Phil hoped Micah hadn’t left the museum yet. She planned on asking him out to dinner, wining him, dining him, taking him home and having her wicked way with him. Unfortunately, if he wasn’t at the museum, she had no clue where to find him. It wasn’t like he’d handed her his home address or anything. “Hey, stop by any time. Have tea. Ring me like a bell.” I wish.

She used the key Micah had given her; grateful he’d overridden the curator on that. It allowed her to stay late to work if need be. Once, she’d come back and walked the museum after hours. She knew Micah remained aware of her presence (he seemed uncannily aware of everything going on in the museum), but he’d stayed out of her way, allowing her to enjoy the art in peace.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t the only time Micah had done something for her he didn’t normally do. Once, when she’d been feeling poorly, he’d brought her chicken soup and hot tea, quietly leaving them on her work bench before disappearing out of the double doors. She hadn’t seen him again that day since she wound up leaving early.

Maybe I have a shot at him after all…

The iron crowbar that hit her in the back of the head ended any further speculation.

***

Micah walked through the city, becoming more confident the further he got from the museum. His social life had been more or less nonexistent since he got the job, limited to museum functions and occasional dinners with wealthy benefactors. Micah didn't really interact with anyone walking the streets day to day, and definitely didn't interact with anyone who would be on the streets at night.

The people weren't what he expected, and their reactions to him were a far cry from what he'd expected as well. The few dressed as clerks, workers who stayed late and now rushed to get home, glanced at him, turned away, and invariably peeked again. A few appeared disgusted, but most looked on with a combination of envy and something approaching awe. One woman, a socialite complaining a mile a minute to her harassed maid how her carriage had broken an axle, stared openly when her brain finally caught up to her eyes. Feeling slightly more confident, Micah twitched the long cape to the side for a moment and took bizarre satisfaction in hearing the woman’s clutch hit the ground. He had a hard time hiding his grin. After a moment's thought, he realized there was no point in hiding his grin and let a wicked smile settle on his lips.

As he moved into a part of town known more for harboring artists, Raphaelites, and vice, he saw a different mix of people. The street walkers first looked at him with hostility. When they realized he wasn't competition, the looks changed to open appreciation and envy. The street artists played to him as he passed, one man asking him to pause long enough to make a brief sketch and ask who his artist was. They assumed he was some sort of walking, living exhibit. In a way, he was.

Finally, Micah approached Samuel’s club. “Sammy's” was a site of weekly multi-day parties, a hangout known among mortals as being populated by people unbound by social convention. Among the non-human population of the city, it was known as a hangout where even the most bizarre entity could appear without artifice. Those appearances were invariably put down to makeup, drugs, and atmosphere. The entrance was in an alley accessible only via another alley, which kept most idle passersby from even realizing the place was there.

Micah walked along the line approaching the door, observing the crowd waiting to get in as he did so. He realized that while he probably had the most outlandish combination of body paints, scandalous clothing, and tattoos, he was by no means the only person sporting any of the three. He wasn’t even the only person wearing some combination. He only lacked piercings, and he could see where the little Fae may have had difficulty had they tried to puncture him to put a piercing in place.

He reached the head of the line, ignoring both the frustrated complaints and appreciative comments generated by his passage. Guarding the door stood a pair of hulking brutes and a slim young woman armed with nothing more than a clipboard and pen. As Micah approached, the woman let one person pass without looking up, waved a couple near the head of the line into the door as another pair left, and pointed at a young man in denim, who fled before the brutes could reach him. Pushing aside thoughts of his current attire, he came to rest in front of her, patiently awaiting her attention.

"Name?"

"Micah Slate."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't see you on the guest list. If you could be so kind as to wait in line?"

"I'm here to meet Ophilia Morgan."

Her pen twitched at that, and she looked up from the clipboard to take another look at him. The paired brutes stirred, and catcalls and encouragement came from the line waiting outside.

"Pardon me, sir. What did you say your name was?"

"My name is Micah Slate. I might be on your list as Micah di ser Leo de Milan. It's been a while since I went by that; I changed it when I immigrated."

The woman, who Micah suspected was nothing of the sort, cocked her head as if to get a better look at him. She flicked the tip of the silver pen toward him, and Micah’s Words reacted. The pen and the hand holding it froze, but the woman's eyes widened, and the blank paper on the clipboard smoldered where the tip of the pen rested. A small grin touched Micah’s lips, and an answering smile slipped onto the woman's face. Using her pen in a far more mundane fashion, she gestured for him to turn around.

"Forgive me, sir, but we do have a dress code."

Micah flicked the cloak so that it hung over one arm rather than down his back, then turned slowly in place. When his gaze returned to hers, the smile had spread until her exaggerated canines clearly showed.

"Oh, you'll certainly do. Out of curiosity, does Miss Morgan know you'll be joining her this evening?"

As he stepped past her to the door, Micah opened his mouth, searching for an answering quip. Before the first word left his mouth, the Words drove a spike through his brain. He reacted without thinking; racing back the way he’d come.

***

Phil woke up to someone removing her piercings. Oh, damn it, no. Bad. Very bad. She opened her eyes, surprised when something dripped down into them with a familiar salty sting.

Blood. Damn it to Hell and back.

She hissed in pain as she pulled on the iron encasing her wrists. At least the villain had the decency to wrap the shackles around my sleeve cuffs. If she’d been dressed to go to the party tonight, her arms would have been bare and the skin under the shackles would have burned black by now.

She needed to damage whoever was removing her piercings. The person hummed along to a phonograph, which currently blasted out Beethoven’s Opus Number Thirty. Hmm, one of the violin sonatas, Number Six, I think. Blech.

Phil shuddered. “Can we kill me without the music, please?”

“You would prefer it if I killed you to some quaint country air, I assume?”

“Oh, bugger it. No.” Phil groaned as she looked up to see Gelt’s smug face. “What are you doing?”

“Taking out your very ugly silvered steel studs. Why?”

Phil realized the bitch had cut her sweater and bra open, exposing her torso, leaving her in nothing but her tattoos. Phil glared at Gelt’s pseudo-innocent smile and tried to warn her. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” Gelt’s reply dripped with an anticipation that made Phil’s blood run cold.

Metal pinged as the last of her studs hit the ground. Under her skin Phil’s tattoos rippled as her magic struggled to break free. Without the silvered steel pinning them down, the magical tattoos didn’t have the strength to hold back the magic within her. Phil closed her eyes and struggled to hold back as the stupid, stupid bitch picked up a tire iron with her velvet-encased hand.

“Now for a little fun…”

The first swing hit with a meaty thwack, leaving a swathe of reddened, blistered flesh on her side. One of her ribs broke with the force of the swing and she screamed, her hold on her magic loosening to a dangerous degree. “Sadistic? Or just psychotic?” She gritted the words out between clenched teeth, certain the only way to survive was to keep the bitch talking until one of the security guards found them.

“Greedy, actually.”

“What?” Phil stared at the Seleigh bitch in front of her.

“I need an infusion of cash, and these pieces are insured for quite a bit of money. Plebian as it is, we’re going to destroy the paintings and collect on the insurance money.” She hefted the tire iron with a small, evil smile. “As I said, plebian. But this part, I must admit, is rather fun.” She swung the tire iron again, this time hitting Phil in the thigh.

When the mind-searing pain stopped, Phil glared at Gelt. “I’m going to liquefy your bones and drain them out through your pores.” She could feel her magic rising and held it back with effort. Her instincts screamed at her to let go, to rend, to tear, to dominate. Not yet, not yet…

“I don’t think so, Unseleigh. You’re just as hindered by the iron as any other Sidhe would be.”

Gelt swung the tire iron, connecting with Phil’s arm. She howled as her wrist broke. She panted through the pain and the strange, dark euphoria that signaled her powers beginning to break free.

“Are you done yet?”

“Not yet, stupid bitch,” Phil growled.

Gelt rolled her eyes. “Not you, idiot. Them.”

Phil looked up. They were in the restoration room. All Gelt’s paintings were lined up, including the triptych Phil had been working on. Two men poured something on both works of art.

The liquid smelled like… turpentine? “Oh, no.”

“Yes, you did kind of ruin things for me, you stupid bitch. If you’d stayed home, the paintings would be destroyed, you’d be blamed, and I’d collect my insurance money. Instead… hmmm… I do have enemies besides you. I’m certain I can frame one of them for this.” Gelt shrugged with a happy smile. “Guess you’ll be an unfortunate casualty!”

The tire iron swung again. And again.

Tears and Power leaked from Phil’s eyes as the tire iron swung at her face.

***

Ricky raced to the garage. Xavier would know what to do. He was, after all, muy macho, and a muy potent fighter when roused. If they could hold the Seleigh off long enough for Micah to arrive, they might just save Phil’s life.

His fairy godfather powers were useless here. He wasn’t Phil’s godfather, after all; he was Micah’s.

“What has you so in a dither, Ricardo?”

Ricky sagged in relief as his lover raced around the corner, black wings sparkling in the dim security lighting. “Gelt is torturing Phil with an iron crowbar and pouring turpentine on the paintings.”

“Fornicating deities! Marble-man will be incandescent with rage.”

“Your lips to ears on high,” Ricky muttered, missing the amusement on Xavier’s face. “You’re her godfather; can you do anything to help our little chica?”

Xavier rubbed his hands together with a feral grin. “Stand back, darling. Watch the Master go to work.” With a brilliant flash of light Xavier clapped his hands together and disappeared.

Ricky raced to the front door, knowing Micah would come in that way. As soon as he felt the Art being threatened, his Words would bring him there, come hell or high water.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

And when he saw what Gelt was doing to his woman, no force on Heaven, Hell, or in between would stay his hand.

***

Micah’s flimsy slippers heated up, then burned off as he ran. He lost the cape almost immediately in Sammy's back alley. The Words didn't give him the ability to fly, or to teleport, but in time of need they did make him faster and stronger than any mortal. Right now, he pushed both of those abilities to the limit.

The walk to Sammy's had taken the better part of two hours. He was halfway back to the museum, and just over five minutes had passed.

He thanked whatever gods might be watching for the timing of the break-in as he came to a busy intersection and hurdled over the stream of traffic. Dusk was when human eyes played the most tricks, so it was possible, even likely, that no one would realize quite what had brushed past them, jumped over them, flashed in front of their eyes. The gold paint would probably help that illusion, making them think it was a trick of sun-glare.

Even as that thought passed through his head, he heard whistles behind him. Apparently, a policeman had chosen to believe his eyes. So be it. Micah planned on summoning the authorities when he got to the museum, and this way there would be police in the neighborhood, or at least headed that way.

“Marble-man. Can you hear me on this contraption?”

“Xavier?”

Micah heard a bestial scream of rage in the background. Beneath it came a deep bass hum, setting his teeth on edge even through the tiny ear bud.

"The one and only. Where you at, with your bird here?"

"Lose the affectation, Xavier. You pre-date that accent at any rate. What's happening?"

"Vandals, Marble man. Vandals, and Redcaps, and I think a Troll. Might be an Ogre. Not sure, it's big, ugly and smelly."

"Why?"

"Bitch Gelt, in the restoration room, with the crowbar. Well, until she lost her gloves."

"Gloves?"

"Long story, Marble man. I'll pull 'em off Philly-chick until you get here."

"Are they all in the restoration room?"

"They spread out, makin' it look better."

"Get them all to the main hall."

"No can do, Marble man. Got to stay with Philly-chick."

"Xavier, who are you talking about?"

"Philly-chick. Phil. Tattoo girl? Reason you're painted up an' wearin’ tights?"

Since the Words in his head summoned him back to the museum, Micah had been silently swearing at whatever spirit of mischief had chosen tonight to raid it. Now he realized that his decision to keep any and all Art from being displayed in the foyer hadn't been paranoia.

He put on an extra burst of speed, hoping to get there before Gelt did any permanent damage to the woman he’d sworn to Protect.

***

Brave words to the contrary, Xavier was a bit... concerned. The Vandals were nothing; he'd done for worse than them before Micah had even been created. A Vandal’s main tactic in a fight was to go insubstantial until you weren't looking, then stab you in the back. All you had to do was be faster and sneakier, and no one was faster or sneakier than the X.

He pulled his hands out of the pipe where he'd stuffed the remains of Gelt's gloves. Her swearing hit a fever pitch as the water she'd been running her hand under to cool the burn cut out. He let her bang the faucet once or twice, waited until he heard her crank the cold water wide open. Hands moving faster than the water could splash, he swapped the hot and cold lines.

At the ear-splitting Sidhe shriek, he chuckled and headed through the vents for the restoration room.

"You heard Micah, Ricky. Get the Vandals and the big smelly Troll up to the main hall."

"The Vandals, they will slow him down?"

He could tell that his lover was nervous; no matter how confident Ricky acted, the Fae was still fairly young and didn’t have Xavier’s experience. "Yeah. You keep thinkin' that dumpling. Trust the X that marks the spot. I've not let you down yet."

"Okay, mi amor. You be careful."

Xavier took off with a cocky grin. "Never have!"

He burst out into the main floor of the restoration room, weaving a path through the frustrated Vandals, who were trying to figure out how the heat lamps had turned on, and how their buckets of turpentine had turned into water. Turning turpentine to water wasn't all that hard, really. Probably even easier than welding the can lids on the extra turpentine shut.

Now, stealing Gelt's gloves while she was wearing them? That had been hard. Had she been watching for a pixie, the High Court bitch could have had him cold, but she wasn't watching for a pixie.

They never did.

The horde of Vandals squealed as Xavier’s shiv, a tiny curl of steel, left a swathe of cuts behind him. The Vandals cursed and, clutching at themselves, turned to give chase. He was faintly annoyed that he didn't dare go too near the Redcaps, but they probably were watching for pixies. They were paranoid sods, and last time he heard, they still loved biting the heads off any pixies they could catch. They were also stronger than they looked, and one of them had already found a screwdriver to punch holes in the turpentine cans.

Xavier wove a path through the cans. The Vandals chased behind, kicking the cans out of the way rather than going around, just as he'd counted on. A hairy Redcap hand nearly took his wing off. X decided it was time to vacate the restoration room; he flew up and over the railing, swearing like a sailor the whole time. As he passed into the hallway, Vandals in hot pursuit, he came face to face with Gelt, who had just come out of the ladies’ room. She’d wrapped her hand in the remains of her elegant suit jacket.

"You! You did this to me!" Gelt pulled her hand back, and a coruscating ball of light formed in response to her will.

"Yo! Bitch Queen! Catch!"

He never looked back; looking back was how they caught you. The burning pain in his wing was soothed ever so much by the shriek of roasting Vandal. But it was ever so hard to aim with a sliver of steel in your eye.

***

Ricky tried to hide it, but he really was younger by far than his lover. Xavier had, under other names, lived down through the ages, and through most of those he had been alternately a trickster and a patron spirit of fighters. Ricky was, by comparison, a simple young Fae, concerned mostly with art and fashion and the juncture of the two.

He flitted through the halls, horrified at the number of Vandals, especially the ones who had managed to escape Gelt's direct control. Finally, he found the big Ogre-Troll-thing. Ricky saw Gelt summon it up after she captured Phil. Gelt used it to carry one of the big torture tables down from the medieval gallery. The awful table had been a centerpiece in a display of artwork from the period of the Inquisition. Ricky had hated the entire idea of the torture display but had to admit it made an impact on the museum patrons.

The Ogre-Troll-thing had found the display of weapons from that same gallery and used a massive war hammer in one hand to smash the reinforced cases, then the great sword in the other to slash the canvases behind the glass. It really seemed more interested in the smashing sound than it did in destroying the art, which gave Ricky an idea.

"Hey! Ugly!"

The Ogre-Troll looked up to see a beautiful, delicate vase floating in the air just out of reach. Its eyes widened, and it lurched into motion. The hammer swung, missing by inches, shattering a display case.

"Too slow!"

Ricky wasn't sure he was up for this, but it was too late to back out now. The delicate scrollwork on the vase gave him just enough purchase to keep his grip as he flew back away from the big ugly. Ricky darted away the moment he had enough space to fly, giving the thing a raspberry as he did. It blundered after, causing nearly as much damage pursuing him as it had done deliberately.

As he fled, Ricky deliberately caught the eyes of as many Vandals as he could. Not all of them took the bait of the fleeing vase, but most of them were little more than personified predatory instincts combined with a need to destroy. Seeing delicate artwork running away was too much for them, and they took off in hot pursuit, weaving around the feet of the Ogre-Troll-thing as they came.

A near miss almost buffeted him into a wall, and he started for the main hall, one end of which accessed the restoration room. He hoped that X and Micah knew what they were doing.

***

Phil lay in a haze of pain, most of her attention focused on trying to rein in her magic. Usually, the art and the silvered steel studs kept it in check, but considering how many she’d taken out tonight in her attempt to pull off the librarian look, things might have been problematic if she’d managed to seduce Micah as planned. Just the thought of him trapped under her, screaming…

Damn it! Don't go there!

She felt the magic leaking into her thoughts, turning even the most innocent of them into something darker. Anything that wasn't completely fluffy-bunnies-pink-roses innocent went south that much quicker. Thoughts trickled into her conscious mind from the part of her the silvered steel normally kept contained. Thoughts of Micah in the shackles that even now wore through her sleeves as she writhed with the effort to contain her magic. Thoughts of having her way with him, of shrieking his name to the lightning-painted sky while he took her so fast and so hard the earth itself shook...

Damn it, damn it, damn it, stop that! Two out of three of Mom's worst habits, right there. No shackles, no raping the unwilling, and absolutely no destruction on a global scale! That’s bad.

She tried to pull herself together, feeling the magic knit her flesh even as it flayed at her self-control. The cost would be high, she knew. Her temper would get shorter, her needs, never easy to keep under wraps, would get more insistent. Mother would be so pleased…

Phil tried to ignore the burn on her wrists so she could take stock of the rest of her injuries. She forced her body to stillness, focusing on what her magic had repaired and what still needed to be fixed.

Her pain turned to horror as the magic lifted the edges of the tattoos from her skin. If they all came off, it was all over but for the screaming.

She opened her eyes to a strangely quiet room. Twisting her head as far as she could, she tried to find Gelt. Her tattoos writhed at the thought of the Sun-Elf; her magic was ready, willing and eager to come out and play with the bitch.

A metallic scraping sound caught her attention. Phil turned her head again to see that the two short, wiry, ape-like Redcaps collecting the turpentine cans.

Fortunately for all of Phil's hard work, they'd taken the opportunity while Gelt was away to see if they could get drunk off the turpentine. Stupid sods had exactly three pastimes: drinking, raping, and killing.

Phil figured she would be handed over to them as payment for services rendered.

Then again, Gelt might be high enough in the Seleigh Court that she had some kind of sway with them. Ever since Phil found a way to control the magic that drove her, she had sort of lost touch with what was happening in the High Courts.

Stupid. If they knew who I was, I could probably get them to undo my shackles.

Ah, hell with it.

"You two. Release me."

She barely recognized the voice as her own. Her magic threw an echo into it, deepening it. It sent a frightened shiver down her spine. It had been so long since she’d heard that particular tone from her own throat it startled her just enough to turn the command into a question.

The two Redcaps wavered a moment before realizing they had a captive to do with as they liked and no prissy little Sun-Elf there to stop them. The feral, spittle-flecked grins on their hairy faces were almost as bad as the bulges that rose as their beady little eyes focused on her naked breasts. They advanced on her slowly, enjoying the fear she knew she’d allowed to show.

Oh, fuck me. No! Wait! I didn’t mean that literally!

She opened her mouth to speak again, but her vocal magic was lost in the massive crash that seemed to shake the foundations of the building itself. The sound of wrenching metal was followed by the sound of glass shattering through the main hall. Whatever had broken into the building was extremely strong, huge, or both. She felt her magic struggle again as the sounds of battle reached her ears.

Yay, Xavier! I thought I saw him flying around! He must have sent for help!

The Redcaps immediately crouched and faced the main doors of the restoration room, waiting for whomever (or whatever) to come through. And it’s distracted Dick and Jane! Double-Yay! She kept one wary eye on the two Redcaps and began the slow process of controlling her magic once again.

***

Micah had thrown all his considerable professional clout into getting the front doors of the museum replaced with simple glass doors. It had taken even more to get the folding steel shutters installed to cover them, and his insistence that none of the artwork be displayed in the foyer drove the curator to near apoplexy. Micah, unlike the curator, had survived revolutions, riots, anarchist bombs, and every other way mankind had come up with to do mischief to one another. He couldn't protect the foyer the way he could the rest of the fortress-like museum.

Of course, there was a side benefit to the fact that there was no Art in the foyer, and that the entrance was no one's idea of a work of Art. The Words screeched into his brain so loudly it was like being pierced by shards of glass. His shoulder hit the steel shutters driven by all the power the Words could grant his body. He felt a screaming, wrenching pain, but the shutters, the glass behind them, and a considerable portion of the frame around them gave way explosively as he rolled into the main hall of his museum.

The ongoing shriek of the Words absorbed the pain, and Micah regained his footing before the ragtag collection of Vandals realized what had appeared behind them. He could tell the big hairy thing in the center of them had to be hugely strong by the way it held the reproduction Bec de Corbin in its right hand and Micah's own Flammenschwert from the ancient weapons exhibit in its left. Part hammer, part longspear, the Bec de Corbin alone was a formidable weapon. From the way the creature swung it like it weighed less than a toothpick, Micah knew exactly how strong the creature was and how much it would hurt if the weapon connected with his body. The creature seemed completely oblivious to the chaos behind it, focused as it was on destroying the vase that flitted around in front of its eyes.

Even as the giant's blows slowed with the realization that something dangerous may have happened behind it, the Vandals turned to face the Golem that had been such a bane to them for so long. With evil grins they clustered, preparing to rush him the moment one of them got the nerve to go first. Their hands, misting between solidity and incorporeality, gripped at jagged glass daggers.

Micah didn't give them a chance to gather their courage. He didn't have time. He didn't give them a chance to surrender either, something he would mourn in private later. He charged, their forms going incorporeal just as he reached them.

Which didn't protect them from Micah in the slightest.

His fists drove through them like sledgehammers through bone China, and their half-substantial forms shattered. Their death screams sounded with voices of glass scraping on glass. Dimly, he felt as if his hands were being shoved through that shattering glass, but the shrieking Words sent an adrenaline-like high coursing through him. The pain only drove him to push himself faster, imagining what a psychotic bitch like Gelt could be inflicting on a poor street artist like Ophilia. He barely felt the seams of his tights give way, leaving him completely naked other than the bloody vest.

He hit the giant thing just as it was turning around. A look of surprise flashed through its eyes as Micah’s hand clamped around its oversized wrist with a speed no human could hope to match. Micah squeezed as hard as he could. It bellowed in pain as Micah heard its wrist shatter. The troll dropped the great sword to the floor, where it rang once before Micah scooped it up. The giant obviously hadn’t learned to fight in cramped quarters against human-sized opponents who didn't try to flee and weren’t overpowered by sheer strength and stench. Micah didn't intend to give it time to learn. His sword flashed once, twice, three times, and Micah's gargantuan foe slumped to the ground. It steamed slightly where its flesh was already beginning to return to the aether from which it had been summoned.

The Words didn't let him gloat, didn't let him savor his victory. He charged the restoration room door.

He stopped, took the vase from an exhausted fairy, and placed it gently into a display case that had survived with only superficial damage.

"Ricardo."

The tiny Fae slumped against the vase; his legs splayed wide, ridiculous heels pointed towards the ceiling. He was panting and sweating, obviously exhausted but unharmed. "Micah! The bitch Gelt, she does horrid things to your Ophilia within! Hurry!"

Giving in to the Words once more, he resumed his charge to the door.