Baz roughed up Simon and told him to give up the book. Evil Loreley laid in wait to get stabby with Simon.
Loreley, Episode 17: The Lighthouse
The Raven, now in ghost form, stands, eyes downturned facing the panel that opens onto Simon’s loft.
“Wait-” s/he says.
Loreley’s shoulders soften as she loosens her grip on the always cold handle of the chipped stone knife.
Simon, staggering slightly in the street, thinks he hears a voice screaming to him from a distant dark place.
Loreley, he thinks. I should probably do something about Loreley.
Then he remembers Claire. Didn’t she contract him for-
A car screeches on its breaks, dusting his pant leg, stopping just shy of actual contact.
Simon slaps his hands on the hood of the car and shouts, “I’m walkin’ here!” Before turning back the way he just came with a smile on his face.
“Simon, ol’ chum,” he says, “you need you to clear my head. Lighthouse?”
“Sounds perfect” he agrees.
He stumbles down a side alley, then turns left, then takes the next left, then the next left, then follows the alley to the left until he comes to a heavy, handleless steel door painted brick red to blend into the red brick wall. There’s a small illuminated sign of a lighthouse hanging next to it.
Simon knocks twice, then three times, then twice and then three times again.
A slot slams open on the door and a pair of beady black eyes study Simon’s face.
The door swings out and Simon goes down the old wooden staircase into the pub.
At a long table in the center of the room, Lucien is looking dapper as always, playing poker with four marks Simon doesn’t recognize and one he does. He nods at the mark who acknowledges him with a twitch. Simon walks to the bar. The young handsome Barman says, “He’s expecting you, Doctor. I’ll send your usual back.”
Simon nods thanks and walks to the back of the room where Lurch, in a custom fit purple paisley Italian suit and top hat bows slightly and extends an arm towards the lounge.
Mephistopheles is sitting in the middle of the banquet, a succubus lasciviously sucking on each side of his neck.
There’s a small candy bowl full of pills and a bottle of champagne on ice on the table.
“Simon! What an expected pleasure. Offer you anything?” One of the succubi disengages from his neck, looks across the table at Simon with a bloody mouth, licks her lips and hisses.
Simon helps himself to a pill and says, “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Oh, Simon. You do fuck me up so, with your mortal humor. You’re clearly anything but good. But enough about you. What, specifically do you want this time?”
Simon lets out a long slow breath.
“I’m in a bit of trouble.”
“Oh? Really? So this isn’t a social visit? A ‘hey M! Howyabeen keeping? You’re looking well!’ kind of situation? Alright. If I was you, I’d get that girl out of hell before I tried anything else.”
“Thanks, M. Mean it.”
“Yeah. You’re thanking me now-”
A tiny pixie goth of a waitress brings Simon his drink. “Your fallen angel, sir.”
Simon does a double take but she’s gone before he can get a good look at her face.
Mephistopheles chooses a mottled purple pill from the pile, bites it in half an hands half to Simon.
Simon clinks his martini glass against M’s champagne flute and they slam their drinks like shots.
The veil rips open and they are falling sideways into the darkness.