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goodegrrrl · 3 years ago

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Kiss me slowly

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Cordelia Goode

Words: 2,849

Warnings: sickness (nothing graphic)

I do not really know if this even makes sense. I did not read over it.

I am sorry.

Taglist: @twistedpoeticjustice, @lesbianicdelia, @isle-of-earle, @sweetestberryofthebunch, @angelxsarahp, @goodeday2u, @lucyintheskywithxanax, @cordeliass, @devotedtofictionalwomen, @ka-s, @billiedeansgirl, @honeybeawhore, @talulahmae, @sisterxwinters, @stayevildarling, @paulsonsratched, @ahsfan05

Let me know if you want to be added 💕

Wilhemina was typing away furiously on her purple laptop as the sound of a gentle knock on the door to her office disrupted her train of thought. She let out an annoyed sigh, not in the mood for a young witch preventing her from doing her work because of some menial problem she was probably encountering. “Come in.” she tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice, failing miserably.

“Someone’s in a mood.” Wilhemina tried to suppress the smile that was about to graze her lips. “I am not. Just trying to finish these reports you gave me yesterday. Your last assistant was not really thorough.” she looked up from her laptop and raised an eyebrow at the Supreme “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cordelia let herself sink into the chair in front of the desk, grabbing the blanket which had been neatly placed over the back in the process. She threw it around herself. Only now Wilhemina noticed how tired she looked.

Her complexion lacked it’s usual healthy glow, instead looking ashen and pallid. Underneath her eyes Wilhemina could make out dark circles which Cordelia had tried to hide by using concealer. Her usually bright and deep brown eyes looked dull and wet, their spark having vanished completely. Overall, she looked washed out, like a different person than the one Wilhemina had had dinner with just yesterday evening.

“I just needed to be near you for a while.” Cordelia closed her eyes. Wilhemina was in awe of how easy it was for the Supreme to communicate her emotions, how she never shied away from telling her how much comfort she drew from being near Wilhemina, how her company always helped her to calm down, how she felt safe in her presence.

Wilhemina took a long sip from her coffee before she rose up from her chair and grabbed her cane which had been leaning onto her desk. “I am going to make some tea.” She felt overwhelmed. The Supreme always managed to produce a whirlwind of emotions in the deepest corner of her heart. She had desperately tried to keep her away, to lock her out of her bruised and fractured soul – yet she found herself enjoying the blonde’s company, found herself craving her presence, found herself being pulled towards her, into her orbit, into her heart.

As she waited for the water to boil, she let her thoughts drift away while she stared out the window, watching the raindrops travel along the glass, some of them forming a union when they collided, some of them seemingly escaping contact, desperate to continue their journey alone, without being touched.

Wilhemina had never been touched. She had never been kissed. She had never been loved.

For all her life she had never felt like she was missing something, had always dreaded human contact, had been disgusted even by the thought of it. And even now, the thought of someone touching her, of seeing her, of uncovering her greatest pain, made her feel nauseous and vile.

Unless that someone would be Cordelia. For Wilhemina, Cordelia was the sun peeking through the clouds on dark winter days, she was the stars illuminating the sky when night had fallen upon the world, she was the rainbow giving her hope during heavy rainfall, she was the water letting the nature around her flourish, she was her anchor when she felt overwhelmed, she was her safe haven. Her harbor.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud whistle of the kettle, signaling her that the water had come to a boiling point. She took out the teacup from the shelf to put some of Cordelia’s homemade tea inside, letting the water swirl around it. Carefully, she placed two mugs and the pot on a tray, wishing she was able to do magic to carry it all back to her office. She took her cane under her arm and walked back to her office, feeling her back ache with every step. Yet, no amount of pain would prevent her from doing everything in her power for the Supreme.

As she reentered her office, Cordelia had fallen asleep. She was curled up in the chair, her legs drawn close to her body with the blanket still wrapped around her. Wilhemina could see the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Quietly, she placed the tablet on the table close to the fireplace which vacated the back of her office. She wished Cordelia would have just laid down on the couch, which would have provided a much more comfortable position for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to wake her. If she had fallen asleep on the chair, she must have been incredibly exhausted.

As good as Cordelia was with expressing her emotions, she was unable to listen to her body, to take it slow for a day, to let herself rest when she was feeling overwhelmed and drained. She had once leisurely told Wilhemina that she always felt like she had to perform to the best of her abilities, had to make sure the coven was running smoothly, had to watch over the young girls which had been placed in her care – her mother had always been able to do just that – in Cordelia’s mind. And she felt like she needed to follow suit.

The only thing Cordelia had not taken into consideration was that her mother did not have a heart as pure as hers. While she had always made sure everyone around her did everything they were supposed to do, that the girls would do their chores, Fiona had always neglected the human and loving aspects of being the Supreme, even abandoning the coven to find someone who would be able to make her live eternally. Unlike Cordelia, she never had cared about the feelings of others, the pain they might be going through, the heartache they felt.

Wilhemina knew that Cordelia hardly had a minute to spare. She was the headmistress of the coven, a teacher and the Supreme – but mostly she was the one the girls leaned on whenever they needed someone. And Cordelia would never turn anyone away; no matter how busy she was, no matter how tired, she would welcome them with open arms, lending them her ear or offering a shoulder to cry on. The only one she did not take care of was herself.

Wilhemina could not pinpoint the exact point in time when she had started to feel different towards the blonde witch. At first she had kept to herself, had dealt with the task at hand, had done her job to the best of her abilities. She had never spent time with the witches of the coven or the Supreme. Usually, as soon as she had been done with work, she had gone to her bedroom where she would either continue to work or head to bed early.

Cordelia had changed everything, had weaseled her way into Wilhemina’s life, her heart, her soul so that soon, she spent every waking moment thinking about the witch. Whenever Wilhemina had tried to push her away, she had come closer. She had never wavered, had never pulled away. When she had reacted with cruelty and harsh words, Cordelia had only responded with kindness and understanding, leading her to be the first person in Wilhemina Venable’s life she had come to trust.

The Supreme stirred, mumbling something in her sleepy state that Wilhemina did not fully understand. She carefully knelt in front of the chair, not caring whether she was hurting her back. She placed her hand softly on the Supreme’s leg, giving it a gentle squeeze. Cordelia opened her eyes which looked even more tired and glassy than before. “Why don’t you go rest?” Mina’s voice had been softer than she would have liked, still desperate to hide her true emotions.

“I don’t want to be alone.” her voice sounding tired, vacant. “Is there anything I can do?” Wilhemina wrung her hands together nervously, fiddling with the rings she was wearing. She really wanted to be there for Cordelia, wanted to be the one to make her feel better, to make her feel taken care of… she even dared to think that she wanted to be the one to make her feel loved.

“Would you watch a movie with me?” Cordelia gave Wilhemina a tired smile, averting her gaze and the blush on her cheeks. Even though Cordelia had learned to express her emotions over time, she still felt embarrassed whenever she asked for something, whenever she let herself be vulnerable in front of someone, but with Wilhemina, she felt like she could be honest, felt, like she would not laugh at her or belittle her for needing someone.

Wilhemina nodded, not able to look at the Supreme. She felt ridiculous. Usually she was calm, collected and would not shy away from any situation; yet, with Cordelia, she did not want mess everything up, did not want to give her a reason to hate her. “You don’t have to… if you do not feel comfortable.” Why did Cordelia sound so sad? What had she done wrong? Her eyes met her amber ones and she felt a knife stab through her heart. Her eyes had glossed over, tears threatening to spill.

“No, Delia, I want to. I am sorry, I was just surprised. I am surprised you want me to be near you.” The Supreme took a long look at her, deciphering if she was being lied to. She knew Wilhemina had a hard time dealing with her emotions, often times unable to find the words to express what her heart desired, but Cordelia could always tell as soon as she looked into her eyes.

Wilhemina’s dark hazel eyes were the pathway to her soul, to her heart. Cordelia could get lost in them. She loved to look into them, loved to make out the different colors and specs of her iris, loved to see her pupils constrict and dilate. She knew that Wilhemina felt the same way about her, but she also recognized that she needed time. Time to adjust, to let herself free fall into a life with her, to open her heart to the possibility of love and being loved.

Cordelia held out her hand for Wilhemina to take, which she, to her great surprise, did without a snarky comment. She looped her arm around her free one, leaning slightly into her without putting to much of her weight against Wilhemina, always wary of her back. She had expected Cordelia to lead her into the sitting room downstairs, but instead they walked along the corridor leading to her bedroom. “I got a TV in my room. It is probably more comfortable for your back, too.” the smile she gave Wilhemina did not quite reach her eyes, exhausting visible in her amber orbs.

“You should put on something warmer.”, Wilhemina gently helped her to sit down on the big four poster bed. “First drawer.” Cordelia motioned to the dresser to their right, so Wilhemina could grab a set of fresh pajamas “You should pick some, too. It would be way more comfortable than your professional attire.” Wilhemina froze for a second, not able to deal with the implication of her having to undress, already feeling her lungs constrict at the mere thought of it “You can change in the bathroom, Mina.” She had not noticed how Cordelia had gotten up from the bed and was now standing right next to her, her hand intertwining with hers in the gentlest way possible “I just want you to be close to me.” her voice was barely above a whisper as she leaned into Wilhemina’s side.

Wilhemina let her thumb caress the back of Cordelia’s hand, willing herself to calm down and to stop the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. She wanted to be present, to enjoy her time with the Supreme, to be there for her and not worry about her disability. It did not matter right now. Cordelia mattered.

“I will be back in a minute.”, she let go of Cordelia’s hand and disappeared into the bathroom, changing into the pajamas she had borrowed from the Supreme. Immediately, she was enveloped in the scent of freshly washed linen and something that was purely Cordelia.

When Wilhemina reentered the bedroom, Cordelia had already propped herself up on the pillows, giving her a gentle smile as she emerged from the bathroom. “You look good in my pajamas.” she smiled, patting the space next to her while she lifted up the duvet. “Are we having a pajama party?” Wilhemina could not help a smile forming on her full lips as she sat down next to Cordelia.

“How about a sleepover instead?” Cordelia had gotten more serious, looking directly at Wilhemina. “I am tired of pretending, Mina. I want you close to me, all the time.” Wilhemina swallowed, holding Cordelia’s gaze before she looked at the wall “I want…” a pause, followed by words spoken so softly, Cordelia had thought she had imagined them in a feverish dream “I want to be with you.”

A smile as bright as the sunlight hitting freshly fallen snow appeared on Cordelia’s face and even now, looking pale and sick, she was the most beautiful woman Wilhemina had ever seen. And then she placed the softest kiss on Wilhemina’s forehead before she nuzzled herself into her side, throwing her arms around her small waist. “Is this okay?”

Wilhemina let her fingers run through Cordelia’s golden locks, massaging her scalp tenderly. She let her free hand run along her upper back, her fingertips ghosting over the nape of her neck. “More than okay” a whisper. “Why don’t you close your eyes? I won’t… I won’t leave.” And with the woman she had gifted her heart to so close to her, Cordelia let her eyes fall shut – finally able to let herself rest. Wilhemina still continued to play with her hair as a smile was plastered on her face.

When Wilhemina woke up the next day, the Supreme was still holding on tightly to her small form. She had nuzzled her face between the small space between her jaw and her shoulder, an arm thrown over her stomach and her legs having intertwined themselves unconsciously with hers.

Wilhemina had her arms around the blonde Supreme, keeping her close. Without really thinking about it, she placed her lips on her temple, kissing her gently and tenderly. Cordelia stirred and scooted even closer to her. Wilhemina would have thought she would feel anxious, had even expected herself to be scared, but laying her, with Cordelia in her arms, she felt at peace, content and happy.

As the Supreme slowly woke from her deep slumber, she let her fingertips ghost over the exposed skin over Wilhemina’s hipbone, slowly lifting her face to meet her lover’s gaze. All she found in her eyes was love.

“Hi.” Wilhemina whispered, not yet ready to leave the safety of their little world “Do you feel better?” Cordelia gave her a sweet smile, placing a kiss on her clavicle “I feel better than ever before.”

Wilhemina pulled her closer. Now, after letting her guard down, she felt at peace. She felt the blonde shift in her arms and loosened her grip, for a second she was afraid she would pull away, would tell her it was all a mistake, would tell her she had changed her mind – but instead she experienced something she had never before.

For Wilhemina had never been touched. She had never been kissed. She had never been loved.

Cordelia carefully straddled her all the while keeping eye contact, looking for any hint that she was taking it too far, that Wilhemina was not there yes, that she did not want it. Yet she only saw the purity, the curiousness of her soul glistening in her eyes. So Cordelia let her lips capture Wilhemina’s with her own. Impossibly gentle, tender and loving.

A warmth she had never felt before cursed through Wilhemina’s body, like a firework exploding in the deepest corners of her locked up heart, freeing it from it’s shackles. She felt every cell ignite with a powerful force she had never felt before. She could feel the blood cursing through her veins, could feel her skin vibrate under the Supreme’s soft touch. Unconsciously, she let her lips move in unison with Cordelia’s while she pulled her closer to her. She felt her palm covering her cheek, a thumb rubbing over the soft skin underneath her eye where tears had gathered.

When their lips had to part as the need for oxygen made itself known, their eyes met. The love that was shown in Cordelia’s amber eyes was mirrored in Wilhemina’s. She felt the tears running down her face but could not let herself care right in this moment. Finally, she felt like she belonged, felt, like she had found a home.

For Wilhemina had never been touched. She had never been kissed. She had never been loved.

Until now.

#sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson #american horror story #wilhemina venable #ahs #ahs apocolaypse #cordelia goode #ahs coven #cordelia goode x wilhemina venable #delia x mina #mina x delia

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xnecromantia · 4 years ago

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contd [x] @shiningstages

‘Darling, open your eyes. Do not be afraid; listen to them. Open up your heart.’

His mother sounded far away, her soft voice getting lost amongst the many others that bombarded his mind. It was terrifying, and he clutched onto her hand tighter -- refusing to do as instructed. He wanted to go home and play with the other wytchlings. But she was patient as always, brushing back her son’s dark locks in a bid to reassure him. There was no rush, despite the excitement growing within their coven. It was the first time in over three hundred years that a necromancer had shown advanced abilities at such a young age. Records consistently revealed that they began showing in their teenage years, but Mortis had recently celebrated his eighth birthday. It was unheard of, the odds impossible, and yet he displayed remarkable progress.

At least, it was what they were led to believe. His parents never told the council that the signs were there much, much earlier. Cordelia’s mother, Adelaide, had sensed straight away that she was having a Nekrós-Mortal for a son, noticing the peculiar aura he possessed. Afterwards, the couple would watch as their baby stared from his cradle, eyes unmoving from a spot behind their shoulders. Not afraid, but simply curious. Growing up, he would repeat names of their ancestors that he had never heard before -- describing their appearances perfectly. The most telling sign, however, was his ability to predict the death of their closest friend. There was nothing more unnerving than a five-year-old announcing details of her demise as they spoke over tea. After that, they decided to keep his abilities secret until it was rightfully time.

‘They need a friend,’ he doubted her words. Whispered words became static behind his closed eyelids; the darkness no longer a safe-haven. He was brought to this resting ground as a way of accepting his ability to see, and hear, the dead. Each tree had the body of his brother or sister buried underneath - a traditional funeral arrangement - and they reached out to him simultaneously. It had never been this over-whelming before. But his mother stayed with him every step of the way, never being forceful or pushy, and eventually, Mortis opened his eyes and met generation after generation. Listened, laughed, and empathized with them all until he was no longer afraid. It was the one of many natural senses he would come to possess, and his ability to raise the dead imminently followed.

Something that would soon become a blessing and a curse.

It was no surprise, then, that many decades later, he should attempt to reach out to this ghost. She was fearful of him, but there was an underlying sadness to her energy. He had experienced all waves of emotions from those on the other side, especially during his empath days in Shademarsh, so it was a feeling he learned to subdue. If he focused on it for too long, it would begin to affect his own mood -- and there was no good in them both being sad. It quickly changed, however, to that of sheer panic. Her plea was evidence enough. But Mylo remained where he was, hoping to prove that he was of no danger to her. Watching her fly upwards, away from him, reminded him of his own inability to control his emotions sometimes. He would lash out, succumbed to his own anger -- unaware of the damage he caused around him until it was too late. Hopefully, he could avoid things getting out of hand here.

“It’s okay! I’m not here to harm you,” he reassured, keeping his tone steady. He had no idea what he was here to do, but the calling of a ghost was too strong to ignore. Perhaps she was lost. They often struggled to transition over to the spirit realm when nobody was there to help, or guide them. He once had the soul of an elderly woman, living in the flat below him, wandering the halls for a while, confused about where to go. She could hear her late husband calling out to her, but could not see him until Mylo pointed out the way. He mostly did it because she was starting to irritate him, disturbing what little sleep he got these days. But her gratefulness was heartwarming in the end.

“Will you please come down?” Yes, he could follow after her, but today was a feet firmly on the ground sort of day. “I just want to know if you need any help. Are you lost? I can guide you, if so.” Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he blinked against the evening sun as he attempted to keep track of her. “You’re going to wear yourself out,” he added, knowing full-well how that felt when he worried himself into an exhausted state. “And then things will feel even more scary. Over-whelming. So...yeah, your choice.” What else could he say? He was trying to talk a ghost down from the sky, for goodness sake.

#shiningstages #v; leave behind your heartache #[Aaaah - I missed Aisling!]

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astorsa · 5 years ago

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THE PRINCE OF STARS | a wip introduction GENRE: fantasy SETTING: In the far realm of the Revana Galaxy in the empire of Astorsa. The closely guarded pirate haven of Hemlix. The ruins of the once great city of Elnoran. To the depths of the lost planet of Ashe, a place no mortal would touch. Until Marnie, that is. ABOUT: Ashe was meant to be the harbor of missing souls, or so the story goes. But this story, a tale a mother tells her child at night, might be the only option Marnie has left to clear Ben’s name and to find the missing prince before a war destroys the little of what she has left of her home. Luckily, she might just be the best pilot the Cordelia has ever seen, but can she find it before it’s too late? EXCERPT: MARNIE ROBERTS WAS GOING TO DIE, or so it seemed.

Horror twisted her dirt streaked face as she saw the blood dripping from her shaking hands. It oozed out of the wounds on her leg and into the crevices of the wrinkles that lined her palms. The shards of glass embedded in her thigh once belonged to her now wrecked ship that lay only a few yards from her; the once beautiful piece of machinery now nothing more than a heap of ruined metal. Thick, billowing smoke rose from the engine and rushed into her lungs. Her eyes flickered to the scattered bullet holes in the steel exterior. The attack was sudden. One moment she was breaking through the atmosphere and soaring through the white clouds, and the next she was grounded. The gunfire still rang in her ears. She knew nothing good would come from lying still and so she forced herself to her feet, but after a few staggering steps, her knees collapsed. She hissed as her cheek met the ground for a second time and the rush of pain hit every nerve. The glass dug deeper and the blood ran quicker, and soon she’d be drowning in it. If it were up to her to choose a way to go out, this wouldn’t have even made her top five choices. Actually, she knew her life would end in one of two ways: (1) withering away in a prison cell on Jaxle, or (2) in a blaze of glory. She, like anyone else, preferred the second option. The sun sat low on the horizon, mocking her as its rays clawed at her body. It too wanted to see if she’d finally draw her last breath once and for all. And for a moment, and not a second longer, she thought she would until she remembered that there were still things to do and a mission that had yet to be completed. She refused to die when her family was buried and Patel still breathed. “Not today,” she spat. “I’ll leave when I fucking feel like it.“ taglist: (ask to be added/removed!) @callmeweeeh

#the inspiration comes from treasure planet my all time favorite movie which actually was the reason why i started writing to begin with #so if i dont finish this damn story one day then i will be doing a great injustice to myself #I wrote the excerpt like two years ago and the furthest i went with this draft was 3 chapters but that is going to change!#also this edit took me so long to do and it rlly shouldn't have but now its 10am and idk what sleep is idk her #wip: the prince of stars #mine

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saviorinsilk · 5 years ago

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💜💍💘

💜- top 3 favourite lines:

1. “The sun shone beautifully through the live oaks above. Maybe things would turn around. After all, this was a safe haven and if happiness lived somewhere, it would surely be in a place like this.” - New Beginnings

2. "You just earned yourself another one Sweetheart. When I ask something of you, you follow my orders. Now we are going to start again and you are going to count this time. You need this punishment more than I thought. Your memory is horrid." Her words sunk into me and I would have cursed if I could have spoken.” - No More Secrets

3. “"Stop squirming baby girl. Mommy needs you still while I fuck you." Cordelia gave a rough, quick thrust and the dildo disappeared deep into your cunt, a satisfied and relieved smile plastered across your face.” - Stop Squirming

💍- your most underrated story: Probably Crimson Death.

💘- what’s your favourite AU? Least favourite?: I wasn’t sure if this applies to only AU’s that I’ve written but I’m going to pick one that I have in the works. My favourite AU is one that I created in which Ally Is the senator and Wilhemina is her assistant. Reader also works for them. The three of them also run the restaurant together and there is a lot of sexual tension until one night when everything changes. (This one is in the work and should be out after we finish moving)

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thelangdoncooperative · 6 years ago

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Seven Wonders Part 2

Y/N thought a lot about her very short interaction with Michael Langdon. People didn’t usually challenge her in that way. Once the girls at Miss Robichaux’s found out about her second sight, they made sure not to get too close as to not be read by her. She was used to a certain kind of distance. She kept thinking about how good he smelled when he leaned in to speak and how warm his hand felt on hers, even through her glove. As she laid in her bed, trying to make out shapes in the dark, she thought about that simple touch. When she finally drifted to sleep, she saw blonde curls and light eyes in her dreams.

The next morning marked the beginning of the weekend. That meant one joyous thing to Y/N: no lessons. When she woke, the house was louder than usual and the sound of the boys play-fighting in the hall annoyed her more than she expected. The ruination of silence was something she was going to have to get used to. The boys were rambunctious and they were excited to explore New Orleans. They woke up early and their bounding feet down the stairs woke her up multiple times before she finally decided to get out of bed.

As she got ready for the day, picking out a plain long-sleeved black dress and gloves, she examined herself in the mirror longer than usual. She wondered if her face could show just how little she slept. Though the night brought her dreams that made her blush, they were short-lived during an extremely restless night. Giving up on making herself presentable, she pulled her long hair back into a messy bun and headed down for breakfast.

She took her place at the table and tried not to look at the end where the literal man of her dreams sat. His hair was more tousled than it had been the day before and he had swapped his uniform for a black t-shirt and ripped jeans. She thought this look made him look younger and she tried to hide how much she admired it. She focused her face on her plate before being torn from her thoughts.

“You okay?” Reagan asked, taking the empty seat beside her, “You kinda look like shit,”

Y/N patted her face self-consciously, “I barely slept. Can you really tell? The bags under my eyes must be something fierce,”

She shrugged, not entirely disagreeing, “Concealer. That’s what it’s for,”

Rolling her eyes, she quickly glanced over at Michael who winked when their eyes met. Turning her eyes back to Reagan she thanked her for the compliment.

“Are you up for going out? Some of the guys wanted to go that fall festival in town. Sydney and I were thinking of joining them,” she looked at Y/N’s face and thought surely she should be in bed a little longer.

“Which guys?” Y/N asked.

Reagan smirked, “Of course you want to know. I think his name is Sam, and then Michael and Alex,”

Y/N agreed to go despite her overwhelming desire to lay in bed all day. The group gathered on the front porch before heading out. The others were a few paces ahead but Y/N hung back, feeling too weird to stand close to Michael after last night. He looked back at her a few times before slowing his pace to walk with her.

“You’re very quiet,” He said, digging his hands into his pockets.

She looked up at him and weakly smiled, “I’m just a little tired,”

“I’m sorry I kept you up last night,” He smirked.

Y/N’s eyes widened to size of saucers and she tried to revert back to neutral, “What did you say?”

He gently took her arm to stop her from continuing on, putting more distance between them and the rest of the group, “I think you know what I mean,”

She pulled her arm back and held her hands close to her chest, “I-...What? You don’t-“

He smiled wide and gently poked her nose, “Nothing to be embarrassed about. I didn’t mind what I saw,” He continued walking, leaving her with an open mouth and annoyance coursing through her veins.

“No, no, no,” She grabbed his arm to slow him down, “You don’t get to not explain,”

He looked at her hand on his arm, “So do you just decide when second sight bothers you and when it doesn’t?”

She pulled her hand back, “That’s what the gloves are for. I just don’t like to even risk it if I don’t have to,”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye as they continued walking. He playfully bumped into her and she suppressed a smile, “I’m sorry I said anything. It’s something I can do, read thoughts and all, but it’s not always necessary to tell the person what I saw,”

“I don’t have control over my dreams,” she said hastily, “That doesn’t mean anything,”

He slowly nodded, “Right. Doesn’t mean anything. Cause I haven’t seen you staring at me,” his face remained neutral.

“You would have to be looking back to notice that, wouldn’t you?” She challenged.

Michael laughed, “I guess you got me there,” He looked down at her and took her hand in his, giving a gentle squeeze before releasing her, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I shouldn’t have said anything,”

She shook her head, “It’s fine,”

“Even if I really didn’t mind,” He quickened his pace and caught up with the group.

When they finally reached the festival, it was packed full of people. Crowds were often things Y/N tried to avoid. Too much risk of hearing so many people’s secrets at once. As they pushed through, Sydney and Reagan stopped at a jewelry stand. They tried on various rings and bracelets. Y/N wondered what life with that kind of ease was like. To be able to touch others without knowing everything about them as the aftermath.

Michael could see the way she looked longingly at them. Putting his hand on her lower back, he said, “Do you want to check out something else? Maybe there’s something better down there,” He nudged his head in the direction of the other stands that filled the streets. She nodded and stayed close to his side as they walked.

When he stopped to tie his shoe, she took an opportunity to tease him, “You know, the Doc Martens surprise me. Doesn’t fit your cherub aesthetic,” She playfully ruffled his hair.

Laughing, her looked up at her, squinting from the sun in his eyes, “You know maybe I’m not what you-“ He stopped speaking when Y/N froze up. He had not noticed her take off her glove but she now held her bare hand to her chest, her eyes screwed shut. Rising to his feet, he grabbed her upper arms, bringing her close to him, “Someone touched you?”

Slowly opening her eyes, she nodded, “It was an accident. My own fault. These things just get itchy sometimes,” She grabbed her glove off the floor, having dropped it in her knee-jerk reaction to keep her hands close to her, “Whoever he was has done terrible things,”

“Haven’t we all,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulder as they walked.

Y/N looked up at him as they walked but he did not meet her eyes. He continued looking ahead, trying to find a path through the crowd. When people came close to her, she pressed herself further into his side.

“How about you stay here and I’ll go tell the others we’re gonna look for somewhere less crowded?” She nodded in agreement and stood off to the side. As the crowd thickened, she grew impatient. It was only going to take him longer to find her. Standing on her toes, she looked for a mop of blonde hair to spot him.

As she looked around, she thought maybe she would find somewhere more empty herself and he could find her later. Or maybe she’d head back for Miss Robichaux’s and she’d see them all later. As she considered her options, she began to hear thoughts that did not belong to her.

“Relax,” the familiar voice said. Y/N looked around her for the source. Finally she saw the mop of blonde hair approaching her with a wide smile though his mouth did not open, “See? Just relax,” his voice rang in her head again. When he approached her, he continued to smile despite her frown.

“How did you…?” Her face twisted in confusion as she shook her head, “That’s never happened before.”

He laughed, “Doesn’t work with everyone. Technically, it’s only ever worked with one of the senior warlocks back at the school but...good to know you heard me,”

“Michael, I’ve never been-...Wait, can you hear me all the time?” Her voice reflected the horror she felt.

“You’re more difficult to hear but sometimes I can. Most times, I can’t,” he replied.

She looked up at him through narrow eyes, “So you’ve tried?”

He shrugged, “I wanted to know what you thought of me,”

Y/N instinctively pulled her gloves further up her hands. Smoothing out her hair, she took a deep breath, “I should go back. I need to tell Cordelia,”

Michael rolled his eyes, “For what? She can’t do it so how could she help?”

“I’ve never been able to do that before,” she said defensively, “I want to know if it’s you or me,”

“Take your gloves off,” he said plainly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

She shook her head, moving out of the way for a group that drifted close to her, “No, I don’t want to know. Keep your secrets to yourself,”

“You need to push yourself.”

Annoyed at his tone, she snipped back, “Okay. Thanks. I’ve been living this with my whole life. I don’t need someone who I’ve known for two whole minutes to tell me how to control it,” She turned away from him and pushed through the crowd, fists clenched at her sides. He called to her but she ignored the sound and began walking faster. She walked back to the house in a hurry, annoyed at Michael but also at herself for even going out. She could hear him faintly in her mind and focused on pushing it away. She slowed down when she reached the gates of the school and waited on the porch for it to pass.

Closing her eyes, she focused every ounce of energy into keeping him out of her head. She felt the pressure build inside her, her body shaking, until she heard a thud as something hit the ground. When she opened her eyes, she looked down off the porch. In front of the stairs was a dead crow. Her heart began to race and she rushed inside and up the stairs. When she reached the haven of her room, her back slid down against the door. She pulled her legs close to her as she sat on the floor. In that moment, she decided not to tell Cordelia after all.

@probably-not-okayy @rainhowling @langdontrash @skullchik89@spring-tidejuvenile @bryanddchartisasmolbean @brieababy @hexqueensupreme @frozenhuntress67@malheureaux @lustlangdon @arabellashold @cheyenneeagle-blog @afflicto@i-should-probably-be-asleep-rn @the-captain-kidd@marsmonroe@ateliefloresdaprimavera @majestichoechlin @meeeeeeeeeps @narcolepticstorm @shado-cat @smalluniversecollector @bohostrology@del-rcys @arealmermaid @vodkasquip @hxdesworld @noice-smort-no-doubt @gloves94 @wtf-t0zier @althehufflepuff @reading–mermaid @heelsamizayn @historyartisan @crybabycth @buckynatlarry @habblez-the-babblez @jamesbuckybarnes13

#american horror story #american horror story apocalypse #american horror story fanfiction #american horror story smut #michael langdon #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon fanfic #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon smut #cody fern

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boogiewrites · 6 years ago

Text

Mae Flowers Ch. 1 Pt.1

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Mae LeBlanc (OFC)

Word Count: 2700+

Summary: An Alfie Solomons Modern Magical AU. (Based in New Orleans and mixed with some AHS Coven characters at certain points.) Alfie Solomons became the vessel for a dark ancient energy. In this universe, each of these energies has a mate and being the owner of a dark energy, Alfie has spent nearly a century waiting to find his light energy match. After a soul awakening of her own, Mae LeBlanc, a natural born witch, as well as a sensitive and kind woman from New Orleans soul finally starts to bloom and calls out to Alfie's, unbeknownst to her. Not believing in supernatural powers, she finds herself thrown into a new existence that is full of things she never thought possible, including magical powers of her own. Faced with a new world full of possibility and potential danger (that also includes the incredible daunting idea of having a soul mate) Alfie takes her under his wing to teach her about her powers. As she grows and learns, so does he. They navigate her lessons together, come to terms with how lonely their lives have been without the other and face these very human emotions together. With a newfound friendship formed out of necessity, will the idea of a soul mate translate from a mere magical meaning to a romantic one?

Warnings/Tags: Language. Spooky Imagery. Mentions of anxiety, depression and death.

Positive feedback is MUCH appreciated! Reblogs, likes, asks and comments feed me to write more! Let me know if you’d like tagged in my work.

My Masterlist.

The year is 2018, a long, long way away from his birth year of 1893. He stands in front of the Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies in New Orleans, Louisiana. A place that had been around longer than he had. This place and the supreme, Fiona Goode had served as a haven and an ally for him for many years. It seemed no matter the type of witchcraft, save for the spat between the witches and the voodoo practitioners, this place could serve as a resting place, a pause in whatever journey anyone with powers might find themselves on.

He'd been drawn to New Orleans, his inner voice, his darkness kept pointing it out to him, whispering it to him. It'd all started about a year ago, only growing in intensity since. Once the odd dreams had started, and for the life he had lived, odd was saying something. Once they had started, his usual blackness, an endless, timeless void that lay before him in his unconsciousness, there started to appear small specks of light.

Nightmares were eased with more pleasant thoughts and memories that were not his own. Once he felt his darkness recoil from the light in his dreams he knew something had changed, something was different. He'd heard of awakenings like these from others of his kind but it'd been so long that he'd been alone in his own dark soul that he had thought that he would be alone there forever.

Fiona stands with her hand on her hip in the doorway after opening it with an unenthused swat of her hand. "Alfie Solomons." she grins, looking him over. "Look what the alligator dragged in." she scoffs as he walks past her into the house with his suitcase. "And what do we owe the pleasure of such a powerful being coming to visit us?" her tone as always sounds sarcastic, but she meant it. She liked Alfie just fine, he'd never done anything to wrong her or her kind. He mostly stopped in and hid out, only a handful of times over the years she'd been Supreme and even before that, former Supreme’s had never had a bad word to say about him. Mostly stay out of his way, his kind is best left to solitude when they are aloof as he was.

"'Ello." he gruffs out, brow as heavy as ever. "I'm gonna stay here for a bit, yeah?" he says, looking around the stark white interior of the old plantation style home. "I believe I got some business to handle down here. Need to figure it out and I suppose here's best. Hotels don't like it when you muck up the room 'n all." he shrugs.

"Doing some work are we?" she asks, shutting the door behind her.

"Yeah. Somefin' like 'at." he frowns.

"Same room as always is open." she says, saunter in front of him and back towards the drawing room. ------ "'Ello, luv." he says to Cordelia as he sits down at the long table for dinner.

"Hello Mr. Solomons." she says with her kind smile and a polite nod of her head.

"Alfie, Alfie, please." he insists.

"What kind of name is Alfie for an immortal powerhouse like you?" Madison snarks, arms crossed, still mad at him tossing her against a wall for coming onto him earlier in the day.

"The kind of name me mum gave me so ya best shut ya fuckin' trap." he points a stern finger at her.

The clinking of silverware fills the room, the girls not chatting like usual, he knows he's the cause but he certainly doesn't mind the quiet.

"What brings you to us?" Cordelia asks.

"Something about a dream." Nan says, narrowing her eyes.

Alfie smiles at her. "You've got a rather spectacular noggin there little one." he praises. "Picking up on thoughts like mine."

"Well, I'm the next Supreme so..." she says sassily.

"Ah! My apologies." he grins and looks back to Cordelia. "I am here because of dreams, yeah." he nods. "Gotta do some work, figure out what they mean." he says thoughtfully.

"If there's anything we can help you with, let us know." her trademark soft and gentle approach as always.

"Ah, I'll be alright luv, I can handle meself." he gives her a wink to comfort her worry he can sense. He'd be worried about a dark soul like him in the house if he was her too. But he and his darkness were old friends at this point, having beaten each other up for almost a century now. For the most part they cohabited the space of his soul and mind in an unconventional harmony. ----------- The first night he slept in New Orleans his dreams became more vivid. To know it is not a fluke, he waits until the next night before trying any spellwork. Surely enough, his dreams are brighter, lighter, full of sounds of nature. But the sounds of nature humans like to hear, sounds of life. He could hear birds, smell the heat of the summer sun off of skin, coconuts, and flowers. These were not nature sounds he was used to. His were more glugs of swamp water, thick algae scratching apart and separating as his body disturbed it when he submerged. The smell of mold and decay of animals. These spaces of the earth and their inhabitants of cold-blooded reptiles were what he had dominion over. He oversaw the darker recesses, the dead and dying. But these dreams were not that, and he knew he was getting close to something.

That next night he locks himself away, preparing for a dream walk. He covers his body outside and in with powders and pastes of pulverized animals and minerals to connect himself with both living and dead. He sits with eyes closed in front of the fire. The fire wasn't necessary to the work but on the nights he'd spent alone in the wilderness in seclusion after taking in the darkness he'd gotten used to doing his work in front of flames. He lets his darkness free, let's it wander the city, the tops of buildings and into sewer systems, searching for what was calling to it.

He feels a jolt. A prickle up his spine as a warm yellow light takes up his field of vision. The images come in flashes, the smells waft by him like their on a breeze. He sees sunlight through rustling trees, flowers at eye level, big beautiful and absolutely teeming with life. Their almost psychedelic color palette, the sturdiness of the stems, the softness of the grass and dark dirt around them. He feels a sense of pride, a sense of calm, a sense of belonging. The visions turn to something else, a woman. He hears a feminine laugh, hears the purr of a cat, dark bouncing curls and tan skin warm from the sun. A soft exhale, then a sharp gasp. The happiness fades, giving way to darkness, but not his darkness. This was an emotion, a feeling.

He sees a female silhouette in front of a fireplace alone, an arm reaching out to find nothing but cold sheets and an empty bed. He felt loneliness, anxiety, a longing that led to sadness and confusion. He see can see a bed of deep jewel tones in a sea of blankets, the curve of a hip, traveling over the broad swell of it, noting bright yellow fingernails on a small hand, he becomes too desperate in his search, too intense to find what was calling out to him, so intense it wakes her and with a jolt it's all gone.

He emerges with a groan. -It is her.- His darkness whispers.

"Who?" he whispers into the fire.

-The one we've been waiting for.-

He didn't know if he believed it.

-Believe it. I can feel her light calling to me. It is she. It is the other half.- it's voice growing in intensity with its need. -She is ripening.- it hums in pleasure. -We have been waiting for millennia for her.- it whines. -She is ours. We are hers. We are us now.- it moans. -Join us. Complete us. JOIN US! COMPLETE US!- it starts to scream.

He shakes his head hard, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, yeah, mate that's what I'm tryin' to fuckin' do." he growls. "We'll try again tomorrow night, yeah?" he mumbles to himself.

They do it again the next night, after having a stern talk with himself about not getting too excited because it would scare her off and he'd find out nothing. His darkness was too excitable about finding it's mate. He personally was thrilled it seemed to be a lovely woman who harbored the light soul to compliment his dark one. He knew this wasn't going to be an easy task to take on, but inside he and his darkness both felt a strange tingle of happiness that wasn't something that existed before.

They were not soulmates in the way romance novels would portray them. These were ancient energies, beings that had no form, but were forced to dwell in human souls to enter the world. Every end a beginning and every beginning and end. A reaction and an action, a cause and an effect. There was a light to his dark, an equal to his energy. Some energies came organically, as he was guessing this woman's did. They were born with them. Others, like him, they were given to them. But when they joined, their powers were unstoppable. A perfect merge of life and death, as a ying-yang symbol with one-half black and one-half white, intertwined and in harmony. Without the match, the powers were less stable, not as powerful as they could be. And his darkness was starving for the stability and wholeness that they had been following all the way down to Louisiana.

This night his darkness hears her call easily, she might be curious about him as well. He finds himself in a garden, green and lush and overflowing with life. The air is thick and muggy, the sun is hot and feeding everything in sight. He sees a woman on her knees in a flower bed. He approaches her slowly. She's a beautiful little thing, he thinks. A headful of thick dark bouncy curls that spring as she digs and plants. Her light brown skin shining with sweat, two large thighs from little red shorts, a fitted tank top of orange wraps around her torso, drops of sweat falling onto it, gliding down her collar bones and cleavage. She's humming, drawing flowers out of the ground happily with an invisible force with her fingers. Big light hazel eyes with freckles scattered across her cheeks, her lips flushed and pouting as she sang to herself. She freezes and so does he. She doesn't raise her head at first, but her eyes dart around the garden. She slowly raises it, her big doe eyes meeting his own uncertain and blue ones.

"Is that you, luv?" he whispers out in a breathy, needy voice.

Her eyes widen in fear, a deep gasp before they both wake up and lose the connection.

-She is weak. She does not know what she is.- his darkness says.

"We scared her." he says with a sigh.

-She is weak, afraid.-

"We don't want her to be bloody afraid of us." he says angrily.

-She is afraid. Anxious you call it.-

"Fear of the unknown will do that. Strange men appearin' in your dreams 'n all." he shrugs and rubs his face as he lets out a heavy sigh. ------ The next day he finds Cordelia in her office. He explains he's looking for a local girl and since she might have powers, he wondered if they had records on her. She gives him access to the hard copy files. He tells her she seems to like flowers if that helps. She pulls files specializing in growth and life powers and leaves him to it. He was far too distracted to have company it seemed. He sorts through them with a heavy brow, each a disappointment until he reaches on. He feels his fingertips tingling. He opens it and inside is a Polaroid of her, although it must've been more than a few years ago.

-Ours.- his darkness whispers.

"Mae." he says with a sigh. "Perfect name for her, yeah?" a half smile appears on his face.

-OURS!-

"Yeah, yeah." he shakes his head hard. "Most recent record..." he says, finger scanning the bottom of the page. "Address unchanged. Owner of Green Goddess Flower." he lets out a thoughtful hum. "That explains all the flowers." he smiles, a finger tracing over her picture.

-Go to her.- he hisses angrily.

"Yeah." he nods, closing the file and moving fast to gather his things.

Cordelia is speaking with Fiona in the corridor as Alfie comes hastily through, suitcase in hand, walking past them briskly.

"Where are you off to?" Cordelia asks.

"I'm going to find my girl." he says without looking back.

She nods with an open mouth, not sure what he meant by his specific choice of words.

"Well, that's over." Fiona snarks, taking a drink.

"What is it that he's going to do exactly?" her daughter asks with a tilted head as her mother starts to walk away.

"He's going to go find his mate, I believe. Something his kind does." she says with an uninterested shake of her head. ---- He throws the suitcase into the trunk of his black Cadillac Coupe Deville. He enters in the address of her shop into his phone, setting up the directions.

-Yesssssss.- his mind hisses while it vibrates with anticipation.

"I'm gonna need ya to take a backseat for a bit yeah, gotta handle this delicately."

He hears it makes a disgruntled noise. "No."

"You can come forth and scare her, we're going to frighten her, doesn't matter if your missing piece is in her, we have to get the human to accept us first. You understand?"

Another disgruntled noise.

"Right." he nods. ------- He pulls onto the street of her shop. He can feel something shifting inside him, something different from the usual nuisance of his darkness. He wonders if she can feel it too. Shutting the door behind him, he clears his throat, taking wide steps, seeing a cute little shop with big glass windows coming into focus. There's a large mural of a green woman surrounded by plants with leaves for hair.

"Green Goddess Flowers" he hums to himself, looking up at the sign first, lovely polished cursive print. In the windows is a big beautiful display of her work. She really was full of life and talent, everything was not only aesthetically pleasing but lush and bright. He looks behind the foliage, seeing no one in the shop. He hopes he hasn't missed her, but as the sign on the door still reads, 'OPEN', he stands with his hand on the handle, feeling as if he should try to remember this moment, it seemed like it would be important. His darkness begins to hum and vibrate again. He pulls over the door. A little bell rings, almost making him jump with the anxiety he felt. Or was he feeling her anxiety? Or both? He didn't know her well enough to know the difference. He stands, feeling raw and unsure, things he hadn't felt in decades.

"Hello!" he hears called out from the back, he feels his heart palpitate, not that it's beating pattern really mattered any longer in regard to keeping him alive. She has the sweetest voice, like a bird singing in a summer breeze, it hits his ears and sends a warm shudder down his spine, his darkness is practically purring inside him. She walks around the corner, a pleasant face replaced with a shocked one instantly. Her eyes are wide, her jaw tight.

"Mae? Mae LeBlanc?" his voice is gruff and deep. She swallows noisily. "That you, luv?" he asks.

She lets out a nervous laugh, mouth open as if she was going to speak, but instead, her eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.

"Oh, fuckin' hell." he groans, moving fast to pick his soul's mate up off of the floor.

Ch. 1 PT. 2

@jaegeeeeer @negansdirtygirl22 @brianaisasongbird @hardygal69

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schaddenfreude · 6 years ago

Text

Fractured But Whole

Prompt: Madison comforts Misty in the wake of a panic attack.

__________________________________

Misty hummed to herself as she floated from plant to plant with her pale of water in hand. The soft notes wafted out to mingle among the flora, blending seamlessly with the mid day sun as it streaked in through filtered windows.

The greenhouse had become something of a haven to her since her return from hell; a hospital for her soul. Along with the care and patience of Cordelia and the other girls, her time spent among the flowers left her feeling better each day.

She had even begun to use her magic again.

It was tentative that first time. There was a young girl with a deep fondness for animals, much like herself, who had found a dead rabbit. It was too long dead for vitalum vitalis.

Unknown to Misty, Mallory had almost offered to help the girl instead, but Cordelia sensed an opportunity, sending her to the swamp witch.

Misty still remembered how she stared at that rabbit for a solid minute. The echoe of her teacher's stern voice ringing out in her head. Cordelia's eyes were on her. The girl watched with hopeful, pleading eyes. She let her own slip shut with a sigh, focusing only on them, and the poor creature she wanted more than anything to help.

And then the nightmarish voice in her head began to slip away. There was no scalpel, no classroom, no teacher commanding her to kill. It was just her and the rabbit. Like a floodgate, she felt her magic flow back into her hands with a surge so strong she was nearly swept away by it.

She used her powers and nothing happened. Her eyes rose to meet Cordelia's with confusion swimming in them. And then the words "stronger intention" raced through her mind. She turned back to the hare and tried again.

The three waited with baited breath, eyes trained intensely on the furry corpse. Then it was up like a shot! And with it, Misty felt as if another piece of her fractured spirit had just been returned from hell.

It was as if the world had righted itself on its axis. Colors were just a bit more vibrant, the scents of the plants around them sweeter, and Misty's eyes shined a little brighter with triumph. The road ahead was still along one but she was pleased with herself, nonetheless.

That was almost a month ago.

Since then, that sweet little angel of a girl had taken to bringing Misty the occasional dead animal and watching in awe as it sprang back to life under the swamp witch's touch.

Rabbits, mice, a bird; there was even a fox once. So, it was expected when the young witch came running excitedly toward Misty, who was engaged in conversation in the sitting room with a group of witches.

"Miss Day!" The girl stopped once she had the older witch's attention, out of breath from her excited running through the halls.

"What is it today?" Misty asked fondly, a kind smile spilling over her features as she laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder.

The young witch opened her hands and suddenly Misty felt a cold, ugly hand closing aroumd her chest.

"No." She shook her head violently as the other witches looked on in confusion. "I'm sorry I can't."

Staring back up at her with beady, lifeless eyes was a frog. She recoiled from the sight as if she had been slapped, still shaking her head. Her heart raced and that invisible hand closed tighter aroumd her chest as an echo of a voice ordering her to kill came back to her.

It was at this point that Madison sauntered in from the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks, eyes immediately honed on Misty and paused to assess the situation.

"What are you bitches looking at?" She snarked, coming to stand in front of the swamp witch, who at this point was squatted in the floor hyperventilating.

"Haven't any of you ever seen a mental breakdown before? Shoo!"

She watched as the girls grumbled at bitched about her attitude, making sure they were all gone before she bent down in front of Misty, regarding her with uncharacteristic compassion and concern. She knew all too well what hell could do to a person.

"Hey. Swampy, can you talk to me?"

Misty only shook her head, hiding her tearful face behind her hands.

"I can't...I can't breathe." Misty choked on a sob and Madison grabbed her wrists roughly, yet still with a caring tenderness.

"Hey, hey listen to me. Can you do that?"

There was a pause and then Misty nodded as she shifted one hand to latch on to Madison's.

"Hold your breath. Just stop breathing."

Misty looked warily up at her with desperate eyes, but reluctantly did as she was told.

"Okay good. Now out for seven seconds."

She did it with Misty.

"In four. Good"

Misty kept to the cycle, occasionally listening to Madison's instructions. Gradually, she felt the tightness begin to slip away until she came back to herself.

A few moments of silent understanding passed between them after. They'd been bonded by two different, yet unspeakably awful experiences. No words were needed. They were each just glad to have someone to reach out to who understood completely.

"Where'd you learn that?" Misty wondered after a few minutes.

"I was in and out of therapy a lot in my teens." She lit herself a joint that she'd been keeping in her purse.

"It was all bullshit, but that little technique was useful."

"Thank you, Hollywood." Misty smiled appreciatively.

"Don't mention it." The blonde starlet held out her joint. "Want a hit?"

#ahs coven #drabbles #ahs apocalypse #misty day #madison montgomery #cordelia goode

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polymorphologist · 7 years ago

Note

Such a rare soul to have been spun. We have watched you dance in and out of Our sight - carrying such a delicate light within. How far would you tread to save those you love? How many steps to hell would you tally? Let Us save them before the storm breaks. Let us save you.

Dreams for the Dreamless

This eve would be just as any other,the miqo'te decided as she settled into the cushions of the sofa. Insplendid skin that captured the hue of midnight sky, she looked athome atop crimson velvet and goose down. Picturesque, in the way thata painted tragedy depicts the horrid in gorgeous composition. Amoment beggared a shifting of her weight. Brightwhite artificiallighting immersed her in an ephemeral glow, the day’s garb still worn- if she should need to leap out of slumber’s embrace, she could doso - and all was well. Eyes that stared dimly at the ceiling dulledin contemplation’s lullaby. And, soon, Serris found herself driftingoff.

Where her mind roamed, dreams did notawait an arrival. The meandering thoughts that turned about herfollowed a divergent path. It had always been this way. For her, forher kin. Old memories, worn and tattered in places, were the pages ofan old book that she perused at leisure. There was a reverence in thestillness that loomed beyond the vistas that her eyes could see. Aplace that only the mind’s eye could grasp at. This was where sheventured.

What would she find here?

( more, much more beneath the cut! )

Underfoot, a murmur of distant sandswept across sun-bathed cobblestone. The poignant scent of saltflittered on the cool breeze and stirred a homesick churning in herheart. Gulls cried in the distance, laughing with the wind thatplayed with long tresses and spilled a torrent of ephemeral blondeover the ambit of a shoulder. There were flowers in her hand and asilken dress about her. Amber-hued eyes captured the mid-daybrilliance as they widened. It was Limsa. It was home.

The seeker of the sun smiled at theday. Joy lived in sprightly steps that twirled her about, laughing.Crimson skirts spun about alabaster legs with the movement. Laughterpealed from cherry-painted lips. She knew that this was a differentskin than the one she wore now. A skin from happier times, happierplaces. It was a day at the markets, Serris recalled: fresh orangeand lime, a basket on the ledge behind, a bouquet given by a merchantthat thought her pretty. It had been offered with promises of warmnights and days at sea. They had been disregarded, of course - shehad appointments in Limsa and could not afford such fanciful flights- but the midlander had insisted she keep the flowers. It was akindness, one that stirred a sensation of lucidity, of vitalpresence. Gods, she felt alive! Such a wonderful feeling.

Such a rare soul to have been spun.

A voice whispered on the wind and, fora moment, Serris thought it just a trick of shifting leaves. Therewas an ebony tree couched in a quaint court nearby, one whose blackbark seemed to lean against the sky. She had re-lived this memorymany times over, though she had never noticed such a peculiar noise.The seeker cut a glance over her shoulder at it’s verdure. Serris wasdue to meet Cordelia and O'kovasi on this day. Perhaps they were nearand a fragment of their conversation was carried on the breeze?Surely, that must be it. The basket was scooped up, handle tuckedinto the crook of her arm. She would go to look. Perhaps they wouldshare citrus and laughter under the shade afforded by the tree. Therewas nobody else on the avenue - not even a yellowjacket - they wouldnot need to worry about interruption.

Light with the joy that had carried herto the Upper Decks, Serris wandered to the court with a smile on herlips and hope in her heart. A silhouette in motion peered from behindthe tree. Yes, they must be here. The miqo'te would surprise them,she decided, and the three would talk and laugh into the eve ‘tilshadows grew long across the grass that scratched at the ebon bark.It would be a splendid time, the seeker assured herself.

Only, when she rounded the tree, nobodywas there; not even the silhouette that had danced just out of sight.

We have watched you dance in and out ofOur sight - carrying such a delicate light within.

No, no. No. This was divergent. It hadhappened before. Recollection had been driven before other memorieslinked ponderously by unseen threads. They bled into each other, andpast actions rescinded. There was no comfortable rut, no well-treadpath, for Serris to follow. The air was still in a way that lived inunexplored places. It felt as if the world were holding it’s breath,waiting to see what would be uncovered. Serris felt her heart still.

Or, perhaps, the world held it’s breathin waiting; Patiently observing her dance closer and closer until shecould not hope to flee in time. Close enough where the jaws ofsomething unspeakable could snap her up without a struggle. How closewas she already?

Serris whirled around, expecting tofind the glint of horrid fangs ready to close on her throat. Instead,she found solitude. The miqo'te was woefully alone on the boulevard.No strange doom awaited her. She should have felt at ease, but thesense of safety was ephemeral, fleeting. She dared not grasp it.There was impetus in her breath, a heart thrashing madly in her chestas if it could claw free in flight. What should she do? Where shouldshe flee? The thoughts urgently screamed as if the hells might openup underfoot and ensnare her retreat 'ere it could begin.

The seeker decided to walk. Hurriedly,yes, but anywhere was better than at the foot of that ebon tree wherea fleeting shadow had awaited. She had tallied half the distance tothe Aftcastle - a haven, a place where sleepness nights were boughtin quarters above the tavern, wary eyes on the door - before therecollection of a forgotten basket of citrus struck her. It would beleft there, she decided, and banish the thought of retrieving it.Halfway there now, yes, with an anxious sheen of sweat on her browand the scent-

Her gait halted, daring not a singlestep further. Serris noticed the scent first. Gone was the placidserenity of the sea breeze, the subtle tang of salt on the nares anda kiss of its taste on her tongue. It, too, had fled. Perhaps it wasmore able than her, for there was not a hint of it remaining in thatdreadfully warm air that pressed in about her and crouched atop herlungs to smother the gulp of air she craved. In it’s stead, there wasthe bitter taste of ashes. Her eyes stung as she coughed, an urgentdraw of breath that followed realization coating her palate with athin grime of hellish soot. Serris needed to squint to gaze beyondthe tavern’s entrance.

How far would you tread to save thoseyou love?

Beyond, blurred by eyes slick withrisen tears, a evil glow loomed. It painted the boards in a lurid,violent sanguine. The sight wrenched a shiver from the miqo'te. No,no! Never! It waited for her within, screamed a voice. Paranoiaburned her lungs, twisted within her ribs until she was certain shewould scream. What was this? From what horrid fathom of her mind didthis vision emerge? She did not recall this. This was not a memory -the low voice whispering in her ear, the emergent fear of beingwatched, the corruption of a time, a place where she had foundcomfort. It had fled. It had all fled. There was no comfort, nosanctum within. And Serris was certain she ought to flee with it.

Flight, flight unto somewhere safe,somewhere sane. Rushing blood beat a dread rhythm in her ears. Yes, yes she would flee! Run! Run! The notion had begun to impel an about turn and thehurried retreat that would follow when wailing reached her ears.

High. Shrill. Ripped from a throat thathad been flayed with agony unspeakable. It bordered on the forbidden;A scream surrendered by the dying and the tormented. Darkness livedin it’s cadence. A truth, a depravity, that whispered things unheard.It curdled her blood, soured innocence, aged the soul, and stolepeace from evenings spent alone. Serris had heard it before, and thememory that writhed on the floor of her gut was quickly shoved back intosane repression.

Perhaps it was a trick of the ears. Butit sounded like someone she knew.

A dear friend, or perhaps someonecloser. Who, exactly, she did not know.

That was enough to move her.

She did not have to. She knew she did not have to. But, she did.

The march that carried her forward wasgrim. Resigned. Fear lurked underneath steel, festering intosomething foul. Determination was for someone else. So was duty. Ithad always been like this. The taste of ash grew heavy as she nearedthe hellish glow that leered from the tavern. Serris could not helpbut imagine the arched entrance as familiar, quaint in the way that -bitterly, she thought - ought to rouse joy. In the vermillion glow,it seemed the gullet of a horrid beast shorn from the darkness thatwaited in the depths of man’s nightmares. An urgent nagging, afrightened instinct bid her to renege, flee, and save herself. Butthe wailing recollection had lent an inertia to her gait. She wouldcontinue beyond the point where even madmen might flinch.

How many steps to hell would you tally?

Serris withered under a rush of ashenmiasma as she passed into the obscurum of that vile brilliance. Itchoked a fit of sputtering from her. She coughed until a bitter achecrouched behind her eyes. The welter of air was foul, acrid withsomething rotten. She refused to dwell on it. Urgency bid her toresume the gait that drove her onward. Whatever awaited her in thatinfernal chamber was something she would have to face, reluctancenotwithstanding.

But, for all the twisted landscapes shewouldn’t dare call from the sullen depths of her mind, nothing couldhave prepared her for the sight within.

Swollen with a violent sanguine hue,the sun leered down at her through skies choked with ash. Piled indroves, the bloated bodies of brave men and women lie where death hadsurprised them. Driven through cracked earth or spilled fromgauntlets and naked hands their arms lay, discarded. Flames greedilylicked and kissed the fallen in quiet eulogy, crackling as fatsizzled and flesh scorched. Serris retched at the sight. The tang ofcooking meat teased her nares and wrung bile from her gut. Horror.Loathing. It was a dark place; the bitter taste of smoke that mingledwith rising vomitus on her tongue. No cries could be spared,lest it all spill forth and splash upon the accursed land underfoot.

Her sight grew dim, blurred with risingtears and the heaving of her gut. A hand clapped to her lips. Thedignity that it dammed therein was her only sanctum. She ought torun. She knew she ought to. There was a foulness here, one that wouldcrouch forever in the shadows where the light of her thoughts couldnot illuminate, nor the sun chase away. Patient, evil, yearning toseize upon her and sink claws into flesh, notch her bones with cruelteeth. The keeper stumbled on trembling legs that fright drove tolameness and fell, sprawled on earth cracked under the violent heat thatraged about the fallen.

Let Us save them before the stormbreaks.

At the heart of the horrid vale whereslaughter had come, there rose an ebon tree in defiance of the skyand the blood-caked soot. It framed the inflamed eye of the sun inthe gilt of embers and ever-burning leaves. From the branches swayedshapes fixed by rope. A voice begged: Don’t look! Please, don’tlook!

But, she did.

The nooses were festooned tightly. Thelength was too short to break their necks. They had struggled,choked, twitched, lay still. She knew it. She wished that she didn’t.Flames and heat had rendered them anonymous, but her heart knew them.She could almost put names to the features that had shared warmsmiles and laughter with her. The memories withered. So did she.Fingers, blackened and cured in the fire, closed about her heart.Blood rushed to her head, striking sparks with a violence as sudden as crashing steel.

Between splayed fingers, her bilepainted the earth.

Let us save you.

A shrill gasp of breath. The cool air rushedinto her lungs to quench the panic that set her blood alight. Thelight here was blue. Cold. Familiar. Steel crouched beneath velvetand samite, pillows and blankets. A sanctum, a place of repose. Thecorner of her laboratory where evenings were spent in peace. Therewas ice on her brow and an impetus to the fluttering in her chest, aheart madly racing along the inertia that terror had lent it. Herlab. Her home. A place where horrid whispers had found her. Sweat.Sweat at her brow, a trembling hand confirmed, wet and cold. A frantic mind raced, thoughts too frenetic to grasp.

From the parted bow of ebon lipsthat trembled, her own whisper. She curled, numb to the tension thatscreamed in muscles pulled taut. Numb to the screams that echoed inher thoughts. The miqo'te was shivering. She knew she would not stop.Faint - frightened, terribly frightened - her voice retreated into her throat as it emerged; darkened,with tears that fled over the ambit of her cheeks to join ashudder and the weeping that pitifully collected on the floor:

“… No.”

( thank you so much to @the-faceless-ffxiv for coordinating this event and taking the time to send me an ask! i’m sorry for being so terrifically late on my response. )

#writing #ffxiv #ff14 #character: the changeling

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diamantinemind · 7 years ago

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Après Nous, Le Déluge

Summary: When Natalia is finally sent to terminate the threat posed to U.S.S.R. interests and assets like herself and her sister Black Widows that is the pair of American profligate psychics who ruined in West Berlin her otherwise spotless record with Rossiya-matushka, it’s to the prodigal 7th and 8th arrondissements of France’s capital city where she discovers that she may have bitten off more than she can chew.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Mutant!OC (Enemies to Friends)

Word Count: 9,292

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.

The sudden rise of a hot and blustery midmorning wind from the southwest announced the arrival of the dog days—or as the French called them, la canicule—to the electric city of Paris. Sweltering summer heat pressed down on la Ville Lumière, making the glittering Seine and every public fountain havens from the sunbaked boulevards that crisscrossed the capital city of France. Parisians and tourists alike fled in droves to such watery oases to find solace from the heatwave all across the city, barring the modish 7th and 8th arrondissements where some people were too sophisticated to run anywhere and were much too cultured to attend the public sanctuaries that the rabble visited. Rather, the cosmopolitan hordes haunting two of Paris’s most refined administrative districts seemed almost to ignore the scorching breath of the sun that curled around them as they walked the streets and went about their daily lives of capitalistic excess and privilege.

Natalia idly observed them all from her seat at a glass patio table outside an upscale artisanal boulangerie and patisserie on the 8th arrondissement’s fashionable Avenue Montaigne. The scent of various fresh breads made with cheeses, fruits, and nuts mingled with the sugary smell of pastries, folding her in a pocket of aroma. She adjusted her sunhat, dipping its floppy brim over her jade eyes and picked at the tarte tatin set before her. Pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of the caramelized apples and the buttery softness of the puff pastry, Natalia could almost forget the reason she was here.

The list of people that the K.G.B. perceived as legitimate threats to the U.S.S.R. and its mission was rather short. Names that the K.G.B. would want removed from the face of the earth if any Soviet operative could get within a kilometer of them appeared on a second and even shorter list—shorter because these people were absurdly proficient at either evading abduction and/or dodging assassination. Because of what the K.G.B. was now calling the “West Berlin Incident,” the psychic who had marred Natalia’s otherwise spotless record as an agent and Black Widow of Rossiya-matushka was now firmly at the top of the first and second list. The psychic was also now ranked first on Natalia’s personal revenge register which had totaled a zero sum until recent. More often than not, people never got the chance to make it onto Natalia’s own hit list since they were typically dead before they could even think of crossing her, but for those who did manage to appear on her list, they did not usually stay there long: whoever crossed Natalia rather swiftly ended up dead.

Comrade Vasily Lebedev—the senior handler of the women who had been given the mantle of Black Widow for graduating top of their class from the Red Room Academy and who were now employed by the K.G.B. as instruments of war and espionage—had received word from K.G.B. high command that the culprit behind the West Berlin Incident must be removed from the board or, at the very least, intimidated into hiding. The K.G.B. didn’t want any more of its beautiful and dangerous Black Widows being thwarted in the field. Nor did Vasily want harm coming to any of his weapons, especially not his favorites, one of the Devushki Vasiliyathat brought him so much acclaim in the shadowy world of espionage.

“I don’t care how it’s done, pauchok, and high command doesn’t care how many agents we need to put on this assignment,” Vasily had said in Natalia’s briefing with a few other important agents and handlers three afternoons into the aftermath of the West Berlin Incident, which mutually comprised Natalia’s failed assassination attempt and her being hurled into a psychically-induced coma from which she had awoken thirty-nine hours after initially being telepathically anesthetized. “Every agent on the ground will be looking for them, and once we get concrete intel on the target, you’ll be the only agent allowed within two kilometers of them. We wouldn’t want to tip our hand on your chance for… revenge.”

Natalia knew that what Vasily had meant to say was “redemption.” The K.G.B. had a low tolerance for failure, and an even lesser amount of patience for failed results from its best assets, and Natalia was by far the best in the Soviet Union’s arsenal. The burden of the West Berlin Incident rested not on Natalia’s shoulders solely but was also borne by Vasily since he was the one responsible for Natalia and all the other Devushki Vasiliya.

Comrade Sokolov was the only reason that Natalia had not faced harsher punishment than what she had—being handcuffed to the metal drain pipe of a bathroom sink and being electrocuted with an automobile battery’s jumper cables after waking from a coma was getting off the hook, really; she’d had much worse in the Red Room as a girl. Seeing as how the strange Comrade Sokolov was the leading psychic in the K.G.B.’s psy-ops team, when he had determined that Natalia could not have readily prevented what had happened to her, the K.G.B. had listened.

“The psychic responsible for subduing the asset,” Comrade Sokolov had said to Vasily and a few high-ranking officers after evaluating Natalia, “must have been one of the best to have been able to so effortlessly circumvent the Black Widow Ops Program conditioning the Red Room inculcates into its graduates before shipping them to us.”

“Stronger than you, Mikula?” Vasily had asked with a skeptical furrow of his brow.

“By leagues,” Comrade Sokolov’s tone had been grim as he had turned an appraising eye to Natalia. “Never have I seen such surgical psionic precision or finesse. Work such as this bespeaks not only a natural talent but also a lifetime or more of experience, which is… an inauspicious prospect for the future of our operations should the West Berlin psychic express an interest in continued intervention.”

“Is the asset’s conditioning broken?” One of the higher ups had asked Comrade Sokolov.

“Oddly enough,” the psychic had said, “it’s not. There are no detectable lingering alterations to the asset’s mind, and it seems as though the West Berlin psychic knocked the asset unconscious merely to neutralize the threat she posed. We were lucky in this regard.”

Comrade Sokolov had been positive of this much. Ever since she had woken up bound to a sink and faced with imminent electrical torture, though, Natalia had felt as if something had minutely shifted within her skull. She couldn’t quite explain the feeling, so she sure as hell hadn’t said anything to Vasily or to anybody else about the unsettling sensation. She hadn’t even thought about it much while off-mission to prevent Comrade Sokolov or any of the psy-ops team from detecting her doubts.

As if on cue, a feeling of unreality struck Natalia; she looked about the busy Avenue Montaigne to confirm her surroundings, to confirm her own presence in the rich and sunny environment. It was not exactly a bout of déjà vu or anything of that sort from which Natalia had been suffering as of late, but… Natalia could not put her finger on it. Perhaps it was an intuitive impression of wrongness, of falsehood, and as rapidly as it had solidified, it evaporated.

She glanced down at the empty dish of tarte tatin in front of her and gently slid it away from her. Natalia frowned before returning her gaze to the boulevard and its many upper-crust pedestrians. As expected, there was no one and nothing of import. Yet.

It hadn’t taken long for the K.G.B. to attempt to identify Natalia’s assailant in West Berlin. In fact, the K.G.B. had managed to narrow the search in the same amount of time it had taken to give Natalia a jolt in a dingy bathroom. As Comrade Sokolov had made it clear later in their meeting, there were only so many world-class psychics who could match Natalia’s extensive psychological conditioning or that of any Black Widow. To be precise, the K.G.B. was aware of only three candidates, one of whom was Professor Charles Xavier. Xavier, though, had been in his family estate-turned-mutant academy in Westchester County, New York, on the day of the West Berlin Incident.

Naturally, the remaining two possible suspects were the ones that the K.G.B. knew the least about: the White King and Queen of the New England branch of the Hellfire Club, a clandestine group whose leadership concealed their identities behind aliases based upon the titles of chess pieces—often White and Black—and who typically possessed some… unusual talents, although the Black royalty has historically been of the more mystical bent. Not much else was known about the organization. It claimed itself to be an international socialites club with branches on six of the seven continents; it held quite a bit of political and economic clout which it flexed behind the scenes around the world. Even less was known about the White royalty who co-led the New England branch with the Black King and Queen.

While other agents had been searching for the White royalty of the New England Hellfire Club, Natalia had been given a short-lived respite after her initial briefing. She had used the time to read through the pitifully thin dossiers the K.G.B. had on the enigmatic duo. The White King and Queen, real names unknown, but possibly Christian and Cordelia Winterson, Jeremiah and Jessamine North, or Elias and Emma Frost—the last pair was highly unlikely, but would be quite the scandalous reveal were it true. After all, Elias and Emma Frost were the CEOs and co-presidents on the Board of Directors of Frost International, a multibillion dollar Boston-based shipping, transportation, and personal electronics conglomerate. Of course, no one knew what the Frosts looked like, for they avoided the public eye as though it were the bubonic plague. They managed the family company by proxy via a chain of trusted directors, supervisors, and secretaries.

The White King and Queen were either siblings or lovers due to reports of one being not too far from the other wherever they went. They were also powerful psychics of some sort; however, the exact nature of their preternatural gift or gifts was also unknown beyond their having unparalleled telepathic prowess. Like all of the other leaders of the Hellfire Club that the K.G.B. had run into around the globe, the White King and Queen of the New England branch were as intelligent as they were evasive. The only photographs the U.S.S.R. intelligence community had of New England’s White King and Queen were indistinct CCTV images revealing little more than the pair’s haute couture and fair hair.

When the White royalty did leave a trail to be tracked, it usually went cold. It had taken over two weeks of grueling manpower, several favors traded in, and an inordinate quantity of rubles to get a lead on the White King and Queen of New England’s Hellfire Club. A European source had finally disclosed to the K.G.B. that a pair of towheaded American socialites had appeared in Paris after the conclusion of President Kennedy’s European tour in early July and had been staying since. All agents in the area had been mobilized to investigate the situation.

After almost a week of observation and no sign from the Americans of being watched, real intel that warranted Natalia’s dispatch had trickled in. The pair owned a summer home in Paris’s 8th administrative district. A private Louis Seize penthouse on Avenue Montaigne between the neoclassical façade of Dior and the red window awnings and even redder window box geraniums of the sumptuous Hôtel Plaza Athénée where Natalia was currently staying in a K.G.B.-rented suite. Moreover, the two blondes were characteristically American profligates, purchasing designer fashion from the luxury flagship stores on Avenue Montaigne and visiting some theatre or ballet or opera or museum around the capital city every day. Identities have yet to be confirmed, but more than likely, the K.G.B. had finally found the White King and Queen.

When Natalia had at last been told to remove the Americans from the picture and was preparing to leave the K.G.B. outpost in Novosibirsk where she had been stationed, Vasily had brushed her cheek with his rough knuckles and had said, “You’ll always be one of mine, little spider; make it clear to those capitalist warmongers who trample upon the poor and working class that no one toys with the Devushki Vasiliya.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle?”

Natalia cast her gaze to the waiter, a pale mustachioed Frenchman dressed in a starched white shirt, pressed black pants, and a black vest. He was the same man who had served her tarte tatin on the bakeshop’s patio.

“Yes?” She said in perfect French.

“Will you be staying for our lunch special, miss?” The waiter asked as he took her empty dish. “We will be offering bouillabaisse paired with a toasted garlic-rubbed baguette and rouille that has been prepared onsite.”

“I—” Natalia’s eyes darted to a shimmer in her periphery.

A woman in monochromatic white strode by in the street beyond the waiter’s shoulder. She wore atop her head a pillbox hat with an attached pearl-strung birdcage veil and oversized square-framed Nina Ricci sunglasses upon the bridge of her fine upturned nose. A pair of Italian kid leather gloves reached up to her elbows, and a brocaded dress with a scooped neckline, sheath skirt, and sash tied into a bow about her waspish waist embraced her trim body like a jealous and grasping lover. Diamonds dangled like icicles from her ears and exposed throat, and a Gucci handbag swung from the crook of her arm. The sunlight ran like water down each gently waving strand of her pale blonde hair that bounced with every purposeful step and lifted from her shoulders in the breeze.

Every single person on the glamorous Avenue Montaigne instantly paled in comparison, and they all knew it as they stared at her, stumbling to leave a wide berth for the trail she and her designer pumps blazed. Had Natalia not been paying as close attention as she had been, she would have thought Marilyn Monroe had been resurrected on the streets of Paris or that Jacqueline Kennedy had dyed her hair platinum and had returned to France for an undercover shopping spree after her husband’s return to Washington.

“You know,” Natalia returned her attention to the waiter and brushed aside his curious gaze. “I think I will stay for your lunch special.”

The waiter nodded before stiffly walking away. Natalia’s eyes followed the blonde until she disappeared completely into the crowd. Natalia set her hands upon the glass tabletop and tapped out a steady sunny beat with her manicured fingernails, a tune that gradually morphed into Tchaikovsky. As it always did. She could feel her feet itching for her favorite pair of satin pointe shoes and her face in need of the warmth of the Bolshoi spotlights.

She blinked hard. She yearned for something, felt a twisting in her gut. She was Natalia Alianovna, Black Widow, the deadliest of the U.S.S.R.’s lethal arachnids. She never yearned—it simply wasn’t in her nature, not since… Natalia’s mind blanked. She shook her head. Not since ever. Her sisters never yearned. Those who had were long ago buried outside Red Room Academy in the primeval forests and snowbanks of the B.S.S.R. Natalia stilled her hand and scanned the crowded boulevard.

The intel had indeed been good; the White Queen was in Paris. Natalia had no plans of pursuing the woman, though. Loath to make a move on the Queen without knowing the exact location of the White King—he was not far, of course, which doubled the risk of being detected or deterred from carrying through with her mission—Natalia watched and waited. Her bouillabaisse, garlic-rubbed baguette, and rouille were served to her, and she pecked at her lunch over the span of a half hour, ears ever pricked, eyes ever searching. After paying for her brunch and lunch, she sat outside the bakeshop for an hour more, content in the cool green shadow of the store’s awning, before she stood up from the glass table and decided to promenade along Avenue Montaigne. She stopped outside several shops and stores, silently peering in to watch as the sheep bleated about fashion and the economy and capitalist things for which Natalia had little care.

By midafternoon, she walked back in the direction of the boulangerie and patisserie toward the Plaza Athénée. She may not have spotted the White King during this particular outing, but she had at least seen his colleague, and that was enough of a success for Natalia. The fear of New England’s White royalty slipping between her fingers was practically nonexistent in Natalia’s mind as she reached the magnificent glass doors of the Plaza Athénée; with K.G.B. agents peppered throughout the city, the White royalty would not be able to make a move without someone catching their scent.

When Natalia went up to her suite of extravagant baroque-themed apartments, she tossed her sunhat aside like a discus, kicked off her strappy heeled sandals, and snagged the telephone set off the mahogany end table in the plush sitting room. Ringing the secure K.G.B. number on the rotary dial, Natalia padded as close to the picture window overlooking Avenue Montaigne as the phone cable would allow. She wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder and waited for the call to go through.

“Pauchok,” Vasily’s voice was clear on the line. “Report.”

“Seen,” Natalia said casually. “The White Queen, anyhow. Hard to miss. Very white. I imagine the King will be equally as easy to spot.”

“He will be. Are you going out tonight as planned?”

“Yes,” Natalia said as she turned her gaze up from the boulevard and to the neighboring buildings. She should be able to use their rooftops and balconies as steppingstones to a location that would lend promising results to spy on the White royalty in their lavish Louis XVI styled penthouse. She had examined the building yesterday after flying in, so she knew how to get a view into the King’s and Queen’s private Parisian home overlooking the Eiffel to the southeast and the Louvre to the southwest. “I have plans tonight.”

“Check in,” Vasily said.

“I will.” Natalia ended the call, cradling the phone set to her body as she stared outside.

She felt at once an eagerness to seek retribution and an unnamable murmur of hesitation in the far recesses of her mind. Shaking her head, she turned her back on the Parisian skyline and began to prepare for the night.

At half past nine, Natalia slipped out of her suite dressed in the same charcoal black and midnight blue as the few shadows which survived the well-lit night in la Ville Lumière. Though it took a series of rather impressive acts of acrobatic excellence to reach her predetermined vantage point, Natalia secured it nonetheless and crouched down atop the roof of the building directly across the boulevard from the stacked luxury apartments atop which sat the White King’s and Queen’s penthouse. Body alert and tense, Natalia was hyperaware of her potentially compromising position; the White royalty had elevation on her since none of the buildings on or around Avenue Montaigne came within a story of the penthouse’s lofty heights. Even from where Natalia was currently hunkered down, all the pair really had to do was go to any one of their south-facing windows and stare exactly at her location to spot her and her long red hair which she had attempted to knot atop her head and conceal under a dark cap. Natalia supposed she could have scaled the building, stolen into their open-air courtyard, and broken in through their patio door, but that seemed to her like too much passive suicidal ideation for a reconnaissance mission.

Natalia sat impossibly still for almost two hours before a light finally turned on in one of the bedrooms at a quarter past eleven. She shifted forward, eyes trained on the sparkling floor to ceiling windows that offered sight into the room. She hadn’t brought binoculars with her, but frankly, she found that she no longer needed them since her graduation from the Red Room three years ago as a young woman of eighteen bitter Russian winters. Vastly improved eyesight was but one of the many biochemical enhancements Natalia had received upon the completion of her training and conditioning as a Black Widow.

A man wearing a navy velvet blazer with pearlescent buttons, a silver silk cravat with blue-black fleur-de-lis, and flat-fronted white chinos crossed the room. His ringed fingers deftly unfastened the closure of his jacket as he walked. He passed by one window, and by the time he reappeared behind the next, he had shrugged out of the velvet garment, revealing the sleek silver waistcoat fitted to his trim torso with a pattern matching that of his necktie over his pressed white dress shirt. He tossed the dark blue blazer over the back of a gilt-framed tapestried chair, pausing long enough to slip loose the knot of his cravat and cast it with a flourish over the back of the same chair. He quickly ran his hand through his tousled tow-colored hair, causing a few long fair strands to fall into his eyes from the styled coiffure he had them swept up in when he retracted his hand, and swaggered out of Natalia’s view.

It was the White King, without a doubt, and his resemblance to the White Queen was uncanny. Natalia tossed aside the nonsense about the pair being lovers—they were blatantly related by blood, and a great amount at that. Whereas the Queen’s angled jaw and cheekbones and hair color had lent her an impression of platinum-tressed Marilyn, the same features translated across the medium of the masculine sex as distinctly James Dean en blond. Her distinct nose, brow, and full lips as those akin to Paul Newman’s on him. He even carried himself with the same monarchical air, his posture impeccable and indicative of generations of fine breeding and indescribable wealth. Summarily, Natalia was certain of one thing: the White King and Queen were American gods of a manifestly Nordic pedigree.

It was twenty minutes before the White King came back into sight, this time wearing cream-colored silk lounge pants and a sheer feather-trimmed floor-length ivory robe that billowed behind him as he strode by the windows, the damask curtains swinging shut of their own accord. Natalia’s eyebrows rose in surprise at both the shock of witnessing what must have been telekinesis—she’d never seen it in action before, but she knew that some of the members of the K.G.B.’s psy-ops team were capable of the feat—and the man’s bold sartorial choice to wear something that was both sheer and trimmed with feathers.

When he reached the final window of the room, his hair wet and straight, he did not will the curtains closed. Natalia remained perfectly still. A flash of silver caught her eyes and drew her attention to his bared sternum where a pair of military identification tags hung from a slender ball chain about his neck. He stared out the window, surveying the horizon with eyes pale like Siberian waters and twice as cold. He cocked a golden eyebrow, and the lights in his room died in response, plunging him in utter darkness. Natalia could still see his silhouette in the window, limned by blue moonlight and the white-orange glow of the sleepless city. The shine made the dog tags wink back at her as he outstretched his arms and drew the heavy curtains closed.

After five consecutive nights and two daring mornings of nocturnal observation, all that Natalia could say about the White King was that he was a man of routine: he exercised before his morning shower and breakfast, he applied the same cologne to his pulse points before getting dressed, he returned to his bedchamber in the evenings wearing a different outfit than the one he had begun the day with, and he took a second shower before turning in for the night.

He spent the same amount of time each morning deliberating upon his outfit for the day, pulling from his various mahogany and gilt wardrobes Italian suit jackets and silk shirts and garments made of cashmere and velvet and fur. Natalia personally thought the fur was a bit unseasonal since Paris was still caught in the snarling jaws of la canicule and only cats were wearing fur in this heat, but what did she know of haute couture? Some nights after his shower, he curled up on a daybed and read The Feminine Mystique, a newly published book which her handlers assured her was the poisonous epitome of American radicalistic arrogance and an indicator of a infirm mind, with a cup of tea set on a nearby end table. Natalia also noted that he never took off the pair of dog tags hanging from his neck, and she had witnessed him on more than one occasion absently bring the tags to his lips and hold them there for moments on end. She wasn’t sure why, but she found it hard to look at the White King when he did that.

After she had bathed and wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s fuzzy pastel pink bathrobes on her seventh day in Paris, she phoned her handlers to report the previous night’s observations. It was not initially Vasily who had greeted her, but the handler she had reached was quick to transfer the call to the senior handler of the K.G.B.’s Black Widows. Natalia’s brow furrowed as she waited. Water dripped from her long hair and dampened the collar of the robe.

“Good morning, pauchok,” Vasily’s voice came on the secured line seconds later.

“Vasily,” Natalia’s tone was guarded. “The King has shown no variance in his behavior or any actions to suggest that he or the Queen know they are under surveillance—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vasily cut her off. “We’ve just heard that they’re planning to fly back to the United States tomorrow. We have reason to believe that they will be going to Les Invalides this afternoon to view the exhibits in the Musée de l’Armée.Get results by tomorrow morning, little spider.”

With that, the line went dead. Natalia placed the receiver back on the phone set and sat down on her bed. She gazed down at her hands, her fingers interlacing in her lap, and she thought. Or, didn’t think. She knew what needed to happen, but she found herself peculiarly deferring the inevitable. Her fingers unlaced, and her hands fisted the plush material of her bathrobe. She felt herself resisting Vasily’s orders, felt herself attempting to embrace something which she did not quite have a word for anymore, something she had forgotten in her girlhood. Her head began to throb.

Natalia clenched her jaw to ward off an impending headache and geared up for her visit to Les Invalides. She left her suite and emerged on Avenue Montaigne in the midmorning heat wrapped in an eye-catching black gown and armed to the teeth. Guns strapped to thigh holsters hidden in the folds of her pleated skirt. Knives concealed in the bodice of her dress, an inconspicuous set of stilettos pinning her hair into an elaborate blood-red updo, blades hidden in the soles of her heeled shoes. Enough cyanide packed inside a fake diamond ring to drop a herd of white rhinoceroses and a false pearl necklace with timed explosives buried within each pretty bead. Dressed as she was, it was all too easy to flag down a cabdriver on Avenue Montaigne and be driven southward across the lazily flowing Seine, into the stately 7th Arrondissement, and through the sprawling green lawn of the Esplanade des Invalides via the flower-lined Avenue du Maréchal-Gallieni. The cabdriver was so generous (or so enamored) that when he dropped Natalia off at the open wrought iron gates and stone walls of Les Invalides, he forgot to request his fare from her before he drove off.

Natalia slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses and passed through the gateway, her heels clicking on the cream-colored pavers underfoot. Shrubbery-bordered walkways fanned out from the gate in a starburst of stone to connect with all the major entries to Les Invalides from the north. The palatial complex’s long five-story stone facade and central pedimented arch depicting Louis XIV astride a horse were dominated only by the adjoining magnificent Dôme des Invalides that rose over 100 meters high. The dome’s gold leaf ornamentation twinkled in the sunlight and caused the air around it to waver from the reflected heat.

Had the weather not been so intemperately hot, Natalia supposed that the Esplanade des Invalides and the northern yard of the complex would have been rife with picnickers, sunbathers, and tourists. As it was, though, the complex and its lush green lawns were almost wholly devoid of any semblance of human life. Here and there, Natalia would spot a person within one of the buildings as they drifted by a window or hear the distant murmur of foreign tongues from within a hall or courtyard. Flanking the low stone wall surrounding the complex was a parking lot numbering twenty or so vehicles, all unattended and likely unlocked. Natalia kept that in mind should the need to make a hasty retreat, however unlikely, present itself. After what the White King and White Queen had done to her in West Berlin, regardless of who it really was that had botched her assassination attempt, Natalia was not going to let them get out of Paris without at least making it clear that they’d never interfere with K.G.B. matters ever again.

Natalia paused in the shadow of the pedimented archway, gazing up at the stone reliefs of kings, lions, and medieval armaments of all kinds. Her eyes flickered across the Greco-Roman-inspired architectural details, and Natalia was torn in a way newfound to her since coming to France. Such extravagance and waste. Such craftsmanship and manmade beauty. Her mind beat against this place of ugly capitalism, but her soul had not the same resistance.

Something moved her deeply at the sight of this Western masterpiece, this pompous show of everything she had been told was evil in the world and must be expunged to restore morality to mankind. Something wondrous and defiant and utterly unknown to Natalia stirred within her, and that unsettled her in a way that nothing else ever had or ever could. For some equally inexplicable reason, she began to hum Tchaikovsky, and all was righted once more.

Freed from the arch’s strange hold, Natalia passed under it and into the cannon-filled Cour d’Honneur. A plaque written in French supplied Natalia with the name of the complex’s central courtyard and its purpose for military parades. An array of signs likewise pointed out entrances to the surrounding arched five-story buildings. The Saint-Louis-des-Invalides Cathedral made up the rear of the courtyard and offered ingress beneath a bronze statue of Napoleon standing on the second story overlooking the court with a hand in his waistcoat. Flanking the courtyard to the east and west were wings of the Musée de l’Armée which were otherwise unmarked to reveal what lay within each. Natalia followed the small crowd milling about the court, purchased a ticket at one of the entrances, and slipped into a series of rooms dedicated to French history from 1871 to 1945 A.D.

Natalia took off her sunglasses and silently made her way around the exhibits, squeezing between tour groups and studying each display as she kept an eye on the faces surrounding her. She inspected military uniforms from the World Wars, objects from soldiers’ daily lives, emblems, arms, and items relating to France’s colonial history behind protective glass cases. She examined paintings, personal archives, photographs, and cards that gave a distinctly Gallic perspective on the conflicts escalating to the Great War, the inter-war period, and the build-up of nationalistic and political pressures which led to World War II.

Having learned all there was to learn from the exhibits and displays in the Département Contemporain, including the fact that her hotel’s restaurant had apparently served as a cafeteria for the American troops during the Liberation of Paris, Natalia slipped out of a massive set of mahogany doors and broke from the relatively bustling World War rooms. Finding herself in a desolate hall lit only by the sun’s warm rays filtering in through the windows on either side of her, Natalia watched as dust motes spiraled through the light before slinking down the corridor.

An hour or more had elapsed since her arrival and there was still no sign of the White King and White Queen. Perhaps the intel had been bad? Then again, it was just now thirty minutes shy of noon and the Musée de l’Armée was a large portion of an even larger network of interconnected buildings and halls—the pair could have been anywhere. A tingle in the back of her mind and a tug in her gut told Natalia, though, that she was going in the right direction. Since her intuition had yet to fail her in her twenty-one years, she listened. After a series of similarly deserted hallways, a flight or two of stairs, and a set of heavy wooden doors later, Natalia found herself in one of the many rooms of the much less populated Département Ancien.

Only a few museumgoers shuffled about in the room Natalia had crept into, looking at dusty sets of war armor and arms from the 13th to 15th centuries and an impressive collection of medieval swords. Natalia idly inspected the remarkable quantity of blades for a few moments before continuing on into the next room which was named, according to a plaque over the doorway, the Louis XIII Room: The Progress of the Royal Army. Five civilians milled about the Louis XIII Room, which Natalia quickly discovered was more precisely dedicated to artifacts from the Italian campaigns, the wars against the Habsburg Empire, the wars of religion of the 16th century, and the early 17th century French wars. Arms and armors related to major figures of French history spanning from Francis I to Louis XIII were featured, and there was a Turkish cabinet showcasing Ottoman pieces from the same period. Natalia traipsed on through a themed arsenal gallery next and then through a room highlighting courtly leisure activities like hunting and jousting from the late Middle Ages to the mid-17th century.

Finally, she came to an archway bearing a plaque that read “Oriental Cabinets (15th – Early 20th Century).” Beyond laid a room much like the others in the Département Ancien; it was occupied by a handful of immediately visible people, filled with relics of long-dead peoples, and was seemingly absent of any sign of Natalia’s targets. She stifled a sigh as she stepped into the room and immersed herself in the wide assortment of suits of armor, knives, and firearms deriving from the war cultures of the Ottoman, Persian, Mongolian, Chinese, Japanese, and Indonesian civilizations. The Musée de l’Armée’s host of weapons, ornaments, and oriental trophies from the Middle East to the furthermost bounds of Asia, from Maghreb to Japan, was astounding.

As Natalia approached a display of five samurai panoplies upheld by wooden pegs protected behind a glass wall, a glimmer of ash-pale blonde hair appeared in her periphery. Natalia focused all of her mental energy on appreciating the craftsmanship and antiquity of the suits of armor before her, the way the light played off the grotesque black masks, the distinct shape and construction of each piece’s breastplate. The White King and Queen had rounded a corner and were murmuring to one another about an opalescent sea snail shell that had been transformed into a lustrous powder horn and a series of heavy 16th century matchlock guns. Natalia’s hands folded over her stomach, her fingers prepared to slip a set of concealed blades out from a series of slits in her bodice. She quietly walked to the next display in their direction, a collection of Japanese horse armors fitted on life-size model horses, and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“—hard to believe the Portuguese singlehandedly changed the way warfare was fought in Japan forever, is it not?”

The White King’s voice was like liquid crystal, like cut glass: polished, cold, smooth, hard. It sent a chill through Natalia, and she was momentarily torn back to the pressing heat of June 26. His voice—she hadn’t remembered it, couldn’t quite recall it, not until now. He was the one, the one who caused the West Berlin Incident. Natalia’s eyes snapped to his reflection in the glass of the display she stood before.

His back was to her and he was several exhibits away, but she was able to get a clear image of him nonetheless. Light grey slacks and matching Italian suit jacket. Pale cashmere Borsalino fedora. Black leather brogues and gloves. He shifted his weight and turned to examine another matchlock, permitting Natalia sight of the pressed white dress shirt, asymmetric maroon waistcoat, and wine-colored ascot he wore under his unbuttoned suit jacket. He was not visibly armed, but that mattered very little in his case; as a psychic of the highest order, his mind was an armament deadlier than any nuclear or chemical weapon.

At length, the White Queen—wrapped in an ecru shawl-necked and sheath-skirted dress paired with lace gloves and designer pumps—replied with an equally as frigid aristocratic accent: “You know how looking at these dusty old guns catapults me into a depressive spiral, darling.”

The White King glanced to the woman beside him, his eyes studying her profile, and he reached a gloved hand out to her exposed bicep. His fingers had barely brushed the White Queen’s skin when she reached up and gently patted the back of his hand. Natalia’s eyes narrowed. There was something peculiarly childlike in his action, something maternally reassuring about her reaction. Natalia reassessed their relationship in her mind, placing the White Queen in the role of elder sister this time and the White King as younger brother.

“If you need anything, I’ll be at Napoleon’s tomb reliving the days when Joséphine and I used to mock his stature behind his back,” the White Queen flashed the man at her side a wry grin, and Natalia’s brow furrowed in confusion. Was she speaking in code? She must have been—Napoleon Bonaparte died over a century ago. “Who knows? I may ridicule the domineering little toad once more for old time’s sake. Kisses.”

With that, she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the room through the opposite archway. The White King returned to his inspection of the matchlocks and likely to his musing about the Portuguese influence on Japanese warfare as well. Natalia walked on to the next display, no longer paying much attention to what rested behind the sturdy sheets of glass. Her eyes flicked around the room.

Glass displays set in the walls. Glass exhibits anchored to wooden or stone bases strewn about the floor. Weapons of all sorts at every turn. Walls on either side with wide, full-length arched windows looking out to a courtyard each—the Cour d’Honneur to the east and the smaller Cour d'Angoulème to the west. The open archway behind her offered passage to the room concerning the pastimes of France’s court and another arch in the far southern wall opened to a corridor. The few museumgoers in the room slowly made their way in either direction out of the Oriental Cabinets.

Natalia steeled herself. When the last civilian exited the room, she noiselessly turned about and stalked toward the White King. Her fingers twitched against her bodice, and thin blades slipped free and rolled into each of her hands.

“Lovely to see you again, comrade,” the White King said, facing the centuries-old harquebuses rather than Natalia. “Have you enjoyed spying on us?”

Natalia was stunned, nearly stumbling on her way to him. He knew. They knew—had known all along. They’d been playing the K.G.B. this whole time, intentionally leaving a trail to be followed. Why? Natalia’s eyes snapped around the room. No civilians, no witnesses, no White Queen. The heavy mahogany doors thrown open at each archway slammed shut and bolted as if controlled by a spectral breeze. She had walked right into a trap.

Her lip curled, and she charged the White King. She fell upon him as he turned to finally face her, and she buried one knife deep into his back as she jabbed up with her other arm, jamming the blade into his throat. His eyes widened in shock before he collapsed to his knees and—

“You are going to have to try harder than that, sweetheart.”

Natalia whipped around, drawing the last set of blades from her bodice and slashed out at the man behind her. Blood arced in a brilliant scarlet stream in the air until it… didn’t. Before it even fell upon the ground, it had vaporized into prismatic mist. The crimson dripping down her knives and staining her hands melted away into nothingness. The White King—a second White King?—crumpled at her feet.

She staggered, backing into a glass display case, eyes wild. Natalia’s gaze snapped from the first White King to the second, both equally as dead as the other, both the exact same person. How?

“Cute,” a third White King stepped into view from around a rack of North African armors.

Natalia snarled and threw a blade in his direction. Her aim was true, and the knife spiked him between his piercing ice blue eyes. He died on the spot.

After a pregnant pause, Natalia frowned and knelt down beside the second White King. She pressed her index and middle finger to his throat, feeling for a pulse that had already weakly bled out of existence. His flesh was still warm, though, and it was surprisingly soft. She withdrew her hand, uncertain what to make of… well, anything.

“What kind of deception—?”

“You tell us, comrade,” two identical voices—the White King’s—harmonized with one another, and Natalia scanned the room in alarm. A White King leaned against the display of samurai armors she had earlier observed. Another King yawned indifferently by the far mahogany doors. “In fact, why not tell all of us?”

Before her eyes, the three corpses scattered about on the marble floor twitched to life. Quick as a lightning strike, Natalia slammed her final blade into the stirring White King nearest her and watched as he immaterialized into glittering stardust and then empty air. Natalia’s eyes widened, and when she felt the first White King’s hands grasp her shoulders from behind, she surged up, snagging the blade protruding from his throat, and flipped herself over. She landed on his shoulders, her strong legs wrapped about his neck, and with a twist of her body, she severed his spine and leapt off of him. By the time her last victim crashed to the floor, she had already flung the knife she had just recovered and had stuck the White King nearest the far doors in the sternum. Both White Kings burst apart in clouds of sparkling dust that drifted away like smoke into the horizon. Natalia rounded and chucked her final blade at the White King she had previously nailed between the eyes, once more dropping him.

“Illusions of a sort,” said the White King—the final one, the real one?—who leaned casually against the samurai exhibit, “but also tangible constructs, as you clearly noticed. A little blending of telepathic persuasion and telekinetic energy can go quite the distance.”

Natalia blinked.

“Yes,” the corner of his lips ticked up into a roguish grin. “I am the authentic. It really is a delight to see you again, Natalia.”

“You were in West Berlin,” Natalia said dumbly, her composure apparently fractured after such a strange experience.

She’d fought a psychic or two who had tried to distract her with illusions, but never before had they been so… corporeal. She had felt the wet heat of fresh blood on her skin, had felt the smooth fabric of his clothes and the straining solidity of the body they covered.

“Indeed, comrade. Now, is this the point in our exchange where you tell me to keep my nose out of K.G.B. business? I admit that I have been looking forward to it.”

Natalia took a single step toward the White King, and he tilted his head curiously. Something popped in her head, and Natalia’s vision splintered, spidery fissures rapidly spreading inward from the corners of her eyes until her sight had corroded into a series of frost-edged translucent fractals, until she felt as though she were looking directly through the heart of a multifaceted jewel in order to see her surroundings. She attempted to glower at the White King but found that when she turned her gaze on him, she saw his face broken into five different shards and the rest of him jaggedly distorted like a damned Picasso portrait. Natalia stumbled, struggling to make sense of what she saw around her. She shook her head, wincing and nauseous, and felt a white chill tapping on the boundaries of her mind.

“You look a mite ill, comrade,” the White King noted dryly. “Is this really all it takes to squash one of you Soviet spiders? In the spirit of candor, you fail to live up to expectation.”

Natalia gnashed her teeth and rushed the man. He easily sidestepped her and leaned out of the way when she wheel kicked the space between them. Growling out her frustration, she lurched at him, hoping to tackle him if nothing else, her vision crystallized and heartbeat quickening. He merely nudged her out of the way, knocking her into another glass exhibit.

Natalia closed her eyes and recomposed herself. Getting worked up would only result in getting even sloppier. She needed to focus. To breathe. To listen.

“This is just embarr—” Ears pricked and eyes clenched shut, Natalia stepped into the King’s voice, jabbing out with her left fist and brushing the fine fabric of his suit jacket. Reconfiguring the proximity upon hearing his breath spike in surprise as he pulled back from her, she took three quick steps and hooked him across the jaw with her right fist. “Bloody hell!”

It had been a glancing blow, but it had been enough. She let her body turn with the momentum of her right hook, leaning into his recoiling frame and spinning to strike the White King with the back of her left fist or to crush his windpipe with her elbow. He tripped her foot mid-turn, though, and sent her tumbling before him. Twisting, Natalia plucked the stilettos from her updo, sending her long hair cascading around her, and slung the short tapered knives up at the White King from her inelegant stance on the floor. The sleek daggers slowed the second they left Natalia’s hands until they came to a halt in the air, their deadly points half a meter from piercing the man’s thigh and abdomen.

The White King slowly turned his gaze back to Natalia. His jaw was already beginning to bruise. His fedora sat at a jaunty angle atop his head now, and long strands of hair hung down in his face from his coiffure, having been knocked out of place by the force of Natalia’s punch which had also apparently jarred him enough for him to cease the telepathic spell he had over her sight. Her vision had finally returned to normal. The White King’s eyes were ablaze, his glacier blue irises becoming rings of luminous silver light in seconds that seemed to span centuries. Natalia could feel the air crackle with energy around the King and her, and she finally felt like she was beginning to comprehend that this man was not one to be trifled with. She had read as much in his files, but reading and witnessing were two entirely separate things as Natalia was discovering.

“Good hit,” his voice was hard as stone. “Now, if you would, my rebuttal.”

The stilettos redirected their suspended trajectories and were released from the White King’s telekinetic hold, or rather, were expelled like darts from it. On either side of Natalia and the White King, the daggers streaked through the air and struck the marble floor, puncturing it as though it were warmed butter rather than cold rock and sank to the hilt into the polished stone. Before Natalia could even respond, she was hurled across the room and propelled into a case of antique blades from the Middle East, the wind knocked from her lungs as glass shattered, wood cracked, and blades fell around her and cut at her exposed flesh. She slid to the floor amidst the wreckage, gasping and eyes wide but not frightened. She didn’t scare that easily.

The White King’s irises returned to their normal frigid blue hue, and as he strode to her, he turned his gaze down to his white dress shirt which had come untucked during their fight. He fixed his shirt while he walked, and Natalia eyed the man for a moment as he stalked toward her before quickly taking stock of the situation. He had five or six inches of height and maybe twenty or thirty pounds of weight on her, but she was surrounded by fallen swords and was used to capitalizing on her being the smaller opponent in combat. While the King’s attention was elsewhere, Natalia subtly reached across her body, wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped grip of a scimitar, assessed the length of the blade and the diminishing distance between the King and her, and waited. Three steps, two steps, one step—

She lunged upward just as the White King stepped within range, and she swung the scimitar’s curved edge out in a wide arc, catching the man off-guard. His reflexes were quick, but they were not anywhere near quick enough to entirely evade the blade. He cursed hotly and staggered away from Natalia, gripping his right bicep. Claret blood spilled like dark wine from between his gloved fingers and trickled from the gash in the arm of his suit jacket. Had he not managed a half-step back before the sword struck him, he would have lost his arm.

Pressing her advantage, Natalia utilized the motion of the first strike to spring into the air. Swinging the scimitar over her head, she planned to bring it crashing down on the White King. She had not expected him to be prepared for the downstroke of the sword, though, much less catch the blade between the flat of his hands and actually stop it, leather gloves ripping and sparks flying. Natalia couldn’t even process how he had done it until after she had collided into him, had felt every bone in her body rattle on impact, and had rolled to the blood-speckled marble floor after he had shoulder-checked her aside as though she were a ragdoll.

She stared up at the White King as he tossed the scimitar over his shoulder, his whole person scinitillating in the afternoon light. His flesh, his hair, his teeth, his eyes… they were coated in some kind of crystalline carapace. Or… the makeup of his entire body had somehow transmuted into a strange, organic diamond substance.

“Bozhe moi…” Natalia breathed, otherwise rendered speechless. He was beautiful and awesome and definitely a hell of a lot harder to kill now. This certainly hadn’t been mentioned in the K.G.B.’s dossier.

The second his body shifted to take a step in Natalia’s direction, she snapped out of her daze and hiked up her skirt, drawing her handguns from the holsters strapped to her thighs. She didn’t even aim. Not at the range she was at and not when a man made of diamond was about to bear down on her. She just fired. Repeatedly. And prayed to a God she just might start believing in if this do-or-die tactic worked.

A fusillade of staccato gunfire filled the room, but much to Natalia’s dread, the White King still stood resolute and immovable. Every single bullet had either flattened into steaming bronze discs when they struck him or had ricocheted wildly off the curves and contours of his dazzling body. One of the bullets actually slung off of him and grazed Natalia’s left shoulder. She couldn’t even feel the stinging pain beyond the numbing shock she felt. Who was this man?

“You are certainly not the first person to realize that you cannot harm me like that in this form, comrade,” The White King said, his voice oddly metallic and detached. “But be my guest and keep trying if you so wish.”

He began to prowl toward her, and after everything she had seen today, Natalia knew with a cold rationality that her only real option left to her was racing in the opposite direction of the White King and hoping for the best. She wasn’t equipped with the means to take him down, not like this. As he continued to unhurriedly advance on her, Natalia scrambled to her feet and ran, covering her retreat with another vain barrage of bullets.

Her eyes darted along the wall to which she dashed. Eastern wall. The Cour d’Honneur was two or three stories below her—she couldn’t remember anymore, but it didn’t matter. She had made jumps much worse than two or three stories and had walked it off afterward. Out one of the windows it was, then.

Natalia gritted her teeth and braced herself seconds before she barreled into a window and soared out of the Oriental Cabinets. For the second time that day, shards of glass burst around her, the sharp splinters sparking in the sunlight and spreading like pearlescent lines of a web behind her. The wind tugged at her snapping hair, and she alit neatly upon the sun-warmed pavers of the complex’s vacant central courtyard as the glass rained down around her like cutting hailstones. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Natalia glanced back up in the direction from which she had fallen. Outside the long rooms of the Musée de l’Armée, she could now tell that she had in fact been on the third story.

The White King stood in the window with one brogue-shod foot raised on the ledge and one hand gloved in tattered leather resting against the frame. Shimmery colored light sparked like fire off of him, and when he canted his head to scrutinize her from three stories up, glaring starbursts of prismatic color scorched Natalia’s eyes. When she finally averted her gaze and did the only logical thing left to do—sprint out of the Cour d’Honneur, hotwire a car in the parking lot of Les Invalides, and speed back across the Seine away from her second failure as an elite deep-cover agent of the K.G.B.—the bright white spots of his shine that had been burned into the backs of her eyelids remained.

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