A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 19: The Waiting Game

Michael leaned against the bar at Strangefellows, idly wiping down a glass as he scanned the room. It had been a week since he'd decided to let the Bennetts and Pembrokes make the first move, and the waiting was wearing on him. His instincts screamed that trouble was coming, but day after day, there was nothing. No ambushes, no cryptic messages, no shadowy figures lurking in alleys. Just silence.

For most people, silence might have been a relief. For Michael, it felt like the quiet before a storm.

The bar was its usual mix of chaos and calm, a sanctuary for the Nightside's most bizarre patrons. Every shift was an exercise in managing the unpredictable. One evening, a man made entirely of smoke drifted in, ordering a drink that Alex concocted with a single whispered spell. The next night, a sentient golem sat at the bar, its massive form making the stools groan under its weight. The Coletrane sisters, Lucy and Betty, kept a watchful eye on the clientele, their presence enough to deter most troublemakers.

Michael kept his movements routine, moving between the bar and the storeroom with practiced ease. But his swarm told a different story. Hundreds of insects skittered through the shadows of Strangefellows, their tiny eyes and wings feeding him information. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, even for a moment.

"Still jumpy, huh?" Alex asked one night, raising an eyebrow as Michael flinched at a sudden crash from the kitchen.

Michael sighed, setting down the glass he'd been cleaning. "Can you blame me? A week of nothing feels worse than them attacking."

Alex smirked, pouring himself a drink. "You're learning. The waiting game's always the hardest part. Keeps you on edge, makes you second-guess yourself. That's the point."

Michael frowned, leaning on the bar. "You think they're doing this on purpose?"

"Could be," Alex said with a shrug. "Or maybe they're biding their time, same as you. Either way, don't let it get to you. You're no good to anyone if you snap before they even show up."

At home, the tension was worse. Michael's apartment had become both a sanctuary and a prison. His swarm buzzed constantly in the background, patrolling the building and the surrounding streets for any sign of trouble.

He'd expanded his insect network, bringing in more flies, spiders, and beetles to widen his reach. The tarantula hawks in his coat had been reinforced with additional magic, their already fearsome stingers now carrying a faint, fiery glow. But the lack of action made him restless.

Michael spent hours at his desk, poring over Manfred's notes again and again. He tried to piece together a pattern, a clue, anything that might give him insight into the Bennetts' or Pembrokes' next move. But the documents held no answers, just the same cold facts that had haunted him since the day he received them.

The apartment itself was as it always had been—a hybrid space split between his living quarters and the swarm's domain. His bed sat in one corner, neatly made despite his sleepless nights. On the other side of the room, enclosures and habitats buzzed with activity, the hum of his insects a constant reminder of his growing power.

He'd taken to training during the quiet moments, practicing simple spells and refining his control over the swarm. His shield bracelet had been upgraded with a second layer of protective runes, and his coat now bristled with hidden compartments for emergency tools.

By the seventh day, Michael was ready to snap. He'd just finished a double shift at Strangefellows, his nerves frayed from dealing with a particularly rowdy group of demons who'd nearly started a brawl. The Coletrane sisters had handled it, of course, but the tension had set Michael on edge.

Back at the apartment, he sat at his desk, staring at the map of the Nightside he'd spread out in front of him. The red circles marking key locations for the Bennetts and Pembrokes seemed to taunt him. He'd considered going on the offensive, striking first, but the idea felt like walking into a trap.

The swarm buzzed louder than usual, their restlessness mirroring his own. Michael leaned back, rubbing his temples. "This is driving me crazy," he muttered.

A knock at the door made him jump, his heart racing. He stood quickly, his hand going to the revolver at his side. The swarm surged, ready to attack at a moment's notice.

But when he opened the door, it was only the landlord, a sour-faced man who grumbled about overdue rent. Michael handed over the cash without a word, his disappointment almost palpable as the man shuffled away.

As Michael sat back down, the silence pressed in around him. The waiting game was a pain, but it had taught him something valuable: patience. The Bennetts and Pembrokes were playing their own game, and for now, he had to let them.

But when they made their move, Michael would be ready. And he'd make damn sure they regretted it.

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, the glow of a single candle illuminating the array of magical tools laid out before him. Glamour spells weren't his strongest suit, but with Molly's lessons still fresh in his mind, he was confident he could manage something subtle. He needed to avoid drawing attention, and a good disguise was as much about blending in as it was about standing out in the right ways.

He took a deep breath and focused on the small mirror in front of him, its surface polished to an unnatural shine. It had been one of the more expensive magical tools he'd purchased, but Molly had assured him it was worth it for spells like this. Around the mirror, he had placed a circle of powdered silver and crushed rose petals—ingredients that would anchor the spell and lend it a touch of elegance.

"Subtle changes," he muttered to himself, picking up the enchanted chalk and tracing a rune beside the mirror. The rune glowed faintly as he activated it with a drop of his own blood. "Nothing too dramatic. Just enough to pass."

He closed his eyes and visualized the changes: a slight adjustment to the angle of his jawline, a softening of his cheekbones, a faint shift in the color of his eyes. His coat, dark gray and recognizable, would need the biggest change. He imagined it turning black, the fabric gleaming faintly under the light, its subtle patterns fading into something smoother and less distinct.

The chant came next, a soft, rhythmic whisper that filled the room with an almost musical hum. "By shadow and light, by mirror and guise, let form be shaped and sight revised. A subtle mask to hide the face, a fleeting shadow to take my place."

As he spoke, the air around him seemed to ripple. The powder on the floor shimmered, and the mirror's surface shifted, reflecting a face that was almost his, but not quite. His features were slightly blurred, as though viewed through a foggy window. The spell worked its magic, refining the details until they settled into place.

Michael opened his eyes and studied his reflection in the mirror. His jawline was sharper, his cheekbones less pronounced, and his eyes now a darker, stormy gray. His coat had transformed into a sleek black, the change subtle but striking. The glamour wasn't flawless—close inspection or powerful magic could likely see through it—but it would hold up under casual scrutiny.

He stood, shrugging on the newly blackened coat and running his hands over the fabric. The spell had woven itself into the material, changing its appearance without altering its structure. The hidden compartments and enchanted silk threads remained untouched, a reassuring reminder of the coat's purpose.

"Not bad," he murmured, tucking the mirror into a hidden pocket. The glamour wouldn't last forever; he'd need to refresh it every few hours, but it would be enough to get him through his visit to the Silk Market.

Michael gathered his tools, carefully dismantling the circle and brushing the powder into a small pouch for later use. The faint hum of magic still lingered in the air as he stepped out of his apartment and onto the streets of the Nightside.

The Silk Market was a Bennett operation, and he knew he was taking a risk by walking into their territory. But with his own growing spider silk production, he had an angle—an opportunity to observe their operations and maybe find a way to undercut them. As he made his way through the twisted streets, his swarm hummed faintly in the back of his mind, alert and ready.

The Nightside's ever-shifting geography was especially disorienting today, but Michael kept his focus, his coat billowing behind him as he moved. His glamour held firm, the subtle changes to his appearance making him just another shadow among many.

When he finally reached the Silk Market, its towering entrance loomed before him, draped in shimmering fabrics that glowed faintly with enchantment. Michael adjusted his coat and took a deep breath.

Time to see what the Bennetts were hiding.

Michael stepped into the Silk Market, the faint chime of a bell announcing his arrival. The boutique was a sensory overload, a shrine to luxury and craftsmanship. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and something sweeter, likely an enchantment meant to relax and beguile the clientele. Soft classical music drifted through the space, blending seamlessly with the muted hum of magical energy that seemed to linger in the room.

The boutique's interior was a masterpiece of design. Walls draped in opulent fabrics shimmered faintly, their colors shifting subtly with the light—emerald green melting into deep amethyst, then into a soft, moonlit silver. Display cases lined the room, each one a glass-topped pedestal showcasing rolls of fabric that seemed to hum with power. Some were shot through with threads that glinted like gold; others seemed to shift and ripple like liquid as they caught the light. Small plaques beside each roll listed extravagant prices, along with cryptic descriptions of their enchantments: Thread of Memory – Woven to Hold Secrets or Veil of Shadows – A Cloak of Silence.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their light refracting through prisms to cast gentle rainbows across the marble floor. In the center of the room stood a massive circular counter, staffed by elegantly dressed attendants. They moved with practiced grace, their uniforms as finely tailored as the fabrics they sold. The staff members greeted customers with polite smiles, their every gesture exuding professionalism and subtle authority.

The clientele were just as finely dressed, an assortment of Nightside's wealthy and powerful. Some browsed casually, their gloved hands brushing against the fabrics with an air of indifference, while others whispered hurriedly to attendants about custom orders and urgent deadlines. A few customers sat in plush chairs near the counter, sipping what appeared to be enchanted tea served in delicate porcelain cups as they discussed private commissions.

Michael adjusted the strap of his bag, his own threads carefully tucked away inside. His coat—dark and sleek thanks to his glamour—allowed him to blend in, though he still felt out of place among the opulence. He let his eyes wander, taking in every detail while subtly extending his swarm into the boutique. Flies and small spiders slipped unnoticed into corners and shadows, their tiny eyes feeding him a steady stream of information.

Behind the counter, he noted a row of locked cabinets, each one bearing intricate, glowing runes. His swarm couldn't penetrate them, but their presence suggested those cabinets held something valuable—possibly rare fabrics or tools used in enchanting them. In the back of the boutique, an ornate staircase led to a second floor, its banister carved with intricate designs of intertwined vines and flowers. The faint hum of energy suggested wards or magical barriers were in place, though they weren't immediately visible.

The staff themselves were worth noting. Their polite smiles didn't quite reach their eyes, which remained sharp and calculating. Michael guessed they were more than simple shop attendants—likely well-trained in both customer service and subtle forms of magical defense. One of them, a tall man with slicked-back hair, glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to a well-dressed woman who was inspecting a bolt of shimmering blue fabric.

Michael let his gaze wander to the displays. One section featured accessories crafted from the boutique's fabrics—scarves that sparkled like starlight, gloves that appeared to meld into the wearer's hands, and veils that seemed to shimmer out of existence when viewed from certain angles. Another display case showcased raw materials: spools of thread and skeins of yarn, each one labeled with descriptions like Spider Silk Blend – Strength and Elegance Combined or Moonlit Weave – Subtle Enchantment.

He felt a flicker of annoyance at one of the labels. Spider Silk Blend. Their threads were clearly high-quality, but Michael's own spiders back in his apartment produced silk that was every bit as strong—if not stronger. And his came with the added benefit of being entirely under his control.

As he moved through the boutique, he let his swarm explore further. Flies settled on the tops of cabinets, their tiny feet brushing against faint runes that confirmed magical alarms were in place. Spiders crept into cracks and corners, mapping out the boutique's layout. A small beetle found its way into a back room, where rolls of unfinished fabric were stored alongside boxes of enchanted dyes.

Michael approached the central counter, setting his bag down gently. One of the attendants, a poised woman with silver-streaked hair and a sharp smile, stepped forward to greet him.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice smooth and practiced. "How may the Silk Market assist you today?"

Michael returned her smile, keeping his tone polite but confident. "I'm interested in discussing a potential partnership," he said, unzipping the bag and pulling out one of the spools of his spider silk thread. The black thread glinted faintly under the boutique's light, its subtle sheen a testament to its quality. "I produce my own silk, and I believe it might complement the fabrics you offer here."

The woman's eyes flicked to the thread, her professional demeanor not faltering. "How intriguing," she said, reaching for the spool. "May I?"

"Of course," Michael said, watching closely as she inspected the thread. Her movements were deliberate, her fingers brushing lightly against the silk as she tested its texture and durability. After a moment, she looked up, her smile a touch sharper than before.

"This is impressive," she admitted, though her tone carried an undercurrent of calculation. "Spider silk, I assume?"

Michael nodded. "Pure spider silk. Strong, versatile, and entirely natural."

The woman handed the spool back to him, her gaze thoughtful. "We pride ourselves on sourcing only the finest materials, and this... certainly has potential. However, we're quite selective about our partnerships. Do you have samples of your work?"

Michael reached into the bag, pulling out another spool, this one a deep crimson. "Of course. I'd be happy to provide samples for evaluation."

As the woman examined the second spool, Michael's swarm continued to map the boutique. He wasn't just here to sell his silk—he was here to gather information. The Silk Market was a Bennett operation, and if he could learn more about their supply chains, their customers, or their vulnerabilities, it could be the edge he needed.

"Very well," the woman said, setting the spool down and meeting his gaze. "Leave these with us, and we'll contact you if we're interested in pursuing a partnership. Do you have a card?"

Michael smiled faintly. "Not at the moment. But I'll check back in a few days. I prefer to handle things personally."

The woman inclined her head, her sharp smile returning. "As you wish."

Michael nodded, gathering his bag and stepping away from the counter. He'd gotten what he came for: a chance to sell his silk and a wealth of information about the boutique's layout, staff, and security. As he stepped back out onto the streets of the Nightside, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

Now he just needed to decide how to use it.