#// well Dante you both said the word “free” about a dozen times what did you expect asdlkfhg

[ssson-of-sparda]

A Dozen Ice Cream Cones (Dante x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Patty wants to know what happened to the girl who offered Dante his very first strawberry sundae. But to know the rest of the story, she must erase the dozen ice cream cones from Dante's tab. (Part 2 of A Tab To Erase) (Part 1)

Tags: Pre DMC3 Dante / Dante is Tony Redgrave / Flirting / Lost Friends to Lovers / Implied Sexual Content / Explicit Language

Author’s note: You wished for Part 2, there it is ;-) If you want to place this part of the story in the DMC timeline, I'd say that it is shortly before DMC3. Dante is roughly eighteen (and so is Reader) and still goes by the name Tony Redgrave. Again, the Dante who is talking to Patty is definitely post DMC Anime. I decided not to give many details about him so that he could be the one of your choice. Can definitely do a part 3 if you want.

MISSION 2

Dante was about to get fleeced. He could feel it in his guts, which had somehow developed this strange ability to knot tightly in his stomach each time he was about to lose. Probably the result of so many years of bad luck in gambling. And yet, Patty’s eyebrows were weirdly furrowed as she was quietly eyeing all of the cards in her hands. She had to have a straight flush. Dante had no doubt about that. So why wasn’t she playing? “You know, Dante. I was thinking …”       “Not again.” The man grumbled, wondering why she was taking her time. But Patty had learned to ignore Dante’s sudden irritations long ago, knowing they were always brief and harmless.       “You didn’t stay friends, right?” Dante arched an eyebrow and stared at the girl in front of him as she was sitting still, big blue eyes fixed upon his face, patiently waiting for the answer to her unexpected question.   “What are you talking about?” A sigh escaped his mouth. He knew what she was talking about. He just wanted to elude the answer. But the little blonde was not one to easily give up. “With the little girl. The one who made you first strawberry sundae. You didn’t stay friends. Why?”                   “What makes you think that?” Using a question to avoid an answer. Yes, could work.             “Well, if you had a friend making you strawberry sundaes for free, then you would not spend an unreasonable amount of money on them. So, I’m guessing she must not be around anymore.” Patty was perceptive. Dante could give her that quality, for sure. Though right now it was more a bother than anything else. “What happened?”       “She moved on with her life.” was the only thing that he felt like answering as he quietly stood up to take a beer in his fridge, certain that this was just the beginning of another long questioning.               “So you never saw her again after that night in the diner?” Patty asked as she watched Dante slouch back in the couch, taking his cards back in his hand to cover whatever expression Patty was trying to spot on his face.       “Yes, I did saw her again.” He finally confessed, eyes on the dog-eared Queen of Hearts he was grazing with his thumbnail.             “Then tell me!” The girl begged, unable to resist the excitement growing in her body any longer. “ Why would I? Don’t you have any stupid soap opera to watch?”       “ The TV’s broken… AGAIN.” She complained but he couldn’t care less. He had no money to afford buying a new one or fixing this one. Plus, there was nothing worth watching on TV so …“Come on. I’ll erase the dozen ice creams cones from your tab if you do.” Dante looked away from his cards with a sudden tiny smirk as he noticed Patty on the edge of her chair, impatiently waiting for the new part of his story to begin. “Now you speak my language, Patty.”         “ You never do something for free! It’s annoying!”       “Are you kidding me? I do a lot of things for free. That’s why I’m so broke and live in this hellhole.” He waved at the place with open arms before taking a gulp of his beer with a grimace. Yuck, it’s hot! And of course it was. He hadn’t paid the bills yet again.           “So we have a deal, then. Now tell me.”

A DOZEN ICE CREAM CONES

                 It was the nineties – perhaps the most awful period for anyone who had even just a small sense for fashion or music - and as the city of Red Grave was still lovingly dancing on ridiculous love ballads on Friday nights, wearing tight crop tops, colourful scrunchies and platform sneakers, Dante – now named Tony Redgrave - was trying to make his place as a young mercenary in the rough areas of the city, hanging in bars serving some drinks stronger than strawberry sundaes (though he would always order one at some point) and in clubs where women would gladly take their clothes off if asked too, mind a few bucks of course (except for Venus. Venus would always flash her breasts for free for her sweet Tony).

“Not sure I want to know that.” “ Oh yes. Forgot the story must be PG-13, sorry. Anyway …”

He was looking for jobs, something that would help him pay for a proper roof over his head and the fancy long red leather coat he had just bought (five hundred bucks but worth every single dime) and luckily for him he knew the perfect man to find him that.

His name was Enzo Ferino. A short and chubby Italian-American broker, probably the best informant in the neighbourhood, one who could smell high-paying jobs for miles around especially those Dante loved to refuse.

“Where was Morrison?” “Can I tell my story please?”

“Come on Tony! You can’t refuse that job. Not another one. Not again.” He almost threw a fist on the counter before he remembered the last time he did so. Two bullets had whizzed the top of his black curly head and he had had thanked his mama for making him so short. “Haven’t you heard the reward? Don’t you see all the zeros on that check, my friend?” Yes, there were four and enough to pay the bail and few rents of the place he wished to rent to create his own agency. But Dante didn’t want that check nor did he want that job.             “If he wants to recover a stupid necklace, he can call the cops for that … or a bailiff. I don’t go after silly poker players. I have better things to do.” He took a sip of his whiskey, the third of the night, not even looking at the two men sitting next to him and begging him to take that damn job with pleading eyes.               “You have nothing better to do!” Enzo shouted, throwing his hands in the hair like a living Italian cliché. “Please Sir. It’s my girlfriend’s necklace. One she offered me on our anniversary. It’s very precious to her.” The man who wished to hire him declared as he started rummaging in the pocket of his designer coat.               “And you bet on it?” Dante scoffed. “Damn. What a perfect boyfriend you are. But that’s still a no.”

The man pressed a piece of paper next to Dante’s drink. A photo, a polaroid, judging by the quality of the paper, carefully placed face down like a poker card, showing that that man was most probably a pro-gambler or at least was used to card games. Another reason not to help. He would probably lose the damn necklace right after recovering it.         And yet, Dante took the picture in his hand. Though he didn’t really know why he did. Certainly the curiosity to know what kind of chick that prick could have in his life or maybe the will to use the picture to taunt him about his taste in women. He imagined a prude church girl, some daddy’s girl probably as rich as him, not very pretty but fancy, wearing pearl earrings and silk headscarves matching her shiny shoes. The type of girl that swaggers in the street and roll her disdainful eyes when they see men like Dante (though they might secretly wished he would rumple their sheets).  

Patty cleared her throat. “What? Every girl loves some good bad boy once in a while... And how do you even know what that means?”

He couldn’t be more wrong. And he couldn’t be more surprised. He would recognize those big (colour) eyes and that sweet smile among thousands, despite the time apart, despite the years that had turned a fearful little boy into a daredevil mercenary and an adorable little girl into a magnificent young girl. He would recognize them always because they were the first that had made in smile when he thought he would never smile again.                 “Her name is Y/N. She’s the sweetest girl in the world. Innocent. Pure.” Dante cringed at the man’s words, finding them rather repulsive and somewhat perverted. Something in the way they were rolling off his tongue.       “Come on, Tony. You can’t say no to a sweet girl.” Enzo’s sentence was met with a glare that made him shiver but when he saw his partner stand up and empty his glass of whiskey, he somewhat relaxed. “You’re pieces of shit. Both of you.”         “Does that mean you take the job?” Dante didn’t bother answer.

                 But he took the job. Not for Enzo. Especially not for his shitty client. And even less for the cash. For her. Just for her. To finally return the favour after so many years. Because he owed her one. Because she was possibly one of the few humans he’s always respected in his ten years wandering the nighty street of Red Grave. And because she didn’t deserve an asshole like the one she dated to lose something apparently so precious to her in a silly game of cards. An easy job for someone like him but one he despised nevertheless. He hated to deal with humans. They were sometimes worse than demons and you can’t fix problems with them by using a sword.

“Don’t tell me you won the necklace back?” “ I did. Fair and square. Well … almost. I ended up using my sword. Turned out the Mafiosi who had Y/N’s necklace were a bunch of demons who had made a few bars in downtown Red Grave their lairs.”

But once Dante had Y/N’s necklace in the palm of his hand he did something only Dante could do. He refused the reward, refused all the zeros on the check and the chance to finally buy that agency he wanted so badly. “The things you do for beautiful women.” Gunsmith Nell Goldstein had said when she had given him back his guns, all polished and fixed, after he had wrecked them on the job again. “They’re your weakness, Tony. Always leading you around by the nose … or something else.” Perhaps, but he never minded.        

And as he watched Y/N approaching the door to her home out of the corner of his eye, a bunch of books under her arms, looking for her keys in her bag, Dante knew he would not regret his weakness for women or his decision to refuse the money.      

She looked as sweet as he remembered, as delicate as in the picture if not more. And just as her shitty boyfriend had said, she indeed seemed rather innocent and pure. Almost fragile. Nothing like the girls he had met before, especially those he had seen undressed at Love Planet or in one of the magazines he kept in his drawers.       “Goodness grac…” She almost dropped her books as she jumped, surprised and somewhat scared, and put her hand over her heart that had certainly missed quite a beat when she noticed this insanely tall stranger on her doorstep.   But her sudden fear disappeared immediately when she recognized the silvery white hair covering the icy blue eyes of the man before her. “Tony?” She arched an eyebrow and he smiled with the same childish joy she had witnessed on his face years ago. And just like that, she was certain it was him.       “Hello, Y/N” He offered his hand and she briefly stared at it, remembering for a small instant the time she held out her tiny hand to him the same way, the night they met. And so she grabbed it, genuinely happy to see him again and yet curious to know how he had found her and why he was back after so many years.       But when she fell something cold and metallic in his hand she got her answer. “My necklace. How?” “Won it back for you.” He simply answered but that was enough for her to understand what happened. “[Boyfriend] lost it on a poker game, didn’t he?” And even though that didn’t really surprised her as she knew how much he loved gambling despite her telling him not to, it disappointed her anyway. “You shouldn’t date boys who have a streak of bad luck in gambling… Except those like me.” She looked up at Dante’s piercing blue eyes, unsettled by his flirtatious humour, thinking he accidentally let that slip but he definitely did not. Those last words, impulsive and yet somewhat well thought out, had rolled off his tongue with a scandalous smoothness and a self-confidence that had rooted her to the spot, speechless, but in a weirdly pleasant way that made her want to slap herself. “Or especially me. Depends if you like trouble.”     With a smug smirk, he stared at her, deep in her eyes, almost … hungrily? She didn’t really know. All that she knew was that never a man had looked at her that way. Certainly not her boyfriend. And who knew such icy eyes could set fire to her cheeks like that? “But, judging by that place and your guy, you seem to enjoy some well-ordered life.”

Not really. Not at all. Her life was boring, plain and dull. Nothing like in the books she read. Nothing like what she had dreamed of. But exactly what her mother had wished for her.         She was an adorable daughter, a top student finishing up high school, ready to leave Red Grave with her well brought up boyfriend to start a life many would envy but that she cared little about.     She wanted adventure. She wanted excitement. Passion. Frivolity. Freedom. And maybe even some danger. She wanted all that and more.           And as she looked at the self-assured man in front of her, she couldn’t help but believe that he had somehow managed to obtain all that. And she wanted to know how. How did that life feel? How could he live such a life? How could she have the same?         And Dante noticed that small fire, that tamed lonely flame burning deep in her eyes that needed just a drop or two of gasoline to rage and shine brightly. Something he could easily provide if she let him, if that’s what she wanted.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N” He nodded her goodbye and as he shifted to walk away, she opened her lips to say. “Would you like a strawberry sundae?” And she cursed herself for this, so damn loud in her head. You have a boyfriend! A voice repeated on and on, feeling the temptation in her heart and the ideas of what some people would call unfaithfulness seeping in her brain. But as she opened the door to her apartment, ready to finally kick the boredom out of her life for something else, for something more, the voice seemed to fade.           Guess the Devil truly finds work for idle hands to do.

[spirit-of-the-void]

Hey sweetpea! I’ve got some more angst for you! I hope these don’t feel too repetitive. If they do you can feel free to mix them up a bit! I was wondering if you could do a scenario where the boys are possessed or mind controlled, and they attack and hurt their s/o. Fluffy ending pls! Thank you so much for doing these! 🌸

I live for hurt comfort hell YES *slams fists on table* I’m opting for them losing their shit a bit in Devil Trigger forms instead of mind control or anything. Minus V, who doesnt have a devil trigger form.

Okay so I put WAY too much effort into these. Its four am. I am dying.

~Dante~

- You had never been around him while he was in that form, hell you weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place.

- When Dante didn’t return to Devil May Cry after the mission as quick as he promised, you grew worried, and set out on foot to find him now that the sky was growing dark. It was a mission in town, so why wasn’t he back yet? Surely something was wrong.

- This is why you hated letting him go on missions alone. You were no fighter, sure, but at this point he should have just bit the bullet and combined forces with Nero and Nico. Maybe hire on Trish and Lady to help out every once and a while.

- You walk for about ten minutes, finding the abandoned subway tunnel someone said was housing a nest of demons.

- You knew going down there alone and not a fighter was a dumb, foolish idea. You were armed with a basic revolver and daggers just to be safe, but you knew you were fast enough to run away if things got bad.

- If you were chased…well, you knew where Morrison lived, and you had your cell phone.

- You had already tried to call Dante, hell you called the others too. Nero could definitely make it in his Devil Trigger form, but you were reluctant to ask him when he was sticking so close to Kyrie during her pregnancy.

- Both Trish and Lady didn’t pick up. You assumed they were both off on missions of their own.

- You had no choice at this point.

- You walked into the subway tunnel, almost gagging at the smell of rot and sulfur. Definitely the home of demons.

- You still push forward despite the fear and anxiety that fills you, already seeing the trail of carnage Dante has left. He must have killed dozens of the things, bodies and blood on the floor as you quickly made your way past.

- “Dante…!” You called his name worriedly, voice echoing in the tunnel. You hear no response back, but can make out the faint sound of snarling and screeching in the tunnel further ahead. Sounds of fighting.

- You didn’t hear Dante. Maybe you should just turn around?

- But your worry kept you going. You quickened your steps, only stopping when the sound of fighting ceased. Now the sound of low, panting growls remained.

- Now was not the time to make noise. Something was glowing in the tunnel, growling and leaving a bright orange hue.

- You peeked around a piece of debris, eyes widening as you saw.

- What appeared to be another demon was standing there, slightly hunched and releasing panting growls. Sharp claws, sharp teeth, fire coming from its body. Bigger and badder looking than all the lower level creatures you had seen.

- You immediately gulped, taking a few steps back when you didn’t see Dante anywhere. This was bad. This was really bad. You were useless against even the lower level demons, but this…

- You didn’t make it far.

- One step back and a few rocks went tumbling behind you. Way too loud in the space. The noise echoed, making the demon snap its head around to look in your direction.

- You were so fucked.

- You immediately turned and began to dead sprint down the tunnel, heart pounding in your ears as you tried to put as much distance as you could between you and the creature.

- Another bad idea. As soon as it heard your feet pounding on concrete it came after you, and it was much faster than you were.

- The tunnel was so dark, it was hard to see where you were running but that didn’t matter anyway. The creature slammed into your back hard, shoving your face down with a choked screaming leaving your lips. It’s claws dug into your shoulders, a hard snarl rattling your ears as it landed on top of you.

- Heavy, so heavy you couldn’t breathe. You phone went sliding from your hand, as did the revolver you had.

- You could already feel blood warming your skin where its claws dug in, a strangled yelp leaving your mouth as you tried to struggle away.

- It bared its teeth, jerking you back and making a panicked scream leave your lips, “Dante…!”

- You immediately felt the creature freeze above you, the growl cut off in its throat.

- You were wheezing now, crying a bit as you tried to squirm away from the demon and escape.

- But something stopped you.

- You heard a rasping, demonic voice from above you whisper, “Sunshine?”

- Your eyes went wide, turning back to stare at its face with shock. You lashes still glistened with tears, voice shaken as you stammered, “D…Dante…?”

- The claws in your shoulders immediately retracted, weight from you gone and your body lifted and held against him protectively, frantically.

- Panicked gasps were leaving him now, becoming human and familiar as his body shifted back to the one you knew. The Dante you knew.

- You had never seen that form before, Dante barely even admitted he had it. You had to learn from Nero and the others about it, and even then they didn’t tell you much.

- He held you cradled against your chest, his hands frantically touching all over you, checking for wounds, stroking back your hair as he panted, “Fuck, oh fuck. I’m sorry babe. I’m so sorry…!”

- He touched the wounds on your shoulders, more frantic sounds leaving him. You were unbelievably shaken, but more so relieved to see him.

- “Fuck, I didn’t know it was you…!” Dante rasped, grunting when you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him hard.

- You were crying more now, just so happy to see he was alright.

- “Are you okay?” Dante peppered kisses to your neck, holding you close and wiping away some of your tears, “Fuck, babe, what the hell are you doing down here…? I told you to wait for me at home.”

- You sniffled lightly, leaning back to look at him with watery eyes, “It was already so late…I was afraid something had happened to you…!”

- Dante let out a shaken breath, holding your face in his hands so he could stare at your tear stained face. His eyes were so guilty, searching over you as he stroked some of the tears away.

- “I promised you I’d always come home,” He whispered, more serious than you had ever heard him, “This was my fault. It took more time than I expected, and that caused you to get hurt. I hurt you.”

- You shook your head, hugging yourself to him again and closing your eyes. You didn’t care about that, you just cared that nothing terrible had happened to him. Sure, the experience was a bit scary, and your shoulders and back were hurting. But you would heal, and that was fine.

- “I’ve never seen that form before,” You whispered, sniffling a bit as his strong arms wrapped around you, “You never showed me.”

- He sighed at that, “My fault too. I didn’t want to scare you…some fucking genius I am.”

- You sniffled more, whispering softly, “I love you…no part of you would ever scare me, Dante.”

- Wow, his heart was fucking aching at that. You were so good to him, too good. Precious, something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for. And he had hurt you.

- “I’ve never been the smart one, sunshine,” He grumbled, trying to hide just how emotional your words made him as he pressed his face to your neck, “You’ve always been the one with brains. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

- “Stop,” You whispered, leaning back so you could kiss him. He immediately grunted, threading his fingers in your hair and kissing you back. When you pulled away you added, “Can we go home..? I think…we both need some time to talk and relax.”

- He nodded easily, standing up and lifting you with him, “Agreed…I need to dress your wounds.” He sounded so guilty when he said that, starting forward and holding you bridal style.

- He only stopped to swoop a hand down, grabbing your smashed cell phone and your gun. He sighed at the phone, tucking it into his pocket with even more guilt.

- “I’ll buy you a new phone, sugar,” He promised, kissing your soft lips again until you groaned, “A better one too.”

- You sighed softly, eyeing him with soft eyes as you replied, “Are you my sugar daddy then?”

- He paused, a hesitant smirk quirking his lips as he asked, “Do you want me to be.”

- “No,” You replied firmly, wrapping your arms around your neck and holding yourself to him, “I just want you.”

- Dante sucked in a shaken breath, holding you ever closer as he carried you out of the abandoned subway tunnel.

- “You already have me, love. I’m all yours.”

~Vergil~

- Vergil had always been prone to nightmares, it was why at first he was prone to sleeping alone.

- It had taken months to coax him to your bed, and even then he slept sporadically, in bursts. It took him months to accept the change, and even longer to settle with you enough to allow you to see him so vulnerable.

- But his nightmares had never been like this.

- He had gone to bed before you–you had some final things to work on before sleeping, ones that took you an extra hour before you were supposed to retire for the evening.

- At first you weren’t going to go right to bed. You sat in the kitchen for a bit, feeling kind of restless and wondering if you should make a cup of tea to settle yourself. When you tossed and turned it made Vergil cranky, so you didn’t want to risk upsetting him after he had just grown used to sharing a bed.

- You were just about to put the water on when you heard a strange sound coming from your room. Something caught between a growl and gasping.

- You immediately turned off the stove, concern filling you as you walked toward your room. The sound was deeply unsettling, something you weren’t used to in your own home.

- After pushing open your bedroom door, you immediately knew what was wrong.

- Vergil was in Sin Devil Trigger form on the bed, the noise coming from him.

- You had seen this form only a couple times before, most times in battle. Only once did Vergil take on this form to show it to you personally, to let you feel his horns, his claws, the armor-like exterior. It fascinated you, but he seemed reluctant to have it out around you.

- Never once had you seen him turn into this form while asleep, and that itself told you he must have been having a bad dream.

- You rushed to his side, unsure of what to do while he twitched and let out rasping growls, claws digging into your mattress.

- You had to wake him up, otherwise he would rip your bed to shreds.

- But you no sooner placed your hands on his face, and he practically explodes underneath you.

- Your throat is grabbed in the next instant, a startled squeak of alarm escaping your throat as you’re slammed into the floorboards. All the air is jostled from your lungs in a choked sound, the wind literally knocked out of you as his large form towered over.

- Both his hands were gripping your throat now, your head spinning as you struggled to breath. You stared with shocked eyes, seeing he was still partially asleep as he let out panicked, rasping growls.

- He was still seeing his nightmare. He didn’t know he was attacking you. Something had made him lash out to defend himself.

- His claws were digging in, drawing blood as you kicked and tried to fight him off, fear filling your head as your oxygen depleted. He was so strong in this form, his face unreadable and those claws so sharp.

- He was going to kill you. If you didn’t do something he was going to strangle you. He wasn’t in his right mind, he wasn’t awake. You needed to wake him up.

- You lifted your trembling fingers to his face, struggling for air even as you gently stroked his demonic features. You weren’t a threat, he needed to know that. He needed to recognize you.

- You voice was weak, strangled as you managed to get out, “B…baby…please…please it’s…me…!”

- You were lucky enough that your words reached him in his panicked frenzy.

- He let out a strange sound, head snapping back and even more panicked gasps escaping him now that he was truly seeing who he was hurting. You felt his vise tight grip on your throat loosen, his hands beginning to shake as a few tears dripped from your eyes.

- What the hell was he doing…? You were underneath him, you were crying, you were…

- He slowly pulled his claws back, seeing your blood on them, seeing the red on your neck from his scratches. Bruising, he had hurt you. You started coughing and gasping as soon as his hands were off you, practically choking now that the air was filling your lungs again.

- He had almost strangled you. He had almost killed you.

- He stumbled back, blinding panic filling him as he continued to look at his hands. All he could see was your blood, the look on your face when he had snapped back into reality.

- He couldn’t take it. He was falling to pieces inside.

- He morphed back into human form, his expression shattering your heart as you sat up, holding your throat and staring at him.

- You had never seen him look that afraid, that vulnerable. That mortified.

- “What have I done…?” He rasped, his tone broken as he continued to stare at his hands. He was hyperventilating now, panicking even more as he put his hands to his head, “What have I…what have I…”

- You immediately scrambled toward him, wanting to stop his panic attack before it got any worse. You had just gotten close to him, you didn’t want to lose him now.

- You fell into his lap, wrapping your arms firmly around his neck as you whispered, “Stop…! It’s okay, I’m okay baby. Breathe, just breathe.”

- You thought he was going to push you away, but he didn’t. He stared in front of him like he wasn’t seeing anything, his sharp jaw clenched with each panting gasp and his eyes almost glassy.

- “I hurt you,” He rasped, his chest practically heaving now, “My doll. I almost killed you. I could have. I could have snapped your neck. I could have…I…”

- You shook your head, hugging yourself closer as you whispered, “I’m okay. I am. You didn’t know what you were doing, you were having a nightmare, Vergil.”

- He wasn’t soothed. You could tell he wasn’t. His breathing became more ragged, his hands hanging at his side as he tilted his head back a bit.

- And Vergil did something you had never seen in all the time you knew him.

- He began to cry.

- A few stray tears rolled down his face, his eyes wide and shocked as you stared at him, touching the wetness with your fingers. He didn’t sob, the only sound leaving him was that panicked rasping. It broke you in two in an instant.

- “I hurt you…I almost killed you, Doll…” He repeated in that broken, rasping tone. His expression shifted to something so exhausted, heart-breakingly so as he leaned forward, resting his head on your shoulder, “I hurt everyone in my life. I hurt so many people….what a monster I am.”

- “Stop, please,” You whimpered, holding him close and stroking back his hair, “Please Vergil. Please.  It’s okay, everything will be okay.”

- His arms finally snaked around your waist, holding you like you were a lifeline to his hard body. His hands were still shaking, his breath short and quick as the warmth of your body registered with him.

- “Of all the blood that stains my hands,” He whispered, the wetness of his sharp cheeks moistening your shirt, “I never wanted to see yours. Never yours, Doll. My hands are drenched in sin and carnage and I never wanted that stain to touch you, for you to be a part of it.”

- There was so much guilt there, so much pain. You knew of his past, knew of the death he had caused and the terrible things he had done. You wanted to help him learn how to be human, to accept his mistakes. It never occurred to you that they were destroying him.

- You squeezed him tighter, pressing a kiss to his temple as you stroked back his silvery hair.

- “Please…let me help you,” You whispered, your own eyes tearing up as you continued to hold him, “Please Vergil. You can’t keep going like this, holding everything in until you burst,” You leaned back, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “You had a nightmare…you were disoriented and scared and you lashed out. I’m okay…I swear I am. I’m not made of glass, or porcelain.”

- As much as you loved his nickname, in reality you were weren’t a fragile doll.

- He remained silent, his eyes tired now as he stared without seeing anything. He was coming down from the panic, the nightmare. You could tell that much. He was going into numb mode, and you didn’t want that either.

- You pressed your lips to his, gently kissing as you cupped his cheeks.

- “It’ll be okay,” You whispered, “We will figure it out. But you can’t run away from it, or me,” You took his hands and placed them gently on your neck, where his claws had left scratches and bruises. Gentle, feather-light. No fear and no more pain, “I will heal and I’ll be fine.”

- He swallowed visibly, his sharp eyes staring at the marks with deep regret.

- “You are too good for me,” He whispered, sounding incredibly guilty. Like you were a prize he didn’t deserve, especially after all he had done, “Doll…Why do you even put up with me? I am a man deserving of nothing.” He deserved nothing and you were…everything

- You smiled softly, pressing another kiss to his cheek as you replied, “Because I love you, slick. And you don’t get to decide who I’m too good for, I do.”

- With that, you pulled him to his feet, pressing another kiss to his lips this time as you added, “Now, let’s go get some tea, some food. And we will talk about what happened.”

- He remains quiet, watching you with dazed eyes as you lead him out of the room.

~V~

- V had been missing for several days.

- You were an absolute nervous wreck, bouncing between demon nests with a few other demon hunters as you all searched for him. You didn’t know what to do, what would happen if you didn’t find him alive.

- You and the poet had been fighting demons together when he had been taken, snatched through a portal by a bigger demon when neither of you had been looking. Something had subdued him, some sort of gas made him go unconscious and his familiars returned to him. There had been no fight for him to give.

- You were with Nero, Dante, and Lady now. Searching yet another demon’s lair for your lover. This one was bigger than the others, taking up multiple floors.

- You decided on the top floor alone. You were a skilled fighter, you could handle whatever this place threw at you.

- What you couldn’t handle when you got there was the sight of V, strung up by tendrils of flesh in the middle of the room.

- Seeing him after your days long search made your heart race in shock and relief, you rushing into the room without thinking. There were no other demons in the room, no enemies on this floor.

- You slashed at the flesh holding him up, catching him in your arms and easing him to the floor.

- Christ, he was alive. He was still breathing. That alone was a relief.

- You set him down on the ground, hearing him stirring a bit even as you turned to call for Dante and the others. You would need help to carry V out, he needed a Doctor.

- What you didn’t expect was to feel his cane pierce your shoulder when your back was turned, making you let out a startled shriek of pain.

- You whipped around in the next instant, the metal object ripping out of you as you stared at V in absolute shock.

- Something was wrong. You could tell that right away.

- His eyes were glazed over, glassy as he swayed from side to side. You clutched that the wound he had left, panting as you took a few steps back.

- You knew a possession when you saw one. V was strong willed, but if they broke him down enough they could easily force something on him. This was not good. This was definitely not good. If you fought him, you would hurt him, and judging by the cuts and heavy bruising on his body he couldn’t take much more.

- His expression was blank when he lifted his cane, pointing it at you and summoning Griffon and Shadow. You half expected them to be under the influence too, especially when they came out ready to attack what V was focused on.

- But Griffon immediately came to a screeching halt, Shadow sliding on their claws as they stared at your panting form in confusion.

- “What the fuck?” Griffon squawked, flapping his wings wildly as he stared at you, turning his annoyed gaze to stare at V, “Yo, genius, what the hell are you–”

- V slammed his cane into the ground, the order to attack loud and clear. Both familiars jolted, Griffon letting out a pained yelp as V’s command jolted through his skull.

- “What are you doing?!” He screeched at his master, shaking his head over and over as he resisted the command, “I’m not blasting your fucking girlfriend…!”

- Shadow let out a strangled snarl, rubbing its face over and over with its paws as spikes tried forming from its pelt.

- He was trying to use his ability as their master to force them to attack. Which was definitely bad.

- You were panting with fear and panic, voice broken as you said, “He’s possessed…! We have to do something…!”

- “Are you fucking kidding me…?” Griffon hissed, landing on the ground and pressed his beak downwards, “Son of a bitch…! Whatever you’re gonna do, you had better do it quick…!”

- You heard Griffon let out another loud sound of annoyance, shouting at Shadow, “Knock Shakespeare on his ass…!”

- Shadow let out a low snarl, whipping around and running at V while it was still able. You bolted forward with her, heart pounding as you saw V raise that cane again.

- Shadow’s black pelt twitched, a couple spikes shooting out at you and slicing your arms. Shadow still seemed in semi-control, letting out a roar as their paws hit V’s shoulders, teeth snapping onto his cane.

- You saw the poet struggle, but he was in no way strong enough to fight the cat. They ripped the cane away, sending it skidding across the floor with a metallic crack.

- You were there in an instant, sitting on top of V, panting and several parts of your shoulders stinging in agony. But you didn’t care, you couldn’t care.

- Bringing V back was all that mattered.

- He stared at you with those glassy eyes, panting and struggling against you. Whatever was possessing him hadn’t been there for long, that much you could tell. V was so hurt, his body too battered and weak to put up a true fight.

- He needed help, god he needed help.

- You cupped his cheeks, ignoring his hands as they tried to grasp around your throat.

- “I know there’s some more fight in there,” You breathed to him, stroking his ebony hair back as his fingers slipped over your skin, “Come on, darling. You can do this. Come back to me.”

- You saw his face twitch as soon as you used your favorite nickname for him, his jaw tightening. That was the way to do it, that was the way to reach him.

- You started quoting William Blake to him, stroking your hands over his face. Touching his lips, his cheeks, his jaw. Every part of him you adored, everything you loved. These few days without him had been so frightening, so achingly lonely. You needed him to know that.

- “I miss you,” You murmured to your poet, voice growing louder when he groaned, putting his hands to his head and his body beginning to thrash under you, “Please, I want to go home, V. I want us both to go home.”

- That was the way.

- He jolted, beginning to gag and retch as he eyes rolled back into his head. He was rejecting whatever had him, so you had to act fast.

- You gasped, immediately rolling him over, holding his hair back as he started to vomit.

- He hadn’t eaten anything in a few days, all that came out was stomach bile until…something else.

- He gagged more, retching as something black oozed out from his mouth. What the fuck was that?

 - It all came out, the poet hacking painfully and groaning as you held him, feeling his senses coming back.

- The blob of black goo formed several red eyes, teeth opening and hissing at you. It started to scurry away, but Shadow pounced on it in an instant, snarling loudly as it was pinned under their paws. It struggled and shrieked, writhing sporadically and unable to get away.

- You had no fucking clue what demon type it was, but it was as good as dead.

- And through it all, V wheezed and coughed, his body drooping forward as he rested his weight on one arm. He was shaking, trembling and weak as his body cast out the last of the traces of that creature from his system.

- “Oh darling,” You whimpered, pressing kisses to his head and pulling him against you, “Are you okay? Are you alright?”

- He groaned, his head lolling back a bit as you smoothed some more of his hair away. Griffon landed next to you both, eyeing the poet with worry as he took in his absolutely messed up form.

- “What the fuck happened?!” The bird asked in an astonished tone, looking around the demonic layer in confusion, “How did we get here…?”

- You winced, letting out a light sigh, “Long story.”

- V let out another groan, his voice weak and rasping as he muttered, “Sparrow…I’m…sorry…”

- “Shh…” You shushed him, holding him close and pressing a kiss to his temple. He felt feverish, clammy. You needed to get him out of here and fast, “We’re going to get you some help. Griffon, The others are downstairs. Get Nero and Dante up here…!”

- “On it!” The bird didn’t hesitate, darting in a flash of feathers out of the room.

- You kept holding V, whispering sweet nothings to him as you kept stroking his hair. You needed to do better. You needed to do better to protect him from things like this. Had you been more careful, this could have been prevented, you could have saved him before some gross demon was forced inside of him.

- “Hurt…you…” V murmured, his jade eyes opening to stare at you weakly, “Forgive me.”

- You put a finger to his lips, wiping away some blood from his lips as you replied, “Hush. You did nothing wrong love. Everything will be okay.”

- V closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath as he leaned into your touch. You both needed this after the days apart. You both needed each other.

- Dante and Nero came sprinting into the room moments later, both shocked to see V’s battered form in your bleeding arms. They didn’t hesitate, Dante lifting up your lover easily to carry him out.

- Nero stopped, staring at Shadow holding the black goo on the ground. He merely gestured with his chin, pulling out a pistol to point it at the creature. Shadow lifted their paws almost comically, then the creature was blasted into nothingness.

- You ignored your own wounds despite the piercing from V’s cane, making sure V was comfortable in the van on your way to a doctor before you’d even let Dante and Nico touch you.

-Luckily, Griffon was smart enough to grab V’s cane before you set out.

- V made a full recovery in the following weeks, but he refused to stop apologizing for stabbing you. Despite how many times you told him it wasn’t his fault.

- It was something you doubted he would ever live down.

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Soliloquy Chapter Six: Machinations

Soliloquy Chapter Five: Adrift

You can check out the Masterlist Here for more links to places to read!

Otherwise, you can read the new chapter below. Enjoy!

This one was a wild ride to write! And even worse to edit and prof read.

Chapter Six: Machinations

Note: Hey everyone! Thank you all for your understanding about the last chapter being a little shorter and more than a few hours late. Life happened, unfortunately. But thanks for sticking with me anyway! A special thanks to Skylarmorgan1899, Mallovarwen, BeanswithBones, HunterJamie, and RubixaSeraph for your kind words of encouragement. I had a great time responding to your comments, and seeing what you guys thought about the story so far was fascinating and helpful! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and thanks for taking the time to reach out! Now, let’s get back to this long ass chapter!

The ferry made port, it’s foghorn shattering the peaceful serenity of the coastline like a stone through stained glass. The medium-sized vessel eased into it’s designated space between two of the end docks, carefully threading the space. After the ship came to a complete stop, it anchored, finally allowing it’s sizeable ramp to lower and make contact with the road. Before they had left the mainland, one of the deckhands had taken the liberty of informing them that they would only be in Fortuna for about a half-hour before they would be returning home, so leaving as soon as possible was paramount.

With everyone now on board the van, Nico pulled up to the top edge of the ramp. Nero, who was seated in the front seat next to her, took notice and sighed loudly. Nico and everyone else on board clearly noticed, but no one said anything about it.

“Ok, now look. Let’s not do this shit again,” Nero started as Nico reached down to switch the throttle from idle to drive,” Don’t go launching off the-”

Nero’s sensible warning fell on death ears. Just for the hell of it or perhaps form pure spite, Nico floored the gas and the van went flying off of the boat, making virtually no perceivable contact with the offramp. As soon as they landed, the mechanic made a far too tight hard left and sailed up the road, homebound. Nero groaned and rubbed the top of his head as he settled back into his seat. He had just bashed his head against the roof of the van during the landing.

“Seriously, where the fuck did you get a license from?! Are you trying to kill us?!” Nero said through gritted teeth. It was a wonder that the vehicle hadn’t been totally destroyed yet. He’s heard from V during the Redgrave City Disaster that Nico had somehow tunneled through the ground to meet the mysterious devil summoner. Twice. How did a basically square van that was towards the end of its lifecycle even do something like that in the first place? Before Nico had come along and helped him fix it, the old van had barely been able to drive correctly, but act like a boring drill? Just what the fuck? Did V put a spell on it or something?

Nico reached into her front pocket and pulled out a cigarette, placing it in her mouth. “Aw, stop your bellyachin’ and shut up,” Nico said, clearly expecting him to react that way. He always did, after all. This was nothing new. “I don’t know about you, but I wanna get home before dinner starts! Kyrie’s cookin’ is amazin’ and you know it. Now unclench your britches and gimme a light, would ya?”

Nero grumbled and fumbled for the lighter that had been sitting in the cupholder between them before reaching over and lighting her cigarette. Dante burst into laughter from the back seat, leaning over his knees as he sat on the couch across from Vergil. It was always great to see someone give his nephew the same kind of hell that he gave him every day. Nico was a living form of neverending karmic punishment for Nero. Vergil simply watched the situation unfold and shook his head, fully realizing that every single person that Dante and Nero knew was probably insane. Well, except for the gentleman in the suit. He had been relatively fine, although his decision making could be called into question for spending time at the Devil May Cry office with Dante and his cohorts.

The vehicle continued down the road, dodging and weaving its way through parked cars and sudden curves as it headed towards the interior of the dimly lit city. Dante and Nico continued to poke fun at Nero as they went, sufficiently riling him up. Vergil, on the other hand, took the time to think about what they were here for. On their way to the docks back on the mainland, Dante had asked both of them what was going on and Vergil had given him a very succinct answer. He knew that it was best to not go into things at the time. Although they could have still come here without him, the eldest Son of Sparda preferred it this way and wasn’t in the mood for further obstruction of his plans. To be fair, he never had been, but in times like this, keeping things as manageable as possible was key. He didn’t have to worry about his youngest son. Despite the fact that he was their father, he had gleaned from their various interactions that V and Nero had a much stronger relationship than he had with either of them, despite the relatively small amount of time that they had spent with one another. Nero had too much to lose in this investment to just give up and call it quits. Or to cause any issues, for that matter.

Either the ride had gone exceedingly quick due to Nico’s atrocious driving, or Nero’s home had been closer to the shoreline that Vergil would’ve guessed because It took less than ten minutes for them to arrive. The worn-out old vehicle pulled into the side driveway of what seemed to be an old stone and Plaster of Paris building, unremarkable in its appearance compared to the rest of the block. It blended into the busy street, having more than likely been built at the same time as most of the other buildings. The same trademark white and grey store surrounded the first floor, with the exception of the concrete trim that separated the first two feet or so of the home from the pavement below. The upper floors, which there were two of, not counting the possibility of an attic, were covered by a simple, worn coating of medium grey Plaster of Paris. Several white framed windows covered the length of each floor, shielded by curtains inside the home. The side driveway ended in a wooden gate that separated a small yard from an alley. A few children’s toys could be seen littering the short grass. A tiny driveway only a half a dozen feet long next to the side yard led into the metal garage door.

They stopped mid-turn, leaving Nero just enough space to get out and open the folding metal garage door. After he let it up, he stepped to the side and allowed them to pull all the way in. The doors to the van opened and everyone exited through them as the door was being let back down. On the far side of the room, the inside door cautiously opened and bright light flooded the otherwise dark concrete space. A young woman with medium length auburn hair in a long grey and white dress stood in the doorway, seemingly checking to see what had made the noise. Upon seeing them, she sighed in what could only be relief and waved quietly from across the room. “Oh, your home!”

Nero stood from letting the door down and turned to face her. The pair approached one another meeting halfway in the middle of the garage and Kyrie hugged Nero around the waist, clearly happy to see him. “Sorry if I scared you, Kyrie. I should’ve said something. Everything been okay since we’ve been gone?”

She nodded happily and turned to face the rest of their guests. Nico raced up to the young woman, happy to see her bright smile again. “Hey Kyrie,” she practically yelled in glee,” We woulda got back sooner, but we got held up. Hope we didn’t miss dinner!”

Kyrie giggled at the statement and pointed back in the direction of the open door. Three small heads rapidly recoiled back into hiding from the doorway at the sight of the attention being thrown their way. “Of course not! In fact, the children and I were just about to sit down and eat. Feel free to join them. Everything’s hot. I made a lasagna.”

Nico pumped her fist, exclaiming in excitement before taking off running into the house to join the boys. She was now home and had no intention of doing anything besides enjoying a nice hot mean and relaxing. The young couple watched her go, trying not to laugh at her neverending enthusiasm for Kyrie’s delectable cooking. Kyrie then turned back to look towards the van and gasped, holding her hand up to her mouth to try and stifle her breath. She couldn’t believe the sight before her. Dante, she recognized but…

“Dante! It is so good to have you back! We were all worried sick about you,” Kyrie exclaimed joyfully, clearly eager to see the devil slayer in red. As he waived, she spared a curious glance at their last guest, slightly thrown off by the new but familiar face in her home. Nonetheless, she stepped forward, her warm smile inviting and kind. “Hello there, stranger! I don’t think I’ve met you before. Either way, It’s wonderful to meet you.”

To say that Vergi was taken aback by Kyrie’s kindly demeanor and warm persona was an understatement. So this was the young woman who Nero shared a home with? She was lovely. Despite the awkward silence that settled over the two of them, Kyrie continued to smile, paying his silence no mind. After what felt like an eternity to Dante and Nero who were watching from a few feet away, Vergil performed a gesture somewhere between a nod and a bow before quickly returning to his regular upright position. “... Likewise. Nero has mentioned you in passing. I am his father, Vergil.”

To say that Dante and Nero were both very uncomfortable with how friendly Vergil was being would have been a gross understatement.

As if it were somehow possible, Kyrie’s smile brightened. She giggled shyly and gestured with open arms to both of the twins, herding them and Nero in the direction of the house. “I’ve been hoping to meet you! Nero hasn’t stopped talking about you and what happened since you left…” She trailed off as she noticed how pale and destressed Nero looked,” But we can talk about that another time. Dinner is ready and I made extra!”

Nero shook his head and smirked to himself as they crossed into the threshold of the house. Kyrie always made extra. That was just who she was. Like her parents before her, she had always been welcome to strangers from outside of her home, especially when it was someone new to town. It was so rare for an outsider to come and visit Fortuna.

The moment that they stepped into the entryway, Nero was accosted by the presence of three messy haired children who looked like they could all be siblings. The eldest child didn’t look older than six or so and the youngest was maybe two. The middle child seemed to be about four or five, and they all sprouted the same light to medium brown curls with light brown, vibrant eyes. The children were climbing all over Nero in what seemed to be an attempt to topple him and send him crashing to the ground. Dante laughed as Nero pretended to falter under their combined attack before the children pinned him to the floor and showered him with their seemingly endless adorations. It was clear to anyone present that they had missed their adopted father and that sturred something in Vergil that he had never felt before. He hadn’t really considered it too much until now, but this was one experience that he would never have with either of his children, and he couldn’t put to words why that cut him so deeply. He recalled doing the same with his brother whenever their father returned home from taking care of some important task, but he had never considered how little things like being greeted at the door by wide-eyed children could be to be so important until now. He didn’t so much envy Nero as he did feel uncomfortable, even guilty, with the realization that he had inadvertently deprived them all of such a moment.

As if she had read Vergil’s thoughts and wished to spare him from them, Kyrie called them all from the dining room. “I’d hurry if I were you! I think Nico is planning to eat everything herself!”

The children leaped to their feet, exclaiming in horror as they raced into the kitchen, heading towards the dining room. They had no plans of missing out on food again because of their insatiable house guest. Dante headed after them, although not running. One way or another, he was going to get some of that lasagna. As Nero climbed back to his feet, Vergil looked in the direction of the kitchen, lost in thought. The room they stood in connected the front and back doors with doorways on the left and right leading to either end of the home. The walls were adorned with drawings crafted by small children and a clothing hamper willed with unfinished laundry that had probably been put down in a hurry sat on a bench against the wall near an umbrella holder. Several pares of shoes in different sizes were stuffed under it. The house was clearly very well lived in and it carried a comfortable warmth with it. Although significantly smaller than his own childhood home, Vergil would have been lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it reminded him of that long since past chapter of his life.

Nero headed into the kitchen behind Dante, stopping for a second to look back at Vergil. The eldest Son of Sparda had been totally silent now for several minutes. That wasn’t exactly abnormal for him, but Nero still felt the need to make sure he still had a pulse. “You coming or what? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” He inquired playfully. Clearly being home had allowed him to let his guard down a bit.

Vergil stared at him blankly, unsure if he was being sarcastic or genuinely inviting him to dinner. “You can’t actually still be hungry. You just consumed an entire platter of croissants an hour ago.”

Nero scoffed. “I can too still be hungry and I am. Now get in here so we can all eat. Kyrie isn’t going to start without us, and the kids need to be put to bed. It’s getting pretty late and knowing her she probably has important volunteer work to do in the morning.”

Vergil continued to state at him, this time in vaguely concealed disbelief. Nero was actually serious. Vergil folded his arms and furrowed his brow, unable to comprehend what he was being told. “So let me get this straight. I cut off your arm meer months ago in that very garage,” Vergil tilted his head in the direction of the door behind him,” And now your lovely girlfriend is inviting me in and you’re standing here just feet from where you nearly perished and insisting that I eat dinner with you and your children? Am I correct?”

Nero flinched inwardly a the unpleasant reminder and Vergil’s blunt statement, but nodded in earnest anyway. “I invited you to dinner last time you were here. It’s not my fault that you decided to be a total bastard and tear my goddamn arm off instead of sitting down and having a meal with us.” 

 Vergil would never admit it if asked, but he was taken aback by his son’s sincerity. There was no way that he had been forgiven for his actions. After all, a severed limb was no easy thing to recover from. Fresh out of excuses and questions, Vergil gave up and opted to follow Nero into the dining room. He hadn’t eaten dinner with anyone in his family in well over two decades and yet, he didn’t dread this as his logical mind told him that he should. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he figured it would be…

-~-

The dinner had gone over surprisingly well, despite the fact that Nico and Nero’s middle child Kyle hadn’t shut up the entire meal. It had been a good time filled with laughs, playful jokes, and adorable children making equally adorable funny faces. Vergil wasn’t one to laugh, be he had been amused at the very least. The children were… charming. And that was to say nothing about the lasagna that Kyrie had made. It had been unnaturally delicious. The eldest Son of Sparda found himself questioning if the young auburn-haired woman possessed some magical powers of her own. Assuming that her skills had simply been overstated had been a mistake on his part, and no one at the table that night was ever going to get over the fact that Vergil had actually requested an additional serving.

Once the meal had been finished, Nero had forced Dante to help him do the dishes while Kyrie herded the children off to their bedroom. Vergil had overheard Nico say something about them voluntarily sharing a room after the attack had happened because they felt safer that way. The oldest child, Julio had sworn to protect his younger sibling, despite not being older than seven and having no experience with weapons. Vergil’s attack on the house and the near loss of their beloved adopted father had apparently been quite traumatic for them. Wonderful, now Vergil could add “emotionally scaring helpless wide-eyed orphans” to his long list of sins. As a result of his actions, there was an extra room on the main floor that they planned to use as a guest room, but right now, it was full of boxes stacked on top of a spare bed. It was unfortunately useless at the moment, which was a shame considering the fact that they would be staying the night here. The ferry ran every two hours or so, starting at around 9 am when visibility was better.  Fish was a popular export here, but fog could be an issue at times.

After Nico and Kyrie had headed off to bed, Nero joined Dante and Vergil in the living room. The two had retired here while the children were being put to bed so as to not disturb them. Nero flopped down across from them and opened a drawer on the coffee table between them, producing an elusive yet oh so familiar brown and gold leather book. Vergil sighed quietly. Now that was truly a sight for sore eyes.

“Kyrie said she put the book in here today when she was cleaning up. She wanted to make sure the kids didn’t get it. They can be pretty rough, and anything they see that’s made of paper, they draw on.” Nero said casually. He was clearly tired and in need of a good night’s rest.

Vergil reached out and took the book from Nero, taking a moment to look at it. Of all the things to survive this long, he would have never guessed that this memento from a kind neighbor would survive this long. For a moment, Vergil wondered if that man was still alive. He silently hoped that he hadn’t been living in the Redgrave city during the attack. Maybe one day he would find out. He turned the book over in his hands and opened the front cover. To his surprise, what he was looking for was still there. Funny, he’d expected it to have worn off by now.

“... I wrote my name in this book when I received it,” Vergil said simply, reminiscing about the day that the kind man living next door to them had given him such a wonderful gift,” Dante had a nasty habit of making things I owned disappear when we were children, especially if my name was not on them. The fireplace was never short on kindling.”

Dante shrugged uncomfortably as Nero gave him a disapproving look. He was worse than his kids! “Yea, um... Probably shouldn’t have done that. My bad, Vergil.”

Vergil didn’t answer verbally, but he gave a small nod. He would consider his younger twins half-ass apology at a later time.

Nero yawned as he stood up and stretched. He was at his limit for today. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to bed. The guest room is out of commission, for now, so your gonna have to stay in here. Nothing I can do about it tonight.”

With that, Nero headed out of the room and left them to their own devices. Unless the house caught fire, he didn’t want to hear anything but the sound of his own snoring.

-~-

It was early in the morning when they finally left the house and headed towards the docks. The sky was a beautiful mixture of several shades of orange, pink, and purple, the vibrant colors reflecting in mesmerizing swirls off of the placid waters of the large bay area that separated Fortuna from the mainland. Despite the thin layer of mist that covered the portside as they docked, the return trip almost seemed to go faster than it had the night before. Or maybe it was just anticipation. Who knew?

They arrived just after twelve. The boat pulled into the dock and anchored the same way it had the previous night, only allowing the ramp to be let down after everything had come to a complete stop. And just as she had the night before, Nico rocked off of the boat at a speed that could probably shatter the sound barrier. Nero didn’t know how it was possible, but she continued to shock him at just how dreadful she was at driving. How in the hell had she not killed them all in a wreck yet?!

As soon as they left the docks, they headed towards Magnolia’s house. She lived much closer to the docks than Dante did, which was fortunate considering that time was of the essence. The alchemist had predicted that they had seventy-two hours to get this done, but the eldest Son of Sparda knew better than most that nothing was concrete when you were dealing with the underworld, especially time. That was a very generous estimate, given the circumstances.

Dante was in his usual spot on the couch, reading one of the magazines that he had probably read a thousand times before. But it was better than talking about the matter at hand. After all, he didn’t really understand how this was supposed to work, and it would probably be easier to just ask the woman who would be casting the spells when they finally met. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this entire situation, to be honest. Up until now, he had always figured that death was pretty much final. But if Vergil could come back from the great beyond, then perhaps this could work after all. What had happened to V was awful, he wouldn’t argue that… but he would hold his opinion on this situation until after he saw the results. But a the same time, he couldn’t help but ask himself if there was a reason that more people didn’t do something like this? The death of a loved one was always agony. And it always would be. If there was a way to reverse that, then why wasn’t it more commonly used?

As he pondered this, the van came to a sudden and hard stop. They had arrived. Nero leaned out the window and looked over toward the front door, squinting to make out something. “Looks like there’s some kind of note on the door… I can’t make out what it says from here though.”

Nico shrugged, unsure of what type of response he was hoping to elicit from that statement. “Well, take your ass over there and go and get it, then! We don’t got all day!”

Nero gave her a “duh” look and popped open the door, hopping down onto the pavement. He then jogged up the steps to the front door, glancing back at the van as he went. He couldn’t quite place why, but he had a bad feeling about this. Upon reaching the front door, he found a note stuck under the knocker. It was scrawled in an elegant script, seemingly written with some sort of ink. He pulled it off the door and hurried back to the van, unsure of what to make of it. As he climbed back into the waiting vehicle, he was met with an uncomfortably tense atmosphere. In an instant, everyone seemed to be expecting the worse.

“What does it say?” Vergil inquired. He didn’t sound worried so much as he did morbidly curious.

Nero turned the piece of cardstock paper over in his hand, his forehead scrunching as he took in the information. “2460 Zephyr Court?” Is that a street around here or something?”

Dante nodded. “Yea, It’s an off-street to the one that Bobby’s Cellar is on. Haven’t been down that way in a long time. It’s the cross street at the other end of that block.”

Vergil could practically taste the disgust he felt at the mention of that godforsaken bar. If it was possible to develop indigestion from hearing a word, he would have just done it. Nico took the note in her hand and looked it over before shrugging and putting the car into reverse and heading off again. She’d had passed by that bar a while back with Nero when they were heading out of town to go take care of a mission. It was on the outer edge of town on a wooded block that headed up into the mountains. What could this Magnolia woman want them to come there for? Was this some sort of trick?

As they hurried down the road, Dante couldn’t help but note the bitter irony of their situation. Never in his entire life did he think that he’d be heading past Bobby’s Cellar with Vergil and Nell Goldstine’s granddaughter. If you’d told him that a decade or so ago, he would’ve probably written it off as an awful joke. And yet here they were, doing just that. And to try and save a member of his own family at that. Absolutely unbelievable.

After several agonizing minutes of silent trepidation, the van turned onto Zephyr Street. They scanned the outside of every building looking for the correct address, noting that the area was mostly deserted. What buildings there were seemed to be boarded up, no one having stepped foot inside of them for a very long time. As they navigated their way through the seemingly forsaken city block, Nico pointed down one of the side drives towards what seemed to be an old warehouse or factory building. “I think that might be it over there! Let’s go check it out!”

With that, she made a sharp left and turned onto a little dead-end street. As she veered right and pulled into the broken old wire fence, they all got a better look at the building. It was a two-story brick warehouse with led glass windows. In the space where a single huge sliding barn door used to be was an opening into the building. From inside they caught a glimpse of a passing light. Tall pine trees lined the entire lot, making it a very secluded and out of the way area. As such, it was very dark here. She pulled into the worn-out gravel parking lot and stopped the car, jarring everyone inside. Nico then cut the engine and handed Nero back the note they had found on Magnolia’s front door before turning her attention to her passengers. “Alright, this is the place on that note Nero found. Address matches up and stuff. I’m stayin’ out here in case we need to leave in a hurry or somethin’. Holler if you need me.”

Everyone nodded in agreement and stood up. There wasn’t any time to lose. Nero hopped out of the front of the car while Dante and Vergil took the side door. As they exited, Dante exhaled, the reality of what they were here to do sinking in deeper. 

“... Vergil, do you really think this is really gonna work?” He asked quietly. Nero had gone ahead of them to investigate the building.

Vergil stopped just ahead of his brother but didn’t turn in to face him. He glanced up, noticing that the overcast seemed to be darkening, much like his fatalistic mood at the moment. The wind was picking up as well. A thunderstorm seemed to be rolling in. He then let out a long sigh and looked down slightly, seemingly taking his brother’s words to heart. “...It has to…” He said so quietly that Dante nearly didn’t pick it up from behind him. The Youngest Son of Sparda felt the words more than he heard them. There was a note of finality and desperation when his brother spoke that he was unfamiliar with. Dante wanted to say something, but decided against it and made the decision to just follow his twin brother into the building instead. Considering how high the stakes were right now, this just wasn’t the right time for that conversation.

They entered the building and nearly walked into Nero. The younger man was standing in the middle of the space, looking around in seemingly every direction at once. The woman they had come here to meet was nowhere in sight. Nero held up the note she had left on her door and, to his surprise, the piece of cardstock suddenly caught fire and turned into a smoldering pile of ash on the floor. Nero released the remnants and let them fall to the ground, surprised but unwilling to dwell on it. He looked down the corridor into the next doorway. It led into a black room that he couldn’t see into very well.

“Hey Magnolia! You there?!” He shouted, startling all of the nearby pigeons into taking flight,” We got what you asked for! Were back!”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them. The three descendants of Sparda looked at one another before silently deciding to approach the darker back section of the building. Perhaps she hadn’t heard them? Just as they reached the doorway, a figure in a dark teal knee high dress appeared from seemingly nowhere and met them in the doorway. She seemed slightly out of breath. She bent over and put her hands on her knees, panting for a moment before standing up and exhaling, regaining her lost composure.

“Oh, please forgive me,” Magnolia said as she took several deep breaths,” I was in the middle of reading an incantation, so I couldn’t respond. Sorry for the note. It didn’t cross my mind to request your phone number before you left. But you lot are all here now, and that’s lovely because we’re a bit short on time.”

Magnolia gestured for them to follow her and they all headed into the room, now realizing that the impenetrable darkness was due to a tinted plastic screen that covered the doorway and a litany of boarded-up windows. Strange glowing symbols were written on different surfaces around the room, making up a semi triangular shape. They seemed to be scrawled in chalk or something similar. Dante raised an eyebrow at the setup. “So, where’s the blood and bones and the candles and stuff?”

Magnolia put her hand on her hip and gave him a sassy but humorous look. “You lot really are twins, aren’t you? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” She said smiling as she turned and headed towards the center of the room,” Sorry to disappoint love, but this isn’t that kind of spell, although there is a bit of bone ash in the chalk. It’s just old chicken bones though. That said, I do need that book Nero mentioned before. I came here and set up everything while you were gone. It took me all night, so I apologize if I’m a bit out of sorts. I haven’t had a wink of sleep.”

Vergil stepped forward and handed her the aged book, careful not to drag his feet over one of the nearby symbols. She took it and nodded graciously, positioning it towards the middle of the work area. She then stepped back and grabbed something off of a nearby cardboard box. It was the hourglass from before. And the top was nearly empty.

Nero blanched. “It took a lot less time than you said it would…”

Magnolia nodded, a grim look on her face. “Yes, it accelerated considerably after you left. That’s why I started preparing this the moment you were gone. I wanted to make sure we had enough time,” She gestured towards the ground,” Vergil, I’m going to need you to make a perimeter around the outside of the symbols with your blood. Hurry, we don’t have much time!”

Vergil looked at his longtime companion as if she had lost her mind for a moment before obliging her. He didn’t have time to ask why she needed him to do this, and he had a feeling he knew why anyway. During his youth, he had studied up on this sort of thing. Although the way this spell worked was far from ideal, a direct blood bond was integral to the functionality of the spell and they had no other option. As he had done last time, the eldest Son of Sparda used Yamato to slice open his palm and apply the line around the markings. He then sheathed the blade and stepped back out of the way.

The alchemist examined his handiwork and nodded, griping the hourglass tightly. “Well then… this is it,” She said solemnly,” If this does not work as intended, know that I did everything that I could. Spells like this are complicated, and they always come at a cost. Sorry to make you come all the way out here on such short notice. I just wanted to make sure that this didn’t happen at my house, especially with all the attention demonic activity has garnered as of late. Stand back. This could be dangerous.”

With that said, everyone stepped back and watched as Magnolia began to read an incantation out loud. She spoke clearly, though no one there aside from maybe Vergil could make out any of the language used. The ground trembled as dust suddenly began to rise off of the ground and into the air. Dust swirled around the symbols on the ground, forming a circular column that rose several dozen feet into the air towards the small hole in the triple-height ceiling. The ground cracked deeply along the outline of the line that Vergil had drawn in his own blood and the air became statically charged and cold. The walls developed hairline cracks and the boarded-up windows trembled in their frames. A low, rhythmic thump could be heard throughout the room, although that could simply be their collective heartbeats hammering in their chests as the chant intensified. 

On the very last word of the spell, Magnolia took the hourglass and threw it forward towards the center of the swirling black miasma as the once small opening in the roof sheered open to make way for a white-hot bolt of lightning. It crashed down with a deafening boom and made impact with the hourglass, shattering it into a red mist and blasting everyone back against the walls, knocking the wind out of them. The black smoke streaked red and then glowed bright purple, humming vibrantly before releasing one last devastatingly powerful shockwave that succeeded in shattering the remaining glass out of every single window in the building. The swirling mass then emitted a loud, otherworldly howl before the cracks along the ground swallowed it up and snatched it into the underworld, closing with a loud boom. And then everything went completely silent.

So much for being inconspicuous…

Everyone gagged and moaned as they collected themselves and tried to force themselves to stand up. Nero was the first to succeed, perhaps due to being the youngest and therefore the most flexible. He leaped to his feet and cautiously inched his way towards the center of the room, waiving residual dust away from his burning eyes as he approached. A wall of fine dust particles floated around the area where the column of blood, chalk, ash, and dust had once been, blocking all sight. As Nero stepped through into the open space he stopped dead in his tracks. To his utter amazement and disbelief, laying prone face to the side on the concrete ground was V. 

And he was missing all of his clothing. Wonderful.

Nero couldn’t believe that this batshit crazy plan had actually worked! As he heard the others stir around him from different ends of the room, he made the split-second decision to shrug out of his coat and use it to cover him with it in the absence of another alternative. He couldn’t place why, but he felt it was necessary aside from the obvious reason that he didn’t really want to see him this way. As he wrapped him in the worn, warm garment, he noticed something that troubled him. He didn’t seem to be breathing. At all.

Nero reached up and brushed V’s hair out of his face, truly noticing for perhaps the first time ever that V had white hair. How in the absolute fuck had he missed that?! Had he been so carried away fighting that he simply didn’t pay it any mind? And for that matter, where were his tattoos? As thought-provoking as all of those questions were, he had bigger things to worry about right now. Nero carefully rested his hand against V’s throat to check his pulse in a gesture that he just knew would have made him crawl out of his skin if he were awake. After a short moment that felt like an eternity, Nero exhaled in relief. V had a pulse. Good. That was something, at least.

From his position leaned over him, he could just barely feel V’s breath ghost across the nearly imperceivable hairs that adorned his now bare arm. As he recoiled his hand, the prone man let out a ragged, almost pained cough as if the air had been pulled from his body and he had been plunged underwater, only now being reacquainted with oxygen for the first time in a long while. He gasped and then coughed feebly, trembling. Nero wasn’t entirely sure what to do about this, so he reached over and gave him a few firm but careful pats on the upper back, trying to help him clear his throat. V jerked slightly at the contact but stopped coughing, his breathing still shaky but much better than it had been moments ago. He curled up into the coat, pulling his legs closer to his chest. He seemed cold from what his brother could tell. Nero wasn’t sure if he had actually helped or not, but he was going to keep telling himself that he had. It made him less anxious.

Just then, Dante, Vergil, and Magnolia stepped forward to observe the scene. They all seemed to be in a similar state of disbelief and relief to the one that he had felt upon seeing the young summoner again. Nero sighed in relief and looked up at them from his position on the floor, totally overcome by the shock of what they had just succeeded in doing. V had migrated closer to him, the top of his head propped up against his lower leg. “... He’s actually alive,” Nero said as though he couldn’t believe the words that he was speaking,” It actually worked...”

Dante and Vergil exchanged unreadable glances and looked down at V, still somewhat unable to process what had just happened. Magnolia broke the silence with a short, crazed laugh. She was in total shock. “Oh my- I am most certainly going to hell for this one!” She looked down at V and sighed, nodding to herself in self-satisfaction. So this was who all the fuss was about. “But I have the feeling that this might be worth it. He’s a cute kid, after all.”

Vergil nodded quietly, not entirely sure what to say. Thank you would never be enough. He would need to find a better way of thanking her. “You are absolutely right, Magnolia. This is worth it.”

-~-

PHEW!! After two days of sleepless nights and 6.8k words, this chapter is DONE. Thank goodness this is the Friday release because my brain and my hands need a good break. I hope everyone enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I loved writing it. Everything is going to really kick off from here, and I am so glad that I finally made it to this part of the story! Once again, thank you all for taking the time to comment and read the story. It’s very helpful and it always makes me smile! Now, I’m going to go eat dinner… and work on the first chapter of the story that V will actually be in! Gah, it is so nice to finally be able to say that!

[zenithlux]

Cadence Update: CH 6

Catch up on the story here!

I don’t wanna look back and wonder If good enough could’ve been better Every day’s a day that’s borrowed So, why am I waiting for tomorrow

Waiting for Tomorrow - Mandisa

Omi Sushi was the type of restaurant that Vergil would never go to. Not because it wasn’t interesting, but because his rambunctious family would likely be kicked out before they had a chance to order. 

It was a simple, but elegant place next to a mall that Nico announced as “heaven for all the rich folk”. Vergil, who had never been to a mall before, didn’t get what made it so special. He did, however, have a very small moment of panic when he realized just how many people were there. There were more cars in the restaurant's parking lot than people in the entirety of Haven. Then Nico had pointed to a massive building which she’d called “a parking garage”, and Vergil didn’t want to think about how many people were up there. 

He had very briefly considered turning around, but Nico was gone before he got the chance, careening out of the parking lot with a loud cry of “Good luck, V-man!” which was followed by dozens of angry car horns and more than a few curse words. 

His grip tightened on Yamato for a short moment, before he shook his head, let it fall against his hip, and went inside. 

He stopped in the lobby, quietly impressed at how sophisticated the whole thing was. The building was longer than he expected, with booths along the walls and a long, black marbled bar down the center. The chef at the grill was cooking a massive mix of vegetables, noodles, and at least three different meats with a flare that Vergil would normally expect from his brother. Except this man was composed, and Dante most certainly would not be. The few at the bar stared in silent awe, and Vergil was relieved that Roxy was not among them. The windows were covered in elaborate blinds that depicted Japanese style artwork; a cherry blossom tree to the left, and a blue and red swirl of koi-fish to the right. Paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, providing a nice, white glow that would be just bright enough for humans, and contrasted well with the dark blue paint on the walls. 

“Table for one, sir?” The hostess said as she reached for a menu.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Name?”

“Roxanna.”

The woman skimmed a list, before giving a curt nod and leading him to the back of the restaurant. It was quiet and mostly empty - not surprisingly given the time- and the few people he did pass by were more content with whispering to each other than any kind of loud conversation. Even his over-sensitive hearing could deal with that, and it only got quieter the further back they went. Eventually, all he heard was the gentle sounds of a fountain on the other side of the restaurant. He wondered if Roxy had chosen this spot on purpose, or if the hostess had gone out of her way to separate everyone as much as possible. Maybe that was just the way they did things. This place did seem rather expensive, which then posed the question of how much she was spending. What was the etiquette with something like this? Should he offer to pay even though she already did? Should he order light and...

His steps and thoughts froze when his eyes fell on her. She was sitting in a booth along the back wall, eyes locked on the book in her hands. It was a novel of some kind; a large hardback titled, “Warbreaker” with its sleeve-jacket sitting neatly on the side. She hadn’t gotten very far, but the sheer intensity of her gaze told him she was long lost in the story. That aside, she looked more comfortable today than he’s seen her before. No signs of obvious pain. Her posture was mostly flawless, though she could sit up a bit straighter. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and a bit longer than he remembered. And she looked comfortable; black leggings with shoes he’d heard Kyrie refer to as “flats” once or twice. A light blue shirt with sleeves that were rolled up to just under her elbows and a white and blue plaid scarf that hung like an oversized necklace. The word “normal” came to mind, especially compared to Vergil’s own not-at-all casual vest and full-length jacket combo he wore every day. 

Again, he pondered the consequences of leaving before she saw him. She would certainly be disappointed, and likely wouldn’t have come here if he hadn’t agreed to it. But, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he would be walking away from a second and undoubtedly last chance. Dante had mentioned it. Nico had warned him about it. Deep down, Vergil knew they were both right.

You want to be a part of this world, right? Dante had said. Here’s your chance. A friend. 

Vergil did not yet know what he was meant to do in this new world of his. He didn’t know how to fix the nonexistent relationship with his son, or how to find meaning in something he’d never truly been a part of. But he did know one thing: the answers to such questions would never fall right at his feet. Not unless he reached for the few that did. 

“Sir?”

He nodded to the hostess as Roxy’s eyes shifted away from her book. “Thank you,” He said and slid into the bench across from her before he had another chance to second guess himself. “I hope I did not keep you waiting,” He said, relying on the remnants of confidence that he’d once exuded without hesitation. It was surprisingly easy, given the circumstances, though Vergil knew he was tugging on the pieces of V that were still hovering somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Roxy’s eyes widened seconds before her smile. “Not at all,” She said as she gently replaced the book’s dust jacket before tucking it away in the bag by her side. “I had to argue with the new guy at the bookstore for a while, so I just got here myself.” She shook her head with a very brief scowl. “Long story, not really worth it.” Her smile returned as the waitress appeared with two cups of water and an extra menu. “All the books are making their way to the train station as we speak.” 

“All the books?”

“Yep,” She said. “My tri-monthly book haul. I suppose this one was more of a bi-yearly trip, but that’s neither here nor there.” She sipped from her water with all the grace one might expect of a dignified woman of her age, but her gaze never wavered. 

He’d be lying if he said her confidence wasn’t appealing. 

“You have other plans then, I’m assuming?”

She nodded. “Gotta pick up some art supplies while I’m here. Starting to run out of all the important things.” Vergil heard a quiet, affirmative chirp from her bag. 

“A hobby of yours?”

When the waitress came back, it was Roxy who waved her away with a gentle smile and a quiet ‘few more minutes please.’ The woman simply nodded and walked away. “A job, actually,” She said. “Though it started as a hobby way back when I was just big enough to hold a paintbrush.” Her eyes glittered, and Vergil found that his pulse had finally settled to a much quieter and expected pace. Of course, he hadn’t realized it was beating so quickly in the first place, but that wasn’t important. “I can’t leave the house as often as I want,” Roxy said as she tapped gently on the menu. “So I like to stay productive.” Her head tilted. “What about you?”

Vergil paused, contemplating. He should have foreseen this. Back and forth questions were normal. Expected. Human. But there was still a small part of him that hesitated. A piece that wasn’t sure how much information to share and what to keep to himself. But, after a quick reminder of his own conviction, he said, “I prefer to read when given the time. Though with all the jobs my brother asks me to work, I rarely get that luxury.” He didn’t mean to sound so bitter and was surprised when Roxy nodded. 

“Now that, I understand,” She said. “I spend so much time on commissions nowadays that I can’t recall the last time I’ve painted something for myself.” She shrugged. “Can’t complain, though.”

“You could.”

She laughed. He’d heard it before, but this was the first time he’d realized that it was actually pleasing. A quiet, controlled laugh that didn’t grate at his ears like Nico or threaten to deafen him like Dante’s. Hers was acceptable. He wouldn’t mind hearing it again. “You’re not wrong,” She said. “But I try to stay as positive as life lets me.” Vergil hummed, but even he wasn’t certain if it was in agreement or simple acknowledgment. Roxy’s smile never faltered. “Are you hungry? Feel free to order whatever you’d like.”

“You still have to go to the art store, yes?”

She blinked. “Well, the train won’t be here for like six hours so… No rush.”

“You won’t need it,” He said as he glanced at the menu. “Unless that’s what you’d prefer.”

He could feel her staring at him, but he kept his eyes planted firmly on the words in front of him. Though he seemed to have forgotten how to read, for his eyes only saw strange squiggles while he waited for her response. And, after two quiet chirps that were akin to Nico’s encouragement, Roxy said, “I don’t have everything pre-ordered there, so it’ll take a little while to find it all if you’re up for that.” Vergil’s eyes flickered to hers, waiting as she stared out of the window in thought. “I can still cancel the ticket.” His heart skipped a beat when she looked back with an excited grin. “And I would love the company.”

Vergil nodded as the words on the menu finally made sense. “Eat first,” He said. “Wouldn’t want you falling unconscious. My international escort fee isn’t cheap.”

He swore Aki started laughing at that comment- or however one described an owl hooting an excessive amount of times- and Vergil could almost imagine Griffon snickering in approval. Roxy’s face flushed a bright shade of red as she failed to hide it behind another sip of water. “Not today,” She said. “Thank whomever for small favors, I suppose.”

Vergil smirked, but it was gone the moment the waitress returned. Humoring a single human was more than enough for one day. 

--------------------------

The rest of their time at the restaurant was more relaxing and informative than Vergil expected. It was nice, he decided, to converse with someone that knew as little about him as he did them. The questions were superficial, but he didn’t mind, and she was quite eager to share her own responses. By the time their meal was over, he knew her favorite color (blue - good choice), how many people were in her family (only child, hadn’t seen her mother in a while), and her favorite food (fruit; bananas and watermelons preferred). She’d talked about her favorite books, many new titles he’d never heard of but was now interested in reading based on her enthusiasm alone. He talked about his favorite poetry and was glad that she didn’t judge his lack of present-day literature knowledge. He’d even gotten her to talk about music and was content to listen to the numerous different genres, artists, and the passion she had for each one of them.

Needless to say, when she asked if he was certain he wanted to accompany her, Vergil agreed. After a quiet moment of consideration, of course. And a quick glance at his phone to confirm that Nico hadn’t run anyone over. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking he was genuinely interested in the opportunity to spend more time with someone outside of his family. 

What a foolish notion that would be. 

Liviana’s was a hobby store that was close enough to the restaurant that they could enter from the outside of the mall rather than cutting through the crowd. Vergil wasn’t certain who was more relieved when Roxy told him that, as he didn’t miss the way she drifted away from crowds as they walked. Even inside the store, where there were dozens upon dozens of massive aisles on multiple floors. And as she guided them through the emptiest ones. It became very clear that she had been here many, many times before. 

Vergil was content to walk behind her. Not because he was worried about anything, but more because it gave him a chance to observe. At first, he’d glanced around the store, checking for every door, every strange alcove in the ceiling, all the stairs; everything a casual devil hunter might need in a crisis. 

But then his eyes had drifted back toward her. She walked with pride, exchanging hellos with whoever offered them, but not going out of the way to greet anyone herself. Her back was straight with no signs of spasms, but he’d catch her reaching for it from time to time, before quickly pulling her hand away. A reflexive movement, he assumed, but that was a given. She’d clearly dealt with it many times before, but he would never have guessed that if he hadn’t seen her injury for himself. And that alone brought up many questions that demanded answers, but he held them back, uncertain if that would dampen the relatively peaceful few hours they’d had so far. 

“Vergil?”

He stopped short of crashing right into her, oblivious to the fact she had stopped at all. “Yes?”

“Is something on your mind?”

Had his thoughts truly been that obvious? He supposed he had been more relaxed around her than with others. Dante always admonished him for being “so cold all the time”. Vergil had even overheard Nero venting to Kyrie how frustrating it was that Vergil didn’t act like… anything (he still didn’t know what his son had meant by that). But even Vergil knew he was always tense around them. Too many things to hide. Too many things that could go wrong. Words that conveyed the wrong meaning. Reactions that could be taken the wrong way. 

It was a mistake to let that part of him go, so he pulled it back together before he spoke again. “Nothing for you to worry about,” He said simply as his gaze rose to the wall behind her. “Canvases?” 

“Yep,” She said, though her voice was quieter than before. Vergil felt a twinge of something at the sound but didn’t address it. “Some clients want hand-painted works, and those are always the more lucrative jobs.”

“Hand-painted?” Vergil echoed. “As opposed to?”

If she were anyone else, Vergil was certain he would have gotten a strange look. Something like Dante’s far too common “you really don’t know anything” stare before he’d sarcastically go through whatever it was Vergil had missed over the last two decades. But Roxy said nothing of the sort and moved on as if it was a completely normal question. “Digital artwork is way more popular,” she said. “Arguably easier for me too, but that depends on the request.” She pulled a small notepad from her bag, whispering a quiet, “go back to sleep, Aki, we’re almost done” as she did so. 

“Which do you prefer?”

“Honestly?” She said as she stood up on her toes in an attempt to reach the largest canvas on top. Vergil reached over her head and plucked it down with ease. She laughed as she took it and started piling the smaller ones on top. “I like them both, but hand-painted ones are always more unique, and I have a lot more freedom to try new things.” After her seventh canvas, she tapped a button with her elbow. An employee practically materialized out of thin air, and they shared a quick conversation before the woman took the canvases and a page from Roxy’s notebook away. “She’ll take care of all the paints and more expensive things I need,” Roxy said. “But I don’t trust many people with my paintbrushes.” 

Then, Vergil’s phone rang. For a long moment, he considered not answering it. But, knowing how few people actually had his number and cared to call, he thought better of it. “Yes?” He said looking away. 

“V-man!”

He pulled the phone away slightly as Nico’s voice echoed far too loudly in his ear. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got trouble!”

Vergil frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

“Lots of demons, and way too many portals for Nero to handle. Dante’s off dealing with what he can but…” She took a long and somewhat shaky breath. “I’m by the train station, if you can meet me here.”

“I’m on my way.” Vergil hung up without waiting for a response. “I apologize, but my help is needed.”

“Demons?” Roxy said.

“Yes.”

“Let me tag along.”

Vergil stared at her, but she didn’t flinch. Aki’s head popped out of the bag from the corner of Vergil’s eye, tilting to the side with a questioning chirp. “I can fight,” She said. 

“Last time you hit three demons and passed out.”

“I went hunting yesterday,” She said. “So I’m good this time. Promise.”

“So you do absorb the demonic essence?”

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. When they opened again, Vergil swore he saw a flash of light blue that faded the second she blinked. “Yes,” She said. “It heals my body, and strengthens the demons that rely on me.”

That caught his interest. “More than one?”

“Two,” She said. “Aki included.” She grinned mischievously. “If you want to see the other one, then you’ll have to take me with you.”

Vergil scowled, but he could feel his lips twitching in an approving smirk. “Fine,” He said. “But you’ll have to keep up, and don’t get in my way.”

“Easy,” She said. “Just be sure to duck once and a while or I won’t get to kill anything.”

[misbhaves]

neko twitch stream log; the final entry.

2018, FEBRUARY 3rd 04:07 AM. 

11.

The room was mostly dark, were it not for the neon lighting bathing itself across the walls, the cupboard, the bed in the corner and the silhouette of the petite hooded figure sitting bow-legged in a chair far too big for her. Between the length of her bangs that were falling into her eyes and the mask stretched over the lower half of her face, nothing was visible, but the feminine posturing and avatar seemed to do the job because not even ten minutes in and no words said and the number of people watching the stream had already jumped up to twenty. The first exhale she released was shaky, and her hands trembled around the XBOX controller in her hands. The viewer count went up and down sporadically as she tried to psych herself up, before, finally a soft voice began speaking: “K-konnichiwa, minna-san.” the girl gave a small bow with her head, the light washing over her concealed face creating shadows over the mask that almost indicated a facial expression. either a smile or a nervous laugh. “I-I’m Neko-chan. Pleased to meet you. Um. I’m a little shy, but I’ll do my best.”

After the first few encouraging comments poured in, her shoulders appeared to relax and her expression, too, or what was visible of it anyway. 

2018, AUG 21st 14:21 PM.

67K.

There was certainly something to be said about popularity, although all her peers repeatedly claimed it wasn’t that important. It was certainly a phrase Neko was guilty of saying, and often, in both languages. Even as she thanked her followers for each milestone she passed from her humble beginnings. Unlike the shy manner with which she had carried herself in her first few videos, she now opened her videos with more fanfire and open excitement. She hadn’t grown comfortable yet to take off her mask, but as she inched closer to the 500K follower mark, she had already decided to change that soon. 

“I-D-K how I feel about the Gamerscom trailer for DMC5. Personally, I’m not sure I really pictured Dante the way he’s been looking in the hyper-realistic rendering of his character,” The girl rambled, pausing only to give herself a sip of the gargantuan soda she had by her side, having to push the mask slightly upward over her mouth to do so. “Show my face?” She said, nearly choking on the soda in the process. “Just like Dante, I feel like the live-action is not going to live up to the anime drawings, you know?”

There was a voice off-camera, seemingly stealing her attention. “What, already?” She whined, before turning back to the camera. “Gotta run off for an IRL sidequest,” She huffed apologetically, setting aside her controller already. “Neko signing out. Ja ne!”

2018 SEP 2ND 16:45 PM.

127K.

“A-Ah, I’m nervous,” It was said daintily, her head ducked and voice shaky for the first time since her early days on the platform. There were already words of encouragement pouring in. Others were impatient, reminding that she had, in fact, promised that today would have been the day. An anxiety she didn’t know the birthplace of always knotted in her chest when it came to the prospect of allowing herself to be judged my others. It was strange. A sharp ache that felt defensive somehow. As if her body was shielding itself based on a previous rejection her mind could not remember.

Shaking hands came up to the tight cotton straps of the mask curved around her ears. “Um. I just want to say uh, I’m sorry if any of you are disappointed.” She mumbled quietly, breathing out shakily, painfully, before slowly unhooking the straps and lowering the mask off her face. 

Then, with one of her hands, she went ahead and pushed her bangs out of her eyes, too. “Konnichiwa, minna-san,” She said, mirroring her first ever greeting, comfortable with her mother-tongue. “It’s me. Neko-chan. Nice to meet you.”

Her cheeks were stained a deep red, her gaze averted so she wouldn’t be too tempted to look at the chat. “A-Anyway, I’m going to play Yakuza-0 first,” She said, fumbling for her controller. “I hope you guys enjoy.”

2019 APR 20TH 20:07PM

45K.

The video opened with royalty-free 8-bit music playing in the background of a dark room bathed in neon pink lighting. sitting cross-legged and hugged by a gaming chair a little too big for such a small person. Neko - a video-gaming streamer of some influence greeted her viewers with a classic ‘v’ sign.. “Hey demons, it’s ya girl, Neko, back at it again with a cringey youtuber intro. First off, good evening to all of you and special greetings to the moon which is out here killing it after the sun was way too hot today.”

The girl fanned herself dramatically, “Today, I was going to go out to see what new games I could buy, but since it was too hot to wear a mask, I just stayed home and continued playing Yakuza all day long. But then like an hour ago, it hit me that i was being a doofus and should at least let you guys play Yakuza with me. So, here we go, minna-san. just a girl, her bunnies and some sweet Japanese gang action.” Her nose wrinkled. “I already don’t wanna know what the chat is gonna be like after that poorly worded statement.” The camera jerked slightly as the girl moves closer, knocking her knee into something underneath the desk and making the desk shake as she jumped in place. “itai... sorry...” She was mumbling, one eye squeezed shut, then louder and more cheerfully, she continued, I fell down the stairs earlier today and I think I might have hurt my ankle, but it’s okay as long as I don’t touch it. an’ I accidentally kicked the CPU.” The screen split then, showing live-action gaming footage. “I-R-L is looking pretty crazy lately, guys. every time I go outside it’s like, I see someone else being collared and taken into a van. america land of the free, home of the brave my ASTEROIDS. What’s brave about going up to people with weapons that render them totally powerless and shackling them without giving them the chance of a fair fight? And like, for what crime anyway? For being born? No wonder so many of you Americans are always raving about going to Japan, because let me tell you, I know plenty of people - some very close to me - who are mutants and nobody cares.” Her fingers continued to rapidly tap away at the controller in her hands, her eyes focused on the game as she spoke.

“You know what I think? I think the mayor of this city is just intimidated. he’s too scared and insecure in his own ability to control a city where some of his civilians are stronger, or faster or smarter than he is.” With an uncharacteristically humourless laugh, she continued. “Boo hoo, Virgie, everyone in the world has to deal with the fact they’re inferior to someone else. It doesn’t give them the right to commit genocide. For Hitler , it was art school. who wants to take bets on what Virgie’s big old justification is?”

“Maybe he was bullied in school, or like a mutant stole his girlfriend, or - wow, what if like, he auditioned for the school play and a mutant stole his role and the guy of his dreams? You know... like Sharpay Evans, who deserved better. whatever it is. It doesn’t matter, because people go through bad, horrible things every day and they still make the choice to be good. I make the choice every day, that even if I’m capable of hurting the people who hurt me a hundred times worse, I won’t do it.”

Her voice was then accompanied by the sound of automated grunts and groans as she concentrated momentarily on the in-game killing she was providing her audience. “And I won’t let you do it either. So, if any of you out there are scared, don’t be. Find others like you and take shelter, because the more unified you are, the less power he has over you.”

After a pause, the girl giggled. “Or something like that. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, sorry. Um, moving on... did any of you guys play the latest Yakuza? what did you think of it, I personally...”

2019 MAY 25TH 22:17PM.

11K.

The steam begun with uncharacteristic silence, bereft of the tinny music the girl had been opening her streams with for the past five months, if not more. The room was the same, as was the chair, but there was something about the girl seated in it that seemed different. Haunted almost. The bruises on her youthful face had almost entirely faded, but they were enough cause for alarm amongst her fans, most of whom had flooded in after seeing her go live for the first time after a nearly month-long hiatus. 

“Hi, everyone,” She greeted in English first before repeating the same in Japanese. “Been a while, huh?” She folded her legs up onto her chair, spinning to and fro. “I haven’t been home in a while. There’s been a lot going down in the city I live in and... I haven’t been dealing with it well, honestly.” She reached up, pushing her hair behind her ear. “You know, I used to think that being a hero just meant doing the right thing, or saving the day. 

43K.

Her nose wrinkled slightly. “But recently, I’ve come to realise it’s not that simple. Sometimes being a hero means not being able to save the day, but being able to send a message.” She cleared her throat, her fingers clenching around her knees. “Yesterday, there was a rally, in which dozens of mutants of various ages were kidnapped. Chained and carted away like cattle. Some of these people are my friends.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

67K.

“And I have failed them.” She continued. “By being born someone privileged enough to have my status swept under the rug.” She bit into her lower lip. “While people like me rot in ... these pseudo-military bases and get tortured and prodded and experimented on as if it’s the second world war and we have learned nothing.”

113K.

“And just like me, if you’re sitting at home and you’re doing nothing while this happens even though you have the power to do otherwise,” She continued, voice strained. “Then you’re just as bad. Just as cowardly.” With a shuddering breath, continued. “The time I’ve spent here, with you guys, will always be the happiest memories I’ll ever have. And maybe one day, I’ll come back and make some more. But, for now, I guess...” She shook out another sigh, reaching up to catch a traitor tear that slipped down her pale face. “I’ll have to be on this hiatus indefinitely.”

130K.

“Because even if I don’t know how this fight is going to end... and even if I’m scared I,” She reached off-screen for something, and when her hand drew back it was holding a porcelain mask, shaped in the traditional Kitsune shape. “I can’t wait around expecting for things to just... get better.”

“And I can’t keep relying on friends or family anymore either, because in the end...” She trailed off, something about her expression breaking. “You never really know a person, do you?” Resolutely, she fastened her mask onto her face. “I can’t wait to be saved anymore.”

“I’m sorry, dad. But, in this story, the princess rescues herself.”

And just like that, the live stream ended abruptly. 

[rosesisupposes]

Destined, part 25

aka Confessions, Vol. II

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: Loceit

Chapter Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit, implied relationship that starts with an imbalance of power, character death (old age)

Reader Tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @bewarethegrammarpolice   @nightmarebeforevirgil @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse​

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 24 | Masterlist | Chapter 26>>

read on ao3

“Wait!”

Dozens of glowing forms turned to face Virgil, to the extent that they had faces. His yell was still echoing through the endless void.

“Before you decide on my judgment, can I get an answer a different question?”

Cassandra huffed, but Agnes nodded.

“When I sent the sorcerer back in his own timeline, it had an effect on my nonmagical friend Logan who was just... standing there. And it was definitely Sage magic, nothing of his own or even of the sorcerer’s,” Virgil said nervously. “Did I… did I hurt him, somehow?”

Agnes came to sit beside him on a chair that had appeared just for her purpose. “I noticed that, too, and did some digging before everyone else finally caught up and brought you here. It turns out, Sages aren’t actually that different from humans. Physiologically, in fact, we’re identical, when we manifest. We are just able to collapse the growing up process to the juncture of our choice when we emerge from the ether, and our consciousness remains past the limits of the body. Humans are technically just as immortal as we- their essence remains the same through lifetimes, even when their consciousness and body are lost. All that separates a human from a sorcerer from a Sage is the degree of connection to the ether. I have been exploring the ethereal world since I relinquished my last mortal form, and I have found the inert former consciousnesses of sprites, and fairies, and all manner of magical creatures here in the ether. A genetic lottery determines what form that essence will inhabit upon its descension, but as the years have passed, less and less connection to the magic of the ether remains.

“I believe your friend was affected by a dramatic change in the life of his essence. The sorcerer Dante’s choice had a profound effect on the being-that-was-Logan’s essence before Logan the human came into being. This is what I theorize, at the very least. Before we Elders confer, I’d like to test my theory. Join me in looking back at the moment of the sorcerer’s choice, won’t you?”

The older woman offered her hands. Virgil hesitated, wary of yet more Sage magic, but his need to have answers was stronger than his fear. Two pairs of glowing hands clasped and light surrounded them both as the two Sages looked back in time together.

Dante slips up the steps of the Tower silently, his feet shod in soft cloth to avoid detection. He uses the key he’s had since the second month of his apprenticeship to open Septimus’ workroom door.

It is pitch black in the foyer, but Dante has no need of witchfire to navigate. He knows this room better than any place in the world, better than the house of his parents, far better than that horrible ‘foster home’ with its unfeeling stones and isolated chambers that held trapped whispers of past screams.

He sneaks confidently past stacks of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves into the study. A very dim glow from the banked fireplace outlines the dark shadows of desks covered in books and scrolls, the chairs where Dante had spent so many hours studying, and Septimus’ ridiculous but brilliant reading contraption.

Dante’s heart twists the slightest bit as he notices the dim outline of Septimus’ tea mug precariously perched atop at least four books and three manuscripts. Such disarray only ever happens when Timus is diving particularly deep into his studies, usually because he is trying to quench some emotion or other. He’s always so timid and scared of letting any feeling affect him, but he still manages to be so kind and supportive of Dante himself.

Shaking his head to rid it of thoughts that could cloud his resolve, Dante proceeds to the back room. The light of the shield spell is more than bright enough to see by. Under the royal blue glow of Septimus’ magic lies the staff. The Staff of the Sprites, created in a grand ceremony honoring the four tribes’ old gods. All it waits for is to be brought to the old gods’ altars to lock in the power of the tribes and their magics. Dante has already made a plan to proceed directly to each one, and thanks to the Sage, he knows that once the wood of the staff is in union with the stone of the Fire Altar, he will have the power he craves. He will be able to eliminate the threat of humans from the magical world. He’s been judged as a threat, as a powder keg about to explode, for his whole life. Why shouldn’t he prove them right if he can save all magic folk while doing so?

About to collapse the shield spell, he pauses. He knows exactly how to do so from all those times Septimus released the spell so that Dante could study the staff for his research. The complex gesture is so familiar to him, he knows he could perform it in his sleep. But just now, the lack of Septimus’ presence makes him doubt.

If he goes through with this, he’ll never be allowed or able to see his mentor and friend again. Not that the man will even want to see him, he’ll be so disappointed. Why does that thought hurt so much? He is resolved, isn’t he? He’s going to save the magical world, damn the consequences. Why would this tiny thing, this friendship with a fellow sorcerer, overpower all his reasons to act?

He lifts his hands to begin the counterspell, but memories flood in. Septimus looking up from his desk, interrupted for the first time in hours, with his hair askew and glasses almost falling off his nose. Timus greeting him without a word, just a silently-handed mug of Dante’s favorite tea. Late-night laughter as Dante describes his fieldwork struggles, Septimus urging him to tell him everything, commiserating and teasing in turns. Blue-and-gold eyes catching his for the first time as the university’s most famous young scholar finds a frustrated teenager hiding in the library stacks, trying to cry off his latest rejection in private. A warm hand shaking his as suddenly, he has a master in his studies, only seven years old than himself. Septimus and his support throughout the political maze that had been his experience at the university. Septimus and his willingness to fight the headmaster and the faculty on Dante’s behalf. Septimus and his unconditional belief in Dante’s abilities and knowledge.

Dante can’t go through with this. It is no tiny thing, this friendship. It never has been. It has been everything. It is everything.

His hands fall to his sides, and he turns and leaves the backroom. Back through the study, through the dark library, back into the black corridor. He walks a path almost as familiar as the study through the tower to Septimus’ sleeping quarters, but hesitates at the door. It is so late - will Timus even want to see him? He knocks quietly, figuring he’ll leave when it fails to wake the scholarly sorcerer.

Footsteps sound. The door opens. Septimus is holding blue flames in his free hand as he blinks through hastily-donned glasses at his late-night visitor.

“Dante, you’re back! Are you… are you quite alright?” he asks softly.

Instead of answering, Dante realizes there are tears welling and spilling out of his eyes. “Timus, I am so sorry,” he chokes out of a suddenly-tight throat.

Septimus immediately pulls Dante into his quarters and closes the door behind him before hugging him tightly.

“You’re here, and you’re safe, Dant. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do though, I almost did it, I wanted to-”

“But you didn’t,” Timus interrupts him. His voice is thick. “You came back. You came here. That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t know how you can say that. You don’t even know what I’m talking about…” 

“Don’t I?” Two pairs of gold-streaked eyes meet in the scant light of the living room hearth. “The staff, and your research on it… you’re a brilliant scholar and sorcerer. You figured out the exact steps of the final ritual. Or, if I suspect correctly, the four final rituals.”

Dante gasps, pushing himself out of Septimus’ hold. “You… you knew? And you let me leave?”

“Dant, I didn’t let you do anything. You were always going to leave the university at some point. All I could do was hope you’d come back, and not just for the staff.”

“I… was going to. Just now. I was going to steal it and never been seen again until I had all the power it could offer,” Dante says, walking over, away from that painfully-understanding gaze, and staring out the chamber window. “I was going to leave this place forever. And everyone in it.”

“Why didn’t you?” Septimus asks softly. The scholar refuses to be hopeful. He refuses to let himself wish for the answer he wants to hear.

Dante quietly regards the sleeping university sprawled out below the window. It all looks so much more peaceful at night. Just smooth stone and dark tiles lit by moonlight. The night shows none of the daytime imperfections of prejudice and politics.  “I would have been abandoning you,” he replies at last. “After all we’ve been through together, and all you’ve done for me, that was what stopped me. I couldn’t bear the thought of knowing I’d betrayed your trust.”

The hard knot of emotions threatens to loosen itself in Septimus’ chest. “I… I am glad you decided to refrain. And I’m gladder still that you’re here now.”

Dante turns to look at him, raw and vulnerable. “Timus, can I sleep here, or in the study? I don’t think I can handle the dormitories tonight.”

“Of course, Dant. You’ll stay here, not the study. You’ll hurt yourself trying to sleep in those chairs.”

Septimus leads Dante to his bedchamber and gives him an extra nightshirt. They settle on their own separate sides of the sorcerer’s enormous bed.

As he’s about to drift to sleep, exhausted by the day, Dante hears Timus’ soft voice, and feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Dant, I’m so glad you came home.”

Later, Dant will blame sleepiness for his response. “It’s not the university, you know. This place has never been my home. No place has ever been home, not since I was a child. It’s you, Timus. With you, I’m always home.”

Later, Septimus and Dante will talk about this moment. Later, they’ll ask each other how they feel about their relationship that started as mentorship but became so much closer. Later, they’ll carefully discuss how they might navigate the implications of two sorcerers, two faculty members, and the appearance of impropriety if they were to pursue this further.

For now, though, Septimus pulls Dante into his arms and holds him tightly, and Dante wraps his arms around him in return. In the morning, neither will have let go.

Pearly light swirled in Virgil’s vision as he was dragged a bit forward in time, following the thread of new choices that began that night in the university tower all the way to its new conclusion.

Septimus dies an old, old man. He has become headmaster of the university, and the school has increased its reputation despite, or perhaps because of, the massive influx of socereri of any, all, or no genders. His essence, lighter and easier now than in any other possible timeline, fades from his physical form as it ascends into the ether. The Sages are able to watch the pale nimbus of blue light rise into the queue of essences waiting to reform, with a pale yellow light joining mere moments later. When the light-that-was-Septimus reaches its turn to manifest once more, the consciousness and memory have faded entirely, and the connection to the ether too. But the spark remains, that burning desire for knowledge. It will serve well in its next life.

Agnes released Virgil’s hands. Virgil felt his cheeks - they were damp. He had done that. He had made a positive difference, by giving Dante a true second chance. And he had saved Logan- someone whose essence became Logan - from the loss of one for whom he had cared deeply. That whirlwind of magic that had surrounded Logan after Dante’s disappearance, and the heat accompanying it, had been the lost years and potential returning to their essence.

He had saved Roman from harm, and he had helped create a more positive outcome in the past that spilled into the present. Even if the Sages decided on a death sentence, Virgil was content.

“If you are quite done coddling him, Agnes,” Cassandra barked out. “We have a punishment to decide on. As much as I would like to exclude you, we need all of us to deliberate, or we will all be just as guilty of breaking our Law as this one is.” She gestured to Virgil, glaring.

Agnes patted Virgil’s shoulder. “Take heart from your deeds, dearie. I’ll be fighting for you.” She smiled, and walked back to join the group. A haze surrounded them as they all faded into incorporeal forms, become a single entity with hundreds of minds that could debate as quickly as thought.

Virgil conjured a couch from the floor of the ether and settled in to wait. There was nothing more to do, now. Whatever the Sages decided for him would be final, and he wouldn’t get to hear a word of their argument until their decision was reached.

Hope for the future and worry for the outcome were equally useless.

author notes: The minute I realized I’d created the chance for Dante to have an  alternate timeline, I knew I had to give both my magic nerds a happy ending.

Anyway, just one chapter left to wrap this thing up. Are you ready?

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

Hey, so, uh... It's been almost 2 years and I'm the worst but I finally wrote a thing again. A Thread of Fate chapter 30, all posted on AO3 and everything, in fact. Maybe 2020 really is the apocalypse. Please forgive me and I hope it isn't a major disappointment after so long. 🖤

Chapter 30: Best Laid Plans

By the time Nalissa returned there was no emotion left on her face, and she declined to say where she had gone other than that we would hear news soon. Meanwhile, Zevran had managed to get the letter open both without breaking the seal and without poisoning himself, which was a pretty impressive feat to watch, not that I’d ever tell him that. Inside were only six words.

Clever girl.

But it’s your choice.

Below that, a bloody thumbprint was stamped in place of a signature.

Nalissa hasn’t let her guard slip even a little since then. She refuses to actually talk about Teyrn Cousland, but I’ve caught her more than once gripping her signet ring so hard it leaves an imprint of the crest on her palm. All day she was as tense as a drawn bowstring, and last night she refused to sleep, alternating between pacing the room with her daggers in hand and scribbling madly at something on the writing desk she wouldn’t let me see. Watching her push herself to exhaustion only reminds me of Ilana saying that was what she had done when she was most afraid, and it’s a thought that burns like the Joining mixture down my throat.

So I haven’t told her about the second attempt Zevran thwarted the next day. I can’t make myself deliver more news that will frighten her more than she is already. She’s punishing herself more than enough as it is, and knowing they’ve twice in two days managed to sneak traps for her into the keep would do nothing for her state of mind.

Even Caron has noticed. Today, when Nalissa nearly nodded off on her feet in the dining hall, he ordered her to take a day off from training the Wardens and get some rest. She found it offensive, of course—a sign he thought her weak. I just hoped it would help, because she did finally give up and pass out on the bed about an hour before midnight. But when she jolts awake so hard the bed shifts against the wall, I realize that was probably too much to hope for.

It’s still the middle of the night, so dark I can barely make out her silhouette against the faint light from the window. She’s sitting straight up, her hands behind her for support, and panting like she’s sprinted to get there. I recognize the posture well by now and I know better than to touch and startle her, no matter how much I want to hold her when she’s afraid. To my surprise, it’s her hands that start searching the bed instead until one of them finds my side. Once she’s found me, she presses her palm flat against my chest, and I expect her to push me away. Instead, she pauses for a heartbeat and then lets out a long breath before falling onto her back again.

It was exactly the span of a heartbeat that she waited, I realize as she covers her face with her other hand. That’s what her palm over my heart is about. She’s making sure I still have one.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, covering the hand still clutching my nightshirt with my own.

Nalissa lets her other hand fall from her face and turns her head toward me. I can’t see her expression in the dark with the only light behind her, so I have no idea what she’s thinking until she says softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, I just… needed to make sure you were okay.”

“Of course I am. You know, over a dozen people in my life have told me I’m entirely too oblivious to know when to die anyway.”

She hums softly at that, sounding thoughtful. “On a completely unrelated note, are they all dead already, or…?”

I laugh and squeeze her hand, and she leans up on one elbow toward me. Her hair tickles my face but she doesn’t close the distance completely, just hovers over me as if she can see me in the dark. My eyes adjust a little more slowly, but with her hair blocking the light from the window, I can finally read the worry in the set of her lips and eyebrows.

“You don’t have to be afraid for me,” I tell her quietly for what must be the hundredth time.

“There are assassins, Alistair.”

“Didn’t you say yourself they wouldn’t kill me?”

“They would have if you had opened that letter instead of me, wouldn’t they?” Nalissa asks pointedly, and well, I can’t argue with that. She parts her lips to speak again, then hesitates and places her free hand against the side of my face, running her thumb back and forth on my cheek and the short beard I still haven’t grown used to. Her voice falters a little as she finally says, “My love, there are far worse things they could do to you than kill you.”

I swear my heart swells at the endearment, but the rest of it… well, it just makes me sad. I think of the stories she’s told me that still make me feel sick to consider. I think of the scars across her back, the better healed ones on her forearms that she had to pay that blighted mage with her own suffering to close, of the way she shut down completely in that closet. And I think how all of it is so much worse because it’s her, and I’m helpless to change it, and I think I understand.

“That’s what you were dreaming, wasn’t it?” I ask, and she doesn’t answer but her expression tightens, and I know I’m right. “Hey,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her waist to pull her closer. She settles onto my chest, but I can still feel the tension in her every muscle. “The only bad thing that’s going to happen to me is all the lectures I’m going to get from Eamon when we get back to Denerim.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s not funny, it’s true,” I counter, raising my eyebrows at her. “Have I been wrong yet? We’re both still here, safe and sound, just like I said. We’ve won every fight we’ve fought together, just like I said. You’ve fallen madly in love with me, just like I said…”

That gets a tiny laugh out of her, the first one I’ve heard since the letter arrived. Her smile isn’t as wide as it usually is, but at least it’s there as she asks, “You said that, did you? To whom, Dante?”

No objection to the madly part, I notice, and even though it was meant to make her smile, I think my plan might have backfired. I’m definitely smiling more. “Oh, yes. He’s my co-conspirator in that confusing, self-deprecating master plan I mentioned. I just didn’t tell you the whole plan.”

“Why, because you hadn’t thought of it all yet?”

“You know me too well,” I admit with a chuckle. She shakes her head and her smile starts to fade, but I’m not about to give up that easily. So I go on, “I think I’ve finally worked out the rest of it, though.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” I say, running my fingers through her hair absent-mindedly. “You see, first we’re going to take care of these Crows.”

“Eviscerate them, naturally,” Nalissa says firmly.

I find myself thinking about whether I would be holding her now if Wynne hadn’t been in Amaranthine. I pull her closer again and agree, “Naturally.” It takes a bit of effort to chase the thought away, but when I do, I keep talking. “Then we’re going back to Denerim, and I’m going to invite back that marquis who said you shouldn’t be queen—”

“This is a terrible plan unless it involves letting me dye all his hairpieces ridiculous colors while he’s distracted.”

“Better. I’m going to tell Isolde he insulted her dress. Just turn her loose and watch the silk and wigs fly.”

Nalissa really laughs this time, and she finally starts to relax against me as she teases, “Your cunning knows no ends! And that sounds like an especially fun way to be rid of both of them. I approve.”

“Good, because after that, we’re getting married before anyone else can try to stop us.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wonder where I got the nerve to say them. Somehow, even after it’s already been announced to all the realm for—Maker’s breath, nearly two months now, it still feels bold to say. A declaration that means more to me than the words, because it would mean she’s mine and I am hers in a way that no one could take away. And because I worry, and because her breath catches in her throat in a way that I hope isn’t fear, I add nervously, “That is, if that’s—if you still want to.”

Her smile softens, and her thumb tightens around my hand in a way that gives me courage. “An angry high dragon couldn’t keep me away.”

She really means it, I think, and the certainty with which she says it makes my face burn. So naturally, I spoil it with another joke because that’s what I do. “Also good, because I’ve promised Dante he can be the ring bearer. It’ll really make the wedding extra Fereldan, drive off all the snobby Orlesians.”

At that, Nalissa smothers her laughter into my shoulder to keep from waking the whole keep. And I kiss her hair and enjoy the moment of peace. I’m not foolish enough to think it will last—even I don’t have enough bad jokes to keep her distracted until this is over—but she’s been wound so tightly ever since she saw the Cousland seal on that letter, it puts me more at ease to watch her let it go for a few minutes.

When she raises her head again, she’s giving me that shy little smile that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world she’s thinking about. It makes my heart beat faster, and I’m sure she can feel it.

“I love you, Alistair,” she whispers, and now my heart all but leaps out of my chest and starts doing flips. You’d think by now that might have worn off, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever hear her say it and not feel like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t think I’ll ever want to.

Before I can do anything more than most likely grin like a fool, the door swings open and I’m half blind. Dante’s claws click on the floor as he rises, presumably as used to surprise attacks as we are by now. Nalissa rolls toward her side of the bed and what is most likely a small armory’s worth of daggers hidden close by, and even though there’s no weapon within reach myself, I place myself firmly between her and the door.

I have just enough time to think that maybe I should have started keeping my shield under my pillow when Zevran’s voice calls out, “Hold your various projectiles, if you please!”

Nalissa lets out a short, frustrated sort of sigh. “Do you possess the capacity to actually announce yourself before you show up uninvited?”

Even with the light from the hall shadowing half his face, I can see Zevran’s smirk. “Am I interrupting? How rude of me! I can of course wait outside. How long would you like? Thirty minutes? Ten?”

I only manage to sputter in outrage, but Nalissa gets to her feet and hisses, “Oh for Andraste’s sake, light the blighted lamp and get out of the hallway before someone sees you!”

Zevran laughs but does as she says and shuts the door, sliding the latch back into place behind him. How he had even opened it without making enough noise to alert either of us is beyond me. Maybe we were too distracted, and that thought is… worrying. Sure, me being too distracted makes sense, but not Nalissa, especially not right now.

“There, happy?” Zevran asks, interrupting my train of thought with raised eyebrows. “Just the three of us. Now, if that was your plan, I must say I don’t object, but we’ll need much longer than thirty minutes…”

His eyes flicker toward Nalissa, pausing with interest where the hem of her tunic ends just above her knees, and I suddenly find that I haven’t wanted to kill him so badly since he ambushed me and Sereda. Okay, maybe not kill, he is still trying to help us. Maybe just lightly maim.

“Zevran,” I warn, and naturally, he laughs at me.

“I jest, I jest! Just when did you get so dour? Why, Alistair, it’s almost as if being king has made you serious.”

Nalissa lets out another, much deeper sigh. This time when I look in her direction, she has her arms crossed and looks just as tired as yesterday. “Can you please just skip the posturing and tell us why you’re burgling into the keep several hours before sunrise?”

“Of course,” Zevran agrees with a nod of his head, but still he pauses to grin at me and add, “See, at least she has manners,” as if he possesses anything of the kind himself.

The next moment, he produces a scroll from a pouch at his side and holds it out toward Nalissa. “I managed to find a copy of the original contract.”

“One of them was carrying it?” Nalissa asks as she takes it from his outstretched hand. “How thick can they get?”

“Of course not! Physical contracts are only held in the Archive and by the client, everyone knows that.”

“So you found out who it is?” I interject hopefully, but Zevran shakes his head.

“Only the original contract owner, I’m afraid. Four and a half years old by now, and as I said, everyone involved is very dead except your lovely friend here.”

The crinkling of parchment interrupts him when Nalissa’s hands close tightly on the edges of the contract. Her voice is dazed, like something has just knocked the wind out of her, as she reads the name aloud.

Zevran speaks, something about, “you gave me the idea,” with whatever follows completely drowned by the ringing in my ears. The signature itself is vague, just initials, but I recognize the spiky R. H. because I’ve seen the scrawl dozens of times, at the foot of every letter my father ever received from Amaranthine.

“Rendon Howe.”

---

Four and a half years, Zevran had said, and I look up at the date frantically, certain he’s wrong, that he just has two different attempts on my life confused. But there it is: 2nd Harvestmere, 9:28 Dragon. A week before the trip to Orlais I had blamed all this time, two solid years before the attack on Highever. I would have been just shy of seventeen, I realize, and that thought makes my head spin. What could I possibly have done that he wanted me dead?

Then it strikes me like a backhand across my face, and I can almost feel the bite of his ring behind it. He had turned my father’s words on me so many times, using them to get into my head more precisely than any physical wound he ever gave me, but the answer to all of this was in the first words he spoke to me in Fort Drakon.

I remember the shackles binding my wrists and ankles to the wall, holding me in place as he struck me. I remember the blood matted in my hair, half of it mine from the head wound that had knocked me unconscious, half of it Roderick’s where I had sobbed into his chest as he lay dying. And I remember the torches casting flickering light onto Rendon Howe’s face, how I had sworn he must be a demon because no mortal man could be just standing there and laughing.

“Bryce’s little spitfire, indeed,” he sneers from the memory, so close I can feel his breath on my face. “Bright, fierce, headstrong, he called you. Let us see how strong you really are.”

And finally, I make the connection I had missed, hear the words in my father’s voice with a laugh at the end, as he always did when he made excuses for me. As he did when I had refused a proposed betrothal to Thomas Howe, sometime in mid-August, four and a half years ago.

“Don’t touch her,” Alistair’s voice orders and I shake my head quickly. The motion is sluggish and my hands are unsteady, but I fill my lungs with as much breath as I can manage and then let it out slowly.

“I’m fine,” slips past my lips before I can think any better of it.

He chuckles, but it sounds nervous. “How is it someone as clever as you hasn’t come up with a better lie by now?”

“Let’s call it a bad habit,” I manage to answer, forcing my right hand to release its death grip on the contract so I no longer have to stare at the blighted thing. I switch my gaze to Alistair instead, and his eyes are dark and worried. Suddenly I feel even more exhausted than I did before I fell asleep, and when I rub my eyes, my hand is still shaking.

“Come sit down,” Alistair says quietly, and I let him lead me to the chair by the writing desk without argument. “Let me see,” he adds, and I realize I’m still clutching the contract in my left fist. When I release it, he takes it without a word. His expression only darkens as he reads.

“I must say, I’m rather surprised you’re so shocked,” Zevran says from where he still stands by the lamp. “Has this same man not tried to kill you more than once?”

I can only stare at him, because I don’t have an answer. I can’t quite explain why it somehow feels like a second betrayal to learn Rendon Howe had paid for my life and still broke bread at my family’s table. That even unknowingly, I had still considered him an uncle after he tried to have me killed just for telling him no makes me feel sick. Finally, I manage to ask, “How does it help? He’s dead. He can’t have been the one to reopen it now.”

“Who can do that?” Alistair chimes in, waving the contract in the air for emphasis. “She’s right, this can’t be useless. It must point to someone.”

Zevran nods. “It should help create a list of suspects shorter than ‘anyone that didn’t want her as queen,’ to be sure. Only someone with knowledge of the original contract could have paid to reopen it. A confidante? A wife? A child?”

Alistair tenses and shoots a look toward the door. “Nathaniel?”

“Where was it?” I interrupt, before he can go off on a witch hunt in the middle of the night.

“There is a trick panel on a display case in a downstairs storage room,” Zevran answers. “Quite well hidden, in fact. I am not at all surprised it was missed by anyone not looking for secrets.”

I grimace. “Let me guess: behind his medal from White River.”

Zevran raises his eyebrows at me and says in surprise, “Beneath it, but yes. In a tidy little compartment with a few other documents of little importance. How did you know?”

With a sigh, I shove myself to my feet. “Because all of this started at White River. We should see what there is to learn there before we start making guesses. Show me.”

Sneaking Zevran downstairs thankfully isn’t difficult, but rifling through the mess of paperwork in Rendon Howe’s secret hiding place is. It makes my stomach uneasy to read his writing, and even more so the contents of the “other documents of little importance.” Whatever Zevran had said, most of them are very relevant, at least to me. They’re a million little pieces of a story I hadn’t understood, still can’t understand, even looking at all the tokens of Howe’s hatred. They range from an official commendation bearing King Maric’s signature that congratulated him but still praised my father and Leonas Bryland for saving his life to an angrily crumpled letter from Lady Eliane to her brother full of pleas for him to make amends with her husband and stay his anger. That it’s here and not in South Reach tells me that it was intercepted before it could ever be sent.

Below that is a diagram of Castle Cousland. My breath catches in my throat as I flatten it out and trace the red X’s where someone has marked the guard posts, drag my fingertips over the lines drawn to indicate patrol routes. Three rooms in the back are circled. My parents’, my brother’s, and mine.

“Are you quite certain this is the best use of our time?” Zevran asks, and I look up to see him tapping his fingers rather impatiently on the cabinet. Even Alistair is frowning down at the commendation letter like it hasn’t given up enough secrets.

I clear my throat and shove the attack plan aside. Zevran is right, it will do me no good to focus on that now. “Perhaps not,” I admit, digging through what remains in the compartment. “I had hoped for some more recent insight, but most of this is…”

A phrase catches my eye, a footnote at the bottom of a report I had barely skimmed. Only the Wardens could save him now.

I unfold the page and read it more carefully. It’s a healer’s report, I realize, and it’s for Thomas Howe. The text confirms what his father had spat at me near the end, that the boy had been injured by darkspawn and the Blight had taken hold inside him. But he hadn’t died immediately.

“How long can someone live, if they’re blighted?” I wonder aloud.

“I’m not sure I would call it ‘living,’” Alistair says slowly, coming to look over my shoulder. “It varies by person, but the body always rots faster than the mind. They might have a few months at most before the corruption turned them mindless.”

“Then Thomas is definitely out,” I say with a sigh, passing the report off to him.

I’m about to admit that this was useless when Alistair realizes aloud, “This is why he drugged Riordan.”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t follow. Who’s that?”

“The ‘Orlesian Warden sneaking into the city,’ that’s Riordan,” Alistair answers, tapping his finger against the page to indicate the passage he’s reading. “Though they’re wrong, he wasn’t actually Orlesian, just stationed there. He was one of the senior Wardens in the order. He sneaked into Fereldan during the Blight, and Howe tricked him and threw him in the dungeon. He must have thought he could tell him how to stop the corruption.”

“That’s true?” I ask, mostly because no book I’ve ever found on the subject has ever really given a straight answer. “The Wardens can actually save someone that’s been blighted?”

This time, Alistair doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flicker to Zevran before me, and when he finally does look in my direction, he seems to be speaking to someone standing just over my head.

“Whoever wrote this definitely believed so,” he says slowly. “It’s not quite that simple, but in—in a way.”

I had once joked that if Alistair ever tried to actually lie, he would be so bad at it that his face would give him away instantly. In this moment, Maker, I think it is. I feel my eyebrows start to tug lower and force them back to neutrality again, because I… don’t know if I want him to realize I see it.

“So are you saying he could still be alive?” I ask, half a beat too late.

Alistair continues to weigh his words very carefully. “No. The, er, necessary ingredients weren’t exactly available outside of a Warden keep or safehouse, and Riordan wouldn’t have told him anyway.”

I nod slowly, then conclude with a possibly overexaggerated grimace, “Well, I guess this really was all completely useless then. Sorry for dragging you down here again, Zevran.”

“My pleasure, of course,” Zevran answers, but his words sound less honeyed than usual. He’s still looking at Alistair too.

I don’t want to keep looking at this pile of things with Rendon Howe’s handwriting all over them, so I shove them back into a stack and drop them into the compartment they came from. The one that ends up at the top makes me shiver. It’s the contract for one Talverd Wainwright to work as a healer to Fort Drakon and the estate of the Arl of Denerim. Alistair hands over the healer’s report and I add it to the pile, face-down, so I don’t have to look at any of it as I shut the hidden latch. I want to light the whole blighted thing on fire.

I wish I had never suggested coming down here. Nothing we’ve found has made me feel any better, and neither has whatever Alistair isn’t telling me. It’s definitely about the Grey Wardens, and I want to believe that he just isn’t allowed to talk about it—bound by some sort of Warden statute of silence, perhaps. But Zevran isn’t a Warden either, and that look Alistair gave him seemed to say not to speak.

So exactly what is it that he so specifically doesn’t want to tell me?

[the-original-b]

Archangel--Chapter 3: the Caruso Calamity

Format: Prose / Fiction, multi-entry

Part in Series: 4 of 9 (Previous Chapter | First Chapter)

Word Count: c. 9,700

Summary: the Specialist follows the trail of clues to an underground lounge, a nightmare space where dreams are made manifest, and unearths truths that were never meant to see the light of day.

Trigger warning(s): blood, violence, sexually suggestive material, torture

The fight had dragged on for thirty rounds, with neither man able to floor the other. Their brows were cut, their movements were slow, and their knuckles bled. The cheer of the spectators and the blaring industrial metal around them faded out of focus while they squared each other up for the next round.

A man in a black suit and shirt with a red tie crossed the catwalk overlooking the fight below him. He made his way toward the back of the building and entered the Red Room, where the proprietor of the establishment rested on a comfortably upholstered sofa between two scantily clad women. In the man’s hand was a cordless phone he had muted.

“I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but he asked for you by name,” he said, handing his boss the phone.

The boss watched the fight unfold on a television screen against the wall. He looked up away from the monitor, over the rim of his tinted lenses at him for a full two seconds before taking the phone. He spread himself over most of the width of the couch, his collared shirt half-unbuttoned to expose his chest. He snaked his left hand out from under the woman leaning on him to retrieve the handset.

“Caruso,” he said, putting it up against his ear.

The voice on the other end was distorted, filtered. “You check the news lately?”

Caruso’s expression flattened. He slithered out from between the two escorts keeping him company and walked out to continue the conversation. “Yeah,” he answered. “Police found six bodies in a Bayside alleyway, done executioner-style, they say.” He stopped on the catwalk overlooking the floor below, where ravers moved to the live music in a drug-induced trance to his right on one side of the floor, while the two contestants he watched on the monitors traded blows in a spot-lit octagonal chain-link cage opposite a bar area to his left on the other. Even from this height he could smell the blood and sweat below him.

“He took them out behind Pharaohs,” the voice explained.

“And I’m sorry for your loss.” He leaned on the handrail, trying to see how many couples he could spot in the dance floor—if it could be called that—foregoing the music and just having sex with each other in the dim red light. The most he ever found at once was twelve.

“Pharaohs,” the voice repeated. “Right in their back yard. He’s working his way down the list.”

“What list?”

“The list..! A few weeks ago Silvio’s entourage goes missing, and his dad goes fire-and-brimstone on him about sleeping with the enemy. And now this—how are you not seeing the pattern here?”

“Because I’m keeping my patrons happy with drugs and trim enough for days,” he explained, looking directly ahead at the booths in the mezzanine, were couples—and often groups—would enter and not come out for sometimes hours, and would leave in varying degrees of undress. “And I’m keeping my boss very happy with 15% off the top. This place is a money-printing factory wrapped in a fortress, and it runs too well with me at its head for him to knock me off, so this sounds more like it’s your problem than mine.”

The voice sighed audibly on the other end. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” it growled. “How! Stupid! Are! You!? All the money, drugs, and puss in the world can’t buy your life from the Powers That Be once this guy exposes you—”

“Once again,” Caruso interrupted, “Your problem. Because if I’m exposed, so are you. And unlike me, The Powers That Be have no reason to keep you alive.” He stood back up and looked over back to the octagon to watch the aftermath of the cage match; one contestant splayed out across the floor with the referee hovering over him, the other fighter with his hands in the air celebrating his victory. He turned and strolled down the catwalk toward the Red Room again, his free hand in his pocket. “You’re supposed to be all-seeing, how’d you miss that little detail?”

The voice was quiet for a while, then spoke up again. “So you’re saying it’s on me. Again.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Now, if you have nothing else to tell me,” Caruso said as he turned the corner and crossed the doorway, “I’m off to go fuck.” He ended the call and handed the phone back to the man who delivered to him, reclaiming his place between the escorts.

~~~~ 

Krueger stopped running to catch his breath. He bent over, bracing himself on his knees while he looked at the monitor: five-point-zero-one miles in forty-six minutes. His pulse measured 174. He fought to gain control his breathing again, holding it for increasingly long periods of time before releasing and exchanging for fresh oxygen. He held it for longer each time, and eventually his breathing returned to normal. He took one final deep breath before starting back to his car.

His breakfast of oats with fruit and egg whites was almost finished before the buzz of his business phone in his sweatpants pocket got his attention. He swallowed his last bite before answering.

By now he’d recognized the number on the caller ID. “Good morning, Miss Khai,” he said.

“Hello, Krueger,” Khai said. “How’s your weekend?”

“Not bad,” he replied. He stood up to place his dishes in the sink, making a note to wash them when he was off the phone, and took a few steps over to the window to look out at the passing traffic with his espresso. “Placed an order for furniture, caught up on some reading. Even started to work on my Spanish again.”

“¿De Verdad?” Her smile was audible through the phone.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his own mouth. “Sí, estoy aprendiendo.”

“We’ll have to practice together some time!” She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “I hate to talk about work on a Sunday, but I compiled some information about the next phase. I can send it to you when you’re ready.”

“Go ahead,” Krueger said. He made his way back across the kitchenette to the living area, its walls marked with blue tape noting the dimensions of the pieces he ordered from Amelia’s. He sat on a worn leather sofa and opened his laptop on the coffee table. He logged in to review her correspondence. “I’m opening it now.” He switched to his headset to free both his hands.

“You remember Daniel Caruso, yes?” she began. “Enforcer-turned-captain, brimming with ruthless ambition and licentiousness. Womanizer, scoundrel, and textbook scumbag.”

“He rings a bell,” Krueger noted. He perused the documents as she spoke, stopping when he recognized the address of the establishment he captained. “Cloud Nyne,” he said, incredulous.

“You’re familiar?”

“I shut it down for an anonymous client some time ago. It was called Brimstone back then.”

“That was you?” Khai was quiet again. “I had read a specialist cleaned it out but I had no idea… you were thorough..!”

“Apparently not thorough enough.” Krueger scrolled down further, examining the photos she included. He saw the patrons genuinely enjoying themselves in the still images. “Appears much tamer than before.”

“That’s just the surface. The old Brimstone club is still very much alive in an underground lounge. Open up the next attachment.”

Krueger did as instructed. “I thought Wells’ people only operated in the boroughs and Long Island. Why send one of his top lieutenants to Hoboken?”

“He didn’t,” Khai clarified. “The Regional Manager hand-picked him; given his inclinations and business savvy, I can’t say I’d have chosen otherwise.”

“I see…” Krueger took a moment to review the schematics. “VIP section?”

“That’s a liberal use of the term, but yes,” she said. “They call it Nyne Circles.”

“As in Dante’s Hell.”

“Top marks,” Khai added. “And believe me when I say all nine circles are present there… cage fights, sex shows, drug use, gambling; if it provokes people’s lowest desires, Nyne Circles hosts it in excess.” She was quiet again. “It’s atrocious, what goes on down there,” she finally noted.

Krueger examined the schematics further. He noted a ground level called Sodom with a bar and small round tables near an elevated octagonal stage enclosed in chain-link fence, and an open space on the opposite side of the floor with second stage facing it. “How is it that nothing has surfaced in public about this place?”

“The staff confiscates cell phones upon entry,” Khai explained. “And there’s a thorough pat-down at a secondary checkpoint before entering. And if anything does happen to make it past the staff, well… the person or people caught with the devices take a dive into the Hudson River.”

Meaning once inside, he would be on his own. “Mhm…” Krueger looked at the illustrations detailing a second mezzanine floor called Gomorrah that featured a small lounge area in one corner and half a dozen walk-in booths adjacent to it along the wall. He had a feeling he knew what they were for. “I take it that means I won’t have any tools for this one.”

“That’s right. Any weapons you need will have to be procured on-site.”

Krueger examined the last of the blueprints. There was a catwalk opposite the mezzanine leading to a place called the Red Room, and further down was an office.

“Still,” Khai continued. “I would suggest coming in for some things.”

“How soon can you meet me at the Armory?”

“I’m home in Westchester, but I can get there in ninety minutes.”

That gave him an hour before he had to leave. “I’ll see you then.” Krueger ended the call and headed back to the kitchen to wash his dishes.

 ~~~~

Khai held out a passport-sized booklet. “That’s your invitation,” she said. “I pulled some strings and got you VIP status. It’ll get you into the Red Room, where Caruso is likeliest to enjoy the fruits of his kingdom. Although getting him out will be a whole other matter with its own set of problems.”

“I can’t just kill him?” Krueger always believed in the simplest solutions for complex problems.

“As much as I’d love that, no. Wells wants to question him, and see how many other accomplices he worked with.”

Krueger clenched his jaw, only for the briefest moment. “That’s dangerously close to something I don’t agree with.”

“I understand that,” Khai acknowledged. “But it’s the surest way to get to the bottom of everything that’s happened as of late.” She knew it still didn’t sit well with him. She offered him an apologetic look. “It’s unfortunate, but we don’t have a choice.”

Krueger sighed, taking the invitation and reading the inside fold. “Dress to impress,” he said.

“Not a problem for you,” she added playfully. “But I can offer some assistance in that regard.” She gestured a mannequin on the far wall, dressed in a well-fitting suit and collared shirt, and handed him ear protection.

Krueger shot her a look and accepted the earmuffs, watching Khai as she put her own pair on and picked a Desert Eagle up off the table. She slid a fresh .50 Action Express magazine into it and chambered the first round, then held a perfect isosceles stance and squeezed the trigger seven times, emptying the magazine and putting each round into the mannequin’s chest.

When she was done, Krueger took his earmuffs off and looked at her with newfound admiration. “You never cease to surprise, Miss Khai,” he said with an earnest smile. “Impressive.”

“Perks of the job,” she added with a jest grin. “Shooting classes are included in the benefits package.” She placed the empty hand cannon back onto the table and led him over to the bust, removing its jacket and shirt to reveal a vest. Then she peeled the body armor off the rig and showed him what was below.

“Zero penetration,” Krueger noted.

“Ceramic tiles over Kevlar fibers, maintains flexibility without sacrificing durability,” Khai explained, showcasing the bulges in the vest’s inside where it took the bullets. “It’ll hurt—a lot—but you’ll live.”

“Good to know,” Krueger said. “I’ll tell them to aim for my chest.” He took the vest from Khai, examining the damaged and broken fibers visible on the vest’s inside. “You don’t expect me to wear this one?”

“Of course not,” she said. “We have five more in inventory, I’ll supply you with a fresh one.” She led Krueger back toward the table. “Although they are all we have,” she elaborated, “so try not to get shot tonight.”

“No promises, Miss Khai.”

“Mhm,” Khai acknowledged with a slow nod. “Once Caruso’s outside I’ll have a detail of Simon’s guys pick him up. I’ll be there with them to vouch for you, so you won’t have to worry about them harassing you. Good hunting, specialist.”

 ~~~~

Krueger picked out his outfit when he returned home that afternoon—a medium gray slacks-and-waistcoat combination with a black cuffed shirt and deep red regimental tie with alternating white, gray, and black pinstripes. He decided on black lace-up shoes, and selected a belt and watch to wear with them. He reviewed an old text on basic human anatomy before stealing a few hours to get some rest for what he hoped was the last phase of this job.

It was half-past one in the morning when he arrived at Cloud Nyne, a popular hangout that was equal parts upscale bar and lounge, event space, and nightclub. The main attraction—a games room offering billiards, darts, and tabletop party games was upstairs, and the dance floor was on the ground level. From the first-floor ceiling hung stage- and strobe lights that spot-lit the dancing crowd, and every so often an aerial hoop performer would dip down from the ceiling to tempt and tantalize the patrons below. 

But Krueger could see through the shiny new veneers and flashing lights and recognized the bones of the old Brimstone club, now alive with the steady beat of house music. And he knew beneath the festive façades and luminous displays beat the heart of the old beast he once thought he put down for good.

At this hour the patrons had begun to vacate the venue, which made it easier for Krueger to pass between the crowds and make his way to the back of the dance floor, near an emergency exit—or back entrance. He was met by a broad-shouldered doorman in a black suit and shirt with a red tie. He wore an earpiece attached to a coiled wire that disappeared into his shirt collar.

“Sorry, sir,” he said holding his hand up in front of Krueger. “Private party tonight. I can’t let you through.” He noted the glint of a handgun holster in the doorman’s jacket, and naturally assumed he was carrying.

In the old days, Krueger would have just broken the man’s arm and incapacitated him; this time he would have to save the violence for later. “I know,” he said. “I’m meeting somebody inside.” He presented his invitation booklet to them.

The doorman took the booklet and shined a UV-A flashlight on the inside fold. “Looking forward to seeing the Dead Men?”

That was a trick question—they performed there yesterday. “Next time,” Krueger said. He made a mental note to thank Khai for that piece of intel later.

“They’re real crowd pleasers.” The doorman returned Krueger’s pass. “Right through this door, and hang a left at the end of the hall.”

“My thanks.”

Krueger did as instructed, following the dim guide lights on the floor toward the second checkpoint, where he met two more men in black suits and red ties with ear pieces. He removed his wallet and a thick clip of $20 bills from his inside coat pockets, and placed them into a tray along with his invitation. Then he handed his coat to one of the doormen and held his hands out to be frisked.

Once he passed inspection and reclaimed his belongings, he was guided to an old lift that a third man in black and red operated. As the lift descended, the tones and groove of the house music yielded to the rising pulse of a club beat that permeated through Krueger’s bones. Last time he rode this lift he had his hands on a SPAS-12; this time he clasped his hands together, letting them hang in front of his lap.

When the lift finally came to a stop and the gate parted, Krueger stepped forward into a short hallway; on its far wall was a handwritten memo, lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, and just below that two arrows. The one pointing upward to the left was labelled Gomorrah, the other pointed down and to the right and read Sodom. He went to the right and descended five steps to behold the area before him.

Immediately ahead of him was a collection of small round tables on which the patrons drank and plunged their faces into mountains of…what Krueger could only assume was cocaine, it was hard to tell in the red light. To his right was a well-appointed bar behind which a singular woman in a corset and not much else took orders for drinks and drugs, and accepted generous tips. To his left was the octagonal cage he had seen in Khai’s report. Around it spectators gathered and cheered, separated from the objects of their obsession by chain-link fence. Krueger couldn’t see much of what was inside the cage—all he could readily identify was one person’s head buried in the crotch of another seated person, whose head in turn was buried between the legs of a third, standing person.

Krueger weaved between the tables and found an empty spot on the far side of the bar. He ordered a whiskey neat and faked slow sips while he scanned the room some more. He kept his drink in front of him while he turned in his stool and looked across the space at the patrons writhing with each other to the DJ’s music on the dance floor, and turned his gaze upward to the mezzanine where he could see couples leaning on the banister and looking down below at the spectacle, whispering in each other’s ears. He looked directly above him at the catwalk leading to the Red Room at the back of the establishment, where he knew his prey was roosting. By now he had hoped he would have some kind of exit strategy, but the more he scanned the room, the more it seemed there was only one exit. And it was the same as the entrance.

Krueger got up from the bar, leaving his drink on one of the tables for somebody else to finish, and made his way up to the Gomorrah level, where he himself leaned on the handrail to get a better look at the faces in the crowd below him. He spotted one face in the crowd looking back up at him on the mezzanine.

The grim-looking person looking up at him wore a dark suit and tie with a white shirt—conservative dress in a place where there wasn’t a single white shirt in sight, not even among the staff. Krueger shot a look to his left to see another person, identically dressed looking across to the catwalk, where he in turn spotted a third and fourth. He looked back down and quickly found two more of them.

This was no coincidence, Krueger thought. These men in uniform were here after the same person he was. Of course Heimdallr would try to tie loose ends. He knew they couldn’t have brought weapons into the club with them, but realized they wouldn’t have to—not when they could incapacitate the guards and take theirs, knowing the patrons wouldn’t care while otherwise occupied with drugs, drinks, and sex. All hell could break loose within these walls and nobody would even know until it was far too late, if at all.

How many more were there? How many upstairs? How could Krueger not spot them sooner? “Hundesohn..!” he cursed.

“My guy upstairs tells me you have a VIP pass!” a good-looking, stocky man in an ivory suit and carmine red shirt announced. He approached Krueger from his left, one hand on the narrow waist of a woman in black stilettos, thigh-high stockings and a satin robe; his other hand on a champagne flute. “Happy to see you’re getting the most of your experience here!” He wore tinted lenses and had a wide grin; the woman next to him held a smirk and two more flutes.

Krueger recognized this king of the castle immediately, and he was sure Heimdallr’s men did too. “Of course, Mr. Caruso,” he said, saving face and matching his tone. It was the only way two people could hold a conversation amidst the loud music.

“I guess my reputation precedes me..!” Caruso said with a laugh. He radiated charisma and confidence. “Tell me, friend,” he said as he finished his champagne. “Did you come alone?”

“Unfortunately my friend couldn’t make it.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” he disclosed, gesturing the grinning woman on his arm. “Because Tara here was just looking for a friend to spend tonight with!” Caruso guided Tara toward him; she handed Krueger one of the champagne flutes with a friendly smile.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Caruso.” Krueger accepted the flute as Caruso walked away from the two of them. “Tell me,” he called out after him. “Is the Red Room open?”

“It will be in about an hour!” Caruso noted with boisterous laughter. He turned back and beckoned three other escorts dressed like Tara to follow him there.

“I see you’re a man who knows why he’s here..!” Tara said, lifting her glass.

“You can say that.” Krueger brought his glass to hers and watched Tara as she sipped from it. He brought the glass to his own lips and took a minuscule sample from the flute, letting rest on his tongue and not tasting anything bitter or uncharacteristic, but covertly spit it back into the glass. He maintained that he couldn’t take the chance with anything offered here.

“We still have an hour before the Red Room opens. Let’s talk a little.” Tara took Krueger by the hand to one of the six booths on the back wall. He left his champagne on the handrail, and looked quickly over his shoulder to try and spot Heimdallr’s men again. They had moved, likely into position, and Krueger couldn’t find them before Tara turned the corner and pulled him into the booth after her.

She slid the lock into place and looked back at Krueger, flashing him a coquettish smirk and circled him, swaying her hips as she walked and letting the robe fall off her shoulders to advertise her slim frame, stocking suspenders, black lace thong, and matching brassiere. In this light, Krueger could get a better look at her. She was maybe forty, with dark-rooted platinum blonde hair cut in a bob and green eyes.

Tara placed her half-finished champagne glass on a small circular table in the center of the booth, and took a seat on the wrap-around couch opposite the door, crossing her long, shapely legs and inviting Krueger to join her with a libidinous look.

Anyone else would have been tempted by her that day. “Tara, right?” Krueger said, taking a seat next to her.

“That’s me,” she charmed. “And what do I call you?”

“Not important.”

Tara chuckled. “I think I’ll call you Arthur, then.”

She didn’t address him by either name; that meant she wasn’t with Caruso or Heimdallr. That also meant she was innocent. “Tara, I need you to do something for me,” Krueger appealed.

“For a hundred bucks an hour, I’ll do whatever you want me to, handsome.” She leaned in close to him, running her fingertips on his chest

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she purred. Inches separated her lips from his.

Krueger took her hand and placed several bills into her palm, curling her fingers around it. “Here’s one-forty. I want you to get out of here, quickly.”

Tara recoiled. “Wait, what?”

“There are men here to kill Daniel Caruso. I counted six of them, and I’m betting there’s more.”

Tara scoffed at first, but her skepticism evaporated as Krueger stared at her unblinking. Terror consumed her. “Oh, God,” she gasped. “You’re serious..!”

“I am,” he confirmed. “And I’m here to protect him from them. They’re not here for you or anyone else, so leave now while you can. Before the shooting starts.”

Tara sat in disbelief, staring at the door for a few seconds before she nodded, stood up, and reclaimed her robe from the floor. She hastily put it on over herself and went for the door, Krueger right behind her.

Before leaving, Tara turned around and looked at him. “You know, he probably wouldn’t have given me that heads-up. So thanks for that.” Krueger watched her take her leave, heading for the lift and eventually, probably, her coat upstairs. He instead headed for the catwalk, making his way to the Red Room where a bouncer was waiting outside the door.

“Sir,” the bouncer said, “you’re gonna have to wait for—”

Krueger stopped him with quick strikes to the sides of his neck, just above the collarbones. The bouncer fell limp immediately, and Krueger held onto the bouncer’s jacket to slow his fall. “Thank me when you wake up,” he said, stepping over the fallen bouncer and walking in on Caruso with his pants undone underneath the three escorts.

Caruso sprang to face the door. “What the f—!”

“You three,” Krueger commanded, “out. Now. You—pull your pants up. I’m getting you out of here.”

Horrified, the escorts covered themselves and darted out of the room, passing Krueger on either side of him. Caruso’s ire began to boil as he stood back up and fastened his belt. “What the fuck are you doing in here, asshole!?”

“Saving your life,” Krueger continued. He threw Caruso’s jacket at him to put back on. “There are men here tonight who want to kill you; your bosses hired me to stop that from happening.”

“What are you talking about?” Caruso added, incredulous. “Only people here with guns are my own—”

“They’re going to incapacitate your staff, possibly even kill them, and take their weapons. Then they’ll turn them against you… it’s how I would do it.”

“How—”

“It’s a dark, crowded space; you of all people should know how easy it is to get away with anything here.” He took Caruso by the lapels and pulled him up to straighten his posture. “Now do exactly as I say and we might make it out of here alive—”

Heimdallr’s men had other plans—the door burst open again, and through it came three of the men clad in white shirts. They wedged themselves between Krueger and Caruso, the three of them pinning him up against the wall as they checked him for weapons.

“We got the specialist,” one of them said into his shirt collar communicator for the other two to hear. “He’s unarmed.”

“Don’t take any chances,” another one said as he got himself off Krueger and moved toward Caruso. “He’s dangerous.” He pulled from his waist a Glock 17 and held it up to Caruso’s forehead.

Krueger knew what he had to do next, but knew it could kill Caruso if done incorrectly. He also knew if he didn’t act, they would both die.

He wasn’t going to waste any more time weighing his lack of options—the instant he felt a shift in their weight he muscled through their grip and grabbed onto the first rigid thing he could feel on the other person. His finger found the trigger and squeezed three times as he pulled his hand back, sending shockwaves up his wrist and into his elbow as 9mm rounds entered each of the assailants. Once the three men in white shirts fell he raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at the door.

He waited, frozen with his finger on the trigger as Caruso collapsed to the floor to his right. When he was sure it was safe to breathe again, he lowered the handgun and visually inspected Caruso. There was no damage he could see on him, so Krueger released the magazine to examine the rounds loaded in the gun.

As he suspected, they were hollow points. If Caruso’s men ever had to shoot somebody inside the walls of the establishment, they could do so with virtually no risk of collateral damage. For a moment he admired Caruso’s ingenuity in equipping his staff as such.

Peripherally, he caught movement from one of the dying men on the floor; he slid the magazine back into the grip then quickly raised the gun and finished him with a single well-placed shot. Then inspected himself, finding blood all over the front of his waistcoat and tie. There was probably more of it on his slacks, shoes, and shirt, but he would have to worry about them later. “Verdammt,” he signed. He kept his gun trained on the doorway as he undid one of his shirt cuffs and folded it twice up his arm and rolled it up to his elbow, then switched hands to do the other sleeve. He took a few measured steps toward the door and quickly glanced down the catwalk, but found no more incoming threats. For once, he was grateful for the loud music—it bought him precious seconds more while the enemy below remained unaware of what happened. But he couldn’t waste any more time.

Krueger lowered the gun and returned to Caruso. “Are you alright?” He knelt down in front of the other man.

Caruso blinked twice and nodded, clearly shaken. “Yeah… got blood on my suit, but yeah I think so.”

“Do you want to live?”

“Wha—?”

Krueger slapped Caruso clear across his cheek. “Do you want to live, Mr. Caruso?”

Caruso held that side of his face with both hands. “Yeah! Yeah, I want to live! Get me the hell out of here!”

Krueger pulled the other man to his feet. “Then do exactly as I say,” he repeated.

“Alright.” Caruso’s enemies had breached his fortress and attacked him where he was most vulnerable. The king of the castle was exposed, and all of his confidence, charisma, and ego were long gone now. “Alright, I can do that.”

“Good man.” Krueger stepped over to the fallen men, checking for their guns and taking the magazines from them. “Is there an exit other than the lift at the front?”

“Just one,” Caruso said. “There’s a secret door in one of the mezzanine booths. Leads to a stairwell that takes us to the alleyway behind the building. I can have my guys pick us up a few blocks away.”

Krueger put the magazines in his trouser pockets and went for the doorway again, peering over his right shoulder down the catwalk and spotting two more men in white shirts coming their way with their handguns drawn. “Then let’s get there, we don’t have time to waste.” He moved the Glock to his left hand and popped out of cover to fire four times, dropping both of them before they could react. He suspected the other patrons would soon catch wind of what has happening, and would start to panic.

“The key’s in my office,” Caruso added. “It’s just across the hall.”

“Go,” Krueger commanded, keeping his gun ready and eyes ahead. “Go..!”

Caruso darted across the hall to his office door, bursting through it to get behind the desk and break open the locked drawer to retrieve the key.

Three more men in suits ascended the stairs at the end of the catwalk and started shooting. Krueger ducked back into cover. “Get behind something, Mr. Caruso!” he shouted across the hallway. Suddenly he could hear himself again, as the music had cut and the patrons could hear everything now. As Krueger expected, they panicked and rushed for the exit lift. For better or worse, this meant any other of Heimdallr’s men in suits would be trapped with the masses, meaning they wouldn’t be able to join Krueger and Caruso on the second floor.

But first, he had to deal with these three, and make it across to the booths. He retreated deeper into the Red Room and waited until their bullets stopped hitting the doorway before dropping to one knee and raising his gun again, waiting for the three of them to inspect the rooms.

The first one to cross his line of sight turned into the dark office; the second began turning into the Red Room before Krueger shot him twice in the chest rapidly, sprang to his feet and shot him a third time before he rushed past him to the second man. As he turned with the gun Krueger stopped it by grabbing onto its slide with his left hand and holding tight while he pressed the barrel of his own gun into the man’s gut, firing twice. As he lurched forward, Krueger brought his left knee up into the man’s nose and knocked him backward to the floor. Immediately Krueger dropped the other man’s gun in his left hand and moved to place his shin across the fallen man’s neck, turning to face the doorway just as the third of Heimdallr’s men came into view. One-handed, he squeezed the trigger four times to clear the magazine and kill the intruder.

He returned to his feet, looking down at the now-deceased man below him, and swapped the spent magazine for a fresh one, chambering the first round. For the first time since the shooting started, he could hear the screams of the panicking crowd below him. He almost would rather have heard the deafening music.

“Mr. Caruso?” he called out.

Caruso popped his head out from behind his desk, his hands up by his ears.

“Do you have the key?”

He dropped one hand to retrieve it and held it up. “Right here,” he replied.

“Then arrange for pickup and let’s move.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice..!” Caruso hit a silent alarm button under his desk before standing up to join Krueger at the office doorway. The two of them kept their heads low as they began to cross the catwalk.

Gun fire from the panicking crowd below put a halt on their designs. Krueger immediately sprawled to the floor, and Caruso followed suit, holding his head down and yelping “oh-shit, oh-shit” to anybody who would listen.

Krueger took him by the back of the neck, pressing his fingers firmly on one side and his thumb on the other. “On your feet, Mr. Caruso,” he commanded. “We are leaving!” He pulled him up from the floor and maintained a squat as he led Caruso in a sprint to the stairwell and threw him across the gap in the wall that led downstairs to the main floor. Krueger himself stayed behind to check the stairs quickly before joining him on the other side. He spotted at least two of Heimdallr’s hitmen in the crowded entry, but couldn’t risk shooting at them with so many others in the same space.

Krueger followed Caruso to the last of the six mezzanine booths, keeping his head low to avoid gunfire from below as Caruso worked to open the secret door. He turned around just in time to take two rounds in his torso, one in his upper right chest and the other in his lower left abdomen.

He fell onto his back and immediately took a supine stance, holding his Glock steady between his spread knees and sighting the two men the spotted earlier. He fired seven times in rapid succession at them, a lot more than was necessary.

Khai was right about the armor—it stopped the bullets but did nothing about the pain. “Scheisse..!” he hissed, slowly sitting back up and keeping the gun pointed at the main stairwell. He got to his knees and eventually returned to his feet before stepping backwards into the last booth to follow Caruso up the hidden stairwell to the secret exit. He made a point to leave the door open and allow the patrons to see the light that spilled into the dark space and guide them out of there.

~~~~ 

When they arrived on street level, Caruso led Krueger through the alley down several blocks to the meeting location. “Hide the gun,” he advised, his words forming a chimney plume in the cold night air. “Back in the basement I hit a silent alarm to signal some of my guys to get me here, like we talked about. They’ll want to know who you are.”

Krueger knew it wasn’t his men that would be there to get him. “That won’t be a problem, Mr. Caruso,” he said coolly.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” By now, a few of Wells’ people had begun arrived on scene.

“They were made aware of who I am, and know why I’m here.” Krueger held the gun at waist level and pointed it at Caruso. “Unfortunately when I said I was hired to get you out of the building, I neglected to share the details.”

Caruso’s admiration for the specialist was replaced by rage in that instant. “Oh, you’ve gotta be f—”

“Somebody close to Simon Wells implanted surveillance equipment in his conference room phone,” Krueger explained, “thereby allowing his enemies to act on stolen information.”

“You expect me to believe you? You might have gotten me out of there alive but I don’t even know you. For all I know, you’re just the hundredth guy to point a gun at me today.” More of Wells’ associates gathered around them now—they numbered about a dozen.

“I don’t expect you to believe me, Mr. Caruso, I expect you to believe your own… there were only three of you Simon Wells trusted enough to leave unattended in his conference room: CJ Silvio isn’t clever enough to mastermind something like that, and Henry Everett would cut his own heart out before betraying the Partners. But it was Everett that named you directly, even if process of elimination didn’t point me to you.”

Caruso looked to the men and women around them. “You’re just gonna stand there and let this guy spew all this bullshit? Do something..!”

“They won’t. Because they’re not with you.” Krueger shot a quick look to his left and then returned his gaze to Caruso. “Are they, Miss Khai?”

“No, specialist.” Khai emerged from her subordinates, an overcoat folded over her arms. “These fine ladies and gentlemen aren’t with him, they’re with me.” She took a few measured steps toward Caruso. “Exemplary work as always, Krueger.”

Krueger lowered the gun. His part in this was finished. “Danke schön.”

Caruso crossed his arms in contempt as Khai walked up to him. “Liz Khai,” he snarled. “Hayden’s pet harpy. Should’ve known you were behind this smear job somehow, you two-timing bitch.”

Khai smirked. Even dead to rights the man maintained his innocence. “Are you seriously going to lecture me about duplicity?” she commented.

“I’ll do what I want to you. You may keep Simon’s head on straight, but I’ve made more money for him in a week than you’ve done for him in a year..!” He took a confrontational step toward her. “It’s your word against mine, honey.”

“I know,” she continued. “That’s why you’re going to tell him.” She signaled three of her associates to collect Caruso and take him to be questioned, as the others disappeared into the cold night.

Then she walked up to Krueger, eyeing him up and down and giving him a questioning look.

No doubt she was asking about the blood on his tie, waistcoat, slacks, and shoes. “Don’t worry,” Krueger said. “None of it is mine.”

“But those are,” she said, motioning the bullet holes. “I thought I asked you not to get shot.” She handed him the coat in her arms.

“I don’t seem to recall making such a promise.” He traded the Glock in his hand for the coat, and she put it into her own inside coat pocket. “How good is Mr. Wells’ laundry?” He grimaced as he slid his arms through the sleeves and let it fall over his shoulders—adrenaline had reduced the pain of taking the rounds through the body armor, but now that it was filtering out of his blood he was starting to feel it all over again.

She looked back at the stains on his outfit. “Not that good, I’m afraid. But his tailor is superb. I’ll book you an appointment in the morning.”

“Much appreciated.” He put his hands into his coat pockets and looked off in the direction Danny Caruso was taken. “So what happens now?”

“Now?” She put her hands in her own pockets and looked in the same direction. “Police shut down the Nyne Circles, it gets replaced by something worse in a year or so, and the Partners pick somebody else to run it.”

She was probably right about every word. Krueger had witnessed that very sequence of events, after all. “Ja,” he nodded. “Das klingt richtig.”

~~~~ 

A box of donuts sat on a table top between Khai and Krueger in a small room with a single door and no mirrors. He turned his wrist upward to look at his watch. It read 03:20, which meant Simon Wells had worked on Danny Caruso for half an hour, subjecting him to all manner of discomfort. But he waited in silence beside Khai for the entire thirty minutes in the next room for him to finish. There was no mirror connecting the rooms, but they heard every chilling second of what happened over a set of speakers wired into the room.

This what the part of the job he never handled himself—torture didn’t sit well with him for personal reasons. Even when he led his own group years ago he almost never set foot into an interrogation room to extract information from the person or people being questioned.

Despite it all, in this instance he felt he could accomplish the job much more efficiently, saving a lot of time, pain, and bloodshed.

Finally, Simon Wells stepped into the observation room with Khai and Krueger, wiping his hands off with a towel. “Son of a bitch is tough,” he sighed. “I mean I’ve thought of everything to do to this guy and he’s not giving up a thing.”

“Maybe doing everything isn’t enough,” Krueger noted. “Maybe you only need to do one thing to get what you need from men like him.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Fear.” He stood up, unbuttoning his waistcoat and undoing his shirt collar. “He’s not talking because he’s not afraid of you.” He draped his waistcoat over the back of the chair, and laid his tie on top of it, fully aware of his decision to intervene. “He’s terrified of me.”

“So you want a crack at him? You’re welcome to try, but I’ve broken every bone in him I could think of. I don’t think you’re going to get very far with him.”

“Just let me work, Mr. Wells. I’ll get what you need from him.” He picked the Glock 17 he used before up off the table and placed it in his slacks. Then went to enter the room as Simon took a seat next to Khai.

The first thing Krueger noticed when he entered the room was the smell of blood. He took a look at a small table to Caruso’s right, noting a pair of pliers, a claw hammer, and a straight razor all covered in it. He looked and saw a baseball bat leaning against the table as well, and heard Caruso’s labored breathing. He made sense of what happened and walked around to Caruso’s front, putting on a pair of latex gloves and picking up a shred of fabric that was once part of the shirt Caruso wore before pulling up a chair and straddling it to face him.

Caruso was tied down to the wooden chair, slumped over and stripped down to his underwear, having fallen so far from when Krueger first laid eyes on him. He could have been mistaken for dead—motionless with growing purple blotches up and down his body and blood dripping from his nose and mouth—if not for the audible breathing. Simon likely broke some ribs, possibly punctured some organs.

“He started with the bat, didn’t he?” Krueger suggested.

“Fuck you,” Caruso croaked.

“He started with your legs. Then he worked his way up to your ribs. Judging from the bruising all around your back and shoulders, he didn’t stop there. Not for a long time at least.”

Caruso’s silence confirmed it.

“Then he went to the hammer. Probably started with your hands and then pounded at your feet. After he broke every bone he could with it, he bound them to the chair.” Krueger stood up, making his way back around behind Caruso and pulling his head back by the chin to see his face. Caruso let a quiet whimper slip out when Krueger moved his face.

“Then he moved up to the razor,” Krueger continued, looking him in the eye as he did, “cutting you again and again until what’s left would turn even the most desperate woman away. And then when he lost patience, he graduated to the pliers and started excising molars one at a time.” He pressed Caruso’s cheeks with his thumb and finger, drawing another pained groan from the man tied down. “Five, by my count.” He released Caruso. “He got lazy—I wouldn’t have stopped until after pulling the other seven.”

“What the fuck do you want, man!?” Caruso yelled.

Krueger inhaled. “To be done with this, Mr. Caruso. I don’t enjoy torture—it’s barbarous amateurism at best and sadism at worst. And pain is such an unreliable motivator. I’ve always felt excitement to be more effective.”

“You think you can tempt me with anything—?”

“Of course I can’t, I’m not a fool. But there’s another emotion that motivates people, and it’s far more effective than excitement or pain.” Krueger tied the shred of fabric around Caruso’s eyes, blindfolding him. “Fear.”

“I’m not afraid of Liz Khai’s pet hitman..!”

“No, Mr. Caruso, you are. Fear was in your eyes when I freed us both in the Red Room, and again when I cleared your office.” He returned to his original place in front of Caruso. “You looked at me with fear, and because you fear me, you did exactly as I ordered. And you’ll do as I say again.”

Once again, Caruso’s silence confirmed it.

“Now we already know you planted the microphone in Mr. Wells’ conference room phone. Just tell me why.”

Caruso lifted his head back up to face the direction from which he heard Krueger’s voice. “Fuck! You! Kraut!”

Krueger sighed. “I had hoped we could do this without resorting to violence,” he disclosed. Then he kicked Caruso in the chest, forcing him to land onto his bound, broken wrists.

He let out a high-pitched shriek unlike any he had while Simon worked on him.

Krueger drew his handgun and pulled the slide back, releasing it and chambering a round with a loud click. “Tell me, Mr. Caruso,” he began, “Do you know what that is?”

“Wha—?”

Krueger fired at the floor, landing the bullet next to Caruso’s ear, drawing a yelp from him. “How about now? Do you know what that is?”

“A gun!” he screamed. “It’s a gun!!”

“That’s right, it’s a gun. Do you know what I’m going to do if you don’t tell me what I want to know?”

“…wha-what, you’re gonna kill me?”

“Not immediately,” Krueger corrected. “I’ll shoot you low in the bowel. Your body cavity will fill with excrement, and you’ll become septic. You’ll be in so much pain that all you can do is scream and cry. You’ll beg for somebody to come and kill you. Then you’ll probably go into shock. And then you’ll die. Eventually. It might take a few days, I’ve never been able to get an exact measurement… Now,” he said, stepping over Caruso and placing the still-hot barrel on his stomach right over where his descending colon would be. “I’m going to count to three. And if you don’t tell me exactly what I and Mr. Wells want to know, I’m going to shoot you in the stomach, leave you here to die alone, and have Miss Khai get what we need from your personal records.”

Caruso began to cry quietly under Krueger. Still, he kept his mouth shut.

“Eins…”

Caruso started shifting in the chair, but bound as he was, he didn’t move a whole lot.

“Zwei…”

Caruso started whimpering audibly.

“Drei..!” Krueger pressed the Glock into Caruso’s stomach and tightened his grip, moving his finger to the trigger.

“Alright!!” Caruso couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright, I’ll talk, just stop! Stop!!”

Krueger put the handgun away and pulled the chair back onto its legs. “Start talking, then,” he ordered.

“I planted the mic, yeah. But it wasn’t mine. I was paid to do it for somebody else.”

“Heimdallr,” Krueger surmised.

“Who?”

“That’s it. Three..!” Krueger drew the gun again.

“No!!” Frantic, Caruso nearly jumped out of the chair. “I don’t know who that is! I swear on my grandma’s grave I never heard that name before!”

“Then what name have you heard?”

“Orham,” he said. “His name was Orham. I swear to you, I’ve never heard of a Hymn Dollar.”

Which meant Orham didn’t start calling himself Heimdallr until after his deal with Caruso, when he had direct access to the most closely kept secrets of one of the country’s most profitable criminal enterprises. Only afterward did he call himself all-seeing. So why try to reach Silvio after he had what he needed from the Branch? Maybe to break into the Southeast Region… or something else. Krueger wasn’t going to get anywhere by theorizing. “What is Orham after?”

“If he has some sort of grand plan,” Caruso confessed, “he didn’t share it with me. All he had me do was plant the bug. I swear to you that’s the whole truth.”

Then there was no point in continuing this conversation. “I believe you, Mr. Caruso,” Krueger said before putting the handgun down on the floor next to him. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He started for the door.

“Wait,” Caruso enquired, almost relieved, “so you’re not going to shoot me in the stomach?”

“I’m not.” Krueger confirmed. “But I can’t say for sure what Mr. Wells will do to you.” He left Caruso blindfolded in the empty interrogation room.

When Krueger returned to the observation room, he was met with a congratulatory handshake from Simon. “Well done, Krueger,” he said. “I should have had you do this from the get-go; we would have saved ourselves some time.”

“I’m a professional, Mr. Wells,” Krueger articulated, “not a monster. Consider what I just did a favor. One I won’t do again.”

“Not for free, at least,” Simon jested. He turned to Khai to include her in the conversation. “We have our man,” he said to both of them.

“But not a location.”

“My contact in Marine Park is working on that,” Khai added. “I’ll forward him what we found out just now, with the devices we’ve given him and the name we got from Caruso he should be able to give us GPS coordinates accurate to the half-mile.”

“That sounds like great news,” Simon said, “and I’m sure we’ll have more on that story as it develops.” He turned away from them and headed for the door. “Go home, you two. Get some rest and we’ll reconvene in the afternoon.” He motioned the interrogation room next door. “I still have work to do.” He shut the door behind him as he walked out the room.

Khai walked over to the speaker system on the far wall and turned it off. She decided she didn’t need to hear what would become of Danny Caruso. She looked back at Krueger, taking a few steps toward him. “You okay?” she asked.

Krueger grimaced, avoiding her eyes. “We didn’t have to force it out of him,” he said. “We could have avoided all of this.”

Khai nodded. “I understand how you feel about all of this,” she said, offering consolation with a hand placed gently on his forearm. “And I’m sorry for putting you in this position.” She stroked the skin a little with her thumb. “But it’s almost over, now. We’ll find Orham and get this whole mess cleaned up.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of Krueger’s mouth. “And then?” He turned to look at her, and again her big brown eyes cut right through him, rendering him vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Khai shrugged, pulling her hand back. “Then it’s back to business as usual,” she said. “I go back to Branch management and you…” She looked away from him briefly, then reclaimed his eyes. “You take the next job from the next client.”

“That’s a shame,” Krueger noted. “I rather liked working with you.” His eyes lingered on her lips for a moment before he looked back up at her face—a face framed perfectly by her black wavy hair. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Good night, Miss Khai.” He turned to retrieve his bloody clothes from the chair and headed for the door.

 The following afternoon—Monday—Krueger sat in the waiting area in front of Simon Well’s conference room. He noted the new placement of surveillance cameras to cover the blind spot he found the other day and smirked as he finished his water.

The receptionist behind the desk answered her ringing phone, listened to the voice on the other end, and placed it back in the cradle. “Mr. Krueger?” she said.

Krueger raised his brow to acknowledge her.

“Miss Khai and Mr. Wells are ready for you now.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

Krueger stood up, taking his water with him to conference room where Khai and Simon already sat. Simon wore a pale gray suit with a deep purple shirt and brown loafers; Khai wore a conservative navy suit and pale gray blouse with black pumps. Krueger, dressed in a dark gray crew neck sweater and khaki slacks with black lace-up shoes didn’t feel underdressed.

“There he is,” Simon said, gesturing him from behind his desk. “The man of the hour..! Tell him the good news, Khai.”

She turned in her chair to face him. “We found him,” she said. “Miles Orham: information dealer. For the past decade, he’s made a living selling secrets to small-scale criminal organizations. He moved up in the world when he started doing business for the Company, and after his deal with Caruso to spy on Mr. Wells, he began calling himself Heimdallr, the all-seeing.”

“But he got careless,” Simon added. “Greedy, even; either way he couldn’t cover his tracks in time. Now we got the son of a bitch.”

Krueger hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Where is Orham now?”

“Currently, he operates out of a self-sustaining cabin in the woods off of Interstate-81. Northeast Pennsylvania. We can’t expect him to stay there for long, though. Not with everything that’s happened as of late, so we have to move in as soon as possible.”

“Rules of engagement?”

Simon put his hands together. “Scorched Earth, Krueger,” he said. “I mean it, full Dresden. Nothing left.”

Krueger shifted a little. “With respect, sir, I have to disagree.”

“Say again?”

“I suggest we retrieve what information we can before destroying everything. It may be useful to you.”

“I’m with Krueger on this one,” Khai added. “That place is a potential goldmine, especially if he’s been dealing with so many operations. Think of the leverage you’d have on every independent crook and gangster he’s ever dealt with. That information could be instrumental in folding them into our operations.”

After a brief pause, Simon smiled and chuckled. “That’s why I pay you two the big bucks!” he laughed. “I love it—you two get in and recover the data. After that, do what you want with Orham. Fold him in or take him out, I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end.”

Krueger arched his brow. “Two?”

“That’s right,” Khai said. “I’ll be with you on this one. We’ve acquired a state-of-the-art reconnaissance drone from some associates in high places. I’ll be able to give you visual support for this operation.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Krueger said, hiding his excitement. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. There’s more good news,” Khai said with a grin. “The order from Heckler & Koch arrives tonight. You’ll have your weapons for this assignment.”

“That is good news, Miss Khai. I look forward to working with you in the field.” He looked back at Simon. “Is there anything else you need from me today?”

“No,” he said, swiveling in his chair. “I think that about covers it.”

“Then I’ll take my leave,” he said with a nod. He turned and headed for the door.

“Rest well, Specialist Krueger,” Khai said. She then excused herself shortly afterward to return to her office and review the information one more time. For as long as she worked with the Branch, Khai had never actually been out in the field, and she needed to ensure everything ran smoothly.

(Next Chapter | Masterlist)