Monday, 17 October
Minutes before midnight
Following the events of Storm of Souls

******

The wind was blowing swiftly, rattling the eaves of Knockturn Alley and making the metal spirit outside creak as it swung.  The wispy creature, which looked like no more than a burst of fog racing swiftly through the streets, darted from ill-lit window to flickering lantern as it tried to escape from the hungry, light-sucking shadows that it had left somewhere in its wake.

Not long before, it had been with other souls like it.  Clustered together by those still living, they had taken refuge in flesh, clinging to the last semblance of safety and life.  For a while, they had been safe — but then the Hungry Ones had come, come to feast and sate their veracious appetite, as they’d tried to once before.  The wisp had fled from them, raced out into the cold, rainy night, braving the elements against its nature in order to seek refuge from the demonic shadows that were hunting it. 

The dilapidated building would have been nothing special to look at, if the spirit had still had eyes.  It had raced in through a gap in the wood of the front door, still hurrying searching for a place to be safe.  As it crossed into the main entryway, it hesitated, hovering in midair, as if searching for a place to go.  And then, quick as a whisk, it was off again, darting up the stairs and tumbling from door to door to find a place to hide.

So many rooms.  Most were dark, empty, and cold.  That wouldn’t do tonight: it could feel itself growing weaker, the further it got from the light.  In others, it sensed a presence, some human soul deep in contemplation, or fallen asleep, or engaged in carnal business with another.  Normally, any of those would have suited its purposes, but it didn’t want to be dragged back to the place with the Hungry Ones, trapped together in flesh prisons with others of its kind, waiting for the feast.

All of a sudden, the wispy spirit came to an abrupt halt.  It hovered in midair, taking shelter in the brief respite of light thrown out from under a door.  Upstairs, it could sense something else: some sort of warmth, burning brighter than the others.

Warmth.  Light.  Respite.

Quick as a flash, it was off again.  Racing up the stairs, darting between shadows as it continued towards the light.  It dashed under a door, bounded into a darkened room, and then waited, hovering, as it examined the room once more for the warmth that had drawn it like a moth.

There was another spirit here, but not of its kind: of air and darkness, not of light.  The wispy spirit ignored it. 

And there: in the center of the room, a candle was burning.  It floated closer, almost curious.  Was that what it had sensed?

But then, suddenly, something swooped in.  Glass around it, a metal lid slapped on top.  The wispy spirit let out what would have been a screech, if it had had a voice.  It whirled around its newfound prison, searching for a way out, searching, searching for any weakness that would let it escape.  But there was no break.

Mournfully, despairingly, it let out a burst of sadness as it drew itself in, floating tightly in the center of its new glass prison.

Once again, it was trapped.

******

Aviad lifted up the glass jar, holding it up to the light.  The small spirit inside it had stopped its raging.  It seemed to huddle together, making itself smaller, as it resigned itself to its new fate.

Interesting.  He broke the chalk circle that he’d drawn around himself and stepped over to the desk.  The small hotel room that he was renting — by the fortnight, in this decrepit place — didn’t have much by the way of furniture, but he’d turned it into a workspace.  The tools of his trade were scattered about before him:  bits of colored candles, ribbons, white and black stones, a nub of chalk.

Tzippori had come over, apparently curious.  The skeleton toucan hopped closer to the jar, peering into it.  It tilted its head to the side first one way, and then the other, allowing its empty eye sockets could examine the creature inside.

Aviad grumbled to himself as he dug through his bag.  Finally, he found the small silver mirror.

He shooed Tzippori away as he came to sit down.  His familiar jumped back, and then launched itself onto his shoulder, flapping its boney wings for balance as it tried to hold on.

Aviad placed the mirror down on the table next to the glass jar. 

“All right, little spirit,” he grumbled, picking up the jar.  He had never seen anything like it before, and it was time for answers.  “Now, what are you?”