'Wait,' Mordred spoke through the aether, at the exact time I felt a slight pressure against my mind and soul. Looking down, I saw he had physically moved, and was holding my back with one hand too. The black armour had nothing to reflect in this empty universe, but I knew that, even in ours, it wouldn't, despite always being polished to a mirror sheen, no matter how much gore got on it.

The armour was meant to protect Mordred, isolate him from the world. Of course it stopped and swallowed such paltry things as light.

I looked down at him, shining white eyes meeting sockets filled with green fire. I was a head taller than him, but somehow, I felt the need to try and look up, as if I were the one shorter. The weird sensation wasn't helped by the fact that, between the lean features, mop of black hair-Mordred had removed his edgy helmet after the Tremorph had been taken out, or at least briefly stopped-and rebellious attitude, Mordred gave me a sense of deja vu, for some reason I couldn't place.

'Why?' I asked, festuring at the shapeless  thing writhing in the void where Szabo and the Tremorph had previously been. 'He's still in there, somewhere, but so is it. It's using some god's power to try and change him-'

'It tried,' Mordred corrected. 'Then succeeded, or almost did. Now?' He jerked his chin towards the amorphous mass. To my slight surprise, he didn't have a beard, let alone a goatee. I was almost as ruined as he'd left Camelot. 'They are locked in a struggle. There is nothing you can do, revenant.'

Like he wasn't a revenant. At least there was no string extending from the core of my being, like the one trailing behind Mordred and going down, down, down. 'You think I can't stop this?'

'Maybe you can,' Mordred shrugged. 'But those eyes you are so proud of must let you see that would just move things back to square one. The monster will try taking over the other dead man again, and you don't have the prowess to unmake it yet, nor the patience to stay here and hone your power against it until you can do it.' He smirked. 'And even if you had the patience, you wouldn't have the time. Or do you believe things will settle down and politely wait for us to return to our home realm?'

'And how the fuck do you know any of that?' I asked the little arsehole, trying to mask how uncomfortable I was at the fact he was right. Luckily, he pissed me off enough there was no need to fake anything in order to do so.

Mordred's smile widened. 'A rhetorical question! How quaint. You should know my newfound power removes restrictions. For example: what prevented me from seeing the future? Not being precognitive. Now...'

'I get it,' I said gruffly. 'We can't stay, but we can't leave them here alone either. Someone must keep an eye on them.'

'You hope to take them back home, and have someone else take care of this problem. Worry not...Silva. Return and stand guard at the threshold, if you must, but know this: they will find their way back.' He slung Clarent over one shoulder, an excited gleam in his burning eyes. 'I must prepare for my homecoming. Britain,' he rolled the letters as he spoke, brow furrowing slightly. 'Must meet its King!'

Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but needle him, returning his grin. 'I think you'll find the King is already home, and known.'

'A ceremonial "King"! Mordred laughed. 'I bring them the truth, Silva!'

Just a bit of banter, everyone. Just a bit of banter...

***

There was, Lucian reflected, some familiarity in this.

The chair in the middle of the room. Aaron, looming over him, stern and disappointed, angry at both him and himself, for not being a better role model.

He was barking up the wrong tree. Lucian was sure people like Aaron found the older zmeu admirable, but he wasn't and would never be like his brother. Lucian didn't want Aaron to blame himself for something that was not his fault.

He still did, of course. He always did. It was likely that he always would, unless someone offed him before moving on to Lucian.

The thought brought a dry chuckle to the youngest brother's lips. An annoyed growl filled the room in response.

'Watch it,' Lucas rasped in a warning tone. 'You're laughing at some dark shit, I can tell. Don't wanna go through that bull again.'

'Again?' Lucian asked lightly, turning in his chair. Aaron's domain in zmeu country was a military base too large for the mundane universe to contain, and its owner had chosen one of the many barracks for this...talk. Yes. Good word.

Lucas met his eyes steadily. He was standing off to the side, the weasel, watching over Aaron's shoulder as he berated Lucian. That, too, would likely never change.

It said something about how shitty things were that Lucian found some comfort even in the blue zmeu's familiar spinelessness. The snitch had only really gotten in trouble with Aaron once, when he'd complained about him visiting rarely only to act like he did at work. Aaron, who'd already been stressed (the previous regime always had him stressed, as opposed to mostly apathetic, like the current one), had grabbed Lucas by the tail and flattened a mountain range the size of Europe with his body.

In the first swing. Lucas had always been more durable than Lucian.

Some would've cried abuse, but the zmeu brothers disagreed. Certainly Lucas didn't begrudge Aaron for that beating. When you were tougher than almost anything on Earth, it took some effort to get things through your thick, regenerating skull.

Lucian had once heard someone say human siblings would behead each other constantly if it was survivable, and he was fairly sure they would. He and his brothers did it all the time!

Well, not all the time. Lucas preferred dismemberment over decapitation, for example, though he wasn't afraid to switch things up.

'Yeah,' Lucas replied. 'The girl did it a while back. Some moron thought they were trying to scare humans, I guess.'

'Ah.' "The girl" was Mia, though Lucas rarely referred to her by name. He was talking about her first and last meeting with her parents. 'Right.' Lucian shifted uncomfortably, then rose from the chair. 'Well...I'm sure she's glad you took care of that.'

Lucas made a dismissive noise, thought Lucian coudn't tell whether his brother was brushing off the reassurance or denying he'd helped at all. He wouldn't put it past the moody cunt, but...damn.

How fucked up were things if he couldn't even read his brothers anymore?

Lucas had never had that problem, hence the snitching. He could always tell when Lucian made a mess or felt guilty about something, then ran to Aaron right away, to rattle off the latest offence.

For his own good, he knew. He had, in a way, known since childhood, though he'd only accepted it in...shit, the nineties? When he was an adult, certainly.

According to his brothers, that hadn't happened yet, and likely never would, but they could go fuck themselves, in Lucian's humble opinion.  He wasn't going against his instincts just because and for little gain! If he had, he wouldn't be...here...

Tch. Damn straight he wouldn't be here. He'd be a pile of rotten sludge in some ditch if he robbed, raped, murdered and ate everyone his instincts told him to.

Lucian would've said there was no point dwelling on that shit on any other day, but he'd followed his gut, and-

His brothers were helping him. Protecting him.

Patronising him. Nothing new. His best interests at heart. He'd have been thankful if he wasn't so worried.

'Luci,' Aaron rumbled. 'I get why you did it. I approve-a little. But I disapprove more.'

Lucian would've made a joke about commie doublethink, but he liked having organs.

'It was self-defence,' Lucian muttered, beginning to pace around the room. 'He hit me first. I hit back.'

'Like you taught him, Aari,' Lucas added in a saccharine voice, digging a cigar out of his jeans' pocket.

'Bitch,' Lucian said between coughs.

'Settle down,' the oldest brother said. 'Yes, I got the subtext, Luc.' Then, to Lucian, 'And if you'd stopped at self-defence, that would've been fine. But you then,' Aaron had too much experience in the Navy to twitch when angry. His youngest brother still reminded him of every annoying, smarmy officer he'd ever commanded combined. 'Essentially kidnapped that ogre in order to torture him for information... blazes-'

'You sound like you're reading that from something,' Lucian pointed out, crossing his arms.

Aaron's eyes moved across the bare bronze walls and ceiling. An old habit of his, pretending to check out rooms in order not to roll his eyes. Many people had praised him for his attention to detail and security over the decades. 'From memory, maybe. I had nothing better to do than read while I waited for you to be released.' Five pairs of eyes closed as Aaron sighed. 'And not from the drunk tank, either.'

'This time-' Lucian started to promise.

'Knock that off,' Aaron snapped. 'I'm not in the mood, and you shouldn't be either.' Ignoring his brother's mouthed "Like you ever are", he continued. 'Now, this whole business reeks of bullshit, and every fibre of my being is telling me it is, too. But we'll get to the bottom of it. I promise.'

'Right.' Burnished Death appeared in Lucian's hands. 'When-'

The zmeu glared at Lucas even as his split skull healed. His brother had crossed the dozen metres between them, flicked his head and returned to his original spot faster than he could see, but Lucian knew it had been him. Lucas raised three pairs of silver eyebrows in response, a blunt in each mouth. Lucian almost tried to hit him back, then noticed something wrong with his brother.

He'd seen Lucas' moustaches weren't groomed, but he hadn't really thought about it. Which, now that he looked back on it, was almost as weird as the fact itself. Lucas always waxed his moustaches so that they curled up at the end-Lucian expected a fascination with Prussia to be revealed any day now-but they were straight and drooping today, bristling like his brother had been caught in a rainstorm, then a blizzard.

He wasn't wearing anything from the waist up, either. Lucas preferred blue and white clothes, because they were his colours, and made a point of rarely going shirtless, in order to appear more civilised.

Lucian's head snapped to Aaron so fast his neck broke, healing just as the older zmeu's faces soured in exasperation. Apart from that, there was nothing unusual with...

Scratch that. There was nothing weird with Aaron. Lucian thought that maybe he'd missed something there too, but he...he hadn't.

'Put your mace aside, Luci,' Aaron said, turning. He was wearing a huge, brown tuxedo and nine top hats, which didn't move at all as he walked. 'By "we", I mean the police, the Supernatural Service and I.' Angry, concerned red eyes burned holes into him as Aaron turned two heads over his shoulders. 'You should have called me or them, by the way. I shouldn't have learned of this shit  after you were put in a cell...'

Aaron trailed off as he felt his youngest brother grab him by his pants, and looked down, expecting petulance.

'Aaron,' Lucian hissed. 'Leave me the fuck alone. I  love her.'

'We'll bring Bianca back,' Aaron said gently. 'I'm just concerned about legality here, Luci. I don't want you getting into trouble any more than I ever have.'

Too late for that, Lucas thought, but swallowed the words, alongside two puffs of smoke.

'And what am  I supposed to do-'

'You're not "supposed",' Aaron made air quotes. 'To do anything. You weren't to begin with. What you should've done was contact law enforcement, or me, failing that. If you wanted to do shit like this, you should've gotten into...' Three heads shook. 'Forget it. I've got to leave.'

'You-' "You're going to run drills and shit while I walk up the walls here?" was what Lucian almost asked. No. His brother wasn't being selfish, just...stubborn. And he couldn't honestly fault Aaron for that. 'You're leaving? Where?'

'I told you, we're going to find her. My senses are pretty decent, as is my intuition. I've got some acquaintances in the Service,' not friends. Never friends. 'Who think I could be helpful, maybe notice things they miss.' Aaron smiled drily. 'Of course, that's what they  told me. Truth is, my harness can make some tools they can't get their hands on...well, without asking FREAKSHOW to lend us Armament, or begging Abraham's god for help. But they know how that goes, same as we do.'

"God provides, but doesn't fill your bag", as the saying went. 'Yeah,' Lucas said, stubbing one of his blunts against his left head's right eye. 'People's potential is too damn precious to stunt. Break a leg, Aari.'

'I will,' Aaron promised, gently shaking his youngest brother off and beginning to walk away.

Lucian wasn't about to let him leave without a parting shot, though. 'Tell me.' Lucian bared his fangs at his brother's back. 'Tell me you don't hate that tusked little dipshit.'

'Don't ask me to lie.' Aaron slowed down, but didn't stop. A section of bronze wall as tall and nearly as wide as an apartment building slid away to accomodate him. It would've been wider, had Aaron not folded and shifted his wings until they fit under his shirt without even making it bulge.

Lucian threw his hands up. 'And you wouldn't have done the same thing in my place?!'

Aaron groaned. 'I don't  know, Luci. I've never loved a woman for her heart.'

The last word still hung in the air as the wall closed behind Aaron.

Swallowing a groan, Lucian turned to Lucas. 'Well?' he snapped. 'Am I on fuckin' house arrest or somethin' now?'

'Of course not,' Lucas answered. 'You can go to your place, if you want, but I'll have to come with you. I have to-promised Aari.' Promised you and myself too, brother, he thought. 'Or we can go to mine.'

'Bleh,  no. Your workshop weirds the fuck outta me.'

'Before I leave,' though distant, Aaron's voice still left echoes in the room, for all that he was outside his home. 'Just so you know: I called Maws.'

'Wha-' was all Lucian managed to get out before the ground shook as something heavy took off and something far, far heavier landed. Almost laughing at the absurdity, Lucian looked up at his brother, eyes shining. 'Don't tell me-he called mom, too?'

'Nah,' Lucas replied, then cracked a couple smirks. 'I did.'

***

'...of yours,' Ileana finished as Andrei passed her the bottle. The weredog wrinkled her nose at the vodka. Though it would have been scentless to a normal human, it reeked of wolfsbane, even through the glass, for all that she was in her human form.

She was close enough to a wolf that her instincts made her hackles rise at the scent of the plant, despite the fact it was harmless to weres, like all toxins.

'I wouldn't call him one...' Andrei began in a considering tone, then stopped, scratching his head. 'No. Definitely not.'

'Explains why you  care so much.' She downed the two-litre bottle, frowned at the taste, then slammed it down onto the bare table, next to the other empty ones. Andrei had promised it would either get better or she'd get used to the taste every few dozen bottles, but after the eighty-fourth one, it still just tasted like wolf poison with extra bitterness, which was all the vodka could add. 'You're a goddamn liar, Dravich.'

'You're tasteless.' He grinned, spinning his hundredth bottle on his pinky. 'If you'll pardon the pun.'

'Don't have to be, when it tastes like shit.'

'Drinking vodka for taste is like drinking coffee for pleasure.' Of course, he knew a guy who'd been doing just that for longer than some people had been alive, but he was dead. The brain had probably rotted before it had literally done so.

'Is that why you put this crap in it?' she snarked, reaching under the table for another bottle. She was still curious, despite his best efforts.

'Actually, that all started because....' Andrei trailed off as she tapped a finger on the table.

'Don't spin another yarn. You've only got bullshit, I can tell.'

'Fine,' Andrei groused. 'Already did this once, anyway.'

'Oh, you're not gonna do it again? It's like having kids, huh? Who was the last unlucky soul?'

'The kid you mentioned.' Andrei crossed his arms on the table, laying his head on them. 'You're lucky you're a hot bitch...'

'Ha!' She attempted a hair flip, but her honey blonde hair was cropped far too short.

'And a friend. Mm...it's pretty funny, you know 'cause it's simple. Werevolves get pissed off by wolfsbane and things derived from it. Just because they can smell it in my guts doesn't mean I can't or shouldn't walk around with the stuff.'

'But  why?' Ileana gestured with her eighty-fifth bottle, making Andrei shift minutely. He was too lazy to shrug, not that his current position helped.

'It's fun. They get angry, we fight. Or bet. Play games. Maybe some she-wolf gets hot under the fur and tries to fuck the annoyance outta her. You know...' He smiled slightly. 'Options.'

'And we've learned to swear by Saint Protection now, haven't we?' Ileana asked, brown eyes half-lidded in an overly seductive face.

'Yes 'm.'

'Good boy. Maybe we'll go for a walk one day.'

'Ugh.' Andrei's head was now on the table, nose pressed against the cold oak, hands over his ears. 'Please. Don't. I don't wanna make things weird between us. Can't we just stay friends?'

'A man is asking me that?!'

'Yes, yes, I'm shocked too,' Andrei muttered, voice muffled. 'Whatever. Too many people today see men and women being friendly and start thinking they're friends with benefits, grinning and nudging each other like they're in fuckin' grade school again and can't wait to blatter about who likes who.'

'Woah.,' Ileana propped her chin in one hand. 'That's pretty deep for you.'

'Look who's talking. Just because I put the "killer" in "hunter-killer" doesn't exactly mean you were an intellectual, lady.'

His friend blew air out her nose, smoothing over her trench coat with her free hand. Under the brown, anonymous coat was her Supernatural Service uniform. Most supernaturals could spot it even through the covering layer, but the fact there was any was a statement: she was, if not undercover, going for anonymous, and drawing attention or trying to remove the coat was a bad idea.

'Smart enough not to get blood on my paws.'

'And whose conscience is heavier, hmm?'

'Like either of us has to sleep.'

'I'd say touché, but I know you think about that shit while you're awake, too.' Weres could sleep, if they wanted to while relaxed enough, but it was unpopular, given the endless well of energy that was their bodies and the fact their senses kept them awake of their surroundings however deep the sleep. Many a would-be assassin had found their silver blade forced through their throats by sheer reflex, before the therianthropic target had even awakened.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Ileana looked away, through the window, the Bites clear as day despite the midnight blizzard. 'You love that zmeu, don't you?'

'I fucking what now?'

The weredog rolled her eyes. 'Who was talking about people being immature dumbasses moments ago? As a  friend, Andrei. Like a brother-fuck. With how you needle each other, I could be convinced you are brothers.'

'Eh.' Andrei waved a hand. 'He's already got two too many.'

Ileana snarled in exasperation. 'You really gotta get over Aaron these days.'

'Lucian does too. And I think you mean he needs to get over being judgemental with no reason or basis.' Some people had sticks so far up their arses, they poked their brains and made them stupid. But not everyone could've gotten a cushy position as a glorified coast guard, not that the nine-headed zmeu hadn't silenced his fair share in the name of duty. He was just too busy to see that had comprised most, but not all of Andrei's-and Ileana's, and Bobi's, and others'-job as a Securist.

Even when they'd hunted the dead living together...pfeh.

'Oh, I know that look.' Ileana stood up, flesh rippling as layers of muscles and fur were added to it, matter being spun from nothing. 'You're about to start hosting the pity party, and I want no part of that tonight. Watch your back, Dravich.'

'I'd rather watch yours,' he joked as the hybrid were walked past him, making sure to paste one foot with a stomp, and snickered as he placed his hands flat on the table and sat up, foot already healed. 'You're lucky I wasn't wearing socks, or that would've been messy.'

'Messy? Messy is playing bloodhound for your scaly boyfriend's girlfriend, Martin,' Ileana said as she unlocked the door. Andrei had given her copies of the keys to his apartment, and even the access measures to a couple of the boltholes he'd decided she might need to enter someday, to either help or kill him. And, if she decided he needed killing, he was likely too far gone, anyway.

The Romanian boltholes, that was. But he had other old friends across the world, eager to help him out of a sticky situation, one way or another. No need to burden her more.

Andrei's chair balanced on its back legs as he slouched, pushing against the table with his feet. It was more like a waist-high solid oak-slab, bigger than some cars, which might've been a problem without the spatial spell he'd had cast on his place. His one and only room had different sections that played the role of kitchen, living room and bedroom.

The bathroom was separate, but that was a room like black was a colour. It would've been like calling the hallway one, and that thing only had a coat rack.

The floor and walls were bare white tile, as Andrei was inclined towards neither carpets nor tapestries, let alone paintings. He had a cupboard for photos, which was more than enough, in his opinion. The only things on the walls were an ouroboros-shaped clock and a square window. It had been circular once, but he'd gotten sick of feeling like he lived in a submarine.

Andrei beat a rhythm on his flat belly-he should really get fatter, he thought; it sounded lame. Weres couldn't change beyond their state after turning, physical flaws aside, but they could hope-, then adjusted his chair, stood up, and began gathering the bottles, taking them to the kitchen section to await washing and refilling. As he did so, he hummed a children's song.

It was a lullaby he'd liked in his childhood, spent drifting between orphanages and schools. Families came and went, and so did he. Step-parents and siblings, some neglectful, some with far too much love to share. Others full of hate, and such ideas about how to express it...

They had taught him well, even outside what they had intended as lessons, and he had made sure to make those lessons his.

And if Securist Dravich had been biased against and extremely unscrupulous when it had come to certain folks, well, there was no use looking at coincidences and seeing patterns. That way laid paranoia and unhappiness.

Andrei had just finished singing off-key for the third time, and was wondering about what it would be like, being able to fall asleep simply because you were tired. Not physically, he barely remembered what that was like, but...

Hrn. The bear in the song had a lot more options when it came to food than Andrei as a child. Slippers, too.  Nice.

Andrei was about to begin the fourth rendition with a minute amount of jealousy in his voice when he heard the echoes-another voice, also male, mumbling the lyrics in a light, sarcastic tone, despite being inexperienced with them, or Romanian in general-fading.

His mind easily slipped back into the patterns set by his training, much as it yearned to fall into his beast's grasp instead.

Ileana's gone; she hasn't returned, or I'd have heard. Fact.

I am-was-alone until an instant ago. Fact.

Someone bypassed my wards, alarms, senses and instincts for far longer than they should've been able to. How?

He finished the last thought as he spun in place, dark brown fur sprouting out of his skin as his nails and teeth lengthened and thickened. His head brushed the ceiling as he looked down at the intruder, beady black eyes widening.

'You?' In his hybrid form, Andrei's voice was far deeper and throatier than his human one, like his words were stumbling over his thick tongue.

He had never met the man before him. He had never seen him, not outside of nightmares-half-fantasy, half attempts by a supernatural mind at ripping the truth free from unreality-and an old, black and white picture, faded and torn, hard fought for and won through cheating.

But he knew. His certainty was as strong as his desire to see that face-plain and sallow, more so due to its ghostly transparency and paleness, moustached and bearded, with two empty sockets: one caved in and surrounded by burns, the other split by a shallow, vertical scar; eyes were no longer needed-and carve it into his soul, alongside his mother's.

'Damn,' Misha Dravich muttered, looking up at his son. 'Worse than I expected.'

***

Constantin was familiar with otherworldly realms. From dream palaces to liminal spaces, he had made, walked and broken dozen over the decades. He had seen and read about vision quests and astral projection performed by the believers of other faiths.

As such, he knew everything that happened here would affect him on Earth. His mind was still his, and he still kept a hold on his body as it thrashed on his living room floor like a worm on a hook, wracked with spasms that left him feeling like his muscles were melting off his bones and had him gritting his teeth until they cracked, so he wouldn't bite his tongue off.

He also knew he had to keep his physical strength in check as his mind was tested, or he would level Romania. God was watching.

Constantin rose to his feet, and the soft, emerald blades of grass he had been laying on became dark, thick, thorny vines, wrapping around his limbs, lashing at his torso, leaving long, bleeding gashes on his skin without piercing his surplice.

The metaphor was so obvious it was almost childish, but perhaps that was the purpose? To make the challenge appear simple so he would lower his guard?

It wouldn't work. It had already failed, Constantin told himself, though he knew the thought smacked of arrogance. He was alert, focusing not on the gibbering, deafening chatter around him, but on the...horizon...

The sun didn't set. Rather, it dropped like a stone, sending a wave of force through the field, and the sea of thorns rose in a tide, past Constantin's knees, past his waist and chest.

They tried to cover his eyes, too, but couldn't. Every step he took only focused him more, revealed more facts about this trial.

For example: though the trousers and shirt under his surplice disappeared like smoke on the wind as the thorns tore at him, from his limbs to his manhood, the bleeding never stopped, or slowed, or sped up. Though his boots were ripped to shreds, until each step tore his feet open and left his bones scraping against each other and the jagged stones under the thorns, there was always just enough of his flesh and blood for him to suffer.

Pain, then. Not death. Was this the plan? Driving him mad through torture, through cruelty?

Foolishness...foolishness...

Thick clouds, black as death and far heavier, filled the sky, but its source-less crimson light still pierced through, setting fire to Constantin's wounds, turning his blood to smoke.

It didn't matter. If all there was here for him was pain, he could do this for eternity. Hardly worse than the Hell he deserved, failure of a father that he was.

Would the people he had killed rather than turned to a better path appear to torment him? It would be...only fitting...

Constantin narrowed his eyes, which, though unharmed, wept tears of thick, clear black blood. There was a new star on the horizon, brighter than any sun could ever be. It made his heart ache more than anything else in this world of bladed lies.

His angel...

***

Rebeca Ghinea stopped smashing her fists against the walls, doors and windows of Father Silva's home. She had arrogantly thought the Lady had brought her here so she could save him, help him, and yet...

And yet. Who said observing could not help? She would pray for him. Faith only showed one they understood nothing of God's mind.

Rebeca placed her hands against the window, and watched Constantin walk in circles around the living room, covered in bleeding wounds, his feet torn to the bone. The priest's beard was frayed and wild, and his black-rimmed eyes rolled into the back of his head as he stumbled, hissing through bleeding lips.

He had stripped off his clothes, remaining only in his habit, which confused Rebeca. Constantin only wore it during services or long assignments that needed him to return home. Had he walked to church to take it and returned without being seen?

Naked?

'Come on, Father...' Rebeca lowered her head, closed her eyes, and began an old prayer, modified to fit her beliefs, as Constantin Silva, locked inside his home and mind, raved and ranted. 'Our Mother, Thou who art in Heaven...'

***

I opened a portal back to the frozen English Channel, closing it behind me with a sigh. Already had survivor's guilt, and this shit wasn't even over.

But Mordred, who appeared next to me out of thin air, only to then speed off towards Britain, had assured me my continued presence in the empty universe would be detrimental rather than helpful. Szabo, or whatever he was becoming, or would become, if he already hadn't, would find his or its way back by itself. And then-

I smiled as Mia leapt at me, breaking my train of thought, and hugged her back, lifting her into the air. She'd have borne me to the ground if I hadn't braced myself, and I wouldn't have minded that, but it was not yet time.

I looked at Paladin, and the opaque, light blue sphere they held in one gauntleted hand. The French agent walked closer, Durandal gripped in another hand, and I felt rather than saw their smile.

'The Lord looks upon your work, and finds it good, David,' Paladin said. 'We shall take this one to an oubliette, until her fate is decided by our masters, and hers.'

'The Unseelie don't really believe in that,' I said, slipping out of Mia's arms with an apologetic look. She smiled reassuringly as I approached Paladin, who huffed dismissively at my words.

'Be that as it may. One would think they'd have learned calling a horse an eagle doesn't give it wings by now.'

'Quite...' I agreed, I think, and focused my godsight on the sphere. Cloudshade was only trapped in it physically, as Paladin was focusing their power on countering her every attempt to break free using hers. Then, with a deep breath, I slipped out of my chains, and pushed them through the sphere, wrapping them around the idea of the Fae.

'You can relax now. No need for that, either.' I pointed at the sphere, which a surprised Paladin hesitatingly dismissed. A chained Cloudshade fell into their palms after they sheathed two swords.

'Ha. We suppose you'll tell us to forget the Mobius cell, too?'

'Don't,' Mia answered before me, echoing my thoughts. 'If David's skinny arse figured out how to escape, you can't know she won't.' Smirking down at me, my girlfriend added, 'Besides, would you deny her the chance to chat with Coldhold before we ship them back to Faerie?'

'Of course not,' Paladin mustered an impressive amount of fake affront. 'We are men of God. Such cruelty is beyond our blackest nightmares.' Then, their voice grew more serious. 'We are going to capture the other Unseelie, David. We might not be your direct superior, but, as senior French Crypt agent, and fellow Christians, we would advise you to go home with your lady.' They inclined their helmet slightly towards Mia. 'There are no more crises you are needed for at the moment...and you deserve the rest.' Paladin raised the hand closest to their heart over it, making a fist in salute. 'We shall speak of your deeds to Head Reem, provided you are not summoned before we meet with her.'

'Thank you,' I replied, and Paladin nodded, then turned, hiding the struggling Cloudshade from view and walking out of reality in a flash of light.

I looked up at Mia with a teary-eyed smile, letting all the tension out. 'I'm so happy you're safe...I'm sorry I couldn't help during-'

'Shut up,' she whispered, hugging me again. 'Shut up. You're going to kill yourself again, and me as well. Paladin had the right of it. Let's go home.'

'Yes,' I agreed, then squeezed her back. 'Darling, it's ok. I can tell.'

Mia sniffed. 'We can celebrate  out of bed,' she joked. 'I only love you, anyway. And I'm not in the mood for jailbirds.'

'Girls don't find crazy criminals hot anymore? What  else changed while I was away?!" I asked in a horrified voice.

'Well,' Mia said lightly. 'I got this lip piercing I want to show you.'

'Really...?' I focused my senses on her smiling mouth, and even my godsight, but couldn't spot anything new. 'Alright, you win.'

'Good boy~'

'Can you give me a hint, at least? I can't see it.'

'Well,  duh. I've still got pants on.'

***

Bermuda Triangle

Hex stared at the clouded skies as disembodied laughter shook them apart, revealing the aether behind reality, and the Void behind that. Nacht giggled in anticipation, like a parent seeing the child they had taught to walk running at them.

Four of the Head were around him, including his own, arms bent inside the folds of his cloak, shifting face hidden by shadows.

Aya Reem stood on Shiftskin's right, holding Ra's power in one hand and Set's in the other, to trammel their newest monster's power or reduce it to nothing.

Leon Gilles stood on his left, wings folded and beak clenched, eyes trained grimly on the rippling horizon. In one claw, he held Ravenstooth, the thick-bladed, triangular stone dagger either stolen from or gifted by Raven, depending as much on the story as the teller. With it, he could cut anything from distances, effectively teleporting things next to him, to concepts out of reality. He could cut someone's power in half, or quarters, or a myriad pieces, rendering them ten thousands times weaker and slower. And for the many immune to such esoteric effects, some of them mightier than the weregryph...well, Gilles had ways around that, too. He could cut away the gap in power betweem him and someone else, or slice them apart with the knife's seemingly dull edge, however durable they were.

Ying Lung was smoking like a chimney, as usual, but this time, every cloud of ivory smoke became replicas of himself, radiating power as much as the smell of burnt ozone.

The thing that slammed down into the waters in front of them, making them shake like they were solid ground but causing no ripples, looked like Loric Szabo-as long as one looked straight at it, and didn't blink. The moment eyes closed or attention shifted, even slightly, its grey skin was replaced by images after images of every horror seen and dreamed by mortal, god or beast across the multiverse.

'We ate them, Herr Doktor Strauss.' Szabo grinned lazily in response to his thought, swaying on his feet. The strigoi had found new leathers on his way home, though these, like him, changed from merely horrific to nightmare incarnate if one stopped paying full attention. 'These are their corpses, singing their own dirges, even in death.' Szabo ran tentacles over the skins, which wailed plaintively in response. 'We ate their nightmares,' he said, eyes gleaming with a feverish light. 'The dream demons and sleep fiends, the clawed murderers and dancing clowns. Only that our newest tenant was feeling lonely~ and we couldn't pass such meals.'

'Such chances at power,' Ying jabbed, to which Szabo smiled guilelessly.

'Would you turn away the chance to pop horrors like balloons?" Szabo leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. 'They all floated, by the way...oh, they did, but not anymore. Well, not  all of them. There are treaties to observe, and heroes born of fright. But now? Nothing that relies on horror can best us. Not only does their existence feed us...the more fear they have the potential to cause, the mightier we grow.'

'Good thing I have hate and anger to use, and envy and loathing to fall back on,' Nacht oozed. 'And  so much more...oh, Emil, I haven't been this happy since our wedding!'

'It's rambling,' Hex reassured the Heads, whose expressions varied from disbelief to amusement. 'We're not married.'

'Metaphorically, Emil...though I suppose you're right. There was no one to witness and  bless us, and that just cannot stand! We can only call it the beginning of our betrothal, then...but worry not. I'll make you my husband yet.'

Hex had, sometimes, quietly regretted his emotions' stunted nature, telling himself they blunted his experiences.

And yet, as Nacht and Szabo laughed together, and his mind was filled with images of a grey-skinned, grey-coated figure in front of a room of corpses, a tongue of white flame snaking out of a mouth as black as the eyes of what had once been only his face, he was almost grateful for it.