The Crimson Cipher (Casimir’s Curse, Book One) by Superstes

  Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage of Youth

  The Los Angeles sun, even in late October, possessed a certain relentless quality, a golden glare that bounced off the chrome of a thousand steam-powered cars and the oversized, mirrored sunglasses of a million hopefuls, each one convinced they were just one audition, one chance encounter, away from stardom.

  My clinic – or rather, “Image Consultancy,” as the discreet, tastefully engraved brass plaque by the entrance read – was nestled in a surprisingly quiet corner of Beverly Hills: a sleek, modern building of white stucco and smoked glass that whispered exclusivity rather than shouted it from the rooftops. It was an oasis of calm precision in a city built on frantic dreams and fleeting fame. Inside, it was all cool, imported Italian marble that felt like silk beneath your shoes, minimalist art that cost more than most people’s houses, and the faint, almost subliminal scent of expensive, calming botanicals – a bespoke blend of lavender, chamomile, and something proprietary and a little more exotic, something that hinted at forgotten gardens and ancient pharmacopoeias, all designed to soothe frayed nerves and open checkbooks. It was the perfect environment, meticulously crafted, for coaxing reluctant flesh back towards a semblance of its former, marketable glory.

  My name is Jack Casimir, and I sell time.

  Or rather, I sell the convincing, intoxicating illusion of it: to the rich, the famous, the powerful, and often, the deeply desperate. They come to me, usually through hushed, word-of-mouth referrals, seeking to erase the lines life, and their often-excessive lifestyles, have etched onto their bodies and faces. They come to recapture a glimmer of the youth that the “high society” of Hollywood, and their own high-definition mirrors, so cruelly demand.

  They call it image consulting, a harmless, trendy euphemism.

  I call it applied Livsformning – the subtle, intricate art of flesh-shaping and vital restoration, a branch of necromancy so refined it bordered on biological alchemy.

  Necromancy, by any proper name, would naturally send my clients screaming for the nearest priest or – far more likely – their lawyers. Thus, my clients certainly didn’t know the true terms for what I did. They just knew I got results no surgeon’s scalpel, no dermatologist’s laser, no vial of expensive, scientifically-dubious cream could ever hope to achieve.

  I didn’t just tighten skin; I revitalized it from within, coaxing dormant energies back to life.

  “Mr. Sterling is ready for his final touches, Jack,” Nadya’s voice whispered beside me, soft as a sigh, or the rustle of silk in an empty room. She shimmered into view, a translucent figure in her usual old-fashioned frock, its spectral fabric immune to the whims of earthly fashion. Her presence was a familiar comfort, a quiet counterpoint to the sterile perfection of my main treatment room, with its gleaming chrome and softly humming arcane machinery.

  Nadya, my companion for longer than either of us cared to count, my confidante, and, in her own patient way, my tutor in the ways of Animas, the necromantic school of spirit magic. It was a study I pursued in the quiet hours when the City of Angels finally, fitfully, slept – a discipline that felt increasingly relevant in a town so full of ghosts, both literal and metaphorical.

  “Right,” I said, making a final adjustment to the settings on the arcane resonator, a device that looked like a sleek, futuristic spa machine but hummed with carefully controlled necromantic energies, its polished surface cool beneath my fingertips. It focused and amplified the vital force I drew upon, channeling it with precision.

  “Let’s put the stardust back in Mr. Sterling’s eyes, shall we? And maybe take a decade or two off his body’s odometer.”

  Mr. Sterling was a matinee idol whose star had begun to fade, his once-legendary rugged good looks succumbing to the inescapable gravity of too many late nights, too many bad scripts, and too few genuinely good decisions.

  Less than an hour after he came in, under the subtle influence of my arts, he looked ten years younger, easily. His jawline was sharper, the tell-tale puffiness under his eyes artfully diminished, his skin glowing with a vitality that was ninety percent Livsformning and ten percent pure, unadulterated, camera-ready hope.

  He paid handsomely – as they all did – for the precious, fleeting privilege of defying nature, however temporarily. Seeing that relief in his eyes, the renewed spring in his step, was almost worth the inherent risks of my profession.

  Almost.

  “You’re a miracle worker, Casimir!” he enthused, admiring his reflection in the full-length, magically clarified mirror, striking a pose that had graced a thousand movie posters in his heyday. “The studio will be thrilled. My agent will weep tears of joy.”

  “Just good lighting, Mr. Sterling,” I demurred, offering my standard, bland reassurance.

  He knew it was more than that, of course.

  They all did.

  They sensed the subtle thrum of power in my clinic, the almost imperceptible shift in the air when the energies flowed. But the polite fiction that this was all just very advanced, very exclusive skincare, was part of the service.

  Part of the shared illusion they willingly inhabited.

  After Sterling departed, radiating a renewed confidence that would probably last at least until his next bad review, Nadya and I shared a quiet moment in the now-empty treatment room. She was attempting to tidy a stack of digital client files on a floating holo-screen with her spectral hands, a task that involved more focused willpower and muttered curses than actual physical contact.

  Said files shimmered and, occasionally, resisted her efforts.

  “He’ll be back in six months, looking for another miracle,” she observed, her voice tinged with a familiar, weary amusement. “Perhaps sooner, if his next film bombs.”

  “They always are,” I said, stripping off my sterile gloves. “It’s the nature of the beast, Nadya. Time always wins, eventually. It’s the one house advantage you can never beat. I just negotiate better terms for their surrender, a… stay of execution.”

  And I was right. Mostly. My own terms with time were… complicated, a labyrinthine contract written in invisible ink. The Life Ward I was fused with, a constant, silent thrum of power deep within me, had rendered that particular negotiation moot decades ago.

  Or so I hoped.

  Decapitation might still, theoretically, do me in; but almost anything else? Minor inconveniences, at best. The Ward was both a comfort and a curse, a shield against oblivion that also marked me as something other.

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  Something unnatural.

  I remembered that, later that afternoon, I had an appointment with Eleanor “Ellie” Weatherby. Ellie was a legend, a true icon from Hollywood’s Golden Age, a woman whose career had spanned black-and-white films to modern-day holovids, now well into her late eighties but, thanks to twenty years of my dedicated, increasingly challenging ministrations, still possessing the kind of luminous beauty and indomitable spirit that could silence a room and command a spotlight.

  She was one of my best clients, not just for the considerable fees she paid without a blink, but for the genuine, if fragile, friendship that had developed between us over the long years. She knew me simply as Jack, the discreet consultant who understood the unique, often crushing pressures of her world – a world that worshipped youth and discarded age with brutal efficiency.

  I slid into the worn leather seat of my car.

  It was a 1950s Bentley Continental – a magitek steamer, lovingly restored by yours truly. One of the finest models ever released by a manufacturer renowned for its unwavering dedication to steam-powered automotive excellence since the dawn of the automotive age. Beneath the classic British racing green hood purred a marvel of modern arcane engineering: a compact, high-efficiency steam boiler. Its heat source: precisely attuned mana crystals that glowed with a soft, internal light.

  Bentley had been perfecting magitek steam propulsion for generations, integrating arcane principles with mechanical genius. At low speeds, it moved with the silent grace of a whisper, emitting only a faint, almost musical hiss of vapor. When pressed, though, it could unleash a surprising burst of raw, steam-driven torque that left the recently introduced “electric” vehicles struggling to keep pace. LA’s choked freeways were a mix of these magitek marvels: roughly eighty percent were steamers like mine, their plumes of clean, magically-filtered vapor a common sight, while the other twenty percent, the relative newcomers to the market, were sleek electrics, their advanced mana-crystal batteries a ubiquitous presence at the city’s numerous charging stations.

  I, however, preferred the anachronistic elegance and, crucially, the more untraceable nature of steam – not only was it faster to recharge, but it also left behind a less distinct magical signature than the modern, high-draw electrics did.

  Plus, the faint, clean scent of superheated distilled water and a touch of refined lubricant oil was, in its own way, deeply comforting to me – a nostalgic nod to an era of more tangible, if still magically infused, mechanics.

  As the Bentley glided out of my private garage and into the Beverly Hills afternoon, my thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the strange dualities of this world. Magic was everywhere, woven into the fabric of modern life, from the glowing mana-crystals helping power the city’s grid to the subtle enchantments that kept the skyscrapers earthquake-proof.

  Yet, the deeper arts, the truly potent expressions of arcane power like necromancy, were spoken of only in fearful whispers, relegated to the realm of horror holovids and sensationalist news reports. Governments, of course, publicly decried such practices, passing strict “non-proliferation” accords, establishing bureaus like the FBPA to hunt down unsanctioned practitioners.

  The hypocrisy was almost breathtaking.

  I knew for a fact, from whispers in the right (or wrong) circles and from the occasional, carefully redacted intelligence brief that had crossed my path in less reputable dealings years ago, that those same governments hoarded the truly powerful secrets for themselves. Behind closed doors, they had it all: the grimoires that could topple nations or reshape reality; artifacts of terrifying potential; spells so destructive they were rumored to be able to unravel the fabric of existence itself…

  And yet, these same entities, these pillars of supposed order and safety, had the nerve to call practitioners like myself or my former Master – reckless. The sheer gall of it was enough to make a saint swear! Necromancers like my Master, who sought knowledge or, gods forbid, aimed to use their art for something other than state-sanctioned destruction, were branded monsters, hunted down by so-called “heroes” or “adventurers” who were often little more than licensed thugs.

  Yet, I had no doubt that somewhere, in a black-budget facility buried deep beneath some unassuming desert, government mages were — even now — plumbing the depths of those same forbidden arts, weaponizing souls, reanimating flesh for covert operations, and generally treating the fundamental laws of life and death as mere suggestions to be circumvented in the almighty name of “national security.”

  It was a game as old as power itself: one set of rules for the rulers, another for the ruled. And I, Jack Casimir, walked a precarious line somewhere in between, an accepted purveyor of forbidden miracles to the elite — but always one misstep away from becoming a target myself.

  The Bentley climbed the winding roads towards Bel Air, each curve revealing increasingly opulent estates, fortresses of wealth shielded by high walls, dense hedges, and layers of security, both mundane and magical.

  Ellie’s mansion, when it finally came into view, was one of the grandest.

  It wasn't just a house; it was a statement, a monument to a lifetime spent in the intoxicating glare of public adoration. A palace of white marble, the vibrant pinks and purples of its roof tiles a vivid splash against the azure sky. Its terraced gardens, immaculate and fragrant, overlooked a panoramic sweep of the city: a glittering tapestry stretching to the distant Pacific.

  For over half a century, Los Angeles had worshipped Ellie Weatherby, then nearly forgotten her during one of her self-imposed exiles, then rediscovered and re-canonized her in a wave of nostalgic reverence. The mansion reflected that journey: a blend of old Hollywood grandeur and modern, almost desperate, attempts to hold onto beauty and relevance.

  I pulled up to the imposing wrought-iron gates, their intricate design hinting at the fantasy world within. A discreet, almost invisible camera lens regarded me. I pressed the call button on the sleek intercom panel.

  “Jack Casimir here for Mrs. Weatherby,” I announced, my voice calm and professional.

  A moment of silence, then a crisp, disembodied voice replied, “One moment, please, Mr. Casimir.”

  The gates, with a barely audible hum of well-oiled, magically augmented machinery, swung silently inward.

  I guided the Bentley up the long, palm-lined driveway. As I parked in the circular forecourt, before a fountain that depicted frolicking nymphs in what looked suspiciously like real gold leaf, the massive front doors opened.

  Standing there was a figure of striking, almost ethereal elegance. He was tall, impossibly slender, with the sharply defined features, high cheekbones, and subtly pointed ears that marked his Elven heritage. His silver hair was pulled back severely from a noble brow, and his eyes, the color of ancient jade, regarded me with a cool, appraising neutrality that was far more unnerving than any human servant’s practiced deference. He wore a simple, impeccably tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the bright California sunlight.

  Elves in domestic service – at least outside their ancestral homelands in the Middle East – were relatively rare, and usually indicated a level of wealth and arcane connection that went beyond even Ellie’s considerable means.

  This was new.

  “Mr. Casimir,” the Elf said, his voice a low, melodic baritone, each syllable perfectly enunciated. “Mrs. Weatherby is expecting you in the conservatory. If you would please follow me.”

  He didn’t offer to take my coat, nor did he smile. Elves, in my experience, weren’t much for superfluous pleasantries.

  He led me through a cavernous, marble-floored foyer, past priceless antiques and portraits of Ellie in her various iconic roles, each one a frozen moment of cinematic history. His movements were fluid, silent, almost like a dancer’s. Or a predator’s. We arrived at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors. He opened one with a graceful sweep of his hand.

  “Mr. Casimir, madam,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly into the sun-drenched space beyond.

  The conservatory was indeed vast, a veritable jungle of exotic blooms, their heavy perfume mingling with the scent of damp earth and old money. Sunlight streamed through the arched glass ceiling, illuminating a scene of carefully cultivated opulence.

  And there, amidst it all, looking like a rare, fragile orchid herself, was Ellie. She was a small, bird-like woman, wrapped in a silk kaftan the color of a twilight sky, its fabric shimmering with subtle, shifting hues. Her famous green eyes, still startlingly bright despite the passage of eighty-eight years, were alight with a familiar mixture of hope and deep-seated anxiety. She was a living legend, a relic of a bygone era, desperately clinging to the present.

  And, thanks to my efforts, she still looked like she was in her mid-50s.

  “Jack, darling,” she trilled, her voice still carrying the melodic cadence that had charmed generations of moviegoers. She offered a cheek that felt like soft, aged paper beneath my lips. Incredibly delicate.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes. This old bird is feeling decidedly… plucked, and ready for the taxidermist.”