Downtown Los Santos. Inside an abandoned factory.
Candlelight flickered across the dim space. Papa Midnight sat cross-legged on a pile of animal pelts, eyes closed in meditation. Dozens of followers mirrored him, hands twisted into strange voodoo sigils.
Footsteps echoed. Every follower's eyes snapped open at once and locked onto the door.
When they recognized the newcomer, their vicious stares flickered with open wariness. The last time this uninvited guest had stormed in here, he'd blown Papa Midnight's head clean off with one hand. That memory was still fresh.
Papa Midnight slowly opened his eyes. He took in Soren's unmistakable silver-white hair and his eyelid twitched. He'd lived through the psych-ward disaster that had dragged Heaven and Hell into open war. Now the man responsible for all of it stood right in front of him, and Papa Midnight wanted nothing more than to be on another continent.
"That new hair color's pretty sharp. Did it yourself?"
Papa Midnight forced the unease down. This was his territory. Nowhere to run. "What the hell are you doing here today?"
Soren walked straight up, casually kicked one follower aside, and dropped into a seat. "Relax. I'm not here to start shit."
"Then you're here to pay what you owe?"
Papa Midnight's grip tightened on his voodoo cane.
"Put it on the tab. You'll get it."
Soren got straight to the point. "I came to ask a question. You got any real divination experts around here?"
Papa Midnight stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if this walking disaster was here to wreck the place or actually asking for help.
After a beat he said, "I don't do that work myself, but I can point you at someone."
"Who?"
"Marie Laveau. Self-proclaimed Voodoo Queen. She's been alive a few hundred years. When it comes to black magic and fortune-telling, she actually knows what she's doing."
A faint trace of unease slipped into his voice when he said the name.
He pulled a scrap of paper from a nearby pouch, scribbled an address, and tossed it to Soren.
"New Orleans. A barbershop called the Horn of Plenty. That's where you'll find her."
"Any rules I should know?"
Soren tucked the card away. When dealing with ancient voodoo witches, it paid to be careful.
Papa Midnight didn't answer directly. He just gave a cold laugh. "You'll find out when you get there."
The next morning Soren arrived early at Los Santos International Airport.
He'd left Carrie back at the office. She still couldn't fully control her power, but with Patty there the two of them could handle ordinary trouble. And Dante and Vergil were both around, so he wasn't worried.
Soren stood in the terminal, staring at the massive glass wall, and suddenly remembered the last time he'd tried to fly.
"By now those poor bastards marked by Death should be long gone."
He muttered the thought to himself.
Even if this plane fell apart at thirty thousand feet, he could still walk away. Things were different now.
He found a seat in the business-class lounge and started mapping out his next moves.
First: New Orleans. Find the Voodoo Queen and have her dig up whoever sent that armed team after him.
Second: Wait for Constantine's report.
Third: Reach out to Nico. See if she could finally build him a proper custom Devil Arm.
That was when a woman in a long black coat and dark sunglasses caught his attention. She sat with her legs elegantly crossed, flipping through a fashion magazine, radiating pure authority. A nervous-looking teenage girl hovered beside her like a student who'd been dragged along.
Soren's gaze lingered on them a second too long. Something about the woman felt off. An ancient, strange energy pulsed beneath her skin. Not demonic. Not angelic. Older.
She seemed to feel his stare. She looked up, glanced across him, then the corner of her mouth curved into a sultry smile. She lifted one hand with glossy red nails and gave him a slow, deliberate wave.
The boarding announcement sounded. Passengers began lining up.
When Soren followed the flight attendant to his seat, a familiar perfume drifted over. The woman in the sunglasses had taken the seat right beside him.
"Coincidence… or on purpose?"
He shot her a sideways look. She immediately pulled out another magazine and buried her face in it, acting like he didn't exist.
He shrugged, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
"Soren? That's an unusual name."
Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the woman beside him finally closed her magazine and spoke.
Soren opened his eyes and turned to her. He wasn't surprised she knew his name. "You know me?"
"Not yet."
She slid the sunglasses off, revealing sharp, seductive eyes that had seen centuries. "But I do now."
Soren studied her face. It felt oddly familiar.
She continued, "You don't look like a New Orleans kind of guy. What's taking you there?"
"Usually people introduce themselves before asking questions."
Soren replied.
Fiona laughed softly and offered a black-gloved hand. "Fiona Goode. Headmistress of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies."
Soren looked at the name, the school, and the ancient power rolling off her.
The witch coven.
His mind clicked. No wonder she seemed familiar. Fiona Goode was the Supreme—the one true Supreme Witch of her generation. Leader and protector of the entire coven.
He quickly recalled the stories: witches fighting each other for the title, backstabbing, even the Supreme herself turning on her own students for immortality and power.
He couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his mouth.
More like a coven of backstabbers than actual witches.
Fiona had been watching his expression the entire time. When she saw the dismissive smirk, a flash of irritation crossed her face.
A wave of power rolled off her.
In that instant Soren felt a hidden psychic force trying to slip into his mind, probing for thoughts.