| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Kurt Kirchmeier / Artwork by Steve Cartwright |
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| Graffiti Magic |
Sasha stood on the corner of Fourth and Main, an empty spray can in hand, her mark left on the wall of the building
behind her. The majority of those who passed by didn't so much as glance at the graffiti, but the few that did paused for
long moments, their eyes glazing over as they stared up at the youthful visage.
Smiling, Sasha watched them depart one by one, most of them shaking their heads as though they'd just awakened from a
strange dream and couldn't be sure of their surroundings, all of them oblivious to what the brief encounter would cost
them.
After seven such instances, Sasha reached down and pulled another can from the backpack at her feet. She then hastily
blacked out her gaunt, crimson-eyed creation, signed her initials beneath, and headed for the abandoned warehouse that
had been her home for the last few weeks.
#
"How many?"
Sasha dropped her backpack on the dusty floor and turned to the voice. It belonged to Ariel, a gypsy she'd met a few
months before. She was sitting on an overturned barrel in the corner of the room, her face lost in shadow.
Sasha rolled her eyes. "You need to ask?" It was always seven: the most propitious number of all, according to the gypsy,
and especially favorable for things pertaining to magic.
Ariel dropped from her perch and approached. "Accidents happen," she said. "I need to ask."
Sasha paused to light a cigarette. "I'm not sure about one of them, though. He didn't look like he had much to give. His
clothes were dirtier than mine."
"Don't be fooled by appearances," Ariel said.
Sasha shrugged. "I'm just saying." She sat down on a rusty bar stool and eyed her companion. "Can I go in tonight?" she
asked. Sasha always wanted to be the one who went in. It gave her a sense of purpose, of value.
Ariel smiled. "If you like."
#
Crouched on a sleeping bag, Sasha stared up at the gaunt, crimson-eyed image on the wall, feeling a pull from within as
she did so. The graffiti -- recreated here for the task ahead -- would serve as her bridge, her gateway to the seven she'd
marked earlier that day.
Her eyes were heavy, the pills she'd taken a few minutes before now working their way through her blood. Moonlight was
streaming in from a window, giving life to the millions of dust motes hovering in the air.
"Don't take more than he or she has to give," the gypsy reminded her for the third time in as many minutes.
Yawning, Sasha laid herself down. The pills -- nothing more than a fast-acting sedative -- were purely precautionary, a
means to keep her from waking before her task was complete. "I won't," she assured her, and then promptly faded away.
Seconds later, she was traveling through a tunnel of crimson light, millions of alien thoughts rushing past her ears. The
collective, the Gypsy called it, the place where all minds meet. This was not a construct of the magic, but rather a
pre-existing place that only a chosen few -- Sasha now among them -- knew how to access.
Empowered by the connection she'd forged with paint, Sasha waded through the myriad thoughts in search of the first of
the seven. He was easy to find, his mind all but calling out to her own as she neared.
She slowed her incorporeal self to a stop, allowing her target's memories and musings to wash over her. One by one she
sorted through them, until finally she located those that mattered: credit card numbers, bank accounts, etc.
After committing these to memory, she focused her energy toward the body from which they originated, preparing to
make the switch.
The next thing she knew, she was lying in a strange bed, staring up at a spinning ceiling fan. She waited for the vertigo to
pass before she threw back the sheets and slipped out. Her new body felt heavy, but strong. There was a blonde woman
asleep on the bed, so she made sure to be quiet as she left the room.
She paused in the hall to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then continued through the house until she located a
computer. As usual, she winced at the sound of it booting up.
A few minutes later, she was scrolling down a long list of bookmarks. She went through them one by one, transferring
funds to an account that her gypsy friend had given her the password to, but never taking more than she thought the man
had to give.
Once finished, she shut down the computer and quickly returned to the bed, knowing full well the dangers of tarrying too
long. Sedated though she was, there was always the risk of a premature waking, in which case a middle-aged man would
suddenly find himself in an abandoned warehouse, in a body not his own.
Within seconds, Sasha was back in the light and traveling once again, a sizable dollar amount in her mind.
#
And so it continued for the next six nights. On the morning following the last, Sasha and her gypsy companion caught a
bus and headed downtown, dressed in their very best -- nothing formal (as if they had anything formal), just clean enough
not to arouse suspicion from the bank tellers.
A short while after that, sixteen thousand dollars had found its way to three different charities, each devoted to helping
kids get off the street.
"Not a bad week's work, huh?" Ariel said as they strolled down the lane.
Sasha smiled in agreement, and then stopped to survey the walls of the surrounding buildings. There was a downtrodden
looking gent playing a guitar just a few yards away, his near-empty hat sitting before him on the sidewalk.
"We're gonna need more paint," Sasha said.
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