#horror was not NEARLY this tedious i know damn well. this is why he's the best mtt member 😇😇😇😇

[triglycercule]

ayaaaaaaa archiving is so TEDIOUS why did i do this 💔💔💔💔💔💔 whatever,,,,, gotta get through it

[betweentheracks]

On a scale of 1-5000, how annoyed do you get when people have the gall to tell you, “Wow! You’re so lucky!” when they find out that you work in entertainment and with celebrities?

Also on a scale of 1-5000, how unimpressed are you with the celebrities you end up working with?

Please share some horror stories so we can commiserate over nightmare clients! 😂

Yeef and also yikes, do I actually want to dive into this particular can of worms? Lmao. 

I thoroughly see spots of red in my vision whenever people try to do the whole “Wow, that’s really cool and lucky for you! How many famous people have you met or worked with? Your life must be so glamorous and exciting!!” Like please, spare me. It isn’t glitz and glitter all the time - in fact, the fun parts are in the minority of how working in this industry goes. Beyond that, I’m not ‘lucky,’ I worked my ass off to pull this off and have never slowed my pace (until this COVID-19 chaos) to ensure my post remains relevant. In accordance to your ranking, I guess I would go with 4999 points annoyed.

Frankly, my rating and impressions of my clients are like a river that flows on and on and yet there is no apparent water to be found. I have a good rapport with most of the ones I am contracted with exclusively, but they're prone to make my feelings change from sentence to the next. Celebrities will forever remain exhaustively effervescent. 

If you really want some dish, I can offer up some from a client I once worked with in my apprenticeship and how much I hate the time I had to spend with her while also retaining a sense of gratitude for helping shape me into someone that can withstand some of the prickly goings-on of the industry. She wasn’t even my client, as I was merely apprenticing and therefore was little more than a ghost that shadowed one of the veterans of our company. I’m highlighting this now before diving into the thick of what was the worst week in my career thus far because it is extremely important to keep in mind that I was under no actual obligation to work with this woman. 

Ahem, so, story time! Let me start off with first making it clear that even now I will only work with actresses and actors when I have no viable means of refusal. This is simply a preference of mine and stems mostly from this woman’s behaviors and treatments of me and some of the crew I worked with at the time. I was quite young when I entered my apprenticeship, like barely more than 20, and I was simultaneously accustomed and starstruck by the world I was entering. Before the apprenticeship, I had already been working off and on via temporary contracts and commissions as a MUA at the time, so I knew the ends and outs of the place and the people that worked my end of it. However, I hadn’t worked with many clients one on one as either a MUA or as an aspiring wardrobe stylist. Due to this I was still very green and awkward and hadn’t yet figured out the line between casual and professional (to this day, for me, this line is nearly nonexistent) and I tended to make a mess whenever I opened my mouth so mostly I kept quiet and melded into my role as an observing trainee with occasionally useful ideas but was mostly just an extra pair of hands. The stylist I was shadowing was, in a word, cumbersome. They weren’t a very great teacher and had a tendency to drop projects into my lap without much proper instruction or insight and would leave me to attempt making sense of what was wanted by means of vision boards and client portfolios. In much a similar fashion, when a scheduling conflict came up involving the actress which will star in this tale and another more major artist; naturally, he had to see to the client he had a more tangible contract with and stuck me with wrangling our golden girl. 

Within the first 4 sentences of our first exchange as stylist and client I hated her immensely. She was the type of client I abhor to work with; overbearing and demanding, thankless and impatient. She was in the midst of her career finally catching some interest which is the most pivotal time in any celebrity’s career and I like to think she was so bitchy and just plain mean due to the stress and pressure she was under but it doesn’t make what happened any more justifiable. Her immediate and first words to me were, “You’re young and clueless enough to be my baby sister. Whatever authority you think you can have in dictating what I wear ended with the sound of the door opening when you stepped in, get that straight now.” I remember this extremely clearly because I went from gobsmacked to incensed within the time it takes to pop the top on a can of soda. But! I knew at least enough to know to keep my mouth shut and temper my immediate dislike of this person and tried to push forward and steer the conversation in the direction of what her ideal style and presentation should be. It went well enough for all of an hour tops before she domed me again by calling me “baby sis” in place of my name. As I am, in fact, the baby sis of my family I am well aware of when a power play is being maneuvered in on me and spotted this for what it was: her trying to remind me that I had no right to be speaking to her, let alone designing her. This was a culmination of her being upset and put out that she wasn’t chosen by my mentoring stylist and was stuck with someone that had basically no merits behind her. 

Calling me this wasn’t really an issue for me, but it did chafe against my skin enough to make me feel uncomfortable and anxious. Still, I let it slide and she continued to call me as such for the duration of our time together. The true horror of this story is what comes next and the escalation from minor verbal insults meant to belittle me fanned into blatant sabotage. She and I had come to a sort of estranged agreement when it came to modeling her vision board - she wanted to retain some traces of her perceived sweet and demure self from when she was cast in her first role, but play up the maturity and grace she held now and have it reinvented into timeless class while holding a touch of being chic. It was a headache to make sense of since, from a the perspective of fashion and trends at that time, this wasn’t the ideal and even seemed counterintuitive to someone in her position and of her age. I went along with it and threw myself into the quest to pull from the brands she mentioned liking most and for days I learned firsthand how exhausting and tedious it is to make acquisitions and swear responsibilities/accountabilities one after the other and put my name and my company on the line. I handpicked every item and steadily managed to pull off forming my second ever ensemble of 4 sets of styles each with 2 or 3 substitution items that could alter the look entirely while still remaining within the realm of what the client had asked for. I worked upward of 13 hours for 4 days and when I finally was able to bring the client to her showroom and present my designs, I was only able to feel relieved for mere minutes before she began to yell and make a scene. She demanded my supervisor and the head of the styling department of our company both come to tend to her and see what a mockery I had made of her ideal image. She went on to use her acting quirks to insinuate that I had gone off half-cocked and overruled her every idea and word and then dared to present her with such low quality fashions. She even managed to produce a vision board that was entirely different from the one she and I had planned together! It was obviously done by herself and lacked the detailed attention any of the stylists housed in our company would have added, but it was convincing enough to appear damning. 

At this point my head was in a weird place, trying to make sense of the perilous world I was throwing myself into and the fact that this was actually happening to me at all and wasn’t just me daydreaming while watching daytime dramas. After I worked through that initial shock, I was more than mad but less than enraged. I was confused as to why this client was being so purposefully obstinate and difficult for me, even briefly wondered what sort of grievance I could have possibly cost her when I had only just met her and had done my utmost to seem cool and pro like all the seasoned stylists I had worked with. I thought I was going to lose my job and have to go back to my family with my tail between my legs and tell them they were right and I never should have strayed from my original course and career path. I only became aware that I was crying, like big fat tears that made a mess of my face and were embarrassing to the point that I wanted to flee, because my supervisor had given me his handkerchief. It was at this point that I teetered and looked deeply at the person accusing me and wasting my time and efforts and realized that it wasn’t about me and was only ever about her. This moment of clarity, though, was like the opening of a gate I had been clinging to all week in hopes of keeping all my spurned senses quietly simmering beneath my skin rather than wreck my name and finish off my chances before they truly begun. I very rudely told my supervisor and the department head that if they needed proof of my hardwork and dedication to the vision of a thoughtless actress caught in the weeds of her own wilting fame then they were free to examine my copy of the original vision board and compare it with the one she had; that they could check through the 15 or so LORs under my name and in her stead (both names are featured for security means). Anyway, she was attempting to spill a stain across our company and specifically the stylist in charge of me for blowing her off. Her idea was that if I failed in a big way it would make him look like a horrible mentor and cost him some of his reputation. I was merely cannon fodder.

This got insanely long - let’s put it up to me also being a storyteller and writer as well as very passionate about this encounter. It sparked the timid embers of my uncertain pursuit of my career into a fire that has since gotten me through many other rounds of hard hitting clients and their excessive personalities and entitled arrogance. I love my job a lot, but man is this industry full of bullies.  

[ren-c-leyn]

Friday Night Fights Story: Revenge

 Decided to do this again since I had fun the last time. This is a short story for @promptsforthestrugglingauthor‘s Friday Night Fights writing event. I wrote this story using this week’s prompt is here, as well as these 1,2 other prompts from their vast collection.

 Okay, a warning before you jump into this one: this is a story of revenge. It both mentions deaths in passing and actually has a murder in it. It’s a little more descriptive than my usual glossing right over it, but it’s not overly graphic.

 It started years ago: when the queen died without announcing an heir. No one knows what happened, and frankly, I doubt anyone cares. Not truly. Not for the right reasons. Heaven’s mercy, I don’t even care about what happened, only the fallout of it.

 Nobles of all stripes set their sights on her throne. They all wanted to rule, even the ones who pretended to bow their heads. Of course, it couldn’t be settled civilly, no. No one gets power like that without a cost.

 Unfortunately, the one who paid for the throne with the blood of the people and the other nobles is, frankly, a tyrant.

 We risked everything to rise, to stand against him, and were destroyed. I watched in horror as my ancestral home was burned to the ground, my own parents forced to stay inside. And I swore to do more than get him off the throne: I swore to take his head.

 Many other nobles and merchant families rallied to my quiet calls, the whispers I sent out in the dead of night. But traitors came, and good people died. Now, now there’s only two of us left. Two desperate people searching to relieve the throne from the weight of the king’s sins.

 I knew something was amiss as I sat across from my last partner in this conspiracy. He fidgeted through the plan, practically squirmed at each point. Then, when the potential fall out of it all hit him, he stiffened up like a damned corpse left out in the winter snow.

 “You ask too much.”

 “Only what is needed.”

 “And if this fails too? What happens when it comes crashing down on our heads, hm? What will you do then? What shall I do then? What of my family? My daughters?”

 I sat silently, staring back at him. An icy chill ran through my chest. His family? What of my family? What of all I sacrificed to face this monster openly? Coward. The word echoed in my mind as I stared him down from across the table. One left, I silently corrected myself.

 “Isn’t it the price we all paid?”

 In the thick of the following silence, he ripped himself up and out of the worn out chair.

 “That’s it! I’m giving up and I’m just done.” He strode toward the door, only turning back for a moment. “What, no protest? You’re not going to give some grand speech to convince me otherwise?”

 “With you gone, there’s no one in my way. By all means, don’t let me hold you back. I’ll make sure the next ruler is aware of your cowardice in due time.”

 He lingered there at the door, face uncertain. His body swayed back and forth, deciding. Eventually, a sigh escaped him.

 “You ask too much,” he echoed in a defeated tone.

 “Then leave, for you won’t have much to lose, soon.”

 His face danced between hardened anger and fresh anxiety before just melting into exhaustion.

 “You believe this has a chance? An honest chance?”

 “As much of one as we’ve ever had, and if it fails, well, is that any worse than how we’re living now?”

 He mulled the words over before sighing again.

 “I... I’ll make the arrangements.” He turned to face me fully, his face turning stony and hard. “But don’t fail. By the gods, I don’t care what you have to do, but don’t fail.”

 I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

 “Who do you think you’re talking to? Now, unless you have another dramatic outburst to make, I suggest you move quickly. Time is of the essence.”

 He gave me a curt, half bow, the tattered clothes of his disguise wrinkling and swaying as he did his best drunken stagger out of the rotting shack, singing off key in a shrill and irritating voice.

 I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands, listening to the familiar way the floorboards creaked underneath. We would do ourselves what we had failed to do with armies and laws. I shook my head. No. Not we. I. I would do it. I would avenge my family, my house, my honor, my queen....

 Three nights passed, and the package arrived at the tavern I had been hiding out in. I pulled out the finery, the mask, the invitation, and the note.

 ~ Don’t fail.

 I snorted and threw the parchment back down. Who did he think I was? A coward? An amateur? I didn’t survive this long by making mistakes.

 I began the slow, tedious process of fitting myself into the clothing. The silks and velvet felt foreign to me now. It had been so long, so very long, since they had last touched my skin. The lace suddenly itched. The jewels and gold felt heavy around my neck. I looked in the mirror and felt ill. It was like staring at a twisted ghost of my former self. A ghost of the person who burned away that day.

 I pulled the mask on, dispelling the image. Maybe one day I could look at my reflection with pride one day. Not tonight, though, not tonight.

 I scooped up the invitation and the most important item of the night before setting out, careful to avoid the paths prying eyes would linger around. The Baron, for all of his cowardice, did know how to follow a plan. The carriage was right where he had promised, driver and all.

 I climbed into the back seat and the horses whisked us away to the grand ball. A beautiful and exciting event for an even more thrilling one.

 Getting in was no trouble for me. I showed the invitation and was announced under a false name. When asked whom I was, I merely tossed out a name of one of the advisors and moved on.

 There was a thick feeling of nostalgia as I waded through the crowds of fancy dresses and elegant suits. The flashes of jewels, the soft music of the band playing in the back of the ballroom. Servants floated around in their best uniforms, passing out drinks and treats as nobles talked business, events, vied for favor and power with each other. It was such a strange world compared to the dark alleys and cramped, ale-scented basements I had been living in for years now.

 But this was not a place for me to linger nor a time for reminiscing. No. Not while the job was left unfinished.

 I swept through the room, a drink in hand, searching for him. It took some time, slipping in and out of conversations, and a dance with a random minor lord before I finally saw him. Just at the end of the dance, as we were both bowing to each other, I spied him from across the room; golden candlelight softened his features, and his eyes just nearly looked kind. Human. But only nearly. I reached for the knife strapped to my thigh.

 The dress was styled perfectly. No one would see me pulling out the blade from the slit underneath the fluff and ruffles. I doubted anyone would even notice the gesture. No. Not until the blood was spilling.

 I excused myself from my former dance partner and waded back into the crowd, eyes locked on him. The king’s laughter began to filter through, slowly rising above the talking and the music as I grew closer. He didn’t know. The fool didn’t even suspect that I, that death, was so near. And it made me angry.

 I didn’t know why, but it made me so angry that it felt like ice was in my chest and my blood was catching on fire. The knife handle in my hand was likely the only thing keeping me from outwardly showing my rage; betraying my contempt, my bloodlust.

 Before my mind had finished processing where I was, I was standing before him. His attention focused on me, and I bowed before him.

 “Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you again,” I spoke far more tenderly and calmly than I knew myself capable of.

 “It is a pleasure to see you again....” his voice trailed off as he attempted to place me, to recall my name.

 The smile that came to my lips was the first genuine smile to grace my face in years. I spoke quietly, a near whisper, as I reintroduced myself.

 “Wolfstone. Quinn Wolfstone.”

 Just was the recognition and shock registered in his eyes, my knife came out of its hiding place and flew across his throat. A sea of crimson flew out, staining the deep cobalt blue of his fine clothes an even darker red. He collapsed onto the white floor, the sea of red slowly ebbing further and further out as he choked and gargled.

 I stood over him, the knife already back in its place. Still, the blood on my mask and dress would be a dead giveaway. Suppose I should have asked the Baron to send me a red one, but it did not matter now.

 The nobles and servants were screaming as the guards started to rush for me. I ran out, shoving through the crowd until the minor lord whom had danced with me earlier in the evening caught me by the arm, pulling me around to look him in the eye.

“What…what have you done?” he asked, voice dripping with horror.

“What needed to be done. And I won’t apologize for it,” replied with resolution and steel before ripping my arm out of his grasp and continuing my flight out of the palace as the alarm was sounded.

 From somewhere behind me, I could hear that distant cry, the one I had been waiting to hear since my life went up in flames.

 “The king is dead! The king is dead!”

~

Short story taglist, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed:

 @nemowritesstuff ,  @likelyfantasywriterspsychic, @dawnoftheagez,   @orphicodysseywrites,  @hannahs-creations, @writer-candy, @kaylewiswrites, @ravenpuffwriter,  @tenacious-scripturient​, @ofinkblotsandscript,   @mischiefiswritten,   @kespada, @asterannie, @silvertalonwriteblr, @inspiring-prompts, @greenwood-writes,  @wemitodd , @elkatheinkstained, @n1ghtcrwler, @writingiswilde,  @say-no-to-negativity ,  @wordshavings  

[agent-cupcake]

12 for yandere list for Felix would be so good. If you don't mind I mean...

12. “Just tell me their name and I’ll make this all better.”

Usually, your words flowed without filter when you returned home. Living with Felix was to take on the responsibility of filling a decent amount of dead air, and you hardly ever lacked material to regale him with over dinner. Not to mention your carefully cultivated talent of drawing him into a conversation, something you prided yourself on. 

But tonight, there were too many things that needed to be said for you to speak. You knew that your silence was damning. You knew that it said more than you ever could, given a harsh voice by the uncomfortable contrast. You knew these things and loathed and loved it in equal measure because, while it was too much to hope that Felix would never find out, you desperately wanted a few more of these awkward, blessedly silent minutes before he did.

But he wasn’t nearly that stupid and you were a terrible liar.

“What's the matter with you tonight?” Felix asked, his voice holding an edge of impatient exasperation, as if he’d been waiting a while to speak up. There was a sweet kind of concern, too, even if he did well to hide it. “Usually I can’t get you to stop talking. Not that I mind that. It’s better than sitting here watching you frown at your food.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” you said, taking another stab at your dinner without much enthusiasm. “I guess I’m just... Worn out.”

“Really,” Felix said, deadpan with his displeasure. It made you wince, peeking up at his expression from beneath your lashes. As you’d expect, his mouth was drawn in a frown, one eyebrow arched to compliment the implied question. You couldn’t help but feel that there was something else in that expression. One of the reasons for your anxiety, for your dread of him asking such a simple question. What had happened earlier that day weighed heavily on your mind. Not because of what had been said or how you felt about it, but because of the result you anticipated. 

It wasn’t like you were afraid of Felix, but the feeling was close enough to make your stomach twist in unhappiness, like it was a betrayal to him. You wanted so badly to write it off. Felix was just overprotective. That was understandable, after all he’d been through. 

But sometimes it was frightening. He was frightening. It was as if your pain had an odd effect on the world, an unspoken law of retribution.

Sometimes your skin bristled with goosebumps as you averted your eyes to avoid meeting Felix’s directly because the intensity of his gaze was enough to flay skin from bone, to make your limbs feel cold.

Sometimes he held you just a little too tightly, hiding in the dark to tell you things just a touch off beat, stumbling around the subject of love that still occasionally gave him pause with words establishing his unquestionable claim on you anew.

You weren’t afraid of Felix, but there was something dark simmering below the surface of the man you loved. An open wound that had never seen treatment. That was why, even though you knew he’d learn about it regardless, you shook your head. “It’s silly. I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, clearly,” Felix quipped. He sighed a moment later, shaking his head. “Tell me or don’t but I’d rather you didn’t lie about it.”

You felt your shoulders wilt a bit. There was no malice in his voice. Even if you worried about what laid beneath, Felix was just being kind. You knew full well that he worried. It made you feel guilty. 

“You know how it is. How nobles are, I mean,” you said, thinking of a way to phrase it all in a way that would make it seem petty. Insignificant. “They can be pretty awful sometimes. But it’s fine, I can handle it. I don’t even know why I’m so upset, I already knew how they felt.”

“Did someone say something to you?” Felix asked. His tone had shifted, going from frustrated to sharp. You met his eyes. They were intense, now, lurching that worried pit of anxiety upwards with a deeply unsettling tug. 

“Yes, but it’s not a huge deal,” you said, once again averting your eyes, trying to downplay it.

“Obviously it is,” Felix responded sharply. Then, as if in apology for his harsh reaction, he added, “I won’t be able to help you unless you tell me.”

Help. That was one way to put it. As the head of House Fraldarius, Felix had a great deal of sway. But it wasn’t just that. People forget who Felix was. The war was over, Felix wasn’t the harsh blade of the kingdom who took out enemies as a demon on the field. On the days where he let you hold his calloused hand as you walked the streets of the newly flourishing Fhirdiad and when he sat through endless tedious councils with the newly forged government, he was the kindest version of himself. So people forgot. 

Fools. 

The man who had approached you was from Alliance territory and had a greasy smile and hot breath. He laughed at your disgusted reaction to his proposition, even laughing when you twisted his arm for trying to touch you. A scrappy, irreverent sort of man. The worst that the nobility had to offer. And right then, you had felt sorry for him.  

“Since we married, I, of course, am a lot higher rank than before,” you began to explain, knowing it was a losing battle to keep silent. Felix would find out anyway, he always did. “So the nobles defer to me, but they all know I was born a commoner. Some of them don’t like that, I guess. They see me as a social climber, that I married you for the title. So some of them think I would do anything to get ahead. So they... Make offers, I guess. Thinking that I’ll... You know...” You shrugged, trying to skirt around the words themselves to make it sound less threatening. When you looked up, whatever attempt you’d been about to make to further downplay the interaction caught in your throat.

Once, you had fallen into the river at the precipice of spring, when the beds were filled to the brim and the water gushed fast with melting mountain snow. You were lucky to get out, as rivers like were more like than not to freeze your body blue as they dragged you into the dark. As it was, you’d come away shaken to your core and shivering for days, panicked whenever you remembered the water in your lungs or the terror of the fall. Something of that childhood horror was pulled to the surface by the expression Felix wore.

“I see,” he said. “So you were approached with an offer to help you “get ahead” in exchange for a sexual favor. That’s what you were afraid to tell me.” His tone was like tempered steel, the questions made into statements by his even voice. Felix’s eyes weren’t pointedly mad at you, although the irritation was clear. He never leveled the truly frightening emotions at you. 

“I wasn’t afraid,” you said. A lie. You had been afraid. Afraid of this. Your realization, the reason why you had felt sorry for that foolish nobleman, the reason anxiety sunk like an anchor of pure dread into the pit of your stomach. “Felix, like I said, it’s fine. I twisted his arm when he tried to touch me-”

“He tried to touch you?”

"But he didn’t,” you quickly amended, your voice very nearly pleading now. “I’m sure he got the message, so it’s fine. Right?”

“Sure,” Felix said, his face a mask of stoicism and voice unyielding. Anger burned in his eyes, a fiery complement to the stony expression he’d adopted. “Just tell me his name and I’ll make this all better.”

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: T

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you all again for your wonderful feedback!  Comments/Kudos/Reviews are greatly appreciated! I'd love to hear your thoughts and if there was a certain part you liked! Until next time! Stay safe and healthy! -Jen

                                         Chapter Three

Suffocation. Oxygen clawing at her swollen throat, trying to push past damaged glands. Lungs working over time, forcing air that rattled out into coughing fits. Agatha heaved, torn from her sleep as her aching chest burned, fire from the built up acid and phlegm. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't focus. Something left a bitter taste in her mouth and she prayed not think of what it could be.

"Deep breaths."

His voice cut through her wheezing serrated knife. Just his presence alone made Agatha's skin crawl. When she felt his hand on her shoulder, the nun desired nothing more than to slap it away. But her body, like it had been, betrayed her. Hacking turned into gagging and Agatha felt her stomach begin to churn. The moment she felt the cool touch of a metal basin against her chin, she vomited what little she had in her stomach. Sour. It coated the inside of her mouth.

"Drink."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the glass Dracula held out towards her.

"No," she panted, shooting him a glare. "Go away and leave me be."

"While I applaud your undying detest towards me, your stubborn attitude can be rather agitating," Dracula sighed, rolling his eyes. "Have some water, Agatha, before you cause further harm to your trachea."

She stared at the glass cautiously before reaching out and taking it. The water was clear, not a suspicious speck out of place. She swallowed, still hesitant of the vampire's true intent. Inhaling, she pressed the rim to her lips and took a small sip. It burned like Hell going down, throat painfully raw, but the cold numbness that followed afterwards was welcoming. She sighed, slowly gulping down the liquid.

"Your fever still hasn't let up," the vampire commented, taking the glass back. "I've been monitoring you."

"How thoughtful," Agatha scoffed hoarsely. "It's reassuring to know that you are present in my bed chambers when I'm least aware of it."

"You are proving to be quite the least thankful guest," Dracula replied, smirking slightly. "Even Johnny provided better companionship than you-and he too was day," he paused. "Well, I had a hand in that, I should say."

"You're a cruel, sadistic brute," the nun coughed, her head beginning to spin. "You should have killed me in Budapest when you had the chance."

"Again," he sighed. "Where would the fun be in that?"

The nun shook her head, realizing her mistake when the room began to spin. Once more, she found her stomach beginning to churn. Leaning back against her pillow, she stared up at the ceiling. Stone. Cobwebs. Flies. Those damn bugs. Her skin began to prickle as if being singed by invisible flames. Despite being awake for only minutes, her energy had already depleted. She was weak. Vulnerable. And she hated it. Not to mention the headache. God was it getting worse. The throbbing. Focus. Focus.

"Agatha."

The pain was intensifying. Like a herd of horses repeatedly kicking her skull. Her vision was beginning to blur. This was new. At least something to this extreme. Dracula was looming over her and though, in any other case, she'd try to look elsewhere, she forced her eyes to stay locked on him. Stay awake. Stay awake.

"Agatha?"

Even if she wanted to reply, she couldn't. Her muscles had given way, nerves having a mind of their own. It felt as if a weight had been pressed onto her chest. It was hot. Scorching. The fever flaring up again without any sort of mercy. This was it. She was going to die. Her deathbed in the home of her enemy. How climatic. As she began to fade into the darkness, she nearly swore there was a glint of concern in the count's eyes.

                                                       XXX

Ice. Freezing. Her body jolted to consciousness by the unexpected drop in temperature. Agatha yelped in surprise, startled and confused by her new surroundings. A shock that turned into absolute rage. Mortification. She, Sister Agatha Van Helsing, was naked. Bare, no clothing to call her own, in a bathtub of ice water. And if that wasn't enough to rattle the ill nun, Count Dracula watched on from a nearby wall with a carefree expression.

"What…" she hissed through chattering teeth. "You've...you've…"

"Saved you from dangerously overheating?" The vampire finished, an eyebrow raised. "A thank you will suffice."

"How dare you," she snapped, hugging herself tightly. "What on Earth possessed you into thinking that it would be remotely okay to unclothe me?!"

"Trust me, Agatha, I have seen many a man and woman naked," he smirked. "You're nothing special. Though," he paused, playfully allowing his eyes to scan her. "For a nun, your physique is surprisingly appealing to the eye."

"Get out," she growled, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Now!"

"As you wish," he bowed, his lips curving into a smile. "Oh, I took the liberty of replacing your clothes. They were quite dirty after all. Unfortunately, I must admit I do not own any outfits that would be to your fitting so one of my shirts should suffice."

To her horror, Agatha finally noticed a neatly folded, white top. Long sleeved, buttons, and a distinct collar, nothing compared to her nun habit. He had planned this. All of this. And by God, however it was possible, her anger grew. Seeming to notice her dismay, Dracula watched in amusement.

"Do you seriously think that I will-" she began.

"You could always prance around naked," he suggested with a shrug. "But catching a cold on top of your already ailing state I doubt any doctor would advise."

"You conniving leech," she snarled, feeling more exposed by the second. "Why...why do you even have a tub anyways?"

"Everyone needs to have decent hygiene," Dracula replied. "Despite your impression of me, I do hold standards of cleanliness. Now, get dressed, I don't think it best you be out of bed for this long. I'll be right outside the door if you need me."

"I won't," she grumbled.

"All the same," he answered. "I am really attempting at being a good host."

Once he had slipped out of the room, the nun took a deep, rattling breath. How she envied those nuns who lost their lives in the massacre, as horrible as that sounded. Still rather unstable, her legs wobbling, she hobbled over to the stool and picked up the shirt. Surprisingly, for someone who only consumed blood, there wasn't a single stain to be seen.

Putting one arm though each sleeve, she began the tedious task of buttoning it up. Thankfully, due to his height, the shirt appeared more like a chemise than anything else. Short, falling just above her knees, but held a little bit of reserve. A hint.

"Everything alright in there," the vampire knocked. "Do you require any assistance?"

"The only assistance I desire is for you to disappear from the vicinity," Agatha grumbled, reaching for the door handle. "Now turn around, I don't want you looking." Not that it mattered, he'd already seen her nude.

Dracula stood off to the side of the room, his back turned when Agatha reentered the bedroom. She leaned against the wall, already beginning to feel dizzy from the movement alone. When her knees began to waver, the vampire was immediately by her side, grasping her firm, yet gently by the arm. She would've pulled away if she could, but the risk of falling was a much less desirable outcome.

"The shirt suits you," he said, helping her to the mattress. "Much better than that drab, old outfit of yours. Then again, anything in the realm of religion isn't a favorite of mine."

"So I've observed," the nun muttered, crawling back under the sheets. At least she didn't feel as hot as before. "It isn't just the cross then? Do you find fear in theology in general? Why is that?"

"So many questions, Agatha," Dracula exhaled. "Your hunger for education amuses me. Ah, on that subject of appetite, from my observations, humans can't primarily survive on a liquid diet of water. I've made you something."

Now filled with curiosity, Agatha watched as the count left the room. He was only gone for a few moments before returning with a bowl. She eyed it suspiciously as he held it out to her. Then, with great hesitation, she took it. Soup. At least, it appeared that way. A warm, red substance filled with what appeared to be chopped vegetables. Carrots. Onions. Peas.

"What did you do to it?" She inquired, frowning as he handed her a spoon.

Dracula let out a dramatic sigh. "Must you assume everything I do has an ulterior motive behind it?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose that's not entirely false, but I assure you, this soup was made with genuine intentions," he smiled. "Go on, have a taste. I promise I didn't poison it."

Still watching him, Agatha dipped her spoon in and brought the liquid to her lips. Warm. Rich. For someone who didn't eat, the nun wouldn't have guessed based on the quality of her meal. She hadn't realized how truly hungry she was until her utensil clattered against the bottom of the bowl.

"Delectable, right?"

"Tolerable," she mumbled, handing the empty dish back. "Sub par at most."

"I'll take that as a compliment," the vampire smiled. "Hopefully that will hold you off for now. I have a prior engagement tonight so I won't be home unfortunately," there was a glint of malintent in his eye. "I know you'll dreadfully miss me."

"Where are you going?" Agatha asked, ignoring his last statement. "Not that I'm too curious."

"Like you, I need to eat," he replied. The nun's skin began to crawl. "But don't worry, I won't be gone for too long. I'll have long returned by the time you wake up." His eyes flickered over to the sliver of a window, the heavy curtains drawn. "I've had a particular craving for epidemiology lately, and I believe I found the perfect candidate in a nearby town."

Agatha's jaw dropped. "You're considering slaughtering an innocent doctor?!"

"Science has ways of taking its toll on things," Dracula replied, heading towards the door. "But what it takes, it gives back. Try to think of it in a more positive light, Agatha. A life lost is a life saved-that being you, of course. Be thankful, that's the least you can give him."

"No one deserves to die," she frowned, trying to rise from her bed. "Except you."

"I'm already dead, Agatha," he smirked. "Your words mean nothing."

He adjusted his cloak, taking his attention momentarily away from the nun. The woman exhaled, leaning back against her pillows. Helpless. Guilty. Tonight a man would die because a monster had a twisted interest in her survival. She could do nothing. She felt hot again, only this time she knew it wasn't from her fever.

"I hope you get caught in the sun!" It sounded so childish, a pitiful insult. "I won't let you get away with this."

"And yet," Dracula smiled. "You already have."

Before Agatha could reply, the vampire had already disappeared. Dammit. Damn this disease. Damn Dracula. And damn herself. All of this was making her head pound and she was nowhere near closer to learning about the vampire. She needed to gain control. Force her body into submission.

As she stared at the bedroom door, the entrance slightly ajar, a thought came into her mind. Exploration. Maybe, just maybe if she could muster the strength, she could have a look about. A quick peek before the Lord of Darkness himself returned. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and even though she felt horrible, maybe some motivation would push her forward.

After all, how dangerous could the outcome be?

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

libera nos a malo Chapter 1: Strings

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 1/20

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

Chapter Two+ >>

He wasn’t fast enough.

The curse caught him square in the chest, sending him head over heels and smashing him into the pock-marked stone wall. By the time he hit the floor, his wand had been snatched from his hand and his opponent was astride him, the tip of her wand tilting his chin up that he might better see her triumphant grin.

“Had enough?” Miranda purred, her gray eyes sparkling over him.

“Not nearly,” Severus growled back. “But you have.”

“I don’t know.” She playfully twirled her wand between her fingers, considering. “You won the last round and I won this one. Why don’t we say best two out of three?”

He put one long finger on the end of her wand and deliberately pushed it away from his throat. “Healer A’isha ordered you to limit yourself to one duel per day until your next appointment. We’ve already had two. It’s enough.”

“Spoilsport,” she murmured, rolling smoothly to her feet and tossing his wand back to him.

He caught it and got to his feet while she started her tedious routine of post-duel stretches. The simple dueling platform and the opposing banners emblazoned with the Slytherin and Thunderbird crests vanished, leaving a narrow, waist-high table behind. With an audible groan, Miranda climbed onto the table, lifting her arm for Severus to manipulate according to the Healer’s stern specifications.

“I’m still not sure which is worse; the physical exercises or the magical ones,” she grumbled, wincing as he held her arm in place a few seconds longer than the day pervious.

“Your spellwork seemed marginally less pedantic tonight,” he said, the encouragement clumsy in his mouth.

“How nice of you to say so.”

“Healer A’isha did order me to bolster your precarious spirits with regular doses of praise,” he said wryly, leaning on her leg until she stifled a groan. Healer A’isha had also warned him that he would come to hate these exercises more than Miranda did herself. It was one thing to endure pain—and yet another to inflict it on the person whose well-being was unfortunately bound up with one’s own sentimental affections.

“I was thinking I would move back to the cabin this weekend,” she said casually when he released the stretch.

“Were you?” Why was it that no matter how many times one rehearsed receiving disappointing news, it never dulled the pain when the blow actually fell?

“Yes.” She sucked in her breath as he leaned on her other leg.

“All the better for you to neglect your recovery.”

“With you and Rachel dogging me, how could I dare? Aaron’s going to help me move.”

“I see.” He released her leg and offered her a hand to help her sit up. It was shameful how pleased he was when she actually took it; he was like a dog slavering after its master for affection.

Part of the floor sunk away, melting into a clear blue pool of steaming water, and Miranda used her wand to painstakingly transfigure her clothing into a trim bathing suit. Spells that were once instantaneous now required her strictest attention and labor, but the fact that she was able to perform them at all was enough to hope that she would, in time, recover her powers completely. He stooped to pull off her boots—vanished footwear was so notoriously difficult to retrieve from nonbeing that it was rarely worth the risk of sending it thither. She gave a deep sigh as she slid into the water, and she laid her head back on the tiled floor, letting her eyes close and her arms drift.

“You can come in if you like,” she suggested without opening her eyes.

“I think not. You would only distract me from completing your exercises.” A chair materialized on the opposite side of the pool, and he settled himself into it. “Tell me when you are ready.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He was. “Of course not. Why would I be angry?”

“I wouldn’t have asked Aaron for help, but I didn’t want to impose on you any more than I already have.”

“You haven’t been imposing.” Although what else he wished to call her extended sojourn in his rooms he refused to admit.

She opened one eye and smiled at him. “Yes I have, don’t lie to me. But feel free to join in the fun. Rachel and Maggie are coming along to make dinner.”

“I fail to see how a baby would be of any use at making dinner.”

“Rachel can do anything with Maggie strapped to her back. Aaron says it’s a sight to behold.” She lifted her head off the tile and raised one hand out of the water, wordlessly summoning her wand. “I’m ready now.”

Severus conjured a golden ball the size of an orange and sent it spinning towards Miranda with a smooth wandstroke. She watched it, her brow furrowed in concentration. The ball flew towards her, unchecked until it was less than an arms-length away from her nose, when she managed to wordlessly send it back towards him. He lazily batted it with his magic, and this time she used hers to catch it in mid-air and stretch it into a length of rope, which she dropped into the water. With a flick of his wand, the rope shot out of the pool, transfigured now into a fish that splashed back under the water and swam towards Miranda, tickling her toes. She laughed and drew her wand through the air, causing the water to surge out of the pool and toss the fish up with it. Before it could land back in the water, she waved her wand again, and the fish transformed into a mangled half-avian, half-ichthyoid horror. It hit the tile next to the pool and flopped helplessly, until Severus waved his hand to vanish the mess.

“Well, that was better than yesterday,” Miranda said half-heartedly.

“It was. Most of the fish-bird’s organs were on the inside today rather than haphazardly arranged on its scales,” Severus remarked.

“I guess that’s true.”

Her frustration was palpable, and he went around the pool to sit on the cushion that appeared on the tile at her side. While his attempts at verbal encouragement tended to be as mangled as some of her recent transfiguration attempts, he had discovered that a well timed kiss served just as well, if not better. Her lips were a firm line of irritation when he captured them, but they quickly softened under his patient insistence, and when he pulled away to draw breath, she was smiling.

“So, will you come?” she asked.

Disappointment cut through the fog of tenderness that had gathered in his chest, but though he felt his jaw clench at the idea of her leaving, he heard himself saying, “It would seem there is nothing left for me to do but acquiesce.”

She caught his face between her warm, wet hands, and drew him down for another lingering kiss that fed both his anger and his tendre for her.

“Don’t be cross, Severus. I know we’ve both been looking forward to finally being on the same island at the same time, but we’ll drive each other crazy if we keep living in the same two rooms together. I really am so grateful to you for everything you’ve done, and I don’t know how I’m going to repay you, but…”

“That’s quite enough,” he interrupted. He did not care to listen to her thanks. “Will Saturday serve the purpose?”

“Saturday’s perfect. I’ll write to Aaron tonight and let him know.”

He helped her out of the water and hovered near her elbow while she arduously cast a drying charm on herself, and transfigured her bathing suit back into her trousers and tunic. She gave a jaw-splitting yawn when she finished and sat down on the table, allowing him to put her socks and boots back on her feet for the trek down to the dungeon. As usual, he exited the Room of Requirement first and, finding the hall empty, he rapped on the wall and started down to the dungeon. He was entering the stairwell when he heard Horace Slughorn’s voice in the hallway behind him.

“Why if it isn’t Miranda Rose!” Horace said pleasantly.

“Hello Horace,” Miranda replied in a bright, but weary tone. “Fancy finding you here. Are you visiting?”

“No, I’ve come out of retirement, I’m sorry to say. But someone has to teach these youngsters Potions, and Albus Dumbledore is a difficult man to say no to. To what do I owe the happy accident of seeing you this evening?”

“Albus Dumbledore, who else?”

“Who else indeed. Then you must know what I am talking about. Come into my office and have a nightcap with me. I can’t tell you how serendipitous this is! I was about to owl you with regards to a project…”

The door closed, shutting off the rest of Horace’s monologue. Severus briefly considered eavesdropping, but decided it wasn’t worth the bother. He had plenty of work waiting for him in his own office, and Miranda would likely tell him anything interesting that the crafty potions master said.

Or she wouldn’t. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

*****

“And it ended with me having to accept an invitation to his Christmas party,” Miranda said, suppressing a grunt as she flicked her wand at a book-filled crate. It crashed into the floor harder than she meant it to, but she kept the wand flicks coming lest Severus notice her tiring and order her to take a break. The books leapt jerkily out of the crate and floated to the shelves, lining up like weary soldiers returning home.

“Did you?” Aaron replied as he attempted to wrestle her turntable back into its desk drawer. “Woman, how did you get this blessed thing in here in the first place?”

“You have to talk nice to it.”

“I s’pose.” He swore under his breath as yet another corner refused to fit. “But a party’s not so bad. And I’ve heard Horace Slughorn knows how to throw ‘em.”

“I’ve heard that too; but a student party full of hormonal teenagers? What am I supposed to do, wilt along the wall with the chaperones?”

“Are you still complaining about Horace’s party?” Severus asked irritably, emerging from the newly cleaned potions closet. “I had thought you would not have minded keeping me company there.”

“I wouldn’t mind if I was allowed to act as though I knew you, especially considering how hard it is to get you to go out at all. But at least when we go to Prospero’s, you hold my hand.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever held your hand,” he muttered, gathering the crate of her prescribed potions.

“A convenient lapse of memory.”

She didn’t hear whatever he shot back at her, as he covered his grumbling with returning to the potions closet and spending an inordinately long time unpacking and arranging it.

“Do you ever give that man a break?” Rachel chided from the stove where she was busily sautéing a rainbow of vegetables while Maggie tugged on her sleek black ponytail.

“If he can dish it, he can take it,” Miranda retorted, starting on another crate. “How are things at the Embassy?”

“Busy,” Aaron replied, “and complicated. Scrimgeour’s discouraging anyone from coming into or leaving the country. He’s trying to play it off like he’s got the whole Voldemort situation under control, and I do believe that he doesn’t want to look a fool by having all the foreigners high tailing it home. But I also think he’s scared shitless that if he keeps the borders open, he’s going to have a mess of Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathizers coming in to play. So he hasn’t exactly shut them down, but they ain’t exactly open either.”

“What does Robert think about that?”

“He’ll play along if he gets what he wants out of it. Take that you demon-spawn!” Aaron whooped, slapping the turntable as it finally snapped into place.

“What does he want?”

Aaron started flipping through Miranda’s records in search of some appropriate victory music.

“For now what he wants is permission to run his own Aurors to protect the Americans in the country.”

“Really? That’s never happened before. And Scrimgeour allowed it?”

“He did. And Robert’s champing at the bit to get ahold of you. I reckon he wants you on the team.”

The book that Miranda was directing onto the shelf clattered to the floor, and she groaned inwardly as she recast the charm to send it back to its place.

“That’s flattering. I don’t know that I want to be an Auror, but I would at least consider it.”

“Not at the current moment,” Severus snapped, returning to the room to glare at her. “And I believe that it is time for you to sit down.”

“I will when I finish this crate.” His glare darkened and she protested, “I’m fine! I can finish a crate, it won’t kill me.”

“Your left shoulder is high,” he said in that quiet, angry tone of his.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your left shoulder. It rides high when you are tired and forcing your magic. It’s your tell.”

She grinned in spite of herself. “I didn’t realize you knew about tells.”

“One of the few useful things my father bothered himself to teach me.”

The set of his jaw told her that arguing the point would be neither useful nor entertaining and—to her chagrin—he was right; she was forcing her magic. She threw up her hands in defeat and said, “Fine, you win. I’ll hold the baby.”

He continued to watch her sternly until she had liberated Maggie from the flower-patterned baby-carrier on Rachel’s back and was settled on the new leather sofa in front of the fire as if he expected her to covertly thwart his orders the instant he looked away. She sank into the comfortable cushions and contented herself with bouncing the fine, plump child and replying to her happy babbling as though it were intelligible conversation. The old sofa had gotten lost somewhere in the shuffle of chaos at St. Mungo’s, and the Lees had insisted on replacing it. Miranda had attempted to decline the generosity at first, but she had to admit that her friends had a talent for selecting furniture that was as functional as it was beautiful.

She was glad when Severus finally took over her unpacking and ceased to watch her with his piercing eyes. She doubted that her friends had noticed it, but the sorrow flickering in those inky depths was all too apparent to her.

*****

After the ramen had been eaten, the tea all drunk, and the baby nursed, the Lees were making ready to leave in a flurry of cloaks, scarves, and mittens.

“When’s your next appointment?” Rachel asked while she deftly wrapped the sleeping baby on her chest and settled her cloak snugly around them both.

“Monday morning,” Miranda replied. “If it goes well, I won’t have to go back until after Christmas.”

“Come by after you’re done. We can have lunch.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

She kissed her friends’ cheeks and waved them away. Severus kept to the background, still arranging books and bottles on their shelves; but he did trouble himself to return Rachel’s good-bye and shake Aaron’s hand. The Lees turned back to wave when they reached the end of the lane before disappearing with a loud pop. Miranda closed the door after them, and was surprised to see Severus shrugging into his cloak.

“Oh, were you going home?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment she felt from showing.

His brow furrowed, but his eyes were blank. “I…had thought so.”

She smiled quickly and reassured him, “Of course. You must be dying to have some peace and quiet.”

He ran a long finger lightly over her cheekbone and jawline. The contrast of the roughness of his calloused finger and the gentleness of the touch made her shiver.

“I can stay if you would prefer it,” he offered quietly.

“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine. I can’t wait to have a few minutes to myself.”

“As you like.” He withdrew his hand and reached for the doorknob, but not before she saw that flash of sorrow again.

Guilt prompted her to put her hand over his and soften the blow. “You know, I doubt I’ll feel much like cooking dinner tomorrow, after being spoiled by the house elves and Rachel for the last six weeks. There’s a little pub in Shoreditch that serves our kind. The Queen Mab, say eight o’clock?”

He smiled wryly at her and he kissed her brow before replying, “That would be agreeable. I shall have time to finish my Koestler while I wait for you.”

“I’ll be early, just to spite you.”

“I suppose there is a first time for everything. Until then.”

He left before the silence that fell between them could turn awkward, and disappeared at the end of the lane without looking back. She shut the door and wished that she could shut out the confusing web of emotions tangled up with her dour Englishman as easily. With a sigh, she wandered through her cabin, running her fingers over the roll-top desk; the books and the barware; the pictures on the mantel. When she came to a window, she threw it open, welcoming the chill of the night air as it blew in off the Channel. Soon there was a delicious cross breeze, and she perched herself on her bed, leaning on the window-frame and gazing out over the blackness of the water. The air in her cabin had been stagnant, like the air in neglected places. It had been far too long since she had been home.

Home? She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a snap of her fingers, wondering when she had come to think of this place as home. While it was true that she had a habit of referring to wherever she laid her head for the night as home; it was also true that at some point during her Romanian adventure, she’d caught herself thinking of Britain as home in the way that she usually thought of her parent’s farm in Edgewood as home.

She blew out a line of smoke, watching the winter wind send it dancing through the moonlight, and refused to ponder the reasons why.

*****

“How did it go?” Rachel asked on Monday as she, with Maggie strapped to her chest, and Miranda queued up behind a long line of hungry Embassy workers.

“I feel like I was hit by a truck, so pretty well,” Miranda replied, grimacing as she rolled her shoulders in a fruitless attempt to relieve their soreness.

“Did Healer A’isha say you would be alright at home? That you’ll be able to do all of your exercises?”

“Yes mother. She said it was just fine, signed me a note and everything. Besides, Severus will come by often enough to bother me about it, and he’s sterner than any of the Healers about training.”

“That’s good to know. Maybe between the two of us, we can keep you on track. You know you’re a terrible patient.”

“That’s fair. But I also know when I have to buckle down and work. Going into the Iele’s realm drained me more than I could have imagined possible.”

“Was it their realm, or their guards?”

“I think it was both—and rather than either—or. It’s been almost two months and I’m still not where I want to be.”

Rachel gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and Maggie imitated her mother, catching hold of a lock of Miranda’s silver hair. “You’ll get there. It just takes time.”

She was absolutely sick of hearing that. “So everyone keeps telling me. What do you feel like having today?”

The creeping queue finally inched under the sloping, art deco doorways, and the cafeteria opened out before them, a gleaming, stainless steel cornucopia of choices. The shining walls were etched with enchanted scenes of vaudeville routines for the entertainment of the diners eating at the long farmhouse tables. Squeezed into the cavernous space was a dizzying array of American delicacies; from fried chicken and waffles, to jambalaya, to Boston cream pie and everything in between.

“I usually get the meatloaf and apple pie here. I’m boring,” Rachel said. “You?”

“It’s been forever since I’ve had some real pizza, and after that hellish check-up this morning I think it’s been long enough.”

“Good choice! New York style, right?” Rachel stuck her tongue out at her friend in anticipation of her answer.

Miranda stuck out her tongue in response before gasping, “Blasphemy! Chicago style is the only thing that qualifies as pizza in my book. Meet you at the usual spot?”

“Will do.”

The ladies parted to join the queues at their chosen kitchens, and Miranda soon lost Rachel and Maggie in the crowd. By the time she was close enough to see the handsome brick wood-burning oven, the morning tasks were beginning to make their effects known. She leaned heavily on the shining countertop, tapping her bright yellow tray with shaking fingers. Food would help—the sooner the better—and then maybe she’d ask Rachel to let her come down to the Lees’ flat for a nap. A long nap.

“Here y’go,” said a round-faced youth who seemed far too young to have a job.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the red hot plate and quickly setting it on the tray next to her lemonade. Scooping the whole thing up, she turned and swayed dangerously as a wave of dizziness hit her. She wanted to growl with frustration as she fell back against the counter. This whole recovering from almost dying business was not entertaining at all.

“May I help you, Miss?” A smooth, polite voice and a pair of firm hands steadied Miranda and her tray before either of them went toppling to the floor. “I know I’m always a mess when I need to eat.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Miranda protested halfheartedly, looking down into his pleasant face.

He would not be deterred. “Let me do it so I can tell my Mama I helped a nice lady. Where to?”

“I…well, thank you. This way.”

It was all she could do to keep herself steady as they crossed the crowded room. Her stomach was churning and she was starting to see spots on the edge of her vision. Clearly, she would be of no use to anyone until she put some food in her stomach. The noise of dishes crashing, people chattering, and the squeaking of the moving pictures on the walls coalesced into an cacophonous whirlpool that threatened to suck her under.

By the time they reached the table in the corner, Miranda’s last nerve was hanging by a single, fraying thread. Her knight errant set down the tray and pulled out a chair for her; which she all but collapsed into. The duo on the wall behind her yammered about the eternal question (Who’s playing first? That’s right.) and she started shoveling steaming pizza into her mouth so quickly that it burned.

Half a slice and a few gulps of lemonade later, she was capable of behaving as though she had not been born in a barn. She wiped her hands and face with her checked napkin and said ruefully, “Thank you for your help. I had a rough time at magical therapy this morning.”

He took the hand she extended and shook it firmly. “It was my good deed for the day. I hear that those Healers at St. Mungo’s are the devil when they’ve got hold of you.”

“You’ve heard right.”

She took a daintier bite of her pizza and studied her good Samaritan. He had a handsome face, complimented by a close-cut mustache and goatee. His kinky black hair was peppered through with silver, although his warm, copper-colored skin was unlined. His hands were large for his height and his suit was smartly cut and fitted closely to his muscular body. It lacked the sort of flamboyant accents of color that Aaron favored--this was clearly a man who preferred to advertise his taste by its subtle excellence.

She swallowed the last bite of her first slice and decided she really ought to introduce herself. “I’m Miranda Rose, by the way.”

His golden eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. “Are you? I’ve been itching to meet you! Robert Walker, at your service.”

Miranda blinked once before laughing with surprise. “Likewise. I’m only sorry to have met you when I’m in such a state. You must think me weak as a kitten.”

“No, Aaron’s told me all about what happened. You’re a regular danger girl.”

“Robert! It’s good to see you,” Rachel said, balancing a tray on her hip while Maggie attempted to overturn it from her perch.

“How’s my second favorite Mama?” Robert stood to give Rachel a peck on the cheek and deftly remove her tray from Maggie’s flailing arms. He deposited it on the table, and flicked his wand towards an alcove, which brought a high chair floating towards them. There was a small fuss over getting Maggie settled and providing her with food to taste and throw on the floor before conversation could continue.

“Aaron will be sorry he missed the pleasure of formally introducing you to each other,” Rachel commented after her first bite of meatloaf.

“I’ll be sure to give him a hard time about it then,” Robert replied. “What year were you at Ilvermorny Miranda? I may call you Miranda, yes?”

“Sure, if I can call you Robert,” Miranda agreed easily.

“I wish that you would. You graduated in ’83, same as Aaron, if I remember right.”

“I did. Same house too.”

“That’s right. You were a little too old and a little too young to know any of my siblings then.”

“How many do you have?”

“Five.”

“I have four older brothers myself. All No-Majs though.”

“My, you are special! The only girl, the only witch, and the baby. Your brothers must’ve given you hell.”

“They did.” Maggie had finished gumming her crumbs of pizza, and Miranda gamely cut up a few more for her.

“Was Professor Rodriguez still stiff as a board when you were there?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “He was my head of House and my favorite teacher. I thought he was very personable. Did you not find him so?”

Robert shrugged, his attention apparently half on the game he was playing with the baby. Maggie was tossing her spoon on the floor and laughing delightedly when he sent it floating back up to her tray with a lazy wand flick. “He and I crossed wands from time to time. How’s motherhood treating you, Rachel?”

“It’s good! I’m exhausted and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s good. I’ve even been able to find time to get back to translating lately.”

“Your captive audience will be happy to hear that,” Miranda observed.

“Feel free to tell him that I’m starting with the potions text.” Rachel said before digging back into the meatloaf.

“If I may be so rude as to pry into something that’s probably not my business, how is your bill of health?” Robert asked, his attention still on the spoon-throwing baby.

“It’s getting there,” Miranda replied carefully. “Still not a hundred percent, but I think I’ll be cleared for light duty after Christmas.”

“You must be raring to go. How long have you been off?”

“Since October.”

“Long recoveries are the worst.” He charmed the spoon to twirl on its handle on Maggie’s highchair tray and turned the full force of his gaze back to Miranda. “I’m going to stop beating around the bush, since I’m sure that Aaron’s already tipped you off to the fact that I want to hire you.”

“He has mentioned it. What exactly do you want to hire me for?”

The glint in his eyes now reminded her more of a dragon than of Christmas. “I want a team of MACUSA Aurors, and I want you to be one of them. I’ll be partnering you with Aaron—I hear tell that the two of you are unstoppable.”

“Nobody’s unstoppable,” Miranda said lightly. “And I’ve never actually been an Auror. That was Aaron’s old line of work.”

“I’m aware of that, but you’ve got the experience. All I have to do is pull a few strings and we’ll have you vetted in no time.”

“What’s the assignment?”

“Primarily, you’ll be keeping an eye on our people in the UK. There’s all sorts of nasty things afoot these days, as I’m sure a smart lady like you is well aware. We’ll also be assisting Scrimegeour on a case-by-case basis.”

She finished her slice and studied Robert’s relaxed posture, finally understanding what Aaron meant when he said that the ambassador was ‘hard to read.’

“I’m going to be honest, I refuse to be deputized as an Auror. It’s a matter of principle.”

Robert let out a rumbling laugh and reassured her, “I expect we can work around that with a little creative thinking. May I send you a contract to look over?”

“Sure. Never hurts to look.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Are you always this accommodating?”

“Only when it’s for someone worth having. And I anticipate that you will be well worth having.”

She couldn’t contain her smile. “Such flattery! No wonder you’re the ambassador.”

“You’ve found out my secret.” He stood and bowed to each of the ladies in turn. “Rachel, Miranda, Magdalene, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Look for an owl later this week, Miranda.”

“I will. Nice to meet you, Robert.”

He strolled off, meandering through the cafeteria and pausing to talk with various people. Miranda watched him until he was out of sight, turning his proposal over in her mind.

“What do you think of him?” Rachel asked, pulling Maggie out of the highchair and settling her down to nurse.

“He’s interesting, that’s for certain.”

“Are you going to take his offer?”

“I’ll think about it. I’m surprised that you let Aaron go back to the Auror life. I thought it was too dangerous for your liking.”

Rachel gave Maggie a finger to hold, and snuggled her a little closer. “I don’t really like it, but it’s true that these are dangerous times. We all have to do what we can to help. And I’d feel better knowing you were out there with him.”

“I meant what I said about not taking the Auror’s oath. Too many strings.”

“Sometimes strings aren’t a bad thing,” Rachel observed mildly. “The right ones can hold you up.”

“That may be true,” Miranda agreed, absently running a finger around the rim of her lemonade glass. “But the wrong ones can strangle you.”

*****

End Notes:

Severus is reading Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon.

The vaudeville routine behind Miranda’s table is Bud Abbott and Lou Costello’s “Who’s on First?”

*****

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

Chapter Two+ >>

[iamcinema]

IAC Reviews #010: Blood Lake (1987) [Retrospective #2]

"...I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him...“

Over the years, I’ve been scowering the Internet trying to find the worst of the worst when it comes to horror movies. I guess you can call me a glutton for punishment in that regard since some movies need to be seen to be believed, rather than looked into as an example of what bad filmmaking looks like. Whether it’s a problem with the acting, the writing, the technical specs, or all of the above, you know you’re in for a good [or horrible] time if it checks one or more of those boxes. When it comes to bad horror movie lists, not just shot on video ones, one film in particular seems to rule them all as it’s hailed as one of the worst movies of all time, if not the worst horror film ever made. This time around, I’m making an ill-fated return to the Oklahoma to talk about Tim Boggs’ lone directorial credit, Blood Lake.

________________________________________

Blood Lake tells the story about a group of friends who are being stalked by a mad man while on a weekend getaway trip at the lake. It’s not the most original concept out there, but hey, what else is new? It’s interesting that this is Boggs’ only attempt at being a filmmaker and the rest of his credits are attributed to being part of the sound department for notable films and shows like Lost Highway, Tales From the Crypt, Xena: Warrior Princess, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Legion. That’s a hell of a resume, but that’s not what we’re here to really discuss.

I heard about the notority of this for years, and I decided to take the plunge with it nearly five years ago where I live reviewed it for Under the Morgue. Needless to say, I didn’t have fun with it and I don’t think I ever ripped into a film that hard up until that point. With the anniversary date of that review coming up, I thought it would be fair to do a retrospect on this to see if it really lives up to how genuinely atrocious I thought it was all those years ago.

Blood Lake in One Gif:

I think I need to lay down for this one. Do you know that feeling of nostalgia you get when you see, hear, or smell something that really takes you back to a better time? Well, whatever the antithisis to that is would describe the seething rage and horror I felt re-watching this.

________________________________________

While it’s true that some movies need to be witnessed to truly understand how bad they are, it’s also fair to say that some things shouldn’t be known by mere mortals - and this absolutely applies to films like Ax’Em and Blood Lake. They’re as cut-and-dry and boring as they are in premise, and a train wreck of a travesty in execution at that.

The quality from a technical standpoint is pretty damn atrocious, particularly during some of the nighttime shots since it can be hard to tell what’s going on and it feels like you’re squinting the whole time trying to tell what you’re looking at. The sound is just as bad, though sometimes it fairs better than the visuals, even if a good chunk of the time you can’t tell what the hell anyone is saying because they’re either too far from the mic to be picked up or it’s a dialogue problem with everyone mumbling, talking over each other, or fumbling over their lines. IMDB says the sound was shot with a single shotgun microphone, and yeah...it kind of shows.

C’mon. Look at this and tell me you can figure out what the fuck all is going on.

The writing feels almost non-existent as Boggs encouraged the actors to paraphrase the dialogue in their own words to I guess make it feel more natural. However, with how clumsy things are, it’s hard to really tell how much was ad-libbed or done by the actors themselves. The total direction and set-up with the pacing is absolute garbage and some of the worst I’ve ever seen, as it’s padded out with gratuitously long shots of them doing things like “extreme” sports on the water or a scene of them drinking at a table that goes on for close to ten minutes. It feels like the director left the camera on a tripod and accidentally filmed their lunch break. People have said this feels like a glorified home movie, and I get why. I’ve ripped on Las Vegas Bloodbath for how bad the filler was during its third act; as well as the opening dance sequences and the yo mama jokes in the opening of Ax’Em for needlessly dragging things out, or even the flashback sequences in Nick Millard’s films - even if they don’t exist within the canon of the story. Hell, Sledgehammer does this too by slowing down scenes in order to pad it out to a 60 minute runtime after being told it was too short.

When it comes to the characters, they aren’t anything special and are mostly forgettable. With this camp, I designated them to one of two sides of the field; boring and awful. All of them I’ve mostly shoved over on the boring side, as they never really do anything noteworthy or special, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you their names off the top of my head for the most part. However, some of the guys do teeter on being awful and annoying as hell, but one character in particular stayed on the shit teir side of the spectrum from start to finish - which would be Tony.

Oh, god. Tony....

This guy right here. This motherfucker made watching this the first time around feel like a total chore. But the second time around, and willingly so, it was like pulling teeth to get me to finish.

I don’t mind weird, perverted, sleazy dickheads who show up now and again, but Tony is a special case because his entire shtick is being a weird creep to the point of giving off rapey vibes with the other guys over how his goal at the end of the weekend is to conquer some girl he goes to school with. Bro, you’re like twelve, shut the fuck up. It’s beyond cringe. It’s insufferable, and prior to this, I said over on Under the Morgue that Alan from Return to Sleepaway Camp was the most unsympathetic “protagonist” I had ever seen. But now, compared to him and the majority of the characters from Await Further Instructions, I don’t know who is the most grating to sit through - and I spent most of my time on that review talking about how the zero level of characterization makes it so hard to watch. In that review, I said I can appreciate a scummy character if they have any sort of secondary personality trait that makes you love to hate them, or at least makes them tolerable. With Tony, he’s just an annoying, pervy brat who I guess is about as comedic and charming as a trench foot infection.

It’s pretty damn rare that I see a movie where I root for the villain(s) from start to finish because I can’t stand the majority, if not all of the characters. So, having to recall how many times I wished Tony would have drowned within the first fifteen minutes or had a joint stubbed out in his damn eye has proved to be more enjoyable than the entirety of this shit show, since the only tail he should have been chasing was the tailpipe of the damn car he arrived in. I was honestly surprised we didn’t get any Summer Camp Nightmare moments given how much of a creep the twerp is, and I still am now.

The fact that this is called a slasher film feels like a cruel joke, since after the opening kill, the next murder doesn’t happen until close to the fifty minute mark in an 82 minute movie (78 minutes if you get rid of the credits). Plus, because of the abysmal quality, you can’t even see them clear enough to tell what’s happening. It’s so frustrating to feel like you’d get more out of the death scenes by closing your eyes the whole time. It’s up there with Ax’Em in terms of quality and how much it feels like they cheat you, which makes me wonder why bother at all if it’s possible you can’t even see what’s going on when you were editing the damn thing?

________________________________________ 

So, here we are at the dreaded moment where I close this off with how I’d rate this. Is it as bad as I remember it being? Yes, if not more so. I had to pause and walk away from it for a bit to cool off and do something else because it was so tedious sit through.

It just goes on, and on, and on, which was only made worse by obnoxious characters that were a total hassle to put up with who could have been reduced to Douchebag #1, Generic Girl #2, and Rattail Motherfucker #1 based on how little they actually did to make me want to remember their names - and the ones who did were the most insufferable of the lot that I couldn’t forget them even if I wanted to. There’s little to no actual blood and gore, and with the very little there was, it was completely wasted in scenes that you can’t see clearly which is a damn shame because one of the kills could have had a decent reveal if it was shot better.

If I had to say just one good thing about the film to be generous, not counting that it had some kind of a reachable end, it was the mediocre soundtrack supplied by the band Voyager. It’s not good at all, but hey, if you like cheesy 80s horror soundtracks, there’s that going for it...I guess. With all that being said, I never want to see this disaster ever again. I’m trying to wrap my head around how people genuinely like this, even in a so bad it’s good type of way, and I just don’t get it. This, for me, is arguably one of the worst horror movies I’ve ever seen, and probably ever will.

RATING: 0.5/10

[highwindhq]

Secret Showmance: A HighSpecs Halloween Story

I just needed to write something light and happy for Ignis and Aranea for Halloween (with subtle hints of Promptis). It's silly and not my most distinguished work, but it was great fun to write! I drew on my own experiences a bit here, having gone to theatre school, and I loved the idea of these two having a showmance. Enjoy! 

—

Ignis muttered his lines under his breath, repeating them and glancing at the script in his hand, ensuring he was getting it right.

"M'lady, I must ask you not to leave. This cold heart of mine has never known such a wonder as I have felt with you; a kindred spirit, a shining light in this darkness that is my world."

Of course every line he said was perfect, matched word-for-word to the script, but that didn't stop Ignis from obsessively checking it over again. This was a one-time show, after all, and it had to be perfect—there would be no other night to get it right.

Once satisfied, Ignis placed the script in front of his dressing room mirror and looked at his costume, neatly folded on the countertop. He was playing Dracula, and he relished the thought of portraying the long and lean mysterious master of the night. It was not a role he was often cast as, usually receiving the more tedious side characters in the likes of advisors and servants instead. He was tired of acting as little more than a convenient plot device used to deliver random bits of information. But as Dracula, well, this was his moment to shine—in the university's popular annual Halloween show no less.

That is why this was such important business for Ignis, and why he was in the dressing room an hour before the rest of the cast, practicing and ensuring he had time to properly do his makeup and install his fangs.

And, of course, there were thoughts of his leading lady, his Mistress of Darkness, the one and only Elvira herself—ever so skillfully portrayed by the enchanting Aranea Highwind.

Ignis pretended that he didn’t think about Aranea in such ways—everyone else did, and he did not consider himself a worthy competitor. She was simply his fellow thespian, taking part in what was an admittedly ridiculous show that randomly threw together famous horror characters and expected it to work somehow. (It did. Somehow.) It was topped off with low-brow comedy and angsty writing, a far cry from the works of real playwrights, but it was enjoyable nonetheless—especially after a few drinks. Good thing it was a university production.

And it was particularly enjoyable for Ignis to deliver his monologue to Aranea at the end of play, where he begs her to stay with him, assuring her that he would protect her heart. She leaves, however, preferring to live an independent life not bound by the emotional tortures of love. It was so wonderfully angsty.

"Aren't you kids lucky," Cid, their director had said. "I won't be forcing' y'all to kiss or nothin’ cause you go yer own ways!"

They may not have had a kiss, but they did have plenty of close scenes—like the dance scene where Ignis could always smell Aranea’s shampoo and find new details on her face, like the subtle freckles across her nose and cheek.

But he didn't care for any of this, of course. She was nothing more than his fellow actor, albeit a rather charming one in her own blunt way. But that was all she was.

The changing room's door flew open, snapping Ignis back into the space. Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio came in, along with several other members of the ensemble.

"Hey Ignis, you're here early," Noctis said.

"Just being responsible, that is all." Ignis side-eyed Prompto. "Unlike some other people here, I actually care to learn my lines."

"I know my lines," Prompto insisted, putting his arms out in front of him. "AARRRGGHHH... BRAINS..."

He was the zombie in the play. Gladio was a werewolf, and Noctis, showing the least amount of talent for acting, was a black cat. Ignis knew Noctis hardly minded—he was really only there because Prompto had begged him to join the theatre club to meet girls, though Ignis reckoned they had more interest in one another than the opposite sex. All in good time, though.

"Ready for your big moment?" Gladio asked, slapping Ignis on the shoulder.

"I am adequately prepared, yes."

"Maybe you should go off-script,” Gladio continued. "Ask Lady Elvira for a kiss at the end." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"I have no idea what you're going on about, Gladio, but I assure you that I am a professional. It may only be a university play, but I take my role here very seriously, and the characters are meant to part in the end—“

"Yeah, yeah. We get it, Iggy," Gladio said.

"You're not here for the ladies, you're here for the art. We know," Prompto added. "But I'm telling you, that Aranea!"

"Prompto, I assure you I can see," Ignis said. "She is indeed beautiful. But I view her as nothing more than a talented fellow actor."

"Sure," Noctis said. "Bet you're not interested in seeing her dressed up in her Elvira costume either. Not one bit."

"Noct—"

The door flew open again, louder this time, and Aranea walked in like a whirlwind, going straight to the mirror with her costume folded in front of it.

"Hello boys, ready to rock this stupid show?"

"Hey Aranea," Prompto said, his voice jumping up a pitch like it always did around her. Prompto may not have been as interested in girls as he let on, but Aranea was an indomitable force. She could easily chew him up and spit him out.

"Lines all memorized, Aranea?" Ignis asked.

"Mostly!" she said, grinning at him and waiting for the slight twitch of his lips that she knew was coming. "Relax, I'm just kidding. I've got this, Specs."

Aranea reached for the hemline of her top and pulled it over her head, revealing only her black bra. The boys and everyone else in the changing room (save for Gladio, perhaps) pretended not to notice and focused on their own costumes instead, but there was not a single man or woman in that room who wasn't curious. Bless these co-ed change rooms, they all thought. Bless these terrible theatre school budgets for not being able to afford a second room.

As for Ignis, well he may have thought himself above such things, but couldn't help looking in Aranea's direction from the corner of his eye. He hoped his glasses provided some cover. (Gladio, meanwhile, made no attempt to hide the direction of his gaze.) He started unbuttoning his shirt to try to distract himself. Focus, Ignis! Focus on anything but those—

Now Aranea was leaning over and pulling her pants off too, left standing only in her black bra and lacy underwear. Ignis' eyes were like a magnet, and he swallowed hard at the sight of her. Astrals be damned, she was magnificent. He self-consciously removed his shirt, hoping he wasn't too much of an embarrassment compared to people like Gladio. He worked hard on his physique, yes, but he was never any good at bulking up.

As he folded his shirt, Aranea turned in his direction. He pretended not to look at her, but he felt her gaze. What was she looking at? What was she thinking? Ignis felt more self-conscious than ever.

"Hey Ignis," Aranea shouted. "Need any help with your makeup? You should put it on before you get dressed, in case it powders on your costume. Dracula's pretty pale, after all."

"Good idea," Ignis said stiffly. "I should be able to apply it just fine. Thank you for the offer."

"Nah, come on. I know makeup, and I bet you've never had to wear this much before."

Aranea walked over, still dressed only in her underwear, grabbing her bag of makeup. She shoved Ignis into a chair and sat herself on the countertop, then grabbed the chair and pulled Ignis right up to her. She spread her legs on either side of him so she could lean in closer and started powdering Ignis' nose.

Ignis tried so hard, but there was no way he was winning this fight against his eyes. They stared at Aranea's full breasts.

"Eyes up," she said.

"Sorry?"

"I need to put powder under your eyes, so look up please."

With great effort, Ignis pried his eyes up, begging them to obey, and focused on the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. These were far less interesting, but also less sweat-inducing.

Aranea continued to plaster his face with white powder, then added purples and blacks for some subtle contouring. Ignis could feel her breath on his face, her concentrated look. She seemed so damn comfortable sitting there like this, nearly naked in front of everyone, putting makeup on him. He imagined she rather liked this power shift.

"All done, handsome," she said. "Take a look!"

Ignis studied himself in the mirror, and by some miracle she managed to make him look lively and attractive, even while playing an undead character.

"Okay, time to do my own face now. I trust you can slick your hair back yourself?"

"That I am far better versed in," Ignis assured her.

An hour later, everyone was ready. Aranea, of course, looked stunning in her Elvira dress, the plunging neckline and fitted body accentuating everything perfectly. She had a black wig on, which made her all the more alluring. Ignis himself looked incredibly dapper, if he did say so himself, and the fangs had stuck securely onto his teeth. They made quite the leading pair, and the guys joked about how good they looked together. Aranea playfully looped their arms together; Ignis was grateful for the white powder hiding his flushed cheeks.

Everyone waited in the wings as they got their five-minute call, the nerves starting to bubble up. Will he remember his lines, Ignis wondered. Will Noctis remember his? (He was a talking cat.) Will Prompto remember to actually come on stage when it was his cue to enter? That one worried him most.

Someone took Ignis' hand, and he was surprised to find that it was Aranea.

"Hey, we're gonna be great. Don't you worry," she said, giving his hand a good squeeze.

"I'm not nervous," he tried. "Well, maybe a little."

"Just have fun out there. It'll be hilarious, the audience will love it! Besides, they're probably already drunk. This is a university, after all."

“That's probably true," Ignis laughed.

The lights on the stage dimmed and spooky music played as Noctis went on stage, starting with the opening narration. (The cat was also the narrator. Come to think of it, Noctis had an awfully large part in this for a terrible actor. The perks of being royalty.)

"Ready?" Aranea whispered.

Ignis nodded and approached the wing to enter. Yes, this was his moment.

The first scene went perfectly. Even Prompto remembered to enter at his cue (with a shove from Gladio, but Ignis didn't see that). They breezed through the second scene too, a short and comedic one wherein zombie Prompto made friends with a certain talking black cat and unspoken tensions underscored the scene perfectly.

Then it was finally time for Aranea to come on stage for Elvira and Dracula’s first meeting. Ignis could hear the audience's whistles and hoots at her appearance, and even if Ignis thought it inappropriate, he couldn't exactly blame them either.

The pair played off one another effortlessly, their chemistry tangible and—if Ignis would allow himself to admit—downright sizzling. They walked off stage and the next scene commenced, while Ignis and Aranea found themselves alone in the wings.

"You were wonderful," he whispered. "The audience loved you."

"They loved you too," she whispered back. "It was so good! Did you hear them laughing and reacting to everything?"

"It's a good crowd."

"Yeah."

They stood in silence, and even though they knew they shouldn't be talking in the wings regardless, it felt ever so slightly awkward, as if they both wanted to say something more but didn't. Instead, Ignis felt Aranea inching closer to him, her arm touching his.

He stood very still, enjoying the contact. Then she pushed herself up and walked on stage for her monologue.

Ignis walked up in the wings to have a better look. He so loved watching her deliver this one. Even though the show was largely a dark comedy, it had heartfelt moments too, and this was his favorite: watching Elvira confess to her mutual longing for and fear of affection. She claimed she didn't want to be emotionally tied down, but really, what she wanted was to avoid getting hurt. Aranea delivered this with such sincerity, Ignis found himself believing her.

After her scene, Aranea joined Ignis in the wings again. They had a few spare seconds before he had to enter, and he smiled at her warmly, wanting to reassure her that he would never hurt her, but then he remembered she was only acting—and he was probably just reacting to his character’s feelings for her. He turned away wordlessly and went on stage for an intense scene with Gladio, the werewolf that befriends Dracula and becomes his closest confidant. (This play really made little sense).

In their next scene together, Ignis and Aranea got to dial up the flirting. It culminated in a dance, slow and sensual, and Ignis told himself he was simply feeling particularly in character as he pulled Aranea closer than he had ever done in rehearsal. He told himself she was just feeling in character too when she pressed herself rather suggestively against him in return. He felt a stirring that he knew absolutely shouldn’t be happening on stage, yet he couldn't bring himself to pull away from her, not when she was breathing so heavily against his chest as they spoke their lines over a haunted waltz.

"You sure know how to move, m'lady," Ignis said.

"As do you, Count Dracula."

"I was once an excellent dancer in my living life, gracing the courts of the most famous kings in the country."

"What a life you must have lead. Do you miss it?"

"Not at all. If I had never turned undead, I would have never lived long enough to have met you. And that, m'lady, would have truly been a shame."

"You're quite the sweet-talker for someone who prefers the taste of blood. Watch what you do with that tongue of yours—and those teeth. You might rip a woman's heart apart one day."

"Oh, I have ripped many hearts already."

"Then am I to avoid you?" Aranea pressed her hips closer at this line.

"No. Because you are the first heart that I want to keep whole."

"Oh my..."

Aranea and Ignis leaned in as if they were about to kiss, when a loud "AHOOOO!" rang out in the air, the howl intentionally breaking up the romantic moment. They pulled apart as Gladio entered the stage, raging as he turned into a werewolf, ripping a thin cotton shirt off, and sending the crowd wild. It was so comedic, Ignis almost struggled not to break character and laugh. Almost.

After that scene, Ignis and Aranea waited in the wings once more. They found themselves alone again, with most of the other actors on stage or doing costume changes.

"That was hot," Aranea said, taking Ignis by surprise. "We've never done that dance scene like that in rehearsals."

"No, I suppose not. Apologies if I got a little carried away with the moment."

"No, it was great. It felt so... real."

“Good, because I meant what I said.”

“Oh?” Aranea looked up at him expectantly, a detail that Ignis missed in the dark. (And, most likely, in stark fluorescent lighting too.)

“That’s what all good actors do, right?"

"Right." Aranea faced back forward, silent for a moment. “But you know, if you did mean some of it—I mean actually you, not just your character—then maybe that's okay too."

"Pardon?" Ignis raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure where this was going. She seemed different—nervous even. How unusual for the woman who was practically straddling him in her underwear an hour ago.

"I'm just saying,” Aranea continued, “that it’s a nice thought if you don't want to break someone's heart, or maybe mine in particular. All too often people seem to want to do the opposite—especially in university. But maybe you’re not like them.”

"I, uh..."

Ignis had no idea what to say. Was she insinuating something? Was he meant to respond in a certain way? Wait, was this an invitation?

Before he could make up his mind, Aranea was walking back on stage, and Ignis followed, flustered now. And apparently, the flustering was a real problem for remembering his lines because his mind suddenly went blank.

“Count Dracula, what do you think?”

What does he think? Ignis had no idea.

"Well, what do you think?" Aranea repeated. "Should we... try to hunt your werewolf friend down?" She was trying to prompt him.

"Yes, uh, yes, we should! We must save Gladi—I mean, Steven, the werewolf!"

Shit.

"Great, then let's go!"

Aranea pulled him off stage, and as soon as they reached the wings, Ignis realized how badly he had screwed up his carefully-learned lines.

"I messed up..."

"It was fine, the audience ate it up anyway," Aranea said. "If anything, it made the scene funnier."

"But I—I have my lines memorized. How could I..."

Then it hit Ignis, and before he could catch himself, he was blurting the words out.

"You tripped me up," he said. "That thing you said before we went on stage, about me not wanting to break your heart. What the hell was that about!"

"Shhh, the audience will hear us, relax!"

Ignis lowered his voice to an intense whisper.

"You really confused me with that, you know. What was I supposed to say in response?"

"I don't know! I was just saying things... Geez, just forget it, okay?"

Aranea pushed past Ignis and found an even darker corner in the unlit backstage area. Ignis realized she was angry, genuinely so. He felt confused, but really, if she had something to say to him, she could have waited till after the show.

Or perhaps she had been saying something to him this entire time, but he never noticed. It was certainly possible. It wouldn't be the first time he missed something like this.

Ignis approached Aranea, his mouth opening to say something, but she sent him a sharp look of warning. Ignis opened his mouth again, and Aranea rolled her eyes and walked away.

Ignis stood dumbfounded in the darkness, running the last several weeks of rehearsals through his head and seeing certain moments in a new light. There was a reason she always sat near him, chatted with him, hell, even applied his makeup in her underwear. He was so busy trying to convince himself he didn’t like her because he felt out of her league, he completed missed the part about it being mutual.

Ignis realized it was time for the last scene of the play, the one where Elvira leaves Dracula at the end. He went on stage first, commencing the scene with the rest of the cast. He was remembering his lines, thankfully, but something about them wasn’t right.

Aranea entered, announcing her plans to depart from Dracula's castle once and for all.

"I cannot bear to stay here with you, Count Dracula,” she said. "I tried to embrace my love for you, but alas—I am too scared. I have seen the darkest of the black arts, and yet nothing scares me more than love. The risk to my heart is too great."

Instead of saying his line in response, Ignis just looked at Aranea. Her eyes shined. He wanted to say her real name.

"The risk to my heart," she repeated again, slower this time, "...is too great."

"M'lady, I must ask you not to leave," Ignis said, delivering his line in a most honest tone. "This cold heart of mine has never known such a wonder as I have felt with you; a kindred spirit, a shining light in this darkness that is my world."

"I'm sorry, I can’t. It was stupid of me,” she whispered, and Ignis was pretty certain that wasn’t in the script.

Aranea turned to walk off stage, and Ignis was supposed to watch her leave until the blackout. Instead, he walked after her and grabbed her hand, pulling her back and into his arms. He pulled her close, pausing just before their lips touched in case he would be overstepping a boundary, but she finished closing the distance between them.

Aranea kissed him hard and Ignis returned it. The cast gasped, the crowd whooped loudly, and Ignis felt confident enough to slip a tongue in, which Aranea met. Their kiss deepened, not at all bothered by the audience (or Ignis' fangs) and broke apart only when the lights finally, after an almost painful amount of time, went black. They kept their arms around each other in the dark, and when the lights came back up for curtain call, they were still on stage, grinning at each other.  

Then Aranea frowned and spat something out of her mouth. It was a fang. She held it up for everyone to see, while Ignis pointed to his missing fang and everyone laughed. They joined the row for the cast's final bows.

Ignis and Aranea left the stage hand-in-hand. Backstage, as the cast high-fived one another on a job well done, Aranea held up the fang.

"Here, I think you dropped this in my mouth."

"Apologies," Ignis said as he took the fang back.

"It's okay. I like teeth," Aranea said with a wink, and walked past Ignis toward the dressing room. She looked back and motioned for him to follow.

"Come on, Dracula. Let's get these costumes off. But… maybe leave the teeth on.”

She winked at him.


“For later.”

[hermanwatts]

Sensor Sweep: The Night Land, Fritz Leiber, Scott Oden, Viking Prince

Horror Fiction (Too Much Horror Fiction): Known for penning the novel The Night of the Hunter upon which the classic 1955 movie was based, Davis Grubb (1919-1980) was a West Virginia native well-versed in the pride, poverty, tribulations and superstitions that were endemic to that region. This collection of short stories ranging over 20 years, Twelve Tales of Suspense and the Supernatural (paperback edition from Fawcett Crest, June 1965) includes some Weird Tales works as well as tales first published in popular magazines like Ellery Queen, Nero Wolfe, Woman’s Home Companion, and Collier’s.

  Science Fiction (Classics of Science Fiction): The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson is not the kind of book you can recommend people rush out and buy. It is legendary for being difficult to read, and many consider it boring and tedious. However, The Night Land is one of those cult classics that have inspired a selective group of writers and readers. I had no trouble listening to an unabridged audiobook edition of the book that was just over eighteen hours long. I think hearing it rather than reading let me appreciate the archaic style Hodgson developed for telling his story.

Science Fiction (Strange at Ecbatan): Fritz Leiber was born on Christmas Eve in 1910. He died in 1992. One of my favorites among his novels, The Sinful Ones, and its earlier version, “You’re All Alone.” The Sinful Ones had an odd publication history. It began as a novella called “You’re All Alone”, slated for John Campbell’s fantasy companion to Astounding, Unknown. When the World War II paper shortage killed Unknown, Fritz Leiber had to abandon it.

Publishing (Kairos): Some significant context: digging under the following data points turned up that it predominantly applies to oldpub. In that regard, they make for a pretty accurate snapshot of oldpub’s readership ca. 2014. What do we find?

Women prefer to read books written by women.

Men prefer to read books written by men.

Women read more fiction than men–about four times more according to some sources.

Women like reading new books more than men do.

Pulp Magazines (Wasteland and Sky): Welcome to our final installment of this short series on Ron Goulart’s Cheap Thrills history of pulp book. Even though it has only been three entries, we have been through much. But now it is time cover what I believe the majority of the readers of this blog have the most interest in.

In this last entry we will cover the concluding three chapters of the work, hopefully leaving us with one last impression of what the pulps were truly about. In the previous post I discussed the majority of the book to show just how many similarities there were between the old and the new, and how heroes and hope were the mainstays of the form.

Fiction (DMR Books): Sax Rohmer exploded onto the pop lit scene in 1913 with the publication of The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu—published in the U.S. as The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu. Sax’s tale of the machinations of the “Devil Doctor” was an instant sensation. Rohmer would write two more Fu-Manchu—or “Fu Manchu” as it came to be spelled—novels in the next four years. He wouldn’t write another such novel for nearly fifteen years, but the impact of those first three reverberated for decades.

Comic Books (Broadswords & Blasters): Most Sword & Sorcery fans consider “Crom the Barbarian” by Gardener F. Fox and John Giunta (Out of This World #1, June 1950) the first true S&S comic. One can make the case that even earlier was the Prince Valiant comic strip back in 1937. This strip by Hal Foster influenced everything that came after. Prince Valiant follows the adventures of a knight in Arthurian times, has an encounter with a dinosaur and a witch. Does that make it S&S? Not really since the bulk of the strip isn’t supernatural but a costume drama. Fox’s Crom is truly a Howardian pastiche like no other.

Old Science Fiction (Pulp net): Captain Future, published by Thrilling (aka Ned Pine‘s Better), was probably its third most-popular pulp hero and possibly the only explicitly sf pulp hero. Editor Mort Weisinger developed the idea for the character, but main author Edmond Hamilton took that idea and turned it into Captain Future. Most likely people today would remember him from the poster in the TV series The Big Bang Theory, which is a blowup of one of the pulp covers.

Sherlock Holmes (The Passing Tramp): In January 1959 madly prolific Wisconsin author August Deleth (1909-1971), the so-called sage of Sauk City, wrote in a column in the Madison Capital Times about a recent query he had had from a reader that had obviously hit home.  Late in the previous year he had published The Return of Solar Pons, his latest volume of adventures about Solars Pons, a detective who had started off as a Sherlock Holmes pastiche but taken on a life and (admittedly much narrower) following of his own; and the Derleth reader in question had written Derleth questioning why the author spent so much time on these stories, when he was “certainly capable of better things.”

Westerns (Brain Leakage): The Benteen name was the one Haas used when writing the Fargo series, about professional soldier of fortune Neal Fargo. Taking place in the early 1900s, the Fargo series sees its hero traveling around the world, taking dangerous jobs for money. A rough wanderer with a talent for fighting, Fargo has been described by fans of the series as “Conan with a shotgun.” And that’s pretty damn accurate. Alaska Steel is #3 in the series, but like all good pulp or adventure fiction, you can read them in any order.

RPG (Emperor Ponders): I recently read a Twitter conversation about high-level cleric characters in D&D and their effects on the game, and I thought about writing something on that. But as usually happens, I can’t tell the difference between things I have already written or just things I have thought about, because as it turns out, I already had a post about this very same thing.

Gaming (Rlyeh Reviews): If you are of a certain age, then you will remember Apocalypse. Not the ‘Apocalypse’, but Apocalypse: The Game of Nuclear Devastation, a board game published by Games Workshop in 1980 in bookcase format along with Valley of the Four Winds and Warlock. It saw generals fighting for territory in a near future Europe in conflicts that would quickly escalate into nuclear confrontations and inevitably, nuclear devastation.

Pop Culture (Walker’s Retreat): I’ve said plenty on Corporate IP ownership, and that the quality of Corporate-owned pop culture productions depend greatly on the adherance of to a concept of stewardship. If a regime holds to it, you get good stuff. If not, you get trash. Regimes turn over, so this can happen to IPs in a cyclical format. For reasons I won’t go into here, the regime that control the Gundam property have been more good than bad about being stewards of the property in the last decade and as Gundam’s 40th anniversary goes on we’re seeing this continue. The below is from the GundamOfficial channel on YouTube.

History (Didact’s Reach): The Kings and Generals channel on YouTube features a great many superb videos on many historical figures, battles, and civilisations of the past, with a distinct focus on military history. One of the best videos out of the bunch – and given the quality of their catalogue, that is saying something – is about the legendary Roman general and military commander, Nero Claudius Drusus (or Tiberius Claudius Nero – it is not quite clear exactly what his true birth name was). We know him today as Germanicus, one of the few truly unsullied heroes of the early Roman empire. His wars against the Germanic tribes, and the way in which he comported himself in these wars, is worthy of study.

Author Interview (Paint Monk): If you’ve been following Marvel’s re-acquisition of our favorite Cimmerian for the past year, then you’ve probably already caught on to one of the shining highlights of an otherwise uneven relaunch of Savage Sword of Conan — Author Scott Oden’s brilliant novella, The Shadow of Vengeance. Set after Robert E. Howard’s “The Devil in Iron” (Weird Tales, August 1934), Oden takes us on a breathtaking adventure of daring and swashbuckling sword and sorcery that is immediately reminiscent of Howard’s legendary writing.

Fiction (DMR Books): Being out of town, I stopped by a bookstore/newsstand. There was Bard II. I was familiar with the protagonist of the novel, Felimid Mac Fal, from a Keith Taylor story in the classic Swords Against Darkness II. The Maitz cover was gorgeous and the blurbs sounded cool, so I bought it. It was a rainy day, so when I got home, I proceeded to dive into Taylor’s book. As is usual with the Bard novels—as I learned later—it starts in media res, with a full-on sea battle in progress by the second or third page.

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