“The Springfield 1835 musket - known to United States Ordinance authorities as US Musket, Model 1835 - was developed and produced by the Springfield Armory in Massachusetts, and saw heavy use during the Indian Wars, the Mexican-American War, and Civil War. It was one of the Armory’s last muskets to be built with a smooth bore and flintlock action, making it closer to the weapons of the American Revolution than the percussion lock rifle-muskets that would define its period. It was larger than prior Springfield models, with a barrel length of forty-two inches, but added little weight to the overall design, totaling when loaded to approximately ten pounds.
To fire the musket, the shooter must first load the muzzle, usually in the ‘ball-and-buck’ method favored by US Army personnel. Instead of firing a full .69 caliber shot, soldiers would opt for a smaller, perhaps .65 ball, and fill the rest of the muzzle with buckshot to create a wider, ‘shotgun’ spread. In time, paper cartridges would be sold that produced the same effect. In ideal circumstances, the Model 1835 enjoys a firing range of anywhere from 100 to 300 yards, at a rate of three balls a minute. Any true soldier, though, would treat the marketed statistics with a dose of skepticism. In reality, the musket had a maximum range of about 75 yards, and most users could comfortably fire twice.
While commonplace and popular during the Mexican-American War, the Model 1835 was quickly outclassed by the more adaptable percussion-lock muskets of the 1840s and 1850s. To Springfield’s credit, however, the Model 1835 was built with these developments in mind. As one of the first US Armory muskets to feature fully interchangeable parts, it was not uncommon to see them converted into percussion-loading or even scoped musket rifles.
The Model 1835 was used by both sides of the Civil War, as the rifles often found their way in the hands of state militiamen. As many veterans were allowed to keep their rifles on discharge from the Mexican-American War, the rifle became a symbol of family pride, of generations of men, serving their country, with weapons passed down to sons by their fathers.”
‘The 1835 Springfield Musket’, entry in Shelby Stroud’s The Arms and Armaments of the Civil War, 1995.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the Raj. The Nile Delta, Pearl Delta, Gold Coast, Crab Coast, Jamaica. Some princess or another from Oman.” Henri Ombras sinks deeper into the jacuzzi, smiling wide. “Once, I even played around with this lass from the Vrystaat. Daddy must have worked for de Beers.”
“Did she have any?” A voice calls from his side.
“Any what?”
“Diamonds.” The young woman wades up to him, black hair over her breasts, sipping a cocktail. “If she’s from de Beers, she must have had diamonds."
“No!” Henri throws up his arms, exasperated. “She told me she was ‘boycotting’ South Africa! Who would do such a thing?”
He sighs, letting the steam from the hot tub calm his nerves. Five-hundred years, and he’s never gotten tired of spas. Lounging back, drink in hand, a beautiful girl at his side. And compared to last century's conquests, she had more teeth, healthier hair, softer skin. With each decade, the mortals just get better and better.
He wears sunglasses and swim trunks and not much else. The whispers are mercifully quiet, and the water heats his skin to the point its tone is almost normal.
“One more spin, one more spin, please-”
“I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!”
“I CAN’T DIE-”
He turns and smiles as his girl wrings her hair along his shoulder. “Seems like you’re quite the world traveller,” she remarks.
“Oh, doll, that’s just the colonies.” Henri starts counting them with his other hand. “There’s France, Finland, Milan, Bavaria. Czechs, Swiss, Poles from all three sides! Brazil, Abyssinia, Persia, Wallach-”
He’s interrupted by her lips. A long and deep kiss that almost feels like passion, but he pushes her back, blinking.
“Wait, wait, darling, stop. Wallachia, that’s still a country, right?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Shit.” He looks to the side. “Well, from wherever they're from, too! You see, I have some experience in these things…”
“And how many of those experiences were paid for?"
“Woah.” He gives a low laugh, and sips his drink. Like everything else, it tastes of sawdust. Centuries of undeath have not been kind to his tongue. “Word of advice, doll…”
He sets the glass down. and brings her in by the back.
“... don’t insult the one giving tips.”
He pulls the hair from her face, leaning in… only to feel the sting of rattling ice cubes in an empty glass. She's holding it up to him, with a faux-naive face.
"One more?"
"One more!?” He furrows his brows. “That was your third.”
“So?”
“They cost sixteen pounds!”
“But you can afford it.”
“I can-" He growls. "It’s not about affording it, doll. It’s about the principle. Have you ever heard of opportunity costs? Over the hour we’ve dithered, I could have made five times more than what I paid you. And you want to add four drinks to that calculation!?”
“I’m Albanian.”
His eyes widen. “So?”
“You’ve never fucked an Albanian."
He puffs up, his finger pointed perilously in the air. She gives him big, pleading, probably-not-really-Albanian-because-she's-definitely-making-it-up puppy-dog eyes.
But it doesn't matter. He's a sucker for foreign women. So instead, he gives a hiss as he climbs out.
Once he's dried, Henri slides out a mobile phone from his suit sleeve, left folded over a plastic chair. “Cameron! I need another one of the coconuts.”
“Ombras? Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour! There's been a summons from the casino-"
Henri growls. “Do you think I rented your penthouse so that I could be reminded of my fucking casino!?”
“Sir, they said it was urgent!"
"They always say it's fucking urgent, Cameron! That doesn't mean-"
“- from Magister Morris him-”
“- fuck!” Henri squeezes his phone. Hard. With grit teeth, he replies. “I’ll be there shortly.”
He disconnects. Whispers and curses under his breath as he starts to throw on his suit. His hired help resurfaces, climbs onto the concrete.
“Morris, Morris, that stupid fucking sea captain! Should never have put his name forward, should never have propped him up! He’d still be shining your fucking shoes if only-”
“Henry!” She shouts the name he gave her. “Where’s my drink!?”
Henri turns, his shirt still undone. “Do you not yet realise that I have a more pressing concern?”
“You haven’t paid!”
“... Right.” He stops, brows flaring, as his hands slide behind his back. “Well… about that..."
She freezes. Behind her, the jacuzzi has started to bubble. She turns to see water black as ink, slick and slimy, tiny tendrils spewing. When she sees Henri again, his skin his ashen and pulled back, a thick fog spewing from his eyes. His words reveal rows of sharp teeth.
“I was never really intending to pay you.”
She starts to sprint. Little feet pattering on bits of water. But the tentacles move faster. They trip her, cling to her, coil around her legs. When she starts to scream, the murkiness falls over her mouth. Henri watches it all, his fingers twitching near his pockets. It would be nearly impossible for a mortal to see the threads connecting his hand to the storm drain.
Moving it all like a puppet on strings.
“I need honesty.” He thrusts her towards him, his senses sharpened by aether. She’s upside down, and he can smell her sweat, the chlorine, the salt from her tears. “Are you actually from Albania?”
She blinks furtively, whimpering in the black. His eyes dilate. He feels it. Blood. Blood. Blood.
Henri sighs. “Disappointing. I do try and keep track. Though, I suppose I've been misleading you too. See..."
A single tendril pushes her head forward. Until their skin almost touches, and her eyes hang over his teeth.
“... I didn't pay your pimp to fuck you."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Harriet’s been staring at the rain for an hour, but it’s only just started to make pattering sounds on the glass.
She’s in the apartment, that ornate, ostentatious side of black marble and minimalist decors. The strange bars still suspend from the windowtops, and the Greek statue looks on, silently, her hand lifted to the fake flames. Sitting comfortably on the couch is… difficult. Harriet's feet are beyond aching, but with the heels locked to them, she can only rest by laying them along the table. That in turn invites an increasingly familiar tightness against her chest, her hips, and pulls at the cuffs still clinging to her hands. Her breathing is unhelped by the collar, but it would be short and sharp regardless of what she wears.
Her fangs keep bleeding through her lips. She's hungry.
'Use her.' That's what Soteris said he would do, and she's been mulling over what those words mean. On the one hand, it’s obvious. From the moment the garments were strapped on, she’d been fondled, and stared at, and every feature Astrid plastered onto her face only made the urges worse. But… what urges? Most Nocturni were asexual. Often, they only fucked to feed. Especially the men. She imagines it must be somewhat hard for them to conjure all the blood and aether a corpse would need to...
... well...
... to put out.
But she can’t presume safety like that. This is Soteris Chrysanthou. As far as she knows, he'd drain an orphanage if it meant finding some new way to torment her.
Harriet frowns, frustrated that even her sighs are silent. She could try and take her mind off it, but there’s nothing to do. The telly feels like poison, a gateway to a lost world, and the windchimes have come and gone. While there are a great many books she doubts Soteris has ever opened, to stand and walk and grab one would be to break the strange decorum she’s kept with her prison guard.
Addana.
Addana Chiagozie sits in the blue-and-white side, on a barstool by the door. The Oathsworn picked her up a minute after Soteris left, and hasn’t spoken since. As she was dragged here by the arm, Harriet couldn’t help but notice the keypads added to every doorway. While those on Floor 20 flashed green by default, on the thirtieth floor, his floor, they all blinked back red.
But Harriet still leans in, curious. Of all the people in Polyphron, Addana's spoken to her the least. Is that malice, or prudence? It's hard to tell with Oathsworn. With so many varied Keepers, one can never guess what they know.
But... away from Randall... she could be friendly. Astrid was. Harriet slides further up the couch, beneath Addana's notice, at first. The woman seems so engrossed in her little novel. But... maybe...
“So, Fireside… do you think your father will make it back in time for Christmas?" Addana sticks a thumb in her book. "You told me he was in Najaf.”"
Harriet's breath hitches. Addana stands, and smiles.
“Still playing dumb? Or do you lie so often, vampire, that you can’t even remember?”
As Addana walks closer, Harriet shrivels back. The clothes only make their differences more obvious. Addana must be six feet, if not even taller.
“We both know what you’re going to try and do. Warm up to me, with those teenaged looks, and sad little glare. Talk about solidarity, common ground, cry sympathy for a fellow Kept. Until my guard is down, of course. Then, I’m just another body, and it’s a race to see how fast you squeeze the trigger.”
Addana leans, venom in her eyes. Harriet can only skirt back so far, constricted as she is.
“Randall told me you’d try something like that. It’s how you hunt. But one look at your sweet little face, and I knew I didn’t need the warning. Your tricks will work on Astrid, for what it's worth. She can afford it. But us Oathsworn, we see the real you. What you’ve become, or maybe what you always were.”
She turns back around, pulling something from her pocket. Harriet catches its gleam in the light. The bullet from her bag.
“I’ll be keeping this as a memento. To the friends that you’ve killed. To the lies you’re still spinning.” Addana sits back down, returns to her page. Harriet reads the title. Chinua Achebe. Things Fall Apart. “When your Keeper comes through that door tongiht, and sends me away, I want you to know that what happens next is just monsters being monsters.”
Addana smirks.
“Enjoy the view from your knees.”
Harriet feels her stomach twist, her hands tremble in their chains. She wants to correct her. Explain to her. Plead with her. It’d be as fruitless as talking Soteris out of… out of…
Ten more days.
The words ring out with the windchimes.
It can’t possibly last more than ten days.
Beep. Beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Harriet straightens, rocketing back to reality. She can barely look at the man who walks in, poised as always, loosening his tie.
“Apologies for the delay, retainer. I was rehearsing for tomorrow's exhibition.” Soteris walks towards the couch, puts his arm on it, leans towards her. “Did you miss me?”
She focuses on the wall, the fake fire, his simple desk and fancy computer. But her cheeks start to glow, and from the ring of his laugh, she knows he takes that as an answer.
Soteris turns to Addana. “I hope my Kept has continued her good behaviour?”
“More or less.” The Oathsworn kneels down to gather her things. “Maybe you should keep her silent.”
She walks out of her own accord, leaving a new fear to lodge in Harriet’s mind. Soteris calls out as she goes. “Get some rest, Chiagozie. You’ll have a big task ahead, keeping our partners from tearing out each other’s throats.”
Addana laughs at that, and calls back. “I don’t rest, Soteris. You’ve never been a mother.”
The door closes, and with it, what scraps Harriet had of composure. She squeezes her hands, refusing to acknowledge him, but feeling his stare. The aether that pumps through her is thin, frightened, and the Wilds wrench with their displeasure. The rain’s sound has vanished again, leaving nothing but silence, the gentle hum of the fake flame.
“You look beautiful in those heels,” Soteris remarks. “I hadn’t thought to glance.”
She sets her hands down on her lap. Never needing a gun so badly.
But suddenly, the staring stops. Suede shoes cross the tile floor. Harriet hears the opening of cabinets, the cutting of plastic bags. And soon after, she smells gas.
She creases her brows, slowly craning her neck. Soteris has an apron tied around his vest. A bowl in one hand, a whisk in the other. He stirs and stirs, focused for minutes on a mixture only he can see. But eventually, he catches her unblinking, wary stare.
“What?" He shrugs. "It's been days since you fed. You need dinner."
He's not wrong. Her stomach is twisting in on itself, and vampires and hunger strikes rarely cross, no matter how she might dream. But doesn’t mean she's going to speak. Even if, well... she could.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Come and I’ll show you.” Soteris returns to his work until he realises she won’t move. “Are you scared?”
She interrupts her stare with a single blink.
He sighs and shakes his utensils. “I can’t very well grab you, Fireside. First woman I’ve ever met who dislikes when I cook for them."
That's when the scent hits her. Blood. Rich, fragrant, raw. Normally, it wouldn't stir her to any degree, but now, she can barely keep from slavering.
If she doesn't go up, the Wilds will.
At least... that's how she chooses to frame.
Harriet still frowns as she draws close, watching him like prey. Her steps are shaky, and painful, her feet sore as they are. Her heels echo loudly as she moves from the dark half of the room to the brighter.
“Blodplätter,” Soteris twists his hands to show. “A Swedish recipe. Not my personal favourite, but…”
Harriet sees a thick red slop interspersed with bits of flour. Is he… making bread?
No. Pancakes.
She can't do anything to hide her fangs.
“I’ve had to make adjustments, of course.” Soteris puts a portion of butter on the stove. “Scrap the egg, a bit less flour, but you can get away with keeping the sugar and the salt and the cinnamon without your body rejecting it. Normally, I throw in some mint, too,but I don’t think you’d enjoy it. It’s a Cypriot thing.”
He sets down his tools and spins her around. Harriet hisses, reaching back to swat him, but he pushes her forward before she can. "There’s a record player over there. Do you know how to-”
She’s already halfway there.
“Excellent.” He grins and returns to the food. “I didn’t get a Kept or those speakers for neither to be working."
He starts pouring the batter as she explores the plastic-filled box. The scent is good, in a vampire way, and she can hear the air sizzle and steam. Contrary to Aisling’s mockery, Harriet does know how to use most machines. It’s just not very easy wielding them. This time, though, she's getting tripped up by the catalogue. Snow Patrol, Radiohead, Spice Girls, Coldplay - who are these people!? She starts pawing her way towards the back, as much as her cuffs will allow, until finally, mercifully, she finds herself in the ‘60’s.
“I’ll admit, it’s not all my purchases.” Soteris calls from behind. “Sometimes Astrid has a looser interpretation of budgets than you and I do. But if there’s something you’d like to add-”
“Help!” Upbeat guitars ring through the room. “I need somebody, help! Not just anybody, help! You know, I need someone…”
Soteris turns. Harriet’s smile widens as the Beatles give a final, long ‘Heeeelp~’
He scowls. “... clever.”
The first verse is filled with an energy that’s hard to ignore. Harriet springs back up, bobbing about, letting her victory sink in. Her instincts pull her to the pan, and she doesn’t stop them. She leans over the batter, a good distance from Soteris, letting the scent waft into her nostrils. But he closes in with a step, and pulls her into his chest before she can react. Harriet flails and squirms, trying to worm her way through his grip, but he takes her by the cuffs and brings them by the pan.
“Ah, ah. No. If you're that interested, we’ll cook them together. Ever flip pancakes before?"
She gives him a venomous look. Of course she has. She's from the 1870s, not Biblical times.
He wrings her fingers around the metal, even as she tries to scooch away from the small flame. "No, no." He pulls her back towards it by the hair. “Eyes here.”
She squeezes the handle. What she'd give to launch this batter in his face.
“You have to wait for the tips to brown, there. And…” He settles onto her shoulder, counting quietly. “One. Two. Three!”
The blood-cake flings into the air, landing on the pan perfectly.
“Excellent, Fireside! We’ll make a domestic of you yet.”
He laughs as she moves against. Not with the pan, or stepping on his foot, the Keeping bans those. She just lightly shoves him back.
Alright, message received.” He takes the pan from her grip, nods to the table. “Set it, would you mind?"
She does mind, actually. Harriet's eyebrows flare, and lifts her hands, making a face as she rattles the cuffs.
“What? Do they hinder you?” Soteris smirks. “Just move slowly.”
Harriet's rapidly running out of hostile faces to make at him. Soteris leans close.
“You won’t get a ‘please’ from me before you get an order.”
She rolls her eyes to turns towards the cabinets. After three seconds. Just to make clear she isn’t giving in easily.
For a while, the room is filled with nothing but the sounds of clacking heels, sizzling blood, set silverware. The Beatles drone on, a full musical range weaving with them. There’s long songs and slow songs, songs about gaining girls and losing them. By the time Harriet’s hobbled together most of the table, the Beatles have firmly moved onto the latter.
“Suddenly… I’m not half the man I used to be… there’s a shadow hanging over me… oh, yesterday came suddenly…”
There are two white-painted chairs, on an equally simple wooden table. There’s barely room for the platter and the two of them, though she nearly leaps back when Soteris places down a lit candle. He watches her hackles rise with a laugh.
“A hundred-and-fifty-three years old, and you’re still scared of fires?”
Bitch. It’s because she’s a hundred-and-fifty-three.
Her meal looks thin and rubbery, with a colour close to chocolate. Soteris’ fills two glasses with the Court’s signature ‘wine’, and sets her down, folding a napkin over her lap himself, and ignoring the glare that gets him. Still grimacing, Harriet watches him take his utensils, and she follows suit, the fork and knife held uncomfortably close by her chained hands.
“Ah! Fireside.” He smiles, considering. “We’re forgetting something.”
Harriet's breath hitches.
He gives her a stern look. "The most important part."
Suddenly, the fear is back. His words repeating in her mind. Use her. Use her. She thinks of his touch. Of his lips. Everything Astrid denied, and Addana warned.
“... love was such an easy game to play... now I need a place to hide away…”
His eyes start to glow, and he sets his utensils down. But Soteris Chrysanthou never rises from his seat. Never takes her body. Doesn't even glance. Instead, he folds his hands and says.
"You can speak freely. Would you like to say grace?”
Every sound fades, except for the Beatles'.
“... oh, I believe in yesterday.”
She watches him with a blank expression, before finally pulling herself together. “Ah... I-”
She coughs. A long, hacking fit, that forces her to clear her throat.
“... the church... the sermon... yer really Christian?”
“Aren’t you?” He asks back.
She scoffs. “I… l-let's jes' say, I ain’t given grace in a long time.”
“I’ve been assured God doesn’t mind.” He smiles. “Besides, you were taught to read at St. John’s Episcopal, were you not? They must have drilled into you some verse.”
Honestly, she had forgotten it was even called St. John’s until he mentioned it. But Harriet folds her hands regardless, bowing her head. Reciting not a prayer she heard in Iowa, but the one she spent her first nights of unlife with.
“Um... May all be fed. May all be healed. May all be loved.”
“Amen.” They say it together. Soteris watches her for a moment more, before cutting his pancake, and starting to eat.
Harriet doesn’t join him, studying the food. Eventually, the silence becomes oppressive, and the thought flings from her head. “Why?”
He swallows before he speaks. “Why what?”
Her shoulders fall, and she looks about the room. “... All of it.”
He pauses, considering. Slowly, he cuts another, smaller piece, and lifts it with his fork for her to see.
“Because… no matter what has happened, or what you and I might do, I would like both of us to be people who sit down and cook their dinners.”
Soteris returns to his meal, but she lingers, sniffing at the wine.
“So,” he starts. “How are you feeling?”
“How am I-” She stops herself with a chuckle. “Are ya really askin’ me that?”
“Of course. I ought to know.”
She scowls. “Well I’ve been doin’ quite miserable, how ‘bout yerself?”
Soteris laughs, dapping his lips with a napkin. “The food’s good. You should try it.”
She clicks her utensils together. “Be a bit easier ta cut if I had full use a’ my hands.”
"It would be.”
But he doesn't make any move. Her scowl deepens. “Ya know it’s gonna hurt my wrists eventually, right?”
“Then it’s a very good thing that you so quickly heal.”
Harriet frowns, but starts - awkwardly - cutting into the meat. She has to bring both hands all the way to her mouth. The bite is… good. Unseasoned and coarse, sure, but surprisingly tender. She can feel the Wilds instinct calm with the taste, the scream softening to a whisper. She quickly follows with another.
“It feels nice, doesn’t it? To actually chew.” Soteris watches her eat. “It’s usually custom to pay respects to the chef.”
She looks up, chewing with her mouth open. “Go fuck yerself.”
He sighs. “Vulgar language again. After I only just unmuted you.”
“Yer not gonna re-silence me,” she shrugs. “It’d ruin the dinner chat.”
“It would.” His eyes start to glow. “I’ll just forbid you from swearing instead.”
“Biiih-” Harriet stops, her throat suddenly clenching. She furrows her brows, and tries again. “Ffff-ffff… ah-h-h-!”
Soteris laughs. Laughs. It sends Harriet over the edge. She stands up, hands on the table, malice in her eyes.
“What does it matter if I swear or not? I don’t have ta play nice.”
“There are certain standards of etiquette at Court-”
“Every vampire in a hundred miles knows exactly who I am,” Harriet hisses. “Do ya think any a’ them’s gonna stop me an’ tell me ta mind my fff-ffff-froggin' table manners?”
Soteris sets his utensils down, looking her straight in the eye. “Do you know why I studied computer engineering?”
"They had a course on monologues?"
“It was still unknown, back then. There was no Microsoft, no Macintosh, and even lessin our country. I wanted to lead a company, I wanted to be successful, so why not join the Randall’s of the world in finance? Can you guess?”
Harriet rolls her eyes. "They'd realise yer a giant fraud?"
Soteris chuckles. “Definitely no. I already told you, I like to build. I can’t trust another to make a product good enough for me to sell, and I can’t trust a product that hasn’t been made in some part by my hands. Kepts, to me, are the same. I could loosen your leash. Let you galavant as you’ve always done. But then you wouldn’t be mine. Because my things exceed all possible standards.”
“What a charming philosophy.” She smiles.
“You should feel charmed. Polyphron employs only the best. It Keeps only the spectacular. That you are sitting here, by my side, in a position I have never trusted to another, is the greatest endorsement I could ever give. An affirmation in my belief that you are almost without equal.”
“Ah!” She puts her hands on her chest. “An’ here I am, feelin’ ungrateful.”
“You know people clamber to get into this company, right? I rank every employee one to five. The bottom ten percent are always cut. The top… I make sure their salary doubles.”
“Ya know, ya Court folk chat about ‘meritocracy’ all the d-d-... darn time.” Harriet frustratedly chews. “Maybe this is jes’ my experience, but I’ve always found that the folks floatin' to the top are always cheats."
“Perhaps there is merit in cheating.”
She gives him a look. “Did ya go ta Oxford?”
“Cambridge.”
“Cambridge.” She nods. “It shows.”
He leans back in his chair, looking around the blue-and-white room. “I designed this space to look like my mother’s, back in Cyprus. She would bake bread on a stone stove there. Wash our clothes in a basin here. Pray to the icon of Theotokos right along that wall. But I can’t reimagine much of the house beyond that. Each floor was the size of this room.”
She furrows her brows at that. But he grows more serious.
“You may preach against my achievements. You may deride as one of your dreaded rich. But the truth remains that I started as proletarian as you. And yet I was able to-"
“Soteris.”
The harshness cuts him off. Harriet pushes her plate forward, resting on her elbows, glaring daggers.
“I’m only sayin’ this once. So I wan’ ya ta listen.”
His expression hardens, but he beckons her.
“I get that the Court thinks yer different. ‘Cause yer young, an’ yer foreign, an’ if Mr. Avery’s any indication, bein’ Sovereign don't mean they started listenin' ta ya."
“The Unbound never took your advice, either,” he smiles.
“They didn’t. An’ I know ya see that, an’ ya hear my accent, an’ ya know all ‘bout my quirks an’ my head things an' my guns. An’ yer thinkin’ ‘Great! She’s different, jes’ like me. That makes us the same.’ But it don’t. It really don’t. It ain't 'bout money, or country, or pasts. Ya coulda come from the farm right nexta mine in Keokuk, an’ I’d still never be like you.”
Another pause. No motion from Soteris. Just an intensity in his eyes, that’s hard to match the gaze of.
“I suppose that’s true." He frowns. "After all, only one of us is a Keeper.”
She flings her fork into the plate. It whirs, blurring the air, as it sticks up perfectly from the pancake.
“Dinner was good.” She stands up and takes her plate, wobbling towards the sink. “Ya got that goin’ fer ya.”
The dishwasher is out and half-loaded, but she kicks it back into its place, turns the faucet on. Something about this man makes her yearn to be old-fashioned. Harriet grabs a sponge, a dose of soap. Even with all the blood, she scrubs with more force than she needs. She can tell that Soteris is standing right behind her, but for once, he lets her work.
Until she sets the plate down.
Then he grabs her arm, and starts dragging her across the hall.
“Ah - HEY! Ya coulda asked!”
“You need training before Ensei.”
Training. She looks back down at her outfit, the black lace bra, the tights, the heels. No, she’s not quite interested in any training he could offer. So she looks for something to distract him with, instead, and it’s hard to ignore the giant slab of marble.
“Statue!” She tugs desperately back. “Wh-who’s the statue?”
“You have a Masters. They never made you study Classics?”
Oh, they might have tried, she realises. But she Paradoxed her grades for all the boring stuff. “I got better things ta do then read ff–ffffff-fumblin’ Plato!”
Soteris grins. “Another subject we’ll have to familiarise you with. That is Hestia, goddess of the hearth, last seated of the twelve Olympians.”
“Oh, like yer Project Hestia?”
“Look at you, catching on.”
“A project I still don’t know ‘bout, bein’ announced tomorrow at a conference I’ve never heard of!” She realises that he’s taking her near his desk, the windows. If only her heels could stake into the floors. “D-Don’t ya think that’s a bit more important than - ugh!”
He pulls her into his chest with a tug, then spins her around, setting her against a pillar. She raises her hands in a meek defence, but he takes the chain, and uses it to hoist her arms to her sides. “We can do both at once.”
His hands start pressing into her shoulders.
Harriet quivers, blinking in confusion as he moves to different parts of her body. He pushes on her hips, her back, even kicking her feet apart with his shoe. Whenever she starts sliding into a more comfortable position, his hands return, moulding her into place like a potter would with clay.
“Have you ever practiced posture before?”
“Somehow, the practice eluded me.”
“It shows.” He takes a hand to her chin, slightly raising it. "You slouch when you stand. It looks… undignified, and frankly, it won’t do. I might not always need you, but I expect you to keep form. Back up, head forward…” He presses into her chest, so that she can feel it in her diaphragm. “... just so.”
Harriet twitches back, harried, horrified. “I-I’m not a doll ya can-”
“Pretend you’re a statue, Fireside. Just like Hestia there.” Suddenly, her muscles are stiff, her eyes refuse to move, and her lips remain closed. The sensation of sleep paralysis dominates again, merged with the wretchful feeling of Soteris’ touch.
“... you like to look at the ground when you stand. When you're with me, that’s perfect, deferential. But for the others, keep your chin up, your eyes straight. You serve with pride.”
Yeah, Harriet. How can you possibly not feel proud?
“You’ll be greeting the Ensei partners tomorrow. They all come from East Asia, where traditionally, showing you are open to serve is signified with…”
His hands push on her back, slowly leaning her until she holds a right angle.
“... a bow. You may speak. Does that make sense to you?”
She flexes her lips a few times. It’s the only thing she can move. “Wh-why am I bowing ta a bunch a’ Orientals?”
“Entrepreneurs," he corrects. "Ensei will bring in some of the greatest tech magnates in that continent. Their electronics are ubiquitous, here and around the world. For Project Hestia to be successful, I need to bring on board each one of them.”
“What happened to yer friends in the government?”
“Nothing. But I never planned on working with them for long.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t own me,” Soteris replies. “And I can’t own them. Blair’s government is cleaner than most, but even then, it’s unbelievably compromised. You can’t shake some party toad’s hand without stepping into another Nocturni’s turf.”
“So yer goin’ fer the pond no other vamp’s found?”
“Precisely.”
Harriet stays silent, considering. Her eyes quite literally glued to the floor. This is the most information about Polyphron Soteris has given freely. Useful information, anyway. And… it makes sense, as far as she knows, which isn’t very far. But given what she knows of the Unbound’s reach, him going global only makes things more complicated.
“Thankfully, we have an advantage. The Asian tech market is young, and not trusted. Westerners watch their tellies, drive their cars, but have convinced themselves that these marvels are cheap copies, derivatives, fads. ‘97 and the dot-coms 'proved' them. So the true titans of this industry are desperate to shake the image, find some new innovation they can enter on the ground floor.”
“An’ Hestia can be that?” she asks.
“It will,” Soteris corrects. “But if they're going to realise that, we have to flatter.”
“An’...” Harriet grunts. She’s trying to force herself out of this stupid stance, but her muscles just tingle. “What, am I yer flatterer in chief?"
“You’ll be ushering them to the venue. The first Polyphron employee they see!”
There’s a hitch in her breath. “Dressed like this?”
“Of course! I have to be a good host! Champagne, Alaskan crab, you. All part of the refreshments.”
“Ya…” Harriet feels her cheeks glow. She can tell from the air on her legs that her skirt’s ridden up with the bow. Precariously close to revealing a different part of Soteris’ carefully selected outfit. “An’ ya think they’ll see this, an’ be fine? I-I-I mean, what if one a' them's a woman?"
Soteris laughs. A long, patronising laugh, like he might give to a child. He puts a hand on her back, scratches it. “You’re adorable.”
He pushes her back into her original posture, then steps away, finger on his chin. "Do you think that you could hold that position for… about two hours?”
Her mouth hangs open. The heels still stab into her feet, but with the loss of bodily control, that’s become a duller pain. “Uh… yeah? Not sure why I'd want to..."
“Splendid. Then you can move again, but don’t. You’re going to practice while I catch up on the past two days of work. That is an excellent position for you to keep when we’re in our office.”
“Office?” She squints. “What office?”
“You’re an employee of Polyphron, now. I expect you to work in the office.”
“I don’t see anyone else out there!”
“That’s because we keep daylight hours.”
The way he completely ignores her exasperated look is infuriating. “Ya what?”
“Please. It’s nothing to make a fuss about.”
“Uh, sorry, I think our imminent deaths from the windows is a pretty flippin’ important thing ta-”
He presses a finger to her lips. She growls.
“Tomorrow's problem,” he smiles back. “Today’s problem is figuring out how best to stand by my side.”
“What, am I not gettin’ a desk?"
Why does the smirk on his face tell her ‘no’?
“You don’t need one.” He sighs. “I suppose, if you tire, I can get you a pillow to kneel on…”
“What exactly am I gonna be doin’ in this office?”
“Whatever I think suits you.”
She flares up. “Oh. Great! What you think suits me? Guess I’ll be arm candy fer everyone! Ya know, I would be a lot more useful if ya would tell me anythin’ about the product I’m s’posed ta-”
“Right. Hold that thought.” He lifts a finger, steps away. “I have another gift for you.”
Harriet follows him as far as her eyes will go, until she hears the beeping of more locks. She doesn’t leave her posture - not because she’s at all inclined to ‘train,’ but because she’s fully aware that he’s just looking for the excuse.
He returns with a small object held in both hands. A sheet of glass held by a strip of metal, with two coiled bits at the end. She realises its a visor, and starts to protest as he sets it on her forehead. “Soteris-”
“Shhh, shhh.” He says calmly. “I told you, no moving…”
The visor snaps into place, tightening around her skull. She blinks. It feels like she’s wearing sunglasses; the world’s taken a caramel hue. But she learns quickly that it won’t be shaken off. “Wh-what is this?”
“Rather sleek.” Soteris takes her cheeks and twists her head, so she can see their reflection in the window glass. “Don’t you agree?”
It’s ridiculous. Her outfit was horrid enough, but now her eyes are veiled by something that looks like it crawled out of Aisling’s science fiction shows. “Y-Ya know, funny thing ‘bout UV rays. We don’t really gotta deal with ‘em, so I don’t know why-”
She yelps. There’s a tiny beep, and the sound of sliding metal. Then, darkness. Everything becomes pitch black, and all sounds are lost beyond her heartbeat and the windchimes. As quickly as it was lost, her hearing and sight return, and she blinks at the tiny remote Soteris waves before her.
“Interesting, right?” He keeps pressing the button, so that the metal falls over her eyes, then leaves, then falls. “I started building it after the Ares Gates. A little side project.”
The metal moves fast. Few gears. Only a faint whirring. There must be a second switch, releasing darker, opaque lenses. Harriet realises all this, and that, engineering-wise, it's a tiny marvel. But that only makes her next question more pressing. "Why?"
“Did you know that every Keeper used to have a device like this?” Soteris approaches, tapping the visor with his thumb. “Big bronze masks that could discipline their Kepts when words and decorum failed. They fell out of fashion when the Laws of Secrecy were written, and human power started matching our own.”
“Completely unsurprised that ya’d wanna bring it back.”
“I told you that information would be a privilege. Now, I can enforce it.” He sees her face, wreathed in confused anger, and adds. “I know all the pageantry might seem unnecessary now, but trust me, I only bring out these tools because I understand the task at-”
“Are ya gettin’ off ta this?”
She regrets it the instant it leaves her lips, but for once, it gives him pause. Soteris looks away, considering, before grasping her cheeks, and lifting her face towards his eyes.
“Perhaps,” he smiles. “Are you?”
With her cheeks scrunched together, it’s hard to give him an expression that’s suitably intimidating.
“We both know the optics. A Keeper of my age, a Kept of yours, it's never been done. And yet, in all the Court’s millennia, there might never have been a pairing with so much at stake. And so, I must ensure, if you will not, that we are always striving for the same thing.”
He lets her go, and turns towards his computer, seating himself and clicking up Hotmail. Harriet sputters behind him.
“An’ what are we strivin’ for, Soteris? Ya won’t tell me! Are we buildin’ a superweapon? The fraud a’ the century?”
“Right now…” he holds out the remote. “We’re striving to eat pancakes.”
Then the opaque glass falls over her face, and, at the very least, Harriet’s given a reprieve from Soteris’ constant talking.