Hot Box Dumpster: The Torn Web

Hot-Box Dumpster, Chapter 3
The Torn Web

"Written laws are like spider's webs; they will catch, it is true, the weak and poor, but would be torn in pieces by the rich and powerful." -- Anacharsis

         Yseult croons along with the radio as she drives -- in fits and starts -- along Dalhousie Street. The traffic's bad, as it always is in late November -- not because of the great volume of travellers on the road, but because of the unpredictable way people wander out to cross the street and because drivers constantly drop across all three lanes of the one-way street to turn, park, or double-park their cars. She taps manicured nails against the steering wheel, restlessly.

         Yseult sings to keep herself distracted; otherwise, there's a good chance she'll lose her temper and lash one of these miserable morons with mage-fire. Of course, that would be stupid, and she prides herself on avoiding wasteful inanities. there's little chance that her hapless victim would be a mage, or even sensitive enough to be affected directly by magic, so she'd be obliged to spend her energies recklessly to force the spell through. The only reason she is out here is because her reserves are mostly expended.

         She'd been to visit Jake, first, and that had been satisfying in its way -- Yseult licks wine-red lips at the memory -- but he is almost useless now, aside from the physical diversion. She has taught him to extract scraps of power from others -- but he has become annoyingly confident as a result. His attitude bothers her -- and his knowledge is so limited, he is no real help.

         She sighs and pokes the radio when the announcer comes on. Obligingly, it shifts to another station, rock blaring out of all four speakers. It suits her mood, as she cruises down the street -- searching, always searching, for those who won't be missed; tiny sparks of life which will probably be snuffed within the year, invisible people who everyone half-expects to find dead someday. For now, Yseult contents herself with these morsels -- as she suspects others must -- but as her sports car purrs eagerly down the street, she is planning, laying out threads of information in her mind, trying to find her way clear to her goals.

         She is like her gleaming sports car: all fire and drive inside, concealed by a sleek and elegant exterior. Even now, dressed casually in jeans and a red silk blouse, it is obvious that Yseult has great wealth: her blouse is tailored, her jewellery is fine gold, and her tanned skin is flawless. She looks every inch the pampered beauty: only her eyes, cloudy blue and secretive, give any hint that she is more.

         She has finally finished reading the last of her father’s grimoires – a leather-bound book hidden in her purse on the passenger seat, as potentially deadly as an unexploded bomb. It had taken her weeks to even locate the seventeen books after his sudden and convenient death. However, it had never occurred to her until far too late that his various servitors and allies – many of whom are fortunately described at length in his journals – would, depending on their natures, rebel, flee or drift away after he died. And to further complicate her problems, many of them had never known her father by name – he’d bragged at length about this habit – and therefore, won’t recognize her as the logical heir to his authority. Yseult notices a slight furrowing of her brow, and consciously smoothes it away – but in her heart she curses the fog-headed fae and their twice-damned habit of rejecting mortal life – of living so far outside reality that they become pained by it. Now she needs to find a way to weave his former allies back together, and she’s not entirely certain how he managed the task in the first place since he never detailed his conversations, only his observations.

         She reminds herself that she is well-suited to the task. All she really needs is a source or two of power – just to get her plan started – and she can convince one of the smaller gangs of nightmares into helping her, or perhaps capture the attention of one of the more powerful Elementals – although that last holds risks, particularly since her element is Fire. Those Elementals have slipped their bindings before – and when they do, they can cause a lot of damage. Once she has a few tokens to play, though, Yseult knows she can take the City easily. And to do that, she needs someone no-one will miss.

         Suddenly, like an answer to her dark prayers, a girl bolts from an alleyway ahead, running as if pursued by horrors. The girl – under the dirt – seems fairly young; if there is already something chasing her, people will have a ready explanation for her death. The same applies if she’s been using drugs. And if she is mad instead, if the monsters are only in her mind, no-one will care if she disappears for some time – indeed, Yseult would prefer her to be mad. She’s noticed that the mad sometimes approach true magic.

         All this passes through her mind in a flash, but Yseult loses track of the girl when a snarl of traffic demands her attention. With a slight hint of distaste, she pulls into the next available spot. To get there, she cuts off a battered cab, but the driver is just barely alert enough to avoid hitting her car. She doesn’t pay him any attention. Instead, she leaps from her car, locking the door behind her with the touch of a button on her keychain. He curses behind her, but the traffic swiftly forces him onward.

         She may not be able to catch up to the girl easily, but a more elegant plan is already unfurling in her mind as she saunters towards the alleyway. Luck continues to be with her: it is not a thoroughfare, but is a cluttered nook. Yseult surveys the grey and yellow mess with satisfaction from the entrance, without treading into the filth. No one here, neither man nor creature, which might mean the girl is insane and might only mean that who-or-whatever it is has no reason to stick around.

         Yseult steps just into the alleyway, carefully, out of the way of pedestrians, and casts one of the first spells she’d learned. Gradually her sight shifts from just the visible scene to include the Sight which allows her to sense energy patterns – and magic. Through a shimmer of heat-haze, the only indication of her sturdy shields, she surveys the squalid little nest, picking her way deeper into the alleyway.

         Nest is the right word; the girl had been denning in the far corner, like a feral animal. Dispassionately, Yseult surveys the fading patterns of the girl’s aura, memorizing the fractured pattern of blue, gold, and red. It is distinctive and sharp, surprisingly clear – but vanishing quickly as the girl abandons her connection to this place.

         Unlikely she’ll be coming back, then. For now, the girl will probably be hiding – difficult to find. But soon she will have to come back downtown. Yseult smiles to herself and turns to go – and kneels suddenly, eyes lighting on a golden Zippo. She picks it up – not engraved, and only the faintest impression of its former owner – not the girl, someone else.

         She stands up again, slipping the lighter into her jacket pocket. Her smile is now that of a hunter with the prey in sight. She knows the perfect tool to use – and the beauty of the plan is the girl will provide most of the payment for her own capture; more importantly, it will also be the start of a useful association.

         As she heads back to her car, Yseult congratulates herself on her efficiency.