The Oracle of Bed-Stuy

Detective Alma Mendez eased out of her Ford sedan. She stared at the ugly four story building half a block from the corner of Marcy and Gates Avenues for a minute, tension riding high in her shoulders. Then she shrugged.

“Fuck it,” she muttered, locking the car.

Maybe this would be yet another wild chase down Nowhere Road, but in truth she had zero leads in this case. What her gut said and what her department was allowed to investigate were two different things. The most recent murder had also left an ugly stain on her consciousness, one that would not go away despite Ambien with vodka chasers every evening.

Mendez was a homegrown New York City cop. Raised in the Bronx, she came from a strict Catholic family who proudly declared they were Mets fans at every opportunity. Despite the distance, she’d heard the stories regarding The Oracle living in the Bedford-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn for years. There wasn’t a Hoodoo or Santeria shop anywhere in the city that didn’t swear by her talents.

Deep down, Mendez didn’t believe in any of that shit. She’d been a shiny cop on street detail, then a serious detective working homicide in a city of eight million. The places her footsteps took her had nothing to do with any God. Those hellholes were all about the sins of mankind displayed in all their terrible glory. She always ended up standing over the dead at the point where Divine Intervention somehow missed the memo.

Yet here she was just the same, outside one of the last buildings gentrification hadn’t touched in the formerly violent neighborhood. She walked across the street, casually scanning for curious onlookers. Seeing none, she buzzed unit 4C on the metal button pad outside of the main entrance. It looked more like a gate for a jail than any type of housing. Mendez wondered why a supposedly gifted psychic didn’t bother to live in a better environment. She sure as hell would.

The answering buzz arrived without even questioning who was at the door. Mendez went inside. The lobby was barren, yet clean. Checkered tiles covered the foyer all the way to the staircases on the left and right. The back wall boasted a curious 72” x 72” painting of an Asian woman wearing a dress that matched the floor as she strolled down a Manhattan street beneath a floral parasol. The painting was flanked on both sides by pricey silver tables with enormous glass pitchers full of fresh tulips.

Mendez noticed a recess built into the wall just beyond the left table. After only a few steps, she realized it was actually a small hallway painted to appear like it was a part of the wall itself. Mirrors were positioned just so to create this illusion. At the rear of this optical maze was the elevator.

Mendez thought it was a brilliant way to discourage visitors. Nobody wanted to haul ass up a four-story walkup.

She entered the white elevator, pressed 4 and watched the white doors close. Mendez mentally reevaluated the situation. The outside of the place didn’t look like it did inside. It took money to create what she’d seen downstairs. Her lip curled in derision. Perhaps The Oracle was living it up after all.

On the fourth floor, the doors parted to reveal yet another white hallway with the same checkered floor pattern. She saw only one door at the end of it: 4C.

Mendez almost hit the elevator button to leave. It made no sense for a seasoned detective to ask a goddamn psychic for advice on a case. Even so, her footsteps decided otherwise. She stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the door. It opened before she even got a chance to knock.

The woman was about six inches shorter than her own 5’ 11” height with hair that fell in luxurious ebony waves to the middle of her back. She also wore overalls, a black T-shirt and black Sketchers. It was nearly impossible to tell what race she was. Mendez thought maybe Native American or Black, but couldn't be sure. Her eyes were also the color of lakes on a cloudy morning, a gray so liquid you felt like you were falling into them.

The directness of the gaze forced Mendez to take a step back.

“I don’t live large, Detective,” she said softly. “Those I help often insist on paying me in some manner for the information I’ve provided. I’ve never demanded it.”

“What makes you say that?” Mendez snarled back.

“Your thoughts are louder than the traffic downstairs. Do come in.” She left the door open and walked away.

Mendez followed, expecting the typical crystal-laden abode of most psychics she’d met during her time in uniform. Instead, she found herself standing in the middle of an artist studio with 16 ft. ceilings. Canvases of every size lay propped against the walls in various stages of completion. A drafting table occupied the left wall next to rows of cabinets housing supplies. Mendez turned around to study the main entrance, spying a closed door on either side.

“I live in the rooms on the left,” the woman remarked. “The right door holds a guest room and the kitchen. I’ve done a lot of rehab work here.”

Mendez browsed the space, opening drawers without permission to look inside. It was no longer a mystery why the painting was downstairs. A twin of it stood against the far back wall covered in clear cellophane beside a large packing crate.

“Is this how you make your money?”

The woman nodded. “My artist name is ‘K.’”

Mendez had heard the name before. She wouldn’t consider herself an art lover, but her friends ran in circles where this type of art was the current trend.

“What does ‘K’ stand for?”

“Kassandra,” she replied. “Is there a reason why you don't like me, Detective? You’ve never met me before.”

Mendez turned from the drawer she’d been poking through to study the woman sitting on a white swivel chair in front of an easel. “I’ve heard about you for years, but I know it has to be a load of shit.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t be much more than 25. I’m 33.”

“My abilities began when I was a toddler. Just as yours did.”

Mendez rocked back on her heels, shocked.

“Take a seat, Detective. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

More than ever, Mendez wanted to leave. Instead, she sat on the beige couch. “Look, I only came here because—”

“You’re searching for him. I know. He hurts women and takes an eye for his trophy collection each time.”

That part hadn’t been released to the press. "You’re going to explain how you came by that information.”

“I came by it the same way I know there is a picture of the recent victim in your back pocket that you were going to show me. It came from her living room, correct? A small framed portrait on a table next to a green couch. The victim was Vietnamese.”

Mendez fought off a shiver. “I don’t believe in this stuff.”

“Actually, you do. You just can’t allow yourself to explore it because of what it will mean if you do.”

Mendez leaned forward, her elbows braced on her thighs as she sat. “And what does it mean?”

“That what happened to you was ordained.”

“No,” she whispered.

Kassandra rose to pour tea from a Chinese teapot into a small black cup. She pressed the cup into Mendez’s hands. “Drink this. It’s chamomile and green jasmine. It will calm you.”

“How do I know you haven’t put some sort of drug in this?”

“Eventually, Alma, you’ll have to stop asking me questions you already know. You came here for answers, remember?”

Kassandra took a seat this time in front of her drafting table. She selected a 9”x 12” notepad and began sketching. “The man you’re looking for hasn’t been caught because your department believes he’s targeting Vietnamese and Black women. He’s really targeting psychics. This is why he takes an eye. He thinks they won’t ‘see’ him anymore if he does.”

“Why don’t these so-called psychics already know he’s coming?”

“Some of us can hone in on darkness, Detective. It’s like we’re passengers on a train showing snapshots of various hells through the windows. But sometimes these windows are two-way mirrors. The person we observe can also see us and block their presence. Your killer has this ability. He has been murdering psychics who have mentally seen him kill others. He sees all of his victims in dreams first, then he stalks them. And you are tracking him because your gut told you I will eventually cross paths with this individual.”

“I came here because I was out of options,” Mendez fired back.

Kassandra continued sketching, undisturbed by the outburst. “You knew this was about psychic ability from the moment the first case crossed your desk. You saw my face when your hand touched the body at this last scene. That’s the real reason why you’re here, Alma. I’m next on his list.”

“Then why the fuck are you so calm?”

Kassandra smiled as she drew. “We are intermediaries between the realms of Heaven and Hell, which exist here side by side on Earth. To tap into the abilities we must use, sometimes we have to go through extraordinary levels of trauma to unleash them. We are martyrs by another name.”

“Then what happened that night is my fault.”

Kassandra looked up from the paper, her gaze fathomless. “No, what happened was ordained.”

“They didn’t deserve to die.” Mendez closed her eyes. Behind the lids, she saw the fire all over again. The screams of her loved ones echoed in her ears with judgment. She had been the sole survivor of a house fire that killed eight members of her family.

Two weeks before the blaze, she’d had nightmares about a shadow with a fedora hat lighting a fuse in the basement. These premonitions had been ignored by her parents. The arsonist was also never caught. Mendez knew he never would be. The perpetrator had not been human.

“Without their deaths, Alma, you would not be here to prevent others from happening. Saint souls arrive on this plane of existence to withstand great levels of suffering for the greater good. Your family still loves you where they exist now. You would know this if you would only allow yourself to hear them.”

Mendez sipped her tea with shaking hands, oblivious to the tears sliding down her cheeks. “What made you?” she asked.

“My story will only distract you at this moment, Detective. If you don’t find this man, he will eventually find you. You have already seen him in a dream.” Kassandra sat back and held the notepad up for her inspection.

A face Mendez recognized stared back at her: a white male with close set eyes and thick brown hair offset by a huge irregular path of blond on the right side.

“I know this face. I’ve seen it before.”

Kassandra nodded. “Then you know he’s already tracking you. You are not his next target, but you are on his list.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I will cross paths with him six days from now. He is still unable to see me. I am protected, but this will change when he sees me in person. At that point, I will become his next victim. During those six days, you will use the information you have on his recent murder to dig up enough evidence to have just cause to stop him the day he follows me.”

“How are you protected when these other women aren’t? Why didn’t you try to save them?”

“I have been unable to see him kill them. I could only see him killing both of us. And I only know the details of this case because of your thoughts outside. But your actual question is: what am I? I am one of those with the ability to see both heaven and hell realms for the purpose of maintaining The Balance. People cross paths with me when they are about to make a choice that will take them on a different path in life.”

“What path am I about to embark on?”

Kassandra merely stared at her.

“This case will be the one that gets me into the FBI if I catch him. Then I can start hunting bigger demons.” Mendez huffed out a breath. “And if I don’t?”

“After me, you will be his last victim. He will die in that encounter having served his purpose.”

“Let me guess: you’re the big fish and I’m just a loose end.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand. If you’re the one he’s actually hunting, why can’t he see you?”

“It isn’t time. He is running on instinct just like you are. Your killer doesn’t yet know what he is. When he meets me, he will.”

“So let’s say all this happens. You said he dies in the encounter. What happens to me?”

“You will suffer a nervous breakdown after his attempt on your life and the loss of your eye. After rehabilitating yourself from alcoholism, you will relocate to Hawaii, marry another detective who makes you feel safe and work as a security guard for middle school students until you retire.”

“That sounds boring as hell.”

“Boring, but safe.”

Although she already knew the answer, she asked, “Is that the better outcome?”

“You won’t have to travel into the hells of other people if you don’t stop him in six days.”

Mendez huffed out a breath. “Of course I won’t. He’ll take my eye and I’ll be too busy living in my own fucking hell to bother.” She rolled her shoulders, stood. “Thank you for the tea.”

Kassandra nodded as Mendez set the cup beside the teapot. “Thank you for the visit.”

“Can I take that sketch?”

“What will you say when your partner finds it in your files two days from now?”

Mendez frowned. “Is that true or you’re just making shit up?”

Kassandra laughed. “I’m making it up. You’re more gifted than you give yourself credit for, Alma.”

She eased out of her chair and walked over to a large iron pot Mendez hadn’t noticed by the back wall. She took a box of matches out of the pocket of her overalls, lit one and tossed it in. Flame roared from the center. The sketch floated down into the greedy licks of fire, consumed whole.

“Build your case,” Kassandra said. “He carries a souvenir on his person everyday. I will leave here six days from now just after 11 am. You will find him if you follow me.”

“How is this even possible?” Mendez raked a hand through her short brown locks.

Kassandra walked to the front door, pulled it open. “That question is irrelevant. Your choice right now is whether you listen to the inner skeptic or the inner psychic. This choice will decide your fate. Choose wisely. Goodbye, Detective Mendez.”

Mendez started past her through the entrance.

“Alma,” Kassandra said.

Mendez stopped beside her. “Yes?”

“The answer to your other question.” Kassandra touched her right wrist.

In the span of a blink, Mendez saw everything that had happened to Kassandra prior to the development of her abilities.

“My God.”

“I told you because I consider you to be a friend, regardless of what you choose,” she said.

Then Mendez was left facing a closed door. The picture in her back pocket felt heavier than stone.

______________________________________________

The days blended together in a smooth symphony of tasks for Kassandra. A few new clients came to explore her services. Her agent called with news that three of her paintings were sold. A gallery invited her to participate in their fall showcase. And her mind was quiet each day until nightfall arrived.

At those times, she closed her eyes to travel the hallways of madness only psychics know. If the screams in these visions bothered her, no one would ever hear of it. People died every day. That she sometimes saw these tragedies before they happened was of no importance. It did break her heart when she gave warnings to others that went unheeded. Those acts of defiance to Fate often cost them their lives.

So she stopped trying to tell people things. If someone was meant to listen, they would come to her instead. It was just easier that way. Besides, the darkness had less of a hold when she wasn’t constantly feeling guilty over those she couldn't save.

On the sixth day after Mendez visited her apartment, Kassandra dressed in a rose sweater, jeans and sneakers. She tied her long hair back into a single ponytail, grabbed her purse and left. Mendez was two blocks up the street, casually leaning against a building sipping a latte. Kassandra nodded at her in a move that would have been imperceptible to anyone else and continued about her way.

Her footsteps led her to Hammand’s Corner Deli & Grocery. It was no more crowded than usual. Familiar faces in the neighborhood smiled in her direction. She smiled back even though she knew a predator walked among them.

He stood near the back, contemplating brands of beer on the shelves. The short peacoat he wore was a vintage buttery leather paired with a chocolate shirt open at the throat. It was the kind of coat she'd thought about purchasing years ago because she liked the cut so much. His pants were a shade darker than the shirt.

The killer also had dusky skin, deep brown eyes and thick sable hair from Mediterranean ancestors. The patch of blond on the right side only accentuated his allure. He looked like a GQ model, but she knew immediately what he was.

Perhaps he had evolved to hide his horridness with those casual good looks all the women in the store were pretending not to notice. But none of them could see the dark triangular shadows clinging to his shoulders and arms. The wispy shark fins undulated with his breathing.

As Kassandra watched, one of them split apart near the center to reveal a hideous glowing red eye that appeared to stare right at her. She nearly bumped into a stand full of Twinkies and Little Debbie brownies when it blinked. But she was no more in control here than he was.

Their meeting was meant. Her visions had said as much.

Kassandra walked slowly until she was beside him, mere inches from the unnatural appendages protruding from his jacket sleeves only she could see. She grabbed a six-pack of Guinness, already knowing it was his favorite.

“Exactly what I would usually pick on any other day,” he replied with a chuckle.

“What’s special about today?” she asked as each one of the fins split to reveal more red gazes.

The tiny bell over the front entrance chimed as Mendez walked inside. Kassandra shifted the six pack of beer to the cradle of one arm without acknowledging her.

His chocolate eyes rolled over her face, assessing. "Friend of mine has a lady friend coming over. He hasn't had a date in five years, so he’s freaking the hell out. I told him to chill and promised to pick up enough stuff to get him prepped. Chips, dips, that sort of thing."

She marveled at how easily he lied, returning his gaze with a demure one of her own. "How casual is this lady friend?"

Shadows pooled in his irises like transparent cataracts. An image began taking form in those shadows.

"She's pretty laid back," he replied. “A lot like you, I believe.”

As he smiled, the image in his irises congealed into a single snapshot of him strangling a brunette. A new scene of horror appeared each time he blinked. Kassandra had only known about the number of dead women her visions revealed. His eyes told her that figure was far below his actual body count.

She turned slightly, scanning the shelves with mock concentration. “Then you should get Blue Moon. It's got an easy taste most women can appreciate. Personally, I like Witches’ Brew, but you never know when someone might get offended."

He laughed. “Yeah, everything’s a controversy.” He considered a second, then picked up the beer she suggested. "I think you're right. Thanks for that. By the way, my name's Bret. Since you've helped me, the least I can do is introduce myself."

Kassandra slipped her hand into his palm and felt sickness stirring in her stomach. He was so cold inside. It was as if she weren't shaking hands with a warm-blooded person. Instead, it was like touching an animated corpse slicked with slime. The thing calling itself Bret had killed twenty women.

"I’m Danielle," she lied and attempted to extract her hand.

“I don’t think so,” he said, tightening his grip. “I’ve seen you before.”

In her mind’s eye, she saw the chasm within him pulse and open wider at their continued physical contact. This was the spiritual gateway of his third chakra. Killing her would allow him to cross over completely into the realms of spiritual infrared, which would reward him for killing her as his twenty-first sacrifice.

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I guess my face has that familiar quality to it.” She forced a sly grin onto her face. “Speaking of familiar, you’re being awfully clingy with my hand. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for it back.”

He stared at her intently for another second, then released his hold. “Sorry about that. A woman as beautiful as you must be used to men getting carried away.”

Kassandra picked up a large bag of chips from the rack behind them to discourage further hand holding. “Not really. My boyfriend doesn’t like to share.”

“The pretty ones always have boyfriends. Are you sure I can’t tempt you away?”

His eyes remained flat and lifeless. Shadow parasites with red gazes swayed on his body to silent music as she watched.

“Not a chance,” she replied with a wink, turning away. “I hope your friend has a nice time on his date.”

On the far side of the store, Mendez picked out a pint of ice cream and closed the freezer case. Kassandra noted the sound and kept walking to the register. Bret followed, his footfalls heavy.

Since no one was in line, she placed her items on the little conveyor belt. On impulse, she added a loaf of fresh bread from the little bin beside it and a pack of gum to appear nonchalant. The red-headed cashier recognized her as a regular and thankfully didn’t card her or speak her real name out loud. She just handed Kassandra $6.16 worth of change and her bags.

Then Bret’s hand clamped on her shoulder, squeezing once in warning.

“I’m sorry about this, but I’ve decided not to get this beer. We’ve got enough already,” he told the clerk, waving at the six pack on the belt.

At the same time, Mendez pretended to answer a phone call while browsing the candy aisle. “Drake, didn’t I tell you I’d be right there? Yes, I know you’ve been waiting for me. What? Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m coming out.” She stalked up to the front of the store and rudely tossed the ice cream pint onto the belt. “I’m not getting this. Apparently, I’ve just been informed I have somewhere to be.”

“Honey, dump him,” the cashier said. “Any man that can’t wait five minutes outside by himself needs to get a life.”

“I should get one of those, too,” Mendez said as she hurried past the three of them. The bell over the door gave a merry little jingle as she exited.

The thing calling itself Bret used this as an opportunity to intertwine his arm with Kassandra’s to move her in the same direction. He used the other hand to take one of the bags as he pretended to kiss her cheek.

“If you draw attention to yourself, I’ll kill you right here in front of everyone,” he murmured.

She laughed as if he’d said something funny. “Oh, I know you’ll do that anyway.”

The apparitions on his body winked, then returned to their malignant red stare. “You're one of them, aren’t you? A seer.”

Kassandra looked up at him, pausing just before she pushed the door open. “Yes, I see you, Ajax. In fact, I see you more clearly than you’ve ever seen yourself.”

His eyes flashed. Within them, Kassandra saw the man he’d once been a full cycle ago beating and raping her in the temple of Athena.

He yanked her out of the store and onto the sidewalk, bruising her arm in the process. “How do you know my name?”

“The same way you know that I am the key to the gate of immortality you seek,” she replied as she had in the vision.

Then she fell silent, content to fully immerse herself in her last moment of life. Time slowed. The sky was a crisp autumn blue and perfectly clear. A laughing toddler streaked past them followed by a disheveled parent scrambling to keep up. Gold and crimson leaves danced in the wind. Pedestrians corroded every square inch of sidewalk, hurrying to random places with random events she could peer into if she wanted.

But instead of looking into their futures, Kassandra turned her eyes up the street towards the sanctuary of home. She took in her final breath as his hands wrapped around her throat to break her neck. The bags struck the pavement in an explosion of glass. She heard the footfalls of the officers rounding the corner, but they would be too late.

“No, child, they won’t be,” whispered a voice. “For I am Death and it is not your time.”

As her air was cut off, Kassandra saw a woman with sienna skin and eyes of fire appear on the corner in a white gown. She raised one toned arm and swung it to the left.

Ajax was lifted off the sidewalk and flung into the street. He had no tim e to scream before the Whirling Rock Whiskey truck hit him. The impact shattered his right hip and sent him sprawling onto the hood of a parked car, where he remained conscious just long enough for Mendez to read him his rights.

In the confusion, no one noticed Kassandra simply winking out of existence as the invisible woman in white enfolded her with gigantic black wings.

______________________________________________

They gathered in St. Mary’s Church in Brooklyn. There was no rhyme nor reason to the crowd. The faces consisted of all races, religions and creeds. The dreams united them, these elaborate nocturnal landscapes in which Kassandra was a key figure. They had all been told to be here at this particular time in their dreams the night before.

So when the winged woman in white brought her through the back doors, two women in the group of twenty standing there immediately burst into tears. Others cried out in awe and shock that she was real.

None could see Death standing beside her.

“Go, child,” Death whispered. “Fulfill your path.”

The angel departed, leaving her to face an incredible number of people. The church had only standing room left. Every seat was taken.

The crying spread when Kassandra stepped into the pulpit. Later, these same people would tell her they’d thought they were going insane. Her presence confirmed this was not the case. Something more miraculous was at play.

“You have been having the same dream for two months. Is that about right?” she asked.

The crowd murmured in agreement.

‘My dream is different. My dream has been telling me what is going on in our world.”

A man in front of the pulpit motioned for her to step forward. Kassandra felt suddenly small in the presence of so many. She tugged at the hem of her rose sweater, fidgeted in her black slacks, struggling to remember that the vision of her death had not come true.

“Tell us your dream!” someone in the back urged.

“My dream,” she said aloud. “My dream is the least of it. I see things on people now.

“The shadows?” an elderly man asked, full of expectation. “The ones with the red eyes? We see them, too.”

Kassandra took a moment to absorb this before she spoke again.

“Understand that I am not a deity. I am not to be worshiped. I am a messenger, a mortal instrument given visions by the Divine. I can only speak on what I am shown. I can only recite what I am told. I am not your leader, but the one who is will arrive soon. Have faith, be patient and know these are the last days of this cycle.”

Then the crowd in St. Mary's Church listened to her recite the dream that had repeated each night for two years:

“My dream opened to a grassy field that lost itself in the distant horizon. In this evanescent landscape, I spied mountains pressing their tops towards a clean sky dipping its head to kiss them. The valley itself rested in serenity. Even the sun seemed joyous.

A voice said: ‘This was the Land of Eternal Spring. Now view its future: turn around.’

So I did. My eyes took in a reddish plain, scorched and thirsty for rain. Despite this, the land flourished with enormous narcissus flowers growing in clustered thickets. At the core of this fragrant forest was a single tree, gnarled and warped, but full of ripe crab apples.

Far beyond this, I saw the tops of towering glaciers that rose from a sea beyond my vision. They crept forward as I watched, a slow moving, but imminent threat. I walked towards the tree, fascinated. I picked a piece of fruit off the tree, then jumped back in alarm. There was an undercurrent of malice rolling from its branches. It was almost as if I could feel it seething. Still, I looked down at the ripe apple and took a hesitant bite. The bitter taste rolled over my tongue with barbs as if I'd bitten into splintered wood. I spit out the chunk and dropped the apple, wiping at my mouth with my hands. Yet the ill taste remained.

Then the voice said: ‘Behold the land of Ephraim and the Great City of the Tree.’

When I turned back the way I'd come, the mountains had been transformed. They were now jagged skyscrapers of black glass piercing the clouds, producing a reddish rain that fell from the Heavens. I watched lightning strike the glass just before they were rocked by monstrous rumblings from the Earth. From their depths came the sounds of screams and sobs, anguished pleas for help. I'd never heard such a torrent of lamentation. It set the very hair at my nape on edge even as it ripped at my heart.

Then a woman appeared next to me, so perfectly beautiful that she stretched the limits of my imagination. Alabaster skin covered symmetrical features and emphasized eyes of frigid blue. Her grip on my arm was firm. I felt her nails digging into my flesh like daggers. She swept immaculate locks of long white-blond hair from her naked right shoulder.

‘Do you seek to know the truth of the world?’ she asked. ‘We are all consumers, eating one another in one long cannibalistic chain. The idea of love is a lie.’

Her teeth were razor blades through her grin.

I snatched my arm away from her. ‘This is not the world as it is,’ I said.

‘Isn't it?’ she told me. Then she removed her hair from the left side of her neck.

I spied a gaping hole there, large and bloody. It was then that I noticed the missing flesh on the ground near her feet. It was the piece of the apple I’d spit out.

‘You are a cannibal, too,’ she laughed. It was the sound of glass shattering, the screech of brakes applied too late, and vultures summoning brethren.

‘You are Babylon,’ I said. ‘The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.’

‘There is nothing higher than Power, nothing purer than the struggle for Survival,’ she replied. ‘This is the highest evolution of Mankind and it is reserved only for the Fittest. We make ourselves superior to humanity with our power and contempt.’

Then she returned to the form of an apple on the ground. The glaciers had now overtaken the thirsty land behind the tree, transforming everything they touched into black ice. And this gnarled tree wept apples by the millions.

The Voice said again to me: ‘Come and See.’

The world around me shifted again. I found myself walking the streets of a large city with an immense span of skyscrapers. When the sun hid behind the clouds, they pierced the very sky like dark mountains of steel and glass. The crowds were lively, a vibrant sea of people all going about their lives.

Streets blared with the sounds of New York City traffic.

The Big Apple.

On a corner, I saw a small man standing on a battered crate wearing wrinkled and ill-fitting clothing many sizes too big. He wore bifocals, although the left eye was also covered with a patch. Over his head, the street sign said "Wall Street."

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

‘I am Currency. Every day my true value diminishes, yet they keep assigning me larger numbers as if I can fill them.’

At his feet was a large bucket. Every person who passed by him reached in to take dollars from it. As they did, the man on the crate kept shrinking as he prophesied his own doom.

Eventually, I noticed an older blond businessman approaching with a suitcase. Expensively attired and wearing a presidential pin on his lapel, he shoved everyone else out of the way to get at the bucket. He paused only once in his actions, startling me by meeting my eyes directly.

His own were dead, though he walked as if he were alive. And his mouth when he smiled was full of razors. It seemed to amuse him that I watched, then he looked away.

He seized the bucket and dumped all the money in the suitcase, then put it back. The man on the crate disappeared. Yet people still stopped to dip their hands in the bucket and put imaginary money into their purses and wallets.

Then the Voice said: ‘Follow him.’

The man with the suitcase walked towards Church Street. I followed the trail of dollar bills that dropped from its overstuffed confines. He walked with confidence, even spoke to people politely as he passed. They deferred to him as if he were someone important.

None of them noticed what he carried.

Eventually, he stopped directly across from the World Trade Center complex. At his back stood St. Paul's Courtyard. He paused to glance back at me, then smiled that chilling grin again before heading down into the subway station.

I knew where he was going even before he got there. He approached the Oculus Mosaic near the Park Place section of the subway station and climbed nimbly over the railing.

When he reached the center, he wavered slightly before he disappeared into the center of the eye, suitcase and all. Others appeared out of thin air, invisible wealthy who followed him. When the last person had leapt into the eye, the ground began to shake.

Knocked me off my feet by the force, I scrambled to get up amidst the thunderous explosions and terrified screams from above. The cries of the people were monstrous; wails of death and destruction filled my ears.

Suddenly, an old man appeared in a straight-jacket. He sat next to me on the floor, staring at the mosaic in rapture as chunks of plaster rained on us from the ceiling. Piles of money blew past us, turning into bones when they struck his form.

Laughing madly amidst the chaos, he quoted one of his books saying, “Neither by land nor by water will you find the Hyperboreans, even in Pindar, in his day, knew that much about us. Beyond the North, beyond the ice, beyond death...our life, our happiness. We have discovered that happiness; we know the way; we got our knowledge of it from thousands of years in the labyrinth.’

I leaned close to Nietzsche, taking in the smell of ripe sickness and dementia.

‘The sounds of the soldiers' boots striking the earth is the most beautiful sound in the world,’ he whispered. ‘I wrote ‘The Antichrist.’ I lit candles in the Void lit by the torches of war. Crowley made himself the Beast, a self-crowned king who deciphered the riddles of the Abyss. In our names, multitudes worshiped Nothing. And It gave us Everything.’

I heard the laughter of Babylon somewhere in the distance as she said, “Give me the wine of the blood of the Saints or I will end thy reign.”

There are screams, a tidal wave of voiceless voices from all the women and children slaughtered, from crimes no one remembers, from atrocities historians never bothered to record. They are not even footnotes in a history told through the lens of greed.

Babylon laughs. There is a clink of jeweled cups and the sounds of her drinking, followed by a cry of anguish.

Then a sienna woman with white wings in a white suit stands before me, a pink rose in one hand, a katana in the other. “None can escape Death forever, not even the Fallen Ones and their illicit children. Come now. Let us correct these wrongs. Let the truth take its due.”

The blood runs across the floor, so dark red it is almost black.

The voice says, ‘The Age of the Fallen is over.’

And then I wake up.”

The crowd before her stood mesmerized.

“She is like the Oracle of Delphi,” one woman said. “I finally understand.”

“We are not at the start of the War,” another shouted. “We are at the end of an Age!”

Kassandra said nothing further.

She stared past the crowd towards another figure only she could discern, someone who had been observing her all this time unbeknownst to the others, reading what they believed was only a story.

Kassandra smiled, locking that fathomless gray gaze on the eyes absorbing this very sentence.

“Do you see?” she asks you.