Jacinta had her reservations about mental magic, though. It was a branch of Illusion magic—tapping into minds, creating falsehoods, twisting at memory and selfhood. She could hardly conjure up a simple visual illusion to save her life, work at the basics of that branch of magic—let alone mess with someone’s head. But the more advanced magic within Illusion, or Espejismos—Mirages—that was too far for her.
Except when necessary.
For the sake of Littler Italy, she’d bend, for this one—and hopefully only—time. What was her stupid alignment, anyway? True Neutral? Ha—she’d be a fucking agent of chaos now.
But God, if the fucking spell went wrong, she was screwed…
Jacinta saw an intricate crucifix above a door and shut her eyes, mentally praying, wishing for luck, for something, for anything, for the day to go well and for her to not be a rat for the Underland and for her people and—
“This Underland is very nice. I find it a shame that it, and others like it, have to exist in the shadow of our actual city.”
Jacinta blinked, re-centered. She stared around. Historic section of the area for sure—rounded arches, tall domes, fancy columns. Magic veins in pale marble, statues—old and new saints, gods; she saw wolves and men side-by-side. She passed by an image, a history cut in sections: stained-glass paintings of struggling southern Italians, Sicilians, Sardinians—dead and gray soil, men with bullets in their chests. There were images of people fading into shadows—the black ink splatter from their shoulders warping into birds, birds of passage. Supernaturals were a good portion of those who left, it seemed—boats, sea-wave washing away the past, ushering in the future with an evolving American flag. The wave transformed, shifted—more stars, stripes. They first faced prejudice, stayed close; organized crime, continued strain, yes—then were mostly accepted, loved. She chuckled at the final image—a giant dinner table, a family, a community, feasting on the Seven Fishes for Christmas Eve, warm and happy and there, woven into the fabric…but at a cost. The final painting had things left in the shadows—histories, language, culture—that were split with assimilation. Caving, twisting—some had forgotten where they came from, blinded, absent. But at its core, family, love, faith.
She saw the history. Visual symbols honoring the culture, the more modern history.
Silas’s words continued to linger. She huffed, turning the corner—more statues. A section for prayer, for memory; there were flowers and trees made of glass, gemstone—a small, undying park.
The shadow of the city.
“So are you saying that you wish this space would be in public? Aboveground?” She asked, raising a brow.
Silas paused. Smirked. Chuckled. “Yes—if only for the aesthetic. A mesh of strange, even garish quasi-historical architecture would be better than the unfortunate gentrification we have now…though if this did move, I suppose that’d be a question of space…”
“The more likely alternative would be to just open Underlands to the public—not actually shift them around.” she said, biting her lip. “This space is pretty rooted, y’know? But it comes down pretty fucking fast when—”
A statue of some goddess—Diana, maybe—was glaring at Jacinta when she cursed. Jacinta laughed awkwardly, cheeks flaring. “Uh—pretty darn fast when SEE comes in.”
“Like shattered glass.”
Jacinta snorted. “Don’t you know it well…”
Silas glanced down, reaching for his phone, she imagined—but he pulled his hand away from his pocket, instead smoothing his hair back with it. The historical section was fading, making way for shopping centers, signs—they were close. Good.
Jacinta swallowed the bitterness on her tongue. Allies: strained word. Contempt: strong.
She had to try to be subtle.
Yeah, right.
“I am glad that you want to see this in public, though.” she began, trying to save the line of thought. “It’s…yeah. Weird, but beautiful. And sometimes a little garish.”
She saw a boutique full of animal print, bejeweled fabric, red velvet curtains. Interesting…and yes, garish—but she loved it. Did werewolves wear fox fur? Wolf fur? Was that considered wearing the flesh of a loved one? “You can’t deny the personality, though. If you had means to make things that…don’t necessarily apply fully to the laws of physics, and turn concrete into marble…I mean, I’d make something as wild as this place, too.”
“You can always make miniatures, then build yourself a full-sized illegal space with your coven.”
Jacinta raised a brow. “Oh? I can’t tell if you’re legitimately encouraging me…just to watch me fail or if you’re being snide.”
“Why can’t I encourage you just to encourage you?” Silas’s response was quick.
Jacinta’s lip curled. She gave him a sideways stare—he just grinned back.
There were only ever three steps around the space—Italian werewolves couldn’t travel more than three at a time; same as vampires and invitations, other species—cultural traditions cemented deep. She continued, turned a corner—then saw a wooden signpost; a blinking, painted eye—‘mystic’ beneath in swirled text. Perfect.
There she was.
“You ever get your fortune told?” she asked Silas, quickening her pace. A few others were walking through the street, bags in-hand, speaking loudly, confidently, warmly. Jacinta passed by an older woman that was basically screaming into her phone.
“I guess we’re both just sharing mutual information now…short answer, yes. For research purposes.” Jacinta rolled her eyes. He pretended to look offended at that. “Alright, fine—in high school, me and my friends did it; a government-mandated one, of course—so it was not good. Couldn’t tell me anything particularly juicy, or direct…then again, psychics always are the cryptic type.”
“Oh. Ew.” Jacinta’s nose wrinkled. A government-mandated psychic. “Well, was she right at least?”
“Said I’d live a thousand lives, for one.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t wrong there, I suppose. Do you read your own fortune? What’s that…Divination magic?”
Jacinta hesitated; paused. Was he going to take note of that for later, or was it a harmless question? She cleared her throat and kept her gaze on the sign, the store—it was inching closer, closer. “Yes and no. I’m not great at it, and I’ve done tarot, runes—once or twice, off-books, of course. But it’s…cryptic. And the whole passive ESP thing’s a headache and a half—oh look! We’re here.” She laughed awkwardly, rushing in, needing to pull the woman aside. Pronto. The woman’s shop was…interesting—taxidermized jaguars, hawks, and cats and dogs. Black marble. Carpet, fabric. Perfumes and incense—a dizzying variety of them all. Mirrors and stained glass of crystal Evil Eyes, all blinking and watching Jacinta and Silas, as though they were alive.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
And, of course, there was the giant golden Cornicello, which swung like a dangerous pendulum above.
The psychic was seated at the table, eating a tuna fish sandwich. Somehow, Jacinta could smell it, among all of the smoking incense sticks and open bottles. She glanced up from the meal, lips curling, widening, into a full-faced set.
“Just as expected…and more handsome than I saw.” Her eyes slowly grazed along the two of them, lingering more on Silas. She was a slim but short woman physically whittled down with age, probably in her sixties; however, the big (badly dyed) hair, flashy clothes, and bright makeup would set her fashion sense of years before. She looked as though she was struck with lightning—giant eyes that bulged slightly out of her head, the giant grin, the overwhelming appearance and personality off a small frame.
“Uh…thank you?” Silas gave Jacinta a slow look before glancing forward. Jacinta was trying to focus. What did the psychic know?
She leapt out of her seat and strode forward; a flick of a lighter and a swish of a bundle of dried sage, and she was…saging them. Jacinta sucked in a breath, trying not to wheeze—Silas coughed once into his shoulder.
“Gotta clear the bad vibes, y’know. Especially you with your SEE shit—you think I’m stunod?” The psychic laughed, shook her head. “Pretty thing, you here for a little clarity, huh? Oh, you—don’t look so shocked. Psychic—comes with the territory. And anyway, your grandma sent a little message in advance of your trip to our lovely little alcove.” She shook off the sage and spun with a flourish, heels clacking along the stone, uncarpeted sections of the floor.
“What?” Jacinta’s eyes widened. Doña? She—
“Anyway. Come here, witchy babe. You, sweetie—yeah, handsome one. Stay here and don’t touch anything. The animals might be tax’d, but they still bite.”
Silas’s eyes widened. He looked aside, mouth openings furrowing, about to ask—
But Jacinta just followed the psychic into a back room before Silas said, or did, anything stupid.
Curtains, small section that was surrounded by stained glass. She had a giant crystal pendulum affixed to the ceiling, swinging directly above a small wooden table, crystal ball in the middle. Across were stained-gass fixtures of different gods: the Moon Goddess, the Horned God, others. “Sit—I don’t got all day, missy. You can ogle while I do my work.” She flopped down and cracked her knuckles, red-painted nails long and sharp, like claws.
“Sorry. Uh—what’s your name, I don’t even—”
“Bellissima. At least, that’s what they call me.” The psychic winked, cracked her knuckles, and reached under the table, pulling out a set of black and gold tarot. “Now. You better have a good reason why you brought an agent with you, especially since he don’t seem too interested in older women.”
Jacinta glanced back, behind the curtains, and cleared her throat. Couldn’t see a thing. What was Silas doing? God, she hoped that he was just loitering…
“We’re doing a…deal. I give him info; he kept me from being locked up by SEE and gives me info too. But I’d never hurt you or anyone here. I was hoping you could do a little…editing?” She pointed to her skull, tapping her finger against it.
Bellissima laughed. “Oh God, girl—you’re in deep. You want me to do some scrambling? Plus my Sight?”
Scrambling? Jacinta hesitated. The psychic noticed.
“How deep do you want? You know the gist—the deeper you go, the worse it can be. Capisce?”
“Not far. I don’t want to ruin him, God—just—a few hours. Today. The memories to get all hazy, so he can’t track back here. Or to mix it with former memories and—”
“You think I can just reach in and swirl it like some soft-serve? This takes precision…and money. But today. That’ll be…easy enough.”
Money. She was about to reach for her bag, but she paused, withdrew. She needed to work on persuasion, save her money…or at least try.
“How about I just pay for the stuff with my sister? I’m sure Francesca told you some useful…things. Spirit and afterlife things.” Bellissima’s thin, drawn brows rose. Jacinta continued. “And anyway…your work with, uh, scrambling Silas’s memories of today—it’s only beneficial for you…and everyone.”
Persuasion increased 1%.
Nice.
“You can prevent any—”
“Shit that you brought onto us?”
Update: not nice.
Jacinta’s skin went gooseflesh. She swallowed, ducked her gaze. “I’m so sorry. I thought that he wasn’t going to make it through the passage portal but…”
Bellissima continued to chuckle, pulling out a long, shallow bowl made of glass. Within was what looked like a mixture of milk and water, slowly swirling together. Jacinta trailed off, grabbing the vanity mirror, squeezing it in a first. She shuddered, stared, waited. Did she apologize again? Get angry? Ask if the payment only for the scrying process was okay? Or—
“Gimmie gimmie.” Bellissima opened and closed her hands; she spat as she spoke, and Jacinta fought all of herself to not wipe it off herself. She just set the mirror in the psychic’s hands, the hollow growing without it.
One part of Olivia, gone.
Bellissima turned the mirror over, sniffed it, set it against her forehead. She opened it—gently, slowly. And once Jacinta eased a little, assuming that it’d be taken kindly, Bellissima dug the heels of her palms into each side of it and tore it open like a split pomegranate. Shards of glass, plastic, and the screws fell. She thrust them into the water, murmured something in Italian, and hummed, waiting, holding. The water thickened and seized, curdling into cottage cheese.
Jacinta squirmed, waited. She leaned forward. The psychic hummed operatic, frozen.
Minutes passed before she leaned away, shaking the cream off her hands, mirror still stuck inside the mess. She waited. Breathed.
“Alrighty. This’ll need a few minutes to cook. Bring the boyfriend here, alright?”
Jacinta’s lips twitched. “Wait, what happ—”
“Hush. Don’t question genius, alright? You’ll see it all soon…just takes a little time. So. Get the guy.”
She sucked in a breath and stood, exiting the space, curtains shuddering and clanging in her wake. Silas was spinning a smoky quartz pendulum in a circle—he glanced aside, huffing. “Air currents dictate its movement, not…psychic energy. Some things bleed into pure stupidity, you know, y—oh?”
Jacinta grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the room, the psychic. He complied, snorting. “Contact? Have we moved beyond—”
“Yeah, me to you. Look, I want you to see this for yourself, so you can track this back to your databases. Silas, meet Bellissima—Bellissima, meet Silas.”
“Charmed.” Bellissima winked, pointed to the seat. “Handsome, alright—you sit’own. My witchy friend, you take notes.”
Jacinta gestured. Silas didn’t hesitate; he sat, leaning back.
Did he know what was happening? Why was he so quick to say yes? Did he suspect nothing?
The psychic hissed something—illusion magic, smell of artificial metal. Cuffs closed over Silas’s arms—not real, but they’d feel damn real. He didn’t move; he only smirked, watched.
“You—” Jacinta began, heart pounding.
“Let me guess. Reaching into my brain and rewriting today?” He twisted his head aside, lips in a full-faced grin. “C’mon, Jacinta. I do this for a living. Psychics aren’t allowed to do anything beyond a D-class illusion and some casual tarot, Miss Bellissima. Then again, we're in an Underland. No rules here. Still, are you willing to risk—”
She pulled a section of the table out—black velvet satchel—and blew dust in his face. He coughed, glared at her, at Jacinta—moved to grab her, hand up, fingers curling in air, at nothing at all—
And Silas sank against the seat, asleep.
“What the hell?” Jacinta snarled, gesturing down—and quickly ducked her face into her shirt.
The psychic jumped to her feet, rolling her eyes.
“You’ll see. Now watch.”