As the last of the Dutch burghers wandered home, the vibrant reds and golds of the circus seemed to bleed into the encroaching paleness of the Amsterdam night.
Mephisto was making his way back toward Wunder's wagon, his boots clicking rhythmically on the damp cobblestones. He was tired—bone-deep tired.
He passed a narrow, lightless alley when a sound stopped him dead.
It wasn't a shout.
It was a thread of silk-thin sound, a whisper that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his bones.
"Mephistopheles..."
Faust froze.
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Except for Wunder—who thought it was just a clever, long-winded stage name—and the parents he had buried a century ago, no one in this world knew that name.
It was a name from a burning cabin in North America, a name whispered by a mother who was, probably, more than human.
"Mephistopheles... come home."
The voice lured.
Faust felt his feet moving toward the darkness of the alley as if pulled by invisible hooks.
A strange, primal daze washed over him.
His lips began to curl, pulling the red-painted grin of the clown into something jagged and truly horrific.
Under the white greasepaint, his own expression was one of hungry, mindless recognition.
In the pocket of his crimson coat, the silver-encrusted Tarot cards began to tremble. Within their leather case, the cards that Don-Fran had inherited through generations of his wife's family began to smolder.
A faint scent of burning parchment rose from his hip, but Faust didn't notice.
He was nearing the corner of the dark street, his eyes dilated until they were almost entirely black.
He was one step away from the absolute darkness when a hand, firm and cool, clamped onto his shoulder.
"Mephisto?"
The voice was gentle, yet it cut through the daze like a silver blade.
Faust gasped, his lungs suddenly filling with air he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He stumbled back, the "clown" mask of his face twitching as he blinked away the fog.
Standing before him was a woman who seemed to have stepped out of a different era entirely.
Her long, dark hair was like a shroud, framing sharp, emerald eyes that pierced through the Amsterdam gloom.
She was elegant, her features carrying a timeless, ancient beauty, but her skin was marked with intricate tattoos and runes—swirling, geometric patterns that Faust found rather familiar.
He had seen similar marks on the indigenous people of the Americas, symbols of a deep, pagan connection to the earth and the spirits.
Every instinct in Faust's body—the doctor, the scholar, and the magician—screamed that she was dangerous.
Her appearance was calm, but the air around her hummed with a predatory power.
"You should not listen to that voice," she said. Her voice carried a distinct accent—rhythmic and Eastern.
It reminded Faust of a professor he had known from Pozsony, a man who spoke with the lilt of the Slavic lands.
"Whatever it tells you is a lie."
Faust, his professional grimace as a clown still firmly in place, tried to shake off the terror. He forced a lopsided, "drunk" grin.
"Voice? I only hear the bells on my toes, mistress! And they tell me it's time for a drink. Is that you, Erlkönig? The Elf King? You're a bit shorter than the poems suggest!"
He began to dance a clumsy, bells-jingling step, trying to advertise even now.
"You should come to the El Gloriosa! We have bears, we have fire, and we have fools far more interesting than alleyway whispers!"
The woman didn't laugh.
Her face remained carved in a mask of grim seriousness.
"The Erlking does not want your gold. He wants your soul."
Faust's smile faltered, though the paint remained.
"How old are you, old lady, to be telling such bedtime stories? And who told you my name? Seems that magician Mephisto is becoming a local legend!"
"A friend," she replied, her gaze never wavering. "A man who travels with two pistols. He told me about you."
She stepped closer, the scent of crushed herbs and ancient forest floor following her.
"You must come with me. Now."
Faust took a stumbling step back, his bells let out a frantic, dissonant chime.
"I am a clown, my lady! I am free! My heaven is the El Gloriosa, and my master is a man with a rabbit in a hat. I don't go with strangers, no matter how pretty their eyes are."
The woman—Lybid—narrowed her emerald eyes.
The air grew cold, the shadows in the alleyway seemingly lengthening at her command.
"I think you did not understand me, Mephisto," she said, her voice dropping into a low, echoing vibration. "That was not a proposal."