JEBEL ALI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES.

   There are several cities in the world considered free ports, where 
customs is easy, and ships gather.  Thanks to the impending transfer of 
ownership of Hong Kong, a new port has sprung up to take it's place as 
THE port of call.
   Jebel Ali, city of mystery, and really cheap perfume.  Despite the 
Moslem ban on strong alchohol, bars have sprung up almost overnight, 
catering to the sailors, travelers, and generic wanderers of the world.  
In one such bar, two men were having a conversation...
   "Yeah, right.  You've been listening to too many stories in the 
Souk." one sailor remarked [in French, most common language of the 
port.]
   His companion, sporting a truly impressive set of tatoos, was 
undeterred. "I'm serious.  Blackbeard had a magic compass.  That's why 
he was such a damn good pirate."
   "Yeah.  And monkeys can fly outta my..."
   "Excuse me."  a voice interrupted.  The two men turned, to find 
themselves facing a rather unusual sight in the bar.  A woman.  Not just 
ANY woman, mind you, but a tall, willowy redhead in what appeared to be 
a trenchcoat.  "Did you say a *magic* compass?" she murmured, in flawless 
French.
   The first sailor, mentally tallying his options, stood. "You don't 
want to listen to his stories, little lady.  Why don't you and I go out 
and have a good time?"
   The woman looked at him, slowly gazing down at his grimy shoes, and 
back to his eyes.  There was a flurry of movement, and he doubled over 
in pain.
   "Now..." she murmured, brown eyes blazing, "tell me more about 
this...compass."

Dance of the Daemon # 7 "Looking for a Miracle"

BOSTON, MA

   The symbols scrolled across the screen, merging and splitting in a 
pattern that was almost, but not quite chaotic.  Damien watched them, 
until they finally locked into an organic-looking glyph.
   "A magic compass?" he thought, "What kind of curse could that hold?"
He delved furthur into the pattern, letting the past unfold.  
Apparently, his worse half [or was that third?], Netrigan, had gone into 
piracy once upon a time.  He'd taken an obscure captain named Edward 
Teach, and showed him how to become filthy rich.
   The compass was a means to an end.  Properly used it would show the 
path to one's greatest desire.  Since, in the late seventeenth century, 
most people were dirt poor, the greatest wish was usually cash.  Lots of 
it.
   And Netrigan showed them the way.  But there was a price.  Using the 
compass made it's owner more agressive, more vicious, more greedy.  In 
other words, it turned you into Blackbeard.
   "This is not good.  I'm going to need more data."  He motioned 
vaguely at the screen.  "Max, are you awake?"  
   A new window opened on the monitor,  showing the cluttered lab of 
Maxwell "Max" Fremont.  "What the hell do you want?"
   Across the city, the grungy [in a non fashionable way] Fremont 
blurrily stared at the image on his PC.
   "Listen, I've told you I'm sorry for dumping you like that.  But it 
was far too dangerous for you.  Hell, it's probably too dangerous for 
*me*, but I don't have a choice..."
   "Sure, fine...what do you want," Max replied sullenly.
   "I need some info quick.  Tell me what you know about Blackbeard."  
The clatter of keys came in response.  Data flowed across the country, 
coaelescing at Max's command.
   "Blackbeard...real name Teach, Edward. birthplace unknown, maybe 
Jamaica.  Died 1718, off the coast of North Carolina, near Cape 
Hatteras."
   "Hmm.  What happened to his ship?"  Damien mused, half-aloud.
   Despite the rhetoricalness of his question, he got a response. "The 
Queen Anne's Revenge was sunk.  Various relics have been found over the 
years, but no big loot.  You lookin' for some extra dough?"
   "No, but I am looking for one of the ship's fittings.  Where are they 
now?"
   Max shrugged, "Dunno.  The Web is silent on the subject."  More 
clattering. "Hold on...there's an antique shop in Kingston that might 
have a list.  They advertise 'A wide range of period artifacts, some 
valuable.'"
   "Jamaica, eh?  Then that's my next stop."  
   "Need tickets?"  Max asked, fingers poised.
   "Nah...I'll make my own way." Damien grinned.
   "Oh, right.  You're good at that, aren't you..."
   "I'll talk to you later..."

JEBEL ALI

   "That's right, Mr. Samuels, just like you said." the tattooed sailor 
mumbled into the phone, "but no one seemed interested.  Except this one 
dame.  She seemed REAL interested."
   "Wonderful!" came the sibilant response, "You have done well..."  

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

   In a part of town not noted for it's tourist attractions, a magickal 
portal opened in a deserted alley, and with a minimum of fanfare, Damien 
arrived, witnessed only by rats, two well fed stray cats, and a former 
musician who thought he'd scored some particularly good ganja. 
   The sun beat down mercilessly, and the heat was almost opressive.  
Clearly, this was not the climate for a suit and trenchcoat.  Damien 
closed his eyes, tasting for the local magic.  When he'd sensed it's 
flavor, he chanted a brief, almost musical spell.
   His customary attire rippled smoothly, reforming into shorts, a 
sparkly black T-shirt, and one of the most ornate Hawaiian shirts ever 
created [save one, but that was a special case].  
   Despite his lack of luggage, or for that matter, large pockets, he 
drew his laptop from beneath his shirt, setting it up on a handy barrel.
The screen flared to life, revealing the face of his erstwhile 
associate.
   "I'm here, Max.  Looks like the low rent district.  Do you 
have that address?"    
   "Not yet man, but it should be coming in soon.  What's the deal with 
your side trip to UNC?"
   Damien paused, "Huh?" he responded.
   "A buddy of mind sent over a report on the wire.  Seems like someone 
broke into the UNC library, and checked out some files on our hirstute 
quarry.  Witnesses reported, and I quote: 'a tall figure with long 
red hair and a trenchcoat.'  Don't you trust me?"
   "Of course I do." Damien replied, face furrowed, "Is someone trying 
to frame me?  If so, there's a new player in this game, and I don't 
think he's friendly."
   Max nodded.  "The info just came down.  Go to the Voodoo Queen, on 
Rue Royale."
   "Got it.  I'll buy you a souvenier."
 
   The aforementioned shop was fairly tasteful, in it's own way.  There 
was a marked lack of skulls hanging from the ceiling, nor was there any 
particularly heavy smell of controlled substances in the air.  In fact, 
it was rather cozy and intimate.  The kind of store one could spend a 
week in, browsing.
   Damien wasn't in the browsing mood.  As the door jingled behind him, 
he moved into the store, slipping his shades lower onto his nose.
   "Is someone there?" a cracked voice called, "Come in, and be welcome, 
Mother Abigail bids you good day."
   As Damien walked deeper into the store, the source of the voice 
became apparent.  Perched neatly in a rocking chair was a black woman of 
indeterminate, but clearly advanced age.  She laid down her knitting, 
and looked up at his approach.
   "Afternoon, stranger.  Can I help you?"
   Damien paused, "How did you know I was American?  You didn't call out 
in French..."
   "Boy, when you get to be my age, you learn to see a lot.  My family 
has always had the Sight"
   "Your family?" Damien asked.
   "Oui, my great-gran-mere was the sister of Marie Laveau."
   A flicker of memory brought a change in Damien's spirit.

>>  NEW ORLEANS 1827.

   The music was mellow, and the sounds of people enjoying an illict 
beverage filled the air.  It was the night of Mardi Gras, and the party 
was in full swing.
   Two young ladies in fancy dress, holding their masks to their face, 
watched the assemblage, wide-eyed.
   "Now isn't this better than any old graveyard, Marie?"
   "Hush, mon cousine.  I don't know why you don't feel the loa more.  
We share the blood."
   "Ghosts and blood..." she sniffed.  "I want to dance!"
   "Then I most certainly must oblige such a fair lady." came a deep 
voice behind them.  It emanated from a man in black and gold motley, 
which blended smoothly with his sable skin. "Etienne Leondor, at your 
service."
   The girls giggled. "I am Nancy Laveau, and this is my cousin Marie.
Would you join me in a dance?"
   "I would be delighted."  As the band started again, they moved 
smoothly out onto the dance floor.  They slid as one into the rhythym, 
like they'd been dancing for years.
   Nancy stared at her new companion.  Under the flickering lights, the 
gold of his costume seemed almost alive.   She sighed, and melted into 
his arms.
   "Something wrong, petite?" he murmured.
   "I could do this all night..." she sighed.
   "I could too.  It feels like a spirit has welled up within me."
   Nancy stifled a giggle. "Don' tell Marie that.  She'll drag you into 
one of her ceremonies."
   Etienne touched her chin, raising her gaze to his. "It's no joke, 
Nancy.  Your cousin will be quite powerful, as these things go."
   "How'd you know?  It's not like she's the Queen of Voodoo."
   "I know many things.  I think you've seen it too.  You have the 
Sight.  But enough about spells and sight," he murmured, sweeping her 
about, "Tonight, let us dance, while the world changes."

>>  BACK AGAIN

   "Are you all right, stranger?"  Abigail said.
   "I was just remembering a girl I knew, many years ago.  She was 
beautiful, as beautiful as you."
   "Bless you for a silver-toungued devil." she cried, "but I doubt you 
came here to flatter an old lady."
   "I fear not..." Damien grinned, "I'm looking for the compass from 
Blackbeard's ship."
   Abby stared at him stonily, "What do you want with something as evil 
as that?"
   "I am going to destroy it.  Break it's curse, and scatter it's 
magic."
   "Only the demon who made it can do that..." Nancy said warily, "And 
you are no demon."
   "Aye, but there's more to life than that.  I can do the job."  Damien 
replied.
   Nancy looked at him oddly, bringing more than vision to bear upon 
him.  "I see...I wouldn't allow it in my shop.  It's at the Museum of 
Antiquities, in Port Royal.  I don't think you can buy it, though.  
Chyrs told me someone has tried...odd, it hasn't been asked about for 
years, and now twice in one week."
   "There's something strange going on..." Damien agreed.
  
PORT ROYAL

   With catlike tread, the figure slid into the darkened museum, long 
coat swirling.  In silence, it moved to a room marked "Pirate Wing", and 
tried the door.  Locked.  That would not be a problem.
   "The time has come,
    To pierce the night.
    Though I'm not God,
    Let there be light!"
   The figure whirled, extracting a shiny object from beneath it's coat.  
The lights flickered on, revealing Damien, still in his tropical togs, 
slouched comfortably on an antique table.
   "Now now." he warned, waggling his finger back and forth, "It's not 
nice to play with knives."
   It was quite a knife, too.  In the glare of the lights, the figure 
revealed itself to be a beautiful young lady, brandishing a katana with 
the ease of an expert.
   "I *must* have that compass," she cried, swirling the blade in a 
great circle.
   "He must have been blind." Damien replied.
   The woman stopped at this. "Who?"
   "The man who witnessed your escapade at UNC.  He neglected to mention 
your beauty.  That was you, of course."
   "I didn't want to do it.  But I couldn't get what I wanted from his 
mind."
   Damien nodded, "So you just muddled it a bit, to confuse your trail.  
Quite intelligent."
   The woman smiled, "Most people would've wiped it, but that leaves too 
many questions."
   Damien scanned her attire.  Save for the trenchcoat, it was quite 
businesslike.  Tights sheathed her admittedly shapely legs, and an ALICE 
harness obscured her other attributes.  "You're not with the NTB, are 
you?"
   "Who?"
   "Never mind."  Damien muttered, "I can't let you have the compass.  
It's too dangerous."
   "I can't let you stop me." she replied.
   Damien sighed. "I was hoping we could avoid this..." He clenched his 
fist, willing the magic to come.  And it did, forming into a gauntlet of 
shimmering fire.
   "Shall we?"
   Her only response was the flicker of fingers, tossing several metal 
objects in his direction.  The shuriken halted in mid-air, and dropped 
to the ground.
   "Not bad..." He paused, wrinlking his forehead. "And now you try a 
mental assault...how refreshing."
   The redhead shook her head, as her attack was dispersed.  Damien 
clapped his hands together, unleashing a wave of soulfire.  Without 
missing a beat, his adversary leapt into midair, hurtling over the 
torrent, and landing behind him.   She brought her blade around, slicing 
at his neck.  The blade passed through it without resistance.
   Damien turned his illusory form to grin at her.  "Nice trick, no?  I 
haven't done this in *years*."
   Suddenly, from various points around the room, several more 
tropically-clad figures appeared.  "Now, my dear, which one of us is 
real?"
   The figure shook her head, crimson hair swirling about her shoulders.
"I'm not interested in your shell game, whoever you are."
   The crowd of Damien's smiled as one.
   "How rude of me.." said one.
   "I am called Damien Cross" another chimed in.
   "Host of the Daemon Netrigan." called a third.
   "And Avatar of Netatron."  
   "Who are you?" came the voice from behind her.  The woman whirled, 
only to find herself face to face with Damien, karmic katar at ready.  
"Let's find out."
   He plunged the wide blade into her sternum, linking his spirit to 
hers.  The images came.  Emptiness, then life.  A young man, a lover.
A giant turtle. [clearly symbolic].  Misunderstandings, an accident.
Loss...great loss....and running through it all, a name.
   "You are Aerianne Connor..." Damien murmured, "and you wish to go 
home..."
   Aeri, slumped against a handy plinth, nodded, "That compass can help 
me find Philip.  Together, we can do anything..."
   Sadly, Damien shook his head. "I cannot let you...the curse would 
corrupt you.  But *I* am immune...."
   Damien helped her over to the display.  "Put your hands at either 
side of the compass.  Be careful not to touch it." he ordered, shirt 
morphing back into his coat.  He matched her posture on the other side 
of the case.  "Now...concentrate."
   They closed their eyes.  In a deep voice, Damien began his spell.
   "Mystic compass, hear my rhyme.
    No longer lead across the sea.
    Show this woman, one last time, 
    The way to go where she must be."
   Shimmering lightning erupted from the compass, coruscating about the 
room.  On one wall, a portal opened. "Go!"
   Aeri moved smoothly to the Gate, stopping at the last moment to turn 
and face her ally.  "Thank you..."
   Damien shook his head. "The way is long, but you are on the proper 
path.  Fare well, Aerianne."
  "You too."  She stepped back into the Gate, which closed behind her.
  The energies coalesced into a bead of light, which insinuated itself 
into the patterns on Damien's coat.  With a sigh, he faded back into the 
shadows, leaving the room in darkness.

THE END

Aerianne Connor appears courtesy of Philip J. Moyer, pmoyer@wam.umd.edu