Pacts and Portents

At 413 Maple Lane there stands a tiny, old commercial building, one of those infinitesimally small places one usually meets in the Old World, hidden away at the end of some three-feet wide Spanish alleyway. It is not a pretty sight. It has shoddily painted, moss-backed walls, its door is old and worn, and there's hardly anything on display. There is a large wooden plaque hung over its window signifying it as one Mr. Bill Setag's Used Hardware Store.

That plaque has decorative swirls and dots on it. In the ancient language of Enoch, which very few people read today, the swirls and dots spell out the words: "Misters Livewire, Matchlock and Blunderbuss: Professional Abominations, Vile Tempters & Demons-At-Large. Open Weekdays 9:00-25:30."

This, then, explains why there is a humongous winged demon inside.

Sometimes extraordinary people have extraordinary problems. Extraordinary problems require extraordinary solutions. The proprietors of this company provided those. St. Germain consequently visited there often, since he felt that he was such an extraordinary person that all of his problems were also extraordinary by definition. Even when he basically just had a flat tire or a bad hair day.

"I'm so sorry, your Lordship, but we can't be of any service," said the humongous winged demon. "We're not allowed to do any more business with you."

"What? Come on!" St. Germain said, adjusting his sunglasses. "I mean... there's a rule about this, right? You've simply got to help me, don't you?'

The two were sitting in comfortable fake leather chairs in the office at the back of the building. The demon, a respectable employee of said firm, leaned across its desk, looked at St. Germain sternly over its spectacles and then tapped its pen on the table in a way which made it feel much more assertive. One has to show who's in control when dealing with these apes, it always said.

"No. We don't. According to our records, you Lordship, you have cheated Hell out of gaining possession of your immortal - not to mention immoral - soul no less than twelve..."

"I never cheat," St. Germain protested.

"...hundred times. Mr. Livewire, Mr. Matchlock and Mr. Blunderbuss are being laughed at in Hell. Laughed at. This is a serious matter for my employers. Satan himself giggled at them and said to "just carry on". Your Lordship, Satan normally does not giggle at anybody. He's a gentleman. He is, indeed, the Prince of Darkness.'

'I see how that could be a problem, yes,' St. Germain said, in his best fake sympathetic tone.

'We're all very upset.'

'But still I need a six-pack.'

'Well, you're not getting one.'

'No, no, no. Not a regular six-pack. Something a bit more... exotic.'

'Then, sir, you're definitely not getting one.'

'Three bottles? Two bottles? A glassful? Help me out here. I'm a regular customer. I even have a bonus card.'

The humongous winged demon threw a stern glance at St. Germain and sighed deeply. Dealing with this guy was so depressing. Right now he would've preferred the simple comforts of getting burnt alive in Hell. Office jobs, it was sure, had been invented by one of his people.

'We don't use bonus cards, your Lordship, and like I've repeatedly said we are not going to strike a deal with you. But just out of curiosity, what is the exact nature of this...'

'Half a glass? A thimble? I'll make it worth your while. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die... eventually.'

'... substance, this elixir, that you are after. You mentioned only that you need a large quantity of it. Your Lordship is a renowned alchemist. You wouldn't approach the representatives of Hell if you weren't looking for something very much... out of the ordinary. Something like a Philosopher's Stone. A vial of Azoth. Malik's Immortality Ointment. Agrippa's Secret Philtre. Something like that, something worth taking the considerable risk of coming here and putting your soul on the line.'

There was a small silence. The two measured each other.

'Am I correct?' the demon asked.

St. Germain shrugged and leaned back, smiling. He secretly liked it when humongous winged demons complimented his reputation. It was, in modern terms, kinda cool. Now they were talking business.

' Almost correct. It's nothing that spectacular, really,' he said in a meandering tone. 'The stuff I'm looking for is something I can't synthesize myself because there are too many random factors in the equation. We're talking about a tincture, or a straight mixture, really. It has a very precise chemical balance and there is, I'm given to understand, very little magical work involved in the creation process. Like fine wine, it needs specific surroundings to come out properly. That, along with the fact that I need this substance speedily and in large quantities, makes it impossible for me to make it on my own.'

'I understand, your Lordship. May I ask what is in it?'

'Well...I'm not entirely sure. I know most of the ingredients, yes, but...you must understand that the exact composition is a tightly kept secret. This is standard policy, I understand, among the people who make it. Competition for such secrets can be fierce.'

The demon nodded very patiently.

'To the best of my knowledge, though,' St. Germain explained, 'it is made out of water, sugar, aromatic substances, carbon dioxide, colourings, preservatives and the like, caffeine, various herbs and spices, and a particular brand of nut.'

The demon's exterior remained calm and collected but the little vein in its forehead swelled a tiny bit. It grew a bit redder and tapped its pencil on the desk again.

'Would that be the cola nut?' it asked in a very calm, collected voice.

'Yes.'

'Your Lordship is describing a fizzy drink.'

'Ah, wonderful. You understand, then,' St. Germain said, visibly relieved.

'No. I'm afraid I don't,' the demon said through gritted teeth in that warm, friendly tone which suggested that St. Germain would very soon be kicked out of the premises.

'Thing is,' St. Germain explained, 'there's this really cool movie coming up. I've got no drinks, though. You can't watch a good film without something to drink. I need a bottle of cola.'

'Maybe you should consider buying one?' the demon suggested.

'No, no, no. Not that kind of cola. This is exclusive stuff. This happens to be The Best Cola In the World.'

'The Best Cola In the World?' the demon repeated, astonished.

'Yes.'

'Something of a rarity, then?'

'Most definitely. They're imports, you see. In space as in time. It is rumoured that this cola is so fizzy one can leave it out for days and it won't get stale. It handles temperatures well. Its taste, they say, is just the right balance. It's so great one needs to taste it to believe it - it's the surreal thing, one might say. At least as far as fizzy drinks go. I mean... there's not all that much difference, is there? Connoisseurs say they can taste the difference, but, well...I've always been more of a whiskey person myself.'

The humongous winged demon sighed and considered for a while.

'Your offer is quite tempting, your Lorship,' it finally said.

'It is, ainnit? A great arrangement. Just think of the praise you'll get for nailing a soul. And I'll get my cola in time for Saturday evening. Everyone comes out happy.'

'Well... maybe I could...' the demon began, hesitantly, like a pre-teen being offered a cigarette. The clerk demon, having spent some time on Earth, had learned much about what humans call chutzpah. Common sense told it that St. Germain was up to no good. Nobody was willing to sell his soul for a bottle of cola unless they were playing a rigged game. Still, the proposition was far too good to ignore. When one is a relatively minor devil in the most unimpressive Infernal Legion in all existence, one tends to feel a lot of pressure for career advancement... and claiming St. Germain's soul would've meant a whole lot of career advancement.

'Just this time, right? You're a demon. Real demons take risks. No one will ever know,' St. Germain said, giving the demon his very best fake smile yet again. He often insisted it his best weapon. Sadly for his arsenal of weapons, this was usually very much true.

'Alright. Alright, your Lorship. But I must insist that the terms of the agreement be appropriately unfair.'

'I've no problem with that,' St. Germain said.

'Excellent. One thing, your Lorship. I can't offer you the cola directly. I have no power to conjure things. I am only a minor servitor. The orders I've been given preclude any arrangement between you and my employees. This means that this deal will be between you, your Lordship... and me. And such a pact I will make only for the possession of your immortal soul.'

'I understand,' St. Germain said, very much trying to hide the fact that he was grinning like a maniac. The demon found this somewhat unnerving but decided to press on anyway.

'This, then, is what I offer. I will give you access to our Oracle, who knows much and sees far. You may ask the Oracle where the cola is, who guards it, and how you might gain possession of it. But this information comes with a steep price. You must offer the oracle a proper blood sacrifice, and I will claim your soul once you have taken possession of the bottle... provided you reach that far.'

St. Germain pondered this for a while.

'I suggest a revision. It is conceivable that someone steals the bottle after I've physically taken possession of it. It might break before I can drink it. Anything might happen. So I propose that you will claim my soul after I've finished with it..'

'Hmm. Very well, then. Once you have drunk the contents of the bottle to the last drop, your soul is mine for the taking.'

'It is agreed, then,' the alchemist said. 'Let's draft an agreement. A proper, binding one. And then let's see that oracle of yours.'

---

The cellar was damp, cool and dark. Heading down the stairs, one could almost feel a peculiar draft whistling through the entire building. Cobwebs and dust lingered everywhere. Strange carved statues, exotic wares, old books and assorted curio lay in haphazard piles around a large black pedestal at the centre. It dominated the entire chamber and upon it was... something... covered by a dark satin cloth.

'This is it. Time is a trick thing, so we mostly use the Oracle to get ahead of things, so to speak. Be careful of what you ask, your Lorship,' the humongous winged demon said. 'It can be a little... quirky. Its ways are strange and even I do not fully know its mind.'

It removed the satin cloth, revealing a dessicated human head. The severed monstrosity rested on a black pillow, its eyes shut. The sickly, heady smell of roots, berries and herbs lingered all over it and St. Germain could make out stitch marks on its yellow, cracked skin. It was obviously very old and very, very dead.

'Your head oracle, you say?'

'Quite. A very ingenious servant. We have many. One might even call it our head oracle head.'

'Ah. A capital fellow, I'm sure.'

'That he is. He's a bit moody, though.'

'Not a complete head case, though?'

'No. Mr. Matchlock insisted that he should have a good shrink.'

'Mm-hm. Shall I do the honours?'

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The sacrifice first.'

St. Germain nodded and stepped to the pedestal. There was a tiny brass cup there. The sorcerer very calmly drew a small pocket knife, cut the palm of his hand and let the blood trickle into it. Then he sutured the wound with a clean handkerchief and lit some frankincense sticks. There was a strange sound and slowly the oracle opened its eyes.

'I invoke you, Oracle. I am the Count of Saint-Germain, the Immortal Alchemist,' the sorcerer said formally.

'I know of you and your quest,' the Head Oracle said, though the voice did not seem to issue from its mouth. 'You have trucked with the Devil. Though you court destruction and your quest is selfish, it is also daring and pure. You seek the Best Cola In The World.'

'This I do. Can you tell me how to gain possession of it?'

'I can aid you with visions. To see into the future is difficult.'

'I have paid. Speak.'

'Yes. Heed me then, mortal,' the Head Oracle croaked in its unearthly voice, 'To complete your unholy quest you will need to temper fortune. To do this, you must lay a balance. Know this: your symbols are the Fool, The Emperor, and The Alchemist. You are the catalyst, the changing of ways. The stars smile at you, for you bear the mark of the One A Hero Could Not Slay. To make your quest whole you will need to find two companions - one a Sage, the other an Innocent. With their aid you may succeed. Remember this. Two companions. One of them a Sage... and the other an Innocent.'

'I see. Now answer me this question about the present, Oracle. Where lies the Best Cola In The World?' St. Germain asked.

'It is in the possession of men who are not men,' the Head Oracle intoned.

'Yes. I'll come to that in a moment. I meant, where is it physically?'

'Seek the Secret of the Star-Dwellers in the Babylon of Angels.'

St. Germain sighed, and turned to the winged demon.

'May I?'

'Let's try not lose our heads about this, your Lordship,' the demon said.

'I can't make heads or tails out of what it's saying. This is rather important.'

'Well...'

'Alright, then,' the wizard said, walked back to the pedestal, grabbed the Head Oracle by the remnants of its hair, raised it up into the air and shook vigorously. Bits of dandruff, loose skin and dust flew into the air and formed little clouds.

'Look,' the alchemist said in a friendly tone which suggested he definitely wasn't bluffing, 'I wouldn't like to make this complicated. But if I don't get what I want pretty soon, I assure you heads will roll.'

The Head Oracle stared at St. Germain for a moment, calculating its chances. The wizard tightened his grip.

'Los Angeles,' it said in the speedy-yet-calm voice of someone who's being held at gunpoint. 'There's this inpregnable Martian base near there. The little green buggers have the cola stored up in a vault. I have no idea why they want it.'

'Ah. The Martians. I'm not surprised. They can operate virtually undetected there,' St. Germain said and grinned. 'Now we're getting somewhere.'

There was a tense pause.

'Errr. Could I have a smoke or something?' the Head Oracle asked.

McGruder was, on the whole, not a cheerful personality.

Every morning he would wake up in his filth-encrusted bed. And every morning he would lay still, watching the stained roof to no end. Then, when he got around to it, he would slowly get up and slouch to the bathroom. There he would gaze at the cracked mirror and examine his image, absent-mindedly and with complete detachment, like a zombie or a sleepwalker.

He would see a ruined man staring back with dead eyes. Tattered dreadlocks, gaunt face, greyish skin and sunken cheeks. He would look at the image for a long time, wondering what it's like to feel. Something. Anything. McGruder looked as hollow as he was. Had he been a building, he would have been a ruined one, with no walls, with nothing, merely a collection of ancient, rusted steel girders holding firm against the raging of the elements for a reason nobody can remember. His face was unmoving, like stone, and displayed no emotion.

Eventually he would go into his cocroach-infested kitchen and scavenge himself something to eat. Often this was a sandwich. Sometimes it was something grander, like pre-packed fast food. He would prepare it with mechanical, emotionless gestures and munch on it without enthusiasm. Sometimes it tasted better than usual, but McGruder didn't care. Things as a whole mattered little to him. For the rest of the day he would sit in silence, watching the world rust and corrode around him and the walls of his dirty apartment close in bit by bit by bit. Sometimes he would sit and stare at the silent walls. Sometimes he would sit and stare at the cobwebs. Occasionally he'd see a fly or a moth getting caught and eaten. This would occasionally stir some long-lost instinct in him and he would wade through the nameless, faceless crowds on the streets and, if he had the change, purchase himself some food.

McGruder wasn't a exactly what you'd call a people person.

One day, as he was sitting and staring blankly at the cracked walls, his rusty old doorbell rang.

He stood, swaying as if the effort was almost too much for his body to shoulder, and very slowly dragged himself to the front door. Then he stared at the doorknob, lost in thought, until it finally occurred to him that opening it might be a good idea, or at least kind of what was expected. He did so, tentatively.

'Hi there!' St. Germain said, beaming. 'Man, what a lovely morning. Sun is shining, birds are singing. A lovely day to start an unholy quest.'

McGruder shrugged. 'Hi,' he rasped, his throat only barely forming words. He once had had a rich, dark, baroque voice, but it was now hoary and dry.

'Pack your bags, buddy. We're going to Los Angeles. A demonic oracle told me there is a secret martian base there and they have a bottle of cola I want.'

McGruder stood still, staring at St. Germain with glazed eyes.

'Okay,' he said.

'Lovely,' St. Germain said and helped himself in.

A good thirty minutes later they were sitting in McGruder's kitchen, drinking some home-brewed coffee. St. Germain had insisted that they go and buy a fresh bag, because he didn't trust the foul-smelling stuff that grew on side of the bag McGruder already had.

'So, you have tickets. But according to these, the plane leaves in only a few hours,' McGruder said hoarsely, his throat still angrily protesting the idea of making noises. 'If what the Oracle said is true, you'll need another companion. An Innocent, right?'

'Right you are,' St. Germain said and sipped from his cup. 'But don't worry. I think I have that covered. I just need to use your apartment for an hour or so. It might make a mess.'

'So, you have somebody in mind?'

'Oh,' the wizard smirked. 'I think I know just the right girl for the job.'

A good half an hour later St. Germain was sitting in McGruder's kitchen and looking out the window. It had begun raining outside. When exactly St. Germain didn't know. He had been too busy drawing chalk lines and scribbling names on the floor.

Now he sat watching the water make lines on the window. Pondering his plan.

Maybe this is pushing it. He could take risks - big risks - if it seemed worthwhile. But if this went wrong or if the demon clerk realized what he was trying, his plan might go straight to Hell... along with him. He had little or no idea what it would be like to actually do that, and he had no wish to try it out. Besides, what he was going to do now could attract Satan's attention. Satan could be a stroppy fellow. It was alright to scam minor demonlings for pocket money, but the alchemist preferred not to deal with Old Nick if he could avoid it.

He knew the clerk demon wouldn't go to Satan, wouldn't even go to its bosses, for backup. But he was still worried the thing would catch on and try something. There were definite risks here.

Oh, well. Who dares wins.

St. Germain walked to the pentacle and raised his hands. As the first guttural syllable came out of his throat the very world itself seemed to come alive.

---

Somewhere far, far, far away, in a place that defied space and time, two creatures were intently watching.

'I believe he is going to go through with it,' Mirroreyes said.

'Meoww,' the Sky Cat said, wagging her tail.

'Yes. He is good. But I wonder,' her host agreed.

'Mwaaaau,' answered the Sky Cat.

---

St. Germain stood before the Unholy Pentacle, his hands raised and his eyes closed. The entire room seemed consumed with fire and brimstone. Winds struck at the room. Gouts of fire spewed forth from the chalk lines. The Gate twisted and turned. The words of summoning echoed in his mind, sounding alien and strange even to himself. It was not a human language he was speaking, and every syllable burned his throat.

Then, the markings were suddenly lit with a brilliant light, which went out as soon as it had come to life. With it went all the other lights, and the the room was plunged into utter and complete darkness.

There was a long silence. St. Germain could've heard a pin fall in the blackness. He dug a cigarette out of his pocket.

'Light, please?' he said.

There was a metallic click, and a spark right in front of him.

'Thanks. Hi, Imp. Nice lighter.'

'Hiya,' Imp said. 'Ooo. Cool place!'

'It belongs to a friend of mine. Listen, Imp, how would you like a free trip to California? I'm paying.'

'Sure thing. Do I get to pick the hotel?' Imp said, shrugging.

'Sure. Err, Imp?'

'Yeah?'

'When will the lights come back on?'

'No idea. Normally it's something like ten to fifteen minutes but it depends. I'm not good with electronics. Used to be, but you know how it is. Progress progresses, and stuff.'

'Okay. Want coffee before I clean this place up?'

'Coffee! Yeah, I could use a cup,' Imp said. They went to the kitchen.