The younger man couldn’t contain his laugh as he turned away. “Hardly.”
Foster whistled to himself as he walked. Sure, he could’ve done the trip in a fraction of the time if he had made a portal, but some innately human part of him preferred these opportunities to people-watch.
One of his favorite things about where he lived was how little attention people paid to their surroundings. Teenagers moved in small clusters, eyes glued to their phones or chattering away. Young mothers pushed strollers while business professionals wove through with purposeful strides of their clicking heels. Children giggled and yelped as they chased each other across the asphalt, the autumn sun still strong enough that warmth from the pavement radiated through the soles of his converse.
Everyone was intent on getting from one place to another, scurrying around like frantic little mice. It made it so much easier to observe them without being noticed himself. It didn’thurt that he fit into the neighborhood. Secoroya was a city of a thousand cultures—the food, architecture, and languages were never from any one discernable place. Every corner was a new world of color and music and life.
Nobody looked twice in this part of town at a twenty-something brown-skinned man in tattered jeans and a leather jacket. He might as well be a part of the scenery, as much as the bodega he and his neighbors shopped at.
“Hey Mrs. Hem.” He waved at the petite Cambodian woman as he passed the laundromat the apartment residents all patronized, and she lifted a hand in return. “How are the boys?”
“Six boys, Foster! And how many here to help mommy with the laundry?” She shook her head, her fists at her hips. “Yeah, none!”
“Tell them to help you bring it all home, or I won’t fix the basketball hoop.”
Mrs. Hem smiled. “You a good boy, Foster. Remember to come getbok lahongwhen I make it this weekend.”
“Definitely; I love that shrimp paste you use.” Foster grinned back at her before continuing on his way.
He glanced into shop windows as he passed the deli, the florist and the independent bookstore. He inhaled deeply when he passed the taco truck that was a permanent fixture on the curb. Foster drank in the vibrancy and bustle of the lively street.
Of course, there was another reason he lived in this neighborhood. It just so happened to be the quiet heart of Secoroya’s metaphysical scene. That wasn’t to say there were a plethora of tarot shops or palmistry and chakra massage parlors; those more commercial scenes were found in the city center, closer to the highway and the sports centers than to Foster’s little neighborhood. And most of those—along with the charlatan mediums and “apothecaries”—were nothing but gimmicky money pits.
No, this was the more genuine, protected magical undercurrent in the city. All the major cities had them, some more well-hidden than others, and all with their quirks and differences. There were hints here and there; the florist sold bundles of sage and rosemary along with bouquets and the butcher was happy to offer slightly stranger cuts and organs if you knew how to ask. The small vintage boutique had a special display case of genuine crystals and gemstones sandwiched between racks of old dresses and cabinets of ceramics.
Subtle but definite giveaways for anyone who knew what to look for, even if they couldn’t sense the current of magic itself. His destination was a bit more overt—the local Church of the Arcane.
Foster stopped on the sidewalk, surveying the old Gothic façade with a twinge of guilt. The hands that labored over this architecture, the love that went into maintaining the building and keeping the faith alive…and it was shit all over by the world at large.
Religion, as a general rule, was a tricky beast. Countless thousands of people believed in Hellenic Paganism or tithed to the Norse deities. There were pyramid temples to worship Egyptian gods, Muslim mosques, Jewish synagogues, and spiraling towers devoted to Buddhist teachings. And each one of them was considered the sole truth of the universe by its followers. Even Lucio-Arcanism was born of a rift between Christian followers—those who saw Lucifer as the supreme evil, and those who thought him a misunderstood victim.
Here he stood, mere feet from devout believers who worshipped his father, who by extension would worshiphim, and he had the power to prove them right. With a simple gesture he could reveal himself and make centuries of suffering and contempt worth something. He could give these people the proofand validation they had been seeking and praying for all these long eons.
Instead, Foster stuffed his hands back into his pockets and ascended the sweeping stone steps, head ducked against the soft breeze that ruffled his hair. He wasn’t trying to be some savior. Anonymity was his friend here, where they all believed him to be just another follower of the faith, and he wasn’t even sure he agreed with the teachings of the Church.
He averted his eyes as he passed the statue of his father, rendered with surprising accuracy and care. In a small fit of anger he flicked the statue’s foot, sending a hairline crack up its leg. Especially here, his father haunted him. If he didn’t have such an important meeting, he would turn and walk back out right now.
In an alcove further down the opposite wall, the statue of Gabriel gazed serenely back at him. He made his way across to it, resting his fingers lightly on the outstretched stone palm and smiling softly as it warmed in response. If there was judgement radiating from his father’s icon, the figure of Gabriel only bolstered his sense of confidence and comfort. Gabe always looked out for him. No matter what anyone else thought, Gabe knew who he was and didn’t flinch away. He was the only one willing to help Foster save his mother, despite the consequences, and the young prince would be eternally grateful for that.
Foster made his way through the entrance hall lined with the statues of all the faces of his childhood, footsteps echoing slightly on the dark marble floor. He smirked at Remiel’s long, intricate braids, and remembered the day she had taken a knife to them in an act of what she proudly declared “rebellious self-actualization”.
He remembered Glory shaking her head and leaning down to his level, the soft smell of flowers permeating his senses as she told him sternly,“Do not listen to her, Foster. There is nothingwrong with a woman embracing softness and beautiful things.”He didn’t agree with his father on most things, but the company he kept tended to be wise.
Foster had dutifully filed the information away, and he still believed it to this day. He had seen powerful women in all shapes, sizes, and manner of feminine expression (or lack thereof) and he knew each of them was uniquely strong. Remi herself had knocked him on his ass enough times during his combat training that he knew better than to underestimate a woman. But reminiscing wasn’t the motivator for today’s visit.
Leaving the entrance hall and stepping into the main room of the cathedral was always a bit of a shock to the system. From the dark exterior and the relatively cloistered entryway, it would reason that the rest of the building would be similarly dark and dim. Instead, visitors to the Church of the Arcane were treated to a surprise upon clearing the foyer: a massive stained glass window dominated the rear wall, soaring from the floor to the high arch of the ceiling lost in shadow above.
It was a beautiful rendering of the story of creation, focused specifically on the creation of Eden. The myriad colors caught and reflected the afternoon light to turn the room into a kaleidoscope of glittering rainbows while the air seemed to hum with energy and warmth, lending a sense of comfort and security to the conversely open space.
Ornately carved dark wenge wood pews arranged in neat double rows bordered an aisle that ran from the entryway to the raised dais on the far wall. Foster’s footsteps became muffled as he stepped from the marble onto the long navy runner of the aisle. He retraced a time-worn path up the front, steps he had taken every Saturday night for as long as he could remember.
Stopping at the second pew on the left, he touched two fingers solemnly to his lips and then each of his closed eyelids, then pressed his palm firmly over his heart. Even with hisconflicting feelings for his father, his body remembered the movements his mother had lovingly worked into his memory as a child. He could almost hear her voice, whispering the words as she had when she taught him—speak truth, seek truth, be true.
“Very convincing for a heretic,” a husky voice broke into his reverie.
Foster opened his eyes to cast an annoyed glance down at the man in the pew. He was slender, well-muscled and arguably handsome, with thick black hair and a close-cropped mustache and goatee. His smooth, fawn skin was scandalously exposed by his shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his casual suit almost made Foster self-conscious in his tattered jeans and boots.
“That’s still up for debate,” Foster admitted, and slid into the booth beside his best friend. “So go fuck yourself, Judas.”
