A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 8: Breeding the Swarm

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, carefully inspecting one of the small enclosures he'd set up. Inside, a tarantula hawk moved with a slow, almost deliberate grace, its glossy black body and vibrant orange wings glinting under the dim light. These were his latest additions to the swarm, and easily the most dangerous yet. The tarantula hawk wasn't just an insect—it was a weapon. Its sting ranked as the second most painful on the Schmidt Pain Index, and its ability to fly made it a formidable defense against anyone foolish enough to try and harm him.

He had spent weeks acquiring a breeding pair, scouring the Nightside's twisted underground markets for the perfect specimens. Now, he was focused on building up their numbers, nurturing them in carefully controlled conditions within his apartment.

The apartment had become a hybrid space—half living quarters, half insect haven. A makeshift clothline divided the room, separating his personal area from the breeding enclosures and swarm maintenance. On one side, his bed, a small table, and his newly-finished coat hung neatly on a rack. On the other, rows of jars, cages, and small habitats buzzed, clicked, and crawled with life. The air hummed faintly with the energy of the swarm, a constant reminder of the intricate network he commanded.

The tarantula hawks were a step up from his usual swarm members. Most of his insects were useful in subtle ways—spiders for silk, ants for reconnaissance, flies for information gathering. But these? These were pure offense. A swarm of tarantula hawks would be devastating, their painful stings enough to incapacitate even the toughest opponent.

"Defensive measures," Michael muttered to himself as he gently misted one of the enclosures with water. "Because in the Nightside, you don't wait for trouble. You prepare for it."

His preparations weren't limited to insects, though. Michael had started thinking about magic—how to use it, how to defend against it. It wasn't an area he knew much about, and that lack of knowledge made him uneasy. Magic was woven into the very fabric of the Nightside, and ignoring it would be as foolish as walking around without a weapon.

One name kept coming to mind: Molly Metcalf. In the future, she'd become the paramour of Eddie Drood, but for now, she was a fierce and independent magic user with a deep hatred for the Droods, who had killed her parents. Molly was talented, dangerous, and, most importantly, not aligned with anyone who'd sell him out. If he could gain her trust—or at least her neutrality—she might be able to help him understand the Nightside's magical landscape.

But meeting Molly wouldn't be easy. She was fiercely guarded and unpredictable, and any misstep could turn her into an enemy instead of an ally. Michael knew he'd have to tread carefully when the time came to approach her.

He leaned back, wiping his hands on a towel as he surveyed his apartment. The tarantula hawks were settling in, their numbers slowly growing. The swarm was becoming a force to be reckoned with, a network of insects that extended his influence far beyond the walls of his apartment.

But it wasn't enough. Not yet. In the Nightside, standing still was a death sentence. He needed to keep building, keep learning, keep adapting.

Michael glanced at his coat, hanging in its place of honor. He'd taken steps to protect himself, to be ready for whatever came his way. Now, he just needed to figure out how to deal with the Nightside's more arcane threats—and Molly Metcalf might be the key.

For now, though, he returned his attention to the tarantula hawks. They were his first line of defense, his warning to the Nightside that he wasn't to be trifled with. And soon, their sting would make sure that message was heard loud and clear.

Michael was wiping down the bar when the door to Strangefellows opened, and a chill ran down his spine. The hum of conversation dipped briefly as Molly Metcalf stepped inside, her presence sharp and commanding. She was exactly as the books had described—intimidating, with an air of raw, unrefined power that seemed to electrify the air around her. Her gaze swept the room, and when her eyes landed on Michael, it felt like a spotlight had been turned on him.

"Well," she said, her voice cutting through the noise, "it looks like I found you."

Michael swallowed, setting down the glass in his hand. "Alex," he said quietly, "mind if I take a few?"

Alex glanced at Molly, his expression unreadable. "Your funeral," he muttered, giving a slight nod.

Michael stepped out from behind the bar and approached Molly cautiously. "Molly Metcalf, I presume?"

She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. "So you do know who I am. That's a start. What do you want?"

"Can we talk somewhere more private?" Michael gestured toward one of the booths in the corner.

Molly hesitated, her gaze narrowing slightly before she nodded. "Fine. But don't waste my time."

The two of them sat across from each other, Molly leaning back with her arms crossed, her posture radiating impatience. "So," she said, her voice cold and direct, "why are you asking about me? What's your angle?"

Michael took a deep breath. "My name's Michael. I've been asking around because I need your help."

Her eyes narrowed further, and the air seemed to crackle slightly. "Help? That's a dangerous word to throw around, especially with someone like me."

Before Michael could respond, she held up a hand, her gaze sharpening as she stared at him. "Hold on. Why is your aura so... funky? Bright, too."

Michael glanced around, suddenly very aware of how exposed he felt. He lowered his voice. "Well, I'm not native to the Nightside. Got dropped here a few months ago, completely unprepared. Alex took me in, gave me a job, and then... well, I won a poker tournament. Big one."

Recognition flickered in her eyes. "You're that guy. The one who walked away with a ton of life energy."

Michael nodded. "That's me."

Molly leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing again. "And what do you want from me?"

He met her gaze evenly. "I need help. I'm a novice when it comes to magic—practically clueless, to be honest—and I know enough to know that ignorance is dangerous. I want you to teach me the basics. The dos and don'ts, at least."

She tilted her head, studying him like a hawk sizing up prey. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," Michael said. "I know you don't owe me anything, and I know I'm probably wasting my time, but I had to ask."

Molly's lips twitched, not quite a smile but not outright hostility either. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Plenty of idiots stumble into the Nightside and think they can dabble in magic without consequences. Most of them end up dead or worse."

"I'm trying to avoid that," Michael said simply.

She sat back again, tapping her fingers on the table as she considered him. "You're lucky I even showed up. I've got no patience for idiots, and I don't take kindly to time-wasters. But..." She paused, her gaze softening ever so slightly. "You've got potential. And a bright aura like yours? That's something rare. It might be worth my time."

Michael exhaled, relief washing over him. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she said sharply. "I haven't agreed to anything. I'll teach you the basics—if I decide you're worth it. But there are rules, and you'd better be ready to follow them."

"Fair," Michael said, nodding.

"Good." Molly stood, her presence still overwhelming. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to start. And don't go poking into magic you don't understand before then. I'll know."

With that, she turned and strode out of Strangefellows, leaving Michael sitting in the booth, his heart still racing. He glanced back toward the bar, where Alex gave him a bemused look.

"You're either brave or stupid," Alex said.

"Probably both," Michael muttered. But as daunting as Molly's presence had been, he couldn't help but feel like he'd just taken another step toward surviving—really surviving—in the Nightside.

Michael felt the sting in his wallet as he handed over 20,000 pounds to Molly Metcalf. It was a hefty chunk of his winnings, enough to make anyone think twice, but he knew it was worth it. Molly wasn't just a witch; she was one of the best. Her reputation in the Nightside spoke for itself, and if he was going to learn about magic, there was no one better to teach him.

"Pleasure doing business," Molly said, slipping the money into her coat pocket with a smirk. "But let's get one thing straight—just because you're paying me doesn't mean I'll go easy on you. Waste my time, and you'll regret it."

"Understood," Michael replied, his tone steady. "But let me make one thing clear, too. I'm not interested in making deals with any powers. No pacts, no shortcuts."

Her smirk faded slightly, and she gave him a curious look. "Funny. Most rookies are chomping at the bit to sign away their souls for a little power."

Michael shrugged. "I've heard enough stories to know better. I'm here to learn the basics—the dos and don'ts of magic. Enough to keep me alive, not enough to blow myself up."

"Smart," Molly said, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. "Fine. No pacts, no shortcuts. But magic's not something you dabble in lightly. Even the basics can get you killed if you're careless."

"I'm ready for the work," Michael said firmly.

"Good. We start tomorrow."

Over the next four months, Michael's days were a blur of work and study. After his shifts at Strangefellows, he would meet with Molly, who wasted no time with pleasantries or small talk. Her lessons were brutally efficient, stripping away any romantic notions he might have had about magic.

"Magic is a tool," she said one evening, pacing back and forth as he sat cross-legged on the floor, a candle flickering in front of him. "It's not inherently good or evil—it's all about intent. But intent means nothing if you don't understand the principles behind the spell."

She drilled him on focus, visualization, and energy flow. The Nightside's ambient magic made it easier to draw on power but also far more dangerous to lose control. Molly hammered that lesson into him repeatedly, ensuring he understood the risks.

"You're average," she told him bluntly after a month of lessons.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not an insult," Molly said, folding her arms. "Most people who try to learn magic are hopeless. You've got enough talent to be competent if you don't get cocky. But don't think you'll ever be casting reality-breaking spells or summoning gods."

"Wasn't planning on it," Michael replied dryly.

"Good. Stick to the basics, and you'll stay alive. Most of the time."

Molly's lessons extended beyond casting spells. She taught him about wards and protections, how to disrupt enchantments, and how to identify magical artifacts. Her approach was pragmatic and grounded, focused on survival rather than showmanship.

"One thing you'll learn quickly in the Nightside," she said one night, gesturing to a crude circle she'd drawn on the floor, "is that magic's greatest strength is in preparation. You don't win fights with fireballs—you win by making sure the other guy can't throw one at you."

Michael took her advice seriously, practicing how to lay simple wards around his apartment and craft small protective charms. He wasn't powerful, but he was careful, and Molly assured him that was half the battle.

Magic, Michael quickly realized, was vast. Molly often remarked that someone could spend several lifetimes studying it and still barely scratch the surface. He focused on what mattered most—practicality. He didn't need to be a master; he just needed enough knowledge to avoid being a victim.

On their final night, after an exhausting session, Molly leaned against the wall, her sharp gaze appraising him. "You're not bad, you know. Annoying, but not bad."

"Thanks," Michael said, wiping sweat from his brow. "High praise coming from you."

"Don't let it go to your head," she said with a smirk. "You've got a long way to go, but you've got the basics down. Just remember: magic doesn't solve problems—it just gives you more ways to handle them."

"I'll remember," Michael said.

"Good." She straightened and started toward the door. "You'll survive the Nightside a little longer now. Maybe even long enough to figure out why you're really here."

As she left, her presence seemed to linger, like the echo of a storm. Michael sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the past four months settle over him. He'd come to the Nightside with nothing, and now he had weapons, a swarm, a coat, and the basic tools of magic. He wasn't a master by any stretch, but he was no longer helpless.

For the first time, Michael felt like he wasn't just surviving. He was growing stronger, piece by piece, step by step. And in the Nightside, that was a victory all its own.