Fingering the pentagram around his neck, James sighs. "That's not exactly an answer."
"My studies," Illeana starts, trying to find the right words, "they require--"
"They require you to lie to me," James cuts in.
"No. No, it' nothing like that."
"Really? Quarterly reports?" James dismisses the graphs and trid pie charts that are running through five-year growth cycles. "No, you could do that anywhere. What we can't do anywhere is get a working portfolio on Rhodes," James says, sending an ARO of a largely empty field surrounding Rhodes' name, with a few tertiary details, largely unrelated attached.
With Sam's training, being around so much woo all the time made sense. It's what they were there to do, after all, and truthfully, James had enjoyed learning what he could while they were all out in the field together, or at night around the RV's small table, with Sam crinkling over his space blanket while James made soycaf and skinned rabbits over Illeana's lectures. But it wasn't long before most of Sam's lessons dealt with things that James couldn't participate in. Try as he might, there was no sensing mana around him, much less bending it to his will to make himself stronger, or faster, or hyper aware. And the conversations about astral sight just dumbfounded him. Seeing without seeing, the geography of astral space, how living creatures and spirits left traces of themselves behind.
"Oh, so it's like DNA?" James had opined over one Illeana's sessions with Sam.
"It's a bit more complex than that," Illeana had said then, quick to get back to her exercise with the Fomóraig. More complex than DNA. That hadn't sat well.
James had been under the impression that the two had an unspoken agreement that once Sam left, they would be free to pursue some other interests. He'd been investigating the Nately's, put off by Junior's insolence back with the black lodge and their other RV, and while nothing concrete had surfaced yet, he was sure that with the right resources, time, and locations, they could do what was right to set things straight with the family. As far as James was concerned, it was Edward III who was most responsible for his parents' deaths, forcing their hand like that. And again, there's Rhodes, who likely holds the keys to James' past, whether or not he has any siblings, who his people were, and how James had been made into what he is now.
But critter hunts, tactical thinking, a super soldier to watch your six, that isn't a partnership, much less a relationship. It's employment.
"I mean," James says, returning his cup of chicory to its saucer, "why the facade? Why not tell me we're here to do, I don't know, whatever it is we're actually here to do. Powerful mojo, great. But why? Nearly four months we've been hauling here to there, and you don't tell me anything. And what was going on there back in Kansas? Was that really about the Little Smoke, or did you know something about the juggernaut, eh? Maybe see if the rumors were true? Maybe see if next quarter, or three quarters from now Wind River's gonna take a dive? Hell, maybe you're thinking about next century? I mean, no need to tell me then, eh? Not like it would affect me any."
He sees her face collapse, or at least the face she's projecting at the time. Does it read her true, or is that just a part of the spell? he wonders before standing and slotting the coffee and beignets from his Jonathan Aarons SIN. He fastens the top button on his linen sport coat, which is certainly better than fresnel in this weather but still heavy from the ballistic fibers, and touches up the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief he deposits in his coat pocket. "I'm going to go for a walk."
He exits the plaza, expertly weaving into the crowd of tourists. At first he doesn't know where to go, and he finds himself on the outskirts of a crowd enjoying a street band. They're talented enough, and James likes jazz, especially the more traditional stuff that the French Quarter has largely cleaved to as a part of its identity, but he finds himself unable to get into it. The musicians are done up in their Vaudeville best, and couples around him sway to the music, playing kissy-face and holding hands, slotting creds to the young elf dancing his way and tipping his hat to the patrons. He tips 20¥, and walks off, hands in pockets.
He doesn't know how long he walks, or where really, though he knows he's still in the French Quarter when he finds himself standing outside of Madame DeSade's Psychic Readings and Talismonger shop. Figures. All roads lead to Rome. Hell of a name, though. Wonder if this one of those possession-type spots for the more extreme clientele. Switching to his weakest SIN, he steps inside, the smell of booze and sweat subsumed under the new smells of incense and smoke, which he has long come to associate with Illeana, and something else as well, Deepweed, maybe?
"Greetings, Monsieur," the woman says as he enters. Her eyes glaze over for a moment, a look that James has come to recognize as having his aura read. "Oh," she continues, likely trying to reconcile his quickened spells, with his essence, with his pentagram necklace.
"Are we here for a pickup?"
What, does she figure me for a whip? James wonders.
"How about a reading?" James says, jerking his head toward the ARO out front.
"Oh, yes, of course, of course," the proprietor says before calling to the back, "Leanna, watch the front, will you?" The name makes James stop in his tracks, especially with the woman's well-crafted accent, but he relaxes when a young girl comes out front, wiping her hands on an apron specked in greens and browns. Reagents, James assumes. Do those smell?
He's led into the back room, where everything is theatrics. Heavy satin lines the walls, and once he enters, curtains of the same are closed behind them. Mademoiselle DeSade takes a seat and gestures for James to do the same across a table where a tarot deck, a few small candles, and a quite nice-looking dagger sit. James undoes the button on his jacket and obliges. A few brief pleasantries are exchanged and water offered, which James declines. After a moment, he's instructed to hold out his hands, which he does obediently, palms up. "I'm not sure what you're going to get from these," he confesses.
"Yes, yes, this will be interesting," DeSade replies. "So, what do you want to know? The future?" Her eyes narrow a bit before she adds, "The past? You are troubled, are you not?"
"Hmm," James grunts noncommittally.
"Ok, suit yourself. Let's see, let's see. What have we here." It's not a question. She begins rocking and chanting, something that James knows well enough could be something called Centering, which he also knows is related to something called a metamagic, but what that means is really beyond him. They're not spells, but like spells? Maybe? To be honest, he doesn't know if Madame DeSade is working mojo or not. She certainly wouldn't be the first to fleece tourists in the French Quarter. Suddenly, she straightens upright, and her eyes shoot open with a look of fear.
"I see," she stammers. If she is a mojo slinger, maybe she's working her mojo on James because he finds himself incredibly interested in what she has to say.
"What, what do you see?" James asks.
"I see blood."