"Magic and miracles aren't free."
— John Constantine, allegedly
Jude was grateful the exorcism had been an item, not a spell.
Magic in this world had owners. Every source of power belonged to someone—or something. Demons. Higher beings. Entities with names you didn't say out loud.
Learning magic wasn't gaining power. It was learning to borrow power. And the lenders weren't philanthropists.
They charged fees.
Sometimes minor: a day's good luck, a favorite memory, a few years off your lifespan.
Sometimes major: your destiny, your soul, your firstborn child.
The holy key had contained consecrated power—Heaven's jurisdiction, used for its intended purpose. A professional match. No debt incurred.
Otherwise, Jude wouldn't have touched it.
Not because he feared magical backlash or demonic creditors, but because he feared connections. Mages could sacrifice teammates as payment. Some did it regularly. Casually.
He had no intention of becoming collateral damage for someone else's spell.
Better to stick with items. One-time purchases. No strings attached.
He drove home, stopped for groceries on the way, and pulled up outside Drake's building.
Parked on the street. Locked the doors.
He'd spent $1 in asset points to check the system's parking map. Result: everywhere in the surrounding blocks was a valid parking space.
Weird answer, but the system hadn't lied to him yet.
"God help you," Drake said, climbing out of a nearby taxi. "You're actually alive."
"The car's fine. Looks normal now."
Drake circled it, examining the paint job. "Doesn't seem as cursed as Johnny said."
The taxi driver—who'd followed them the whole way at Drake's request—muttered something profane and floored the accelerator.
He'd seen the car up close now. No license plate yet, fresh grey paint, but the frame was unmistakable.
That was the Death Car. The Falcone family's legendary curse-mobile. Notorious across every chop shop and accident report in Gotham.
And this lunatic was driving it around like a normal vehicle.
Not my problem, the driver thought, speeding away.
Jude watched the taxi disappear. "What's his rush?"
"Probably needs to pick up his next fare at Gotham Hospital." Drake shrugged. "Who knows?"
Inside the apartment, Camilla sat at the small table watching television.
"—once again, the Gotham Police Department has arrested numerous gang members. According to Commissioner Gordon, this operation was assisted by the masked vigilante known as Batman."
The news anchor's voice dripped with manufactured concern.
"To date, Batman has helped the GCPD arrest dozens—perhaps hundreds—of criminals. This raises an important question: does the Gotham Police Department require the assistance of a masked outlaw to perform its normal duties? Must we rely on a vigilante who uses violence and operates outside the law to enforce justice in our city?"
The camera cut to file footage. Batman's silhouette against a rooftop. Criminals in hospital beds.
"While Commissioner Gordon insists Batman is harmless, the evidence suggests otherwise. None of the arrested individuals escaped without injury. Broken bones. Fractured ribs. Severe trauma. No one has entered GCPD custody unscathed after encountering this violent vigilante."
"Even District Attorney Harvey Dent's position on Batman remains ambiguous. Has Gotham's judicial system been influenced—or even controlled—by a hidden, illegal vigilante? The public deserves answers."
Drake snorted. "That newspaper's owned by the Falcone family."
Camilla looked up. "Really?"
"Listen to them." Drake dropped onto the couch. "Like mice condemning the exterminator. They talk about fairness, justice, respect for life—but they're just mouthpieces for profit. Gotham's had maybe three honest cops and prosecutors in the last decade. This newspaper attacked every single one."
"I'll assume," Jude said, hanging his coat by the door, "you're still talking about the newspaper and not actual mice."
"Obviously."
"So you support Batman?"
"I don't support corporate propaganda." Drake shook his head. "But my opinion doesn't matter. I'm not from Gotham. Won't be here much longer anyway."
"True. After you leave, I'll renew the lease on this place."
"Why rent?" Drake looked at him. "With your money now and your restaurant job, you could buy a small place in Otisburg."
"Absolutely not." Jude was emphatic. "If I ever find work in another city, I'm gone immediately. Buying property in Gotham is throwing money away. One year here wears you down more than ten years anywhere else."
Drake opened his mouth. Closed it. Couldn't argue.
Everyone knew Gotham's daily life wasn't exactly peaceful. More like a warzone with better food. Every building could be destroyed tomorrow—bomb, missile, rampaging supervillain. Real estate in Gotham was controlled by people you didn't want to know. And the people who bought property here were the ones who couldn't leave.
"Jude." Camilla's voice interrupted. "Where did you get that cross necklace?"
Jude touched it reflexively. "Oh. Bought it with the car today. Liked the look, so I kept it on."
"It's beautiful." Camilla stared at it, something warm in her expression.
As someone who'd spent years ill, praying daily for recovery, she considered herself devout. The cross Jude wore emanated something—a warmth, a presence—that called to that faith.
Jude noticed her focus and deflected quickly. "Drake, why haven't you gotten Camilla a cross necklace?"
"Don't start." Drake muttered. "The church gave her a blessed cross years ago."
"Which I lost," Camilla admitted.
"She just likes shiny jewelry," Drake added.
Camilla raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"No." Drake's loyalty kicked in immediately. "I'll buy you one this afternoon. Beautiful one. Very shiny."
"Take my car." Jude tossed him the keys. "Drive slow. You'll be fine."
Drake looked at the keys like they might bite him.
Didn't take them.
Several blocks away, a group of car thieves prowled the East End streets.
One of them spotted the sedan parked openly on the corner. His eyes lit up.
"Leon! Check it out—brand new paint job, no plates. Easy money."
Leon turned, glanced at the car, and immediately walked the other direction.
"Easy money? You idiot, that's the Death Car."
"The what?"
"The Falcone Death Car. Johnny the dealer just sold it this morning—word's all over the East End. You want to steal it back for him? Be my guest."
The first thief paled. "Wait, seriously?"
"Get away from it." Leon kept walking. "That thing can stay parked there forever for all I care."
The group hurried past, giving the sedan wide berth.
When you go out in Gotham, you need a reputation.
Sometimes, being known as the guy who drives the Death Car is the best security system money can't buy.