self_inflictedexhile | nysm / tvd } { if you will, please move in closer

nysm / tvd } { if you will, please move in closer

In another lifetime, Dylan Rhodes never existed. In another lifetime, he didn't need to, because Lionel Shrike never drown in the Hudson River, Dylan Rhodes stayed Jacob Shrike, and his life went in a very different direction.

At age fifteen, his father started teaching him the tricks of the trade: sleight of hand, how to build a rig, how to do a little bit of actual magic, despite the fact that probably wasn't something he should be sharing, just yet. Shortly after that, Jacob met a young Alma Dray, tagging along with her grandfather, a friend of his father's, stopping by to check up on him. They grew up together, life continued on, and Jacob eventually went to college for Theatre Design and Stagecraft. At twenty-two, just after graduation, Jacob was chosen to join the Eye, his test to help the LVPD clear the name of another magician, despite all the evidence in the world making him seem guilty as sin. There, Jacob met Michael Fuller, his partner a lifetime away, and the two became friends as they managed, despite all odds, to pull off what had been asked of Jacob by the Eye. He continued on into a career as a stage magician in the Eye, eventually married Alma, and continued to occasionally work with Fuller as a consultant, when time allowed.

Over the course of the next few decades, Jacob and Alma tried to have children and failed, and eventually adopted one Jack Wilder, age 10. Using Eye resources, he helped Merritt McKinney get a good lawyer and clear his name after his brother screwed him over. He followed the rising stars that were J. Daniel Atlas and Henley Reeves, and when they decided to call it quits, pulled the both of them back together, forcing Daniel to give Henley a more active role in the show. And eventually, yes, he called the four of them together, not for revenge but something similar, to get them into the Eye. And somewhere along the way, Jacob and Alma tried for children again, and this time managed, giving Jack a brother, Lio, Lionel, named after his grandfather.

Basically, this is the best possible timeline.

And now, it's just after dinner, Jacob off to his nightly rehearsal at 5Pointz, that his space, now, like his father before him. He takes a detour tonight, though, to grab a cup of coffee, beforehand, a little bit of magic pulled around him, to make himself not completely invisible, but at least a little less noticeable. Normally, he doesn't mind showing off or signing autographs, when a fan approaches, and fans do often approach, his notoriety somewhere up there with Penn and Teller, Seigfried and Roy, but -- not tonight. He's not feeling it tonight, a little tired for whatever reason, hence the coffee, so magic it is. And now he's sitting at a table, idly people-watching as he leans into his cup. Have at him, if you can still see him (or, maybe, in certain party's cases, sense him) despite his best efforts.

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"I will definitely not keep you out all night."

If it comes down to that she will tag in Marcel. She finishes up her food, before resting her chin in her hand.

"But thank you, for being so willing to help even though I'm literally dropping a monster in your lap."

"I've had worse," Dylan promises her, gently. Whether or not that's actually true, he explains it away with a, "I've got a buddy who works for the FBI, in Vegas, and he's pulled me in to consult on some shit, before."

So, he's at least seen some terrible things, if not anything on this level. And again, even if he hadn't, he wouldn't be letting her deal with this on her own.

Either way, that said, he makes quick work of his dinner, in a hurry to get going now, then reaches for his wallet. He lays out a generous amount of cash -- more than the bill, more than a decent tip on top of it, even -- and then shifts in his seat, like he's debating getting up. He hesitates, though, if only because he doesn't want to rush her, if she's not ready.

"You good?" he asks, that in mind.

She nods slowly, because that's interesting news re: his FBI dealings in Vegas. She knows there are some witches out there, but they tend to be the covenless kind, who are just trying to do their own thing and survive.

"I'm good," she nods, popping her last fry into her mouth before sliding out and draping her backpack over one shoulder. "Ready when you are."

It started as an Eye thing, him teaming up with Fuller to keep a good magician, a good man for being framed for murder. It's become more than that over time, to the point where, at this point, Mike knows some of his bigger secrets. He's a good guy, and together, they fight crime.

It's also a moot point at the moment, as they have bigger fish to fry, and so he gets to his feet finally, in earnest. "Alright." He pauses, gesturing to the door. "You still got those directions pulled up?"

"Yep."

She brings up her phone and one of her earbuds, placing half of them in her ear so that she can keep track of the directions as they walk. He's right in the sense that the aren't far. It's a couple cross streets and quick turns before they come up on an apartment building and the Google Assitant sounds with a "You've reached your destination" in her ear.

"This is it."

Dylan looks up at the brownstone they've stopped in front of, frowning. After a beat, he turns his attentions back to Josie.

"How do you wanna do this?"

They can knock, though it doesn't look like anyone's home, as far as he can tell, and even if there was -- well, that might not be the best idea, if they have a grudge. They could try to break it, mundanely or magically, though their guy might have anticipated that -- there might be traps. They could take a minute to try and come up with something completely different. It's up to her. She's the monster hunter, not him.

"Well. We could do it the nice way or the not-so-nice way."

It does look like no one's home, but at the same time, it could be that they're home, they're just currently a pile of goop.

"We could knock and wait and see if someone answers and hopefully won't have to force our way inside, or I could siphon the wards, we pick the lock on the door and hope there aren't any other surprises."

He looks up at the building, again, then back to her. "Start with the nice way, and see what happens?"

It can't hurt to at least try to be civil, before they start pulling down wards and breaking in. And if the guy's still alive, maybe he'll help them clean up the mess he's made, if they start with honey rather than vinegar. The lose nothing in trying.

"Nice way it is."

And it's generally the one she prefers, if given the opportunity. Shifting her bag on her shoulder, she slowly opens the gate and starts to make her way through. There aren't any specific wards on the walkway itself, likely so that they didn't explode any unfortunate deliverymen, but she can feel the magic coating the front door as they approach.

She takes a deep breath, before reaching over to knock. "Here goes nothing."

Outwardly, nothing happens -- there's no answer, no movement or sound from the house, period. Magically, on the other hand, there's definitely some kind of reaction, though Dylan can't put his finger on what, exactly. All he knows is that all at once, the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he can't shake the feeling he's being watched.

He tenses, that in mind, and from the corner of his mouth, mutters, "You feel that?"

She must.

At least they're not actively on fire, for their troubles?

"Mmmm-hmmm."

Yep, she's very aware. She reaches over, letting her hand rest casually against one of the warded door frames, just in case, but she doesn't start siphoning yet.

"What did you say this guy's name was?"

"Brenks," Dylan answers, dutifully. "Damien Brenks."

After a pause, and mostly because he's not sure why she's asking or how much information she might need to answer whatever the question, here, actually is, he adds, "Originally from Chicago, but he ended up here after pissing off one of his apprentices, or whatever."

The fine details are beyond him, for all that his information came down through the grapevine.

"Okay."

Josie reaches out and knocks on the door again, giving it another friendly knock.

"Mr. Brenks? My name's Josette Saltzman. I was hoping we could talk."

She doesn't normally go by Josette, but Josette Laughlin was her mother's name. She's also a Gemini Twin so if this guy cares anything about magical bloodlines, then maybe that might earn them at least a step in the door before things get nasty.

For several seconds, there's no response, then all at once and at her ear, "Leave the little bird on your shoulder outside. Then we'll talk."

It's magic, his message, of course it is, and apparently meant for just her, as Dylan doesn't react. Either way, while it's unclear whether or not he knows who Josie is, he obviously knows who Dylan is, and isn't impressed.

She notices that. She eyes the wards for a moment, wondering if it's worth it to negotiate with theoretical magical terrorists, but she decides that they're still doing it the nice way. She might as well give it a try.

"He says he'll only talk to me," she says. "He wants you to stay out here."

She turns to face him more. Since she's unsure of where the camera is, she can't say for sure that it will block much but she intends to keep the conversation between her and Dylan.

"Do you trust me?" Might seem like a strange thing to ask, but this is his city and his coven at risk. She wants to know for sure.

Dylan shoots a dirty look at the door, the look on his face clear, for once -- one of disbelief and maybe a little anger. Like hell he's going to let her walk into whatever shit's going on in there without back up. His jaw works, too, like he plans on telling her as much, and then she's in front of him.

He turns his attention and his protests on her, instead. "You're not seriously thinking of doing this."

"It'll be easier to take this thing down with him than without him."

And they do need something of his, after all, to take out the monster without him. Someone is going to have to go in that house to get it - better the person invited in than trying to break in and steal later. And she's also banking on Damien not knowing much about her to begin with.

Or what he will find might make him think they're on the same side.

"I'm not part of the Eye. I'm an outsider, like him. I stand a better shot."

Dylan studies her for a long moment before, on a breath out, he takes a step back and waves her on. "Alright, fine." A beat. "But if you're not back in, say, fifteen minutes, I'll deal with the wards and shit, myself."

It's not that he doesn't trust her. It's that he doesn't trust Brenks.

"Fair enough," she nods, before turning back to the door. Assuming that Damien heard all of that, she reaches delicately for the doorknob, paying attention to the wards to make sure that they don't activate as she twists the knob.

They don't, and the front door opens into a long, narrow hallway, a light that wasn't obvious from the outside on, above. For a moment and barring that, there are no further signs of life, and then Damien's voice is at her ear again. "In the living room, my dear." A somehow sharp pause follows, and then, for effect, he adds, "I don't bite."

If nothing else, it seems he's at least extra enough to be in the Eye, for all that they seem to attract showmen.

Regardless, the hallway continues on, past a door, left open, that leads into a kitchen, and stairs that lead up, spilling into a living room. Damien, seated in at a desk chair, a series of computers and monitors arranged around him, turns, and while he doesn't stand to greet her, it has nothing to do with a disregard of etiquette, a lack of respect. It's more that he might have trouble standing so quick, if the brace that runs his left leg from mid-thigh to his ankle is any indication. He's crippled and trying to avoid drawing attention to that fact, so he stays sitting.

"Josie, isn't it?" Oh, yes. He knows you don't usually use your full name.

"If you're going to call me Josie, do I get to call you Damien?"

Her eyes wander over the living room, looking for anything that seems personal. Most witches don't leave things that could be totems out and about, but that often depends on how lived in the place is. Once you make a place your home, everything becomes personal, in it's own way.

"Just so we're both on the same page."

"I'd prefer it," he answers, nodding. "'Mister Brenks' is so ... " He makes a face, intentionally sour, and waves the end of that sentence, whatever it might have been, away. It's unimportant. They're all friends here, right?

As for the room itself, there are computers and there are books, so many books, on almost every available surface, and on any number of subjects. Clearly, his interest are wide and varied; clearly he values intellect, his intellect, above all else. Beyond that, though, there seems to be nothing overtly personal in the room. Whether that's intentional, him expecting someone to come calling eventually, or not, however, is anyone's guess.

"Fair enough."

She makes her way over to browse the books, scanning the various topics. Her father was a historian - she knows her way around a library. But she doesn't let herself linger on anything too long, keeping most of her focus on the man himself.

"Look, I don't care about the Eye. While we're putting everything on the table. What I care about is the Croatoan someone summoned to start eating people's secrets. I just want to know if you know anything about it."

Something shifts, and every screen behind Damien flickers to life, showing Dylan, still standing outside, looking impatient, if nothing else. Damien tilts his head in the direction of one of the monitors, indicating him. "If you don't care about the Eye, then why bring our friend with you?"

"He's a friend." Which is true. "I'm the new girl in town - I don't know the witch community as well as he does, but I knew that the Croatoan needs to be summoned. It doesn't just appear. So I decided to pick his brain, see if he might know a good place to start when looking for someone who wanted to expose someone's secrets and make them pay for them."

She tips her head to the side, turning to rest one hand on her hip, the other on the table she's leaning nearby. She's used to theatrics, and there's nothing about her statement that edges the truth.

"Magical secret societies aren't really my thing. But he seemed to think that they were yours."

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