The Nature of Spirits

I don't know shit about spirits.

So, Dave Morris, take two.

Burns and I ran into Morris outside a thrift store. The dragon I mentioned earlier decided that we should do a couple things for him. Dragons being what they are, these tasks basically boiled down to finding a magic coin of his. Think there was something fairly awful about the coin, old pieces of silver always make me anxious, due to stories I hear. Nothing substantial, mind you, but people are wary of silver for a lot of reasons, and silver coins doubly so.

But, I figured it wasn't that kind of spooky. Hell, most of those stories about coins are distressingly Christian, and as such probably false. I mean, don't get me wrong, a bit of true faith and a cross goes a long way, but I ain't so sold on fallen angels. Demons are real, of course, but they're just strange monsters with a fair bit of power.

This coin was probably just part off the dragon's hoard. Dragons get mighty protective about their goods, and while the coin was probably magickal I wouldn't put it past a dragon to rip Heaven and Earth asunder to get at a piece of tat that happened to be its.

We followed the trail of the thing. It involved a couple broken fingers and me laughing at the wizard who kept trying to use magick to track it down despite the simplicity of a nut cracker on bone.

The coin had ended up in a thrift store when some jackass accidentally left it in the pocket of a pair of pants he was donating. Yeah, that kind of thing happens. We'd done a quick through of the store, only to find the coin was under lock and key. Apparently the greedy manager had decided he wanted to keep the coin for himself, or at least have it appraised before sale. Sleazebag, but a sensible sleazebag.

We were discussing what we were going to do about it, when Morris returned to us.

He was on a motorcycle, and he looked like trouble. He was wearing his gang tags proudly, and a freaking helmet. Not exactly the image of fearless thug, but, once again, a sensible choice. He took off the helmet as he got off and both Burns and I went tense as startled vipers.
So did Morris.

There was, suffice it to say, a confrontation. Morris and Burns fell almost immediately into a pissing match. The wizard kept taunting the thug, and the thug kept getting closer and closer to pulling a trigger and blowing the wizard's spine out.

I took what I like to think of as a more graceful path. I asked Morris what he wanted with us before I interrupted him last time.

"What?" he said.

"You wanted something," I replied, "And I bet you still do."

He hesitated then, but I won him over by calling Burns a shithead.

"Yeah, I want something," he said, "I want the helmet."

Here's where we get to what Hank is. Hank isn't human either. At least, not completely. It's complicated, and the subject of its own post, but I'll tell you now that it has to do with ghosts and legend. His helmet, an old conquistador's helmet, gives him super powers. Super strength and speed and bullets bouncing off his perfectly sculpted chest.

"Not happening," I said, "Wouldn't work for you anyways." Pretty sure that's true, actually, but I'm not entirely sure how much of the power is in the helmet and how much is Hank.

"Then no deal."

"Why do you want the power?"

"Power. Control. It's time my gang was what it used to be."

His gang used to be a simple operation. They sold drugs. They had turf fights. They kept to themselves.

These days... that wasn't true. Their leader had made some kind of deal with spirits, dark spirits with crazy urges. Not ghosts, mind you. Spirits are more primal and simple then that, and so much more dangerous. Spirits get all tied up with magickal concepts and energies. There are death spirits and knowledge spirits and life spirits and its all a crazy mess.

The bastards that Morris's boss had were spirits of violence and blood. Nasty fucks. Give no shits whatsoever about collateral damage... Hell, they kind of like it.

Apparently, Morris wasn't having any of that. He wanted to get things back to how they were. To do that, he wanted magick power to stand up to his boss. Only magick he knew involved spirits, and the helmet Hank was wearing when he beat Morris's boss upside the head with his own motorcycle.

"There are other kinds of power," I assured him, "I can get you in touch with a dragon. You serve him and he'll give you all the power you want."

He shook his head, "No. Not putting myself in anyone's power."

I shrugged, "Then you're not getting magick. All power puts you in something's power. The helmet would put you under its power like any other. You sacrifice to make things right."

He shrugged, "I can sacrifice, but I ain't going to be some dragon's bitch."

Sensible enough. He didn't want anything interfering with his mortal power, if such a thing exists. Control of the gang, of the city, that mattered more than his soul.

"I do know someone..." I said, "She might be able to help. If you want to work with spirits."

That someone is one of the finest lesbian-tantric-sex-priests I have ever met.
Also, one of only three, the other two being her off and on again partners.
Basically she uses sex to harness spirits of lust, sex, union, etc. Seems innocent enough, but the kind of power they can grant is often... unexpected. Lust spirits control magnetism and gravity, for example. Laws of attraction.

"Fuck spirits," he said.

Somehow, I managed not to laugh. "Think about it, Dave. You want to make a power play, and that requires power. Your best bet is to have as much power on your side as possible. You know I have my own power, strength and connections. You know that Hank has his helmet, and we've got this fucker," I pointed at Burns, who still had a gun so far in his back I thought a kidney might pop loose, "To shoot his magick about. Now, all that plus the power of a dragon or some spirits, that's got to be better than just you, alone, with the helmet, and me and the wiz after you for spilling our friend's blood.
"You understand loyalty, don'cha, Dave?"

Dave thought about it for what seemed like ages.
Then he put the gun away.

He tried to negotiate for other things, like the wizard's staff, and we eventually pointed out a handful of genuinely magickal artifacts in the thrift store, but apparently he didn't care. Sensible yet again, because he probably couldn't work out how to use them. Three faces know I couldn't, after all.

So, we walked away.

My friend wasn't all that willing to teach a punk like that. Right fucking mess. I mean, aside from her reservations of teaching men her magick (it means sleeping with them, after all) she just didn't want someone in a gang with that kind of power.

"He's already got access to spirits," I said, "Just a matter of time before he learns how to use them. Or takes up with the dragon. I'd just rather he learn it from someone who knows what she's doing, and can teach him right. Otherwise he's either going to be eaten alive, or let loose all kinds of Hell on the world.
"So, for everyone's sake, teach him better."

She frowned and furrowed her brow in a way that makes her just adorable, and said: "I'll think about it. Maybe a trial basis..."

"I'll keep him informed."

Like I said, I don't know shit about spirits, so I don't have much more to say.