person in the world you thought you could trust. Deep, deep in that gaze you catch it – just a hint of fear. You haven’t outlived your usefulness, you’ve outgrown it, and he sees in you someone he might not be able to control. The realization makes something in you snap, and the icy grip of fear becomes something white hot and sharp and angry.
You straighten, wiping the blood from your face with the back of your hand. You can feel the wolf behind you practically breathing down your neck.
“Oh, no,” you say. Every muscle in your body tenses, you’re coiled tight and ready to spring. “We are doing this.”
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🥂 GALA
🐺 BETRAYAL