#Finally I can reveal what was under his little kerchief this whole time.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

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Hair Revealed. Heir Rejected.

[literaldoorbell]

Give a Little - Chapter 3 - Finders Fee

You can also find me on A03: Give a Little - Chapter 3 - MeDonks - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

18+, eventual smut, lots of angst, slow burn romance.

After finishing supper alone in her room, Edith changed into a nightshirt before crawling under the covers, journal in hand. The only light in the room was from a lone candle on the bedside table, where it created an island of dim light over her bed.

She had just finished writing a verse in her journal when she mumbled to herself in irritation and crossed out the whole thing. She continued trying to work out the words, whispering them quietly to herself, but no matter how she changed a word here or tweaked the cadence there, she just couldn't make it work.

Frustrated, she tossed the journal aside, where it came to a rest precariously balanced on the edge of her bed. Grunting in annoyance, she kicked her foot into the mattress hard enough to jostle the journal, causing it to tumble over the edge to land with a sharp slap on the floor.

I should just go to sleep. Let this day be over with.

A soft rapping at her door made her freeze and hold her breath. She knew that knock.

Shit. I’m not ready to face him yet.

She lay still hoping he might think she was asleep and leave, but the knock came again, this time a little louder followed by Astarion's voice, “Edith, can we talk?”

Heart starting to race, she felt a wave of anxiety swell within her. She slowly sat up and crossed her legs beneath her while staring at the closed door. Why hadn’t she thought to lock it before she got into bed?

Because I hoped he would come.

His voice called out to her again, “I know you’re awake”

Not moving, she gathered the blankets up in her hands and hugged them to her chest like a child would to keep the monster under the bed at bay.

Faintly, she heard a single muffled word plead through the door, “Please?”

A few more heartbeats passed before she finally called out, “It’s unlocked.”

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her? Or maybe he had already left when she called back. Maybe he hadn't even been there at all and it was her mind playing tricks on her.

She saw the lever slowly turn and the latch released with a soft click. The door slowly swung open, hinges letting out a thin squeal, to reveal Astarion standing just outside the doorway.

The expression he wore on his face was not what she expected to see. It looked as if he was apprehensive and self conscious. The latter of which she had never seen grace the high elf’s face.

Still standing just outside, Astarion looked down to the floor, his mouth twisting in discomfort as he defeatedly asked, “May I come in?”

She blinked once at him in confusion before realizing that he had never been inside her room before. She had always gone to him when it was time for him to feed.

When she had called out to him, all she had done was inform him that the door was unlocked, which was not an invitation. Without it, he could not enter.

Guilt tugged at her heart as she realized that she had put him in the position where he had to ask. A reminder of another freedom he had lost.

“Please, come in, Astarion.”

He carefully stepped across the threshold into her room, and uneasily swung the door closed with a soft click before turning to face her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in uncertainty while fidgeting with something that he held in his hands.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she asked, “What do you have there?”

Astarion looked back up to her and hefted the object in his hand, as if testing its weight and said, “You left this when you…” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence as he took a step towards her lifting the item out towards her.

Another wave of guilt washed over her as she realized it was the kerchief he had given her – She left it behind when she fled his room earlier.

“I appreciate the thought you put into it. It’s lovely,” she said while holding her hand out for him to bring it to her.

Relief flickered across his face and he crossed the room to place the kerchief with a flourish and a bow into her waiting palm.

She held it up to look it over again. The stitches were precise and flowed gracefully as they formed her initials and she rubbed her finger over the two spots of blood that had dried and turned a dark brown against the milky white of the cloth.

When she looked back up she found that he was watching her, brows knit together, and mouth set in a hard line. It looked as if he was considering asking her a question.

Instead of a question, he made a measured observation, “I didn't see you with the others this evening.”

So he’s playing it safe then. I can work with that.

“I was tired after my set, so I turned in early,” she said, shrugging with one shoulder and set the embroidered cloth down on her night stand. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth. “Took some time to work on my music.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, expression contemplative, as if he was trying to make a decision about something. “Shadowheart and Gale were having an argument – practically at each others throats. You wouldn't happen to know what that might have been about, would you?”

You Bitch. We were playing it safe.

His crimson eyes burned into hers as he watched for any reaction and indignation flared up within her. She used it as fuel to challenge his gaze with her own.

“I know they went to the market this afternoon. Maybe something happened while they were out shopping?”

Another half truth.

A muscle in his jaw twitched and his eyes flared with amusement. They both knew that it wasn't enough to deter him from pressing her further.

“I overheard Gale mention something. Hmm. What was it now?” He pondered out loud while tapping a finger on his chin as he mimed being deep in thought. “Oh,” he grinned, eyes gleaming. “Was it something about restoration scrolls?”

Dammit Gale! If you told him…

Her heart started to thrum forcefully inside her chest. Not wanting him to know how close he was to cornering her she steeled her nerves in an effort to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

“Shadowheart wants Gale to make some restoration scrolls for me. That way she doesn't have to worry about being here when I need it,” She gave him a pointed look, “If you weren’t so intent on being surly, they might have been more inclined to help.”

She had hoped that her bluntness would cause him to falter, giving her the upper hand, but he just threw his head back letting out a sharp laugh.

“Darling, with the way those bootlickers fall all over themselves to fulfill your every wish, you will have more scrolls than you know what to do with before the week is out,” he mocked, deflecting her admonishment.

“Well if I had a choice, I’d obviously prefer to be fawned over than manipulated,” Edith snapped back at him.

The smile dropped from his face as he flinched at the sharpness of her words. He clearly understood the accusation.

For once she had managed to get the last word, yet it wasn't nearly as satisfying as she had thought it might be. Instead, she found that getting the last word made her feel spiteful.

With a deep sigh, he sank down to sit on the edge of her bed. “I suppose I wasn't a very good friend today,” he said while focusing on his hands, unable to meet her eye.

“Astarion, you don’t – ” she abruptly stops, realizing that she had started to reach out to him.

The movement drew Astarions attention to her hand where it hovered in the air between them before she let it drop back to the bed.

“I’m just as much to blame for what happened today,” Edith finally spoke softly. “I know how you get, especially when you haven’t fed for a while, and even more so right aft–”

“Darling, Do I need to remind you that it was you who seduced me this afternoon and not the other way around? Bloodlust had nothing to do with it,” Astarion cut her off smugly, flashing an overly pleased grin at her.

“Astarion, I’m being serious,” she said in exasperation as her cheeks turned pink. “What I’m trying to say is that I would appreciate it if you would at least try to not toy with my feelings.”

He reached over and collected her hand from where it still lay on the bed between them. “I distinctly recall having to play with a certain feeling of my own, alone, after you left so abruptly. How is that not the same?”

“How can you say that as if you haven't been taking every opportunity to remind me how easy it was for you to seduce me,” she pulled her hand from his grasp and shot him an offended look.

A moment went by while Astarion eyed her. “I see. Well then, If that's how you feel…” he trailed off as his eyes glazed over with a haunted look.

I’ve gone about this all wrong.

Her feelings were one thing, but to accuse him of being the monster he believed that Cazador had made him to be, filled Edith with immense remorse.

I’m the monster here, not him.

“Astarion, –”

He raised a hand silencing her as he sat up straighter, “No, You are right. I have been taking liberties with you, and that is not something a friend should do. Not when you have selflessly given so much of yourself to me. I’m indebted to you”

When he went as if to stand, Edith stopped him with a light touch on his arm. It was such a delicate thing, but he froze as if she had cast Hold Person on him. Pushing the pile of blankets from her lap she crawled across the bed to sit facing him.

“You owe me nothing.” She waited until he turned to face her before continuing. “Do you hear me? What I give to you, is given free of any tally or expectation. You are not beholden to anyone, myself least of all.”

She held his gaze until the shadow of torment began to fade from his eyes, before she rose up on her knees to pull him into a hug. Without hesitation, his arms wrapped around her waist and his head came to rest on her shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing her neck.

Neither moved from the embrace for a long moment but the bubble of peace was finally interrupted by the sound of Astarion’s sigh – followed by a gust of air flowing down Edith's night shirt.

“You are an absolute menace!” She pushed him away. “I do know that you have no need to breathe, you know.” She said, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she suppressed a smile.

“What? I figured that I shouldn't be the only one enjoying myself, so I thought I’d give you a little something in return. Besides, I had quite the view and I like hearing how it makes your heart flutter,” he said coquettishly.

“How selfless of you,” she said dryly “But in all seriousness, please – just – It wasn't easy for me to close that door with you the first time, and I can't have you coming and going as you please,” she said cryptically, giving him a guarded look.

“Who says I want to leave?” He asked feigning ignorance.

The sly smile on his face told her that he knew exactly what she meant, but he wanted her to say it. Spell it out.

He has me cornered, like a cat with a mouse.

“You know what I mean, Astarion.”

“Can’t say that I do. Please enlighten me,” he said, giving her the same predatory expression for the second time that day.

“Please don't do this Astarion.”

I can’t say it. If I do, there will be no going back and –

An idea came to her. It had worked earlier with Gale, maybe it would with Astarion too…

“I was thinking…” she said, sliding him a hesitant look to draw him in.

His smile broadened as he anticipated her words, “I’m all pointy ears.”

“I was thinking that you might benefit from feeding more. Maybe twice a week instead of just once?”

She watched as his expression morphed through several emotions as he processed her words– confusion, surprise and then finally settling on delight.

“You know, just to give it a try, and – well – only if I can get Gale to agree to making the restoration scrolls for me.” Edith quickly added before he could say anything.

At the mention of the restoration scrolls, he broke out into a beaming smile and Edith realized that even when she managed to escape one of his traps, she had inadvertently fallen into another.

At least this is one I can handle the consequences of.

I hope.

“So you did know what they were on about! Aren't you a cheeky little pup,” he purred.

Bracing herself, knowing that in the height of his perceived victory over her, he would now be launching into another spree of excessive flattery. She crossed her arm in front of her chest and fixed him with an irked glare.

Not easily deterred, he leaned in towards her saying, “I wonder what I could have possibly done for you to offer even more of yourself to me.”

I’d let you do anything you wanted with me.

No! Edie, get your shit together!

She scooted back on the bed, to put some distance between them before she did something impulsive.

Instead, Astarion followed her, leaning on his hands and scooting towards her.

Then something pulled his attention away – on the ground near his feet. He reached down to pick it up, and when he sat back up, she saw what he held – her journal.

“No. No!” She lunged at him gasping.

He was too quick for her though. Lifting it over his head in the hand opposite from her, he peered up to spy the titles of her songs – flipping one-handedly through its pages.

She had landed in a heap on his lap and she scrambled to right herself as she reached for the notebook. Despite her desperate attempts, it was beyond her reach.

“All of Me? Hmm I wonder what this one is about? Give a Little. Why not a lot? Or this one...” he read out loud, voice sounding tantalized. “I Went to Far. Oh now that one sounds very intriguing. Let's have a look shall we?” he said, looking down at her.

Eyes wide with panic, she climbed higher on to his lap to reach the journal, trying to snatch it away before he could see any more. “Please don’t. Astarion no! Give that to me. Don’t read that. It’s private. Please!” she pleaded in distress.

Ignoring her while dodging her fruitless attempts to retrieve it, he began reading lines of the song. “Begging on my knees? Hold your arms around me? Give me some love. Blood was a taste of bittersweet?” He looked back to her saying, “Darling, if this is what you have been wanting, all you have to do is ask. Although, if you really want to do it while on your knees, I could certainly be persuaded to indulge you.”

As he began to read aloud the words she had written that evening, she froze, eyes going wide in horror. At some point in her struggles to reclaim the book, she found herself straddling his lap. She wasn't certain if it was to keep her from falling or fleeing but he had wrapped an arm around her waist to place a firm hand on her lower back – keeping her in place.

Feeling as if she had been stripped bare before him, he continued. All the songs she had written – most of which were about him, would let him know just how much she had been pining for him.

“It looks like that was the most recent entry too. When was this one written? Hmm?” He asked, giving her a knowing wink.

“Just stop. Please,” she said weakly.

“Oh alright. I’ll keep my eyes to myself. However, there is this small matter of a thing called a finders fee if you want it back,” he said looking pleased with himself.

He knows that I’m so close to caving. What does he want from me?

“Astarion, I don’t think –” She was interrupted when he pulled her fully into him making her gasp at the shock of their bodies suddenly fitting flush together.

His hand then dropped to grab ahold of her ass as he rolled his hips beneath her. The burning desire that had been extinguished earlier in the day came roaring back to life in an instant when she felt his increasingly firm arousal pressing against her core.

Oh Gods. I can’t let myself fall for this twice in the same day.

The tips of his cool fingers pressed into her skin like claws just beyond where the fabric of her underwear ended, and flesh began. Realizing that she was only wearing a nightshirt and underwear, he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t recall this being what you wore to bed when we were together. So many layers, but this…” He trailed off while trailing his fingertips along the skin of her back, under her nightshirt, “This is nice”

The tickle of his touch triggered her back to arch, which in turn caused her to involuntary grind against his lap drawing an approving hum from Astarion.

Breath catching in her throat, she froze.

Please give it to me. She thought, but she wasn't even sure if it was the journal she wanted, or him.

Can't it be both?

Astarion looked at her inquiringly, raising an eyebrow while he wiggled the journal he still held aloft in his hand.

She reached up for the journal, but it was still well outside of her reach while he held her against him and she felt his hardness shift against her core again.

“I still haven't received payment, Darling,” he tutted at her.

“You’re a god's damned fiend, Astarion,” she said through gritted teeth.

He chuckled at her insult, and lowered his face towards hers. She closed her eyes in anticipation of his lips finding hers, but when they never came she slowly opened them to see that he had stopped just an inch away.

He was waiting. Watching her. When he saw her eyes open he smiled with the knowledge that she had wanted him to kiss her.

“I know you are capable of figuring something out,” he purred and she felt him flex beneath her.

Edith closed her eyes as he pulsed against her, resisting the urge of her body's yearning to respond. Opening her eyes, she met his gaze again, her breath growing deeper as she continued to deny her growing desire.

I’m weak.

Spineless.

Easy.

Selfish.

“Fuck you,” she snarled at him before grabing him by the face with both hands to roughly kiss him while simultaneously grinding herself down into his lap with all the force she could muster.

Dropping the book to the bed, he wrapped both arms around her, and set the rhythm for their bodies moving together. Taking her hands from his face she encircled her arms around his neck and embraced his head, pressing him into her with a needy desperation.

Without warning, he turned and pressed her into the soft mattress, his full weight on top of her. She let out a whimper as the air rushed out of her lungs and her legs wrapped around his hips, accepting his presence between them.

Lifting himself up onto one elbow he slipped his other hand under her hips to bring her somehow even closer, causing Edith to writhe against him.

He then began to tease at her underwear, slowly working them down over her hips and then to her thighs. Once they reached her knees, she kicked at them before they dropped the final distance to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Now sitting back on his knees between her legs, Astarion’s eyes hungrily took in the view of her sex. She held her breath as she watched him give her slippery folds a stroke drawing a moan from her as her eyes fluttered closed.

As he massaged in little teasing circles around her clit with one hand, he took the hem of her nightshirt in the other to bunch the fabric under her chin revealing her breasts where he softly brushed across a nipple causing it to harden. When she opened her eyes, he was leaning down to take the pointed tip in his mouth.

She went rigid when she saw the look on his face.

His eyes were dark and distant and they were staring right through her.

Miles away.

Shame and rage filled her in unison.

She snapped her legs closed, trapping his wrist between her thighs and quickly pulled him away from her breast to look into his eyes. “Astarion, we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this," she spoke between deep breaths as she tried to reign in her arousal, pushing it away in disgust.

He sat up and moved back off the bed to stand, still facing her, eyes darting around the room as a storm raged in his mind. She scrambled up to her knees and reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm. At her touch his eyes briefly snapped to her, face unreadable. There were too many thoughts swirling behind his eyes, preventing any single one to take purchase in his expression.

“Astarion, I’m so sorry. I was being selfish. I never should have –,” she started to say.

Without looking at her, he brusquely brushed her hand from his arm and quickly walked over to the door, yanking it open and swiftly disappeared from her sight.

Not a single word spoken, he just – left.

A moment later, Gale came into view from the direction Astarion had gone. Stopping when he noticed that the door to her room was open and their eyes met.

Gale then turned to look back down the hall in the direction Astarion had gone and his expression went from confusion to indignation.

When he looked back into her room, Edith saw his face twist in revulsion as he caught sight of her underclothes on the floor at the foot of her bed.

Heaving a sigh, he reached for the latch and fixed her with a look of pity laced with disappointment before wordlessly shutting the door.

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 2/10

Shifty Powers x Reader

Summary: He fights with a rifle, you with a needle. When the toll of taking lives grows too high on him, you’re there to stitch his ripped seams and patch him together again (after all, you’re awfully good at taking what’s old and giving it new life)

Margaret insists with a red-cheeked, breathless persistence that you absolutely must double-date with her and Allen Vest for the USO-sponsored Halloween dance. She dangles the prospect of a dance hall brimming with Americans like a carrot on a stick, as if the idea of young men whisking you around and around the dance floor—putting their hands on your shoulders, on your back—doesn’t make your skin hot and itchy. Yet, with the gravity of a priest, she intones her final plea as the benediction of her argument: “Father positively won’t hear of me going unless you go.”

Unfortunately for you, Mother overhears and scuttles in from the kitchen to pluck up the baby pillow you embroider—your lifeline and only valid excuse to avoid the dance—crowing a merry: “Oh, she’s going, Margaret, don’t you worry!”

You glare at your Mother, but it’s weak, crumbling under Mother’s tired face pulling into a smile. Since losing Father in the Blitz, her life-work’s in the Bond Street atelier swallowed in the same German-inferno, forcing the skeletal remainders of your family to the summer cottage in Aldbourne—Mother’s girlhood home—you’ve watched her skin tinge with gray, silver shoot through one strand, then two, of her hair. Fashionable enough on the London scene to tempt society ladies out to your countryside workshop, your Mother cinched her black dresses and tilted her birdcage-hats alluringly those first few months in Aldbourne, wilting underneath the crepe. Now, with no business save the odd order for embroidery or baby clothes, Mother has abandoned her fine London clothes. Most days, she doesn’t bother to change from her dressing gown, graying curls tied up by a silk kerchief. Now, you watch an escaped curl bounce against her papery cheek in excitement.

“It’s been ages since you’ve gone to a dance; it’s just what you need to cheer you up!” she enthuses.

You want to point out that a dance would do Mother more good than you—you remember squishing your face against the staircase rails in the old London townhouse to glimpse Mother and Father glammed up for parties, the breathless magic of your Mother’s new dress intoxicating you with heady fantasies of beautiful parties—but instead settle on: “I can’t believe you’re both so willing to ship me off to a dance where I don’t know anyone! You’re going to be busy with Vest—” you direct to Margaret “—Am I supposed to be wall décor all evening?”

The truth of the matter that you’d never admit is, for all that you happily floated through romanticized daydreams of taffeta evening gowns trimmed with ribbons, the reality renders you paralyzed. Your body rebels, sending your face flushing and fingers quaking, at the thought of the press of humanity cramming the dance hall. Preferable, instead, is getting to know a new acquaintance through a quiet chat over a cup of tea—or at the post office. Your mind flashes to meeting Shifty, three weeks gone but kept fresh in your mind and close in your heart. You duck your head as if to dodge the thought, knowing your skin pinks.

“I promise you’ll like who Vest has as your double-date; I’ve met him a few times, and he’s a real hoot,” Margaret assures, which does little reassuring whatsoever. “So, why don’t you whip up a new dress for yourself before Friday and I’ll swing by with the boys to pick you up at six or so?”

A flutter of disappointment beats its wings against your ribcage; surely if the double-date is with Shifty, Margaret would have said? (briefly, the familiar flash of guilt zig-zags through you: should you have sent more than a thank you note and promise to return the novel? Should you have initiated something more?) Your hesitation allows Mother to pipe in: “She’ll be ready and waiting with bells on.”

And it’s not like you should be surprised by the burst of annoyance that screws up your face; Margaret and Mother organize and arrange your life and, most of the time, you appreciate it. You let them cluck over your hair, your nails, allowing you time to focus on fulfilling orders quickly and balancing the ledger, and your reaction now confuses you. As if proving a point—you’re not sure to who—you go to fetch the accounting book to plan how exactly you’re going to stretch the money from the embroidered pillow as far as it will go.

...

Mother doesn’t broach the dance for the remainder of the day—Tuesday—and by Wednesday noon, you dare to hope she’s given up on the scheme. ‘Whipping up’ a new dress for the dance is impossible, with the meager fabric left in the workshop, and you’ve long-since outgrown all your nice, London things. Then, as you’re warming up last night’s pea soap for lunch, Mother appears with a garment bag draped over her arms.

Your mouth pops open to protest, but she interjects swiftly: “Before you begin to argue about supplies, and money, and waste, I’ve been meaning to remake this dress for you for ages, and we can use the discarded satin from that christening dress from a few weeks ago. Waste not, want not.”

But all arguments have fled from your mind: as she spoke, she laid out the garment bag on the kitchen table, snapping it open to reveal an evening gown, catching the weak light like a reflecting pool in its graying-blue satin current. Ideas swirl through your imagination, flashbulb recollections of magazines and socialites, and you ache for a challenge. To really create something; to have purpose again.

You forget all protests.

...

Your date appears on your doorstep, shoulder-to-shoulder with Allen Vest and Margaret and smiling as if the world smiled back. His name is George Luz and, he confides as your little quartet piles onto the USO bus ferrying couples to the dance hall, he’s half in love with a dame attending on another man’s arm. “Evie Lowell,” he sighs, and you’re not sure if he’s exaggerating his lovelorn gloom, but it makes you giggle.

His lips twitch with a barely-repressed grin.

Resisting the urge to crane around and peek at Evie—one of your schoolmates and prettier than any girl ought to be—you promise to help promote him if you can. With this vow, you fall into a conspiring comradery, relishing in inventing increasingly ludicrous ways of manufacturing a stolen moment between Evie and George until you can almost forget how you flush with self-consciousness, how your muscles hum with nerves. Then, the bus’s engine cuts off, and you’ve arrived.

The dance hall swarms with uniformed Americans and their dates, skirts flaring out as they’re tossed—occasionally into each other—around the floor. Presiding over the festivities is a proper twelve-piece band, trumpets and trombones and the whole works, and you don’t think anyone in England has enough money to scrap together to book a full band. At least, not until the Americans came. Standing on the raised lip of the perimeter of the dance floor, where tables service a heavily-populated bar, you stare with increasingly furrowed brows at the thrashing mass of sweaty bodies. Unconsciously, you work your Mother’s borrowed beaded purse in your hands.

George bumps your shoulder. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen Americans before.”

You manage to twitch your lips up. “No, just never so many all at once.” A tremulous note shakes your words, and you feel infantile—a little girl who stole snatched her mother’s skirts and accompanied them to the party.

George’s eyes are on your face, you feel them and know he’s seeing something, deciding something, because he says with feigned melancholy, “I know, I’m horrified by how crumby we are at dancing too—it’s really exaggerated when there’s a big old group of us.” He gestures to the hall, pointing out his friends and their knobby knees and flailing elbows, commentating when his buddy, Bill Guarnere, nearly clocks his date in the nose as he’s trying to spin her. George howls in laughter and your hand flies to your nose, covering your snort. Cradling your elbow, George urges, “Come on, let’s belly up to the bar, see what Vest and Maggie are drinking.”

Deciding to ask Margaret when she decided to rechristen herself as ‘Maggie,’ you allow George to guide you to the bar. The press of olive uniforms and dresses— one glance tells you the dresses are all out of vogue by at least three years, a casualty of the war—blends faces together until your mind whirs from the crush and the only keeping grounding you from dashing from the hall, or crumpling to the ground, is George carving his way doggedly through, keeping up a running monologue: “I swear, all you boys were raised in a barn, weren’t you? Can’t you see I’m trying to escort a thirsty lady to get a drink? Gee, move your massive behind, Bull! Go on, make room!”

You fixate on the back of George’s head, to the tracks of neatly combed brown hair kept slicked back from pomade smoothed in by a thin-toothed comb. Your breath shortens and heightens in your throat until—

“Oh my gosh!”

George’s hand slips from your elbow, his neat hair swallowed by the crowd. A hand on your other arm jerks you to a halt.

“George?” you squeak at where he’d been a moment before, but then you’re turned away from where you last glimpsed George, a woman’s face—wide, open, and honest, with blinking cornflower blue eyes that dwarf you with how they stare—is inches from your nose.

“Oh my gosh!” her rubied-lips repeat, her voice crackling with American dryness. “Your dress, my dear! Your dress! Where on earth did you get it? It’s—it’s absolutely delicious!” She takes a step back to properly examine your dress, reimagined into a wide skirt with pleats—and pockets, you think smugly—after a feverish three days working side-by-side with Mother.

The dizziness of the crowd eases marginally, the topic of clothes settling you. “Oh, well, thank you,” you manage, returning her smile. “I made it with my Mother. We’re local seamstresses.”

The American woman’s smile somehow grows wider. “No kidding?” she asks, eyes flashing to yours before turning over her shoulder, calling, “Vera, come look at this dress! She made it herself!”

A small gap in the crowd forms around you as another woman—presumably Vera—sidles up. “Made it yourself, huh?” Vera asks, her American accent tempered with soft vowels, not unlike Shifty’s, you can’t help but think. “It’s a mighty fine dress; like something out of Vogue.”

“I’ve been aching for something new,” the first American girl declares with all the authority of actual suffering. “Do you think you could do something with this old thing?” She gestures to her current dress—green taffeta with far too high of a neckline for her age.

Nerves uncoiling in your chest—a thread loosening from a bobbin—you nod, eyes sweeping over her dress, ideas forming: raise the waistline, lower the collar, add a fluttery chiffon sleeve. “Sure; if you want to bring it to our workshop in Aldbourne—ask anyone for y/n, and they’ll point you to us.”

The woman’s face lights up, exclaiming, “Oh, excellent!” She offers her hand. “I’m Barbara, by the by.” Taking her hand, you introduce yourself, before Vera asks if she might bring by a few dresses, too. At this point, other nurses—Barbara will inform you they’re all with the Army Nursing Corps, fresh from the Sicilian and North Africa Campaigns, and here to help with the impending French invasion—accumulated and you found yourself thoroughly entrenched in a gaggle of excitable women. You invite them all to come by the workshop with their old dresses—promising to breathe new life into them—but a deluge of questions on fabrics, opinions on designers, and comments on style preference leave you unsure if you were heard at all.

Unsure how to respond to—or what needed responding to—you turn your head helplessly, mouth opening and closing. You look like a trout.

Fingers brush your back. An accented voice, vowels gentle and consonances relaxed, asks, “Need rescuing, ma’am?”

Knowing who it is before you look, you find Shifty Powers’ small smile when you turn. He’s standing close out of necessity in the melee of the crowd, exaggerating how much taller he is, but he obligingly stoops his shoulders so he can speak softly. “You look like you’re under attack.”

Flushing, you hurry to correct, matching his volume: “They’re well-intentioned allies, I think.”

“Ah,” he drawls, “Then, we’d call this friendly fire.” You bite your lip to stifle a giggle—and since when did you giggle?—but nod nonetheless. Shifty straightens, his fingers remaining immobile on your back. Despite your apprehension earlier that week, you decide the physical contact really isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s quite pleasant. “Begging your pardon, ladies, but can I steal her away from y’all?”

You’re struck with that word—y’all—turning it over in your head as the nurses chorus their goodbyes and you offer a small wave in return. Y’all, you all: an inclusive word warmed with the milk and honey of his Virginian accent, a substantive word to warm your insides and give you nutrients. Lost in wondering how you might get him to say it again, you don’t notice Shifty guiding you to the bar, where an anxious George joins you.

“You found her!” George says, relief easing tension from his expression. Guilt coils in your stomach—you had forgotten about him, not worrying that he might be worrying. Shifty explains where he discovered you, and George crooks a grin at you. “Miss Popular over here, huh? Maybe I’ve got my eyes on the wrong English Rose?”

He winks and you laugh, too busy shaking your head at George’s candor to notice Shifty stiffening ever so slightly. “Have you spent all this time looking for me and not Evie?” you ask, and perhaps the nurses flocking to you had done some good; your nerves are entirely gone and you can forget the press of humans. You can almost forget where you are, too, only you have to shout to be heard over the band’s brass swelling noise.

“I couldn’t go courting another dame while you were MIA,” George replies, nobly.

Mystified, you repeat: “MIA?”

“Missing in action,” Shifty offers. “It’s a military term.”

“Ah, I see.” You glance shyly up at him, before diverting your eyes to George. George, for some reason, is easier to look at. You flap a hand at him. “Well, off you go. I’m back in one piece, so go!” You crane around, searching the dance hall, and find Evie as the sole female at a table clustered with uniformed boys. She looks dead bored. You say as much to George and its all the encouragement he needs to politely excuse himself, leaving a thanks in his wake as you assure him you won’t wander off again.

You’re not sure why you were so insistent on bolstering George, especially as it left you and Shifty to awkwardly shuffle your feet at each other. Shifty, who’s eyes make your skin feel like it fits too tight on your bones. “Um,” you mutter, hip leaning against the bar and elbow braced on the countertop to keep you upright, after you give the bartender your order. You glance at him, though it’s really more at his chest, he’s so tall. Your eyes alight on a new pin—two crossed rifles—and you say without thinking: “Oh, that’s new!”

“What is?”

Feeling silly, you point to the rifles. “That; it wasn’t there when I fixed up your jacket.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” he mutters, prompting you to peek at his face. He’s blushing and pretending great interest in the whiskey the bartender has just delivered to his hands.

“Well,” you prompt. “What is it?”

He flounders. “It’s um, well, it’s what I’ve been working on for…quite a while. Spending lots of time at the rifle range to practice and…and all.” He shifts again and your eyes flicker back to the pin, realizing he’s trying his damnest not to outright brag.

Taking pity, you fill in, “So it’s an award of some kind?”

Obviously relieved, he nods. ���Yeah, that’s it.” Later, on the bus ride back home, you’ll ask George and he’ll snort, explaining Shifty earned the status of expert marksman. Apparently, he’s been training for it since their first days in basic training, though, the way George tells it, Shifty could have passed the test to earn expert status before he even stepped off the bus at Camp Toccoa. (‘Damned modest,’ George concludes, ‘Popeye finally convinced him to go for it on the boat ride across the Atlantic, but he insisted on obsessively training.’)

Then, your gin and tonic arrives, and you take a sip—the bartender obligingly followed your request of more tonic than gin—before asking, “How is your jacket holding up? Did, um, Sobel, was that his name? Did Sobel notice?”

Shifty’s grin beams, and you’re happy you convinced yourself to look at it just then. It curls your toes in your Mary-Janes. “Sobel is his name, yes, ma’am,” he replies. He seems pleased you remember something he said. “He’s my company’s captain and he’s, well, I reckon he’s real strict because he wants us to be the best.” You sense there’s adjectives more fitting than ‘strict’ that Shifty is unwilling to use, and a small knot of affection—affection?—weaves in your chest at his discretion. “But no, he didn’t notice a thing thanks to you.” His smile softens now, looking down at you, and you have to look away now for fear of turning luminescent red. “I do have some more wear and tear, though.”

He offers his sleeve for you to inspect the rips along his elbows and cuffs. Frowning, you ask, “What do you do to your poor clothes? Take a cheese grater to them?”

Chuckling, he shrugs helplessly. “I can’t properly say. It just happens; always has, even when I was little. My Ma would lose her mind over the tears and holes I’d come home with after a day outside.” You smile faintly at the conjured image of Shifty as a little boy, scampering in from playing in the woods, hair matted with mud and twigs, face glowing. “I reckon it might be time I learn how to sew. Think you’d be willing to take me on?”

Jerking your hands back from his cuff, you blink up at him, helpless to your mouth gaping open. Alarmed, he scrambles to add: “I know you’re probably busy, but I promise I wouldn’t take up too much of your time—just learning how to properly fix things and maybe change buttons is all I was thinking, and—and I’d pay you, too, of course.”

Surprising yourself with your own boldness, you place a hand on his wrist, shushing him. “I’d be happy to teach you, Shifty. And I don’t want to hear another word about you paying me. I’ll help you chose some supplies, and we can start whenever you want.” For all that you and Mother need the money, you still have your dignity (not to mention, you think, allowing yourself a moment of foolish whimsy as you watch his face brighten with excitement, I don’t want money to dirty whatever precious, fledgling thing this is).

Tags: @gottapenny

[creative-type]

The Murder of Arthur Wright XI

First Previous AO3

Chapter Eleven: Bad Business

The walk to Fernando’s office was just long enough for Margot to thoroughly berate herself. She tried to keep her expression calm, but Cain’s betrayal cut deep. Margot knew not to trust him on blind faith, but they had been so busy there had been little time to do anything other than verify he was a licensed detective. Margot had allowed herself to be drawn by his affable manner and had forgotten they hadn’t even known one another a week.

Had it all been an act? When Margot thought about it, it seemed that Cain was accustomed to wearing different hats as the need arose. She remembered how he had manipulated Felix Wright into hiring him in the first place, and how different he seemed prior to their meeting with Anansi.

Reputation is a man’s greatest and most fragile mask. Look behind it at your own risk.

It seemed like it had been an age since Anansi dispersed those words of wisdom. Of course they had been referring to Felix Wright at the time, but Margot got the feeling like she was finally getting a glimpse past the façade Cain tried so hard to maintain.

And she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

There was danger following him any further. Margot was confident in her ability to fight her way out of any situation, but that was nothing compared to the damage that would be done if someone recognized her. While the Academy’s good conduct policy didn’t specifically forbid professors from going into private meetings with known mobsters, she suspected that the Board of Directors would be none too pleased if they learned of her actions thus far.

It wasn’t funny, but Margot almost laughed anyway. Being fired was the least of her worries. This was the second time Cain had gotten her involved with the Casettis without her knowledge of consent. Already she had a known hitman talking about her with a bookie of what was likely an illegal gambling operation.  

“This way,” Tony said, leading them away from the cheering crowd to an office complex. It looked…deceptively normal. The dwarves were all in good spirits, making small talk with Cain and joking with one another. Though it was starting to get late, the sun still shone brightly in the sky. There was nothing dirty or off-putting, nothing shady that would tip off it was a center for criminal activity.

Finally Tony came to a stop and rapped his knuckles against the doorway. Like the restaurant that started this whole mess there were two entrances, one meant for dwarves and another for so-called big folk. There was no answer, and he knocked again.

“Open up, Fernando. You’ve got visitors.”

There were a few moments of silence before the door opened, revealing a silver-haired dwarf. He scowled at Tony before canting his neck up to Cain. Between a pair of dark glasses and bushy beard covering his mouth it was difficult to make out his expression. Margot supposed the glasses would almost be a necessity to keep from being blinded by the heavy rings he wore on nearly every finger. When he stroked his beard the sun glittered off of jeweled cufflinks, and it wouldn’t have surprised Margot if the chain of his pocket watch was made of gold.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, surprised.

“What kind of greeting is that, Fernando?” Cain asked. “Can’t a guy come around for old time’s sake?”

The dwarf removed his glasses and cleaned them slowly with a kerchief. “Uh huh, I suppose not, but last time we talked you didn’t seem too keen on coming back.” His eyes shifted to Margot. “You brought a lady here? What kind of gentleman brings a lady into his business?”

“She’s the professor Viola was talkin’ about,” Tony said. “The one who fought the drath.”

“The one who saw Master Wright die,” Fernando said. There was something about his tone, the ease in which he said it, that put Margot on edge. He sighed, and returned his glasses back to their proper place. “I suppose you better come in.”

Margot and Cain entered through the appropriate door as Fernando directed Tony and his men to wait for them outside. The office was fastidiously tidy, with each quill and book in place. Fernando ambled behind his desk and clapped his hands. Two chairs, made to seat dwarves, sprung up in size.

“Handy spell, that,” Fernando said as they took a seat. “Enchanted by a guy on Twelfth Boulevard. He does great work.”

“Only the best for you, Fernando,” Cain said.

“Cut the *$!!@&#*, Cain,” Fernando said. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey now, no need to be hostile—“

“And what you doing, bringing a professor from Kemptson here?” Fernando said. There was dry hoarseness to his voice that reminded Margot of a tomb. “The Wizard may be gone, but her type don’t belong here. You should know that, and if you don’t someone otta be teaching you a lesson.”

Cain frowned, and reached for a stick of jerky. His expression was passive as stone, but Margot could see the sweat beading on his forehead. She slid her gaze back to Fernando.

Despite his diminutive size, there was no doubt who was in control of the room. If the jewels weren’t already a tipoff, it would have been impossible for Margot to mistake him for a mere bookie. The dwarf wielded menace like a weapon, and they were in his territory, playing by his rules.

Silently cursing Cain’s recklessness, Margot said, “I am sitting here, you know. It might help if you give us a chance to explain ourselves.”

Fernando’s moustache twitched. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her as if she were a bit of mud he had forgotten to scrape off his shoe. “Alright Professor, I’ll bite. Why in the nine hells are you here?”

“I need to talk with Felix Wright,” Cain said. “If he’s here, I thought it better to let you know before causing a scene at your establishment. You know, as a professional curtesy.”

“And if he’s not you figured I would know where to find him,” Fernando finished for him. He leaned on his elbows, the deep furrow remaining between his brows. “And what makes you think I waste my time looking after Felix Wright?”

“Viola said your Father knew him,” Cain said with a shrug. “Figured you were in business together.”

Fernando let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “As if I’d waste my time. Give him a century or two and he might be worth the effort, but I don’t deal in uncut gemstones. Brilliant mind, but without the common sense the gods bestowed on a common pudding.”

“But you know where he is?” Cain prompted.

“Comes in often enough, braying like the ass he is.” Fernando seemed to have come to the decision that they were not a threat. He reached under his desk and pulled out a bottle of spirits and three tumblers. “Can I tempt you? You won’t find better anywhere in the country.”

“No, thank you,”

“Naw.”

“Suit yourself.” Fernando poured himself a drink and took a bracing sip. “You still haven’t answered my question, Cain: What’s the deal with the professor?”

“Professor Margot is just a consultant for a case,” Cain said.

“And what case would that be?”

Fernando set his tumbler down and laced his fingers together. The intensity returned to his gaze, hidden as it was behind dark glasses, heavy and nearly overwhelming. He moved the ring on his left thumb a quarter turn, and the hair on the back of Margot’s neck prickled. Magic.

Margot called on her power, ready to activate the charms in her skirts, when Cain raised a hand to stop her.

“I just want to talk to Mr. Wright,” he said calmly. “I think you’ll find it mutually beneficial.”

The dwarf rested his hands on his desk. “Yeah?”

“If nothing else I can get him out of your beard for a day or two.” Cain said.

“That’s not good enough, Cain,” Fernando said.

Margot suddenly remembered a story one of her instructors told her years ago of a snake he’d come across while traveling. Before biting it would always shake a rattle on its tail. Fernando was like that rattlesnake, his words equal parts warning and threat.

“I’ve heard whispers, boy,” he continued. “You’ve been sniffing around where you don’t belong. You better be careful were you stick your nose. One of these days it’s gonna get cut off.”

Cain’s grin returned, wolf-like to Fernando’s snake. “It’s a good thing I just want to talk to Wright junior then, isn’t it? Hells bells, I’ll even stay on premises if you’re that jumpy.” He leaned forward as if sharing some conspiracy and stage whispered, “It’s almost as if you got something to hide.”

Fernando’s lip turned down in a silent snarl, flashing a glimpse of a golden tooth. “Tony!”

The door opened immediately. “Yeah boss?”

“Find the elf and bring him here. He was in the luxury box last I saw.” He whirled back to Cain, pointing one meaty finger at his chest. “And you get out of my sight. I’ll overlook your insolence this once. But you’d do well to remember, Cain, you get away with a lot as a friend of the Family, but you ain’t Family.”

“What in the world is going on here?”

Cain shook his head slightly, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Not here, Prof.”

They were waiting outside of Fernando’s office, still watched by Tony’s goons. A glare from Margot was enough for them to back a respectful distance away, but there were undoubtedly surveillance spells marking their every move. Margot had already spotted two All-Seeing Eyes, only partially hidden by the natural shadows of the building. Who knew what else was watching them.

“Fine, but when this is over you owe me.”

“Fair enough.” The corner of his mouth twitched…was that in regret? Or frustration? “And I know it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I am sorry.”

Margot grunted. “You better be.”

Margot was more than content to give him the cold shoulder—perhaps literally, depending on how this turned out—but the stony silence only lasted between them a moment or two before she heard Felix complaining loudly.

“I’ve paid my debts, dwarf! You have no right to bring me here. I had twenty gold riding on that race! Unhand me, you scoundrel! Unhand me at once—“ His voice shriveled into a strangled croak when he finally saw Cain and Margot.

“You!”

“Us,” Cain said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and offered his friendliest smile. “Time to go home, Wright. Your wife’s waiting in my office.”

“Isabella?” Felix’s eyebrows drew together, a slur in his voice making it sound more like Izbell. His eyes were bloodshot, and Margot wondered if he was drunk or merely sleep deprived.

Margot had run out of patience either way. With a flick of her wrist she gathered a handful of water, drawing away enough heat to make it just the right side of freezing, and flung it at his face.

Felix yelped and strung together a string of Elvish curses, a few Margot recognized from her time with Lyra. It was hardly the sort of language a gentleman would use. Margot crossed her arms across her chest, unimpressed.

The scientist in her noted the dark bags under his eyes, the frumpled state of his clothes, the messy disarray of his hair with clinical detachment. The man who stood before her was nearly unrecognizable from the one she met at the mage’s conference, a mere shadow of the confident, charming man who was the face of his father’s research.

Her heart softened just a little. Estranged or not Felix had just lost his father, and people dealt with grief in different ways.

That iota of sympathy vanished when, still in Elvish, he suggested her mother had had inappropriate relations with an orc, which even if true would not have been something for Margot to be ashamed of, and she doused him a second time.

That sobered him enough to shut his mouth, and Cain shook his head. “You deserved that one, Wright. Now let’s get you home.”

Isabella was still waiting for them when they returned, which surprised Margot. She scrambled to her feet at the sight of them, her entire attention immediately drawn to her husband. The color left her cheeks, and her already-enormous eyes grew even wider as she covered her mouth with horror.

Stuck between Margot and Cain, Felix looked like a rat caught between a trap and a hungry cat. He swallowed hard, his expression crumpling with shame. “Isabella, I can explain…”

“I’m just happy you’re safe.”

Felix tried to meet his wife’s earnest expression, but was unable to.

“I know you’re eager to get him home, Mrs. Wright, but do you mind if I have a word with your husband?” Cain asked. “I private?”

Isabella looked very much like she wanted to refuse, but Cain didn’t give her the chance, half leading, half dragging Felix Wright but the collar into his office. Margot followed, and as soon as the door clicked behind them Cain traced a sigil that would prevent anyone from eavesdropping.

It was the first spell Margot had seen him perform halfway competently, and that made her think that he was forced to use it often.

“What do you want with me?” Felix muttered as he slunk into his seat. “Have you found Desdemona yet?”

Cain took his time in answering. He drew a stick of jerky out of his pocket, but didn’t put it in his mouth. His expression was hard. “Not as of yet, no. But there were some things I wanted clear up that would be a real help.”

“Well get on with it,” Felix said irritably.

“Alright then, I’ll cut right to the chase: Where did you go after Anansi’s play?”

Felix jerked spastically and threw himself to his feet. “What do you mean where did I go? I told you, I waited for my father—“

“And you lied,” Cain said calmly. “Again.”

For a moment Felix was speechless. His eyes bulged, his lips working wordlessly as he tried to speak but couldn’t. His arms went limp by his sides, and he fell back into the chair. “You think I did it.”

Felix laughed. It started as a disbelieving chuckle and grew in volume and intensity until his whole body was shaking with it. The more he tried to stop himself the louder it got, until he was howling hysterically. At that moment Felix Wright seemed less than sane, and Margot was grateful his wife wasn’t present.

“You…you th-think I did it!” Felix managed between halting breaths. “Me! Kill my own father, when he was about to make me more money than your plebeian minds can imagine.”

“Did you hear that, Cain, we’re plebeians now,” Margot drawled.

“Uh huh.” Cain started chewing on his jerky stick. “Mr. Wright, I’m not accusing you of anything, but it is imperative that we know the truth.”

“It seems to me that you already know the truth,” Felix said.

“Not from the horse’s mouth.”

“I’m beginning to think my faith in you was misplaced, Mr. Cain.”

“Please, Mr. Wright. Every little bit helps.”

Felix snorted disbelievingly. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He straightened himself in an attempt to appear proper, but the affect was undercut by the fact he was still a wet, sopping mess.

“Everything I told you about that illusionist’s performance was the honest-to-gods truth. Father went to confront him, and I went…out.”

“Where,” Cain interrupted sharply.

Felix’s mouth pulled down into a snarl, and he clenched his hands into fists. “I had just seen my sister come back from the dead. It…shook me. I needed some fresh air to clear my head. I took a walk around, and ended up at a tavern a few streets over. I stopped in for a drink.”

He looked up at Cain, and for a moment he looked vulnerable and lost. “I hadn’t gotten drunk since before my sons were born. I swore I never would again, but I just wanted to forget everything I saw. To pretend that it never happened. Some lads at the tavern started a game of cards, which turned to another and another, and before I knew it was two in the morning.”

“I don’t remember making it back to the hotel, but I must have,” Felix said, slumping back into his seat. “Father was furious, of course. We argued, but nothing we hadn’t argued over before, and I was in bed by three.”

“And your father?” Cain asked.

Felix shrugged. “He was still scribbling away in his little notebook. I don’t know if he slept at all. You remember, Professor, how distracted he was when I introduced you? It wasn’t like him to forget like that.”

“What exactly did you quarrel over, Mr. Wright?” Cain said.

Felix’s expression hardened. “What you must understand, Mr. Cain, is that my father cared only for his legacy. He could have stayed on at the University with a state of the art research lab and all the assistants he could have dreamed of and finished his research in half the time, but he insisted on doing everything alone. Or as alone as he possibly could. If he could have avoided working with me he would have, but he couldn’t, and I think he resented it.”

“But that doesn’t make sense, he wrote me for help developing some of his contingency spells,” Margot said.

“Ah, but it was his idea to write you, was it not?” Felix said. “And his idea to integrate your ideas into his research. And really, with all the contingencies he had already put into his device the spellwork you contributed was largely superfluous.”

“That didn’t stop it from blowing up,” Margot said.

“No, it didn’t.” Felix got to his feet, swaying slightly. “Now if you excuse me, my wife is waiting.”

“I may need to call on you another time,” Cain said.

“I pray to any god that cares to listen that won’t be necessary, but if it is you know where to find me.”

“Just one moment,” Margot said sharply. “I get what you were doing the night before the conference, but what about today? You wife was worried sick about you.”

“That’s none of your concern, Professor. Now kindly move aside.”

Margot stared down Felix Wright, and did not budge from the door. “What’s your connection with the Casettis?”

“Professor, let the man leave,” Cain said quietly.

“Do you realize what kind of damage Master Wright’s research could do if it got into those hands?” Margot asked. “Do either of you realize?”

“So first I’m a murderer, and now I’m in the pocket of a mob family,” Felix said scathingly. “Cain, have this woman step aside, or I swear I will move her myself.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“My business is my own,” Felix said, his voice icy cold. There was a look in his eye that was eerily reminiscent of his mother at her most imposing. Still Margot did not move. She needed answers, and she knew that Felix had them.

For a split second Margot thought Felix would attempt to hit her, but with visible effort he gathered himself back under control, and a terrible grin spread across his face. “You’re fired.”

“Excuse me?”

Margot couldn’t tell if she had said the words or Cain. Perhaps they had both spoken, but regardless of which of them spoke Felix’s gaze never left hers.

“I said you’re fired. A man knows when it’s best to cut his losses, and it’s obvious that you two are of no help to me.”

“Mr. Wright, please, I know today’s been a difficult day for you. Maybe once you get some rest—“

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Cain,” Felix said, his voice deadly calm. “I’m thinking more clearly now than I have since my father’s death. I gave you one simple task, and that was to find Desdemona and prove her guilt, and all you’ve done is upset my mother at my father’s funeral, distress my wife, and accuse me of murder. I put too much stock into the Westmacott name to see you for what you truly are: a fraud.”

“But your father’s death…”

“I don’t care about my father’s death,” Felix said. “In fact, the more time that passes the more I realize how little I care at all. So what if he was murdered? That changes nothing except I no longer have to suffer his hubris. My business is my own, and I’m more than capable of standing on my own two feet.”

This time when he moved for the door Margot stepped aside. His wife stood waiting, pale and worried. He didn’t spare her even a look as he brushed her aside. “Come along, Isabella. We’re going home.”

Isabella looked from her husband to Cain, eyes full of questions she dare not ask. As Felix put on his hat and coat she pressed a small pouch of coins into Cain’s hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “His father always did bring out the worst of him.”

[loving-barnes]

Explosions: Chapter seven - Unconsciousness

(A/N): New chapter! Tony Stark x Original Female Character! I actually don’t know what to say. This was my first English story. Sorry for the mistakes! :)

Pairing: Tony Stark x Adeline Montana [Original Female Character]

Warning: language, violence

Words: 3665

EXPLOSIONS MASTERLIST

Chapter seven – Unconsciousness

               It was strange. Everything that happened was weird, like an unbelievable reality, but it did happen. Adeline and Tony became work partners, and it was him who suggested it. One day, they wanted to kill each other, and all of a sudden, after a “normal” conversation, they were working together. The past was erased like nothing ever happened before.

   Adeline thought about it for days. It was all so unbelievable. She never liked him. He was known as the arrogant billionaire, who slept with girls, and as Iron Man – protecting the people with this special suit. She was so judgmental. But her opinion changed a little. He wasn’t that bad at all, and he was great in bed - once again she had to admit this fact. They slept together only once, even though he wanted to have another one night stand. She didn’t care if he was a womanizer because she did the same thing – slept with various men when she had the opportunity. The only thing that mattered was their mission – kill Goth.

   An enemy brought them together.

   “Seriously, Adeline, what’s between you and Stark?” Monica asked while they were working together. She was cleaning the glasses and preparing another order. Adeline was cleaning the coffee maker. “Yesterday, he was once again here, looking for you. I think he has a crush on you.”

   Adeline laughed. “Who, Tony, crush on me? Oh please, honey,” she rolled her green eyes. “There is nothing going on between us,” she moved her shoulders as a sign of not being interested in him. “We just have some similar interests, that’s all.”

   “I wouldn’t be surprised if you say that you slept together,” she chuckled and put the drinks on the tray. But the brunette didn’t confirm or denied it. She remained silent and rather went to the warehouse just to check the supplies. The only thing she heard was: “You did not!”

   “Oh gosh, don’t be so judgmental!” said Adeline to her friend when she got back. Monica had already been back with an empty tray and scanned her friend with eyes. She wanted to hear all the details. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I am not going to tell you about it. It’s not your business, my friend.”

   “Come on, Ad! Please?”

   “No.”

   “It will be just between us girls, I promise!” she was jumping in front of the brunette, holding her hands, and begging with her puppy eyes. “Come on, tell me!”

   “Okay, fine!” she said quietly. “But it’s just between us, okay? If you tell anyone, I will personally kill you, is that clear?” Monica almost screamed when she heard that sentence. “Calm down!”

   “Sorry,” she laughed. “I’m listening,” she whispered.

   Adeline looked around the bar. The people were talking to each other, not paying attention to the waitresses. She cleared her throat, a smirk appeared on her face, and she started to talk about that one night. “It happened when I was working with Dan, and…”

   Other words were interrupted by a noise. It was very loud and strong. That wouldn’t be the worst thing. All the windows broke, some people were hit by the broken glass, and some of them were thrown away by a pressure wave – including Adeline and Monica. A new attack was happening – this time, it was somewhere near the bar. Adeline fell on the floor. She landed on the ground, but nothing happened to her. However, Monica hit her head against the edge of the marble. There was a big wound on the back of her head, and it was bleeding. A dark dust was floating in the damaged room. The conscious people were shocked, talked to each other about the situation and tried to help one another. The brunette slowly pushed her body from the ground, and looked around. Her sight was blurry, and she couldn’t see what was happening until she saw a body lying next to her.

   “Monica!” she screamed and immediately moved to her. She could see the blood on the floor, the pale face of her friend, but she was conscious, looking around, mumbling something under her nose. “Mon, I’m here,” she breathed heavily. The brunette grabbed her hand. “Please stay with me, Mon. Talk to me.”

    “Ad?” it sounded so sweetly. “What’s going on?”

   “I’m here with you. Everything will be alright. I promise.” Adeline looked around. She couldn’t see anyone near them. Trying to make a screaming noise, another explosion, which was much more dangerous, happened. The woman shot her hand in front of herself, and the shield protected both her and Monica.

   “You are the guardian,” said the bleeding girl quietly. “You are the one…”

   “Yes, I am,” Adeline quickly nodded. “But it’s our secret, alright? You can’t tell it to anyone. Promise me that,” she tried to smile at her. The shield disappeared when the situation was calmer, and both of them were safe. The next thing she did, Adeline took a dishcloth and put it on the friend’s wound. “Mon? I’ll be back in a second. I have to check the other people, okay?” and she saw how her friend slowly nodded.

   Adeline stood up; she finally saw the damage to the whole place. It was a disaster, everything was ruined – the tables were flipped, some chairs were broken. “Shit,” she said. A lot of people were still lying on the floor, but the other did their best to help them. Adeline could ask them for help, but she needed to look outside, and check the situation there. What if Goth was there?

   The scenario was the same as every time. People were screaming for help, panicking, praying to God for help. Another building was destroyed – not completely. The brunette took a deep breath of a fresh air. She couldn’t see the villain through the crowd of people. Adeline found a cap on the ground and put it on her head. Then she found a yellow kerchief, and put it around her face, just to be undercover.

   “Give me the cure!” someone screamed near her. When she turned around, she saw Goth fighting with Iron Man. The fight was happening on the ground. Goth’s technique was upgraded, which wasn’t a surprise at all.

   “What the fuck are you talking about?” Tony asked him and punched him in the face. “I don’t have your damn cure you, psychopath!”

   The brunette looked around. She was looking for some kind of a weapon. There were only rocks, pieces of the building, and then she found some kind of a thin sharp iron stick. His back was facing her – this was a great opportunity for her. She could attack him from behind. Adeline took it, clutched it in her fist, and quietly, very carefully ran to them.

   Tony saw what she was about to do. He did his best and tried to keep Goth the same way as he was. He put his hands in front of himself; the repulsors were loaded, ready to strike. When Adeline was close enough, she made a fast, but strong move with her hand, and hit him straight in his right unarmoured shoulder. The thin iron sharp went through the skin and muscles. The man made a painful scream.

   “That’s for Jen, you motherfucker!” she growled into his ear, and turned the shaft to the left, causing him more pain. She had his blood on her hands. Adeline forgot she didn’t have her voice changing device so she could be revealed.

   Goth made a quick turn to her and punched the woman right in the stomach. She was immediately on the ground, lying. “You bitch!” said Goth grumpily. “That was a dumb move!” He rapidly pulled out the stick from his shoulder and looked at it. “You thought this would hurt me?” he laughed.

   When he was talking to Adeline, Tony attacked him from behind and shot him into the armor. Nothing much happened, only the left side wasn’t working correctly. “What a dynamic duo,” said Goth with a laugh. “Do you think this can stop me?”

   “What do you want?!” Tony yelled at him.

   “I told you, Stark. I want the cure!”

   “I don’t have any. You ran into the wrong person!”

   Goth rolled his eyes. One of his fire tentacles was aiming at Adeline, the other on Tony. “He said he gave it to you.”

   “Who said that? Seriously, octopus, who said that?”

   The older man sighed. He was annoyed by everything. “My very old friend, the greatest scientist Martin Montana,” he said with a sarcasm in his voice.

   “Oh no,” Adeline quietly sighed, and slowly stood up on her feet, ready to fight if necessary. Her eyes were locked on Tony, waiting for his reaction.

   “Who the hell is that? I’ve never heard of that name.”

   “You are lying!” he growled once more. “Give me the cure, Stark, or many people will die,” and he took a small device from his armor. There was a red button on the top of it. A bomb was hidden somewhere near them. “I can blow this whole place up, or maybe the shops, or the cute bar, which is pretty much devastated.”

   “No!” Adeline screamed out loud. “Monica!” she started to run towards the bar. There was her injured friend, and she promised her, everything will be alright. “Monica!”

   “Well, I think I just made my choice,” Goth smiled at Tony devilishly and pushed the button. Iron Man shot the man down, right into his chest, where was the center of the suit. Maybe he didn’t kill him, maybe he did, but he needed to save the woman.

   “Ad!” Tony screamed and immediately flew to her.

   She was almost there when a new explosion came right from the bar. It was massive; a fire came out from the broken windows and even another pressure wave. Because Adeline was very close, the pressure threw her away, and she landed on some car. The only thing she heard was a screaming sound from somewhere, and a sound of a flying thing coming to her…

   …    

   Adeline…     Adeline…     Adeline…

   The sound of her name was soft and feminine. But it was changing, becoming more masculine. She could recognize the voice, even when she was somewhere in the dark. It felt like an eternity - being trapped in the darkness, only able to hear her name, and not able to wake up from this weird dream. And suddenly, she resuscitated and opened her eyes. For the first seconds, she could only see a white light, making her blind. It slowly became much less painful, and she could recognize a weird unfamiliar ceiling. The brunette took a deep breath. “Monica?” that was the first thing she said. Her voice was low.

   “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” said a masculine voice near her. A person appeared next to her. It was Tony. His chocolate, dark eyes were gazing into her green orbs. “How do you feel?”

   “Stark,” she gulped, and immediately sat down. It was a mistake. Her whole body was in pain, even her head hurt. She sighed. “Not good,” she rolled her eyes. Her face was frowning. “What happened? I can’t remember much.”

   “You landed on a car, and I took you away from there because you needed help, and I bet you didn’t want to go to the hospital, because of your identity, so I took you here,” he explained very quickly. There was a smirk on his face. “You don’t need to thank me.”

   “What about Goth?” she slowly stretched her arms and spine. Her clothes were covered in dust and dirt.

   “Eh,” a sound escaped his lips. “You hurt him, I destroyed his armor – I think – and he probably ran away. There was a chaos, another explosion. This city isn’t safe anymore. While you were sleeping for over a day…”

   “What?!” she was shocked. “For over a day?!”

   “Let me finish, drama queen,” he stopped her. “I was talking with the air force, the police, and after some negotiations, and discussions, we created a plan, which also includes you – The Guardian.”

   “Oh?” she wasn’t sure about this.

   “I explained to them that you are the one protecting the people,” he smirked at her. “The Guardian will be with us, helping with this mission, protecting the people as much as she can.”

   “With us – that means?”

   “Me – the Iron Man, you – the Guardian, and my friend James Rhodes – the Warmachine,” he explained. He was suddenly smiling brightly at her. “He will be now available for this mission.”

   “James Rhodes? That man from the bar, your friend, is the Warmachine? Wow. This is unexpected,” Adeline said surprisingly. “Why didn’t he help earlier? There is another Iron Man…”

   “No – no. I’m the only Iron Man,” he corrected her.

   Adeline rolled her eyes once again. “Whatever. He could have been with you this whole time! Goth could be dead like weeks ago! Another question of mine is: how did he get away from the prison? You should have killed him when you had the opportunity!”

   “Whoa! What’s with the attitude and yelling?” he frowned at her and crossed his arms over chest. “How should I know he would get out of there, and try to devastate this whole city, just because of some stupid cure? I didn’t even know he put a bomb somewhere near your bar!”

   And then she remembered. She ran toward the bar, because Monica was there, injured, waiting for her help. She gave her a promise, but she couldn’t keep it. “What happened with the bar, Tony?” she asked with a fear in her voice. He didn’t reply. The man was just looking at her; his face was without any emotions. “Tony?!” her green eyes widened. “Tony, please tell me…”

   “He blew up the bar, Adeline,” he dryly swallowed. “I’m sorry, but nobody…”

   “No,” she shook her head. “No, no, no!” her eyes began to water. “That’s impossible. He didn’t,” her lower lip was shaking.

   “I’m sorry, Adeline,” he whispered. “Five people died, and your colleague was one of them too.”

   “No,” she began to cry. Adeline covered her face with palms. “Not Monica, no!” she couldn’t believe it. “W- Why is he doing this? She was my friend. He killed another friend of mine!”

   Tony took a step closer to her. He didn’t know how to react, so he just put his hand on her right shoulder, and softly stroke it. “He did it obviously for some dumb cure, from this guy, whom I don’t know,” he said softly. “Hey, don’t worry. We will stop him, okay? We will kill him because I won’t let that dick destroy this city. And you can avenge your friends,” he patted her on the shoulder, and slowly went away from the woman.

   “Tony?” she sobbed. The man turned to her. “There is something I need to tell you.” She took a deep breath. “I-,” she sighed and wiped a tear from one eye. “I am Adeline Montana.” This information made him squint his eyes and listen carefully. “I am the daughter of Martin Montana,” she sighed.

   “What?” he sounded surprised.

   “Martin Montana is my father. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I couldn’t.”

   “Why? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he frowned at the woman. “This information changes the whole situation.”

   “It does not!” she protested. “You don’t know nothing from their past - from our past.”

   “Then you better start singing, young lady,” he was suddenly in front of her, looking into her eyes, and waiting for some answers. “So there is this war between your father and that weird flame-boy…”

   “But I don’t know what exactly is happening between them. I know something, but it’s not enough!” she stood up on her feet, but she almost fell down on the ground. Every wound, every bruise was hurting her like hell. Tony helped her sit back down on this table of his. “They used to be friends, best friends,” she sighed, “but one day, something happened between them. My father was a successful scientist with many creations. Probably Goth was jealous.” She wanted to talk about it, for the first time in her life, but she was afraid.

   “Ad, you can tell me,” he gave her this little smile. “I need to know because then we can figure things out, okay? I-“ there was a pause, “I trust you. I need you to trust me, okay Adeline?”

   She nodded. “Okay. J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Tony said some name out loud. “I need you to write down information from Adeline.”

   ~Yes, Sir.~

   “What was that?” she asked him. Her eyes were wide open, looking around the whole unknown place. She just realized where she was. A room where were various luxury cars, computers, technique, and Iron Man suits. This was probably Tony’s laboratory/garage.

   “That’s Jarvis, my buddy; it’s a system I’ve created. He’s very intelligent. J.A.R.V.I.S. means Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” Tony explained.

   “Oh, okay,” she nodded in agreement. She brushed her messy hair with fingers and scanned the place. “This is a horrible day,” she sighed. “Why them? Why not me?”

   “Okay, Ad, relax. Inhale and exhale. I think you need a glass of water, and maybe some food.”

   “What I need is a bottle of rum.” There was an emptiness in her eyes. Those green orbs were without any emotion like her soul just died. “Or maybe two bottles.”

   “As much as I would like to get drunk with you, I don’t think this is the best idea at the moment,” he laughed a little. “Come,” he set his hand to her. “We’ll sit over there,” he showed her the leather sofa he had near the entrance glass door. “It’s much more comfortable.”

   She didn’t say a word. Adeline, with Tony’s help, stood up, and together they slowly went to the sofa, where Adeline sat down, and Tony went to the kitchen counter. He had a small kitchen in his garage. She immediately hugged her knees and put the chin on top of them. “I hate my life.”

   “And why is that, Adeline?” he asked and gave her a glass of fresh cold water.

   “Because I have to lie, I have to keep secrets, and I can’t even have friends. My girls are both dead!” A tear appeared in her eye. “They are dead, and I couldn’t even help them! I can create a shield, but I can’t even protect the people I care about!” she blamed herself. Tony was listening to her the whole time. “It’s not easy, living with these powers I have. I never had real friends. I was born with these abilities; I was trained to protect myself, but never showed who I really was.” Adeline was surprised; she could speak for herself that easily. “I never had a life like any other child. My sister’s life was and still is amazing. She has friends, she can do all these girly stuff. She doesn’t even have these special abilities. Oh, my god, I’m panicking like a teenager.”

   “But does she know me? Of course not!” Tony tried to make Adeline smile a little.

   “Tony, I don’t know what is really going on between my father and Peter,” said the brunette.

   “Peter?”

   “Peter Tunderbalt – that is Goth’s real name.”

   “Jarvis?”

   ~I’m looking for Peter Tunderbalt, sir. ~

   Adeline looked around like she was looking for another person. “I love this system,” she smiled a little. “I think this is my new life now - a life where people, friends die, there are attacks on this city, and we cannot do anything with it. Is it possible, we can’t beat one old guy?”

   Tony gave the brunette a glass of water and sat down right next to her. “Listen, gorgeous,” he put one palm on her knee, “we’ll kill him. He has taken so many lives; we don’t know how many people will die next. But we won’t let that happen. Okay? Now, I suggest we’ll have some food, and we’ll start to work, what do you say?”

   Adeline gave him a simple nod. “Let’s do this.”

[broomstickvigilante]

As I gazed upon the open vault door a thought struck me. I’ve seen strange magic, and I've come up with a bit myself, but this wasn’t strange per se; it was fantastical. Inefficient might be a word, or accidental perhaps, but as the monstrous gateway swung wide and revealed its contents I felt a shiver. A curious sensation, the shiver, as if cold; the muggles refer to it as someone ‘walking over your grave’. I quite like that. Beyond the opening a wall of shimmering light flowed like water, set to colors as if an old oil painting, the brush strokes still wet from the brush. The painting was of an old house, crumbling in places and eaten away by an ocean breeze sweeping in from the cliffs behind it. The building loomed above us on its painted surface, at least two stories tall, the glow of candlelight in the upstairs window. Around the house sat a long stone wall, piled one on top of another as if from a nearby stream, it encircled the residence and a small garden. The front door seemed to jump out at us, the focal point, and atop its old fashioned brass knocker perched a bat, hardly visible in perpetual dusky light. “Merlin’s beard” Muttered Theo in front of me, as he unconsciously made a step forward. I reached out and grasped the back of his coat, getting a reproachful glance. “I do not believe it safe.” I told him, looking to the goblins next to us. The were all spellbound, unmoving except to whisper a few words as their quills wrote on without hands. The head goblin took a moment to look about at the small crowd, walked gingerly to the closest vault door and touched one gnarled finger to its surface. His fingertip came away with soot, and something like oil. He pinched the substance, rubbing it between his fingers as he strode back. “Peculiar, most peculiar.” Was all that was audible before he began writing notes down by hand. I took the momentary lapse to stride forward and, with a kerchief from my blazer, scraped a bit of the residue off myself. It was oily, as if some gelatin left out too long, but with a brackish leftover chalkiness. Peculiar indeed, but not unheard of, I would hazard a guess it to be ectoplasm. The implications were, lengthy. “Mr. Nott, I am loathe to tell you, but this is a safety hazard and must be removed at once. We cannot allow a risk like this on gringotts property.” The head goblin was striding forward, a newly signed legal paper in hand. He waved it back and forth like a torch in the dark, as if to comfort himself. “We both know this is not a risk, having been here for so long undetected. A seaming is no great risk either way.” I folded my arms reflexively, giving what I hoped was an unconversational look. “A Seaming of this magnitude is unheard of, it could be unstable or pull people in without warning, it must be expelled.” “What is gringotts policy on magical items kept within the bounds of a customers vault?” Theo asked, finally turning to join in the conversation. That is a very good question, very leading; he's learning. “Any item that is not actively harming a living entity and is kept within the space limits of the vault may be kept on gringotts property, as so long as it is stable as such.” Recited Rengak, as if reading from a page. The sprite lay goblin was at the waters edge, so to speak, and carefully put his hand up to the shimmering painting. “The enchantment is stable, and is within five eighths of a centimeter from the vault boundary, it is legal.” Oh the glare Ungkt gave Rengak could’ve felled a dementor, dead on the spot. “As he says, it is legal. I would appreciate no more threats to destroy my property Sir Ungkt, It is most unbecoming of a head goblin to go against gringotts policy.” His face became a faint purplish hue, his long ears tipped with red. “Very well,” He managed to murmur, “But please refrain from accessing this vault without assistance, for everyone's protection.” I nodded, accepting the request, making sure not to utter any legally binding phrases. As the goblins filed away, Rengak stayed behind and waited until all but the three of us stood there. “Are you going to access the seaming today?” He asked without looking away from the departing fellows. “I have little experience with this style of magic, I shall endeavor to return with an adequate expert, in a few days most like.” “May I accompany you when you do, off duty.” Rengak looked up, a strange sort of curiosity gleaming in his black eyes. “I believe that it would be in all our interests to have an expert in magically enchanted objects along, should we explore a seaming over two hundred years old, off duty though he will be. I appreciate your assistance.” The goblin grinned wickedly, bowing. I returned the gesture and he made off after his boss. “Okay, so what I going on?” Theo asked, looking bewildered. “It’s complicated, I'll explain on the lift.” + + + + + I bluffed most of that conversation before, but now that I had time to think with the vault closed safely and the rumble of the lift around us- “So what's a seaming.” Theo, as ever, needed to know immediately. Not that I entirely blamed him. “I know it is a strong enchantment to hold a particular illusion in place, usually for decoration or deception, it's so strong that you can physically touch it.” I answered casually, mind racing at why one would be made so large. “But why is it wavy, it's not a very convincing illusion.” “Likely the ‘wavy’ curtain as you put it is a veil between the illusion and reality.” Theo squinted a bit, not liking the sound of that I bet. “So what we saw was the entrance to an illusion, not the illusion itself. The inside will be more convincing then, like being inside the painting?” “Precisely, I surmise that if we were to step through the veil we would be inside a more realistic depiction of the painting, also likely to be almost lifelike. Whether the inside moves, or is static I haven't the faintest inclination but…” I'm concerned who in my family put the spell there and what it is for, what purpose does a full scale illusion of a house serve? “but what?” Probed Theo as we sat in silence, the only noise the rumble of the rails. “perhaps it's like a Pensive, that it is a memory we could walk through.” Theo was quiet for a long moment, and in that time the lift halted at a floor and the pair stepped out. “That could be useful if we could replicate it, let people conjure up memories.” “Or nightmares.” I said under my breath. We turned a corner and a sign above us read ‘Magical acquisitions and study – Curse breaker department’. Beyond was a desk and rows of office doors, all in the fashion of those upstairs, clean, elegant, and surrounded by paved rock walls. A man sat behind the desk, busily searching the desk drawers and file folders. At the sound of our footsteps he looked up sharply and closed the drawers. “Can I help you?” He chimed with a friendly smile. His ginger hair was dangerously close to the lantern on the desk. “Yes I am looking for someone familiar with illusions, the type generally used as traps or to guard objects.” I sat down in front of the desk casually, unbuttoning my jacket. Theo, after a moment, sat as well and gazed around. “Well, that might be me actually. What seems to be the problem?” Now that I had time to eye him, he looked familiar somehow. He gave off a cool air, casually competent and stylish. Perhaps not so familiar then. “Seamings, what do you know of them.” I cut right to the chase, no sense hiding the information the whole building would be chittering about it soon enough. “Well, I've seen quite a few in Egypt, the old pharaoh solved to use them to hide pit traps or bottles of flesh eating spiders; camel spiders, nasty things. Why? One accidentally gone off in your house?” Just then a memo in the shape of a canary swooped down and landed on the desk, popping itself into shape in front of the man. “Actually, one is in my vault. That might be about it actually.” The man read the memo for a few moments, glancing up every so often over the edge of the paper is stare becoming more unfriendly as he read. “You’re Theodore Nott.” It wasn't a question. “I am, regretfully.” I hoped that comment might ease his suspicions a bit. “He is, most definitely” Added Theo helpfully. “Do you know that the Gringotts administration has reported you for possession of an illegal magical item?” They did what? “No, because it probably happened on the ride down. I inherited the vault from my great uncle, he was excommunicated from my family. I do not believe anything he would keep in his vault would meant to do harm.” The man seemed to think for a long moment, peering at me below angry ginger eyebrows. “I think I can help, but I'm going to be blunt here. Why should I help a boy who is suspected of being a death eater. You could hear a pin drop, and before my mind jumped to an proper answer Theo had nearly gotten out of his seat. “Bill, do you remember me?” The man, probably bill, turned to him. “I think so, Theo right? Maggie’s friend.” “And Ron’s and Harry’s. I say Theodore isn't a death eater, and never will be. He's done nothing but be helpful since his family was outed, he even tutors for merlins sake.” Bill glanced at me, I gave a faint, confused nod. That seemed to be appropriate. “Good enough for me.” And the smile was back, just as a pair of people exited an office nearby and came up. “Ready to go Bill?” Asked a woman with a heavy French accent. “Just a minute, meet me by the lift?” He nodded towards us as if to say ‘private chat’. The pair walked past, and as they did I heard Theo get up and follow and conversation strike up. “So do you think you could help us?” I asked “Probably, but I'd need details, and they usually take a while to either puzzle out or dispel. Which were you looking to do?” “Well I probably should have led to this, but it is in one of the twelve. And it is as large, or larger, than a three story house.” At that I saw an pure expression of surprise cross his face, “You should have definitely led with that. We're can I reach you when I get more information?” I hand him a number for the garage, as well as tell him hogwarts to be the better option. “I appreciate your help, I will be doing my own research into why the seaming is there in the first place.” “are you always this businesslike?” He asked abruptly. I smiled awkwardly, and shook his hand without answer. + + + + + ‘It wasn’t until I stared the creature in the eye that I understood what fear truly was. The Windego Thundered from the doorway, into the gaping darkness beyond my candlelight’ “Whatcha readin?” Theo blurted in, dropping a wrench on a worktable. I looked up, he was smeared with grease on his coveralls and had goggles on his head. I couldn't tell if they were for safety, or to keep his curly hair out of his eyes. “My grand uncles journals, he was a sort of monster documenter, the dangerous kind.” “Cool, like what?” “A few things, ghosts mostly.” Theo looked sharply at me “Ghosts aren't dangerous.” “Yes, the regular kind we get from wizards are not, but apparently when muggles create them it is far less focused, or pleasant. He goes into great detail about the spirits attacking things, or causing chaos in households because it cannot communicate.” He scratched his head absently. “That makes sense, if Nick couldn't tell his stories every hour or two he'd probably go as nuts as the baron.” Quite insightful. I picked up another book from the vault I had cleared, its remaining items having been shipped here and I had loaded into my trunk. A small silver script had been partially brushed off the cover. As I opened it I smelled old flowers and a faint perfume. On the inside cover was pressed a black flower, purple with old age, fanning out in all directions. I quickly flipped through the pages, and immediately noticed that the handwriting was much different from the other journals. It flowed with simple elegance while the other had been a spidery scrawl filled with ecsintric twists. I stopped on a page and read quickly. ‘I fear the path ends at the Bauline mansion, in the morning I will return home. I cannot help the sick feeling in my guts that I've missed some clue he would've left me, or is that my mothers sickness? I hope my own worry will not upset my child unduly.’ – October 4th, 1980 I felt my chest lurch, my gut told me what my mind racing to conclude. My mother wrote this.