Faust Issue Two: Guarded Paths

Hours had passed since Faust had been visited by Deadman about a special book, and attacked by two puppet-soldiers of the Brotherhood of the Cold Flame and the Mistress of the Mirror; the latter of whom was still stuck in his living room mirror.

“If I could get out of this mirror I’d take the pleasure of making love to you, and then slitting your throat while you sleep, Faust.”

“If you don’t stop talking I’m going to put you back in the closet.”

The Mistress crossed her arms and shut up.

The worst part he had to deal with was that his would-be assassin confessed that it was his own father, Felix Faust, who had arranged the hit.

Some dad, Faust thought. This was the same father who had sold his soul when he was a baby. The same father who was one of the darkest wizards in the magic community. Now this was the same father trying to get his son killed for apparently no reason. Guess selling his son's soul wasn’t enough for dear ol’ Dad, Faust thought. Guess he wanted to finish the job.

He should have been mad (had he a soul), and deep down inside he was partially offended. But he had things to do. Like tracking down the factions responsible for sending assassins to kill him, and figuring out what “special book” Deadman was alluding to earlier. He could wallow in sorrow and write poetry about his dysfunctional family when he had the leisure time.

“There’s no use, Faust. There are too many forces to contend with. But if you let me out, I can make it quick and painless…even memorable.”

Faust turned to look at her. “That’s the same thing I told my last three dates. Didn’t work on them either.”

He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his shabby living room. He had to work quickly because the sun would be rising in a few hours. Usually, this was good. Most of the big, bad uglies go to sleep by dawn. But he had to perform a shadow-walk, possibly a long one, and the more difficult the journey, the harder it was to make it to the other side alive.

He had gathered together six things: the ashes of the fallen puppet-soldiers, a match, newspaper pages, a vial of holy water, half of a tuning fork, and a shard of his shattered bathroom mirror.

“What are you doing, Faust?” the Mistress asked, pressing her face against the mirror to get a better look. He ignored her, gathering together the newspaper pages into a pile and lighting it afire with the match. He threw the ashes within the fire, making it blaze upwards momentarily, like a hand reaching for more. Next, he began sprinkling some of the holy water onto the tuning fork. “Holy water keeps the path clear and pure,” Faust said to the Mistress.

Next, he took the mirror shard, and with one quick motion cut the upper part of his forearm, drawing blood begrudgingly. He tipped the tuning fork with his blood. Certain magical spells required something in return.

“What are you doing, my lovely victim?” the Mistress asked, her pale, icy eyes focused on Faust’s craft. Faust stepped up to the fire, shadows dancing on his face as he gazed into the flames. The tuning fork began to vibrate in his hand, first a small buzz and then a violent tremor.

“I see why you’re a hit with the ladies, Faust…Why don’t you come closer to the mirror….” the Mistress cooed.

Faust ignored her, incanting the spell needed, and throwing the tuning fork into the flames. The fire lurched upwards, a kaleidoscope of embers blazing white, orange and blue. “Zatanna, eat your heart out,” Faust whispered.

Faust stepped out of the the darkness to find himself in the middle of the wilderness: in the distance he saw a large, stone dwelling that looked like a cross between a castle and a prison. It was square and a pale brown color.

Up above the Full Moon shone. Not good, Faust thought. The Full Moon is always a bad omen in the movies. Hope this is more a romantic comedy than a horror survival. I can deal with a broken heart more than a broken spine.

Faust stepped back into the shadows.




Faust stepped out again, a little more tired, emerging just outside the walls to the prison-castle. The smell was horrible: a stale, rotting smell wafted into his nostrils. He crept around the outer edges until he found a small, dark corner that seemed to feed into some inner chamber.

Maybe I can try and pull another shadow walk...

A howl wailed in the distance, from everywhere and nowhere. It was deep and long, and had the edge of something sinister in it. Faust wasted no time. He fell into the shadows once again.



Faust stepped out of the shadows, tired and drained, into a dark, desolate and cold chamber. His body fell against a wall as he took in the room in was now in.

The room smelled like a forgotten attic: everything was stale and musty. Around him were bodies, bodies that he couldn’t tell whether they were alive or dead. They were on top of individual stretchers, put around the spacious room with dozens of wires and tubes running through their bodies. Faust came up close to one, a man in his forties, who looked like Archie Bunker. He was alive. Comatose, but still alive.

If they were alive, then he could steal some mana from them and recharge his batteries. Just the slightest soul tap shouldn’t bother them; but if they died, at least they’d be better off than what they were now. He walked through the rows, soul tapping each body with a brush of his fingers. Slowly he built up his reserves, while his back burned briefly and slightly after each touch. Magic had its price.

A long howl erupted from outside the room. Faust turned, his fists tightening. He moved swiftly and quietly around the room until he found a door. Something was scratching against the door, something big. He put his back against the wall adjacent to the door and listened carefully.

The door banged hard. Faust stepped back. Behind his shades, his eyes turned a misty indigo as his fists burned the same color. Another bang, this time leaving a giant claw-sized dent. What the hell was that on the other side?

Turning swiftly, Faust came face to face with a tall, lanky man with a straw hat and a Hawaiian shirt. He had a long narrow face, framed by long, black stringy hair. He also had an unnerving ear-to-ear grin.

Faust grimaced and backed up, putting some distance between them. The man followed, walking slowly, like a predator toying with its prey.

“Who are you?” Faust asked.

The lanky man chuckled and crossed his arms. “Seems like I should be askin’ you tha same question, stranger…seeing as how you’re the unwelcome guest here n’ all.” He had a backwaters Louisiana drawl with a hint of something dark…something dangerous. A smile edged in on the corner of his mouth.

Faust’s hands glimmered and burned as his eyes flared. “Let’s say I’m here to leave a message to my would-be murderers.”

The man smiled a devious smile and put one hand on his hip, and offered the second for a handshake. “Well hello, Mista Messenga…it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. M’name’s Wolfwood and I guess you can call me the hired watchdog of this establishment.”

Normally Faust would have been concerned. But while he didn’t have the hand-to-hand prowess of his enemy, he had magic in spades. He knew Wolfwood wasn’t what he seemed. His aura had a shimmering edge, as if his shape wasn’t fixed. He’d find out what Wolfwood was soon.

Wolfwood was upon him again, tackling him through a wall half-crumbled by Faust’s misfired mana bursts. His body ached all over, which wasn’t helped by Wolfwood’s lanky yet incredibly heavy body. Wolfwood backhanded Faust, then brought him real close, almost nose to nose.

“You got mighty pretty eyes for a dead man walking,” Wolfwood growled. “Too bad I’m a have to rip them out with my bare hands!”

Faust put his hands to Wolfwood’s ribs, his eyes turning bright. “Really? I guess great minds think alike.” A powerful, burning blast of mana cut into Wolfwood’s sides and blew Wolfwood backwards. By the time Wolfwood hit the floor, Faust was up and moving.

“That stings,” Wolfwood said rising up. “It won’t happen again,” he added firmly.

“Won’t have to,” Faust said coming up to Wolfwood, his hands burning white as he incanted a spell. He leaped into the air, arm straight up, and then sliced down the air in front of Wolfwood’s body. His fingers grazed Wolfwood's skin, etching a thin white line down the middle of Wolfwood's body.

Wolfwood stopped. “What the hell was that? Y’ barely even touched me,” Wolfwood said,

Faust stood up and smiled. “Remember the ‘ripping apart’ thing?” Faust smiled as he snapped his fingers.

Faust turned to the unenthusiastic applause of two very familiar-looking people. Two people who he recognized through word of mouth and legend. Two people who together could most likely level this entire country within a day.

One was Wotan, master of a unique techno-magical craft, frequent magic-mastermind of many WWII era-heroes; the other was the Wizard, master of illusions and dark magic, and many forms of deception, not to mention his dad's frequent rival. Not good.

"Why look what our good fortune has brought us!" the Wizard said. "A chew toy."

"Looks like Wolfwood wasn't much help," Wotan said smugly.

"Well I'll be," the Wizard said taking a step forward. "I believe I've seen this lad before...Does he remind you of anyone we'd have liked to kill?"

Damn, Faust thought. Stupid bad omens.

Wotan pulled out out a wand made of wood and steel and pointed it at Faust. "What should I do with him?" he said to the Wizard.

Faust's eyes turned indigo as one of his fists glowed the same color. "The better question is whether you wanted to buried in a coffin made of cherry oak or pine."

The Wizard's eyes glowed with power. "You know you have to take us both on, right? I could conjure up eight more of me and you'd have to figure out which of us were the real one. By then, you'll be dead."

"Then," Faust said, charging up and making his other hand glow. "I have ten fingers, one for each of you." He lifted his shimmering hands, spreading his fingers out. "Ever heard of spirit fingers?"

A voice came from behind him. "Ever heard of a gun?"