#MARCO RETURNING TO HIS OLD SELF TOO THE HEALING GOD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

crashdevlin · 3 years

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Wham Bam

One Night at a Time Masterlist

Author’s Note: Part nine of One Night at a Time series.

Summary: Y/n gets close with her old friend Asa after being sent away by Dean. Of course, that's not something Dean can allow.

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Asa Fox x Reader

Word count: 5836

Story Warnings: threats of harm to reader, poor self-esteem, angst, Jealous!Dean, Demon!Dean, Possessive!Dean, light stalking, unprotected sex, 18+! HERE BE SEX!! DON’T READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!!, oral (fem and male rec), fingering, creampie, cum eating, bit of pain to the reader.

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"Of course you can stay with us. You know my mom loves you."

Lorraine Fox does not love me. Though...she does have a habit of extremely warm hugs. "That's an exaggeration. But, I really do appreciate you-"

"We'll get the guest room set up for you. You can stay as long as you need. And hey, it's been a long time since we did a job together, maybe we'll find something to work on."

I smile and pick up a hashbrown round from the bag sitting on my passenger seat and pop it in my mouth. "We haven't worked together since, what, '09?"

"Summer of 2010. That witch in Pensacola," he reminds me.

"That’s right! God, you saved my ass on that one!" That witch would have killed me if Asa hadn't forced witch-killing potion down her throat.

"I was just returning the favor for the poltergeist fiasco in 2004."

I laugh at the memory. "Oh, God, that was so bad! I have never had to literally drag a full-grown man out of a burning house! A house he set on fire!"

"It was an accident! The lamp hit the curtains! Who has kerosene lamps in their house?!"

We both chuckle for a few moments before I clear my throat. "Thanks again, Asa. I'm, uh, about four hours out. I'll get back on the road and see you soon."

"Looking forward to it, darlin'."

Asa's sweet. I'm glad to have a friend like him. Oh, wait! I do have friends other than Matilda!

Weird.

I get back on the road and drive up the rest of the way to Manning. Lorraine opens the door of their glorious manor as I pull into the gravel lot outside. "Mrs. Fox! It's been a long time!" I shout as I get out of the car.

"It's been years, girl!" she exclaims, smiling as she walks over to meet me as I pull my bag out of the backseat. "Where did you disappear to?"

I bite my lip as I turn to her. "Things got pretty crazy."

"Where'd your scar go?" She reaches up and runs her finger over my cheek where my scar used to be.

"Oh. Um...got healed by a faith healer."

"Well, that's wonderful! You look gorgeous, honey." My cheeks heat up as she runs her fingers over my hair. It has been a long time since I had anyone be...nice to me. "Why don't you come in? We'll get you settled in the guest room next to Asa's and you can tell me how crazy things got."

"Is Asa home yet?" I ask, shutting the door and following her.

"He's on his way back from a...a siren, I think. He'll be home soon." I nod as we head into the foyer and up the stairs. I drop my bag on the bed. I can see the room's been recently dusted and the linens on the bed have been recently changed. There are fresh flowers on the dresser, too.

Okay, Lorraine might like me.

"You want some coffee? Let's go on down to the kitchen."

We sit at the kitchen table and have some coffee. I tell Lorraine about the Apocalypse and sending Marco down. I tell her about Dean and moving into the Bunker...I leave out the part where he put a knife to my throat, though. Don't want her too worried.

"He just got really, I dunno, dark after he got that Mark. I...couldn’t stay."

"He obviously didn't care about you, Y/n. You followed him for too long with no reward. I'm proud of you for finally standing up for yourself!"

Not exactly how that went, Lorraine, but thank you. I run my finger over the edge of the cup and shrug. "I probably would have stayed if it weren’t for the Mark. He's the only guy who's ever…" I trail off. He's not the only guy who ever gave me attention. He's just the only one I ever thought might want something real with me. I was so stupid to hope. "He said he wanted to build a relationship with me. I've never had that. It was enticing. But he didn't want a relationship. He just wanted a fuck buddy."

"You deserve so much more, Y/n. You deserve something real!" She leans forward to look me in the eye. "You deserve a man who will treat you right."

"Lorraine, that is so easy to say but not so easy to find." I shake my head. "I'm a hunter...been a hunter for fifteen years. I've got no chance with any guy that's not a hunter and I'm not aware of many hunter men that would treat me right. Hunters are, generally, a one-night stand sort of animal."

She sighs and leans back again. "Well, maybe you just gotta get close to someone and let him fall for you. If they've been raised up right, they'll treat you right."

I give her a tight smile. I'm not sure how many hunters other than her son and me that she's met, but it's a bit of a pipe dream to find a hunter that's been raised up right...unless maybe I can find one that's new to the life.

"Maybe I'm just better off alone."

"Don't let that Dean jerk turn you off from men. You don't want to end up a lonely old lady like me, do you?"

I chuckle. "Nothing wrong with being alone."

"Woman like you shouldn't be alone," a deep voice says, coming into the kitchen. Asa.

I smile and stand up to greet him. "How you doing, Asa?"

"Pretty good. Glad to see you, darlin'." He wraps his arms around me in a hug and I return the embrace. "Been too long since I've seen this beautiful face," he says, leaning back to smile at me.

"She had a faith healer fix her scars," Lorraine says.

Asa looks down at my chest, where the thickest scar used to be. He saw it, back in '08 when he dressed a bullet wound on my shoulder. "All of 'em?"

I nod. "Yeah. All of 'em. He was an Angel."

"Well, you look amazing, but...ya know, scars are sexy," he says. "That one on your stomach was badass."

"Well, chicks dig scars, Ace...men generally don't."

"Well, there's always an exception, Y/n." He smiles and so do I. He's a good friend. "Not that you need to worry 'bout it anymore. Did Mom set you up in a room?"

"Yes. Right next to you. We get to be neighbors for a while."

He laughs. "Well, I'll be sure to keep the noise down, neighbor."

"All right. Let's grab a few beers from the fridge and you can fill me in on how you ended up needing a place to stay."

"Sounds great."

~~~~~~~~~

"The Mark of Cain, huh?" Asa takes a drink of his beer and shakes his head. "Damn. That is a whole other level of crazy."

"Yep...and it's driving him a whole other level of crazy. He was gonna kill me if I didn't get out of there."

"Well, it's a blessing he sent you off, then."

"That was a setup by a psychic friend of mine. She gave me some advice that she told me was gonna do one thing but it was actually a way to get out of the Bunker and have it be Dean's idea."

Asa's eyebrows scrunch together and he sets the beer down on the table. The firelight from the study fireplace is flickering across his face. "You couldn't just leave?"

I shake my head. "He's always had this thing about me leaving him. Abandonment issues, I guess." I lick my lips and shrug. "He would have found me. He's done it before."

"Well...I'm glad I could provide a safe place for you to hide."

"I'm not hiding, Ace." I take a drink of beer and clear my throat. "He sent me away. He won't come looking for me. He doesn't care...never has." Well, that's a painful truth. "I'm kinda looking forward to being out from under his thumb, actually. I have spent years pining over him like an idiot. Really hasn't been worth it."

"He really has no clue what he threw away, does he?"

I laugh and shake my head. "Dean's like you, man. He can get any woman he wants."

He smirks. "Well, we'll just have to see if I can get any woman I want."

"I'm more than willing to be your wingwoman," I volunteer as he picks up his beer from the table. It's been a while since we hit a bar together. We spent a few fun nights with beers and dancing. I always helped him pick a hot chick to take back to the motel. Friends do that for each other, right? So Asa is a friend.

He laughs and shakes his head. "Maybe another time. Tonight is about you being away from your crazy ex; safe here."

"Is he really my ex if we weren't really dating?"

"I'd say so, but I'm also not the type to force a woman to stay with me for years without putting a ring on her finger."

I lean my shoulder into his and laugh. "You never keep a woman around for more than a night at a time!"

"Because I don't wanna settle down! I've got a system, Y/n."

"At least you're honest with yourself and all those women...unlike someone."

"All right, just gotta get your mind off of him. You and me, we're gonna take a few days to relax here and then we’re gonna go find something to kill, eh? That sound good?”

I smile and nod at him, lifting the beer for a cheers. “Sounds awesome, Asa.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam called while Asa and I were on a job. “Dean’s gone,” he said. Of course that required a lot of clarification. Dean’s gone often, ya know? Hell, Purgatory, random women's beds, Vegas that one time. Stabbed in the abdomen by an Angel blade wielded by a megalomaniacal Angel.

Dead. Gone, in this instance, means Dean is dead.

I shouldn’t be crying. I shouldn’t be hyperventilating and sobbing like this. I can barely get the words out of me when Asa asks me what’s wrong. For several hours, the words won’t come out. I can allude to them enough that Asa figures out why I’m crying and he tries to comfort me, but the liquor he leaves to buy doesn’t do anything but make me drunk and sad.

I wake up hungover and depressed...but I can get the words out now. “Why am I so sad that Dean’s dead? He never did a damn thing but use me.” I stand on shaky legs and grab a bottle of water from the minifridge. Yeah, exactly, Y/n. He fucking used me. Only thing he ever did for me was help me exorcise Marco and ya know what? I was fucking doing just fine before he decided that I needed his help. I didn’t need his fucking help. I never needed his help. He needed my help and my body and my devotion. I gave him so much and what did I get in return?

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Asa asks as he wakes up and stretches.

“You shoulda made me drink water last night. I’m dehydrated as fuck,” I groan before taking his example and stretching out some of my muscles. “But I’m not sad about it anymore. I’m pissed he let Metatron fuck him over like that...but he fucked me over more than once. I’m not saying he deserved to die like that, but...I’m not gonna keep mourning him just because I made up a bunch of ‘mighta-beens’. Our relationship was never anything real...despite my personal wishes. So...I wish him happiness in Heaven and I will pray for his soul but I'm done wasting tears on him. Just time to move on."

Asa smiles and gets out of bed, coming over to hug me. "Let me take you out tonight. When's the last time you went dancing?"

I snort. "I don't dance. Do you dance?"

"I know my way around a two-step. I'll teach you."

I agree, just to have the image in my head of Asa Fox, legendary hunter, dancing a two-step in a country bar.

He's weirdly good, though. It takes a few whiskeys to loosen me up enough but then he's got me stepping and stomping across the dance floor. He's twirling me around and we're laughing and everything seems better. Asa is a torch in the darkness.

"You had fun tonight, didn't ya?" He opens the door to our motel room and I twirl through the door. "Didn't know you could move like that."

"I'm not usually a dancer, but damn, I learned a thing or two from you tonight! You were all boot-scootin' boogie! I'm exhausted!"

He shuts the door behind him and pulls his jacket off. Oh, I should do that, too. Asa's biting his lip. Oh, I just realized, "I forgot to wingwoman for you! You didn't get a pickup!"

He shakes his head. "Didn't bring you to wingwoman for me, darling."

My eyebrows come together. "Well, no, we went to dance but-"

He's either moving a lot faster than I'm expecting or I'm drunker than I thought because he's suddenly in front of me and he's got his hand wrapped around the back of my neck and he's tilted my head back and I'm looking up into his eyes and, whoa, when did his eyes get so intense?

"I don't need you to wing for me because the woman I want to take back to the motel is already in the room with me."

What? He's--what? No. Asa can't…

"What?"

"You're the most oblivious woman in the world," he says with a laugh. "I've been tryin' to get you in bed since we met."

"We met more than a decade ago!" No way. Just...not possible.

"I'm apparently a patient man." His smile goes soft. "You weren’t getting it, though, so I thought I'd give you a hand."

My jaw drops a little. "But you-"

"I have been flirting with you for years. Even my mom know I want a shot with-"

I pull away a bit but he doesn't release his hold on me. "This is weird. You want me...for ten years of want?"

He answers with a kiss. Asa, the hunter playboy...a bearded Canadian version of Dean...is kissing me. Not friends, then.

He pulls back and looks down into my eyes. “I know you’re not ready yet, after everything with Dean, but like I said, I’m a patient man. I’ll wait.” He gives me another kiss and then he walks away to the bathroom.

What? But...He likes me? No way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m kinda ashamed at how quickly I ended up with Asa, but...well, it’s not like I didn’t already know him and trust him with my life. It’s not like jumping in bed with a random guy in a bar. It’s different. It’s Asa. After I make sure he’s not a demon or a shifter or some other monster, I’m surprisingly okay to sleep with him.

He’s not as good as Dean, but I doubt anyone will ever match up to Dean. Dean was...well, he had something to prove most of the time. Asa is willing to put in the time, but he’s not as attentive. He doesn’t adapt to figure out what I need at any given moment and I’m just happy to have someone want me again so I’m not going to tell him what I need. I guess that’s on me, then, right?

We're working a case that seems like a straightforward cursed painting. Painting keeps getting sold at estate and yard sales and then someone in the house disappears. I haven't had a chance to look at the thing up close because the auction house that took control of the painting after the last disappearance didn't believe me that I was an insurance agent looking into a stolen Manet. I need to make some damn IYS credentials so they'll let me in the Acquisitions room.

I walk into the motel room and drop the keys on the table, going for my laptop to dummy up a badge to take to Kinko's.

"Your new partner's got a badass scar on his face." I freeze. No. It can't be. "You two coulda been twins before Cas fixed your shit."

It’s like my whole body has been doused in freezing sludge as I turn to him with heaviness in my limbs. Dean is sitting on the dresser, flatscreen TV is on the floor...cracked to shit. He’s got a bottle of tequila next to him, glass in his hand. That ugly bone blade is on the other side of the bottle. His hair is gelled different and that look in his eyes is...weird. This is not Dean.

“You’re dead. Sam told me Metatron killed you. You’re dead,” I repeat.

“Correction: Metatron was too much of a bitch to finish the job.” He jumps down off the dresser and sets the glass down where his ass was parked. “Speaking of bitches, you moved on quick.”

What? Really? “He’s a friend…and you almost killed me and then you kicked me out. I was supposed to just keep pining for you?”

He smiles and it makes me cringe. It’s not right. It’s not Dean. “I sent you away because I was scared of what I could do to you. I’m completely in control of myself now.” He steps closer and that gives me a jolt of adrenaline that breaks the sludge feeling. I jump at my weapons bag. If I can get my Angel blade-

He grabs my arm and pulls me up against him. He’s like lightning. What the fuck?!

“I’d rather you didn’t start a fight just yet, sweetheart. It’s not one you’d win.”

“What are you?” I demand. He’s not Dean.

“I’m still Dean, baby, I’m just...new and improved.” What does that mean? He smiles and runs his hand up to my neck. “See, this Mark on my arm that you protested so hard against? It won’t let me die. Little silver lining that Crowley dismissed as legend and Cain didn’t warn me about.” You didn’t listen to the warnings, you dumbass! “So, I woke up with a brand new attitude and a desire to get out and have a little fun. Imagine my disappointment when I catch up with my girl and she’s with another man.”

“‘My girl’? Since fucking when?” I snap. “You treated me like shit, Dean. You treated me like trash and then you threw me away so what do you want from me?”

His fingers tighten around my neck. He doesn’t cut off my airway, but it’s scary that he’s in a position to do so if he wanted. “You have been mine for fuckin’ years, Y/n,” he growls. “After Elizabethville, I couldn’t get you out of my head. No woman I ever fucked made me see the truth of myself like you did. That hit a chord.” My heart is pounding as he tucks his fingers directly underneath my jaw. “Fact that I fell for you over that shit is insane, but the fact that Lilith figured it out before I did is even worse, huh?”

Lilith?

He chuckles and I shiver as he leans down next to my ear. “You didn’t know? Meg told you why Marco targeted you, remember?” I swallow. “She wanted to break me by taking you away.” I can’t keep the gasp in. That’s not...he can’t...how he treated me… “Ooh. Love it when you gasp. Wonder how many other sounds I can get outta you.”

“You...didn’t...you don’t-”

“Oh, I don’t right now,” he interrupts, nipping at my earlobe. “But I did. It’s why I couldn’t stand to watch you leave. It’s why it killed me to make you leave, but I wasn’t gonna let myself hurt you anymore. If I hadn’t thrown you away like trash, I would have eviscerated you. Kinda think that woulda been worse, don’t you?”

“But you were so-”

“You think I know how to be in love? That shit’s scarier than any god or monster we ever been up against. I kept you at a distance because-”

“It wasn’t just distance! You were an ass!”

His fingers tighten a bit as I talk over him. “Because I was afraid of letting you get too close. But you’ve been mine for years, Y/n, and I really don’t appreciate seeing you with someone else.”

“I’m not with Asa, I’m just-”

“I watched you with him last night,” he cuts me off, pulling back to look me in my eyes. He was watching? “Ya think he knows you fake your orgasms?” My jaw drops a bit. How does Dean know I faked it last night? He smirks and runs his thumb across my jawline. “See, I’ve committed your O-face to memory, baby. Used to replay it in quiet personal moments when I needed that last push to tip me over. You didn’t cum last night. Be honest, he doesn’t get you there, does he?”

“I...I don’t...that’s not important.”

“Oh? Your pleasure isn’t important? I made it a priority every time we fucked.”

“He’s nice to me. He’s...he doesn’t lie about what he wants from me. He’s honest about-”

“He’s a dud in the sack and probably not good on a hunt if his scars are any indication.”

“He doesn’t treat me as expendable!” I hiss. “He doesn’t push me away because he’s scared of feeling things!”

“Oh, I don’t really feel things anymore so that’s not a problem now. What’s a problem-” He bumps his nose against mine and brushes his lips over mine. “-is that you’re mine and you’ve been fucking another guy.”

“Dean, I-”

“So, I’m gonna have to remind you who you belong to.” When did he get so possessive?

He kisses me hard and I whimper as he pulls my suit jacket off, yanking the fabric down my arms roughly. He growls as he grabs my white button-up blouse and rips it open. The buttons go flying as he shoves his tongue in my mouth. I should be doing something. I should be stopping him. I should be doing anything other than grabbing his jacket to ground myself as he unzips my skirt and pushes me backward onto the bed. He falls with me, immediately kissing down my neck and in-between my cleavage. God, his lips are so perfect.

His hand moves between my legs and I feel my nylons rip as he digs his nails into them. For some reason, that makes me clench hard around nothing. His fingertips rub at my pussy through my panties and I can feel how wet I am. Why am I so wet already?

“You missed me.” It’s not a question. “You hated bein’ used but you missed the way I used you.” Fuck, he’s right. No one will ever match up. His fingers slip under my underwear and along my pussy lips. “Ooh. Baby, you’re so wet.”

“W-wait,” I whimper. I just need a minute to think before this goes too far. “I need a minute.”

“Too bad.” He bites at the swell of my breast and I gasp. “I’m not gonna give you time to question. All I want you to do is moan and gasp and scream.” One of his fingers slides into me and I bite my lip. He’s so good with his hands. He’s so fucking amazing. I can’t--oh! There’s that curl he does. “Just like that.”

He pulls down my white lace bra and starts licking and sucking at my nipple, worrying the puckered-up bud with his teeth as he fucks that finger in and out of me. His finger’s so thick but nowhere close to what’s in his pants. I don’t want to want him or what's in his pants, but fuck I can't help it. I can't help the way I melt under his attentions.

He gets his teeth into my nipple and I moan as he tugs it before moving to the other side. My bra is shoved down under my boobs, pushing them up like a Wonderbra and he's still got the finger going, curling and pressing at my inner walls and I just…

"I need more," I whine. He chuckles into my breast and sucks hard. I arch up from the mattress and he sits back to smirk down at me.

"You need more, huh? Admit that Scarface hasn't been scratchin' your itch."

I make a squeaky noise as he curls his finger right into my g-spot. "He hasn't!" I clench my eyes shut and roll my hips up. "Please, Dean."

His thumb finds my clit and I gasp, but when he gets a second finger into me I moan like a whore. "Tell me what you want. You know I'd never leave you hanging, baby. Tell me how you want your first one."

I can't help but think about the way his tongue feels. He hasn't eaten me since Crowley was in the dungeon of the Bunker. "Your tongue. God, I've missed your tongue so much."

He smirks again as he looks down at me. "I'm sure you have. I've missed tasting your sweet fucking pussy." He twists his fingers in me and starts moving down my body, settling between my thighs…exactly where I want him. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh and I gasp. "Music to my ears."

He keeps twisting his fingers against my walls as he kisses my skin. Fuck, it feels so good. It's not long before I'm begging for him to put his tongue where I need it.

But he doesn't. He wants to torture me. Is this revenge for sleeping with Asa?

"I think…" he starts as his fingers still. "You haven’t missed me enough.”

What? “What d-does that mean?” He doesn’t answer, he just goes back to nipping at my thigh again, but now his fingers are just in me...doing nothing and it’s maddening. It’s frustrating. It’s horrible. “Dean, please, god, do something!”

He just chuckles and something snaps. I reach down and grab his hair. The gel breaks apart as I yank on the locks, shoving his face into my crotch and grinding upward. I can hear him growl into my cunt, but he takes the hint to stop fucking around. My fingers tighten in his hair as he starts licking at my pussy like a starving man. His fingers start fucking in and out of me. His lips wrap around my clit. He nibbles lightly on my outer lips. I cum, harder than I have in a very long time, on his fingers.

He crawls up my body and buries his face in my neck, biting lightly at my shoulder as he gropes at my breast. “That’s a good girl. Knew you had it in you to take what you wanted.” He leans back and starts to pull his red flannel off. “My turn to get what I want. Take the rest of the clothes off.”

I nod lethargically and start to pull my blouse off. He ruined this shirt. Dammit. Maybe I can find the buttons and sew them back on? “Move faster or I’m gonna rip that pretty lace set off’a you, too,” he warns...so I move faster to get nude. I toss the nylons in the trashcan right before he grabs me and tosses me to the bed. I bounce a couple times before shuffling backward to get my head on the pillow. “Ooh. Look at you. So fuckin’ sexy.”

Dean looks amazing, but kinda predatory, as he climbs on the bed. “You gonna suck this thing for me? You know you love havin’ this cock in your throat.” I look down at Dean’s hand wrapped around his dick. I really do love sucking his cock. Always have.

I push him backward and position myself between his knees, taking his cock in my hand and licking at the head. He’s already got precum leaking. Fuck, he tastes so much better than Asa.

He praises me as I start taking him down. He hasn’t praised me since before Kevin died so hearing “That fuckin’ magic mouth,” and “Take me so good, baby,” and “Never had it so good as you,” is getting me even wetter than I already am. I need him inside me.

I suck hard as I pull off of his cock and look down at him. “Can I?” I ask, gesturing at his lap.

“You wanna ride, Cowgirl? Go for it.” He hasn't called me that in years.

I throw my leg over his lap to straddle him, lifting up and reaching between us to grab him and line him up with my pussy. I sink down on him and bite my lip. It feels so fucking good. He stretches me better than anybody ever has. I try to give myself a few moments to adjust but he thrusts his hips up and makes me scream.

"Said 'ride', sweetheart."

I nod and start to roll my hips. There's a sharp pain and I hiss. Too fast, started too fast...not that Dean seems to care. He just bites his lip and reaches around to grab a handful of each asscheek, coaxing me to move faster. I do.

Despite the pain in my pussy, the pleasure is more impressive. It's not long before I'm bouncing, riding him for all I can, chasing the pleasure of his dick pushing and pulling at my insides, his cockhead ramming my cervix in a painful but beautiful way. It’s so good and when he starts lifting his hips to thrust into me on the downstroke, I scream again.

When I fall forward and brace my hands on his chest in exhaustion, or maybe it's because I'm overwhelmed, he takes over and there's nothing I can do but hang on for dear life. Not that I can hang on to anything with the way he's gathered my wrists behind me and pressed them into my lower back. My cheek is against his tattoo as he fucks into me hard. I can't speak. I can't move. I can only take what he's doing and moan about it.

It feels so fucking good, though.

"So fuckin' tight," he grunts before letting go of my wrists and pushing me off of him. I bounce off the mattress again and pant up at him as he covers my body with his. "Know what? Think I'm really gonna make you mine this time. What do you say?"

He doesn't give me a chance to answer before he's feeding his cock into me again. He moves slow for a few thrusts...but then he's hammering into me and I'm biting down hard on my bottom lip to hold in the screams that desperately want to escape. I can't even question what that means because my brain is occupied with "Feels better than anything, can't wait to cum again, God I missed him and it's only been a couple months".

He presses open-mouthed kisses to my neck and shoulder as he fucks me and I hold on to his shoulders. He grunts, his breath catches, his cock pulses, he keeps fucking me for a few moments, but he’s...softer? Shit. Did he cum?

“Did you-”

“Gonna be drippin’ outta you for hours.” My eyes go wide as he pulls out of me and leans back on his heels. He tilts his head as he looks down at my pussy. “All mine now, aren’t you?”

“Dean, you...you’ve never-”

“‘Bout time I did, isn’t it? Oh no,” he says, a mocking look of concern on his face as he reaches out and runs a finger around my entrance. There’s blood and cum on his finger when he brings it up to his eye level. I knew I ripped something, dammit! “Baby girl’s got a booboo. Let me kiss it and make it better.”

What?

He’s back between my thighs, running his tongue along my slit and down to my entrance, swirling around me before I can say anything. It’s an insanely dirty and amazing thing...it’s hot as fuck that he’s eating blood and his own cum out of me. Fuck, that should not be as sexy as it is. Why is this so hot? Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s got his tongue inside of me. Oh, and now he’s sucking my clit and I’m right on the edge. Let me cum. Let me cum. Let me cum.

“Please, let me cum!” I beg, and he chuckles before pressing his fingers into me and pressing my g-spot. I shudder when I cum, barely holding in the guttural moan I wanna let out. He licks his lips as he sits back again. “Oh, fuck.” I’m panting.

“Don’t think I need to tell you to leave him, do I?” he says as he climbs off the bed. What? He’s just gonna lay claim and then leave? And order me to leave Asa? What the fuck?

“Dean, what-”

“I’m not stickin’ around. I got shit to do, but I’ve made it clear, haven’t I?” He turns to me as he pulls his shirt on. Fear washes over me like a tidal wave when his eyes go black. He’s a demon?! How? He’s still got his anti-possession tattoo! “You’re mine. If I see you with that scarred-up bastard again...he won’t be the only one with scars. Get me?”

“How are you...I saw your tattoo is…”

He smiles cruelly. “Tattoo keeps me from getting possessed. I ain’t possessed. The Mark fucked my soul. Made me better. You’re welcome.” He winks and pulls his jeans on. “Make sure you’re outta here before your friend shows up.”

“I’m not going with you?” I ask. He’s really just gonna leave? Wham, bam, leave your friend, thank you ma’am?

“You’d be a drag on my plans. Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find you when I want you again.”

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snap, standing and glaring up at him and his stupid black eyes. "You run me down, stalk me, break into my room, fuck me, lay claim to me as yours, cum inside of me when we both know I'm not on birth control and then you're just gonna leave?!"

He nods and his eyes go green again. "Yeah, sounds about right." He smirks. "I'll see you again. Don't worry 'bout it." He doesn't even tie his boots before he grabs his jacket and heads for the door. "If I see you with him again, I'll rip you to pieces. See ya next time, baby."

What the fuck just happened?

~~~

The Kitchen Sink Tags- @flamencodiva @sacriceria @lyarr24 @440mxs-wife @nancymcl @stephv213 @mariekoukie6661 @beachy2014 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @cosicas-cuquis @queenoftheunderdark @myheartbelongsintz @squirrelnotsam @akshi8278

#spn fanfic #cassie writes stuff #reader insert #demon!dean #asa fox #asa x reader #dean x reader

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onwesterlywinds · 4 years

Text

PROMPT #27: [EXTRA CREDIT]

A worst-case alternate timeline.

She clung to him the moment they brought her forth, such that he had to tear her away from him to get a better look at her. At first glance, she seemed unblemished, but she had been in their custody for more than a week; he'd known her to recover from black and blue bruises in half that time. Worst of all was that she did not cry as she clung to him, not as she had when he'd last seen her on Ala Mhigo's last day of freedom. Instead she trembled, shook with fear the likes of which he had never seen from her before, and he had no words at all with which to comfort her.

But even now, the Garleans would not take her from him again. He fought the first man who tried with manacled hands, shoving him into the stone wall of the dungeon with such force that he heard his skull crack through his helmet. He was halfway through with choking the second one when six guns pointed through the bars of their cage.

When he slipped into unconsciousness only a moment later, propelled into sleep through a haze of Garlean sedatives, he watched through his daughter's eyes, as helpless as she was, as they brought her in for experimentation.

---

"Ashelia?"

"Yeah, Daddy?"

He'd requested the training hall for their privacy and some fresh fruits from the viceroy's private shipment, and he'd been granted both. Now that he sat with her, under the glaring fluorescent lights they'd installed, he doubted either would make much of an impact.

"Now that we're beginning to create new lives for ourselves, under Garlemald..." The words rang hollow, even to him. "...it's come time for us to take up new identities as well. New names."

She nodded, but nothing in her bright eyes registered understanding.

"It's something I did often as a Riskbreaker," he continued. "I would have any number of names that I would pick and choose from, as part of a disguise. It would help keep me and you and your mother and Aunt Alma safe - to make sure no one could find us if there was an accident."

"Has there been an accident, Daddy?"

"No." Not yet. "But it's still important to be careful. If you're a-" He couldn't bear to say it - the word "soldier." "If you're here, with me, you have to be undercover. I'll need to make a new name, and you will too."

For the first time, she frowned, as sure a sign as any that she was deep in thought. She stared down at the apple slice in her hand but did not bring it to her mouth. "But if I get a new name... how will Edge and Joshua and Frimelda find me?"

As always, she asked the questions he had no answers for. "If they're still alive," he began uncertainly, "then I imagine you'll find them, someday. If it's meant to be."

He had already been instructed not to speak to her of the Twelve. Whatever comment he had made previously had been so innocuous that he barely remembered it, but the warning had been severe - accompanied by a veiled threat to void his future visits.

"Will Mama and Aunt Alma still know who I am, up in the heavens?"

"Always." He reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, but she did not lean into the touch. "And they will love you no matter what your name is."

At last, she broke into her gut-wrenching sobs.

"I’ve decided I’ll be Rosenheim," he whispered to her. "In one of the old tongues, it means 'the home of the rose.' Aldous Rosenheim - what do you think of that name for a disguise?" When she did not respond, he asked, "Would you like to hear the name I've chosen for you?"

She heaved a few shuddering breaths, and nodded.

"It's Vera. Vera Rosenheim." He hated that her sobs stilled almost at once. "Mondeberta kept it in her kitchen; do you remember?" He certainly remembered all too well the time she had plucked a sprig of one, with the intention of eating it whole on a dare. "It can be used for... healing." And for making a serum strong enough to render a grown woman catatonic in the Undercity for more than a year of her life. But it was the only Ala Mhigan herb that could pass as a Garlean praenomen. "It's a wonderful name."

"NO!" she screamed, jumping to her feet. "I'm ASHELIA!"

"Ashelia Marco Riot." He allowed himself the indulgence of the full name Tia had chosen for her, not knowing when it would leave his lips again. "Ashelia, listen to me. You will always be my daughter. And I will love you to my dying breath and beyond." That was the most he could promise her. Even he had heard of the children van Baelsar had taken away - children of nobles and merchants and commoners alike. He could not swear that she would not be among their number before long. "But we can't let any more Garleans know who you are, can we? This is part of what it means to be in disguise. We'll have to pretend, perhaps for a very long time. But I'll-"

She ran from him then, for the first time in her life. When at last he found her, curled up in an abandoned corner of the research wing, he could not bear to comfort her with her new name or her old one.

---

To the Garleans, it was the first time she'd snuck out since the new year. Rosenheim knew differently, thanks to his dreams. His daughter had made a habit of leaving her chambers on nights when the viceroy was due to return and the guards' rotations were thinner in her wing. From there, she'd sneak out along the palace ramparts, steal down into the gutter, and find a quiet outcropping of Undercity territory long since abandoned by any self-respecting dweller.

By the time the knock came to his door to inform him that Vera was out of bed, he'd seen her sit at her destination for more than an hour of unbroken solitude. The only reason he was awake was that their connection had been cut - severed by an abrupt end to her concentration.

He shrugged on a uniform with the vague excuse of joining the search, only he knew precisely where to go. He knew better, too, than to follow her exact paths; a quicker route lay within the palace itself, and he was loath to surrender her own means of escape. For a single heartbeat of a moment, as he breathed in the midnight air, it was enough for him to recall himself as a boy, albeit older then than his daughter was now, exploring the Undercity for the first time.

When he at last came upon the place, it was somehow grander in person than through the eyes of a child’s dreams. He had remembered this hideout as an old weapons cache, littered with rusting swords and moldering barrels. Although the Echo had presented to him the change that had been wrought since he had last set foot here, he nevertheless could not believe his eyes: what had once been a useless, deserted corner of the Undercity was now transformed into an immaculate shrine to Rhalgr, decorated with trinkets and lit up by blue-burning candles.

He did not find his daughter there alone.

"Walker," came a familiar, imperious voice.

The Black Wolf, shorn of his helm and garbed in a simple leather coat, leaned in a corner. Vera copied his pose nearer to the cavern's entrance. The shrine gleamed along the far wall, as though in witness.

"Lord van Baelsar." He inclined his head but gave no further greeting, waiting instead for the viceroy to explain his presence here of all places. He did not, and neither would Vera meet his eyes.

"Would you care to explain to your father," said Gaius van Baelsar to Vera, "why you chose to leave your chambers?"

Vera bit her lip. Still she stared at her own feet.

"As you explained to me," the legatus continued, "you came here to pray to Rhalgr on behalf of your late mother."

The words hit Rosenheim with a pang of guilt. It was, of course, the 27th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon - Tia's birthday. A day he had not even known that Vera had remembered, and which he certainly had not.

"Share with your father what I said to you."

Her voice was quiet but firm. "That reliance on false gods is a weakness."

"You are among the best and brightest of your generation, Vera. You will make a name for yourself in Garlemald, should you continue to excel. But you will not excel so long as you succumb to worship. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord."

But that was not all. The viceroy showed no sign of satisfaction as he stared down at Vera, and Vera continued stifling her words through her clenched jaw. At last, she demanded, "Why can't I join the Crania Lupi?!"

"You are twelve years old, Vera," Rosenheim said before he could stop himself.

"You've much still to learn," van Baelsar added. Rosenheim found himself glad for the man's agreement. "And your role in Case 72 takes precedence over-"

"NO!"

Rosenheim forced himself to draw breath, to steady himself, to ready for any sign of anger from the most powerful man in occupied Ala Mhigo. But van Baelsar did not move. Instead he watched, along with Rosenheim, as Vera's hands balled into fists and she alternated her fury toward each of them and then to the altar.

"I hate being in that stupid tank!" she screamed. "I'm not learning anything, I'm not getting better - I'm just stealing power from dead things and I HATE IT!"

After a beat of silence, in which her words echoed endlessly around them, Gaius van Baelsar stepped forward from the wall. He drew himself up to his full height, there in the Undercity passage, and looked down at the girl before him with an expression Rosenheim could not read.

"I will repeat what I said before," he said, slowly, "only once. You, Vera oen Rosenheim, have the means to excel among the Empire. But you cannot honor your gifts - be they from your father or from the XIIth - if you traffic in savagery."

With no more words of admonishment, van Baelsar left the tunnel, leaving a teary-eyed Vera to follow closely in his wake.

---

Camilla was already shouting by the time he entered the briefing room, though not to anyone in particular. A notarius he had never seen before was still scribbling notes, as though she had not yet been informed to disregard her commanding officer whenever she became like this. A trio of privates shifted uncomfortably at attention, one of them still sporting a deep cut to their upper arm.

"Walker," she snapped, rounding on him at once. "Where is Seraph?"

"I've not seen her yet, ser," he replied. "I imagine she's only moments behind."

"She was instructed to arrive with you, at her earliest convenience."

"What's happened, ser?" She would hate him questioning her in front of so many, especially subordinates - but it would be best to get it out of the way before Vera arrived.

Sure enough, she bristled visibly. "She disobeyed a direct order; that's what happened."

Surely she of all people would not think him capable of buying that. "I was on backup outside Specula Imperatoris," he reminded her, as if she needed reminding of his role in this whole ordeal. "No new orders came in-"

"'No new orders came in'?" Camilla repeated, her voice breathy with affront.

"-and she carried out her existing instructions, as per the briefing."

She drew close enough to jab a finger into his chest. "Do not play the fool with me, Walker! You know as well as she does that the presence of a superior officer in the field takes precedence."

"And you know as well as I do, Pilus-" He scanned the room for the faces of any who might be stupid enough to relay what they were hearing to anyone else, and decided to chance it. "-that if literally anyone else had shown up, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Or perhaps if your daughter wasn't an arrogant, insubordinate bitch-"

"What, that's all?"

Vera had slipped in, unbeknownst to them both, still wearing her mud-spattered protective gear and her white hair coming loose from its high Garlean bun. Whatever retort he had for Camilla flew from his mind at once. Echo or no, it would never not be a relief to see her in the flesh after a mission.

Camilla rounded on her at once. "What were you playing at out there?!" she demanded.

Though the pilus towered over her in her heels, Vera remained utterly unfazed. "I carried out my existing instructions, as per the briefing."

"Do not test me! Your petulance has made a mockery of yourself and your project."

"Of you, you mean."

"How dare-"

"I slew every target we identified as a threat, and more besides," Vera pointed out, her voice quickly growing cold. "I took out more than a dozen Resistance leaders in all, and I gathered intelligence on a figure creating a schism in their ranks. You mean to tell me I was supposed to step aside from a mission I spent half a year preparing for, forsake what could be my only chance of recognition, because some spoiled little princeling decided to finally grace colonial soil?"

He could not fault her the words. He felt them and shared them, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

"You will hold your tongue!" Camilla screamed, leaning her face into Vera's. "And mark me: you will be held accountable for your disrespect!"

The door slammed open, causing the three anxious privates to jump. Camilla whirled about, teeth gritted; Vera did not so much as turn to face the newcomer.

"F-Forgive me, Pilus," he stammered through an imperial salute. "I bear a message from Crown Prince Zenos yae Galvus. He seeks an audience with the one who, ah, 'interfered with his hunt.'"

With a wordless glare at Camilla, Rosenheim gave a single nod to acknowledge the summons and strode out in the direction of the Hall of the Griffin. He did not need the Echo to tell him his daughter was at his back.

"You did well today," he murmured, once he knew they were alone.

"Why are you still fucking her?" she retorted.

Another difficult question. "The crown prince will likely seek to test you. You can take my sword."

She did so, albeit with a scoff of frustration; hers had gotten cracked during her battle with a man the others had called Meffrid. Still, she could likely sense his unease, and twenty years together had taught them both not to argue against the other's intuition.

"You'll be alright." He wasn't quite certain where the platitude came from, even as it left him, but his daughter’s eyes widened as she nodded.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the throne room as the right hand of the new viceroy.

#FFXIVWrite #FFXIVWrite2020 #Ashley Rosenheim #Ashelia Riot #I REALLY WENT OFF WITH THIS ONE.#I've had parts of this and more in my head for years though.#ANYWAY IT'S THREE AM AND I'M GONNA HATE MYSELF TOMORROW.#Camilla rem Salonia

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trinket-buddy · 4 years

Note

Hey, congratulations on your first game going so well! I've been DMing for over a decade now, and it always makes me really happy to see new people getting into it. Would you tell us a bit about your party, and your first session? (Also I would totally be a sounding board for you if that's ever something you need!)

Thanks! As nervous as I was/am about DMing I hadn’t a lot of really fun playing experiences, so I wanted to create that for my friends. Happy to share a bit about my characters. So they are a bit of a mixed bag, which I am really looking forward to learning more about them and how they’ll interact as a group. I gave my players pretty free reign on character choices since we were heavily restricted our first time playing because the DM wasn’t too keen on learning anything new - so there is a mixed bag of races. Firstly the characters:

Valorin - she is a Kalashtar cleric, think a more chill Jester with a 90s emo kid vibe (though definitely has the begrudging healing down). She’s about 30 with no memory beyond the last 10 years. But does have a penchant for hard candy.

Garlan - an Aasimar druid (also playing as a Hollow One), he’s the son of a noble, so he’s got a bit of a pretentious vibe at the moment. But seems like the type of person that sees the value in helping people. Definitely daddy issues.

Marco the unremembered - he’s a Leonin barbarian (oh the backstory this man has). There is tragedy upon tragedy in his past - a lot self inflicted. At the start of the campaign though he is serving as a slightly unfit, drunken bodyguard of Valorin (he’s gotta get money for ale somewhere).

Delphira - a half-elf fighter (her player is the newest to D&D and was mostly looking for simple initially) not much is known about her past yet, she’s keeping things mostly close to her chest. Though she definitely seems to like having control.

Larora - she’s a Tiefling rogue who multi-classed into a wizard at the first opportunity (we’re working together on how that’ll fit in her backstory & how to make that work for her in general). Also keeping things pretty close to home so far. But did help Valorin steal some candy, and seems to quite like it a lot herself.

First session had the group meeting at a Harvest close festival held in Felderwin. Lots of food was had, and games played. Though all were keen to get to the new event this year, a battle royale was being held for adventuring parties with gold as the reward. The Starosta’s son was home from the Soltryce Academy and was able to conjure creatures for battle - so the first two rounds the group fought a handful of lesser demons each round.

They were cocky going in - given the opportunity to plan and discuss strategy they instead sat around drinking. Leaving the battle with single digit HP each got them to wise up pretty quick. The third round was against another group (I loved getting to use my old PCs levelled down for this - also monks are the shit and my little Shifter monk NPC stood toe to toe with the barbarian for a long while, and went down grinning. She might be a recurring NPC for the group, the barbarian had a bit of interaction with her after the fight as well.

After winning, they were ushered off to speak privately with the Starosta who needs their help in tracking down his runaway daughter. A drunk in town has been spouting end of the world predictions with the gods supposedly returning. Apparently she might have taken that seriously and has run off - for what purpose? The party is not yet sure. But after a night to rest and recoup they’ll be heading north in search of her.

#I think timing was the hardest thing for me to plan for #not really knowing how long they were going to spend places #how long the battles would take #I definitely had to improvise a lot of the last hour after the fighting was done #scattered-storyteller

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fertilitasetmortem · 5 years

Text

gemini;;the sun

character moved from here

name;; virgo species;; demon | succubus age;; unknown (younger than astaroth) parents;; lucifer - lilith | astaroth (pseudo parent) affiliation;; hell circle;; 2nd

the siren’s song;;

lilith, the mother demon, was the first to birth lucifer’s children. hundreds were born from her womb, including a pair of twins: virgo and valentine. to bind them, lilith broke a rib from each of them, placing it within the other’s chest. together, she had told them, you will feel.

not long after, michael was given the order to raid hell. michael and his angels came down in fiery fury against hell, effectively wiping out most of the children lilith had come to birth. before the twins could meet the same fate, prince astaroth whisked them away and hid them from the archangel’s wrath. the same could not be said for lilith whose womb had been ripped from her body, leaving her barren.

for their safety, the twins were separated, astaroth having made a deal with related deities to take them in, not only as a way to protect them but to create allies. in layman’s terms, they were effectively sold off.

virgo was always gentle, almost human in the way she carried herself. she loved humanity and found hell to be boring. out of the two, she represented lilith’s human nature. but, the god she was sold to was cruel, destructive. he beat her, raped her, took the bits of her that made her sweet and caring and tried to destroy them. her sister, valentine, was driven mad with rage, able to feel the agony her sister felt. eventually, she was freed from her horror when the god was struck down, but the nightmares of her experience still remained.

for a long while, virgo lived with her sister until the other god released the both of them, feeling it safe enough for them to live on together. they did but kept in contact with the benevolent god. while living among humans, virgo started to regain some sense of her old self. she found passion in healing, moving from village to village with her sister under the guise of a healer. while tending to wounded soldiers of a long forgotten war, she met marco. due to injury as a child, he was a feeble fighter but a learned scholar. he, too, had studied the art of healing, and together they worked to mend the soldiers. virgo was charmed by marco, and he by her. she decided that that was where she wanted to stay.

valentine, overcome with jealousy and rage at her sister abandoning her for a human, was consistently cold and cruel to marco. eventually, virgo demanded that her sister leave. in a fury, valentine left. later that year, virgo and marco wed in the village square, and, not long after, were expecting a child. the truth of who virgo was had yet to be exposed, leaving marco unaware that the child they created together would be a cambion. unfortunately, that child never saw the light of day.

on a cold winter’s night, valentine returned to the village. while always being the colder of the twins, their connection to one another was something she needed. they were bonded, and valentine could no longer stand the thought of being alone. so, as the fire dwindled down, she slowly crept her way into her sister’s shared home. virgo, having felt her arrival, confronted her sister. the tension between them, mixed with virgo’s resentment towards her sister’s attitude, and valentine’s envious rage, only tightened before finally snapping. valentine, in a fit of blind fury, attacked virgo. she ripped the unborn child from her sister’s wound, despite being able to feel each agonizing moment of it. as virgo fell weak to the floor, valentine’s attention was turned to marco, who was defenseless against the succubus. once the terror had come to an end, valentine mended her defeated sister’s wounds, though was unable to mend the pain of her broken heart. everything she had wanted was torn away by the one she was supposed to trust the most.

for a long while, virgo lived alongside valentine, though she had become more careless. trouble after trouble had come her way, hardening her to the world, making her truer to her demonic self. she became a glutton in every sense of the word. she overindulged when she hunted, killing and maiming just for the sport. she sought out pleasure everywhere she went without regards for those that she may hurt along the way, including herself. while she did not actively try to kill herself, death was not something she feared. in order to bury the traumas of her past, she lived only for the good feelings. she was chaotic, a loose cannon set out on the world.

she is still connected, in some way, to her sister, but they drifted apart. her sister now resides with the god she was originally sold to, the two of them still remaining close after all this time. virgo, on the other hand, is currently bouncing from place to place, all in the pursuit of pleasure.

#tw; murder #tw; blood #tw; infanticide #tw; gore #tw; horror #tw; abuse #tw; trauma #trauma mention for cw #tw; rape #virgo;#subcharacter

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

Don't Look Now

Daphne du Maurier (1971)

'DON'T LOOK NOW,' John said to his wife, 'but there are a couple of old girls two tables away who are trying to hypnotise me.'

Laura, quick on cue, made an elaborate pretence of yawning, then tilted her head as though searching the skies for a non-existent aeroplane.

'Right behind you,' he added. 'That's why you can't turn round at once-it would be much too obvious.'

Laura played the oldest trick in the world and dropped her napkin, then bent to scrabble for it under her feet, sending a shooting glance over her left shoulder as she straightened once again. She sucked in her cheeks, the first tell-tale sign of suppressed hysteria, and lowered her head.

'They're not old girls at all,' she said. 'They're male twins in drag.'

Her voice broke ominously, the prelude to uncontrolled laughter, and John quickly poured some more chianti into her glass.

'Pretend to choke,' he said, 'then they won't notice. You know what it is-they're criminals doing the sights of Europe, changing sex at each stop. Twin sisters here on Torcello. Twin brothers tomorrow in Venice, or even tonight, parading arm-in-arm across the Piazza San Marco. Just a matter of switching clothes and wigs.'

'Jewel thieves or murderers?' asked Laura.

'Oh, murderers, definitely. But why, I ask myself, have they picked on me?'

The waiter made a diversion by bringing coffee and bearing away the fruit, which gave Laura time to banish hysteria and regain control.

'I can't think,' she said, 'why we didn't notice them when we arrived. They stand out to high heaven. One couldn't fail.'

'That gang of Americans masked them,' said John, 'and the bearded man with a monocle who looked like a spy. It wasn't until they all went just now that I saw the twins. Oh God, the one with the shock of white hair has got her eye on me again.'

Laura took the powder compact from her bag and held it in front of her face, the mirror acting as a reflector.

'I think it's me they're looking at, not you,' she said. 'Thank heaven I left my pearls with the manager at the hotel.' She paused, dabbing the sides of her nose with powder. 'The thing is,' she said after a moment, 'we've got them wrong. They're neither murderers nor thieves. They're a couple of pathetic old retired schoolmistresses on holiday, who've saved up all their lives to visit Venice. They come from some place with a name like Walabanga in Australia. And they're called Tilly and Tiny.'

Her voice, for the first time since they had come away, took on the old bubbling quality he loved, and the worried frown between her brows had vanished. At last, he thought, at last she's beginning to get over it. If I can keep this going, if we can pick up the familiar routine of jokes shared on holiday and at home, the ridiculous fantasies about people at other tables, or staying in the hotel, or wandering in art galleries and churches, then everything will fall into place, life will become as it was before, the wound will heal, she will forget.

'You know,' said Laura, 'that really was a very good lunch. I did enjoy it.'

Thank God, he thought, thank God…. Then he leant forward, speaking low in a conspirator's whisper. 'One of them is going to the loo,' he said. Do you suppose he, or she, is going to change her wig?'

'Don't say anything,' Laura murmured. 'I'll follow her and find out. She may have a suitcase tucked away there, and she's going to switch clothes.'

She began to hum under her breath, the signal, to her husband, of content. The ghost was temporarily laid, and all because of the familiar holiday game, abandoned too long, and now, through mere chance, blissfully recaptured.

'Is she on her way?' asked Laura.

'About to pass our table now,' he told her.

Seen on her own, the woman was not so remarkable. Tall, angular, aquiline features, with the close-cropped hair which was fashionably called an Eton crop, he seemed to remember, in his mother's day, and about her person the stamp of that particular generation. She would be in her middle sixties, he supposed, the masculine shirt with collar and tie, sports jacket, grey tweed skirt coming to mid-calf. Grey stockings and laced black shoes. He had seen the type on golf-courses and at dog-shows-invariably showing not sporting breeds but pugs-and if you came across them at a party in somebody's house they were quicker on the draw with a cigarette-lighter than he was himself, a mere male, with pocket-matches. The general belief that they kept house with a more feminine, fluffy companion was not always true. Frequently they boasted, and adored, a golfing husband. No, the striking point about this particular individual was that there were two of them. Identical twins cast in the same mould. The only difference was that the other one had whiter hair.

'Supposing,' murmured Laura, 'when I find myself in the toilette beside her she starts to strip?'

'Depends on what is revealed,' John answered. 'If she's hermaphrodite, make a bolt for it. She might have a hypodermic syringe concealed and want to knock you out before you reached the door.'

Laura sucked in her cheeks once more and began to shake. Then, squaring her shoulders, she rose to her feet. 'I simply must not laugh,' she said, 'and whatever you do, don't look at me when I come back, especially if we come out together.' She picked up her bag and strolled self-consciously away from the table in pursuit of her prey.

John poured the dregs of the chianti into his glass and lit a cigarette. The sun blazed down upon the little garden of the restaurant. The Americans had left, and the monocled man, and the family party at the far end. All was peace. The identical twin was sitting back in her chair with her eyes closed. Thank heaven, he thought, for this moment at any rate, when relaxation was possible, and Laura had been launched upon her foolish, harmless game. The holiday could yet turn into the cure she needed, blotting out, if only temporarily, the numb despair that had seized her since the child died.

'She'll get over it,' the doctor said. 'They all get over it, in time. And you have the boy.'

'I know,' John had said, 'but the girl meant everything. She always did, right from the start, I don't know why. I suppose it was the difference in age. A boy of school age, and a tough one at that, is someone in his own right. Not a baby of five. Laura literally adored her. Johnnie and I were nowhere.'

'Give her time,' repeated the doctor, 'give her time. And anyway, you're both young still. There'll be others. Another daughter.'

So easy to talk…. How replace the life of a loved lost child with a dream? He knew Laura too well. Another child, another girl, would have her own qualities, a separate identity, she might even induce hostility because of this very fact. A usurper in the cradle, in the cot, that had been Christine's. A chubby, flaxen replica of Johnnie, not the little waxen dark-haired sprite that had gone.

He looked up, over his glass of wine, and the woman was staring at him again. It was not the casual, idle glance of someone at a nearby table, waiting for her companion to return, but something deeper, more intent, the prominent, light blue eyes oddly penetrating, giving him a sudden feeling of discomfort. Damn the woman! All right, bloody stare, if you must. Two can play at that game. He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and smiled at her, he hoped offensively. She did not register. The blue eyes continued to hold his, so that he was obliged to look away himself, extinguish his cigarette, glance over his shoulder for the waiter and call for the bill. Settling for this, and fumbling with the change, with a few casual remarks about the excellence of the meal, brought composure, but a prickly feeling on his scalp remained, and an odd sensation of unease. Then it went, as abruptly as it had started, and stealing a furtive glance at the other table he saw that her eyes were closed again, and she was sleeping, or dozing, as she had done before. The waiter disappeared. All was still.

Laura, he thought, glancing at his watch, is being a hell of a time. Ten minutes at least. Something to tease her about, anyway. He began to plan the form the joke would take. How the old dolly had stripped to her smalls, suggesting that Laura should do likewise. And then the manager had burst in upon them both, exclaiming in horror, the reputation of the restaurant damaged, the hint that unpleasant consequences might follow unless… The whole exercise turning out to be a plant, an exercise in blackmail. He and Laura and the twins taken in a police launch back to Venice for questioning. Quarter of an hour…. Oh, come on, come on….

There was a crunch of feet on the gravel. Laura's twin walked slowly past, alone. She crossed over to her table and stood there a moment, her tall, angular figure interposing itself between John and her sister. She was saying something, but he couldn't catch the words. What was the accent, though-Scottish? Then she bent, offering an arm to the seated twin, and they moved away together across the garden to the break in the little hedge beyond, the twin who had stared at John leaning on her sister's arm. Here was the difference again. She was not quite so tall, and she stooped more-perhaps she was arthritic. They disappeared out of sight, and John, becoming impatient, got up and was about to walk back into the hotel when Laura emerged.

'Well, I must say, you took your time,' he began, and then stopped, because of the expression on her face.

'What's the matter, what's happened?' he asked.

He could tell at once there was something wrong. Almost as if she were in a state of shock. She blundered towards the table he had just vacated and sat down. He drew up a chair beside her, taking her hand.

'Darling, what is it? Tell me- are you ill?'

She shook her head, and then turned and looked at him. The dazed expression he had noticed at first had given way to one of dawning confidence, almost of exaltation.

'It's quite wonderful,' she said slowly, 'the most wonderful thing that could possibly be. You see, she isn't dead, she's still with us. That's why they kept staring at us, those two sisters. They could see Christine.'

Oh God, he thought. It's what I've been dreading. She's going off her head. What do I do? How do I cope?

'Laura, sweet,' he began, forcing a smile, 'look, shall we go? I've paid the bill, we can go and look at the cathedral and stroll around, and then it will be time to take off in that launch again for Venice.'

She wasn't listening, or at any rate the words didn't penetrate.

'John, love,' she said, 'I've got to tell you what happened. I followed her, as we planned, into the toilette place. She was combing her hair and I went into the loo, and then came out and washed my hands in the basin. She was washing hers in the next basin. Suddenly she turned and said to me, in a strong Scots accent, 'Don't be unhappy any more. My sister has seen your little girl. She was sitting between you and your husband, laughing.' Darling, I thought I was going to faint. I nearly did. Luckily, there was a chair, and I sat down, and the woman bent over me and patted my head. I'm not sure of her exact words, but she said something about the moment of truth and joy being as sharp as a sword, but not to be afraid, all was well, but the sister's vision had been so strong they knew I had to be told, and that Christine wanted it. Oh, John, don't look like that. I swear I'm not making it up, this is what she told me, it's all true.'

The desperate urgency in her voice made his heart sicken. He had to play along with her, agree, soothe, do anything to bring back some sense of calm.

'Laura, darling, of course I believe you,' he said, 'only it's a sort of shock, and I'm upset because you're upset….'

'But I'm not upset,' she interrupted. 'I'm happy, so happy that I can't put the feeling into words. You know what it's been like all these weeks, at home and everywhere we've been on holiday, though I tried to hide it from you. Now it's lifted, because I know, I just know, that the woman was right. Oh Lord, how awful of me, but I've forgotten their name-she did tell me. You see, the thing is that she's a retired doctor, they come from Edinburgh, and the one who saw Christine went blind a few years ago. Although she's studied the occult all her life and been very psychic, it's only since going blind that she has really seen things, like a medium. They've had the most wonderful experiences. But to describe Christine as the blind one did to her sister, even down to the little blue-and-white dress with the puff sleeves that she wore at her birthday party, and to say she was smiling happily…. Oh, darling, it's made me so happy I think I'm going to cry.'

No hysteria. Nothing wild. She took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose, smiling at him. 'I'm all right, you see, you don't have to worry. Neither of us need worry about anything any more. Give me a cigarette.'

He took one from his packet and lighted it for her. She sounded normal, herself again. She wasn't trembling. And if this sudden belief was going to keep her happy he couldn't possibly begrudge it. But… but… he wished, all the same, it hadn't happened. There was something uncanny about thought-reading, about telepathy. Scientists couldn't account for it, nobody could, and this is what must have happened just now between Laura and the sisters. So the one who had been staring at him was blind. That accounted for the fixed gaze. Which somehow was unpleasant in itself, creepy. Oh hell, he thought, I wish we hadn't come here for lunch. Just chance, a flick of a coin between this, Torcello, and driving to Padua, and we had to choose Torcello.

'You didn't arrange to meet them again or anything, did you?' he asked, trying to sound casual.

'No, darling, why should I?' Laura answered. 'I mean, there was nothing more they could tell me. The sister had her wonderful vision, and that was that. Anyway, they're moving on. Funnily enough, it's rather like our original game. They are going round the world before returning to Scotland. Only I said Australia, didn't I? The old dears…. Anything less like murderers and jewel thieves.'

She had quite recovered. She stood up and looked about her. 'Come on,' she said. 'Having come to Torcello we must see the cathedral.'

They made their way from the restaurant across the open piazza, where the stalls had been set up with scarves and trinkets and postcards, and so along the path to the cathedral. One of the ferry-boats had just decanted a crowd of sightseers, many of whom had already found their way into Santa Maria Assunta. Laura, undaunted, asked her husband for the guidebook, and, as had always been her custom in happier days, started to walk slowly through the cathedral, studying mosaics, columns, panels from left to right, while John, less interested, because of his concern at what had just happened, followed close behind, keeping a weather eye alert for the twin sisters. There was no sign of them. Perhaps they had gone into the church of Santa Fosca close by. A sudden encounter would be embarrassing, quite apart from the effect it might have upon Laura. But the anonymous, shuffling tourists, intent upon culture, could not harm her, although from his own point of view they made artistic appreciation impossible. He could not concentrate, the cold clear beauty of what he saw left him untouched, and when Laura touched his sleeve, pointing to the mosaic of the Virgin and Child standing above the frieze of the Apostles, he nodded in sympathy yet saw nothing, the long, sad face of the Virgin infinitely remote, and turning on sudden impulse stared back over the heads of the tourists towards the door, where frescoes of the blessed and the damned gave themselves to judgement.

The twins were standing there, the blind one still holding on to her sister's arm, her sightless eyes fixed firmly upon him. He felt himself held, unable to move, and an impending sense of doom, of tragedy, came upon him. His whole being sagged, as it were, in apathy, and he thought, 'This is the end, there is no escape, no future.' Then both sisters turned and went out of the cathedral and the sensation vanished, leaving indignation in its wake, and rising anger. How dare those two old fools practise their mediumistic tricks on him? It was fraudulent, unhealthy; this was probably the way they lived, touring the world making everyone they met uncomfortable. Give them half a chance and they would have got money out of Laura-anything.

He felt her tugging at his sleeve again. 'Isn't she beautiful? So happy, so serene.'

'Who? What?' he asked.

'The Madonna,' she answered. 'She has a magic quality. It goes right through to one. Don't you feel it too?'

'I suppose so. I don't know. There are too many people around.'

She looked up at him, astonished. 'What's that got to do with it? How funny you are. Well, all right, let's get away from them. I want to buy some postcards anyway.'

Disappointed, she sensed his lack of interest, and began to thread her way through the crowd of tourists to the door.

'Come on,' he said abruptly, once they were outside, 'there's plenty of time for postcards, let's explore a bit,' and he struck off from the path, which would have taken them back to the centre where the little houses were, and the stalls, and the drifting crowd of people, to a narrow way amongst uncultivated ground, beyond which he could see a sort of cutting or canal. The sight of water, limpid, pale, was a soothing contrast to the fierce sun above their heads.

'I don't think this leads anywhere much,' said Laura. 'It's a bit muddy, too, one can't sit. Besides, there are more things the guidebook says we ought to see.'

'Oh. forget the book,' he said impatiently, and, pulling her down beside him on the bank above the cutting, put his arms round her.

'It's the wrong time of day for sight-seeing. Look, there's a rat swimming there the other side.'

He picked up a stone and threw it in the water, and the animal sank, or somehow disappeared, and nothing was left but bubbles.

'Don't,' said Laura. 'It's cruel, poor thing,' and then suddenly, putting her hand on his knee, 'Do you think Christine is sitting here beside us?'

He did not answer at once. What was there to say? Would it be like this forever?

'I expect so,' he said slowly, 'if you feel she is.'

The point was, remembering Christine before the onset of the fatal meningitis, she would have been running along the bank excitedly, throwing off her shoes, wanting to paddle, giving Laura a fit of apprehension. 'Sweetheart, take care, come back…'

'The woman said she was looking so happy, sitting beside us, smiling,' said Laura. She got up, brushing her dress, her mood changed to restlessness. 'Come on, let's go back,' she said.

He followed her with a sinking heart. He knew she did not really want to buy postcards or see what remained to be seen; she wanted to go in search of the women again, not necessarily to talk, just to be near them. When they came to the open place by the stalls he noticed that the crowd of tourists had thinned, there were only a few stragglers left, and the sisters were not amongst them. They must have joined the main body who had come to Torcello by the ferry-service. A wave of relief seized him.

'Look, there's a mass of postcards at the second stall,' he said quickly, 'and some eye-catching head scarves. Let me buy you a head scarf.'

'Darling, I've so many!' she protested. 'Don't waste your lire.'

'It isn't a waste. I'm in a buying mood. What about a basket? You know we never have enough baskets. Or some lace. How about lace?'

She allowed herself, laughing, to be dragged to the stall. While he rumpled through the goods spread out before them. and chatted up the smiling woman who was selling her wares, his ferociously bad Italian making her smile the more, he knew it would give the body of tourists more time to walk to the landing stage and catch the ferry-service, and the twin sisters would be out of sight and out of their life.

'Never,' said Laura, some twenty minutes later, 'has so much junk been piled into so small a basket,' her bubbling laugh reassuring him that all was well, he needn't worry any more, the evil hour had passed. The launch from the Cipriani that had brought them from Venice was waiting by the landing-stage. The passengers who had arrived with them, the Americans, the man with the monocle, were already assembled. Earlier, before setting out, he had thought the price for lunch and transport, there and back, decidedly steep. Now he grudged none of it, except that the outing to Torcello itself had been one of the major errors of this particular holiday in Venice. They stepped down into the launch, finding a place in the open, and the boat chugged away down the canal and into the lagoon. The ordinary ferry had gone before, steaming towards Murano, while their own craft headed past San Francesco del Deserto and so back direct to Venice.

He put his arm around her once more, holding her close, and this time she responded, smiling up at him, her head on his shoulder.

'It's been a lovely day,' she said. 'I shall never forget it, never. You know, darling, now at last I can begin to enjoy our holiday.'

He wanted to shout with relief. It's going to be all right, he decided, let her believe what she likes, it doesn't matter, it makes her happy. The beauty of Venice rose before them, sharply outlined against the glowing sky, and there was still so much to see, wandering there together, that might now be perfect because of her change of mood, the shadow having lifted, and aloud he began to discuss the evening to come, where they would dine- not the restaurant they usually went to, near the Fenice theatre, but somewhere different, somewhere new.

'Yes, but it must be cheap,' she said, falling in with his mood, 'because we've already spent so much today.'

Their hotel by the Grand Canal had a welcoming, comforting air. The clerk smiled as he handed over their key. The bedroom was familiar, like home, with Laura's things arranged neatly on the dressing-table, but with it the little festive atmosphere of strangeness, of excitement, that only a holiday bedroom brings. This is ours for the moment, but no more. While we are in it we bring it life. When we have gone it no longer exists, it fades into anonymity. He turned on both taps in the bathroom, the water gushing into the bath, the steam rising. 'Now,' he thought afterwards, 'now at last is the moment to make love,' and he went back into the bedroom, and she understood, and opened her arms and smiled. Such blessed relief after all those weeks of restraint.

'The thing is,' she said later, fixing her ear-rings before the looking-glass, 'I'm not really terribly hungry. Shall we just be dull and eat in the dining-room here?'

'God, no!' he exclaimed. 'With all those rather dreary couple at the other tables? I'm ravenous. I'm also gay. I want to get rather sloshed.'

'Not bright lights and music, surely?'

'No, no… some small, dark, intimate cave, rather sinister, full of lovers with other people's wives.'

'H'm,' sniffed Laura, 'we all know what that means. You'll spot some Italian lovely of sixteen and smirk at her through dinner, while I'm stuck high and dry with a beastly man's broad back.'

They went out laughing into the warm soft night, and the magic was about them everywhere. 'Let's walk,' he said, 'let's walk and work up an appetite for our gigantic meal,' and inevitably they found themselves by the Molo and the lapping gondolas dancing upon the water, the lights everywhere blending with the darkness. There were other couples strolling for the same sake of aimless enjoyment, backwards, forwards, purposeless, and the inevitable sailors in groups, noisy, gesticulating, and dark-eyed girls whispering, clicking on high heels.

'The trouble is,' said Laura, 'walking in Venice becomes compulsive once you start. Just over the next bridge, you say, and then the next one beckons. I'm sure there are no restaurants down here, we're almost at those public gardens where they hold the Biennale. Let's turn back. I know there's a restaurant somewhere near the church of San Zaccaria, there's a little alley-way leading to it.'

'Tell you what,' said John, 'if we go down here by the Arsenal, and cross that bridge at the end and head left, we'll come upon San Zaccaria from the other side. We did it the other morning.'

'Yes, but it was daylight then. We may lose our way, it's not very well lit.'

'Don't fuss. I have an instinct for these things.'

They turned down the Fondamenta dell'Arsenale and crossed the little bridge short of the Arsenal itself, and so on past the church of San Martino. There were two canals ahead, one bearing right, the other left, with narrow streets beside them. John hesitated. Which one was it they had walked beside the day before?

'You see,' protested Laura, 'we shall be lost, just as I said.' 'Nonsense,' replied John firmly. 'It's the left-hand one, I remember the little bridge.'

The canal was narrow, the houses on either side seemed to close in upon it, and in the daytime, with the sun's reflection on the water and the windows of the houses open, bedding upon the balconies, a canary singing in a cage, there had been an impression of warmth, of secluded shelter. Now, almost in darkness, the windows of the houses shuttered, the water dank, the scene appeared altogether different, neglected, poor, and the long narrow boats moored to the slippery steps of cellar entrances looked like coffins.

'I swear I don't remember this bridge,' said Laura, pausing, and holding on to the rail, 'and I don't like the look of that alleyway beyond.'

'There's a lamp halfway up,' John told her. 'I know exactly where we are, not far from the Greek quarter.'

They crossed the bridge, and were about to plunge into the alley-way when they heard the cry. It came, surely, from one of the houses on the opposite side, but which one it was impossible to say. With the shutters closed each one of them seemed dead. They turned, and stared in the direction from which the sound had come.

'What was it?' whispered Laura.

'Some drunk or other,' said John briefly. 'Come on.'

Less like a drunk than someone being strangled, and the choking cry suppressed as the grip held firm.

'We ought to call the police,' said Laura.

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' said John. Where did she think she was-Piccadilly?

'Well, I'm off, it's sinister,' she replied, and began to hurry away up the twisting alley-way. John hesitated, his eye caught by a small figure which suddenly crept from a cellar entrance below one of the opposite houses, and then jumped into a narrow boat below. It was a child, a little girl she couldn't have been more than five or six-wearing a short coat over her minute skirt, a pixie hood covering her head. There were four boats moored, line upon line, and she proceeded to jump from one to the other with surprising agility, intent, it would seem, upon escape. Once her foot slipped and he caught his breath, for she was within a few feet of the water, losing balance; then she recovered, and hopped on to the furthest boat. Bending, she tugged at the rope, which had the effect of swinging the boat's after-end across the canal, almost touching the opposite side and another cellar entrance, about thirty feet from the spot where John stood watching her. Then the child jumped again, landing upon the cellar steps, and vanished into the house, the boat swinging back into mid-canal behind her. The whole episode could not have taken more than four minutes. Then he heard the quick patter of feet. Laura had returned. She had seen none of it, for which he felt unspeakably thankful. The sight of a child, a little girl, in what must have been near danger, her fear that the scene he had just witnessed was in some way a sequel to the alarming cry, might have had a disastrous effect on her overwrought nerves.

'What are you doing?' she called. 'I daren't go on without you. The wretched alley branches in two directions.'

'Sorry,' he told her. 'I'm coming.'

He took her arm and they walked briskly along the alley, John with an apparent confidence he did not possess.

'There were no more cries, were there?' she asked.

'No,' he said, 'no, nothing. I tell you, it was some drunk.'

The alley led to a deserted campo behind a church, not a church he knew, and he led the way across, along another street and over a further bridge.

'Wait a minute,' he said. 'I think we take this right-hand turning. It will lead us into the Greek quarter-the church of San Georgio is somewhere over there.'

She did not answer. She was beginning to lose faith. The place was like a maze. They might circle round and round forever, and then find themselves back again, near the bridge where they had heard the cry. Doggedly he led her on, and then surprisingly, with relief, he saw people walking in the lighted street ahead, there was a spire of a church, the surroundings became familiar.

'There, I told you,' he said. 'That's San Zaccaria, we've found it all right. Your restaurant can't be far away.'

And anyway, there would be other restaurants, somewhere to eat, at least here was the cheering glitter of lights, of movement, canals beside which people walked, the atmosphere of tourism. The letters Ristorante', in blue lights, shone like a beacon down a left-hand alley.

'Is this your place?' he asked.

'God knows,' she said. 'Who cares? Let's feed there anyway.'

And so into the sudden blast of heated air and hum of voices, the smell of pasta, wine, waiters, jostling customers, laughter. For two? This way, please.' Why, he thought, was one's British nationality always so obvious? A cramped little table and an enormous menu scribbled in an indecipherable mauve biro, with the waiter hovering, expecting the order forthwith.

'Two very large camparis, with soda,' John said. 'Then we'll study the menu.'

He was not going to be rushed. He handed the bill of fare to Laura and looked about him. Mostly Italians-that meant the food would be good. Then he saw them. At the opposite side of the room. The twin sisters. They must have come into the restaurant hard upon Laura's and his own arrival, for they were only now sitting down, shedding their coats, the waiter hovering beside the table. John was seized with the irrational thought that this was no coincidence. The sisters had noticed them both, in the street outside, and had followed them in. Why, in the name of hell, should they have picked on this particular spot, in the whole of Venice, unless… unless Laura herself, at Torcello, had suggested a further encounter, or the sister had suggested it to her? A small restaurant near the church of San Zaccaria, we go there sometimes for dinner. It was Laura, before the walk, who had mentioned San Zaccaria….

She was still intent upon the menu, she had not seen the sisters, but any moment now she would have chosen what she wanted to eat, and then she would raise her head and look across the room. If only the drinks would come. If only the waiter would bring the drinks, it would give Laura something to do.

'You know, I was thinking,' he said quickly, 'we really ought to go to the garage tomorrow and get the car, and do that drive to Padua. We could lunch in Padua, see the cathedral and touch St Antony's tomb and look at the Giotto frescoes, and come back by way of those various villas along the Brenta that the guidebook cracks up.'

It was no use, though. She was looking up, across the restaurant, and she gave a little gasp of surprise. It was genuine. He could swear it was genuine.

'Look,' she said, 'how extraordinary! How really amazing!' 'What?' he said sharply.

'Why, there they are. My wonderful old twins. They've seen us, what's more. They're staring this way.' She waved her hand, radiant, delighted. The sister she had spoken to at Torcello bowed and smiled. False old bitch, he thought. I know they followed us.

'Oh, darling, I must go and speak to them,' she said impulsively, 'just to tell them how happy I've been all day, thanks to them.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' he said. 'Look, here are the drinks. And we haven't ordered yet. Surely you can wait until later, until we've eaten?'

'I won't be a moment,' she said, 'and anyway I want scampi, nothing first. I told you I wasn't hungry.'

She got up, and, brushing past the waiter with the drinks, crossed the room. She might have been greeting the loved friends of years. He watched her bend over the table and shake them both by the hand, and because there was a vacant chair at their table she drew it up and sat down, talking, smiling. Nor did the sisters seem surprised, at least not the one she knew, who nodded and talked back, while the blind sister remained impassive.

'All right,' thought John savagely, 'then I will get sloshed,' and he proceeded to down his campari and soda and order another, while he pointed out something quite unintelligible on the menu as his own choice, but remembered scampi for Laura. 'And a bottle of Soave,' he added, 'with ice.'

The evening was ruined anyway. What was to have been an intimate, happy celebration would now be heavy-laden with spiritualistic visions, poor little dead Christine sharing the table with them, which was so damned stupid when in earthly life she would have been tucked up hours ago in bed. The bitter taste of the campari suited his mood of sudden self-pity, and all the while he watched the group at the table in the opposite corner, Laura apparently listening while the more active sister held forth and the blind one sat silent, her formidable sightless eyes turned in his direction.

'She's phoney,' he thought, 'she's not blind at all. They're both of them frauds, and they could be males in drag after all, just as we pretended at Torcello, and they're after Laura.'

He began on his second campari and soda. The two drinks, taken on an empty stomach, had an instant effect. Vision became blurred. And still Laura went on sitting at the other table, putting in a question now and again, while the active sister talked. The waiter appeared with the scampi, and a companion beside him to serve John's own order, which was totally unrecognisable, heaped with a livid sauce.

'The signora does not come?' enquired the first waiter, and John shook his head grimly, pointing an unsteady finger across the room.

'Tell the signora,' he said carefully, 'her scampi will get cold.'

He stared down at the offering placed before him, and prodded it delicately with a fork. The pallid sauce dissolved, revealing two enormous slices, rounds, of what appeared to be boiled pork, bedecked with garlic. He forked a portion to his mouth and chewed, and yes, it was pork, steamy, rich, the spicy sauce having turned it curiously sweet. He laid down his fork, pushing the plate away, and became aware of Laura, returning across the room and sitting beside him. She did not say anything, which was just as well, he thought, because he was too near nausea to answer. It wasn't just the drink, but reaction from the whole nightmare day. She began to eat her scampi, still not uttering. She did not seem to notice he was not eating. The waiter, hovering at his elbow, anxious, seemed aware that John's choice was somehow an error, and discreetly removed the plate. 'Bring me a green salad,' murmured John, and even then Laura did not register surprise, or, as she might have done in more normal circumstances, accuse him of having had too much to drink. Finally, when she had finished her scampi and was sipping her wine, which John had waved away, to nibble at his salad in small mouthfuls like a sick rabbit, she began to speak.

'Darling,' she said, 'I know you won't believe it, and it's rather frightening in a way, but after they left the restaurant in Torcello the sisters went to the cathedral, as we did, although we didn't see them in that crowd, and the blind one had another vision. She said Christine was trying to tell her something about us, that we should be in danger if we stayed in Venice. Christine wanted us to go away as soon as possible.'

So that's it, he thought. They think they can run our lives for us. This is to be our problem from henceforth. Do we eat? Do we get up? Do we go to bed? We must get in touch with the twin sisters. They will direct us.

'Well?' she said. 'Why don't you say something?'

'Because,' he answered, 'you are perfectly right, I don't believe it. Quite frankly, I judge your old sisters as being a couple of freaks, if nothing else. They're obviously unbalanced, and I'm sorry if this hurts you, but the fact is they've found a sucker in you.'

'You're being unfair,' said Laura. 'They are genuine, I know it. I just know it. They were completely sincere in what they said.'

'All right. Granted. They're sincere. But that doesn't make them well-balanced. Honestly, darling, you meet that old girl for ten minutes in a loo, she tells you she sees Christine sitting beside us-well, anyone with a gift for telepathy could read your unconscious mind in an instant-and then, pleased with her success, as any old psychic expert would be, she flings a further mood of ecstasy and wants to boot us out of Venice. Well, I'm sorry, but to hell with it.'

The room was no longer reeling. Anger had sobered him. If it would not put Laura to shame he would get up and cross to their table, and tell the old fools where they got off.

'I knew you would take it like this,' said Laura unhappily. 'I told them you would. They said not to worry. As long as we left Venice tomorrow everything would come all right.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' said John. He changed his mind, and poured himself a glass of wine.

'After all,' Laura went on, 'we have really seen the cream of Venice. I don't mind going on somewhere else. And if we stayed — I know it sounds silly, but I should have a nasty nagging sort of feeling inside me, and I should keep thinking of darling Christine being unhappy and trying to tell us to go.'

'Right,' said John with ominous calm, 'that settles it. Go we will. I suggest we clear off to the hotel straight away and warn the reception we're leaving in the morning. Have you had enough to eat?'

'Oh dear,' sighed Laura, 'don't take it like that. Look, why not come over and meet them, and then they can explain about the vision to you? Perhaps you would take it seriously then. Especially as you are the one it most concerns. Christine is more worried over you than me. And the extraordinary thing is that the blind sister says you're psychic and don't know it. You are somehow en rapport with the unknown, and I'm not.'

'Well, that's final,' said John. 'I'm psychic, am I? Fine. My psychic intuition tells me to get out of this restaurant now, at once, and we can decide what we do about leaving Venice when we are back at the hotel.'

He signalled to the waiter for the bill and they waited for it, not speaking to each other, Laura unhappy, fiddling with her bag, while John, glancing furtively at the twins' table, noticed that they were tucking into plates piled high with spaghetti, in very un-psychic fashion. The bill disposed of, John pushed back his chair.

'Right. Are you ready?' he asked.

'I'm going to say goodbye to them first,' said Laura, her mouth set sulkily, reminding him instantly, with a pang, of their poor lost child.

'Just as you like,' he replied, and walked ahead of her out of the restaurant, without a backward glance.

The soft humidity of the evening, so pleasant to walk about in earlier, had turned to rain. The strolling tourists had melted away. One or two people hurried by under umbrellas. This is what the inhabitants who live here see, he thought. This is the true life. Empty streets by night, the dank stillness of a stagnant canal beneath shuttered houses. The rest is a bright facade put on for show, glittering by sunlight.

Laura joined him and they walked away together in silence, and emerging presently behind the ducal palace came out into the Piazza San Marco. The rain was heavy now, and they sought shelter with the few remaining stragglers under the colonnades. The orchestras had packed up for the evening. The tables were bare. Chairs had been turned upside down.

The experts are right, he thought, Venice is sinking. The whole city is slowly dying. One day the tourists will travel here by boat to peer down into the waters, and they will see pillars and columns and marble far, far beneath them, slime and mud uncovering for brief moments a lost underworld of stone. Their heels made a ringing sound on the pavement and the rain splashed from the gutterings above. A fine ending to an evening that had started with brave hope, with innocence.

When they came to their hotel Laura made straight for the lift, and John turned to the desk to ask the night-porter for the key. The man handed him a telegram at the same time, John stared at it a moment. Laura was already in the lift. Then he opened the envelope and read the message. It was from the headmaster of Johnnie's preparatory school.

Johnnie under observation

suspected appendicitis in city hospital here.

No cause for alarm but surgeon thought wise

advise you.

Charles Hill

He read the message twice, then walked slowly towards the lift where Laura was waiting for him. He gave her the telegram. 'This came when we were out,' he said. 'Not awfully good news.' He pressed the lift button as she read the telegram. The lift stopped at the second floor, and they got out.

'Well, this decides it, doesn't it?' she said. 'Here is the proof. We have to leave Venice because we're going home. It's Johnnie who's in danger, not us. This is what Christine was trying to tell the twins.'

The first thing John did the following morning was to put a call through to the headmaster at the preparatory school. Then he gave notice of their departure to the reception manager, and they packed while they waited for the call. Neither of them referred to the events of the preceding day, it was not necessary. John knew the arrival of the telegram and the foreboding of danger from the sisters was coincidence, nothing more, but it was pointless to start an argument about it. Laura was convinced otherwise, but intuitively she knew it was best to keep her feelings to herself. During breakfast they discussed ways and means of getting home. It should be possible to get themselves, and the car, on to the special car train that ran from Milan through to Calais, since it was early in the season. In any event, the headmaster had said there was no urgency.

The call from England came while John was in the bathroom. Laura answered it. He came into the bedroom a few minutes later. She was still speaking, but he could tell from the expression in her eyes that she was anxious.

'It's Mrs Hill,' she said. 'Mr Hill is in class. She says they reported from the hospital that Johnnie had a restless night and the surgeon may have to operate, but he doesn't want to unless it's absolutely necessary. They've taken X-rays and the appendix is in a tricky position, it's not awfully straightforward.'

'Here, give it to me,' he said.

The soothing but slightly guarded voice of the headmaster's wife came down the receiver. 'I'm so sorry this may spoil your plans,' she said, 'but both Charles and I felt you ought to be told, and that you might feel rather easier if you were on the spot. Johnnie is very plucky, but of course he has some fever. That isn't unusual, the surgeon says, in the circumstances. Sometimes an appendix can get displaced, it appears, and this makes it more complicated. He's going to decide about operating this evening.'

'Yes, of course, we quite understand,' said John.

'Please do tell your wife not to worry too much,' she went on. 'The hospital is excellent, a very nice staff, and we have every confidence in the surgeon.'

'Yes,' said John, 'yes,' and then broke off because Laura was making gestures beside him.

'If we can't get the car on the train, I can fly,' she said. 'They're sure to be able to find me a seat on a plane. Then at least one of us would be there this evening.'

He nodded agreement. 'Thank you so much, Mrs Hill,' he said, 'we'll manage to get back all right. Yes, I'm sure Johnnie is in good hands. Thank your husband for us. Goodbye.'

He replaced the receiver and looked round him at the tumbled beds, suitcases on the floor, tissue-paper strewn. Baskets, maps, books, coats, everything they had brought with them in the car. 'Oh God,' he said, 'what a bloody mess. All this junk.' The telephone rang again. It was the hall porter to say he had succeeded in booking a sleeper for them both, and a place for the car, on the following night.

'Look,' said Laura, who had seized the telephone, 'could you book one seat on the midday plane from Venice to London today, for me? It's imperative one of us gets home this evening. My husband could follow with the car tomorrow.'

'Here, hang on,' interrupted John. 'No need for panic stations. Surely twenty-four hours wouldn't make all that difference?'

Anxiety had drained the colour from her face. She turned to him, distraught.

'It mightn't to you, but it does to me,' she said. 'I've lost one child, I'm not going to lose another.'

'All right, darling, all right…' He put his hand out to her but she brushed it off, impatiently, and continued giving directions to the porter. He turned back to his packing. No use saying anything. Better for it to be as she wished. They could, of course, both go by air, and then when all was well, and Johnnie better, he could come back and fetch the car, driving home through France as they had come. Rather a sweat, though, and the hell of an expense. Bad enough Laura going by air and himself with the car on the train from Milan.

'We could, if you like, both fly,' he began tentatively, explaining the sudden idea, but she would have none of it. 'That really would be absurd,' she said impatiently. 'As long as I'm there this evening, and you follow by train, it's all that matters. Besides, we shall need the car, going backwards and forwards to the hospital. And our luggage. We couldn't go off and just leave all this here.'

No, he saw her point. A silly idea. It was only-well, he was as worried about Johnnie as she was, though he wasn't going to say so.

'I'm going downstairs to stand over the porter,' said Laura. 'They always make more effort if one is actually on the spot. Everything I want tonight is packed. I shall only need my overnight case. You can bring everything else in the car.' She hadn't been out of the bedroom five minutes before the telephone rang. It was Laura. 'Darling,' she said, 'it couldn't have worked out better. The porter has got me on a charter flight that leaves Venice in less than an hour. A special motor-launch takes the party direct from San Marco in about ten minutes. Some passenger on the charter flight cancelled. I shall be at Gatwick in less than four hours.'

'I'll be down right away,' he told her.

He joined her by the reception desk. She no longer looked anxious and drawn, but full of purpose. She was on her way. He kept wishing they were going together. He couldn't bear to stay on in Venice after she had gone, but the thought of driving to Milan, spending a dreary night in a hotel there alone, the endless dragging day which would follow, and the long hours in the train the next night, filled him with intolerable depression, quite apart from the anxiety about Johnnie. They walked along to the San Marco landing-stage, the Molo bright and glittering after the rain, a little breeze blowing, the postcards and scarves and tourist souvenirs fluttering on the stalls, the tourists themselves out in force, strolling, contented, the happy day before them.

'I'll ring you tonight from Milan,' he told her. 'The Hills will give you a bed, I suppose. And if you're at the hospital they'll let me have the latest news. That must be your charter party. You're welcome to them!'

The passengers descending from the landing-stage down into the waiting launch were carrying hand-luggage with Union Jack tags upon them. They were mostly middle-aged, with what appeared to be two Methodist ministers in charge. One of them advanced towards Laura, holding out his hand, showing a gleaming row of dentures when he smiled. 'You must be the lady joining us for the homeward flight,' he said. 'Welcome aboard, and to the Union of Fellowship. We are all delighted to make your acquaintance. Sorry we hadn't a seat for hubby too.'

Laura turned swiftly and kissed John, a tremor at the corner of her mouth betraying inward laughter. 'Do you think they'll break into hymns?' she whispered. 'Take care of yourself, hubby. Call me tonight.'

The pilot sounded a curious little toot upon his horn, and in a moment Laura had climbed down the steps into the launch and was standing amongst the crowd of passengers, waving her hand, her scarlet coat a gay patch of colour amongst the more sober suiting of her companions. The launch tooted again and moved away from the landing-stage, and he stood there watching it, a sense of immense loss filling his heart. Then he turned and walked away, back to the hotel, the bright day all about him desolate, unseen.

There was nothing, he thought, as he looked about him presently in the hotel bedroom, so melancholy as a vacated room, especially when the recent signs of occupation were still visible about him. Laura's suitcases on the bed, a second coat she had left behind. Traces of powder on the dressing-table. A tissue, with a lipstick smear, thrown in the waste-paper basket. Even an old tooth-paste tube squeezed dry, lying on the glass shelf above the wash-basin. Sounds of the heedless traffic on the Grand Canal came as always from the open window, but Laura wasn't there any more to listen to it, or to watch from the small balcony. The pleasure had gone. Feeling had gone.

John finished packing, and leaving all the baggage ready to be collected he went downstairs to pay the bill. The reception clerk was welcoming new arrivals. People were sitting on the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal reading newspapers, the pleasant day waiting to be planned.

John decided to have an early lunch, here on the hotel terrace, on familiar ground, and then have the porter carry the baggage to one of the ferries that steamed direct between San Marco and the Porta Roma, where the car was garaged. The fiasco meal of the night before had left him empty, and he was ready for the trolley of hors d'oeuvres when they brought it to him, around midday. Even here, though, there was change. The head-waiter, their especial friend, was off-duty, and the table where they usually sat was occupied by new arrivals, a honeymoon couple, he told himself sourly, observing the gaiety, the smiles, while he had been shown to a small single table behind a tub of flowers.

'She's airborne now,' John thought, 'she's on her way,' and he tried to picture Laura seated between the Methodist ministers, telling them, no doubt, about Johnnie ill in hospital, and heaven knows what else besides. Well, the twin sisters anyway could rest in psychic peace. Their wishes would have been fulfilled.

Lunch over, there was no point in lingering with a cup of coffee on the terrace. His desire was to get away as soon as possible, fetch the car, and be en route for Milan. He made his farewells at the reception desk, and, escorted by a porter who had piled his baggage on to a wheeled trolley, made his way once more to the landing-stage of San Marco. As he stepped on to the steam-ferry, his luggage heaped beside him, a crowd of jostling people all about him, he had one momentary pang to be leaving Venice. When, if ever, he wondered, would they come again? Next year…. in three years…. Glimpsed first on honeymoon, nearly ten years ago, and then a second visit, en passant, before a cruise, and now this last abortive ten days that had ended so abruptly.

The water glittered in the sunshine, buildings shone, tourists in dark glasses paraded up and down the rapidly receding Molo, already the terrace of their hotel was out of sight as the ferry churned its way up the Grand Canal. So many impressions to seize and hold, familiar loved façades, balconies, windows, water lapping the cellar steps of decaying palaces, the little red house where d'Annunzio lived, with its garden our house, Laura called

it, pretending it was theirs-and too soon the ferry would be turning left on the direct route to the Piazzale Roma, so missing the best of the Canal, the Rialto, the further palaces.

Another ferry was heading downstream to pass them, filled with passengers, and for a brief foolish moment he wished he could change places, be amongst the happy tourists bound for Venice and all he had left behind him. Then he saw her. Laura, in her scarlet coat, the twin sisters by her side, the active sister with her hand on Laura's arm, talking earnestly, and Laura her.. self, her hair blowing in the wind, gesticulating, on her face a look of distress. He stared, astounded, too astonished to shout, to wave, and anyway they would never have heard or seen him, for his own ferry had already passed and was heading in the opposite direction.

What the hell had happened? There must have been a hold-up with the charter flight and it had never taken off, but in that case why had Laura not telephoned him at the hotel? And what were those damned sisters doing? Had she run into them at the airport? Was it coincidence? And why did she look so anxious? He could think of no explanation. Perhaps the flight had been cancelled. Laura, of course, would go straight to the hotel, expecting to find him there, intending, doubtless, to drive with him after all to Milan and take the train the following night. What a blasted mix-up. The only thing to do was to telephone the hotel immediately his ferry reached the Piazzale Roma and tell her to wait- he would return and fetch her. As for the damned interfering sisters, they could get stuffed.

The usual stampede ensued when the ferry arrived at the landing-stage. He had to find a porter to collect his baggage, and then wait while he discovered a telephone. The fiddling with change, the hunt for the number, delayed him still more. He succeeded at last in getting through, and luckily the reception clerk he knew was still at the desk.

'Look, there's been some frightful muddle,' he began, and explained how Laura was even now on her way back to the hotel-he had seen her with two friends on one of the ferry-services. Would the reception clerk explain and tell her to wait? He would be back by the next available service to collect her. 'In any event, detain her,' he said. 'I'll be as quick as I can.' The reception clerk understood perfectly, and John rang off.

Thank heaven Laura hadn't turned up before he had put through his call, or they would have told her he was on his way to Milan. The porter was still waiting with the baggage, and, it seemed simplest to walk with him to the garage, hand everything over to the chap in charge of the office there and ask him to keep it for an hour, when he would be returning with his wife to pick up the car. Then he went back to the landing-station to await the next ferry to Venice. The minutes dragged, and he kept wondering all the time what had gone wrong at the airport and why in heaven's name Laura hadn't telephoned. No use conjecturing. She would tell him the whole story at the hotel. One thing was certain: he would not allow Laura and himself to be saddled with the sisters and become involved with their affairs. He could imagine Laura saying that they also had missed a flight, and could they have a lift to Milan?

Finally the ferry chugged alongside the landing-stage and he stepped aboard. What an anti-climax, thrashing back past the familiar sights to which he had bidden a nostalgic farewell such a short while ago! He didn't even look about him this time, he was so intent on reaching his destination. In San Marco there were more people than ever, the afternoon crowds walking shoulder to shoulder, every one of them on pleasure bent.

He came to the hotel and pushed his way through the swing door, expecting to see Laura, and possibly the sisters, waiting in the lounge to the left of the entrance. She was not there. He went to the desk. The reception clerk he had spoken to on the telephone was standing there, talking to the manager.

'Has my wife arrived?' John asked.

'No, sir, not yet.'

'What an extraordinary thing. Are you sure?'

'Absolutely certain, sir. I have been here ever since you telephoned me at a quarter to two. I have not left the desk.'

'I just don't understand it. She was on one of the vaporettos passing by the Accademia. She would have landed at San Marco about five minutes later and come on here.'

The clerk seemed nonplussed. 'I don't know what to say. The signora was with friends, did you say?'

'Yes. Well, acquaintances. Two ladies we had met at Torcello yesterday. I was astonished to see her with them on the vaporetto, and of course I assumed that the flight had been cancelled, and she had somehow met up with them at the airport and decided to return here with them, to catch me before I left.'

Oh hell, what was Laura doing? It was after three. A matter of moments from San Marco landing-stage to the hotel.

'Perhaps the signora went with her friends to their hotel instead. Do you know where they are staying?'

'No,' said John, 'I haven't the slightest idea. What's more, I don't even know the names of the two ladies. They were sisters, twins, in fact-looked exactly alike. But anyway, why go to their hotel and not here?'

The swing-door opened but it wasn't Laura. Two people staying in the hotel.

The manager broke into the conversation. 'I tell you what I will do,' he said. 'I will telephone the airport and check about the flight. Then at least we will get somewhere.' He smiled apologetically. It was not usual for arrangements to go wrong.

'Yes, do that,' said John. 'We may as well know what happened there.'

He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the entrance hall. What a bloody mix-up. And how unlike Laura, who knew he would be setting off for Milan directly after lunch-indeed, for all she knew he might have gone before. But surely, in that case. she would have telephoned at once, on arrival at the airport, had the flight been cancelled? The manager was ages telephoning, he had to be put through on some other line, and his Italian was too rapid for John to follow the conversation. Finally he replaced the receiver.

'It is more mysterious than ever, sir,' he said. 'The charter flight was not delayed, it took off on schedule with a full complement of passengers. As far as they could tell me, there was no hitch. The signora must simply have changed her mind.' His smile was more apologetic than ever.

'Changed her mind,' John repeated. 'But why on earth should she do that? She was so anxious to be home tonight.'

The manager shrugged. 'You know how ladies can be, sir,' he said. 'Your wife may have thought that after all she would prefer to take the train to Milan with you. I do assure you, though, that the charter party was most respectable, and it was a Caravelle aircraft, perfectly safe.'

'Yes, yes,' said John impatiently, 'I don't blame your arrangements in the slightest. I just can't understand what induced her to change her mind, unless it was meeting with these two ladies.'

The manager was silent. He could not think of anything to say. The reception clerk was equally concerned. 'Is it possible,' he ventured, 'that you made a mistake, and it was not the signora that you saw on the vaporetto?'

'Oh no,' replied John, 'it was my wife, I assure you. She was wearing her red coat, she was hatless, just as she left here. I saw her as plainly as I can see you. I would swear to it in a court of law.'

'It is unfortunate,' said the manager, 'that we do not know the name of the two ladies, or the hotel where they were staying. You say you met these ladies at Torcello yesterday?'

'Yes… but only briefly. They weren't staying there. At least, I am certain they were not. We saw them at dinner in Venice later, as it happens.'

'Excuse me….' Guests were arriving with luggage to check in, the clerk was obliged to attend to them. John turned in desperation to the manager. 'Do you think it would be any good telephoning the hotel in Torcello in case the people there knew the name of the ladies, or where they were staying in Venice?'

'We can try,' replied the manager. 'It is a small hope, but we can try.'

John resumed his anxious pacing, all the while watching the swing-door, hoping. praying, that he would catch sight of the red coat and Laura would enter. Once again there followed what seemed an interminable telephone conversation between the manager and someone at the hotel in Torcello.

'Tell them two sisters,' said John, 'two elderly ladies dressed in grey, both exactly alike. One lady was blind,' he added. The manager nodded. He was obviously giving a detailed description. Yet when he hung up he shook his head. 'The manager at Torcello says he remembers the two ladies well,' he told John, 'but they were only there for lunch. He never learnt their names.'

'Well, that's that. There's nothing to do but wait.'

John lit his third cigarette and went.out on to the terrace, to resume his pacing there. He stared out across the canal, searching the heads of the people on passing steamers, motor-boats, even drifting gondolas. The minutes ticked by on his watch, and there was no sign of Laura. A terrible foreboding nagged at him that somehow this was prearranged, that Laura had never intended to catch the aircraft, that last night in the restaurant she had made an assignation with the sisters. Oh God, he thought, that's impossible, I'm going paranoiac…. Yet why, why? No, more likely the encounter at the airport was fortuitous, and for some incredible reason they had persuaded Laura not to board the aircraft, even prevented her from doing so, trotting out one of their psychic visions, that the aircraft would crash, that she must return with them to Venice. And Laura, in her sensitive state, felt they must be right, swallowed it all without question.

But granted all these possibilities, why had she not come to the hotel? What was she doing? Four o'clock, half-past four, the sun no longer dappling the water. He went back to the reception desk.

'I just can't hang around,' he said. 'Even if she does turn up, we shall never make Milan this evening. I might see her walking with these ladies, in the Piazza San Marco, anywhere. If she arrives while I'm out, will you explain?'

The clerk was full of concern. 'Indeed, yes,' he said 'It is very worrying for you, sir. Would it perhaps be prudent if we booked you in here tonight?'

John gestured, helplessly. 'Perhaps, yes, I don't know. Maybe…'

He went out of the swing-door and began to walk towards the

Piazza San Marco. He looked into every shop up and down the colonnades, crossed the piazza a dozen times, threaded his way between the tables in front of Florian's, in front of Quadri's, knowing that Laura's red coat and the distinctive appearance of the twin sisters could easily be spotted, even amongst this milling crowd, but there was no sign of them. He joined the crowd of shoppers in the Merceria, shoulder to shoulder with idlers, thrusters, window-gazers, knowing instinctively that it was useless, they wouldn't be here. Why should Laura have deliberately missed her flight to return to Venice for such a purpose? And even if she had done so, for some reason beyond his imagining, she would surely have come first to the hotel to find him.

The only thing left to him was to try to track down the sisters. Their hotel could be anywhere amongst the hundreds of hotels and pensions scattered through Venice, or even across the other side at the Zattere, or further again on the Giudecca. These last possibilities seemed remote. More likely they were staying in a small hotel or pension somewhere near San Zaccaria handy to the restaurant where they had dined last night. The blind one would surely not go far afield in the evening. He had been a fool not to have thought of this before, and he turned back and walked quickly away from the brightly lighted shopping district towards the narrower, more cramped quarter where they had dined last evening. He found the restaurant without difficulty, but they were not yet open for dinner, and the waiter preparing tables was not the one who had served them. John asked to see the padrone, and the waiter disappeared to the back regions, returning after a moment or two with the somewhat dishevelled-looking proprietor in shirt-sleeves, caught in a slack moment, not in full tenue.

'I had dinner here last night,' John explained. 'There were two ladies sitting at that table there in the corner.' He pointed to it.

'You wish to book that table for this evening?' asked the proprietor.

'No,' said John. 'No, there were two ladies there last night, two sisters, due sorelle, twins, gemelle'-what was the right word for twins? — Do you remember? Two ladies, sorelle vecchie

'Ah; said the man, 'si, si, signore, la povera signorina.' He put his hands to his eyes to feign blindness. 'Yes, I remember.'

'Do you know their names?' asked John. 'Where they were staying? I am very anxious to trace them.'

The proprietor spread out his hands in a gesture of regret. 'I am ver' sorry, signore, I do not know the names of the signorine, they have been here once, twice, perhaps for dinner, they do not say where they were staying. Perhaps if you come again tonight they might be here? Would you like to book a table?'

He pointed around him, suggesting a whole choice of tables that might appeal to a prospective diner, but John shook his head.

'Thank you, no. I may be dining elsewhere. I am sorry to have troubled you. If the signorine should come…' he paused, 'possibly I may return later,' he added. 'I am not sure.'

The proprietor bowed, and walked with him to the entrance. 'In Venice the whole world meets,' he said smiling. 'It is possible the signore will find his friends tonight. Arrivederci, signore.'

Friends? John walked out into the street. More likely kidnappers…. Anxiety had turned to fear, to panic. Something had gone terribly wrong. Those women had got hold of Laura, played upon her suggestibility, induced her to go with them, either to their hotel or elsewhere. Should he find the Consulate? Where was it? What would he say when he got there? He began walking without purpose, finding himself, as they had done the night before, in streets he did not know, and suddenly came upon a tall building with the word 'Questura' above it. This is it, he thought. I don't care, something has happened, I'm going inside. There were a number of police in uniform coming and going, the place at any rate was active, and, addressing himself to one of them behind a glass partition, he asked if there was anyone who spoke English. The man pointed to a flight of stairs and John went up, entering a door on the right where he saw that another couple were sitting, waiting, and with relief he recognised them as fellow-countrymen, tourists, obviously a man and his wife, in some sort of predicament.

'Come and sit down,' said the man. 'We've waited half-an-hour but they can't be much longer. What a country! They wouldn't leave us like this at home.'

John took the proffered cigarette and found a chair beside them.

'What's your trouble?' he asked.

'My wife had her handbag pinched in one of those shops in the Merceria,' said the man. 'She simply put it down one moment to look at something, and you'd hardly credit it, the next moment it had gone. I say it was a sneak thief, she insists it was the girl behind the counter. But who's to say? These Ities are all alike. Anyway, I'm certain we shan't get it back. What have you lost?'

'Suitcase stolen,' John lied rapidly. 'Had some important papers in it.'

How could he say he had lost his wife? He couldn't even begin…

The man nodded in sympathy. 'As I said, these Ities are all alike. Old Musso knew how to deal with them. Too many Communists around these days. The trouble is, they're not going to bother with our troubles much, not with this murderer at large. They're all out looking for him '

'Murderer? What murderer?' asked John.

'Don't tell me you've not heard about it?' The man stared at him in surprise. 'Venice has talked of nothing else. It's been in all the papers, on the radio, and even in the English papers. A grizzly business. One woman found with her throat slit last week-a tourist too-and some old chap discovered with the same sort of knife wound this morning. They seem to think it must be a maniac, because there doesn't seem to be any motive. Nasty thing to happen in Venice in the tourist season.'

'My wife and I never bother with the newspapers when we're on holiday,' said John. 'And we're neither of us much given to gossip in the hotel.'

'Very wise of you,' laughed the man. 'It might have spoilt your holiday, especially if your wife is nervous. Oh well, we're off tomorrow anyway. Can't say we mind, do we, dear?' He turned to his wife. 'Venice has gone downhill since we were here last. And now this loss of the handbag really is the limit.'

The door of the inner room opened, and a senior police officer asked John's companion and his wife to pass through.

'I bet we don't get any satisfaction,' murmured the tourist, winking at John, and he and his wife went into the inner room. The door closed behind them. John stubbed out his cigarette and lighted another. A strange feeling of unreality possessed him. He asked himself what he was doing here, what was the use of it? Laura was no longer in Venice but had disappeared, perhaps forever, with those diabolical sisters. She would never be traced. And just as the two of them had made up a fantastic story about the twins, when they first spotted them in Torcello, so, with nightmare logic, the fiction would have basis in fact; the women were in reality disguised crooks, men with criminal intent who lured unsuspecting persons to some appalling fate. They might even be the murderers for whom the police sought. Who would ever suspect two elderly women of respectable appearance, living quietly in some second-rate pension or hotel? He stubbed out his cigarette, unfinished.

'This,' he thought, 'is really the start of paranoia. This is the way people go off their heads.' He glanced at his watch. It was half-past six. Better pack this in, this futile quest here in police headquarters, and keep to the single link of sanity remaining. Return to the hotel, put a call through to the prep school in England, and ask about the latest news of Johnnie. He had not thought about poor Johnnie since sighting Laura on the vaporetto.

Too late, though. The inner door opened, the couple were ushered out.

'Usual clap-trap,' said the husband sotto voce to John. 'They'll do what they can. Not much hope. So many foreigners in Venice, all of 'em thieves! The locals all above reproach. Wouldn't pay 'em to steal from customers. Well, I wish you better luck.'

He nodded, his wife smiled and bowed, and they had gone. John followed the police officer into the inner room.

Formalities began. Name, address, passport. Length of stay in Venice, etc., etc. Then the questions, and John, the sweat beginning to appear on his forehead, launched into his interminable story. The first encounter with the sisters, the meeting at the restaurant, Laura's state of suggestibility because of the death of their child, the telegram about Johnnie, the decision to take the chartered flight, her departure, and her sudden inexplicable return. When he had finished he felt as exhausted as if he had driven three hundred miles non-stop after a severe bout of 'flu. His interrogator spoke excellent English with a strong Italian accent.

'You say,' he began, 'that your wife was suffering the after-effects of shock. This had been noticeable during your stay here in Venice?'

'Well, yes,' John replied, 'she had really been quite ill. The holiday didn't seem to be doing her much good. It was only when she met these two women at Torcello yesterday that her mood changed. The strain seemed to have gone. She was ready, I suppose, to snatch at every straw, and this belief that our little girl was watching over her had somehow restored her to what appeared normality.'

'It would be natural,' said the police officer, 'in the circumstances. But no doubt the telegram last night was a further shock to you both?'

'Indeed, yes. That was the reason we decided to return home.'

'No argument between you? No difference of opinion?'

'None. We were in complete agreement. My one regret was that I could not go with my wife on this charter flight.'

The police officer nodded. 'It could well be that your wife had a sudden attack of amnesia, and meeting the two ladies served as a link, she clung to them for support. You have described them with great accuracy, and I think they should not be too difficult to trace. Meanwhile, I suggest you should return to your hotel, and we will get in touch with you as soon as we have news.'

At least, John thought, they believed his story. They did not consider him a crank who had made the whole thing up and was merely wasting their time.

'You appreciate,' he said, 'I am extremely anxious. These women may have some criminal design upon my wife. One has heard of such things….'

The police officer smiled for the first time. 'Please don't concern yourself,' he said. 'I am sure there will be some satisfactory explanation.'

All very well, thought John, but in heaven's name, what?

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'to have taken up so much of your time. Especially as I gather the police have their hands full hunting down a murderer who is still at large.'

He spoke deliberately. No harm in letting the fellow know that for all any of them could tell there might be some connection between Laura's disappearance and this other hideous affair.

'Ah, that,' said the police officer, rising to his feet. 'We hope to have the murderer under lock and key very soon.'

His tone of confidence was reassuring. Murderers, missing wives, lost handbags were all under control. They shook hands, and John was ushered out of the door and so downstairs. Perhaps, he thought, as he walked slowly back to the hotel, the fellow was right. Laura had suffered a sudden attack of amnesia, and the sisters happened to be at the airport and had brought her back to Venice, to their own hotel, because Laura couldn't remember where she and John had been staying. Perhaps they were even now trying to track down his hotel. Anyway, he could do nothing more. The police had everything in hand, and, please God, would come up with the solution. All he wanted to do right now was to collapse upon a bed with a stiff whisky, and then put through a call to Johnnie's school.

The page took him up in the lift to a modest room on the fourth floor at the rear of the hotel. Bare, impersonal, the shutters closed, with a smell of cooking wafting up from a courtyard down below.

'Ask them to send me up a double whisky, will you?' he said to the boy. 'And a ginger-ale,' and when he was alone he plunged his face under the cold tap in the wash-basin, relieved to find that the minute portion of visitor's soap afforded some measure of comfort. He flung off his shoes, hung his coat over the back of a chair and threw himself down on the bed. Somebody's radio was blasting forth an old popular song, now several seasons out-of-date, that had been one of Laura's favourites a couple of years ago. 'I love you, Baby…' He reached for the telephone, and asked the exchange to put through the call to England. Then he closed his eyes, and all the while the insistent voice persisted, 'I love you, Baby… I can't get you out of my mind.'

Presently there was a tap at the door. It was the waiter with his drink. Too little ice, such meagre comfort, but what desperate need. He gulped it down without the ginger-ale, and in a few moments the ever-nagging pain was eased, numbed, bringing, if only momentarily, a sense of calm. The telephone rang, and now, he thought, bracing himself for ultimate disaster, the final shock, Johnnie probably dying, or already dead. In which case nothing remained. Let Venice be engulfed….

The exchange told him that the connection had been made, and in a moment he heard the voice of Mrs Hill at the other end of the line. They must have warned her that the call came from Venice, for she knew instantly who was speaking.

'Hullo?' she said. 'Oh, I am so glad you rang. All is well. Johnnie has had his operation, the surgeon decided to do it at midday rather than wait, and it was completely successful. Johnnie is going to be all right. So you don't have to worry any more, and will have a peaceful night.'

'Thank God,' he answered.

'I know,' she said, 'we are all so relieved. Now I'll get off the line and you can speak to your wife.'

John sat up on the bed, stunned. What the hell did she mean? Then he heard Laura's voice, cool and clear.

'Darling? Darling, are you there?'

He could not answer. He felt the hand holding the receiver go clammy cold with sweat. 'I'm here,' he whispered.

'It's not a very good line,' she said, 'but never mind. As Mrs Hill told you, all is well. Such a nice surgeon, and a very sweet Sister on Johnnie's floor, and I really am happy about the way it's turned out. I came straight down here after landing at Gatwick-the flight O.K., by the way, but such a funny crowd, it'll make you hysterical when I tell you about them-and I went to the hospital, and Johnnie was coming round. Very dopey, of course, but so pleased to see me. And the Hills are being wonderful, I've got their spare-room, and it's only a short taxi-drive into the town and the hospital. I shall go to bed as soon as we've had dinner, because I'm a bit fagged, what with the flight and the anxiety. How was the drive to Milan? And where are you staying?'

John did not recognise the voice that answered as his own. It was the automatic response of some computer.

'I'm not in Milan,' he said. 'I'm still in Venice.'

'Still in Venice? What on earth for? Wouldn't the car start?' can't explain,' he said. 'There was a stupid sort of mix-up….'

He felt suddenly so exhausted that he nearly dropped the receiver, and, shame upon shame, he could feel tears pricking behind his eyes.

'What sort of mix-up?' Her voice was suspicious, almost hostile. 'You weren't in a crash?'

'No… no… nothing like that.'

A moment's silence, and then she said, 'Your voice sounds very slurred. Don't tell me you went and got pissed.'

Oh Christ… If she only knew! He was probably going to pass out any moment, but not from the whisky.

'I thought,' he said slowly, thought I saw you, in a vaporetto, with those two sisters.'

What was the point of going on? It was hopeless trying to explain.

'How could you have seen me with the sisters?' she said. 'You knew I'd gone to the airport. Really, darling, you are an idiot. You seem to have got those two poor old dears on the brain. I hope you didn't say anything to Mrs Hill just now.'

'No.'

'Well, what are you going to do? You'll catch the train at Milan tomorrow, won't you?'

'Yes, of course,' he told her.

'I still don't understand what kept you in Venice,' she said. 'It all sounds a bit odd to me. However… thank God Johnnie is going to be all right and I'm here.'

'Yes,' he said, 'yes.'

He could hear the distant boom-boom sound of a gong from the headmaster's hall.

'You had better go,' he said. 'My regards to the Hills, and my love to Johnnie.'

'Well, take care of yourself, darling, and for goodness' sake don't miss the train tomorrow, and drive carefully.'

The telephone clicked and she had gone. He poured the remaining drop of whisky into his empty glass, and sousing it with ginger-ale drank it down at a gulp. He got up, and crossing the room threw open the shutters and leant out of the window. He felt light-headed. His sense of relief, enormous, overwhelming, was somehow tempered with a curious feeling of unreality, almost as though the voice speaking from England had not been Laura's after all but a fake, and she was still in Venice, hidden in some furtive pension with the two sisters.

The point was, he had seen all three of them on the vaporetto. It was not another woman in a red coat. The women had been there, with Laura. So what was the explanation? That he was going of his head? Or something more sinister? The sisters, possessing psychic powers of formidable strength, had seen him as their two ferries had passed, and in some inexplicable fashion had made him believe Laura was with them. But why, and to what end? No, it didn't make sense. The only explanation was that he had been mistaken, the whole episode an hallucination. In which case he needed psychoanalysis, just as Johnnie had needed a surgeon.

And what did he do now? Go downstairs and tell the management he had been at fault and had just spoken to his wife, who had arrived in England safe and sound from her charter flight? He put on his shoes and ran his fingers through his hair. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight. If he nipped into the bar and had a quick drink it would be easier to face the manager and admit what had happened. Then, perhaps, they would get in touch with the police. Profuse apologies all round for putting everyone to enormous trouble.

He made his way to the ground floor and went straight to the bar, feeling self-conscious, a marked man, half-imagining everyone would look at him, thinking, 'There's the fellow with the missing wife.' Luckily the bar was full and there wasn't a face he knew. Even the chap behind the bar was an underling who hadn't served him before. He downed his whisky and glanced over his shoulder to the reception hall. The desk was momentarily empty. He could see the manager's back framed in the doorway of an inner room, talking to someone within. On impulse, coward-like, he crossed the hall and passed through the swing-door to the street outside.

'I'll have some dinner,' he decided, 'and then go back and face them. I'll feel more like it once I've some food inside me.'

He went to the restaurant nearby where he and Laura had dined once or twice. Nothing mattered any more, because she was safe. The nightmare lay behind him. He could enjoy his dinner, despite her absence, and think of her sitting down with the Hills to a dull, quiet evening, early to bed, and on the following morning going to the hospital to sit with Johnnie. Johnnie was safe, too. No more worries, only the awkward explanations and apologies to the manager at the hotel.

There was a pleasant anonymity sitting down at a corner table alone in the little restaurant, ordering vitello alla Marsala and half a bottle of Merlot. He took his time, enjoying his food but eating in a kind of haze, a sense of unreality still with him, while the conversation of his nearest neighbours had the same soothing effect as background music.

When they rose and left, he saw by the clock on the wall that it was nearly half-past nine. No use delaying matters any further. He drank his coffee, lighted a cigarette and paid his bill. After all, he thought, as he walked back to the hotel, the manager would be greatly relieved to know that all was well.

When he pushed through the swing-door, the first thing he noticed was a man in police uniform, standing talking to the manager at the desk. The reception clerk was there too. They turned as John approached, and the manager's face lighted up with relief.

'Eccolo!' he exclaimed. 'I was certain the signore would not be far away. Things are moving, signore. The two ladies have been traced, and they very kindly agreed to accompany the police to the Questura. If you will go there at once, this agente di polizia will escort you.'

John flushed. 'I have given everyone a lot of trouble,' he said. 'I meant to tell you before going out to dinner, but you were not at the desk. The fact is that I have contacted my wife. She did make the flight to London after all, and I spoke to her on the telephone. It was all a great mistake.'

The manager looked bewildered. 'The signora is in London?' he repeated. He broke off, and exchanged a rapid conversation in Italian with the policeman. 'It seems that the ladies maintain they did not go out for the day, except for a little shopping in the morning,' he said, turning back to John. 'Then who was it the signore saw on the vaporetto?'

John shook his head. 'A very extraordinary mistake on my part which I still don't understand,' he said. 'Obviously, I did not see either my wife or the two ladies. I really am extremely sorry.'

More rapid conversation in Italian. John noticed the clerk watching him with a curious expression in his eyes. The manager was obviously apologising on John's behalf to the policeman, who looked annoyed and gave tongue to this effect, his voice increasing in volume, to the manager's concern. The whole business had undoubtedly given enormous trouble to a great many people, not least the two unfortunate sisters.

'Look,' said John, interrupting the flow, 'will you tell the agente I will go with him to headquarters and apologise in person both to the police officer and to the ladies?'

The manager looked relieved. 'If the signore would take the trouble,' he said. 'Naturally, the ladies were much distressed when a policeman interrogated them at their hotel, and they offered to accompany him to the Questura only because they were so distressed about the signora.'

John felt more and more uncomfortable. Laura must never learn any of this. She would be outraged. He wondered if there were some penalty for giving the police misleading information involving a third party. His error began, in retrospect, to take on criminal proportions.

He crossed the Piazza San Marco, now thronged with after-dinner strollers and spectators at the cafés, all three orchestras going full blast in harmonious rivalry, while his companion kept a discreet two paces to his left and never uttered a word.

They arrived at the police station and mounted the stairs to the same inner room where he had been before. He saw immediately that it was not the officer he knew but another who sat behind the desk, a sallow-faced individual with a sour expression, while the two sisters, obviously upset the active one in particular-were seated on chairs nearby, some underling in uniform standing behind them. John's escort went at once to the police officer, speaking in rapid Italian, while John himself, after a moment's hesitation, advanced towards the sisters.

'There has been a terrible mistake,' he said. 'I don't know how to apologise to you both. It's all my fault, mine entirely, the police are not to blame.'

The active sister made as though to rise, her mouth twitching nervously, but he restrained her.

'We don't understand,' she said, the Scots inflection strong. 'We said goodnight to your wife last night at dinner, and we have not seen her since. The police came to our pension more than an hour ago and told us your wife was missing and you had filed a complaint against us. My sister is not very strong. She was considerably disturbed.'

'A mistake. A frightful mistake,' he repeated.

He turned towards the desk. The police officer was addressing him, his English very inferior to that of the previous interrogator. He had John's earlier statement on the desk in front of him, and tapped it with a pencil.

'So?' he queried. 'This document all lies? You not speaka the truth?'

'I believed it to be true at the time,' said John. 'I could have sworn in a court of law that I saw my wife with these two ladies on a vaporetto in the Grand Canal this afternoon. Now I realise I was mistaken.'

'We have not been near the Grand Canal all day,' protested the sister, 'not even on foot. We made a few purchases in the Merceria this morning, and remained indoors all afternoon. My sister was a little unwell. I have told the police officer this a dozen times, and the people at the pension would corroborate our story. He refused to listen.'

'And the signora?' rapped the police officer angrily. 'What happen to the signora?'

'The signora, my wife, is safe in England,' explained John patiently. 'I talked to her on the telephone just after seven. She did join the charter flight from the airport, and is now staying with friends.'

'Then who you see on the vaporetto in the red coat?' asked the furious police officer. 'And if not these signorine here, then what signorine?'

'My eyes deceived me,' said John, aware that his English was likewise becoming strained. 'I think I see my wife and these ladies but no, it was not so. My wife in aircraft, these ladies in pension all the time.'

It was like talking stage Chinese. In a moment he would be bowing and putting his hands in his sleeves.

The police officer raised his eyes to heaven and thumped the table. 'So all this work for nothing,' he said. 'Hotels and pensiones searched for the signorine and a missing signora inglese, when here we have plenty, plenty other things to do. You maka a mistake. You have perhaps too much vino at mezzo giorno and you see hundred signore in red coats in hundred vaporetti.' He stood up, rumpling the papers on his desk. 'And you, signorine,' he said, 'you wish to make complaint against this person?' He was addressing the active sister.

'Oh no,' she said, 'no, indeed. I quite see it was all a mistake. Our only wish is to return at once to our pension.'

The police officer grunted. Then he pointed at John. 'You very lucky man,' he said. 'These signorine could file complaint against you-very serious matter.'

'I'm sure,' began John, 'I'll do anything in my power…' 'Please don't think of it,' exclaimed the sister, horrified. 'We would not hear of such a thing.' It was her turn to apologise to the police officer. 'I hope we need not take up any more of your valuable time,' she said.

He waved a hand of dismissal and spoke in Italian to the underling. 'This man walk with you to the pension,' he said. 'Buona sera, signorine,' and, ignoring John, he sat down again at his desk.

'I'll come with you,' said John. 'I want to explain exactly what happened.'

They trooped down the stairs and out of the building, the blind sister leaning on her twin's arm, and once outside she turned her sightless eyes to John.

'You saw us,' she said, 'and your wife too. But not today. You saw us in the future.'

Her voice was softer than her sister's, slower, she seemed to have some slight impediment in her speech.

'I don't follow,' replied John, bewildered.

He turned to the active sister and she shook her head at him, frowning, and put her finger on her lips.

'Come along, dear,' she said to her twin. 'You know you're very tired, and I want to get you home.' Then, sotto voce to John, 'She's psychic. Your wife told you, I believe, but I don't want her to go into trances here in the street.'

God forbid, thought John, and the little procession began to move slowly along the street, away from police headquarters, a canal to the left of them. Progress was slow, because of the blind sister, and there were two bridges. John was completely lost after the first turning, but it couldn't have mattered less. Their police escort was with them, and anyway, the sisters knew where they were going.

'I must explain,' said John softly. 'My wife would never forgive me if I didn't,' and as they walked he went over the whole inexplicable story once again, beginning with the telegram received the night before and the conversation with Mrs Hill, the decision to return to England the following day, Laura by air, and John himself by car and train. It no longer sounded as dramatic as it had done when he had made his statement to the police officer, when, possibly because of his conviction of something uncanny, the description of the two vaporettos passing one another in the middle of the Grand Canal had held a sinister quality, suggesting abduction on the part of the sisters, the pair of them holding a bewildered Laura captive. Now that neither of the women had any further menace for him he spoke more naturally, yet with great sincerity, feeling for the first time that they were somehow both in sympathy with him and would understand.

'You see,' he explained, in a final endeavour to make amends for having gone to the police in the first place, 'I truly believed I had seen you with Laura, and I thought…' he hesitated, because this had been the police officer's suggestion and not his, 'I thought that perhaps Laura had some sudden loss of memory, had met you at the airport, and you had brought her back to Venice to wherever you were staying.'

They had crossed a large square and were approaching a house at one end of it, with a sign Perisione' above the door. Their escort paused at the entrance.

'Is this it?' asked John.

'Yes,' said the sister. 'I know it is nothing much from the outside, but it is clean and comfortable, and was recommended by friends.' She turned to the escort. 'Grazie,' she said to him, 'grazie tanto.'

The man nodded briefly, wished them 'Buona notte,' and disappeared across the campo.

'Will you come in?' asked the sister. 'I am sure we can find you some coffee, or perhaps you prefer tea?'

'No, really,' John thanked her, 'I must get back to the hotel. I'm making an early start in the morning. I just want to make quite sure you do understand what happened, and that you forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' she replied. It is one of the many examples of second sight that my sister and I have experienced time and time again, and I should very much like to record it for our files, if you will permit it.'

'Well, as to that, of course,' he told her, 'but I myself find it hard to understand. It has never happened to me before.'

'Not consciously, perhaps,' she said, 'but so many things happen to us of which we are not aware. My sister felt you had psychic understanding. She told your wife. She also told your wife, last night in the restaurant, that you were to experience trouble, danger, that you should leave Venice. Well, don't you believe now that the telegram was proof of this? Your son was ill, possibly dangerously ill, and so it was necessary for you to return home immediately. Heaven be praised your wife flew home to be by his side.'

'Yes, indeed,' said John, 'but why should I see her on the vaporetto with you and your sister when she was actually on her way to England?'

'Thought transference, perhaps,' she answered. 'Your wife may have been thinking about us. We gave her our address, should you wish to get in touch with us. We shall be here another ten days. And she knows that we would pass on any message that my sister might have from your little one in the spirit world.'

'Yes,' said John awkwardly, 'yes, I see. It's very good of you.' He had a sudden rather unkind picture of the two sisters putting on headphones in their bedroom, listening for a coded message from poor Christine. 'Look, this is our address in London,' he said. 'I know Laura will be pleased to hear from you.'

He scribbled their address on a sheet torn from his pocket-diary, even, as a bonus thrown in, the telephone number, and handed it to her. He could imagine the outcome. Laura springing it on him one evening that the 'old dears' were passing through London on their way to Scotland, and the least they could do was to offer them hospitality, even the spare-room for the night. Then a seance in the living-room, tambourines appearing out of thin air.

'Well, I must be off,' he said. 'Goodnight, and apologies, once again, for all that has happened this evening.' He shook hands with the first sister, then turned to her blind twin. 'I hope,' he said, 'that you are not too tired.'

The sightless eyes were disconcerting. She held his hand fast and would not let it go. 'The child,' she said, speaking in an odd staccato voice, 'the child… I can see the child…' and then, to his dismay, a bead of froth appeared at the corner of her mouth, her head jerked back, and she half-collapsed in her sister's arms.

'We must get her inside,' said the sister hurriedly. 'It's all right, she's not ill, it's the beginning of a trance state.'

Between them they helped the twin, who had gone rigid, into the house, and set her down on the nearest chair, the sister supporting her. A woman came running from some inner room. There was a strong smell of spaghetti from the back regions. 'Don't worry,' said the sister, 'the signorina and I can manage. I think you had better go. Sometimes she is sick after these turns.'

'I'm most frightfully sorry…' John began, but the sister had already turned her back, and with the signorina was bending over her twin, from whom peculiar choking sounds were proceeding. He was obviously in the way, and after a final gesture of courtesy, 'Is there anything I can do?', which received no reply, he turned on his heel and began walking across the square. He looked back once, and saw they had closed the door.

What a finale to the evening! And all his fault. Poor old girls, first dragged to police headquarters and put through an interrogation, and then a psychic fit on top of it all. More likely epilepsy. Not much of a life for the other sister, but she seemed to take it in her stride. An additional hazard, though, if it happened in a restaurant or in the street. And not particularly welcome under his and Laura's roof should the sisters ever find themselves beneath it, which he prayed would never happen.

Meanwhile, where the devil was he? The square, with the inevitable church at one end, was quite deserted. He could not remember which way they had come from police headquarters, there had seemed to be so many turnings.

Wait a minute, the church itself had a familiar appearance. He drew nearer to it, looking for the name which was sometimes on notices at the entrance. San Giovanni in Bragora, that rang a bell. He and. Laura had gone inside one morning to look at a painting by Cima da Conegliano. Surely it was only a stone's throw from the Riva degli Schiavoni and the open wide waters of the San Marco lagoon, with all the bright lights of civilization and the strolling tourists? He remembered taking a small turning from the Schiavoni and they had arrived at the church. Wasn't that the alley-way ahead? He plunged along it, but halfway down he hesitated. It didn't seem right, although it was familiar for some unknown reason.

Then he realised that it was not the alley they had taken the morning they visited the church, but the one they had walked along the previous evening, only he was approaching it from the opposite direction. Yes, that was it, in which case it would be quicker to go on and cross the little bridge over the narrow canal, and he would find the Arsenal on his left and the street leading down to the Riva degli Schiavoni to his right. Simpler than retracing his steps and getting lost once more in the maze of back streets.

He had almost reached the end of the alley, and the bridge was in sight, when he saw the child. It was the same little girl with the pixie-hood who had leapt between the tethered boats the preceding night and vanished up the cellar steps of one of the houses. This time she was running from the direction of the church the other side, making for the bridge. She was running as if her life depended on it, and in a moment he saw why. A man was in pursuit, who, when she glanced backwards for a moment, still running, flattened himself against a wall, believing himself unobserved. The child came on, scampering across the bridge, and John, fearful of alarming her further, backed into an open doorway that led into a small court.

He remembered the drunken yell of the night before which had come from one of the houses near where the man was hiding now. This is it, he thought, the fellow's after her again, and with a flash of intuition he connected the two events, the child's terror then and now, and the murders reported in the newspapers, supposedly the work of some madman. It could be coincidence, a child running from a drunken relative, and yet, and yet… His heart began thumping in his chest, instinct warning him to run himself, now, at once, back along the alley the way he had come-but what about the child? What was going to happen to the child?

Then he heard her running steps. She hurtled through the open doorway into the court in which he stood, not seeing him, making for the rear of the house that flanked it, where steps led presumably to a back entrance. She was sobbing as she ran, not the ordinary cry of a frightened child, but the panic-stricken intake of breath of a helpless being in despair. Were there parents in the house who would protect her, whom he could warn? He hesitated a moment, then followed her down the steps and through the door at the bottom, which had burst open at the touch of her hands as she hurled herself against it.

'It's all right,' he called. 'I won't let him hurt you, it's all right,' cursing his lack of Italian, but possibly an English voice might reassure her. But it was no use-she ran sobbing up another flight of stairs, which were spiral, twisting, leading to the floor above, and already it was too late for him to retreat. He could hear sounds of the pursuer in the courtyard behind, someone shouting in Italian, a dog barking. This is it, he thought, we're in it together, the child and I. Unless we can bolt some inner door above he'll get us both.

He ran up the stairs after the child, who had darted into a room leading off a small landing, and followed her inside and slammed the door, and, merciful heaven, there was a bolt which he rammed into its socket. The child was crouching by the open window. If he shouted for help someone would surely hear, someone would surely come before the man in pursuit threw himself against the door and it gave, because there was no one but themselves, no parents, the room was bare except for a mattress on an old bed, and a heap of rags in one corner.

'It's all right,' he panted, 'it's all right,' and held out his hand, trying to smile.

The child struggled to her feet and stood before him, the pixie-hood falling from her head on to the floor. He stared at her, incredulity turning to horror, to fear. It was not a child at all but a little thick-set woman dwarf, about three feet high, with a great square adult head too big for her body, grey locks hanging shoulder-length, and she wasn't sobbing any more, she was grinning at him, nodding her head up and down.

Then he heard the footsteps on the landing outside and the hammering on the door, and a barking dog, and not one voice but several voices, shouting, 'Open up! Police!' The creature fumbled in her sleeve, drawing a knife, and as she threw it at him with hideous strength, piercing his throat, he stumbled and fell, the sticky mess covering his protecting hands.

And he saw the vaporetto with Laura and the two sisters steaming down the Grand Canal, not today, not tomorrow, but the day after that, and he knew why they were together and for what sad purpose they had come. The creature was gibbering in its corner. The hammering and the voices and the barking dog grew fainter, and, 'Oh God,' he thought, 'what a bloody silly way to die….'

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jellantria · 4 years

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Never Thought You’d Fall So Far, chapter 13, excerpt

“I am Felicity as Levi told you and as we spoke from the phone.” Her features were soft and kind. She did this gladly and I could tell she was exactly how Prof. Ackerman promised. “Pleased to meet you, and thank you for choosing me for this adventure of yours.” Her catty eyes shined with a playful gleam.

“Adventure?” I chuckled.

“But, of course. You won’t be the same after that. I mean you will of course still be you…with your values and your beliefs and everything that makes you...you. But, you will also have more tools in you. You will be able to control the greatest beast.” She paused.

“Your mind.”

I liked her.

I could see why Levi recommended her to me. They had the same theatricality in their way of speaking. Levi talked about dragons and she spoke of adventures and beasts.

“You know, Marco.” She continued. “In the years of my experience in this job, I find that it’s easier sometimes if you take it all a bit lighter. Like a fairytale or a game. It makes it easier for you and more bearable.”

“I can see why.” I admitted.

“Oh, why?”

“Well, fairytales and adventures are taught to us from our childhood. We know that the hero always wins, no matter how badly the odds are against them. Therefore we name ourselves the hero of our own tale and we know we will win in the end. No matter how long this will take us. We will get there.” I still could not find the courage to look at her for long.

I could see her nodding “You get it.”

“So, Marco…from where would you like us to begin?”

And so I told her everything I had told Jean about my childhood and about my past troubles. I told her everything about Jean as well.

I was glad that our first session was two hours instead of the classic one-hour therapy because I couldn’t find myself to stop talking.

I was so anxious when I first arrived but now it was like I was talking to an old friend.

“So, why do you think all of this began? Do you think you know the root of these feelings?” she asked.

“During my life…” I paused. I knew what I wanted to say but I had to put it in the right words, to let it out of my chest in the right way.

She waited and I was glad.

I fidgeted with my hands and began again. “During my life, I was always dubbed as perfect. I was hearing it from everyone…my teachers, my friends, my family. Everyone.” I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply.

“At first, it made me really happy. I was perfect. Who wouldn’t be happy about that? I was perfect. I was accepted. I was helping others to reach perfection as well. I was whole.” I felt my lips trembling as I reminisced these times of my childhood.

Happier times. I thought to myself and my heart banged in my chest.

She slid a packet of tissues close to me, but I was not crying…I don’t think I was.

“But, then, when my first missteps came along, I was lost. Confused and stunned.” I looked at her, deep in her green shining eyes.

“I was perfect…how could I fail?” I asked her.

“How could I mess up?” I asked again as if I expected her to know the answer. She didn’t answer nor did she take her eyes from mine.

“It didn’t make any sense…It was like I was frozen inside my brain and forced to watch myself making mistakes and ruining things.” I sniffled as memories of me shouting to my mother came to my mind. Memories of me in my room crying, not being able to understand why I was acting like that. Why I was angry all the time.

“All I could whisper was ‘why’…” I tried to swallow but my throat felt sore as if I was screaming from the top of my lungs, so I decided against it.

“When you are told all your life how much perfect you are and then life happens…it really takes a toll on you, you know?” I frowned and rubbed my hands together. I felt so small. So vulnerable. Like a newborn infant.

But, she didn’t speak. So, my turn wasn’t over yet.

“You become hyper-aware of every little mistake that you make…Even if it is choosing the right words in a conversation or talking in the right tone to a stranger…”

“It’s…It’s a nightmare, really.”

“It’s like you are an exposed nerve in a world of constant stimulation. You could make a mistake anytime, at any place! Oh, maybe you already did while you were busy thinking all of these!” I huffed loudly and I felt the knot in my throat tightening again.

Fuck.

A glass of water was found next to me so I gulped some down. I needed air but water could make a do for now.

“And of course…” my voice sounded hoarse but I was on a rant now.

I didn’t care.

“You cannot let others know! They believe you are perfect, remember?? For some weird fucking reason, they don’t see your flaws, your imperfections, your mistakes.” I was angry and I could feel it boiling down in my stomach, aching in my heart.

“You…you persuaded them somehow that you are pure…and perfect.” I spat the last word as if it was poison.

“So, you gotta keep it that way…You have already disappointed yourself…You can’t afford to disappoint others as well…But, eventually…you do.”

“Cause all of this stress and anxiety of not making any mistake, they keep piling up inside of you and they take even uglier forms.” I bit my lip in embarrassment. I remembered my lashing outs, my fits of rage, my hoarse throat and me slamming my door.

“For me it was anger.”

I closed my eyes and tried to keep the memories away.

In vain.

“God…I was so angry. So angry.” The word felt like a sin in my lips.

“To myself…Perhaps, I was angry with the others who burdened me with this perfection and their expectations...who wouldn’t let me be my own damn flawed self.”

Expectations go to hell. Or send you to it.

“But, I took the blame. Like I always do…So, I turned the anger to myself and began hating me with a burning passion. After all, I was my best critic…I was the only aware of my imperfections, so I was the only one able to beat myself up for it.” I breathed in and let myself feel the moment.

Those words have never been spoken to anyone before. Not even myself.

I felt so strange. Guilty, and yet lighter at the same time.

“I became a shell of myself. I was like a landmine, really. The wrong kind of pressure could make me erupt and when I did…it was ugly and messy.” My eyes stung but I carried on.

“I made my baby sister cry once…you can only imagine the self-loathing afterward.” This memory hurt me still.

“The ‘perfect’ label is a damn heavy burden to carry.”

“And a burden I don’t WANT to carry. I want to be me.” My voice cracked and I felt five again…searching for my mother and her embrace that could hide me from the world and its cruelty.

“My stubborn, flawed, imperfect self.” This sounded like a cry for help, and it was. “I want to be able to breathe again.”

There was a long pause, I think. But, again, she waited. I decided I really liked her for that.

“But people keep dubbing me as perfect and therefore the vicious circle carries on.” I chuckled with a sad smile.

“You know…sometimes I warn them. I tell them that I am not perfect and they shouldn’t believe I am, because they will be disappointed eventually.”

“Because I can’t bear to see the look people give to you when this realization hits them. And I know this kind of look much too well.”

“Much too well…I’ve seen it from everyone around me…Friends, family…Family…Fuck, that really messes you up.” I closed my eyes again for a moment before looking at her again.

“Hell, I’ve even seen this look from myself. It’s the look I was seeing in the mirror for all these years…”

Then she spoke.

“But, not anymore?”

Her question surprised me but I found myself answering with a smile “…Not anymore.”

I touched my cheek and found it wet. I didn’t even realize I was crying after all.

“Because of Jean?” she pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Yes. But, because of me as well. He would huff at me and shake his head if I dared to give him all the credit.” I chuckled and ruffled up my hair.

“You know…I believed that by saving the others I would atone for my own sins. I believed that by saving them I would prove to myself that I had some kind of worth. I believed that even if I sacrificed my own sanity or, well, whatever left of it, I would be a martyr lost in a good cause.”

“Cause what’s better than losing yourself to save another?”

She didn’t answer.

There must be better causes then.

“But, of course, this battle with the demons of other people only added up to the battle with my own demons…”

“That…” I cracked my knuckles.

“That broke me.”

“Now, sometimes this old habit of mine comes up to my mind again and makes me wonder ‘Do I care enough about anyone anymore?’…”

“Do you know the answer?” she startled me and gave me an apologetic smile.

I returned the smile “No” I shook my head. “I didn’t know myself…but he whispered it to me one night…and I believed him.”

I met her eyes again.

“He told me ‘Even by this thought you show you care…if it didn’t matter to you, your devious mind would let it drop.” I remembered this night fondly and I would treasure it forever.

“You care, Marco.’ He told me. ‘Still, you care so much…Having limits and protecting yourself in the process doesn’t mean that you don’t care…It means you learned to care about yourself as well.”

“He’s right you know.” Felicity tilted her head and rested it in her hand, looking at me fondly.

“I know…”

It was almost time now.

To go.

I didn’t want to. Not yet.

“He sounds lovely. He sounds exactly how a person by your side should be, and he sounds mature as well. I am glad you have him by your side, Marco.”

I only smiled in response. My eyes fixed on the clock behind her.

“Until next time, Marco, please remember: allow yourself to feel. Anything. It shows you are human. Whether it’s pain or sadness, anger or despair. It’s a feeling nonetheless. Don’t be ashamed of feeling.” Her eyes had such a soft look I felt like she spoke directly in my heart and in my brain. Soothing them, reassuring them that they did well. I did well.

“And like a physical wound, when you can locate the place from which it bleeds you can begin to heal it. Let yourself feel in order for you to let yourself heal.” She expected an answer I figured.

“Okay.” I smiled softly, truly meaning it, and I think she realized it too as she gave me a wide smile.

“Next week?” she got up and walked me to the door.

“Next week.” I promised and closed it behind me.

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marcoacesabo · 7 years

Note

I want a continuation to the Ace 'dying' instead of Sabo plz!

When Ace died Sabo’s dream of being a pirate died with him.

He hadn’t wanted to be a pirate until Ace mentioned it when they were younger- he was content being one of the men sitting around the giant fires in the Gray Terminal.

He used to sneak out to hear those men tell their stories of freedom. Though they had nothing but the clothes on their backs most of the men were friendlier than all the nobles he interacted with.

Sabo wanted that. He wanted to be able to laugh when a strange boy came back night after night to hear a tale and sit under the stars while doing so. It was far warmer than the marble floors and high ceilings.

A life as a trash digger didn’t sound too bad to him back then.

Then Ace told him about pirates. Told him what it meant to be a pirate. To not take orders from anyone, go anywhere his heart wanted and most of all to live as free as possible.

He was sold from that day on, helping the raven hair child build their pirate fund never looking back. Luffy was a nice surprise that came along five years later and being a pirate sounded better and better with each passing day when all of them were together.

Then his father found him. He was dragged away by everything he loved, only to watch it burn down. He had been a fool thinking he could make a run for it, and because of his rash actions that Celestial Dragon shot him down.

Ace, who had been watching, had driven into the water and rescued him, slapping his half-drown body, too weak to even hold onto his brother, on a drift wood.

The World Noble fired again when he saw this. Ace had pushed Sabo out of the way, taking the blast with a terrible scream.

Then the sea swallowed him whole.

“Where is that bastard! I’ll kill him myself!” Garp screamed once he saw the grave mark Sabo sobbed in front of. Luffy’s lifeless eyes staring up at him, unwilling to cry since “Ace doesn’t like crybabies. I can’t cry anymore.”

He had been furious mixed with deep sorrow that would have crippled a lesser man.

Though Sabo had known him for a while he was just another kid that his grandsons dragged home. If he had been the one to die then the old man wouldn’t have had such a strong emotion.

He wouldn’t want to hunt down the one at fault for his grandson’s grave.

But it was Ace- the boy he raised even if it was by broken visits that drowned that day. The old man wanted to tear the shooter apart with his bare hands. The boys agreed, whole heartily with that revenge and watched him set sail on a man hunt.

Sabo had been shocked when he came back a week later with a pathetic excuse.

“I’m a marine. I can’t raise my hand against the World Nobles. They are gods-it’s my job to protect them. I’m sorry boys.”

That was the moment a new goal sprung to life in his mind. If the Marine would not get justice for Ace’s death then he would. In fact, he would get justice for everything the world did to Ace.

To convince a child they shouldn’t be born for crimes they did not commit, to push someone into believing their existence is a sin and to kill them off with a laugh.

To take the most important person away from Sabo.

The world would pay.

He joined the Revolutionary Army not because of a dream for a better future but as a means to make amends for all the children who suffered under it.

He had his work cut out for him with Luffy but he didn’t want to leave the boy behind, not as the empty shell of what he once was because of Ace’s death. He was told that he had to leave the island in order to make his goal a reality but Luffy could not survive alone.

So they left.

Sabo spent seven years at the Army’s based, Luffy at his side. He trained and trained until he was strong enough to join the fight against the world.

Over time Luffy returned to his happy go lucky self still yelling about being Pirate King. He seemed to heal from Ace’s death, at least as close as someone could when losing a loved one.

Sabo on the other hand...hallucinated.

Koala said it was due to his survivor's guilt but every once in a while Ace would pop up again, lecturing about his health. The blond had to prove a lot to the other members of the army that he was fine to work, even when he would have screaming matches with the walls or empty space.

It got better over time. He didn’t see Ace as often. With the therapy sessions by Hack and Luffy’s bright charisma, he got better at ignoring the illusions.

This was why when he woke up in an unfamiliar medic ward he didn’t even blink at the sight of a freckled face peering at him from the chair next to his bed. Sabo just sighed and closed his eyes.

“Oi are you okay? How you feeling?”

Sabo ignored the voice shifting around to see what kind of chains the Whitebeards slapped him with. He was surprised to find none.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”“

The blond shoots up from his bed wincing as his wounds thumped. He glanced around the room, trying to spot the guard or the cell or whatever they thought could keep him there.

He found nothing but medical supplies. What the hell? Did they think Sabo of the Revolutionary Army would just stay down? Those bastards were underestimating him.

“Whoa hey! Don’t get up yet! you’re not well enough to-”

Sabo slips out of the bed and makes a run for the door cutting off the fake-Ace mid sentence. His health didn’t matter right now. All that did were his men.

He slams it open, making three nurses and two crew members jump. Not slowing down the blond reaches for the closest one- a man with a bright yellow shirt- and flings him across the hall.

The nurses and other two rush at him screaming to stop and listen but Sabo is much faster. He knocks one man off his feet and leaps over one of the nurses running along the wall to get past them.

“Oi! Stop! Come back and rest dammit!” Ace shouts at him sounding both frustrated and worried- making his steps flattered for a few seconds before he remembers that it’s not really Ace so the guilt he’s feeling for making him worry isn’t real either

Forcing his way through the pain, the blond has one goal in his head.

Find my men. Get out. Find my men . Get out. Find my men. Get out. Find my-

He is slammed against the floor just as he breaks onto the deck when a hand clamps onto the back of his neck. Sabo grunt under the weight struggling as much as he can push his injured body to. It’s not very far much to his frustration.

“Calm down yoi.” A voice orders from above. Sabo glances up to see the First commander looking down at him with crossed arms. Surprisingly despite the fact he’s not smiling, he looks friendly enough. “You’ll open your stitches if you keep this up. Thatch let him go.”

“you're the boss.” A cheerful man answer and the pressure disappears from his neck. Sabo pants, pushing himself up to try and fight but-

“See? You need to calm down before you hurt yourself kid” Marco lectures catching the smaller blond before he face plants as his legs give out under him.

“You caught him!” Ace shouts happily and Sabo winces. He doesn’t need his mind cheering on his captors.

“Yeah, no thanks to you. How did he get away from you anyway, oh great cabin boy?” Thatch- at least that’s who Sabo thinks it is based off the voice- teases good-naturally. Sabo freezes completly against the Phoniex.

“He’s crazy fast okay!? I wasn’t- “

“You can hear him?” The words are spoken so softly but they sound louder than shouting. Sabo looks up at Marco who is blinking down at him curiously. “You can...see him?”

“See who?” The Commander whispers back, just as soft as Sabo. Almost like he’s worried about scaring him. “You mean Ace?”

Sabo feels like he’s been punched. “...yes.”

The blond nods slowly, studying his face with that same heavy gaze from before. But Sabo doesn't care. Right now he doesn’t care about anything not even himself.

He pushes himself free, even as the others start shouting to not run.

He turns around and throws his arms around a stunned Ace, crying his eyes out. “You’re alive. You’re alive. Oh Sea, you’re alive. Ace. Ace. Ace.”

His words fall into a broken chant of Ace, repeating the name like it’s his only lifeline. He starts Hiccupping as the snot and tears, mix down his face.

Sabo squeezes the raven hair man- and he’s a man, grown from a child body because he had lived- afraid that if the embrace isn’t hard enough he’ll disappear.

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming...” He sobs with joy into one muscular shoulder. “Ace. Ace. Ace”

With one sentence his happiness comes crashing down.

“I’m sorry..but who are you?”

#marcoAceSabo #reverse roles Au #mentions of PTSD #Ace the cabin boy #Sabo wakes up to a freak out #This turned out longer then I first planned #I'm sorry but I had this in draft and had to publish #simplymoemega

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petite-neko · 7 years

Text

Boyhood Blues - 09

Fanfiction: Boyhood Blues Story Summary: Actions, and inactions, have their repercussions. It may not be immediate but somewhere down the line, the effect will be seen. Chapter Characters: Ace, Sabo, Luffy, Law, Marco Pairing: LawLu Rating: T Warnings: Swearing, Universe Alteration, canon-typical violence, angst, A/N: Dear god. My apologies. I was too preoccupied with Stability and then my Birthday weekend and then I was just overwhelmed by over socialising AND THIS FUCKER WAS TOO FUCKING LONG. SERIOUSLY. ITS 11 FULL FUCKING PAGES AND THE ORIGINAL WAS JUST SHY OF 7. I go die now and potentially work on Stability 3

PS: This is an emotionally charged chapter!

.xxx. > Time/scene skip

.+++. > PoV change

Read on Ao3

Chapter 8 || Chapter 9: Trapped || Interlude

Being a dead man was boring, Ace decided.

It was more boring than waiting for your public execution in the metaphorical hell. Because, then, at least the public knew that you were still alive. At least they were waiting to see you one last, gruesome time.

The whole world knew.

Granted, the contrast between then and now was quite prevalent. Now? He had freedom – even if it was limited in a sense. He could actually move and walk and talk with his brothers and sisters. He wasn’t weighed down by the sense of the sea. He could laugh and eat and…

But only behind closed doors.

He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t train. He couldn’t even see the light of day. No. Not until he was healed.

He didn’t know which was worse. To be completely denied freedom, or have it tangible on his tongue but just out of reach.

Because the world thought him dead, and it was better that way. Better to be thought dead than to be hunted and defenceless and alive.

(He promised Luffy after all…)

It didn’t mean it wasn’t annoying, or it didn’t irritate the hell out of him. It didn’t mean his heart didn’t ache as he heard the sounds of battle and his brothers and sisters were potentially getting hurt. It didn’t mean he wasn’t pissed as hell because his goal was to be infamous, and he couldn’t do that while dead. His life was on a halt until his body could recover…

Sure, Luffy knew. Sure, his crewmates knew but…

(He wondered: did Gramps know? What about Dadan?)

He doubted it.

(Honestly, it was probably for the best. Gramps couldn’t keep secrets worth shit, and if Sakazuki found out the possibility that he was alive? The witch hunt would never cease. Just like Law said. Ugh, just thinking about that lava bastard gave him shivers.)

Ace sighed and placed his hand on his bandaged abdomen. He could still remember the pain as Sakazuki’s fist went through him. (And the yells and cries and screams of those all around him.) Sure, he wasn’t at death’s doorstep anymore, but it didn’t mean he was out of his yard. The doctor still hadn’t cleared him ready for combat as of yet. And while he protested and mocked Law when they were alone on his submarine, Ace wasn’t stupid. He was lucky to avoid dying that day. That if it weren’t for a misdirecting blow and Law’s immediate medical attention, he wouldn’t be breathing right now. He still had a long ways before he could even consider thinking about training, never mind an actual battle in the New World.

He hadn’t seen Law since the day that he had returned to his crew. Of course while they had strongly suspected that he was alive, with everything that Law had been saying, they still doubted. The reunion was very tearful before Law had explained the charade they were pulling, and the benefits of it all. Then Law went to have a very long discussion with the doctors.

And before that? Well, that was years ago. If he recalled, Luffy was… what? Nine years old, and he was twelve? (How much older was Law than them? He couldn’t remember actually.)

To be honest, he didn’t like Law at first. He was too broody. Too quiet. Too sullen. (Too like himself.) There just was this seriousness about him, not to mention how cold he had been. But eventually he softened out a bit. Enough for Ace to respect him. Not to mention… well... Aside from his constant complaining of Luffy’s crying, he didn’t make any comments when Ace broke down himself.

If Law had ever gotten his nose out of those books, they probably would have made good friends eventually.

But Law had left before that ever happened, and, if Ace was honest with himself, he was glad that never happened. Because by leaving, Law had been their lighthouse, even if the guy didn’t intend it.

Trafalgar Law had shown them the way out of that shore surrounded by rocks. Well, maybe not the exact path, but he showed that there was a way. Somewhere. And they just had to find it.

He knew Luffy admired Law. But Luffy was prone to finding people he idolised. There was Shanks, for example, and there were other things that left his little brother in awe. Sure, Ace didn’t know much about Law, but… he liked him. And now the guy had saved their lives.

And what the future held? Well, it would most certainly be something. Especially when Luffy finished training…

“Hey, what are you…”

“You can’t…”

“…Off limits…”

There was a bunch of chaos outside, and Ace could hear the scuffles above him, and confident steps walking towards the hatch that was the entrance to his… voluntary confinement.

And so he reached over, grabbing the weapon that was beside him. Risk be damned, he wasn’t going down without a fight!

(“And don’t even think about using your logia abilities for the first few months! The last thing you need is for all my hard work to be undone because your body can’t figure out what goes where.”)

Damn it. Damn it all! Had somebody suspected that he wasn’t actually dead? Or… were they insisting on entering the space that he had claimed as his for whatever reason?

At the very least self defence was a permitted last resort. He wasn’t going to sit there and be killed…

“Relax.” That was Marco’s voice booming out. He muttered something else that Ace didn’t quite catch before continuing. “What are you doing here?”

He heard another voice that sounded strangely familiar and yet he couldn’t recall ever hearing it before…

“Can I not come and see how he’s doing? Promise I won’t hurt him.”

Ace could hear Marco sigh before the hatch opened, and the beam of natural light shone down. It made him wince a bit, not accustomed to it at all. God, he hated being cooped up like this but they had to go on the move again, and they were vulnerable at sea, and nobody was to know that he was alive…

“Must be boring down here.” That mysteriously familiar voice spoke again as he jumped down. “At least you have some semblance of light.” He said, referring to the artificial lighting around the room. It was dim. Enough to not rouse suspicion.

The man before him wore blue, and he had this stupid hat on his head, a scar on the left side of his face. As the hatch was closed, Ace noticed the man’s hair was blond and…

Oh. Ace recognised him now. Yes, he saw this man once.

This was the man who saved his life.

“So,” Ace said, relaxing a bit and put down the weapon he had grabbed for himself within reach, “you’re the person who my idiotic little brother gave my vivre card to.”

To be honest? He hadn’t heard much about him. Why he never asked Luffy or Law about him, he didn’t know. Probably too busy catching up with Law? And mulling on the fact that he had to pretend to be dead. All he knew was that this guy was a revolutionary and his name was…

The revolutionary nodded, leading against the wall with his right arm. The left one sat on his hip casually. “Sabo. And, hey, that’s not a nice thing to say about somebody who broke into the world’s most secure prison to save you.”

Ace shrugged. “I’m not lying.” And laughed. “If anything, that proves he’s even more of an idiot.” But softly and carefully, his flesh and muscles were still tender beneath the bandages.

And Sabo laughed as well. “True enough. But that kid will do anything for those he cares about.”

Introductions aside… just what was he doing here? Hell, he had a lot of questions for him actually. Like, who was he? Why did he come to the war? What was his purpose?

Did he have ultimatums?

And was that a fucking pipe at his back?

“You look like you have a lot of questions on your mind, Portgas D. Ace. Go ahead, ask them.”

Ace had turned his gaze back up to his face and glared, only to see the sincere smile on his face. Sabo hadn’t made the comment in mockery, and the guy had been serious when he used his name, even though the world knew just what blood ran through his veins…

Seriously, who was his guy?

“Well, what are you doing here, first of all? Come to collect on a debt or something?”

With those words Ace’s eyes narrowed and he fingered the weapon at his side as a warning.

And Sabo? He smiled, not at all intimidated by Ace’s threat. “Unfortunately not.” His eyes were soft, glinting in this mischievous, playful manner that seemed familiar to him. “I can understand why you think that though. Some stranger coming up to a war that had nothing to do with him, risking his own life while doing so, is rather suspicious after all. No, I haven’t come here for that purpose, Ace, I came because… because I finally remembered something…” Those eyes misted over now, nostalgic. As if he was remembering that thing he just mentioned.

Ace only found himself more confused by that. Especially since Sabo knew just what was bothering him. Although, he supposed anybody would be thinking that…

But for Sabo to not have any ulterior motives? It was baffling to him. Why? Why did Sabo do it? And just what did the revolutionary mean by remembering something?

Did he just simply forget to do something after the war?

“What do you mean by remembering something?” Ace asked, and sure, yeah, maybe he was a bit rude and defensive but… “What the hell do you mean?”

Sabo zoned back into the present and he laughed with a nod. His hand went to adjust his hat, the dim light catching on something…

“Did Luffy or Trafalgar ever tell you why I came to Marineford?”

…Wasn’t that what he was trying to find out here? And he hadn’t even answered his first damn question! What was this? Just telling him to ask questions but not even giving him a full reply... Bastard.

Ace told himself to calm down before he became too aggravated.

“No, I wasn’t told much about you, not that I really asked either. And Luffy was too busy blabbering off about Law or to Law. And Law? He was more concerned that I wouldn’t go and do something he deemed as stupid, and injure myself beyond his repair.”

Sabo laughed again. For a man being interrogated, he was quite carefree, wasn’t he?

“Yeah, he’s really fascinated with Trafalgar, isn’t he? You guys are childhood… acquaintances, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ace thought back to Luffy and Law and smiled, “something like that. He’s kinda… Luffy’s idol. Well, next to Shanks that is.” He only remembered back to Alabasta when Luffy had showed him Law’s bounty poster.

”Oh! Ace! Ace! Come here!” Luffy was laughing and tugging him along. His eyes were sparkling and Ace could only just wonder just what it was that made Luffy’s eyes sparkle like that.

Luffy had dragged him over to a room on his ship.

“It’s just right here…”

Luffy let go of his arm and started rummaging through a box. He was laughing and grinning. “There! I found it!”

He pulled out a piece of paper. “Look Ace!”

Ace looked at the paper. No… it wasn’t a paper, it was a poster. A wanted poster.

…The face looked vaguely familiar…

He looked down to the name.

Trafalgar Law.

Hah!

Ace found himself laughing.

“So that bastard really did become a pirate!”

“I know! We were right! I knew we were right! Ace! I can’t wait to meet him! Vivi said that her book said he was coming to the Grand Line! Maybe he already did? Hey, hey, Ace, could you see if you could meet him? Please?”

Ace laughed even more. “Sheesh, the last time I saw you this excited was eight years ago. Well, I am on my mission, but I’ll definitely keep my eye out Luffy.”

“Really? Oh thank you Ace! Do you think I’ll meet him? I hope I do….”

Ace rolled his eyes. Who would’ve thought? “I’m sure you will. Pirates tend to run into one another along the line. If the two of you make it through, you’ll definitely be meeting him later, I can guarantee that.”

“Shishishi, I can’t wait Ace!”

That boy…

Sabo smiled softly. “I see…” He was quiet for a short period of time again before startling.

…What was that guy doing?

“Oh! Right, back to what I was saying…”

(Well, he supposed the two of them had gotten lost in their own respective memories…)

“Well, if you think Luffy’s an idiot for trying to save his brother, you’ll think I’m a complete moron.” Laughter left Sabo – that guy liked to laugh a lot, didn’t he? “The moment I read the paper, I snuck into the nearest Marine Base and onto a ship in order to arrive at Marineford or Impel Down. And why?” He was smirking now. “Well I had no fucking clue as to why. Just that I was overwhelmed with this fury and your execution had to be stopped.”

…Well Sabo was correct in that deduction. He was a complete moron. Who the fuck did that? Over a stranger no less!

“…But it was that paper that started something. If it weren’t for that… I may not have ever fully remembered…”

Ace groaned. This guy going off on his tangents was really starting to annoy him…

“Can’t you explain things straight?” He had more questions than answers damn it! And, of course, Sabo was just taking so damn long to answer, which only created even more questions…

Sabo sighed and covered his left eye with the hand that was at his hip. “When I was ten I was in a tragic… incident and lost everything. My name. My memory. My age… I knew nothing of myself. Not who I was, nor who my parents were. Friends, family… it was all gone. The revolutionaries had found me and nursed me back to health. Sabo… that was the only potential hint to my past, since that name was on the belongings they found with me...” He sighed again, and his hand fell down as Sabo looked at it. “…It happened on a small kingdom in East Blue…”

Ace had to admit that he was sceptic to believe Sabo’s story, especially since the guy had started out with when he was ten. Perhaps he meant ten years ago? Because that sounded more plausible, to be honest.

But then Sabo had mentioned a small kingdom in East Blue…

(Of course, Ace wondered about Luffy talking about a Sabo character, but… of course it couldn’t be Sabo. There was no way. It was far more likely that they had just met a person with the same name, the world was a huge place after all…)

And Ace started putting things together. An accident… the guy’s name…

And he stared.

He just had to know…

“…How old are you now?”

(Ten. It happened when he was ten and…)

“Same age as you Ace, twenty.”

No fucking way. There was no fucking way…

(Didn’t Sabo say he had remembered something…? That he now knew his age and…)

There was this metaphorical hole in his stomach that had nothing to do with the literal one that had been there a few months ago. He wanted to hope. Oh how he wanted…

“But,” Sabo was laughing again, “I guess considering what your mother did, you’d definitely be the older brother, wouldn’t you?”

Ace felt the tears leaving him. How? How could he be so happy again? “S-Sabo?” Gods, he wanted it to be true! He looked. He stared. At this man. Trying, trying to find something – anything. Sure… sure, they both had blond hair, and sure they wore stupid hats and wore blue but…

The light flicked again on something on his top hat.

Those glasses…

“Sabo?!”

“Yeah. Goa Kingdom… sake… stealing from bandits and pirates and…” The smile on the other’s face was almost sad. It was so happy that it looked sad. His eyes were watering and –

Ace didn’t give a damn about anything else right now, no. He just jumped up and embraced the other in a tight hug.

Sabo was continuing to blabber on. “…It’s still a blur, and I don’t remember everything but – Ah! Ace! You’re burning me!”

“Ah! Sorry!” And Ace waved away the flame before rubbing the back of his head. “I’m just… I’m so glad Sabo… You’re… you’re alive. You’re you…” There were tears in his eyes as well, but he couldn’t give a damn about that. He stepped back slightly and took a long, good look at his brother. Sabo… Sabo… The smile that was on his face almost hurt, and he placed his hands on the other’s shoulders. They slid down slightly to the side and Ace clutched tightly, feeling his own shoulders trembling.

“We thought you had…” A sob broke through. He could still remember that day… “And when Gramps had heard what happened he… he took us in. Saying something about how dangerous it was and…”

Tears were sliding down his face.

“…Gramps missed you too, ya know? Dadan… Luffy…”

(It hurt. It hurt remembering the agony they had all gone through…)

“Luffy… he – he took it the hardest. And then… when we were stuck with the Marines it… it reminded us of when you left with your parents for our sake. Of just how trapped you were and how unhappy and… I know, I know Gramps didn’t mean to do it but… we felt trapped Sabo. That none of us could obtain our dreams…”

His legs couldn’t support him anymore, and his hands slid from Sabo’s shoulders as he sank to his knees.

“Thank you…. Thank you Sabo… thank you for coming back… Thank you for living.”

A sound notified him of Sabo sinking to his level and he felt arms tightly embrace him.

“Deep down,” he started softly, “I knew who I was. I didn’t truly forget. And seeing you in danger? It triggered something in me. Even though I didn’t remember yet, I couldn’t let my brother die.” Sabo squeezed him tighter for a moment. “And I’m just… I’m so glad that I was able to save you. That… you survived that.”

Ace could feel the way that Sabo trembled as well, and he wrapped his arms around him in return, clutching tightly to his back.

“Even… even when I still didn’t remember… I lost sleep, just staring at your vivre card. I needed to know that you were going to be alright Ace. I needed to see it grow in size…”

There just was something so comforting in the way the two of them trembling in one another’s arms. To know that the other was alive and safe and here.

And when Sabo had calmed down, he pulled away a bit, hands on his shoulders and just looked him in the eyes. “Back then, during the war, I put together the pieces. I figured that I probably was your brother, but I didn’t truly remember. Sometimes… I would have moments where I almost did… where I heard you and Luffy calling out to me as children. I could hear your laughter… foreign voices whispering foreign words…” Sabo was smiling and he let out a gentle sigh and shook his head. “But… I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell either of you. Not when I wasn’t too certain myself, when I didn’t remember. Because I wasn’t the boy you remembered, not really. And I couldn’t do that to either of you. Not until I remembered.”

As Ace thought about being told that, he closed his eyes and nodded. Really, he appreciated it. Luffy had taken it the hardest, and of course being the older brother he had to be there for him but… But it didn’t mean that Sabo’s death hadn’t affected him too. He just hid it and let it out in different ways. And, if he had learned that Sabo might have been alive? The prospect would’ve destroyed him. He wouldn’t have been able to rest until he had gotten an answer one way or another… and if Sabo hadn’t happened to be…

It would be worse than losing him the first time.

“Thank you. For that. For everything.”

Sabo was smiling down at him.

Ace brought his hands up, cupping Sabo’s face and brought their foreheads together.

“Thank you, brother.”

They stayed like that for awhile: just rejoicing in the simple fact that the other was alive.

Eventually, though, they parted and Ace relaxed with a laugh.

“I’m guessing Luffy doesn’t know?”

Sabo shook his head. “Luffy doesn’t have a vivre card. When I finally regained my memories, I decided I’d come to you first since I knew where you were.”

A light laugh left him and he nodded. “He’s decided to train for the New World. After what he’s seen, I must say I don’t blame him. In fact, it’s a really good idea to be prepared and a smart thing for him to do.” His brother had gotten himself far, he had strong friends, but the New World was tough. If Luffy didn’t feel prepared enough, then he should train.

Ace couldn’t back him up after all, and Luffy didn’t know about Sabo, and they didn’t have any way to get a hold of him…

“After all, he’s gained a fair bit of notoriety because of Marineford.” Luffy’s father being revealed to the world… and his actions during the war… then what he did afterwards to insinuate that he was dead… All in all, most definitely things that would earn one a higher bounty. “I was surprised though that they didn’t reveal that we were practically raised by the Marines. Would’ve given them more fuel to the fire…”

“Show.” Sabo answered far too quickly than he would have liked. “Remember, Marineford was broadcasted. If it was revealed that they harboured and raised the demon spawn without knowing, it would have shone a bad light upon them.” Then Sabo laughed. “Not to mention it would be practically publicising that being raised by Marines would make you turn to piracy. There’s, what, one known example already, and if you include Trafalgar and the two of you, that’d make a total of four.”

Ace laughed. “I suppose. And I doubt that Sengoku acknowledged Law on the battleground, or at least more than just stating that Law was there. He didn’t show us much softness after all. Although, who knows… he did raise Law for a few years…”

Sabo nodded. “I suppose you could say he acted rather professional.”

Ace smiled softly. “But don’t worry about Luffy. You’ll know when he comes back, it should be another year or so, but he’ll make the headlines for sure.”

.xxx.

“You two talked for quite awhile.”

Marco had come down to the lower deck after Sabo had left.

“Yeah… we had a lot of catching up to do.” Ace was tired, but a good tired. He hadn’t had a conversation like that in awhile, but his energy levels were still so low, and it had been so emotionally taxing…

“Catching up?” Marco sat next to him, handing him a basket of food. “You know him yoi?”

“Yeah.” But despite the exhaustion, Ace knew that he was grinning ear to ear now. He took out a piece of bread. “…He’s my brother. You know… the one we thought we lost?” He took a bite and chewed on that while Marco chewed on that information. “He didn’t know. Well, at least until a few days ago. Amnesia after the accident. Apparently something Luffy’s dad said was the last trigger to the lock on his memories. And, since he had my vivre card he came to tell me first.”

Marco was quietly watching him as he explained all of this.

And Ace sighed, bringing his head back as he thought about it. About family and losing them and regaining them…

“Marco,” he said with a pause and looked the other man in the eyes, “we need to protect the Old Man’s treasure. I don’t want to lose any more family… I-I can’t…”

A warm hand was on his shoulder now, squeezing tightly.

“And that’s why, Ace, why you need to stay down here and recover. For now, I will do the protecting until you can fend for yourself, and then we can do it together. But we – I – need you to stay safe until then, okay? None of us want to lose family either.”

Ace sighed but begrudgingly nodded. “I know, I know, I just… I hate being a deadweight Marco…”

“Better a deadweight than dead.”

And while Ace agreed, pretending to be dead still fucking sucked.

#monkey d. luffy #lawlu #portgas d. ace #sabo the revolutionary #one piece #fanfic:boyhoodblues #petiteneko:story #onepiece #tlaw #luffy #sabo #ace #marco #and shippiness was not intended at the end #but alas #view as you wish

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