The last thing Oliver expected when he woke up was to find someone sitting at the foot of his bed. His memories from the night before were fuzzy at best, and there were significant gaps between them. There had been a feast, a celebration amongst the gods of his elevated status. Despite knowing it was a croc of shit, he had seemingly drank in excess. The nectar of the gods was stronger than the mortal drink he had grown accustomed to. His guest was a slight woman with a dark complexion and raven black hair. Her eyes shown like polished obsidian, and the aura about her was strong. She smiled at him pleasantly, stating “Rise and shine Straw-Hat, the gods are waiting.” Still a bit inebriated and disoriented from waking he stammered “who are you? How did you get in here?” The woman laughed, a not unpleasant sound, but it was deep and vaguely inhuman. She deliberated “I am a goddess of the cross roads, protector of those that would make foolish deals while overwhelmed. Of my many names you may know me as Noemi Crawdad. Now rise new-blood, for we have work to do.” Standing from the bed, Oliver noticed for the first time in years his bones did not crack, and a bit more surprisingly he noted he was still largely dressed in his burgundy suit from the night before, only having removed shoes, jacket, and tie. A bit more clearly, he questioned “how long have you been here?” To such she responded with no hesitation or hint of a joke “Two days I have waited while you slept. Now our time is running short. Let us begin your indoctrination.” Oliver sighed, indoctrination sounded like it was going to be painfully boring. Looking up at the loa, Oliver asked her “What exactly does indoctrination require?” She looked at him, the alien nature of the being apparent on her face, responding in a soft monotone “you must learn to be a god.” Swearing to himself Oliver put his shoes on, you’d think the high king would have warned him about this earlier. Finishing tying the laces, he stood and told her he was ready to leave. She stood, smoothing her dress she proclaimed “first, I require payment.” It was always something with these people. Checking his pockets carefully, all Oliver could find was a single coin. Cautiously he held up the penny, asking “will this do?” She smiled responding “it will have to suffice, but one penny would not normally be sufficient to grant the passage of a god. Take my hand and we will go.” Traveling this way in the past had always been traumatic for Oliver. It twisted his stomach up in knots and made it feel as if he was being stretched into spaghetti. Everything was white, then dark, and the whole ordeal was followed by a loud popping noise. Noemi spoke upon their arrival, “Welcome, to the gray area.”

“We’re going to get you,” said the voices in his head, causing Oliver to grimace. Thinking back loudly he railed at them “let me handle this damn it. I need to focus.” Cernunnos was already standing, his skin reforming over the bullet holes in his head. The dark god was laughing, giddy with bloodlust, that sinister smile pulling his thin lips back into an unholy sneer. A hint of madness in his voice he almost whispered “did you think mere bullets could banish me little mouse? You brought me into this plane, you aught to know what it will take to be rid of me.” Oliver has little time to come up with a rebuttal, for his plan to work he would need to act fast. He stood straighter extending his right arm and closing his hand into a fist, carefully enunciating “pneuma heed my call, and be free of your prison. Pneuma heed my call, and let us join as one.” It was an incantation of his own devising, and clunky as it was it served its purpose. Working in tandem with the special bullets he had crafted in his alchemy lab, any being with the cursed metal imbedded in them would have their soul devoured. Cernunnos screamed in pain, and the voices in his head roared in anticipation of the power soon to be coursing through him. He had consumed many weaker beings but never a god, and there was a chance the wave of energy would destroy him. The voices were imploring for him to share the power lest it be his end, begging him to give them more strength. Oliver’s skin grew hot against the cold night air, and he could feel the new strength bubbling up inside of him. Cernunnos was rapidly diminishing, flesh falling off his bones, blood pouring from every orifice. Tears were streaming freely down Oliver’s face, and soon he would be overwhelmed. Cernunnos wasn’t some minor deity, but an old god with many aspects, and Oliver’s mortal frame could only take on one for himself. With his iron will, Oliver began to direct some of the excessive energy into each of the voices, trying to keep it as minimal as possible for fear they may break free. A primal howl emanated from his throat, straining his vocal chords, a blinding light burst from his brow. Then all went black. When he rose from the ground, all the remained from Cernunnos was a pile of ash, but Oliver was not alone. Standing in a semicircle around him was the council of gods. They were resplendent, even as mere other worldly apparitions, and the high king spoke in a low rumbling voice with an air of authority only a king could muster. “Oliver Gray you are not as you once were. Before you were one of the many, and are now one of the few. Step forth and be welcomed as our kin.” The leaves rustled, as the winds of change blew by.

Oliver stumbled down the city streets, struggling to keep his head up under the weight of his intoxication. It was the heat of summertime and sweat dripped down his brow, burning his eyes. They watered both from the sting and an overwhelming swell of feelings brought on by the liquor. Steadying himself he pulled his hat down low over his face, trying to hide his shame. He had missed her funeral in his drunken stupor, but was now making his way to her grave. It was his fault she had died and he knew it. He thought he would be able to protect her. Now she was gone and he was alone. Oliver felt his chest tighten as the crushing press of grief sought to overwhelm him. Stopping in his tracks, a surge of anger took hold of him, and an intense rage began to burn behind his eyes. He may not have been able to protect her, but now he had nothing to lose. A smile started to creep it’s way onto his face, as the thought sank in Oliver said to himself “to forgive is divine, but vengeance is mine.” With the inferno no inside him, he knew what he had to do, where he had to go, who he had to kill. Walking briskly through the cities slums, human waste piled high on the sidewalks, Oliver lit a cigarette. The bar he was headed to was a frequent for many unsavory magical types and was run by an old acquaintance of his, the djin Barbatos. He would have the information Oliver needed. It was a long walk and yet it did little to silence his inner demons. They fed the flames of his turmoil, to the extent that when he arrived at the bar he nearly tore the door from its frame. Storming into the establishment that reeked of stale beer and urine he roared “Show yourself Barbatos! I need answers you slimy little shit!” Ganesh, the bartender, attempted to appease him, but Oliver was blinded by his own wraith. With a solid left jab, followed by a punch to the Indian man’s stomach Oliver had him on the ground. Ganesh was no fighter. Oliver pulled his revolver, pointing it at the bartender’s head. Screaming “Barbatos! I swear on my immortal soul I’ll shoot. Show yourself or your man gets it.” In a puff of red smoke, a sleek man with slicked back black hair and a burgundy suit appeared, a sly smile playing across his lips. The djin spoke in a voice layered with charm and smooth as honey “My friend, Straw-Hat, please. There is no need for such violence. I’m sure you and I can come to an understanding.” There was magic in his words, and Oliver could feel it pulling at the threads of his thoughts. Clamping down on his mind, he spat at the man’s feet. Saying with a snarl “She was the only reason I had at all for playing nice.”

It started as a whisper, almost hidden behind a cold wind. Oliver pulled his jacket tighter trying to keep the chill out, but despite his best efforts the chill penetrated deep into his bones. Lighting a cigarette he pushed further down the path, hearing the voice softly calling to him. Cursing he spit on the ground, casting a glance behind him only to see he was still alone. Shadows in the moonlight seemed to dance in the corner of his eye, the wind in the trees hiding any real movement. Seeing the gate up ahead, Oliver began his work. There was always so much to do at these types of places, nasty things took up residence in abandoned cemeteries. Skirting the perimeter he left a circular border of rock salt around the burial grounds. Then checking his weapons one last time, he crossed over. Immediately the wind stopped and the darkness pressed in around him, sending shivers down his spine. It never got any easier. A sinister laugh drifted through the air, and he heard the voice again. A low rumbling resonated through the burial grounds as it inquired “what ever could have brought the little straw hat here?” Carefully Oliver looked, peering over grave markers, trying to see the source but all he found was darkness. Cursing once more he drew his revolver only to illicit more of that damned laughter. Antagonizing him further the voice inquired once more “have you come to play little one? It’s been ever so long since we’ve seen each other.” With a grunt Oliver flicked his cigarette onto the ground, and he smiled. “I should have known that was you Cernunnos, it was too optimistic of me to think you’d been put down for good.” Walking slowly forward he saw in the distance what he was looking for, a statue of a great stag with a hundred feet of space all around it. It had to be where that flea ridden horned prick was waiting for him. Upon nearing it the horned god practically skipped from behind the monument in gross contrast to his ragged appearance. It had the torso of a man with the legs and head of a deer, and looked like two week old road kill. Flesh hung off the bones in strange places, blood dripping like tears from glassy eyes, and the twisted thing was laughing. “Oh come now my pet, surely you’re here to entertain me. It’s been ages since I received a proper sacrifice.” Cernunnos licked his lips, continuing “and I do enjoy playing with my food.” The dark god leapt but Oliver was ready, firing as soon as the monster’s hooves left the ground. At such a distance the force of the blast stunned the god, taking much of the power from his attack. Rolling to the side Oliver said “play time’s over chuckle head,” firing twice more into Cernunnos’s head. Still the creature laughed, turning to face him with a gross facsimile of a smile.

A cold gray sky darkened outside, while Oliver sat cozily behind his dark wooden desk acutely aware of the soft hum from his radiator. Smoke drifted lazily through the air off the tip of a cigarette, his ash tray already cluttered with the remains of many others. Without removing his calculating gray eyes from the case file in front of him he poured himself a drink. Amaretto, straight. The sweet syrupy liquor never failed to give his mind the edge it needed. Reading carefully over each minute detail of the file he swore, frustration burning its way through his reserves of reason. It wasn’t adding up. There had to be some key peace of information missing from his notes. It had already been months and he’d had no luck at cracking it. He stood, the old spoon chair scraping against the floorboards. Donning his worn straw hat, careful to place the black ribbon to his left, and grabbing his tattered green coat he set out to get some air. Walking the frozen streets of the city, people hurried to get in before the sleeting winter rain set in, but Oliver paid them no mind. It didn’t make sense, even in his line of work, priceless museum pieces didn’t simply vanish from display in the middle of the afternoon. That’s where all the evidence pointed however, and conventional policing had failed to yield results. That’s why they turned to him, Oliver Gray, knowing full well he’d stick his nose into all sorts of bad business in order to get results. An idea took hold of Oliver, his eyes narrowing with a surge of determination. There was one more stone to turn over. Pulling his collar up to block the wind, he set out on a far walk across town. His step quickening with renewed vigor now that he had a goal in mind the winter chill rolling off his shoulders. After a long trek through the filth rampant on the streets this side of town he walked in to a seedy little sorry excuse for a bar, walking straight to the bartender, not even bothering to put out his cigarette. He asked gruffly “where’s the djin?” The small Indian man behind the ramshackle bar, eyes wide, shakily replied “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Oliver grabbed him by the collar, pulling him halfway over the wooden barrier, threatened “Ganesh, where’s the goddamned genie? I’m not asking again.” Ganesh hurriedly responded “he’s in the basement. I wouldn’t go down there, he has guests.” Oliver pushed past him as he made his way to the stairs behind the counter, shouting as he descended “where’s the painting you damned dirty afrit? I know you’re down here, and you’re going to give it to me or else I’ll see you bound within a salt shaker for the next millennium. So help me Barbatos!” When he arrived in the musty cellar space it was empty, save for a burning oil lamp, and an old painting.