— — —
After hearing that Albany, New York, was now under the official protection of Valen Desavi, Nytep was undeniably curious as to why. The woman was known to nearly all non-humans as a perpetual transient, much like Nytep himself, so the idea of her laying claim to a particular city was intriguing. His curiosity was only intensified when he learned that she and her employees were denying most non-humans entry to the town. While she was, without doubt, obsessed with order and control, she was typically too absorbed in overseeing her schedule to bother with anyone outside it. Doubly intriguing.
He heard a rumor at some point that she was doing all this at the behest of some human, that she’d taken up a sort of bodyguard role, but he couldn’t believe there was any truth to that. Desavi’s ‘self-employment’ was one of her many rigid principles, so there was no chance she would work for anyone else. He wondered if her compulsive gambling had finally caught up to her and she’d lost a bet. The less entertaining but more likely answer was that this was simply part of her schedule in some way. Regardless, if the explanation was a secret she wanted to keep, he needed to know the exact details so he could spread it around to anyone who would listen.
So he decided to visit Albany himself to investigate. After all, being told he couldn’t do something—like enter a particular city and cause mischief there—was all the more motivation to prove he certainly could. And once he attracted enough attention that Desavi came to scold him in person, he would get his answers directly from her.
When he arrived in the forbidden city, so to speak, he headed immediately for downtown. It would take a significant show of chaotic influence for Desavi to realize he was behind it, and this area was sure to have plenty of conflicts waiting to be escalated. As he wandered the sidewalks, standing at least a head taller than most of the people around him, he kept an eye out for an opportunity. Between the sleek black plait that hung over his shoulder and the elegant angles of his face and physique, he garnered more than a few curious glances himself. But none curious enough to merit a glance in return.
As luck would have it, there turned out to be a rally of some sort going on in a park he was passing. A group of maybe a hundred people gathered on a flat expanse of grass, in front of a pop-up stage. As Nytep wandered closer, he caught some of the speaker’s points. “And there’s no getting away from them. My son has a teacher who brings her ‘Familiar’ into class every day and is always talking to the kids about magic. Is that what we want our kids learning?”
Oh, it was an anti-witch rally! Fascinating. Despite its recent legalization in the U.S. and the supposed protections its practitioners had, witchcraft was still a topic of heated debate all over the world. If Nytep was looking for an opportunity to stir up some chaos, this would certainly do.
It was easy enough to block himself from mortals’ perception, so no one noticed as he stepped up onto the stage and gave the speaker a once-over. White male, mid-40’s, conservative but hardly the violent type. He was one of few anti-witch advocates whose protests stemmed from pure fear and insecurity rather than hatred and xenophobia. As Nytep started to pace the length of the stage behind him and offer his own commentary on the subject, the speaker responded to each of his suggestions.
“Is that the idea that bothers you?” he asked aloud, though none of the humans present would actually hear his voice. “The thought of your child learning more about magic?”
“We’re talking about ten-year-olds here. What is she trying to accomplish, telling a bunch of kids about all that?”
“Educating them?” Nytep suggested. “Which is her job.”
“Last time I checked, witchcraft wasn’t part of the state curriculum,” the man hissed, gripping the podium in front of him tighter, and his audience murmured their agreement. “Next thing you know, those kids are going to be trying to do spells themselves!”
Nytep paused mid-step and looked up at the speaker in sudden understanding. “Oh, that’s your real concern, then. You’re worried your son will want to become a witch. Maybe he’s said something to that effect before?”
“And then good kids end up getting dragged into that mess because someone thought it was fine to let a witch teach them.”
“Then you don’t want him involved in it because you know being a witch is dangerous. Because people hate them,” Nytep theorized. “And somehow, you think the answer to that”—he let out an incredulous laugh—“is to further persecute them? To lead rallies and petitions to have their rights restricted?”
“It’s just best if they stay separated from us.” The speaker’s voice began to quaver slightly, his eyes drifting down toward the podium and the notes he had written. This was clearly a much more personal subject than he wanted to believe, and being questioned was shaking his convictions somewhat. Weak convictions to begin with, then. Nytep sighed and turned his attention elsewhere, bored already. Any sort of change was an accomplishment, he supposed, but this wasn’t the kind widespread enough for anyone to notice. Irritating.
As he considered where else he might focus his efforts, a woman on the sidewalk caught his gaze with sharp brown eyes. A tall, slender Black woman with oversized glasses and clothing at least two centuries out of date, she was quite a striking figure herself. Was she…yes, she was looking at him. How could that be, when he was actively concealing himself? His eyes narrowed, and—the nerve!—she sneered in disgust and turned to walk away. If there was any one thing he couldn’t stand, it was to be ignored. Pleased to have found a new focus, he was on her heels in seconds.
“Excuse me, miss,” he called as he caught up. Between the prim Neo-Victorian style of her clothing and the stack of library books in her arms, he judged that her type would be a well-spoken gentleman, polite and attentive. His voice, much like her ensemble, was all velvet and silk as he went on, “May I ask—”
“Save it,” she said brusquely, surprising him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you can’t have it. I already know what you are, so you’re not getting anywhere with me.”
Oh? That’s new.
“What am I, then?” he asked, his tone slipping into something more comfortably sinuous out of genuine curiosity. She held her books closer to her chest as if they were a barrier to hide behind.
“I’m going to guess a god of some sort.” Her dark eyes looked him coldly up and down as she kept her brisk pace, seeming sure that he would follow—which he did. “If your looks are any indication, maybe Egyptian, but who knows what you actually look like.”
Surprisingly accurate. Impressive.
“And how, pray tell, can you say all that?” She was, from what he could see, human, yet she seemed wholly unimpressed with him, even recognizing his nature. His pride demanded an explanation.
“You really don’t know?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. She stopped fleeing for a moment, but he quickly realized it was because she’d come to a bus stop, not because she was interested in speaking to him. “Then I’d prefer to leave it that way.”
Which simply meant he would have to try harder. It was rare that he should have to try at all to win over a mortal, but he did enjoy a challenge.
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