Chapter 4: Of Owls and Chickens

Rigal Phenex

Gotham, NJ, USA

I blinked away the tears, doing my best to empty my mind. In my hands was the enchanted chalice used in the phoenix tear creation ritual. It was easily one of the most valuable things I owned, literally priceless considering the worth of each individual vial of phoenix tears.

It was also the bane of my existence.

I poured out the new batch of miracle medicine into my bottle of antifreeze and tossed the cup aside. “I fucking hate doing that.”

“Not gonna lie, I didn’t think the name was so literal,” my little brother said from the couch. He had a smug, shit-eating grin only younger siblings could pull off.

“Shut up, Max. Here I am, making a living for us with my literal tears. The least you can do is show some sympathy.”

“Boo hoo. I’ve seen you regrow your entire head in a second. You’re just whining for the sake of it.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean the ritual isn’t a pain in the ass.” I grabbed myself a bag of chips and plopped down next to Max. It was now the seventeenth of July and he was acclimating remarkably quickly. “What are you watching?”

“No clue, something about a Brazilian engineer who leaked military secrets over a chat group. He fled to Germany. I don’t know, man, there’s something about a girlfriend who murdered someone in here too. Is this normal?”

“Sounds like your average trashy TV drama.”

“Yeah, but why? This is so stupid though.”

“You’re watching it, aren’t you? It’s all for views. People like to watch the misfortunes of others, especially when said misfortunes are self-inflicted. It’s fake so you don’t have to show empathy; you can just laugh and say they deserved it with zero guilt.”

“Huh.”

“It’s nice to turn your brain off at the end of the day. Shows like this remind people that their lives could always get worse and they’re not the dullest tools in the shed.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

We sat watching that garbage for about fifteen minutes. Then, a pulse of magic tugged at us both.

“Was that a summon?” Max asked.

“Yup, and a strong one. Even I felt that.”

“So they’re extra-greedy, right?”

“They’d probably prefer the word ‘ambitious,’ but yes, pretty much. Wanna tag along?”

“Yeah. Could be another Zsasz scenario. They might be desperate.”

“Look at you, being all heroic.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

X

We appeared in a cloud of orange feathers, the usual Phenex fanfare. In front of us was a man in the twilight of his middle-ages, possibly late forties or early fifties. He was bald, with a glass right eye that gave him a distinctly deranged appearance.

Most notably, he also wore a canary-yellow gas mask. It clashed horribly with his bespoke tuxedo, white shirt, dark vest, and onyx-black bowtie. He looked like he was hosting a black-tie costume party dressed as a painter. I had a feeling I knew who he was.

That feeling only increased when I took in my surroundings. The space was as large as any ballroom I’d been in before, with the kind of luxury I’d seldom seen in the mortal world. Sure, the gold wallpaper was tacky as hell, and the marble busts with gemstones for eyes were a bit much, but “luxury” didn’t always mean “good taste.” It honestly looked like something Uncle Revel might put together for one of his “after-filming soirees.”

Myself, Max, and the old man were on stage. The audience was composed of similarly well-dressed people. Silk dresses and tuxedos dominated the scene, though every last one wore a set of gas masks. Rows of chairs had been provided for the audience and I could see that the second floor balconies were likewise occupied.

“Ah, and so our dear guests have arrived,” the bald, old man said. He spread his arms in the universal sign of welcome. In his hands were the torn halves of my summoning circle. “Greetings, devils! Is it true that you grant wishes to those who possess your sigil?”

I noticed that we were surrounded by a ring of salt. Cute. Credit where it was due; he seemed to have put some thought into this. He probably read too much into old demonology books; those things were more likely to be full of shit than actionable intel.

Max and I looked at one another before shrugging. My kid brother took a half-step back, ceding the contract to me. I had a good idea of who our client was, so I decided to play along.

“That is correct. I see that you’ve acquired one of my summoning circles. However, possessing one is not enough. The one who calls upon me must possess ample desire and ambition,” I said, projecting my voice for the audience. “Well? Who are you, and what is it you demand of me?”

He shook his finger as if to a child. “Ah, alas, I am a man of some learning, Marquis Phenex. You will have to try harder than that if you wish to coax my true name from me. You may call me the Dealer for the duration of our interaction.”

I nodded. He was who I thought he was. Etienne Guiborg, the Dealer, one of Batman’s minor villains. In the comics, he had an auction house that sold weapons, drugs, and other contraband to the wealthy. He was also supposed to be the cult leader of some idiotic church that thought evil was humanity’s “divine spark.”

In other words, completely forgettable. He didn’t even worship a dark god or demon lord, just the inherent evil in humanity.

The fact that he called me “Marquis Phenex” was telling. He'd done enough research to identify my sigil; I'd only named myself as “Tweety” on the bookmark. He truly thought he was speaking with the original devil of the Ars Goetia, not a descendant, whereas a demonologist of any real competence would have been able to tell I wasn’t anything near as powerful as a true demon lord.

“Very well, Dealer. I must admit, usually, people who summon me prefer to do so in private.”

“Alas, my dream is bigger than a single treasure or favor, marquis,” he chuckled darkly. He slipped his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out six more bookmarks. “You see, I am something of a businessman and this is an auction I run for those of means and… ambition.”

“Interesting. You are marketing my services then? And here I am, a devil, proving that the summoning circles are genuine.”

At some unseen signal, two men in gas masks dragged forward a man who obviously did not belong. He wore a threadbare jacket and ratty jeans. He smelled a little off, as though he’d not seen a shower in days, likely homeless then.

The man too had been fitted with a gas mask. I remembered that Batman, or maybe Nightwing, had tried to infiltrate this place in the comics, only to find that the air was filled with sedatives. The paranoid, and frankly idiotic, security measure was utterly worthless against devils but it told me exactly the kind of man the Dealer was.

The homeless man saw the blazing wings behind me and began to struggle mightily.

“Now,” the Dealer laughed giddily, “slay him! I, as your summoner, command you to demonstrate your power! Strike him down where you stand!”

“Please tell me this isn’t what you normally do,” Max whispered behind me.

“Of course not,” I whispered back. Then, louder, I said, “Aren’t you skipping a few steps, Dealer? The summoning circle does exactly that; it summons me. However, a contract has not been signed as of yet. You have not offered payment for the death of this man.”

The Dealer glared with crazed eyes. He waved his hands, gesturing at the vents. “You are standing in salt! The air is filled with vapors of holy water on top of our usual sedatives! You must do as I demand!”

I laughed at that. I allowed my power to fill the room. Though I was nothing compared to my father, I was not so weak that an upjumped merchant of death could intimidate me.

“Fun fact, Etienne Guilborg, yes, I know who you are, most demonology books are utter nonsense. Hell, I’m pretty sure we’re the ones who propagate the misinformation,” I said with a carefree shrug. “Now, seeing how I have a captive audience, please allow me to explain how this contract works.

“First, the salt doesn’t work.” With that, I took a pointed step, crushing the grains of salt beneath my loafers. Fire ignited around the circle, rendering it all worthless.

“Second, holy water is contingent on faith. There is such a thing as divine magical power. When used by a man like you, it’s no better than saltwater.

“And finally, we devils hate being told what to do. However,” I continued,” I admit there is some worth to what you are doing here. Marketing is the foundation of any good business. Your audience came to see my power, yes? Then let them see.”

With that, the rest of the room ignited. The temperature skyrocketed as columns of fire barred the exits. People began to panic. Guns came out and bodyguards put their charges behind them, for all the good that would do. How fortunate for them; they weren’t my target.

I reached out a hand and brilliant hellfire answered my call. The Dealer and his two cronies managed a single shriek of terror before the fires of Hell consumed them. When I finished, the homeless man stared up at me in abject horror. I’d always emphasized control over power and Aunt Ravel always said I shouldn’t cremate innocents.

I stepped forward and gently removed the gas mask. He’d begun to hyperventilate, allowing the sedatives in the air to fill his lungs all the faster.

“Sleep now. It’s all a bad dream,” I whispered gently.

Then I turned back to my audience. These were the wealthy elite of Gotham, those who had their fingers in drug and human trafficking rings, sold weapons to gangs, and helped perpetuate the misery of the city. Killing them all would be troublesome, but perhaps I could gain something from this night.

Perhaps, I could gain everything from this night.

“Now, the Dealer is known to me. Ladies and gentlemen, it seems you have been promised a show, an auction, was it? Very well then, let there be an auction,” I said with a genial smile.

“W-What do you want? We have money,” someone said from the front. She was an attractive-enough woman, with a form-fitting evening gown that probably cost more than most people made in a year.

“From you, dear madam? Nothing, nothing save what you are willing to pay. We devils value fairness believe it or not.” I began to point people out for my brother. “Max, do you mind capturing the auction house staff?”

“How am I supposed to know who they are?” Max asked.

“They’re wearing the same gas masks that the Dealer wore, come on now.”

“Fine, whatever. You gonna roast them all?”

“No, just one or two. Got a problem?”

He shrugged. “Their boss started it.”

I picked one mook at random and began to demonstrate the miracle drug known as phoenix tears. I burned off his arms, gouged out his eye, and tore out his heart. Each time, a single drop of my tears was enough to bring him back to full health, sound of body if not of mind.

When he finally expired, I held my arms out, much as the Dealer had done before. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the efficacy of the phoenix tears, demonstrated with excruciating detail. Now, shall we begin the bidding?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

X

The Dealer called his auction hall the Mirror House. From his notes, he believed that the auction hall was a place where “human nature was mirrored for all to see.”

“How pretentious,” I scoffed. I looked out over the rest of the staff, twenty-two that I hadn’t burned alive. I never said it, but the new management was obvious to all. “I am hereby renaming this place the Phoenix Roost. Any problems?”

Understandably, there were none.

“Lovely. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, you will be compensated for running this auction house.” One of them raised his hand tentatively. “Yes, Tim?”

“Ah, Rob… sir…?”

“Lord, technically, but I don’t care. ‘Mr. Phenex’ will suffice. I also answer to Tweety.”

“D-Don’t you… need to go back to Hell?”

“Hmm, no, no I don’t. Let’s say I’m in the mood for a little entrepreneurship, yes? And how fortunate for you; I’m hiring.”

I took stock of the mooks. Most were remarkably normal. Three of them worked in the kitchen. One was the Dealer’s accountant, while two more handled administrative tasks. Another was effectively their marketing coordinator. Fifteen men handled security matters, with four of them acting in a less than legal capacity.

Of those fifteen, we found that two of them had ties to black market trafficking rings, particularly illegally harvested organs. I left them to Max. It wasn’t hard to get the rest to agree to abandon that avenue of business.

The long and short of it was that Max and I now had a new home, the Phoenix Roost. Once a month, or whenever I chose, we would host an auction for the elites of the city. The proceeds of these auctions would be used to compensate my new mooks. The Roost also doubled as a place to keep my magical artifacts, whenever I got around to hoarding them.

Eventually, I knew I’d have problems with the cult. Guiborg’s cult lacked any true patron, but they were at least nominally aware of magic. They had ties to the more sinister aspects of the magical community and reveled in causing chaos and “inciting evil.” For example, they liked to pawn weapons and drugs to the gangs to spark gang wars for no other reason than because they could.

I had no doubt that some of those birds would come home to roost one day. While most of the staff simply liked the money the Mirror House provided, I assumed at least a few were insane like Guiborg. More than likely, his security personnel or his accountant would do something that would require me to purge them all.

If that was what needed to be done in the future, so be it. But for now, I had the Dealer's little book of blackmail, his contacts in the gangs and the black market, and what few texts on magic I didn't throw out for being garbage. It wasn't anything I’d consider a proper collection, nothing compared to the Phenex library, but it was a start.

Of those texts, the real treasure was a book titled, Harnessing the Shadows. Guiborg’s notes were laughable, tellingly inexperienced. That said, he’d managed to use the book's contents to put up a ward around the auction house that prevented others from pinpointing the location without a great deal of focus. It was likely how he’d remained out of Batman’s clutches for so long.

I decided to keep the ward up. I had no affinity for shadow magic, what with me being so closely aligned with fire, but I couldn’t deny that the ward was useful. The Phenex grimoire had a few I could use as well, but my family’s wards tended to prefer fiery punishment rather than avoidance.

X

Max and I spent the past two weeks embedding ourselves into Gotham City’s underbelly. When he wasn’t fulfilling contracts, I had Max track down different suppliers around the city, dismantling their operations if they engaged in human or organ trafficking. The “Devil of Gotham” looked a lot like an angel at times, which probably said a lot about this city.

While he was doing that, I flipped through the Dealer’s little black book. I visited each person he had blackmail on and gave them the chance to buy back their blackmail. Some were wise enough to sign that contract, establishing what I hope would be a fruitful business relationship.

Others, most, were not so wise. They insisted on assaulting me, which only proved that their blackmail now belonged to someone who couldn’t be killed. I was pretty sure I’d made an enemy of the Court of Owls, but I couldn’t find it in me to care; their Talons were laughably bad at their jobs. Or maybe they were fantastic and growing up with a Pillar Lord for a father and an ultimate-class peerage for my private tutors gave me a skewed sense of competence.

All in all, I’d ended up with a fair bit more influence than I’d expected when I took over for the Dealer.

I dodged out of the way as Max flew by me. Maybe musing on my newfound holdings was poor manners in a sparring match, but I couldn't help it. He was so very predictable.

We'd once again soared out to sea for our daily spars. I didn't doubt that there was some League surveillance over us, but that was fine. I was trying to send the message that I was a reasonable devil after all.

“Sloppy,” I told him. He fought like Superman, which was to say, like a flying brick. That was fine against most, but I wasn't someone who could be overwhelmed with brute strength.

Just to prove a point, I reinforced myself and met his next charge head-on. I felt my arms strain as I caught the proverbial bull by the horns. He was stronger than me, but not so strong that I couldn't trounce him through experience and skill.

I grabbed his left arm and twisted my whole body in the air, hurling him towards the sea. Then, I formed a gun with my fingers.

“Hellfire Sparrow!” I called.

A massive fireball formed in front of my finger before it shaped itself into the bird that lent the technique its name. It flew down towards Max with a chirping song that bellied its power.

Max ignored the way he crashed into the waves, a bone-shattering force for anyone else, and rose quickly into the air. He tried to juke the oncoming fireball by flying parallel to the waves but the bird followed him doggedly.

“Fuck you!” he cried. He figured he couldn't out-maneuver the attack so he turned and shot his heat beams at it.

The semi-sentient fireball met his eye-beams and detonated prematurely. The blast sent a towering column of water into the air and caused Max to ragdoll, directly into my fist.

This was already a great improvement. That I felt comfortable enough with Max's combat sense to hurl hellfire at him was a good sign. Sure, I could do much worse than one measly fireball, but he’d come a long way in just a few weeks. I was proud of my little brother.

Still, I quickly reached out and tapped his throat. “That's my win.”

“Again,” he slumped. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You're ignoring the stances I showed you for starters. I know that we can fly so things like leverage seem redundant, but they're not. If anything, those techniques I showed you are even more important when two flyers meet.”

He gripped his hair in frustration. “You said that, but it's like my mind goes blank when I start fighting. I'm wired to fight like Superman and it's not good enough!”

“Superman doesn't fight people who are his physical equals. Usually, he can just out-muscle any of his opponents into submission. You're a bit stronger than me, but not so much that technique stops to matter.”

“I know…”

I patted his shoulder. “Cheer up, little brother. Superman isn't getting this kind of training. You'll eclipse him before long.”

“Yeah, you're right. Say, Rigal?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you do that? You know, name your moves. It sounds corny as hell.”

“It's a mnemonic thing,” I said. Then, at his look of confusion, I added, “Magic is one part power, one part affinity, and one part imagination, remember? Me naming my spells is the ‘image’ part of ‘imagination.’”

“So by thinking of what you want, and naming it after a bird, you can make the fireball behave like an actual bird?”

“Exactly.”

“Then what's my affinity? When will I be able to do that?”

“Well, that's why you're fulfilling contracts and training, so you'll have the mana to make your own techniques. But the fireball thing specifically? Probably never. The Phenex clan doesn't have a monopoly on fire magic, but we do have a much higher affinity for that and air magic than most.”

“Shit. That blows.”

“Not necessarily. That just means you can develop spells I've never seen before. Who knows? You might surprise me.”

“Yeah! You're right. Watch me, Rigal,” he said with a childlike grin.

He was so easy to please. I hoped he never lost that eagerness and sense of wonder.

“Good. Let's try that again. This time, keep those martial arts forms I showed you in mind.”

“You got it.”

X

I appeared in the foyer of the Powers Manor. I knew my client already, one Joseph Powers, a high ranking member of the Court of Owls. He was waiting for me, sitting down on a sofa with two tumblers of whiskey poured out for us on a coffee table.

“Please, sit, Marquis Phenex,” Joseph said with a welcoming smile. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a balding hairline and a potbelly, but had a frame that had once been athletic in his youth. “Might I interest you in some scotch? Nineteen sixty-nine, now that was a good year.”

I took the seat and the tumbler with a gracious nod. He’d been there when I’d immolated the Dealer. Since then, all the Gotham fat cats called me “marquis.” I found it funny, a constant inside joke that told me just how little they actually knew about devils.

His ignorance aside, Powers was as devilish a human as I’d found, a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. Though the Court had ruled Gotham from the shadows for centuries, that didn’t mean they were always united. They certainly weren’t the sorts who held hands and danced around a campfire singing Kumbaya.

As I’d come to learn, they were ruled by the mysterious “Judge of Owls” and the Grandmaster of the Court. I didn’t know who the current Judge was, but the current Grandmaster was a man by the name of John Wycliffe. Other than those two, I wasn’t clear on their hierarchy, but I knew that each member jockeyed for position.

And then came me, a true-blue devil. I offered medicine that could fix seemingly anything. I offered immense physical and magical power. The so-called “elites” rushed to get me on their side. I received countless offers of enormous sums of money, illicit and experimental drugs, youthful virgins, and more in the past two weeks in exchange for exclusivity.

Yet, Powers was unlike the others. It was only two weeks later that he’d decided to approach me. He’d allowed his cohorts to make their mistakes. He’d gathered information and bided his time. Rather than be drawn in like moths to a flame, he’d taken the cautious path and observed, treating me like a new player in the game. Again, perhaps the most devilish human I’d met.

I took a sip. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the scotch was poisoned, but it was not. A smoky aroma filled my nose. “Hmm, you’re right, Powers. This is good.”

“Are you a fan? I could acquire another bottle for you.”

“No, that’s quite alright. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to jump straight to business. What is it that you want of me?”

“A straightforward kind of man, I can respect that. My nephew was mugged and got shot a few months back. He is in recovery, but I would prefer that he gets back on his feet as soon as possible,” He said, swirling his tumbler to stare at the amber ripples.

It was an innocuous request. I suspected that was the point. Whatever affection he had for his nephew, the primary goal of this exchange was to establish relations. There were even odds that the vial of phoenix tears he wanted wasn’t even for his nephew. It was a lot of money he was asking for and I knew what people like him were like.

That said, he was a useful contact. As far as I knew, he didn’t do anything too monstrous for Gotham. Granted, that was a laughably low bar, but he cleared it nonetheless.

“Oh? That can certainly be arranged. I’m happy to pay him a personal visit if you require,” I said, mostly for the sake of prodding.

“No, that’s alright. He’s a little self-conscious at the moment, you see. I think he would feel more comfortable if he recovered in private.”

I nodded, a sob story then, more for polite fiction than anything. I didn’t doubt that his nephew really did get hurt, that was too easy to follow up on, but he didn’t really care.

This whole farce was unnecessary, but whatever made him comfortable, I supposed. “Very well, I have with me a vial of phoenix tears. What will you offer me in exchange?”

“You know, that has been a rather curious conundrum. I am aware that you have no interest in souls.”

“Indeed, I find it the height of human conceit that you somehow don’t want your souls eaten, yet have convinced yourselves that you taste delicious,” I replied with a wry chuckle.

“When you put it that way, it does sound rather conceited, doesn’t it? Well, that circles back to the conundrum. You need neither money nor souls. I know you’ve been offered women, or children, and that you’ve reacted poorly to such proclivities.”

“You are well-informed,” I replied as I sipped at my glass.

“So what do you want?”

I laughed. Powers was different from the other Owls. “You know, you’re the first to have simply asked.”

“I find that hard to believe. Surely someone else would have posed the question before?”

“Your contemporaries are unbelievably arrogant. I don’t doubt you are as well, but you at least know enough to curb your expectations. Perhaps it was their aristocratic nature, but they all assumed they knew what I wanted, demanding one boon or another as they threw money in my face. I refuse to be treated like a supermarket teller.”

“Ah, that explains the burning wrecks you’ve left their manors in.”

“Courtesy goes a long way, Joseph. As for what I want, I suppose I am a collector of sorts. I value rare artifacts of magical significance. It need not be some divine relic, but I do enjoy studying artifacts of all types.”

He pursed his lips at that. Money would have been much easier to acquire. “I admit I do not know much about magic. I doubt any old relic dug up for a museum will do.”

“No, though you might be surprised at how often artifacts end up in museums. I’ve toured Gotham Museum of History and I am on a first name basis with the chairman of its board, but another contact willing to act as my middle man wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

A glint of greed entered his gaze. “Are there any magical artifacts there now?”

“No, of course not. I would have cleared them out already. I don’t doubt that one will turn up eventually.”

“If one turns up, I may be of some assistance in acquiring it on your behalf. I also have friends in other cities I can ask.”

“Excellent. Let’s call that a standing method of payment.”

“And in the present?”

I placed the vial on the table. “Tell me, are you able to acquire a shard of kryptonite? Even a thumb-sized fragment will do.”

“That…” He looked at me carefully. The similarities between Max and Clark did not go unnoticed of course, though Max usually wore his wings out to distance himself from his “father.” In the end, he opted not to question it. “I can acquire a sample, though it will take a week or so.”

“That’s fine. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Joseph Powers.”

“Likewise, Marquis Phenex.”

Author’s Note

The Dealer is a minor DC villain who showed up for… I want to say one comic book run. He had an auction house that could be moved at will through some unknown means, but I decided to ignore that bit. As far as this fic is concerned, the Dealer’s auction house seems to move because the wards fuck with people’s heads.

Animal Fact: Not all bats have sonar, nor are they blind.

The flying fox, a type of fruit bat, does not use any form of echolocation. They instead rely on sight. Their eyes have a relatively low concentration of cones and instead emphasize rods, cells that see motion and shades of gray. This adaptation means they have a much better low-light vision than humans.

PS: Happy birthday, Peaches. You’re the best deer-fucker a guy could ask for.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.