I stared at the clock beside my motel bed—a twisted contraption of tarnished brass and iron, gears whirring behind a glass face etched with arcane symbols that pulsed faintly with a dark, hungry glow. In the center, thick red sand drifted downward, pooling at the base until it caught in a low, blue flame that flickered, dancing against the metal casing. As the sand burned away into wisps of smoke, it spiraled up through narrow brass tubes, cooling and reforming grain by grain at the top before beginning its descent again. Each cycle marked an hour, ticking off time in a slow, relentless rhythm, like the beating of some infernal heart.

They stopped selling these cheap artifacts years ago—something about the fumes leaking out and making people sick. But I wasn’t too worried. Perks of being dead, I figured. Not that I was eager to test just how immune I was to disease, but it’s not like anyone hands you a manual when you claw your way back from the other side.

When the clock ticked down to fifteen minutes before midnight, I got up. The witching hour was close—the perfect time to meddle with things better left untouched. Sleep hadn’t been calling much lately, anyway; something about the night felt more inviting than any dream ever could.

I slid the scry board out of its box, laying it carefully on the creaking bed. The board was carved from dark, polished wood that had long since dulled, edges worn smooth from years of use. Faint etchings spiraled across its surface—sigils, cryptic runes, and strange geometric patterns that caught the dim light just so, almost as if they moved. At each corner, tarnished brass inlays anchored the board, forming small, clawed feet that lifted it slightly above the bedspread. The center held a single, smoky quartz orb embedded in the wood, a cloudy eye that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light, flickering like something alive. The whole thing carried a faint scent of old parchment and burnt incense, with an edge of something metallic, like blood or rust.

Names are funny things—both anchors and traps. A true name could bind someone to you, unravel them if you knew how to use it right. I had a piece of Catigan’s, enough to track him. Not enough to control him—though that was never my goal. It was just enough to find him, to get close. And that was all I needed.

Back when we were knee-deep in a turf war, some out-of-town thug tried muscling in on the West Side. Cat and I took care of him, but it got messy. Blood and betrayal always made things messy. Cat ended up bleeding out in an alley, and I wasn’t about to let him die—not without getting what I needed first. In desperation, he gave me part of his name. Only half, but enough to pull him back from the edge. In return, I gave him half of mine. That’s how it worked—you either trusted the other person or were ready to kill them.

Stolen story; please report.

He’d have been able to track me too if it weren’t for Frank cloaking our aetheric trail. Another of Franks many benefits—damn good friend to have when you needed to disappear.

I focused on that half-name then, letting it roll around in my mind. It wasn’t a sound or a word—it was a feeling, like cold metal scraping across my nerves. I let it settle, feeling the weight of it as I set the crystal swinging over the wooden map. It trembled, quivering on its string, before finally hovering over a spot in the warehouse district. Figures.

Frank’s voice drifted into my thoughts, a cold tickle at the base of my skull. Scrying, Jack? Really? What’s next, a séance? Maybe summon a few demons to spice up the evening. What would your parents think?

“Shut it, Frank,” I muttered, though I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. Frank’s sarcasm was as reliable as the sun rising, and sometimes just as irritating.

I strapped on my gear—sword, gun, extra rounds. The weight of it settled across my body like a second skin, familiar, grounding. The city was quiet, unsettlingly so, as I stepped out into the night. The air clung to me, heavy and thick with the promise of rain. Shadows stretched longer than they should, thick with secrets. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like something was watching, just out of sight. Something waiting.

I moved toward the warehouse district, my steps light and almost soundless. Frank’s presence kept my movements sharp, a subtle push that guided me through the darker alleys and narrow streets. Catigan was a rat, but he’d always been a predictable one. Or so I thought. The way his men were moving that night, skittish like something bigger was lurking just out of sight, it was clear even Catigan had lost control.

The warehouse loomed ahead, an industrial relic on the edge of town, skeletal against the fog-heavy sky. Its corrugated metal walls were rusted and crumbling, as if the building itself had forgotten it still stood. The air tasted of metal and old rain, clinging to the back of my throat. I approached cautiously, my footsteps silent on the gravel path, eyes scanning for signs of movement.

I was good at this—staying unseen, blending into the forgotten corners of the world. The warehouse stretched wide, big enough to hide whatever shady dealings were about to go down. The perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. No lights on the outside, just a few cracks in the windows where faint streaks of moonlight spilled through. The hum of the city was distant, muffled. The pulse of danger grew in my gut, a slow, steady drumbeat that echoed louder with every step.