Striker watched the three suited men standing at the gate to Cecilia’s house.

  One pushed the doorbell incessantly.

  One stared back at Striker.

  The last one’s hand remained in his plaid blazer, near his breast pocket. Yellow street light reflected off of his white teeth as he smiled at Striker.

  “You live here?” asked Plaid Blazer, arching an eyebrow to punctuate the question. “Saul? Sanchez?” Every word he said sounded like it was a question.

  Striker shook his head. “No, my name is Devin.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Who do you live here with, Devin?”

  “I don’t live here.” Striker fucked up. “I’m staying with friends.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Plaid, looking at his associates. “We must be at the wrong place,” he said, reaching further into his jacket. He pulled out a phone and held it up high to his face, before glancing over the top of it at Striker, through the gate.

  “This looks like the right house,” he said, still looking at his phone. “Can you come down here and help me out? I just have a picture of the house for a party we’re trying to go to but we don’t hear any music. It should be on this block.”

  “I really don’t know the houses around here or anything.”

  “And you’re sure this isn’t the Sanchez house?”

  Striker nodded.

  The man looked at his associates. “What do you think about that?” he asked, looking at the Doorbell Molester. Striker didn’t hear a response from him before Plaid said, “Yeah, I thought so.”

  The Doorbell Molester and the Staring Man reached into their jackets.

  Striker ducked as a gunshot rang out, covering his head with his hands. He dropped to the floor when another followed. The door behind him whipped open, and he was dragged backward inside. Cecilia slammed the door as gunfire continued outside, from two different directions.

  She grabbed his hand, pulling him further from the door and to his feet. Her mark was glowing bright in the dark. “You didn’t say they were here!”

  “They showed up right the fuck now, I did—”

  She pulled him down as another volley of gunfire erupted. She flicked her fingers toward a small bookcase. Books fell as it scraped the floor, sliding in front the door.

  “Are they humans? Do you know?”

  “I wouldn’t know how to tell.”

  Cecilia made a flicking motion with her finger and the living room went dark as every light switch went down.

  “We can move now. If they can’t see what we’re doing, we have a better chance. I have to check on my dad. You should go to the back door and see if anyone’s out there. The kitchen light is on the left of the door before you go in. Turn it off.”

  She didn’t wait for a response before running toward the stairs. Striker bear-crawled to the kitchen and shut off the light before continuing to the back door. He stopped with his hand on the door knob. He couldn’t hear Pulgoso barking and shuddered as he imagined the dog taking a chunk out of him when he stepped out. He signed the Pusher sigil again, unsure of what good it could do against three men with guns.

  If it even worked with them nearby.

  He took a breath and opened the door. It was quiet outside. He could see the figures of neighbors in their windows, alerted by the commotion. He froze when Pulgoso’s massive head appeared from the dark yard, sniffing at him.

  He growled.

  Then, he licked Striker, before sauntering past him into the house, plopping himself onto the kitchen floor.

  A crash at the front door startled Striker. The barricade was broken.

  “I hope you’re not waiting for the cops,” said one of them. “They’re not going to be here for a while.”

  They fanned out with small flashlights. Striker pressed himself against the far wall to get out of sight. He heard footsteps approaching as a beam of light swept into the kitchen. The light pointed at Pulgoso before sweeping away, leaving the room in darkness. Striker carefully peered around the doorway and watched the Staring Man ascend the stairs. Pulgoso huffed, looked over his shoulder, before laying his head back down.

  Striker looked at the back door, considering the possibility of escaping into a neighbor’s yard.

  Somewhere he might be able to hide.

  Or leave.

  Or find safety with a neighbor who could call the police.

  Not even hours ago, he was forcing a demon to sit still by the power of magic. Now, he felt just as insignificant as he did before New Year’s Eve.

  He took a knife from the kitchen counter with a deep breath, before stepping into the hallway. He tiptoed as quickly as he could toward the stairs. He could hear talking as he reached the base. He gripped the knife and proceeded up. It gave him a small degree of comfort— little more than the dimly glowing mark on his hand did, knowing it would be useless if they saw him before he could use his power— if it would even work.

  A cheap knife and the element of surprise were his only realistic advantages.

  He stayed low as he neared the top of the stairs, with the knife pointed forward. Voices became more clear. In the only lit room on the second floor, one of the suited men was talking. Striker’s heart beat in his ears as he made his way up the last stair. There was a crash and a yelp in the living room. Striker looked over his shoulder as Pulgoso sniffed at the front door ‘barricade’.

  When he turned back around, the Staring Man stood in the doorway of the lit room with a gun pointed at him. “Why don’t you join us?” he asked. “You can put that thing down, too.”

  Striker imagined it sailing into the man’s chest. He thought about what Cecilia had told him about intent, and a motion to mark it. He released the knife and it clattered to the floor.

  “Hands up, please and thank you,” said the Staring Man.

  Striker obeyed and approached at gunpoint. The man waved him into the room. Cecilia, Guadalupe, and Saul sat on the floor in the center. Plaid and the Doorbell Molester stood over them.

  “Devin, right? Have a seat. This won’t take long,” said Plaid.

  He pointed next to Saul with his gun. Striker sat down. Beyond the door, where the Staring Man stood, he saw the knife on the floor.

  “I thought you ate a bullet,” said Plaid, squatting in front of Saul. “I’m surprised, old man. You should be bleeding out right now. There’s a lot of blood in the bedroom there,” he said, pointing at the wall between rooms with his gun. “And I’m really curious about those holes in your shirt. They look really fresh.” He sat down, cross legged.

  The Doorbell Molester started to speak, but Plaid shushed him. “No, I really— I’ve killed a lot of people. I’ve made a living killing people. No pun intended. This is like sorting trash for me,” he said, flashing a smile. “I’ve seen a lot of shit, but never a man get shot and bleed like you did— all over yourself there— and just be… fine. Take that off.”

  Saul gave him a puzzled look.

  “Take off the fucking shirt,” he yelled, with the barrel now pointed at Saul’s head.

  Saul quickly did. His torso was covered in long scars, many of them in raked claw patterns, leaving deep channels in his flesh. The man poked his chest with the gun.

  “I almost thought you were fucking metal,” said Plaid. “This is just… How? You need to tell me how. You know, I’ll tell you what— I make sure your dog survives if you tell me why. Or— and hear me out here— I can figure out how many rounds to your face it takes until whatever you have just doesn’t work. But this is fucking magical.”

  “Are you serious?” asked the Doorbell Molester, “Let’s finish this and leave.”

  “You shot him! Three times! Aren’t you fucking curious?”

  “This is just taking a long a fuckin’ time, man.”

  “And what? This place is a black hole until we say we’re done. No one’s coming here. Except the fire department if there’s any danger to Mr. Borchart’s properties. Except this one. We're definitely torching this place.”

  “Borchart doesn’t own this house,” said Cecilia, looking at her father. “Right?”

  He shook his head. “Our Landlord isn’t Borchart.”

  The lead hitman chuckled. “Your landlord’s job is to collect your rent. Who do you think pays your landlord? Back to my point though, I really want my question answered. Or you can watch all of them die, one by one, before I ask you again.”

  “It won’t work if you can see it,” yelled Cecilia. “You want to know, but you don’t believe. Not really. And that matters a lot right now.”

  He laughed. “Are you saying you’re protected by God or something?”

  She shook her head. “No, but it doesn't work if you don’t believe.”

  “What if I’m open to the idea?” he asked, with a mocking smile.

  She shrugged.

  The Doorbell Molester spoke up again. “This is getting stupid. Can we finish this and go?”

  “Not until I give the word. We’ll be here for a while. Go close the door and see what’s in the fridge or something.”

  “There’s a huge dog in the kitchen.”

  “Shoot the fucking dog, then. Don’t be a toddler. Close the front door, though.”

  The Doorbell Molester shrugged and left the room, thumping down the stairs shortly thereafter.

  “Okay,” said Plaid. “You have a minute, and then I shoot someone, somewhere. I think,” he said, looking at Guadalupe. “This lovely lady here, right in the most merciful place I can imagine,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “Your minute started six seconds ago.”

  “Magic is real,” said Cecilia. “But if you don’t believe, it can’t happen in front of your face. But it happens behind your back all the time. If you can’t see it, you can’t stop it. ”

  Striker eyed the tip of the knife. He could just see it sticking out beyond the doorway. The light flicked off. On the floor, he traced the Pusher sigil.

  He lost sight of the knife in the darkness as the two suited men swore. Gunshots rang out. In a brief muzzle flash, Striker spotted the knife’s tip. He could also see the silhouette of the Staring Man in the doorway. He clenched his fist and pulled it toward him, focused on the knife. He heard a squelch and a grunt. The Staring Man fired several rounds into the floor as he staggered into the wall.

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  Cecilia lunged at Plaid. He screamed, as his entire cool persona broke down at that moment. The Staring Man ripped the knife out of his own arm and it clattered to the floor. With a glance from Cecilia, it shot to life again, sailing into his neck. A metallic grind of a handgun slide pierced the following silence before two more shots rang out. The Staring Man slunk against the wall and slid down, dropping the gun as he reached for the blade, shaking. Then, he was still.

  Striker puked. The rhythmic thump of the third man coming upstairs sent Cecilia scrambling for the door.

  “Papa,” she whispered, “Take his gun.”

  Striker looked over to her parents, but couldn’t see anything in the darkness of the room.

  “He’s coming,” she said, “hurry up.”

  Striker slid closer to Guadalupe, but slipped. The floor beneath him was wet and warm, and his hand slid until it hit her body. He shook her, and jumped to his feet, reaching over for Saul, who also remained motionless on the ground.

  “Papa!,” yelled Cecilia. Four wild gunshots tore through the wall. Striker dropped as low as he could. Cecilia ripped the gun from Plaid’s dead hands. She stood and rounded the doorway, out of Striker’s sight. He heard Cecilia scream and then a flurry of gunfire.

  It was silent after that.

  Then, he heard a thud against the wall. Then the ceiling. Then, the wall again, before a corpse flew past the doorway.

  The hallway light flicked on.

  Cecilia staggered into the room, dropping the gun, wheezing with her hand on her chest. Her mark was glowing and his own began to itch. He felt an unfamiliar energy emanating from her.

  He thought about the journal in his pocket and the strange effects certain pages had. The power he was able to unleash when he used it against the demon on the hill. The power they shared in the warehouse, before Cecilia dispatched the demons that stalked him since New Year’s Eve— at least momentarily. He pulled the book from his pocket and gripped her hand.

  She writhed, gripping his hand tightly and screaming. She quieted after they heard two distinct metal plinks on the floor.

  “Papa?” asked Cecilia.

  She didn’t ask as much as utter into the universe, hoping for an answer.

  Striker knelt down, feeling around the floor for whatever had just dropped. His fingers brushed something, hot enough that he had to drop it.

  Cecilia began tracing a sigil.

  Striker picked the thing up again, and brought it to his face. It was a gnarled hunk of metal. He dropped it and looked at Cecilia.

  She was intently focused on creating a sigil, with more care than he'd seen her do so before. Counter to the unfamiliarity of watching her draw sigils— usually somewhat repulsive in their appearance— this one drew Striker in, unable to look away.

  The outline of the sigil was thick, where the trails he’d seen before were thin. This wasn’t dim— or necessarily dark— but a window to somewhere different. In the cacophony of experience, Striker could see another reality that flashed before him and burned into his memory. He remembered a Catholic Mass he never attended. A Quincea?era he shouldn’t have had such a vivid recollection of— especially not from the perspective of the one wearing a dress. A memory of parents that so closely fawned over their pride and joy.

  She snapped her fingers, and her mark lit up. She touched Saul’s face, which Striker could now see was mostly scattered behind him in a gaping hole. Cecilia turned to her mother and cradled her head.

  Striker stood, unsteady, and stumbled out into the hallway. After a momentary attempt at composure, he continued to the top of the stairs, where Pulgoso lazily passed him with a heavy exhale of acknowledgement. He made his way down and sat at the bottom, staring at his phone. He typed in Case’s number and held his thumb over the ‘send’ button, frozen and trembling, until he heard Pulgoso at the top of the stairs.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. Cecilia— freshly changed into new clothes and carrying a backpack— descended while Pulgoso hesitated, whining at the top. He followed when she sniffled and wiped her face halfway down. She passed Striker on the bottom stair without a word and proceeded to the front door.

  She paused with one foot outside.

  “You should go,” she said. “I don’t know when the cops are going to show up.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for them? Isn’t running going to make things look shady?”

  “Shady? Both of us keep turning up around dead bodies. And if they were telling the truth, the cops work for Borchart. At least the ones that are going to come here.” She paused for a moment, looking into his eyes with a despair he had not yet seen. “This wasn’t your fault,” she said, before she and her dog disappeared from sight.

  Striker remained on the stair for another few minutes before he finally pocketed his phone and left. More silhouettes stood in windows, watching him emerge and wander down the street in a daze. He walked to Mission Street before hailing a cab back to North Beach, managing to keep his cool while police cars blew past him with their sirens on.

  He arrived at the hostel and took a detour to the liquor store on Lombard. He bought a handle of whiskey, opened it just outside the door, and downed nearly a quarter of it before walking back. He looked over his shoulder every few steps, both for his stalkers— which could be any tall-and-short pair he saw on the street— and the police, whom he was certain were finding more and more evidence to put him away, despite his relative innocence.

  He staggered into the hostel, holding the bottle by the neck. The young man at the counter looked up from his laptop, with a sheepish, “Uhh, sir?” as Striker passed.

  Striker stopped and stared back, silently.

  “You can’t have open containers in here.”

  “How about this,” Striker started. He uncapped the bottle and tipped it upward, chugging another few gulps before wiping his mouth. “I’ll put it in my locker.”

  The man stammered as Striker walked past the desk, into the hallway, and to his room. It was empty. He took another swig before stashing the bottle in his locker. He laid both journals side by side on his bed, drunk, but determined to figure out what more he could. He managed to match a new symbol to a page that had it sloppily written over and over.

  It was the word, “Fuck”.

  The page after, what he could read of it at least, was something Striker would have called a paranoid diatribe, had he not experienced being stalked by the two entities mentioned upon it. The next page he could decipher with any true intelligibility mentioned ‘A wall in the wall’ that would ‘keep them out of the house’. Striker immediately thought of the old couple— or the demons in their bodies— standing just outside his doors.

  Downing half that handle of whiskey caught up with him faster than he anticipated. He laid back in his bed, as the world shifted around him, unsettling his stomach. He closed his eyes, and quickly regretted it before rushing to the bathroom. He stormed in and puked into the toilet on his hands and knees, with the door wide open.

  He crawled to the sink and used it to pull himself up in front of the mirror. After turning the hot water on, he looked at himself, hazy, before washing out his mouth and splashing his face. As he assessed himself more closely, he saw the mirror was lightly fogged, and in the condensation was the word, ‘RUN’.

  It was Zoey’s writing.

  It drove Striker crazy, before she disappeared, that she’d lick her finger and write ‘notes’ for him on the bathroom mirror, that would be revealed after he showered. He thought they were haunted the first it happened, and she let him believe it for a while before giving up the game. He’d wash the mirror and she’d do it again when he was out. He refused to touch it since she went missing, hoping she’d return and do it again.

  Was this real?

  Striker stared at the three letters on the mirror, unsure of why he felt a heavy sense of deja vu. The mirror grew thicker with condensation, despite the hot water having been turned off. He leaned in closer as a bead of water began to drop. It was the lead of a trail that began to trace itself over her message. Striker stared deep into the mirror, at his own reflection, as though it would turn into a window through which he would see her.

  He leaned in closer, watching what he thought was the faint outline of a fingertip.

  He brought his hand up to the mirror.

  It shattered the moment his palm rested upon it, slicing his hand as shards rained down. He screamed and pulled his bloodied hand back. A perfect imprint of his handprint remained unbroken on the shattered fixture. He stumbled, drunk, back to his bed and pulled the whiskey from his locker. He held the bottle with his uninjured hand on the way back to the bathroom, where he wailed as he uncapped the bottle and screamed again when he poured the whiskey onto fresh wounds. There was a rapid knock at the door.

  “Hello?” asked the voice on the other end— the hostel receptionist. He let himself in and brought his hands to his mouth when he saw the shattered glass, blood, and Striker standing at the sink. He stood, dumbfounded at the situation in front of him.

  “It broke,” slurred Striker, leaning on the sink. “I got cut on the glass.”

  “How much did you—” the man paused, remembering Striker’s display at the front desk. “You need to get to a hospital, Your hand looks really bad.”

  Striker brought his hand up to his face. It was bloodied and burned from the whiskey he poured on it. Blood still trickled as he plunged it into cold water. “I should…” he took a deep breath, falling further into inebriation. “Is there something to clean this up? I should clean this up.”

  “Uh,” the young man stammered. “You should really get some help.” His eyes darted between Striker’s hands, the blood all over the sink, and the trail leading from it to the bunks. Striker shrugged, taking a step and falling into the wall before righting himself and stumbling out of the room. The receptionist followed a few steps behind him until he reached the bedroom.

  He stood, watching at the door until Striker sat on his bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, trying desperately to slow the spin of the world around him. He swayed in place, as he glanced at the journals on the bed next to him. They were both closed. He tilted his head in thought about the state he’d left the bed. Did he bother to close them? He didn’t even remember why he left the bed in the first place.

  Striker put the translation journal in his locker and the other in his pocket. A woman entered with a bucket and began mopping Striker’s blood trail from the floor. He rose and stumbled down the hall, toward the front door. Before he stepped out, the receptionist called behind him, “Don’t bring back more alcohol. This is your last warning. I’m calling the cops if there’s any more trouble. And you should maybe just... Go to the hospital.”

  Striker nodded, somewhat mockingly as he shoved the door open and bumped into someone on their way in. He bought a flask of whiskey from the first liquor store he passed before wandering to Fisherman’s Wharf. In a span of less than half hour, the blood had dried and flaked off of his hand. It looked healed, as though nothing had ever happened. Despite that, he could feel the muscles in his fingers rent by the glass from earlier. It was after midnight, but there were still tourists swarming the streets to see the attractions and take photos of the dark bay.

  He eventually turned and made his way up the steep Powell Street hill where he found a park to sober up before he returned to the hostel. The view of the Bay was gorgeous. He lit a cigarette and pulled the journal from his pocket. Between glances at the journal, he stared out at the bay and the lights of Marin beyond the railing ahead of him, struggling to gain more understanding of the strange artifact that had become the source of his life’s ruin.

  He knew which page was the Pusher, or Los Manos, as Cecilia called it— the element that let him exert physical force beyond his own body. He knew which one made things hold shapes, if he concentrated on the objects and the shape— which was no small task. He dubbed that one 'Form'. The others remained a mystery. As much as he’d stared at them, he hadn’t chosen to commit to experimenting with them, and there were so many. He was already too familiar with the drastic effects of trying the two that he did in his apartment.

  Power outs. Everything in the room pushed against the wall or arranged in some impossible shape that fell to the floor, disturbing his neighbors. The loss of time. The sudden appearance of his pursuers after his experimentation. The warnings from Cecilia. The fear she felt when she learned it could be.

  He also knew she was right, to some extent or another. On the hill, the book was like a supercharged battery that filled him with enough energy to force a demon to lay on the ground, while it was nearly useless against men with guns. He had a bomb, or so Cecilia said, but bullets and minds that just didn’t believe in magic won the night.

  Striker had never seen someone die in person, peacefully or otherwise. In less than two weeks since the year began, he’d been present at the deaths of at least five people.

  He flipped back and forth between pages, chose one, and laid the journal on his lap.

  He touched it and flinched.

  Nothing happened, at least not apparently.

  He laid his palm flatter on the page and there was still no change, except in himself. He felt pulled in every direction— physically, in an odd way. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. He looked around himself, but noticed nothing else out of the ordinary. His mark began to glow and his hand grew warm as he looked out at the wharf and bay from his vantage point at Jack Early park. He didn’t care for being at the wharf, so close to the salty air and what he still could only describe as, ‘sea-lion smell’, but enjoyed watching from a distance.

  Despite the dark and distance, he could see the waves of the bay in clear definition. He wondered if the mark had anything to do with that, like the lacerations from the mirror that were gone so soon after he'd been injured— even if his hands still ached and burned. His vision began to tunnel, and the waves grew closer. He tilted his head as the sea-lion smell assaulted his nostrils and he could hear the waves in front of him.

  He took his hand off of the page and realized he was no longer sitting. He was in freefall, and gripped the book in his hands before plunging into the frigid water of the bay. A wave tumbled him and he flailed to right himself, kicking rocks and treading water until he reached Embarcadero street. He climbed up onto the sidewalk, with considerable effort, dripping and heaving. He laid on the sidewalk as late-night tourists diverted around him with judgemental glances.

  He expected to be shivering from the cold, wet clothes that clung to him, but he was warm, unsure if that was from the booze or the mark that was now putting his life into overdrive-crazy. Or, perhaps, it was the journal. His only chance to figure where Zoey might have gone, but clearly— like Cecilia said— a bomb.

  A liability.

  Something he didn’t know how to properly handle.

  He bought a couple of cheap airport shots at a liquor store with the soggy money in his pocket, and stuck to sidestreets as he made his way back to the hostel, meandering to dry off. He passed Lombard and wandered Telegraph hill until he felt dry enough to head back. His phone was waterlogged, but he figured it was well after two in the morning. Bars were closed and few people loitered, as per San Francisco usual.

  He was walking up Jasper Place when he looked over his shoulder. Someone was behind him. Striker sped up his pace. He was most of the way down the block before he heard rustling in a tree that hung over a wall to the right of him. A figure burst from the foliage and landed in the middle of the street in front of him, smiling ear to ear, standing no taller than five-foot-three. He spun on his heel, but the other person— figure— whatever— was a couple of doors behind him now, and appeared at least a foot taller than Striker.

  His head swivelled between them as he brought up his hands to shape a spell— The Pusher, Los Manos— he still didn’t know what to call it for himself. Before he managed to shape the first curves of the sigil, the tall one was practially in his face. It felt, as Striker watched him approach, like a blur; less time than it would take to blink and flinch.

  Which he did.

  The tall one grabbed Striker’s coat and forced him off of his feet, onto a wall.

  Striker knew who he was, when he tilted his head, just slightly. Striker swung his fist, but the man didn’t respond at all when it connected with his temple.

  “Cobb,” he began, “His pockets?”

  The short one approached him. Striker began tracing the sigil with his fingertips. The short one began to rifle through his coat, reaching into the pocket with the journal. Striker felt a familiar twinge of energy course from his hand and throughout his body as he finished the arcane shape.

  He clenched his fist.