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After all, I wished for nothing to be capable of harming my people. Ever. And the incubus grants all, everything I ask from him that is within his power.
She didn’t seem to mind at first, but over time, it escalated.
July 28, 1885
I cannot say plainly whether this town is or is not better off without Mr. Ernest Pembroke, but the bastard bled out and died after his mysterious accident that cost him the inadequate tool between his legs that he had taken out after my tailor, Maurice, told him no, because he hadn’t bothered to pay yet.
The incubus admits to his involvement. He always does. He has never lied to me. But he also told me he cannot grant my newest wish that he be less vicious in his methods. He seems detached from it, which is frightening, to say the least. I have known him to be a good partner, and I thought a good man, but perhaps I only saw what I wanted and willfully ignored that this creature, from the very beginning, had horns.
I noticed then that Mattie only ever calls him “the incubus”. She doesn’t use his name. I don’t know if that was to distance herself or to protect Odai somehow, but she sounds reluctant to be rid of him, and I don’t think only because she was selfish and wanted to succeed. She cared. About Odai. About her community. About her seamstresses and tailors.
But as the entries continued, Odai was becoming more and more demanding of fulfilling desires Mattie couldn’t seem to keep up with. When I could barely stand to read more was when Odai came in and almost caught me with the journal.
I haven’t had the chance to go back to it, but it doesn’t matter now. I know enough. There is a catch to having Odai in my life, and like he tried to warn me, I need to ask the right questions to get the right answers. I have no idea where to start, but the only mystical element in my life besides Odai sprung to mind this morning.
The Magic Shop.
It’s Tuesday, so while I don’t usually have the day off, there is rarely much for me to do before lunchtime. After making sure Cas and Mr. Bevilaqua didn’t need me for anything, I headed across the street.
Inside, met with the usual incense and old book smell, I start by scouring through the mythology section for anything on Babylon and Mesopotamia. Finding the origin of what we eventually dubbed incubi is in this section, because one of the very first depictions of one is Lilu, the father of Gilgamesh. As in probable king, possible deity, epic hero Gilgamesh.
I know Lilu wasn’t Odai, but that story is as old as he is, so old that everything from that time is best guesses anyway. It’s in the mythology section for a reason and has so many conflicting accounts of pretty much everything that I realize quickly I am not going to find actionable answers in old Sumerian texts.
Or through Google, which I tried last night and this morning.
Worth a shot!
Maybe if I ask—
“May I help you with something, young one?”
The Owner makes my heart leap into my throat—again—just there, right as I am about to head out of the aisle.
He looks the same, dressed in the same suit and top hat, like every time I see him. As if he were Batman or something, I wonder if he wears the same thing every day or has a closet full of identical outfits.
“Um… maybe?” I inch my way toward where he is effectively blocking my exit. “I’m looking for something. Answers to something. But I don’t actually know where to start or how to find those answers. Which probably isn’t very helpful for you.”
“On the contrary,” The Owner says. “I know exactly what to do in cases of seeking elusive answers. In fact, I am surprised you do not, young one, given our last encounter.”
I frown at him. Our last encounter is when I traded him Mattie’s tarot card.
Tarot.
“You mean, like… a Tarot reading?”
The Owner produces a deck, seemingly from nothing behind his back. “Precisely.”
“How much?”
“Oh, for a simple reading, we can consider it on the house. We are neighbors, after all.”
Somehow, following The Owner out of the book stacks to a more open area still feels like being led into a den of hungry wolves. There are patrons around besides me. There are never any other salespeople or workers here that I can tell, but he doesn’t seem concerned about that as he focuses on me and leads me to a table near a door into the back.
I’ve always wondered what was through that door, but I envision a warehouse like the one where they stored the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark—impossibly endless.
We sit across from each other at the table, and The Owner shuffles the deck. He could be a Blackjack dealer in Vegas, he’s so seamless at it.
“May I ask you something?”
