Chapter V - Brimstone

[TennyoCeres84]

"You'll get people who are more open-minded like that. Now, let's go see her," Aspasia urged with a smile. She then ventured to the elevator and went inside with the two men, heading toward the second floor and from there, down the main hallway.

***

Neasa readily handed the captive's tentacles to Bucky's head so the Void Weaver could be bound with the manacles. The younger selkie then looked over at Meris. "I didn't realize you had written notes that the Bucks had somehow gotten a hold of," she noted.

The Archmage shrugged. "It was probably during a time when I had to leave without them, and someone found them; the Bucks purchased them through an auction or some other means," she explained.

***

Aislinn smirked and chuckled. "It's a bit odd at times having a boyfriend who has had the memories from other practitioners, but that input is quite useful when it comes to situations like these," she commented. "As for gravitational magic, I've never really thought about using gravitational magic and its uses. Having telekinesis as an ability sometimes takes the place of any spell I might think of."

Having let down her guard a little with their impromptu guest, she quickly ventured into her office and made him a cup of hot herbal tea, the beverage smelling of lavender and chamomile. "This should help with your nerves, Mr. McMahon," she said, handing it to him upon returning.

[IamLEAM1983]

Lucian left the elevator just a few paces behind Meris, the sight of her seemingly causing him to sputter and choke out of a sudden burst of emotion. "Meris!" he called out, age having no bearing on how thready his voice felt in the moment. As she's turn around, the Archmage would see her old friend, spine upright and eyes keen, age relegated to a regal suggestion around his eyes and cheekbones. What began as a chuckle grew as he crossed the space between them, his steps fluid and his gait self-assured. By the time he embraced her, he'd moved to a mixture of bold laughter mingled with a few sobs. He twirled her around and kept her close for a moment, his chest constricting as he felt the aching need to scream his joy for the world to hear - but could only manage a wonder-filled whisper.

"I feel it!" he seethed, not with rage but with pure glee. "I feel it in the walls, the sidewalk, the grass! I feel it reaching into me and cradling my heart, encapsulating my mind! Under the Tree, I could feel earthworms digging tiny channels in the soil; I could even sense Sophia's sap ebbing and flowing! I feel your hair growing on your scalp - I can almost see the lines of force magic follows in this building! Did you feel this way, when you Ascended on your ship?! The waves, your blood, the Chamberlain's blade, the creaking wood around you - all of it a lock, and you its single and perfect key?!"

He shuddered, gripping her wrists as joy almost approached anguish. "I belong, Meris. I saw the Architect, I felt this world's consciousness, the sum of all Dryads and Nexuses - and they accepted me!"

His breath turned into a quiet chuckle that would've seemed mad on anyone else and in any other circumstance, but now served as his best expression of that same fierce joy. "There is so much I can show you, now - so much I have to learn! If I can belong, be freed of the Others' sway, then so can everyone else! So can Nereus! Do you realize what this means?! There is hope, Meris!"

The Void Weaver's eyes brimmed with tears as he then brought his hands to cup his friend's face, seeing her beyond what was merely corporeally perceptible. It wouldn't take much for Meris to understand he was gazing at her through the eyes of a fresh Archmage, marveling at her interconnections, rapt in the world's arcane beauty through the tiny snippet of it she had to offer as a single being.

"You are beautiful, my friend," he whispered, tentacles unconsciously tracing nodes and channeling points along her neck and shoulders.

Behind them, the door to Eirean's office opened, and she partially stepped through. The Lady's stance went from slight unease to a knowing and warm smile, something then forcing her to shift her weight around in her pricey pumps and dab at the corner of an eye as she flashed her teeth and tried not to sob or chuckle out of empathy. Archie fondly looked upon the scene, Coach doffed his hat and offered Aspasia an endeared smile, while Bucky merely grinned at the pair, his big mitts satisfyingly resting against his hips.

"Come on, you Old Country sap," teased Shamus, "go with the Platonic Kiss! Y'can't just tell an old friend the B-word without some bookends, or else it'll just stay awkward!"

Lucian flashed the Clank a look that was half-amused and half-rueful, and then opted to plant a slightly exaggerated kiss on Meris' forehead, adding a Mwah! for good measure. It ripped a few chuckles out of Eirean and Archie, Coach settling with an amused shrug. "Alright," he suggested, let's go over this new hot mess over something from Eir's drinks cabinet, eh?"

The Lady laughed a bit more frankly. "Gladly," she said, smiling from ear to ear. "God, I needed that. We all did, I think.
- I doubt there exists anything strong enough to put me on a come-down yet," Lucian added, grinning just as widely.

As he waited for the old friends to take the lead into the office, Archie managed a few quiet taps of his cane on the floor, near Aspasia. He offered her a smile from behind his immaculate artificial whiskers. "I find we lead a charmed life," he commented, suggesting that moments like these made everything else worth conquering or surviving.

* * *

The human nodded gratefully and took a decent sip as he sat down, immediately looking like his core had climbed up a few degrees. "Thank you," he said. "The Herald isn't too sure about what's keeping you folks so busy," he said, looking at the others, "but I tend to lean on the side of those columnists and editorialists who figure you've got reasons enough to be. I'm guessing you'll want my numbers and a few cards, right?"

Drake returned to his coffee and pushed the plate of cookies towards Rob. "From experience, we won't have a lot of folks to land Attempted Manslaughter charges onto in short order," he said. "Just a handful of dead or addled cell donors with faces matching your attackers'. I hope we'll get something out of the pseudo-ghoul, though. He might be dead - he's a dead ringer for the illegal use of Necromancy."

He smirked. "Terrible pun, I know. Jokes aside, though, luck has it one of Tom's allies had to pick up Aristide Duvivier at the airport, today. Club Ishtar's got its second barman.
- Who's he?" asked McMahon. "Sounds kind of French."

Tom rolled a wrist. "Haitian Creole, actually. Close enough, though. He's like a lot of vampires in that he's a lot more than his roots or his accent, now. When I managed to track him down, he was living in Paris as an American expatriate, working for the Midnight Society. They're our Parisian analogue, with a bit of an all-supernatural focus."

Three nodded. "Bertrand Troy, right? He's their leader, I think. Tall, kinda chunky Guildmate who lived as a Templar Knight?"

Tom clicked his tongue, correcting the human. "Bastien de Troyes," he said, affecting pitch-perfect French pronounciation. "Chrétien's bigger brother, initially lost to time."

McMahon obviously couldn't wrap his mouth around that second French name, either. "Who's that - Kray-tienne duh twah?" That left Tom shrugging. "Chaucer's original French translator, the main source behind the popularization of Tristan and Isolde's love story. I remember thinking all that chaste, pious love was a bit too much, so I slipped a few extra handwritten folios in my copy, adding in some naughty bits."

Three rolled his eyes and snorted. "Chivalry's absolutely dead."

[TennyoCeres84]

The Archmage had been overcome by joy for her friend's achievement, all decorum leaving her as the tears ran. "Welcome home, old friend," she congratulated him in a whisper, returning the platonic kiss on the forehead. "This day has been long in waiting for many, some known and probably many more unknown, but I'm thrilled that you have joined with the World's Breath, Lucian."

At the suggestion of drinks, Meris chuckled heartily. "I think we could do with a few, before the battle," she agreed.

"Several years ago I might not have agreed with you, but today, I do," Aspasia responded with a big grin as she followed with the rest of them into the office.

***

"Or just stop following monks' definition of chivalry," Aislinn jokingly countered, scoffing. "Trying to adhere to a celibate's rendition of love and the journey that it takes you on isn't always compatible with the same insights that a spiritual life has. Though, there are some similarities, but the goal isn't necessarily union with God, but a deeper understanding of your love."

[IamLEAM1983]

"Somehow, I doubt Chrétien de Troyes got the memo," added Three. "To go back to our main topic, I think Aristide could maybe figure out how the undead creatures were made.
- But you can't place charges on a zombie," noted McMahon. "So what do you plan to do?
- We find out if the necromancer involved has a specific technique or a signature, and we..."

Drake paused, shook his head and blinked. "We, um, track it to the necromancer in question. It might have to wait for after the bigger events, since..."

He stopped again, noticing how Tom was kneading one of his temples with a hand, his brow furrowed. "Um, Tom...?
- It's nothing - maybe just a combination of the recent exertion and all the home improvement we've been finishing up. Head's sort of pounding."

Slowly, Aislinn would feel as though focusing was becoming harder. Even if panic or understanding of the situation settled in, via would soon feel almost impossible to channel. It wasn't so much a case of her losing her abilities, as of her mind suddenly being unable to focus on the usual triggers. Somewhere behind her, Gubbin had reverted to his feline self and curled into a ball, one eye occasionally creaking open as a wary and unfocused low yowl left him. Robert reacted by recoiling away from the group with a gasp.

"Oh, no," he said, sounding rather concerned, "um, try and stay conscious! I'll go get help - I'm sure I can find a phone around here!"

Three attempted to telepathically reach for Aislinn, but found it akin to lifting a small boulder. The Lexicon felt distant and numb, the back of his neck furiously tingling. His conjured Fae weapons seemed almost impossible to focus on. Considering, he closed his eyes and placed all of his attention on the roane, laboriously pushing a few words through as he pushed his cup away and laid his head between his folded arms, on the table.

"Play possum. Save your strength. We'll know what we're up against in a few minutes. Just stay conscious."

By now, Tom had more or less collapsed, as if he'd attempted to splay himself out on the table for added support. His neck's bad posture resulted in a copious amount of snoring, even as his brow furiously moved and furrowed. The demon was obviously attempting to wrest control back over the body he rode in, but couldn't seem to manage more than the errant finger twitch.

Switching to Tom was even harder. "Stop," pushed out Three, pain tinging the transmission as a small rivulet of blood slowly oozed from one of his nostrils. "Stay collected, stay calm. We're too close to a big event for this to be random. This means we aren't in immediate danger. Wait until someone comes along to talk to us. This has to be a mild dosage - there wouldn't be much gloating or demands to make if we were out cold."

* * *

Eirean's office wasn't quite as palatial as Vernon's Frosthall, but it did manage to combine a sense of modern entrepreneurship with a few lasting touches from the mustier ends of the United Kingdom's history. Muted paisley patterns in cycling colors waited over a green background, lighting up the dark wainscoting and polished hardwood flooring. A few seasonal touches had been added, starting with two big potted poinsettias, a smallish Christmas tree next to her private fireplace, and a few ornaments carefully placed across the room in order to look both carelessly abandoned as well as exactingly placed amid set displays. Her private lounge boasted a few false candles with flame-shaped bulbs, a number of acorn and holly-covered table centers, and a soapstone candle holder carved in the shape of a snowy and sleepy Victorian cottage. She headed for her drinks cabinet while giving the group a smile. Even Bucky had a fitting seat in what looked like a slightly oversized throne. He gave it an appraising grunt and looked back at the Lady as he sat down. 

"I thought Evergloam would've wanted to stick to its old chestnuts.
- I wasn't about to let Hell burn down a throne grown for me out of enchanted elk horns by Titania herself, Shamus," lightly admonished the Fae dignitary. "I don't care if the Pit burns down what took its place; I used it to pile books or papers on. Seating arrangements out of Game of Thrones are a dime a dozen on Amazon, anyway. Cheap replicas, at least."

With everyone having been offered refreshments, Eirean took one of the armchairs in the lounge, being sufficiently positioned as to allow her to look to everyone without craning her neck too much.

"So," she began, "what can our newest member of Merlin's kith and kin do, I wonder?"

Lucian had removed his flat-cap and overcoat and had tucked his scarf aside. The previously slightly baggy tweed suit he wore now seemed to fit him like a glove, rejuvenated muscles having taken up space around his spine, waistline and shoulders. He still looked lean and trim, but now affected the kind of leanness associated with sensibility. His eyes flitted downwards as he realized just how straight he happened to be sitting, and he brought his hands to his knees, kneading flesh that had once been painful. One hand then went up to the opposite shoulder, the joint tested as if to check for old sores. He then looked upon his hands, which still looked weathered, if now possessed of the kind of stability he'd lacked for generations.

"Well, I..."

He faltered, looked around the room, being seemingly at a loss, and then chuckled in a self-deprecating manner. "I'm not so much as sure I could put it into words, Milady.
- Then attack it piece by piece," she suggested. "Start with the base concepts, even if they'd be obvious to us."

Lucian paused again and looked to Meris as if gazing at her helped to jog his ability to synthesize concepts. He then raised a hand and snapped his fingers, a single flame resting atop his index and middle finger.

"To most practitioners, from hedge mages to most Archmages, via is the lifeblood of Creation. I mean this in the sense that it fuels the act of creating, no matter if one addresses this on the scale of the Maker creating our world, or of my conjuring this single flame. Studies have shown that even writers and musicians channel arcane power, even if they themselves are not necessarily gifted in the ways required to consciously harness it. Magic harmonizes around music, it coalesces in displays of color coordination and pattern recognition. Nature creates its own patterns, so therein magic is also found. However, there always is a certain preferential bias, the sense that things are how we perceive they should be, or how Nature seems to prescribe its own evolutionary paths. Magic isn't rigid Order, but it also is not overriding Chaos."

The flame followed his index as he traced a rectangle in midair, translucent elements soon coming into view within it. It looked like a widescreen LCD display conjured out of nowhere, one that displayed what looked like someone's Python assembly project. "Ask a linguist, and they'll tell you the mortal capacity for self-expression is limitless. Nothing prevents grammar from fluctuating over the centuries, nothing but whimsy and favor saves certain idioms and dooms others. Now, ask a programmer, and you'll hear something altogether different: systems and rules are in place. They dictate what Can and Cannot be, the ways in which a computer can use its orderly processes to express the chaotic wonders of the living world's imagination. Controlled Chaos from Order has a name, in coding circles: we call it procedural generation. Creation by process. All Mages can see is the process. Meris has seen paintbrushes and fire and gravitational eddies, but never the scaffold of the Real."

Rothchild paused and drew in a breath. "It is believed that my distant ancestors could see the world as God does. They did not possess the same agency or control, but could discern flaws in the making that went beyond simple and structurally necessary applications of random or arbitrary factors. They, in a sense, could see that scaffold, and interacted with it freely. In past Creations, if past iterations of the Thrones became corrupted, then past iterations of my people rectified them. Other pupils failed, gave in to frustration or cruelty, consequently attempted to poison the cycle's favored Creator and its Creation - and we rectified it. If the Celestial Thrones are God's software, then we are Her antivirus, as provided to her by the Architect."

He looked to the group. "I see that scaffold."

The Void Weaver then stood up and extended a hand towards the baywindow behind Eirean's desk. He paused, and then gestured as if to grip its middle seam with both hands, tiny circlets and sigils of power forming around his fingers. He then pulled his hands apart, the window and the entire world outside rippling with an oddly resonating clatter, streets and buildings turning fractal as they spun away, blooming both in and out of themselves in flowers of steel, asphalt, concrete and slumbering trees. Strangely, the street's din was unbroken underneath the sound of Potentiality being laid bare, as if on some level, nothing of an extraordinary nature was happening. Centennial Park seemed to elongate, then broke off into two mirror images, one matching the park's wintering phase and the other bright green with summertime vigor. The kaleidoscopic effect eventually snaked its way back to the Greenvale, the desk and chairs and ornaments shattering into a dozen pieces each that spun and whirled, revealing themselves to be wholly intact manifestations of the same object. Doors multiplied and bloomed out of each other in an endless cycle, Eirean's fireplace now turned into an entrancing pit of yawning marble and unfolding flames, unwinding again and again. The room's hardwood floor turned into smooth, cool, yet flowing golden-brown lava, the previously immobile whorls in the pulp of each blade swirling like sand in oil, its angular blades projecting outwards into endlessly blooming Mandelbrot projections of geometric precision and beauty.

His feet leaving ripples in the wood, Lucian took a few steps. "Endless possibilities, universes upon universes... Infinity laid bare. Little of it all is for me to harness, but I do sense its energy - its potential. Via reaches across Space and Time to search for itself, and inevitably finds itself, as well: in universes, dimensions or potentialities diverse and different from our own. The heat of suns light-years away, the lightning of tomorrow's thunderstorm - it lies even in those dark, wounded places my former jailers call home, where it twists, darkens and corrupts. Via, White Speech, Black Speech, telekinetics or alien willpower - all fractal facets of the same coin. We only ever pay heed to Light and Dark, but so many shades remain to be seen, so many colors to behold..."

Coach's whiskey glass was long gone, by now. "I don't think I know who'd like this more, honestly," he asked. "Merlin, or Stephen Hawking?"

Rothchild chuckled and gestured, the fractals blooming back and away into geometric normalcy, the cracks in the world's mirror-sheen healing themselves and the multitude of objects in the room returning to Eirean's familiar and finite numbers.

"I'm no god," he clarified. "I've shown you what the Architect calls the Threshold, the point where his far and few active servants can return to Him, if need be. A crack in the Real, willingly placed and sheltered by God, to be used by someone like me or George Gammell. An impervious laboratory, an infinite fortress, a barred cage for threats meant to be kept out of the Real - the Threshold is all of the above. I might draw upon this world's via, but the shape and intent of my spells come from there. Shields from other gravitational fields, fire from a single quark's erratic dance, blades of sharp glass as swords, picked out of the edges of the Real..."

Lucian shrugged lightly. "This is as much as I can show you all, apart from what you'll see once the battle begins. The rest, I'll leave to Meris alone. She currently is the only one here I trust to withstand the effort needed to pass through the Threshold bodily - her mind was already opened in Dalarath. Please, I ask that you do not construe this as arrogance on my part - Meris does know of what I speak."

[TennyoCeres84]

Given that her last position had been standing after giving the man some tea, Aislinn had to quickly enough find a padded bench to lay on, if she didn't want to fall over and hit her head. Frustrated at whatever or whoever was making her feel this way, she heard Three's words in her mind and did her best to follow his instructions to save her strength and be calm. The young Archmage found lolling to the side whenever she tried to focus or move it. Remaining conscious was also a difficulty as her eyes constantly drooped.

The roane internally wondered what in the world was going on. Was the human some unknowing plant? Was the necromancer nearby? A foggy thought recalled the conference from earlier and Belphegor's promise of a most satisfying slumber; was this it? The need to know what was causing the sudden fatigue had her hissing in aggravation.

***

"The best way I can explain it is the way Thrones can't reveal their true forms; they're too expansive for most minds to handle. Void Weavers are one of those exceptions. The Architect and the Real work on this same principle. It probably works on mathematical principles physicists might just be dipping their toe into, but they likely won't understand it entirely or ever," Meris explained.

"As Lucian said, it's not out of arrogance, but more like a set of programming that's laid out to understand the world you typically see in front of you. I gained access to some of it through some weird fluke in my brain's biology and training."

Aspasia had finished her cup of brandy off, and she mulled over what she had just seen in her mind. "From what I've heard from the gruffs, the fauns of old could pick up on the currents of via and feel the splendor of the Mother's creation," she recalled. "They mused that's part of why they were such adaptable survivors."

[IamLEAM1983]

An odd voice rang out from the lobby, like human speech doubled and passed through a filter of TV static. "Swinburne, orders are to cripple them. Sharpe wants them tested during the invasion. I hope you didn't tweak their beverages too much."

Another voice replied, slightly thready with age, but light with confidence and relish. "Riding the plant's visual feed wasn't too hard, neither was slipping a few tasteless narcotics in molecular form in their drinks. As long as I get what I came for, the rest doesn't concern me."

Rob could be heard struggling as well. Someone, or something, had caught up to him and was holding him. "What is - WHAT IS THIS?! WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!"

Swinburne hummed thoughtfully and could be heard approaching McMahon. "Your fear's interesting, little man... You might serve as a decent appetizer. First things first, though. Let's group you together again."

Three kept his eyes open as best he could while the invaders entered the kitchen. The Void Weaver named Swinburne wore no Flesh Mask, but looked to have endured some of Amaxi's wrath in the past: he seemed sufficiently sustained, but had crow's-feet you typically didn't see in Loyalists. He'd lapsed somehow and then fallen back in Her favor. Something about him felt particularly self-cultivated, if not prissy or precious. He then noticed the sparse, if coarse fur along the nape of Tom's neck was standing up, his grunts and snorts having gone up in intensity. He truly was struggling against whatever narcotic they'd imbibed, and intermittently managed to ball up a fist.

Max Swinburne seemed to take notice of this and approached the group, freely handling the limp and defenseless vigilantes. "Oh, no!" he said, feigning concern, "they'll pull a muscle if left like this! I really should've exerted more control, mister McMahon, maybe have you pilfer a few pillows to prop their necks and heads with... Can't be helped, I suppose."

He busied himself with moving Three and Aislinn, the soldier's arms feeling like dead lumps. Swinburne's helpfulness didn't inspire confidence in Drake, as a few strange uniform and balaclava-wearing men handled them. They were carried to the Huntsman's Room and properly seated, the Void Weaver producing a small roll of tape. He used it to pin Aidan and Aislinn's eyelids up. "There we go," he said, grunting slightly as he surveyed his work, "I need you two to be properly positioned and reasonably comfy for what's to come. You see, Atticus McKinley's antics here were a test. You escalated your responses to him as we expected you would, and he gradually lost all refinement as you placed him between a rock and a hard place. Don't worry - I'm speaking of your group in general. I know you three didn't reduce him to a snoring heap; others did. My contacts in the Loyalists did manage to ding the Christmas Devil, however. You have to take your victories how and whenever you can. It's the cornerstone of a positive attitude."

Max then quirked a hairless eyebrow at Drake. "You're worrying about Gubbin, mister Drake. Don't bother, he's a tough one. I instructed my men to take him to his room and lock the door. You're also wondering about McMahon. He wasn't a willing accomplice, if it helps you. A few key words to hook onto him, a few creations of a friend of mine to give him reason enough to run into your arms - and all I needed was to ride his sensory stream while waiting in my car, a few blocks away. I more or less managed to spike your drinks remotely. It's a creation of mine - something analogous to kurrare. Your consciousness is active while your body remains malleable and compliant. I also designed it to sever your connection with the Lexicon for the next several hours. That renders you effectively powerless, by the by..."

Something shifted in Max as his eyes widened, and he lightly chuckled. "Well, I'll be! You found out how to use telepathy despite my neural agent! Being around selkies is starting to do you good, Aidan! To answer your question, I'm being paid to add a few layers of complexity. Phineas Sharpe wants to make sure you'll keep the Halcyon Collective in mind, while fighting Hell. When the smoke clears, my creditors intend to take their piece of America. To answer your corollary question - no, I'm not double-crossing Sharpe for the Loyalists."

He sidled over to Tom and rested a hand on the incubus' chest. "I'm too much of a pleasure-seeker to agree with robe-wearing zealots, and it pleases me to help your friend Tom remember what he is..."

Max's hand slid downwards and rested on one of the warthog's thighs, a single tentacle lightly touching the side of Tom's snout. The warthog's body shuddered in response, his lips quivering in a snarl.

"Yes," quietly seethed the Squid. "in the early days, you wanted them all. In your arms, the pit of your stomach, around your lips... Close to a month without the old bliss, and you thought you'd kicked the habit, didn't you? Aislinn alone sufficing - seriously? Perish the thought, Tom Magnus! I'm here to remind you of all the ways you'd wanted to express your gratitude - and for the desire to burn like a firepit in your gut. Madness is for amateurs, dear Warlock - you and I both know Desire runs this world."

Tom's eyes slowly creaked open, the entirety of their expanse now filled with a blazing field of crimson. "I... never did thank you enough, Three. I'll take you first, show you how grateful I can be."

He looked up to the Void Weaver with a low, tumescent groan. "Free me, Swinburne. I'll show him."

The Void Weaver offered Aislinn a mean grin. "Let's see if the sauce's taken, first... Mister Magnus - kiss me first, if you please."

The warthog shuddered and snorted. "Anything. Anything you want, Max."

The Void Weaver slowly and deeply kissed Tom, the warthog's body jolting upon contact, lips locking and tongues snaking.

Three's eyes were bloodshot, by now, and he was screaming along his telepathic connection. "NO!! TOM, GODDAMNIT! SNAP OUT OF IT, THIS ISN'T YOU! AISLINN'S RIGHT NEXT TO YOU! TOM! TOM!!!"

* * *

"The Fauns were - or will be - sensitive to some manifestation of the same totality I felt," summarized Rothchild. "Their eyes are open, only so as to make them aware of what requires protection. Full comprehension would dwarf all of your ancestors' efforts, miss Robertson, perhaps even render their efforts moot - but what they knew, they knew intimately. That sufficed entirely."

He approached Meris. "This might last a while according to your perceptions," he warned her. "You'll effectively return before I so much as lift my thumb away from your forehead, but crossing the Real requires adaptation. The best way the Architect found to initiate those adaptations was to affect distance. Considerable distance. This will quite possibly be the most excruciating astral voyage you could ever undergo."

Lucian stopped, letting his friend digest this. "Whenever you're ready, dearest."

[TennyoCeres84]

If Aidan could still reach out telepathically, Aislinn realized she could as well. She immediately broadcasted to Ciaran and Neasa, since she was well familiar with their minds. HELP! A SQUID NAMED MAX SWINEBURNE INFILTRATED HOLDEN HALL! HE'S GOT TOM'S ID AT THE REINS AND IS THREATENING TO HAVE US RAPED! HE DRUGGED US, SO WE CAN'T MOVE! SHARPE'S BEHIND IT!"

Meanwhile, with her forcibly opened eyes focused on the current scene of Tom making out with Max, she felt her anger coil in her. She sent a double whammy of sending a solid punch to the warthog's jawline and also blasted his Id's memory of the time she had gained control during their Heiros Gamos, of how much she loved him and her strength."TOM, WAKE UP! SWINBURNE'S CONTROLLING YOU! DON'T LET HIM DO THIS TO US! YOU FOUGHT ASMODEUS AND YOUR SIBLINGS' WHIMS; FIGHT HIM, PLEASE!! DON'T LET THIS SHITHEAD MAKE ALL YOUR PROGRESS BE IN VAIN!!"

***

Back in the galleries beneath the Tree, Ciaran's face blanched at his twin's message and hurried to get the only nearby Void Weaver to aid him. "Grimley, I need your help now! Some Squid named Max Swinburne is at Holden Hall, and he has Tom, Three, and Aislinn hostage! He's drugged them, and he has Tom's carnal side under his control!"

***

"I haven't let obstacles stop me before, Lucian, and I'm not about to let them stop me now," Meris responded. "Go ahead."

Meahwhile, Neasa received Aislinn's message and audibly gasped, then cupping a hand over her mouth. She turned to the rest of the gathering and explained, "Max Swinburne's at Holden Hall; Sharpe sent him, and he's got Tom's incubus side in control! Three and Aislinn can't move because they've been drugged!"

[IamLEAM1983]

What Aislinn loved of Tom was there, barely a whisper under the roaring current of lust - but it being weak didn't preclude it from fighting. Aislinn would very clearly sense that something deep and primal in the incubus knew something was wrong. Swinburne seemed to sense it too, as he egged him on. "That's it," he said, "a young soldier, still so fresh and inexperienced, yet so scarred already... Haven't you longed to ease Drake's pain before, mister Magnus?"

As Tom's bonds were cut, Three sent a look and a pained expression towards Aislinn, his thoughts expressing both sheer panic and the way his training pushed him to ignore his fear. "Here's what's going to happen, Ais," he sent her. "As long as Tom's toying with me, we're gaining time. We've both pinged the others, they'll need time to get here. I bet my ass that this idiot has contingencies for our most obvious responses, so not everyone's going to make it."

His thoughts paused, radiating both wordless revulsion and empathy towards Tom, as the warthog stroked his chin with a finger and licked his cheek. They they resumed haltingly, interspersed with more flare-ups of disgust. "Whatever he does," reminded the human, "remember that his real self wouldn't have thought of it in a million years. He's been a part of mortal civilization and culture for too long for this to reflect who he is."

Another pause, as Tom went in for an obscenely deep kiss, moaning the whole while. Aidan's nostrils flared as he forced himself to keep his breaths even, and it wouldn't take much to understand that the warthog was furiously trying to tease Drake's own tongue - with Aidan refusing to respond.

"He's haywire," he then posited, Three's own sense of proprioception now feeling slightly numb or distant. "We can use that to our advantage."

She'd then feel Three's mind turn to Tom's own overwhelmed consciousness - and would see Three apparently giving in, which elicited a throaty chuckle from the still orally-fixated Warlock. Three closed his eyes and forced himself to reply in kind, disgust still present, if now marshaled constructively.

"You know I can't possibly want you like that, Tom, right?
- I don't care," growled the anthro's desperately lust-laden psyche, "I want you like I've wanted everything else in the beginning. I want you so much it kills me - and it'll kill you." 

A pause. Three set the bait. "Do you want me enough to do as I say, Tom?"

The warthog shivered and snorted, as in the old days. "For a time, at least," he sent, one of his hands now working past Three's tee-shirt.

Drake forced himself to arch his back and look away as unwanted licks and hickies were strategically placed against his torso and abdomen. "Then, Tom, I want you to take Aislinn with a single kiss, exactly like you did at the end of the Hieros Gamos ritual. I want to feel that she feels the same way. We're telepathically connected, so I'll know if you succeed. I want you to lie so well you start believing in it. Fail, and I'll direct the Lexicon to kill me and to use my corpse to kill Swinburne."

Tom's lust-laden mind slowly worked through it all. "You want me to rekindle those lost embers - to lose myself to weakness again. Then, I'll have your leave to take you.
- Precisely," bitterly replied Three's mind. "Anyone looking to screw me to death has to do it my way."

Tom's gestures slowed, then paused. Swinburne's looks turned suspicious as he surveyed the scene. "Is there a problem, mister Magnus? Do you need a reminder of your own pressing needs, perhaps?"

Tom's glowing and ember-like eyes were half-lidded. "No, we've simply set terms. Dessert before the main course - despair before shame. I admire a man who knows what he wants, Max."

The warthog then turned to Aislinn, his demeanor cruel and hungry. "I'll take the sea pup, first."

Aislinn would feel the ghost of Three's hand clutching hers from behind the chair. "Trust me," he sent.

Around them, shadows were oddly flickering, while chimes could be heard accompanying odd crystalline artifacts at the edges of the soldier and selkie's fields of view.

One of the soldiers' radios chimed. "Alpha - sightings confirmed. Breaches attempted, containment measures holding."

Another chime. "Beta. Fractals and shadows confirmed. Containment holding."

A long pause.

"THETA - I SEE ZEDS! ZEDS IN THE WOODS! PRIME ASSET HAS BREACHED PERIMETER!"

* * *

Grimley had bodily thrust himself towards one of the pools of inky darkness, only to hit the unyielding surface of stone underneath the somehow-commonplace shadow. He shook his head, eyes moving every which way like a dazed cartoon character. "Did anyone get the number of the truck that just hit me?" he asked, his voice woozy.

Arthur was understandably more concerned. "Now the reserves and medical stations are out of reach," he groused, then stopping with a shout as he saw a vampire pull on a partially immersed Freak's legs. "NO! We're undead, you idiots - we don't need air or the same pressure values! Pimpleskin's going to be fine - he just can't scream all that well with stone fused with his flesh! Chip him out or carve him out, and you're likely to finish the job! Just wait until we find a way to re-establish our command over shadows, and don't worry about the people in the wards! We've all got a job to do, and they're doing theirs!"

He then offered Ciaran, Sophia and Alana a resigned look as he adjusted his cufflinks. "It's back to basics, friends - supernatural parkour for us, the wonders of the automobile for the boy!"

Phineas rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Your ego can survive having a young selkie adult on piggyback, Holden - I've seen you bench-press jam-packed SUVs away from obstructions!"

A few other refugees and vampires added their own baleful looks, which left the local leader groaning. "Alright, alright - fine. I'll stick a hand under your knees and the other arm underneath yours, once we're outside," he told the roane. "Don't get any ideas," he added, "and no Twilight references. If I bring you in close, it's to save you from a concussion or broken bones - and nothing else!"

* * *

Neasa had scarcely finished that Lucian had balled up a fist and then extended it forwards, projecting a green disc covered in hitherto-unknown sigils in front of himself. He turned his wrist, part of the lounge's view turning as though it had been painted or applied onto a set of rotating tumblers. Segments clicked, the distant ticking of the Architect's vigil was faintly heard, and the spinning segments slowly assembled a view of Holden Hall's Huntsman's Room. As he progressed, however, Rothchild looked increasingly strained, until his teeth showed behind his tentacles, locked in a fixed grin of effort.

"Nodens preserve me," he gasped, as he let go, "translocation was one of the first potential disciplines I studied, back in Dalarath! This has no reason to be so hard!"

Archie's eyebrow quirked. "Nodens? As in the Old God from the Chtulhu Mythos?"

Lucian shook a hand to express partial agreement. "We'll save that for later. Meris is every bit my equal as an anthropologist; she knows that Nodens has Celtic roots - as did one of the larger Void Weaver colonies, from before our corruption. We were water-borne and freely interacted with the British Isles' Paleolithic cultures. A few of the Black Speech's diphthongs actually stem from corrupted Gaelic - but none of that matters, your friends need saving!"

Eir ventured closer, her features pale as her Mantle no longer ruled over Hope's skies at least until late April. "Then extrapolate a point of ingress," she said. "You're blocked off from teleporting us all in one fell swoop. If we can't negotiate a frontal attack, we can sneak in from elsewhere."

Archie ventured closer. "Feel free to probe my mind, sir," he told Lucian. "Every nook and cranny of the mansion is known to me. If a spot should be weaker in all this Eldritch fortification, you shall find it in there," he said, poking at his right temple. It didn't take much for Rothchild to lower his eyes and shyly extend a hand towards the Clank, his eyelids fluttering after a while.

 He raised his head a few moments later. "I have it," he said, his tone determined. "However, I doubt many among you will appreciate it: we should proceed through the unused coal mound in the basement."

Loren managed a light sneer. "As if we couldn't survive the thought of assaulting our enemies while momentarily covered in coal dust... I'll lift the stuff off of anyone who asks, once we're done."

[TennyoCeres84]

The drug had started to make the roane look like a slack mannequin, but Aislinn used some of her willpower to focus her eyes on the warthog rather than loll in whichever direction her head had tilted.

Inwardly, her mind was trying to figure out what had allowed the root to come forward, while Tom's more humane side was barely a whisper. As Three had observed, the warthog seemed haywire, erratic even. During the Heiros Gamos, she accepted all of the warlock, including his more primal urges. Had Swinburne tweaked the Id's perception of the ritual and sealed his typically more dominant persona away in his consciousness? Had the Id become jaded toward the relationship and doubted it, thus allowing him to be more easily swayed by Max's low-hanging fruit that promised flesh and pleasure without none of the commitments?

With her lover's more volatile aspect before her, she wanted to go along with Three's plan to stall the demon as much as possible, to give their friends needed time to get to the mansion. How much would be a repeat of their previous night? If he was going to lie to himself to the point of believing what they had created was true, she understood that she would need to follow through and recall those intense emotions and sensations, as that time had been a display of their equality as lovers, practitioners, and friends. The selkie very much wanted to rekindle that flame within the incubus and would do her damnedest to see that through with him.

"Come on, Obi-wan; your padawan's waiting," she teased in a telepathic whisper.

***

Ciaran snorted. "Yeah, yeah, no glitter references or saccharine kisses; I got it!" he retorted. "Let's just hustle to Holden Hall and keep that son of a bitch from getting what he wants!"

***

"Better covered in coal dust than leave our friends at the mercy of Swinburne!" Neasa responded sharply.

"Onward and upward then," Meris said to her old friend, nodding for him to plot their course to the coal mound in the basement.

[IamLEAM1983]

As he said he'd do, Three kept an eye on the proceedings. Tom leaned in, looking entirely too hungry and not exactly loving, and kissed Aislinn fully. A shudder took him, driving him to press in a little closer. Head and tongue worked, Aidan acting the part of a necessary voyeur, for about two minutes. The warthog then parted, leaving a tendril of saliva between himself and the roane. Three opted to channel the Black Goat and tried to compose his features in the best look of regal boredom he could manage at present.

"That was awful," he sent to Tom's Id. "I didn't feel shit. I guess you won't mind if I off myself and kill your new best friend, then."

Tom extended a hand towards Three. "Wait! Wait. I'll do it. Damn you for forcing me to do this, Asmodeus is asking so much of me!" he seethed. He then backed off, closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and leaned in again. The Infernal sheen in his eyes had lessened to a degree, only to disappear behind his lowered eyelids. Then, as promised, he kissed Aislinn as meaningfully as he had during the ritual's end. By now, however, Swinburne had caught on to what was happening.

"We've got a clever one, I see," he said, teeth clenched as he stomped towards Aidan and landed a backhand across the soldier's face. That, luckily, provided Three with enough adrenaline to partially override the narcotic. He grinned despite the reddened left side of his face.

"It's not me you should be worried about, asshole," he replied, his speech still a tad slurred but now mostly comprehensible. In the same instants, just as the truth of Tom's waking love began to overpower the roots of his Infernal lust, a bit of Hellfire focused through a fingernail enabled him to cut the roane's bonds and free her arms from the back of the chair. His second kiss was just as deep, but grew ever more genuine by the second. When he parted from her, it was with a thoughtful grunt, as well as the burgundy eyes he'd shown since freeing himself of Asmodeus' control.

"I don't usually enjoy going from encroaching terror to conjugal mushiness in the span of a single blackout," he said, "but I think I'll derive some schadenfreude out of knowing who's going to pay for it all..."

Swinburne opened his mouth in alarmed protest, but Tom partially turned around, arm extended and snarl fixed on his features. A wave of Hellfire followed his arm, conjured in mid-air and sent straight at Swinburne's face. The mixture of  kinetic force and heat that had comprised it both blew the Void Weaver back, making him collide against the Huntsman's Room's fireplace - and also seared the right side of his face. Tom watched him scream for a moment and then used another burst of kinetic magic to knock out the Squid and snuff out the flames that had been eating away at him. That done, he gave Aidan a quick look.

"Hold on, Private - I've got designer molecules to burn out of my girlfriend's axons and dendrites!" he said, then cupping Aislinn's face. "Another one for the road," he joked softly. "Call it Listerine for the Brain."

Three's telepathic barb was a tad sarcastic but obviously understanding. "Oh, sure - let's all just ignore the guy who schemed us out of here and go back to snogging faces. That and Swinburne's henchmen, natch."

As the name indicated, Tom's now-third kiss was less sensual or earnest than the previous one, now acting as a focus for the desired task of sending motes of Hellfire along the roane's central nervous system. The result felt like a rather sedate come-down, lucidity poking through the Squid's designer cocktail as tiny bursts of Tom's penchant for dark joy fired off in McConmara's brain. In the back, Swinburne's knocked-out henchmen began to stir. "Hurry it up, Casanova!" prodded Three, who now had enough stamina to nervously eye the stirring and previously knocked-out soldiers.

In the back, gunfire was then heard. The chatter of two rifles popped in the air, followed by more panicked screams from Swinburne's rear guard. Oddly unfocused grunts of strain were heard, then followed with what sounded like tearing flesh. A voice nobody would recognize intoned something in what seemed like an African language of some persuasion, the response being a series of grunts and footfalls. Moments later, the sort of sluggish tapping you would've associated to zombie hordes face-hugging a window in a George Romero movie sounded from the rear.

Tom parted from Aislinn with a frown. "Is that...?" he started, then parting with a mean smile. "Oh, right. Silly me, of course they'd know! If Sariel and Volker were already at the airport, then it makes sense."

Three scoffed. "Mind filling us in, please?" he asked, as Tom bent down to free the roane's ankles. The warthog looked back to him with the same look of fairly Rendell-worthy relish.

"You're about to meet your first Voodoo priest, Aidan."

* * *

Once out of the tunnels, Arthur more or less scooped up Ciaran and broke out into a run, his steps more fluid and powerful than an Olympic distance runner's. They bounded on top of car hoods and hopped across fences as if they'd been ankle-height, Holden occasionally managing to look like a done-up and web-less web-head as he vaulted the both of them to a few rooftops using nothing but a streetlight and a single arm. Even those who should've looked like their sartorial choices would've posed a handicap made it look effortless: if Alana had tagged along, then no amount of added stiletto heels would seemingly disrupt her balance or stride, and even non-athletic figures like Phineas Dickens managed hops and overhead somersaults that would've been impossible for a mortal man with the same stature. Dangerously large gaps were cleared with wall-runs that would've been impossible even for the best mundane traceurs, the expected Parkour tumble also traded for a more straightforward and supernaturally fitting crouched landing. Somehow, even direct falls didn't seem to injure Ciaran, something in Holden's posture enabling him to absorb most of the momentum of even the most aggressive falls. Of course, being undead meant he'd probably reduced his spine to a ruin of tiny pieces and frayed nerves long ago and simply didn't feel it.

Still, it took their being three blocks west of Holden Hall for Arthur to stop and sniff at the air. "Smell that?" he asked of Ciaran, without putting him down. "That's dead flesh. Old dead flesh, mixed with fresh snow..."

He put the roane down and headed back to the rear edge of the rooftop they stood on, peering down into the building's secluded parking area and alleyway. "Oh, joy," he groused, "now we've got Walkers in our hands, too. All of our benefits, none of the fun parts. Judging by the clothes and the decay, we're looking at a partially reconstituted resident of the late sixties' funeral plots, up in Old Hope. Back from before cremation turned physical necromancy into a costly business."

Holden sniffed as he put a knee down and managed a fairly Dracula-worthy upside-down wall hang from a dormant AC unit. "See the green stuff oozing out?" he quietly asked. "That's not pus - it's ectoplasm; physically-rendered via. That's Diviner or witch doctor material - but where's Dead Guy's handler?"

Batlike, holding onto the unit using nothing but his feet, Holden looked up to Ciaran. "Lost sheep in a herd like this usually means we're looking at an attempt to mass-raise corpses. Too many juicy heads to keep focused on commands, no lead zombies for the others to follow like sheep... What really bothers me is how Bub here doesn't seem too inclined to go on the prowl - they're usually as aggressive as the practitioners that raised them."

The zombie looked like it was trying to exert its one or two brain cells peering at a clump of shadows in a wall's angle. A little while later, it took a few shambling steps, silvery wisps of rotten hair flowing in the winter breeze, and turned around, managing an almost convincing rendition of a look of concern. It moaned a few times, as if calling for someone or something, and then happened to find Ciaran and Arthur. Instead of the usual dead stare and calling moan, however, it managed something like a beckoning gesture, its features lighting with a burst of animalistic joy - like a dog panting. The moans turned to soft grunts as he seemingly tried to coax the vampire and roane into coming down, and then into more worried moans whenever he looked back towards the alleyway.

Holden gripped the AC he'd been hanging from and flipped himself back onto the rooftop, should he and Ciaran decide to keep going. Needless to say, Arthur was intrigued. 

"A tame zombie?" he asked aloud. "The last time I saw one of those, we were collectively using horror flicks to sponge off post-Elysium angst!"

Phineas landed next to Arthur. "It looks like it really wants us to reach the mansion - I've never seen a stiff move like this before."

* * *

Lucian repeated his prior gestures, the sliding rings and tumblers projected out of the Real turning and spinning until they revealed an oddly textured darkness. A different kind of strain marked Lucian's features, as his translocating the entire group essentially provided the coal mound with an empty space to occupy, the laws of physics being what they are. He pushed against it, disturbing what had to be a good two hundred and fifty pounds of individually light coal rocks that hadn't been moved since Holden Hall had gone electric. A few sigils winked to life near his tentacles' tips and, after a low grunt of gathered effort, exerted force strong enough to push the coal rocks outwards and away from them. Gone was Eir's well-lit office, replaced with the gloom of a seldom-visited corner of the Hall. Bagley only came down here once every two or three months, the dust Lucian had disturbed lifted and scattered by the group's irruption. The Void Weaver briefly conjured a small orb of light to see by, but voices from above and a ways ahead were soon heard. Rothchild immediately extinguished his werelight.

"Find corners," he sent to the others, as he slipped behind one of the coal cellar's arch pillars. "We ought to wait for an opening."

Loren stubbornly remained in place, being more than confident in his mind's ability to conceal him from sight. "I wasn't aware applied research imparted combat training," he sent back, poking at Lucian's background. The Void Weaver didn't bother to look even remotely annoyed or offended by the insinuation.

"Applied research never did teach me how to fend for myself," he conceded. "The Architect did."

Archie seemed more incredulous than dubious. "The Architect gave you combat training while you communed with him?
- Fights are complex systems, the domains of order and prediction are strongly present in them. Canvas a fight, and you've canvassed the enemy combatant," sent back the Squid. "Break the pattern, reforge it to your advantage, and the day is yours."