Padraig awoke with a start, half sitting, half rolling up and out of bed. His body hit the floor, met with the tinkling of glass as bottles slid and rolled in every direction around him. To his ears, it was the shrieking of banshees. He lay back on the carpet, scratching various bits of himself and muttering a steady stream of obscenities.

From one corner of his darkened motel room, a throat was politely cleared, an attempt to allow the disheveled soul on the floor an opportunity to salvage what dignity he might have left. It was not an offer Padraig felt like taking them up on, offering only a belch that stunk of cheap rye whiskey as a rebuttal.

"How'd you get in here?" Padraig eventually demanded. "I salted this place up good, I know I did."

"Secret panel 'hind the mirror," the shadow in the corner replied, muddled Irish accent weaving in and out of disconcertingly dulcet tones. "The motel owner's got cameras set up back there. Sells the videos on the internet when he gets any kind of good action. Doubt he'll get much for yer pale arse. Anyway, ya missed that one."

Padraig glanced over at the wall, where the mirror hung askew, revealing the one entrance to his room that was not carefully guarded by unbroken lines of salt that had been meticulously, by his standards at least, constructed before the doors and windows.

"Son of a bitch…"

"Speaking of, one o' your sigils went off about an hour ago."

For the first time, Padraig's eyes truly focused on the general area where he surmised his guest to be.

"Where?"

"New Orleans."

Padraig relaxed at this. "Jesus, Bennie, do you have any idea how many sigils I have in that city? It's no wonder I don't light you all up like a Christmas tree."

Bennie stepped into the late afternoon light filtering in through the grimy windows and ratty blackout shades. His tweed suit jacket and pants were several degrees of magnitude classier than the '70s style furniture and green-gold shag carpeting that hid unknown stains and terrors.

It was his eyes, though, those gold irises boring into him even now, that always made Padraig the most uncomfortable, made the man seem the most out of place. The awkward silence drug on, holding on to the other shoe too long.

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"Yes, but…I doubt you've carved very many of them in ta people, no?"

Ah. There it was.

"Not as a habit, no."

"Good, because you should know that branding is expressly forbidden, and would fall squarely into the realm of--"

"Yes. I got that memo. Thanks. There has to be a misunderstanding."

"Oh, o' course, I'm sure someone was shaving and just happened ta nick themselves in that specific eldritch pattern, happens all the time. Like as not, you should be glad to know that nobody honestly believes you have been practicing fel arts. It is our opinion you are not capable of such a thing. In more ways than one."

A small, self-satisfied smile crept across Bennie's face, gold pupils now glimmering. Padraig could only sigh and begin looking for a bottle, any bottle, any lucky contestant with a couple pulls left in it.

"I'm an idiot, yeah, I got that memo, too. What's your point?"

"My point is that you'll be needin' ta investigate, regardless. Either someone's using yer name in vain, in the worst ways imaginable, and you'll probably be wanting to put a stop ta that, or someone wants your attention. Badly. "

Padraig fished a half-spent dog end from the ash tray and re-lit it. He hated when Bennie was right. Names had power, true names even more so, and the list of people who would have known how to carve his into the world, in a way that would call out to others no less, was short indeed.

"Anything else I should know?" Padraig's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he scanned the face of his companion through curling tendrils of cigarette smoke.

Benny shook his head, fiery red hair sweeping across his shrugging shoulders. His face remained an emotionless mask, as always.

"Nothin' more than ya have already. Someone carved your name in ta somethin'. That somethin' came in ta contact with one o' Them. Your sigil popped off, got traced back to a living, breathing person, and the powers that be sent me ta figure out if you had any insight as to why someone was branding the locals on your behalf.

"Look, I wish I could help ya lad, genuinely do. If we knew, we wouldna be sendin' ya. It's all new, fresh off the wind, and there's a lot off about it if ya ask me. But it, ah ha, had your name all over it, so we thought you might want to take a peek."

Padraig took inventory of the room. He had drunk most of his baggage last night. Prep time for departure would be minimal at best.

"Fine, I can be ready to go in half an hour. That'll put me there late tonight, I'll get a room and be all bright eyed and bushy tailed to start--" Bennie cut him off with a tut and a finger wag.

"No time."

"No, no, Bennie, no! Not until I've had a chance to--"

With blinding speed, Bennie crossed the room. A gloved hand latched on to Padraig's slumping shoulder. And then, with a wink of those unearthly golden eyes—

Padraig materialized in a bathroom stall. Which was convenient, because he immediately took to projectile vomiting, much to the chagrin of the man who suddenly found himself with company.

"--sober up." Padraig finished with a weary sigh once the dry heaves had stopped. His stall mate, now standing on the seat, spoon in one hand, lighter in the other, looked back and forth between the new arrival and the murky brown substance spreading in his repurposed utensil, heedless of Padraig's liquid dinner running down his pants legs.

Padraig simply smiled up at him, bunched up some toilet paper, and offered it to the startled addict.

"Looks like you got the good shit today, huh?"