Tangible for the time being, Beth tapped two fingers against the side of her thigh in a quick rhythm. It was the only sign of impatience she displayed, though she didn't much care whether anyone in the room noticed. They likely felt the same way. She absorbed only the key words and information from the discussion, eyes darting from one speaker to the next. As far as leadership went, she did not trust a single member of their thrown-together team, but if she were to place a bet on someone, it would have been Tony.

Perhaps in part because she valued his smarts.

Nonetheless, she could not deny the sense in his rebuttal. She nodded and directed her attention to Rikive as the subject of her leadership emerged. Beth barely knew the Asgardian. Save the few occasions she had questioned Rikive about ancient or futuristic magicks -- whichever category other realms like Asgard fell into -- and the multitude of short meetings they had whenever Beth visited Parael, the ghost spent little time with Rikive. However, her skills were not to be dismissed, and the woman had a sound head on her shoulders.

"I can see you as our leader," Beth admitted, smiling some. "In the very least, you might be able to keep Parry from doing anything else stupid." She ceased her fidgeting and dropped the smile. "No one poses a better chance. Now, is anyone else concerned leaving that woman and the hunter alone with our best lead isn't the brightest idea?" She gestured towards the room they held their captive in, then followed Karram to the door.

She awoke gracefully like someone rising after a long nap. It was impressive that she refrained from gasping with surprise or looking at him with the same predacious eyes of that beast. After looking around in what he could assume was a little confusion she, with a gentle tone that set him off a little, queried. "Where...am I?"

Silence grasped the room, only the murmur down the hall and patter of footsteps accompanied it. Gray let in a sink in for a few seconds before answering. "You - little lady - are in the home of a very pissed off group of monsters." He gave a glance at Autumn before continuing. "Uh, sorry. Anyways. Most of us have been displaced by the new ruler in town." Gray gave pause to emphasize the name. "Nemsemet. I know there's a lot of bad blood between him and people in town. We're going to off him. He died before so we'll put him down again. Before I get into a rant I'll have to introduce myself. If you get of this alive you'll get to know my name." If she could see his face behind the mask he'd be smiling.

"The name is Gray Conover. I'm a business owner, a hunter, and I'm here to protect this city." He didn't throw in the line about a paycheck he was definitely thinking about. "Now's your turn. You can give me some bull but I don't think it'd be worth anyone's time. So be honest. We like honest here."

It was a really goddamn bad idea to leave anyone alone with the hunter; but Tony wasn't fond of shotguns loaded with silver -- his shoulder still ached, all healing aside -- and it was probably worth noting that a couple of the others in this place were Court enforcers and knew how to interrogate someone.

He slipped in behind the others and gave a full-body shiver when Gray gave his full name freely like that; supernaturals tended to be wary about true names, hair and toenail clippings and other things that a wizard, like Flint, or maybe not like Flint but more subtle and creative in their power use, might find ways to royally fuck with someone in retribution for some grudge. Wizards were terrible if given enough time to creatively apply their power to the goal in mind, it's when their potential became one of the scariest things in the universe. It's why the vampires considered them freaks, lycanthropes tried to stay the fuck out of the way and why wizards, who seemed terribly squishy and relatively mortal compared to the others, were at least as powerful as the vampires within the Court system and were the nobility of it alongside the vampires.

The bloodsuckers had charm and addictive blood and blended in easily, but it was the wizards that could pull the things out of thin air, track things down, or, if provided a true name, use a name to bind a creature.

In retrospect, Tony didn't expect Gray to know the rules of the Court and that was an advantage. Nemsemet was throwing the rules out anyway, and hunters never really cared for them -- some jurisdictions liked to throw those that violated the rules out to the mercy of the mortal world, and that included hunters.

--

The sword had gone so easily through Billy Rikker's neck, so lightly and easily that it intrigued Gordon. Unlike people in this regrettable era of modernity and electronic alchemy, he'd grown up in a time when the sword saw some use and, as a cavalryman himself, understood that some swords, some steel, was wrought differently from others.

And he'd never found steel like that before.

So he'd set about finding translations for the various things written on the blade and came back with a variety of interesting graffiti.


And then a sigil, and wasn't that interesting? Something on the pommel to identify it further as belonging to someone, and clearly not Billy Rikker. When he'd taken it to Anastasia, who was his contact among the witches and warlocks of the city, she gave it a brush of the finger and immediately asked him, very sharply, where he'd gotten that. Gordon, seeing no reason to deal dishonestly with one of Nemsemet's key supporters, told her that it'd come from Billy Rikker.

"So it must be something that magpie acquired in the course of his escapades."

Anastasia, under Nemsemet, turned to the use of necromancy to enhance her looks and take a fading beauty and turn it back into youth, using illegal magics, though it was a pallid and disturbing youthful beauty that gave off the impression that something wasn't right on the visceral level. Dark of eye, blonde haired and immaculately couture'd in clothing that conveyed a softening of a more severe business style that blended the feminine without denying it but still created the impression of power, she didn't seem like the typical wizarding type. However much that seemed the case, in the department of subtle magics that identify, tracked and, rather importantly, cursed, she was equaled by few. Her office, in a very upscale office building at the heart of the city, had a fabulous view of the nightscape; the office was done with marble and bright lighting that complemented the ward sigils set into the wall in silver, and the summoning circle on the floor, off to the side. There was a real fire, gas-fired with coals in an open circular area, that made for a discreet and tasteful alchemy station. The place was a working lab, but it was done with a designer's exacting eye. Anastasia had started life as a fashion designer and transitioned into magic as her youthful beauty began to fade and she stumbled into a latent talent. The Court disapproved of some of her methods of preserving her beauty, which made her a fervent enemy of it. Gordon couldn't relate -- his looks were eternal, frozen in place, but the woman opposite him was frantic and ruthless in her attempts to salvage her vanity.

Nonetheless, she was a dangerous ally, and her intelligence, notwithstanding her obsession with beauty, was not to be underestimated at all. In fact, her time spent working social circles in the mortal world left her with a keen appreciation of one of the most important principles of magic -- connections.

"And you are absolutely correct, madam," Gordon told her with the mannerisms of his youth that he retained in addressing a woman, even though gender differences were far less important to a vampire, though feeding preference was often an outgrowth of sexual orientation, at least in some cases. Gordon, for example, never could bring himself to feed upon a man unless it were truly a necessity, and then found the experience oddly distasteful. There was an intimacy between predator and prey and he preferred women.

"There is power in that sword," she told him, steepling her fingers from behind the desk where the sword lay; the office was fairly modern, clean lines, carefully designed with feng shui in mind to channel spiritual energy beneficial to her purposes while redirecting and disrupting magical energy channeled from outside -- her office was . As a magician, Anastasia Petrova was one of the more useful consultants in the city for setting up wards and tracking items on the basis of their connections to people. She could read objects and see their spiritual relationship to one another, "But the full power is not the weapon itself. It's a representative of greater power, a trapping of office."

She also warded up Nemsemet's lair in the Museum; Augustus tripped right into her traps, which were enhanced with the callous use of sacrifices to fuel the magic. It was dirty, dangerous, aura darkening stuff, but she didn't seem to particularly worry about the cost of the magic.

"One of Billy's henchmen claimed that there were a couple sword-wielding beings in the Rusty Steak knife. One of them had wings," Gordon related -- it was more like an interrogation. He had use for some of Billy's henchmen, but Vinny had gotten impolite and didn't grasp the nuances, which was a nice way to say the stark fucking realities, of the new situation. Gordon had limited patience for the man's petty insolences and insistence that Gordon needed him to keep people in line.

But he'd talked at the end. Charles Gordon was a man from a different era, but he was a curious soul, so he decided to experiment with electricity in interrogating a vampire.

Turned out it worked quite well. He dimmed lightbulbs running a current through a metal frame and chickenwire, and Vinny hadn't survive the process, but he'd gotten descriptions of the people involved.

"Wings."

"And a sword."

Anastasia looked disturbed -- the implications were profound, "If they are getting involved in matters, it may well be something Lord Nemsemet must be made aware of."

Gordon nodded agreement, even as he crossed one leg over the other in his chair, his suit coat unbuttoned, "I was on my way to him after I consulted with you, but I agree, that may well be somewhat more grave. If we can, perhaps, divine the name associated with that sigil, we perhaps have a better idea of the enemies aligning against the Lord Nemsemet. It would explain a great deal of why the Rusty Steak knife was hit so unsubtly."

Angels were beings of immense power and legendary ferocity and amorality. They were not designed for free will -- they followed orders. The most warlike of the bunch, or the ones that carried the water for some of the more scary acts of history, were not programmed to think of the why, merely the how. That's how "Kill the firstborn" happened. That's how Sodom and Gomorrah went down. Angels made the Prussian generals on trial at Nuremburg look like small timers for following orders that happened to, incidentally, involve committing what humans would morally reckon an atrocity. Prussian generals had guilty consciences. Angels were designed without them. They were designed from the ground up to do their job and a conscience was deemed surplus to the requirements.

They didn't play. When you had that much power, you didn't have to. There were constraints to such power, however, and they were well understood within the community-- Angels didn't just pop up with their power. They worked within rules. They had mandates. They were under general orders from Headquarters.

Anastasia brushed her fingertip against the sword's hilt, the sigil, again, and told Gordon, "The bearer is no doubt already aware that others are handling his sword. It is a link to him, it could be used to curse or track. An angel is morally responsible for their own weapon, as well."

"It's leverage," Gordon told her.

While most of the merry band was in the prisoner's cell interrogating their prize, Parry had excused himself back to his own room citing a need for "air" in an underground, self contained bunker built to survive a thermonuclear exchange.

So "air" was a flimsy stand in for "I'm not feeling wanted right now, so I'm going to go pout."

It wasn't until he got halfway down the hall that the scratching, gnawing feeling in his gut went away. When Parry took a second to breathe in a sigh of relief, he got hit with a sledgehammer of memories.

An old hag. Mid-60s. Standing over a summoning circle. Call forth a lesser Daemon. She knows how to control it. Doesn't let it trick her or tempt her.

Doesn't overreach to summon a Greater Daemon either, letting greed destroy her.

Casually, she traps its power, its essence, and destroys its form.

Distills its essence down to a potion.

Sells it. Makes a tidy profit. Keeps some for herself though.

Later, much later, a bound victim in a circle of candles. Humanoid. But human? Fairy? Shifter? Cannot tell.

An assistant carries a knife- a scalpel. Hovers over the victim's chest. Casually carves a runic charm into the captive's stomach- superficial wounds, but bloody. Messy. Painful.

Blood drips down the victim's ribs and hips. Is collected into a bowl until there is almost a full cup of it.

Later. The blood is distilled. Mixed with the lesser daemon's essence.

Consumed.

And she is now in her 30s. Young, beautiful, and wise.

It continued in the back of Parry's skull on infinite loop, whether he was seeing the same rituals or repeated ones. The vision wasn't going anywhere and the feelings it stirred up in him went beyond revulsion. Something deep inside of him felt distorted, twisted, corrupted. That he was powerless to stop the visions meant he was only feeling all the more helpless.

He skipped going to his own bedroom and ran right for the showers, losing his shirt in the hallway, shucking his pants on the sink. He turned on the water full blast on hot while searching through his bag for his travel kit. Some Lush soap was the best Parry could find but he wanted bleach.

Twelve minutes under the shower and he'd scrubbed himself raw. The soap had left every inch of him smelling like Cool Melon and yet Parry still couldn't get the stain off of him.

Every second that passed it clawed at him deeper, digging into his essence. Something had him, was using him, studying him like a predator- of the animal or human variety.

Through choked sobs, Parry shouted at the ceiling, the showerhead, the steam cloud "What do you want? Tell me what you want! Just let go of me! Don't touch me!"

Finally, he couldn't take the scrutiny and the blemishing of his soul any longer. Parry left the shower stall and stumbled over to the mirror by the sink. With one forefinger in hand he started tracing his own runic marks into the steam clouded surface, then slammed his palm into the center of the glass.

A city in the East. Wind-swept and walled in, built upon an ancient flood plain. A pall of smoke hangs over the rooftops, from the slums to the palace, the market to the garrison.

There is wailing, keening cry that doesn't stop, and as the wind shifts the smoke blows back.

A corpse left to decay smells horrid. Ten thousand corpses burned in the streets- there are no words. If he required food to survive, there would be none left inside of him.

They hover over the west road out of the city. That way lies Rome. To the East is Parthia.

'It is done,' Cymriel Augustus murmurs.

'Firestorm would have been more merciful to them.'

Cymriel shrugs. 'An Arachnus Daemon loose within the city gets in every nook and cranny. A Firestorm would kill the humans quickly but an Arachnus would survive and thrive. Nothing cleans out the creatures like plague.'

Parry winces. 'And the children? What of them.'

That is his imperative. His existence. Before he was formed, as he was formed, until the day his form vanished it would be his reason for being.

Cymriel shakes its head. 'They will return to the Source of All. From there, who knows? It is not ours to question. It is ours to do. But take heart. There will be survivors. Orphans.'

There is no comfort to be had there. This is a hard place. A desolate place. Orphans will not live for long and he knows it.

Cymriel leaves, returning to The Shore. Parael stays and sees the fruits of their labors.

Within days the first trade caravan comes. The orphans Cymriel spoke of soon find one of two fates awaiting them. Death- by exposure, by hunger, by thirst, by smoke, by disease. Or slavery at the hands of the trade caravan.

The protection he can offer is minimal, bound by Eternal Law. As hundreds are carted off to be abused, used, and disposed of like chattel, he watches. A caravan of the hopeful, so many piglets being promised safety, wide-eyed, knowing nothing of how they will be used up by cities and empires that will note their passing with little more than a hole in the ground for their bones.

And as he watches that first caravan leave, that train of doomed hope, he does his duty and watches over them as best he can.

"See how you fucking like it, huh? Let go of me! Let go of me!"

Collab Solamelike and Trinais

A gentle knocking sound could be heard close to Parry as Flint gently knocked on the wall of the bathroom.

“Hey… you doing ok there?” Flint asked, attempting to look anywhere but the man in front of hims junk. It was not common with Flint for a man to seem to mutter at a mirror in the nude, and what was that smell….Cool Melon?

Parry, without a hint of shame or awareness of his current state, rounded on Flint with one hand still on the mirror.

“What? What is it now,” he growled. “I fucked up again. Say it. Say it!”

“You fucked up again” Flint said softly, walking towards Parry. “But that’s just you, and when you fall off the horse what do we do?” He picked up Parry’s pants from the sink beside him and stood next to the naked man

“We come back from the dead and grow wings” He placed the pants next to Parry as he leant on the wall, contemplating lighting a cigarette then deciding against it. “Mind explaining what that was?” He asked, looking harshly into Parry’s eyes. Flint had known him most of his life, but he had never seen anything like that before.

Parry didn’t laugh. He did look at the skinny jeans Flint had offered. Part of him wanted to stay in the buff just to mess with the hard-boiled flint. Part of him didn’t care what anybody felt like when around him. He was Parry H. Magnus, the H being short for “Hedonism.”

“The last time you saw me like this was in the 30s,” Parry said. He didn’t move. But he did smile just a little. “Speakeasy. When Old Fur tried to get into the bootleg trade and ended up spiking moonshine that got the Governor’s daughter sick.” Parry shook his head. “That’s the only time I’ve ever been on a stage like that. You know it was either the best or worst booze there ever was.”

“Oh man!” Flint said, his back now leaning against the wall as he seemed to look up, remembering the scene. “1931, I remember sitting by the bar with bullet holes in my hat and an empty Thompson in my bag… it was a long day” Flint seemed to almost smile, a rare sight in recent times.

“What the hell were you doing on that stage again?”

Parry grimaced. “Ah. I’d be lying if I said I remembered. I got sober while I was up there and just ran with it. But there was a couple of fairies in the front row that were happy to see me the way I was.” Parry shook his head. “I did wink at you on purpose though. Just because I knew you’d react the way you did. We had some fun in the 20s and you never did stop blushing. Called me a ‘Sodomite’ the first time and then you got used to it after I never stopped.”

“But yeah… wings.” Parry shrugged. “That’s not normal even in our circles. I get it. What do you want to know?”

“Where you happened to acquire some? I could always do with a little more manoeuvrability” Flint joked, remembering the times that Parry mentioned. He always did have his overly flamboyant ways of making him uncomfortable, but in all honesty he was one of the only people he had memories with, the rest either dying a long time ago or being only a few decades old to not have been born yet.

“I borrowed them. From an old co-worker. Along with the sword.” PArry looked into the mirror at the charms he’d traced with his finger. A mind ward hastily drawn, redrawn, and drawn over again. Then a very vulgar communique meant to send a not-so-subtle ‘Fuck you’ across space.

“Mine are still hung up and waiting for me… elsewhere.”

“I feel like you haven’t been telling me the whole story ‘Parry the Mage’ ”Flint’s dreamy daze was now cut as he began to think back to the present.

“That sort of power isn’t possible after the wounds you had succumbed, I’ve known you. What?! Nearly one hundred years now, and suddenly you can fly and come back from the dead!? I want answers Parry, in plain English!” Flint looked annoyed, not leaning on the wall but instead towering slightly over Parry.

Parry shrank back as Flint got in closer. He started to reach for his pants, snagged his boxers, and slid those on hoping it’d get Flint to back off if he gave a little ground.

Nope. Flint just stood there. Waiting. Angry.

“It’s… it’s complicated,” Parry whimpered. “I mean… I’ve been around for a while Flint. A whole hell of a long time. You want it in English though? Fine.” Parry pointed a finger at his own chest. “Celestial. Layman’s terms, angel, but we don’t subscribe to that word. Has too many connotations down here. And I’m… not Fallen, just kind of AWOL at the moment. Before I died. I mean… it happened fast and I was on The Shore with Richard Pryor, the White Rabbit and Michael Jackson. There was some awesome weed and my old partner showed up and sent me back while he holds my spot on The Shore. I’m expected back by The Powers That Be after I can get out of the City.”

Flint wasn’t very well informed on a lot of things. He looked to the Wizards that looked and researched in books and found it all incredibly boring. Flint learnt magic by doing and acting, this could possibly be the reason his magic is limited in a way. It also could be why it drains him so much. Despite him not knowing much about celestials he knew their power, knew that they were not like mortals such as himself.

“I knew there was something about you that made you act like... you do. Why didn’t you tell me?” Flint asked, his stance now more relaxed as he leant back against the wall. This time he did decide to reach into his pocket and grab a flask. Gulping down some of the dark liquid.

“Because de Lacy had me,” Parry said. As if that explained everything, all in one sentence. A vampire having a hold over a being of Cosmic power. “How do you think he walked into that Disco in 74 and wasted Johnny the Rocket- that old Warlock. He got me when I came to Camden, offered me cover in exchange for my blood. He’s been milking me like a cow for over a century!

“And besides, I hate my old job. I can’t stand it! I’m supposed to be a Shepherd. I watch over the kids, keep them safe from demons. I did my job fine. But I couldn’t watch everything that happened to them after I kept the demons away. 10,000 years of letting children get sold into slavery grates on you, Flint. After a while you start to feel a little… helpless.” Parry brushed at his hair, twirling it back and forth around his forefinger. He searched for a hair loop to put it in a ponytail, then gave up.

“I wanted out. After the Children’s Crusade I wanted out bad. So I came down here. Hung up my wings and kept my sword.” Just mentioning the sword made him cringe, that dark, tainted feeling settling into Parry’s stomach, creeping up his spine. He had the urge to jump in the shower again and try to wash it off, but fought against it for the moment. “Then I just… coasted. I had fun. I lived a little. Came here. Started up the Daycare. And the rest is… it just happened, okay? Is that what you want to know?”

Flint looked at the floor, taking another swig of the bottle, he thought about what 125 years had done to him...and couldn’t imagine what 10,000 years could do to a man. He sighed his signature sigh, re-adjusting the hat on his head as he placed his flask away.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, keep your head up and think about how you can help us solve this mess” He turned to leave “Good talk” He muttered

Parry gave Flint a sideways glance, letting him get to the door before saying “Just… gimme some time. I feel… I’m not, not clean, okay?”
Flint left for his room, passing Rikive on the way.

So, I'm a leader now. Rikive thought to herself, standing up from where she sat and watched a few of the other's head into the room to 'question' the vampire. She as confident they would be able to take care it while she rested before their next move. Walking to the room where her sword and cot were, she considered the idea of approaching the Fairy Queen. She said that she didn't trust her, but she hadn't completely dismissed the idea.

Despite Karram's loyalty and protest, Rikive still doubted the Queen's trustworthiness. She had met her once and the encounter had...gone less then well, to say the least. The Queen of Fairies seemed prone to flights of fancy and other such whims. One day she may agree to help them, but the next she could bury a knife in their backs and turn them over to Nemsemet.

Or she could be allies with Nemsemet already and trying to go to her would result in their destruction. It was true that de Lacy hadn't been able to control the Fairy Court, but Nemsemet clearly didn't operate like de Lacy.

Would the benefits of an alliance outweigh the risks though? The kind of magic Fairies held was nothing to scoff at and would be immensely beneficial. But it was also why she was so wary. The Queen certainly wouldn't help them for free either.

She could hear two sets of conversation inside of the bunker, one was the interrogation of the vampire and the other sounded like it was between Flint and Parael. The conversations overlapped, making it hard for her to distinguish what was being said other than a few key words here and there. It sounded like Parael was telling Flint about his true nature as a Celestial. Nothing overtly concerning, but Parael's tone sounded off. Not surprising, she knew how Parael felt about his...retirement.

Frowning, she wondered how he was handling having his wings back. She hadn't had much of a chance to talk to him about everything that happened. Check on her friend and then she would lay down for a few hours. Rikive blinked when Flint emerged from the bathroom in front of her, flask in hand and she wanted to shake her head. She let him pass before walking up to the door and standing next to it, not wanting to go inside out of respect for Parael's privacy.

"Parael? Are you alright?" She asked, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe.

Parry sat himself down on the toilet, hugging himself, trying to get the feeling out of his stomach. Whoever was toying with his sword was definitely passing it between one person and another. Two sets of memories were flooding through to him- equally brutal, equally depraved. And every time someone touched that sword, it was like they were touching him- grabbing him. Possessing him.

A Celestial's sword was a powerful thing.

When Parry was formed, his sword was formed with him. It was equal parts weapon, conduit and symbol of office.

It didn't grant the power to completely control Parry, mindfucking him into a killing machine that murdered everyone in the bunker or gave away their location. But just touching that sword allowed whoever had it to reach into the core of his being, that font of the Nether he called his soul, the most intimate of places, and he would know they were there.

So when Rikive showed up, waiting for an answer, he was absolutely torn in two about what to say. There were no secrets between them. Rikive had bailed him out more than once in the past few months alone, and Parry had done the same. She alone knew what he was from the beginning. At the same time, he'd already fucked up once. Hard. There was absolutely no way to call it anything else. That the enemy had his sword and potentially had power over him was a sobering thought.

The blade was passed back to the woman. The summoner. That demon-tainted spirit touched him again, brushed at his center, and that forced him to make a decision.

"No, I'm not," Parry said, his voice breaking a little bit as he spoke. One hand reached up to his bare chest, still smelling of melon soap, while his eyes grew red and watery. "I think... I think the Mummy has my sword."

Rikive's eyes widened hearing his voice break, hearing the pain in it, just as much as the words. So the sword that she saw Parael use wasn't his. Nemsemet had Parael's real sword? This was bad, this was very bad. She took in a deep breath, collecting herself so she appeared calm and opened the bathroom door, stepping inside.

Seeing Parael scared and on the verge of tears made her heart ache. She walked over to him and crouched down next to him. She reached out and gripped his hand, squeezing it gently yet firmly. She couldn't lie to him and tell him everything would be okay. It wasn't okay.

If the enemy had Parael's sword, they had him over a barrel.

"We'll get it back." She promised him, looking up at him and smiling as best she could. She hoped they could get it back before anything was done to Parael, but she wasn't sure. If at this very moment Nemsemet or one of the people that served him had it in their possession...They might already be too late.

"I'll get it back." Rikive promised a bit more firmly, squeezing his hand. "You're my brother Parael. I'm right here with you and I'll do whatever I can to help you."

"I'm sorry," Parry said, finally breaking down when Rikive took his hand. "I keep fucking up. I'm not... I'm impossible. I'm not pulling my weight. Getting in everyone else's way. I'm just-"

'Over a barrel' wasn't the most pleasant phrase, but it was exactly how Parry felt right now. He'd tried some freaky shit in the past 500 years (and an awful lot in the last 500 days) but it was always consensual and fun. Right now he could only wait and hope that whoever had his sword wasn't sure what it could do or how they might use it. Truthfully, the blade was just a blade in any mortal's hands. Dangerous and impossibly sharp for something that looked like it'd been dug up in an archaeological dig. Still deadly.

Any hope of that happening, of someone being completely unaware of what they held ran out the window and into another zip code as he felt that dark touch at his core retract, just like it had when passed between the two dark forces, but quickly exploded outward into his veins, up his muscles, down to the tips of his toes and the length of his hair.

Not an attack spell or a curse.

A probe.

Whoever had his sword was sweeping through him and would know for a fact what he was. Where he was? Probably not. Magic was powerful but it didn't hold a candle to GPS. Still, Parry forced himself to shut his eyes in case whoever was "scanning" him could see through him.

"Riki, I need you to go," he all but yelled. "I need you to leave. I want you to stay- I do- but if you want to be safe, you need to go now!"

Any wards Parry might put on himself were useless so long as Nemsemet had the Dawn Blade. He was over a barrel.

And the enemy had an open door to him.

Rikive shot up to her feet when Parael curled in on himself as though he was in pain and started yelling at her. Something was happening, damn the heavenly realms! Someone was doing something to Parael's sword. Panic rushed through her, not sure what Parael meant by her needing to leave for her own safety.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, grabbing onto his shoulders. "Nevermind my safety, you're the one under attack! Please, tell me what's happening Parael. What in the Nine worlds are they doing to you?"

Why couldn't she have inherited better magical skills from her mother? If she had better developed magic, maybe she could have battled against whatever was happening to her friend. A human and a Light Elf have a halfling child and that mortal could wield magic and cast spells on par with their supernatural parent. They were some of the most powerful mages to walk the Earth.

Yet she was the offspring of a damned God and a Light Elf and the only magic she could cast was to heal bodily injuries. Even then there was a limit and it could be a drain on her. She had never felt so frustrated with her lack of magic until now, when her friend, someone she thought of as a brother, was clearly suffering in front of her and she couldn't do a thing to stop it.

It brought forth the fresh memory of watching Parael die under her hands. She could almost feel the warm, slick substance of his blood on her hands again.

She caught herself before she tightened her grip on Parael and took in a deep breath. She may not have magic, but she did have her strength. She had Winterthorn. There was magic in that stubborn, dusty old blade, she knew there was. She was going to unlock it if it was the last thing she did.

It was always an unusual experience when a vampire’s prey was left standing. When they died, it was simple. They ceased to be, and all of their life became your own. However, when they lived on, the connection between a vampire and her prey could become...complex. On occasion, downright supernatural. It all depended on the strength of the individual bond. There would often be some sort of emotional connection, or fixation that spawned out of the personal feelings of the vampire herself. A mild attraction to a prey could become full-blown infatuation. Such situations usually ended in destruction.

For Kaori, the ugly mass of feelings she harbored toward the hunter took on a new edge. She now had a keen sense for him. His scent, even more prominent than before, could slice through a room of heated mortals like a beacon. His action spurred her to reaction, stoked the vicious flame of her emotion in an antagonistic way.

So when he condescendingly addressed her as "little lady," it was all she could do not to leap across the room and rip his throat out. These connections, after all, were not typically positive.

"Gray Conover," she repeated. The name rolled across her tongue like an ocean wave, smooth and powerfully possessive, "I've always tried not to name my food." That last line seemed a little too taunting to be delivered in such a pleasing voice. It contrasted in a rather disturbing way. She couldn't help herself. He had recently become the favored mouse to her cat.

"This city doesn't need a mortal to save it, especially one that doesn't know what he's dealing with," there was nothing teasing about that statement. It was painfully obvious in her red-wine eyes. She gave a small, weary shake of her head against the wall as her eyes flitted towards the hallway where footsteps sounded ahead of not-so-distant conversation. "Don't you realize your own people don't even trust you?" she said, referencing to the comment Beth had made about her interrogation to the group in the other room. "Why would I trust you with my name?"

By now, the dank room was full of varying supernatural beings. She shifted uneasily under the weight of so many eyes. She felt trapped, as they had intended her to be. Whatever concoction they had injected her with still lingered in her system with an oppressive grip. Slowly, she was healing, with her strength gradually returning. But for now, she was cornered, bound with her back to the wall. Even if she could break the rope in her weakened state, where would she go from there?

In her scheming, she inhaled the room around her, trying to get an idea of who she was dealing with. Her body instinctually tensed at the scent of lycan, her smooth features wrinkling in distaste, "I didn't realize you kept a house-cat," she dryly remarked. To her, it was akin to the unpleasant smell of wet dog.

With the instatement of Rikive as their for-the-time-being "leader" -- Beth was not exactly fond of the term, she had to steel her tongue just to say it -- the question arose as to who would rule the Court if by some miracle they deposed Nemsemet. On the slim chance they did succeed, opportunities came in abundance for each of them. But Beth, as soon as her mind began to wander, cast the thoughts of such things out, at least until their efforts proved useful.

She stood tense behind the hunter in the interrogation room. She didn't need a body to feel the unease that shifted through the room at Gray's words. Something about him, aside from his occupation, disagreed with her. Whatever it was would have to be dealt with another time; they needed answers. Beth despised feeling empty-handed. Her best work required information, even the slightest tid-bit helped form a plan of action. As of this moment, she faced a blank canvas.

Beth glanced at the doorway when she heard Parael's distant shouts, narrowing her eyes until Flint left and she saw Rikive pass on her way to follow.

Parry wasn't one to cry into his pillow after a few verbal beat downs. Whatever summoned his panic came from somewhere, or something unknown... But that didn't put out the small pyre of guilt burning in the back of Beth's mind, should she have contributing to worsening whatever he was going through.

Flint knew him well, and Rikive might be some sort of best friend to him, they'd deal with it.

Turning back to the matter at hand, Beth stepped up next to the hunter, eyes pinned on the vampire. "Look, kid. We don't want you here any more than you want to be here... as over-used as that is... and this trigger-happy moron will shoot you full of holes if you don't give us a reason not to. So let's make this simple and quick. What do you know about Rikker's dealings with Nemsemet?"

This chick really had it in for him. She was as insulting as they came. Though, how could he really blame her. The place was a regular menagerie and apparently she was the star attraction. The most insulting was what she said after labeling him food. "This city doesn't need a mortal to save it, especially one that doesn't know what he's dealing with." She was dead wrong. Nothing ticked him off more than underestimating the underdog. He held his peace just to let her finish. "Don't you realize your own people don't even trust you? Why would I trust you with my name?" She had a fair point with that last one.

Just as Gray was ready to retort Beth interrupted the scene. You could say she 'stepped' up to them except she didn't make noise and he could swear she never touched the ground. Her voice was airless and hollow. The best you could do without lungs. "Look, kid. We don't want you to be here any more than you want to be here... as overused as that is... and this trigger-happy moron will shoot you full of holes if you don't give us a reason not to. So let's make this simple and quick. What do you know about Rikker's dealing with Nemsemet?"

"I take offense to that." Gray responded quickly. "And I already shot her full of holes! Look where that got us!" Gray stood up from the chair. The desire to make this situation work gently was being dwarfed by the lack of respect he was receiving. "This vamp has the best point I've heard in a while. Why don't I just leave? You monsters'd be able to get by just fine fighting a war with each other! You'd fight to the point where the government figures out what's going on and smears you off the map. Just like EVERY damn time there's a supernatural uprising!" He finally gave pause. This was certainly a moment that he felt very clear on his intention and emotions.

"Yes, I'm mortal. It's my advantage against all you prideful pricks. I get to see the beautiful sunrise. I get to feel the world as God intended. And now I get to fight like David and Goliath every time I hunt. The Goliath in town is Nemsemet. He's dangerous, true. Yet we have the knowledge that he died. That means we can kill him again." Gray finally turns his attention to their bound guest. "If you want to save anything dear that you have left around here then you MUST help us stop him. Despite what most of these cursed individuals think I'm not here to rip things apart."

Damn monsters and their predisposition against hunters. Some of the best hunters out there ARE monsters.

Well this was turning out to be more interesting than anticipated. Looking at the group Autumn wondered how they would take Grey's shot at them. Though he wasn't wrong about what could happen should Nemsemet not be stopped in time. "He's right you know. So far the mummy doesn't seem to care much about exposure. Eventually when he starts coming out into the light then people that the outside will notice missing will be stuck in here with the rest of us. Spook enough humans with the big guns and there is a high chance that none of us will get out of this alive. The window of opportunity is sliding shut every moment we waste." She thought about mentioning that Beth would be alright but she was technically already dead so her words still fit.

Flint returned to the small room he had procured in the bunker, the single bed neatly tucked and set. Smudge the cat lay peacefully on the grey sheets and seemed to have gotten used to her surroundings, her bowl of water was empty however so Flint was quick to solve that problem.
Thinking back to what Parry had said, Flint couldn’t believe that he had been lied too, he had known the man so long and yet he didn’t trust him with his secret? Never mind that he was an enforcer, and should have had him on record as a celestial. I guess that might have been the reason for the lies. Flint was pretty good at finding and cataloguing.

He needed to get back to the group, maybe see if they had got anywhere with the vampire. With a sigh he got up, beginning to nonchalantly walk to the ‘interrogation room’. When he finally got there he knocked lightly on the door.
“Am I interrupting?” He asked as he entered

“Or do I need to show you how a police officer gets information out of someone?”

With the last question he clicked his fingers into a flame, then began to concentrate to make the flame hotter, and hotter until it was a blue sliver no bigger than a pin. He then lit a cigarette with it and extinguished it just as fast as he had created the bunsen like fire, apparently pretending to be unaware of the connotations he had just shown.

"We don't know what Nemsemet's strategy is, but we do know that everyone on his side are the ones against the court. I mean, let's take a quick look at us. Two court investigators, one lycan that wanted nothing to do with that shit prior to the whole thing, one...uh, whatever the fuck he is that stays out of things, and bosslady here who definitely doesn't like the exposure. But you know, Nemsemet's ancient, bad news sure, but he's also way behind the times. Does he have any idea what modern artillery is like? What a nuclear weapon even looks like? I mean, look at what happened to werefolk when they started chambering silver rounds, like what Hunter here has."

Sore point with lycanthropes -- their day had set already and they'd been set behind the curve by modern technology and human society, ill suited to either. Sure, they could do more, but their weakness was out there, easily identified and simple to exploit. They were taken down quickly.

"I'm no fan of the Court. It was archaic and based on who owed a few obligation; in this case, the Nicholson and de Lacy clans and all the other damn nobles, but the rationale was solid. One of him," he jerked at thumb at Gray, "is bad. An entire military supported by research and development...do the math vampire. How long you think you last when they start putting a silver bullet every second round on the belt and an incendiary on every third? Maybe some cold iron for the faeries. How long do you think our kind lasts? Yeah, one hunter you can kill in a lot of ways, but what happens when humanity comes in numbers?"

Tony's luck was that he'd seen a real war; so had Flint, but Flint didn't seem to process it the same way, the adaptability of humanity, the way the tech was evolving so damn fast and the secrecy...well, Nemsemet was ancient. In a day and age when metal forging was barely being discovered, when mud brick was the dominant building material, when most humans lived and died in short, brutish lives, illiterate and often dead in their thirties of some disease, if they survived childhood. Now technology unlocked the birthrate and the killing capabilities of humanity. Most supernaturals didn't grasp it; hell, lycanthropes wouldn't except the had time, particularly since the genesis of the firearm, to really brood about it.

Lycanthropes were, in a sense, creatures of an animal nature ill at ease with the humanity of it, and that was the underlying tension that fueled their abilities, but they were also the first supernaturals to really be left behind by modernity. The hunters usually went after vampires, but had a much harder time spotting them. Lycanthropes were not subtle and once identified, easily if they exposed themselves, they were relatively simple to cut down with modern munitions. Gray's shotgun was a mute testament to it. They optimal load wasn't even what you'd kill a deer with.

--

The March thorugh Georgia was a bloody path of plunder and devastation -- Seccessionists took a shot at the 1st Tennessee Volunteers, they'd burn the house the shot came from, and what they couldn't plunder and carry, they destroyed. It would ensure a cruel season of famine for the South, but it was the necessary methods to bring the war to a swifter end, or so was the opinion of one William Tecumseh Sherman.

War was cruelty, and it was time to slake the Confederate thirst for more war. Sherman saw the heart of it-- the Southern industrial capacity was exposed; they were already cut off by a naval blockade with little in the way of recourse and much of their industrial capability was concentrated into the cities; Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta. It wasn't like the North; the South had fertile soil and lots of cheap labor, as opposed to the mineral resources of the North and less than ideal soil conditions that made them such early and fervent adopters of industrial production, much as the English had. The South were much like the French the old families sprung from, preferring pastoral systems and a fertile properties that produced farm goods.

Other Union officers had their moral qualms about it; he considered it the whirlwind the Confederacy reaped when they killed his brother, Douglas Augustus Gordon, good old Gus, in Cumberland, around the time of the secession, because he'd refused to turn over his property to the Confederates. They'd burned the horse farm as an object lesson to others in the area with union sympathies -- to acclaim.

Now Charles Niall Gordon was a lieutenant in the cavalry, a West Point trained warrior with the battles of Cumberland and Shiloh under his belt and he relished the chance to visit on the Confederates the vengeance they so richly deserved. The Confederates had started this fight, but Gordon, like Sherman, who'd he'd been aide to when the campaign was planned, intended to finish it. The Confederates were tenacious, lions in battle, but they were hanging on by a thread. Their lands, untouched, continued to supply them with the meager essentials of fighting a war. They'd fought the battles in mostly Union and border territory -- Maryland, Pennsylvania, the massacres in Kansas, the bloody battles of Shiloh and Chattanooga in his own home state -- and forced the depredations of the war on the Union's civilians, for the most part.

The Deep South, the wellspring of Confederate sentiment, had not particularly suffered, except that the ladies made do without their imported pins and silk. Uncle Billy Sherman changed that. He brought the torch to the cotton fields, to these soft plantation wives and the men who'd sent their sons to bleed and die in other mens' back yards, while blathering away in their slurred voices about states rights, going on about their Huguenot French ancestry and aping the ways of the aristocrats that had died in the guillotines of the last century. These were the most fervent supporters of the Confederacy, these plantations, and the source of their leadership. This was a blow to their fortunes, which was really, to the mind of Gordon, what the Confederacy was about. Burn the cotton, destroy the manors, send the slaves packing to wherever they might go -- he cared not a whit.

He rode, and in his wake was flame, smoke and the lamentation of some plantation owner's wife, bemoaning her fate and cursing the men that did it. He turned back and affixed her with a steely blue eye, a sort of fierce moustachio'd visage that the Scots and the Scots-Irish, with their blonde-red hair and freckled, fair-skinned looks seemed to be able to gather up, that held little pity. He was of a mountain people, who held grudges and settled accounts in blood. The Confederacy killed his kith and kin, and this was merely due compensation. But he wasn't entirely bereft of the rudiments of civilization, though it burned all around him, "Madam," he told her, imperiously astride his bay gelding, one hand gloved and holding the reins, the other resting on the handle of his pistol, a Colt Dragoon. He surveyed the devastation with a deep feeling of personal serenity, his voice distant even as he tilted the brim of his hat to her, "A good day to you." He wanted to tell her to curse Jefferson Davis and curse the war, but not to curse the bearer of the tidings. She wouldn't understand. Few did. To advance civilization, you had to teach people, by direct experience, the alternative.

--

There were flashes of the other memories; the taste of blood in the mouth, a particularly savored meal, the thrill of the sort of work he did over the years for the Courts, forcing tribes of indigenous supernatural beings to accept the Courts dictates. He applied the strategies of Uncle Billy and George Custer and Philip Sheridan with an unflinching determination, happily leveraging the technology and adapting it to the enemy.

Then the connection abruptly severed as Gordon took his finger off the sword.

"There is a connection," he told Anastasia, "and I saw what you saw. I think he saw things as well. Is there something you might do with it?"

"Yes," the haughtily beautiful woman told him, even as she adjusted her scarf, removing it from around her throat and picking the blade up with it, so as to prevent skin contact, "there is much we can do with this, though we should not touch it again, lest he pick up upon our realization. There are rituals..."

Parry squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing hitching as the memories poured into him. Fire and death. That was what followed the bearer of his sword, everywhere he went. The man (definitely a man, he'd picked up on that much) was an efficient and calculating warrior, not shirking from brutality if it was required. Not ancient like Nemsemet, but definitely old.

As far as Parry could tell, the vision he'd thrown through the connection of the plagued city was either ignored or accepted as fact. One way or another, the bearer of his sword didn't care a whit about that sight. It was an everyday occurrence to him- a drop in the metaphysical bucket. Shit like that happened every day in the real world, so why would he care?

The thought, the memory, came clear as day at the end. Transmitted like a line of text over the internet. And then Parry had a name to put on the dark soul that kept laying hands on him. Charles Gordon.

And just like that, the dark presence in his core retreated and vanished, leaving Parry curled up on the toilet with Rikive's hands on his shoulders, his face wet with his own tears while he couldn't get enough air in his own lungs.

"They're playing with it," Parry said, gritting his teeth as he hugged himself harder. "Studying it. I don't- I don't know what he's going to do with it, but they know what they have. Charles Gordon knows what he has."

Rikive scowled and let go of Parael's shoulders to run her hands through her drying hair. Charles Gordon, the name didn't ring any bells for her but maybe Beth knew who he was? She seemed to have a knack for collecting information from what Parael has mentioned about her.

"Parael, I want you to take deep breaths." She advised him, placing one hand back on his shoulder and looking toward the door of the bathroom. "We have a name. That's good, that's really good. If we have a name then we can find out more about this man and get the sword back." Before anything was done to Parael? She didn't know. But it was something.

"Just, try to remain calm." She grimaced. That was like asking the rain to fall upwards. "I'm going to go get Beth and ask her what she knows about this Gordon." She crouched again so she was at eye level with him. "Deep breaths, brother. Deep breaths." She wrapped her arms around him in a strong embrace before letting go and standing back up.

Hesitantly she left the bathroom and went in search of Beth. It wasn't hard to find her as it seemed everyone else was crowded in the room with their 'guest'. Good, if she tried to break out there was more than enough muscle in that room to either keep her contained or kill her.

Rikive entered into the room, looking around for a moment at the mismatched and thrown together group. It still had not quite sunk in that she was the leader of these people. "Beth." She called out and made a motion with her hand for the ghost to come with her. "I need to borrow you for a moment." She said, stepping out of the doorway and back into the hall to wait for her.

"Whitey, we don't have the space, people or time to torture some vampire and then either guard her or murder her. Think it through man," Tony murmured, "Besides, if she shows up on the street again after it's known she got grabbed, Nemsemet isn't gonna trust her anyway. So try not beating the fuck outta her like it's a station house with extra broomhandles in the closet, man."

It was just a thought, but Tony was being sarcastically helpful. On the other hand, he was right. The climate was very suspicious right now, and when Tony wasn't in the Beastman, he understood the whole concept of suspicion and fear of snitching -- it was all over the neighborhoods he worked in. Sure, he was a college educated man that worked with local pastors and others to figure out ways to solve poverty issues, but he also lived in Dorset, where the code of silence was a real and thriving thing, and people got killed for suspicion of ratting out on the criminals to the police. Same principle applied. And that's why he was giving Kaori a toothy little grin. It was all 'fuck you' for the cat smell reference, laying out the options real starkly.

"So you could tell us all about Billy Rikker because he will never believe we caught you and let you go, and if we do let you go, we'll make sure to do it in a way that makes it look like it was a friendly parting or a botched up dropoff. He's still alive, you know and bloodsuckers are always looking for an excuse to off rivals to get ahead and I bet it ain't any easier with Nemsemet ruling as the man now. I wonder who would like to sell your ass down the river to Billy Rikker and the Mummy?"

Once the discussion had finally fell silent, Kaori lowered her eyes, contemplating. Voices had come at her from each side. Minus a few threats that she didn't respond well to, she couldn't deny the logic of the arguments that came from Gray, the nameless brunette, and the one whom she had come to identify as the lycan. Well, all but that last bit he had so cattily thrown in.

Immediately, she wanted to disregard the lycan, with his fowl breath and wild animal smell. But, she had to admit that such thoughts pertaining to the fate of the supernaturals had occurred to her in the past. Were they doomed under Nemsemet's leadership? Of course. She had known this from the beginning. He would lead the city of supernaturals to their destruction. She had laid low in the wake of his terror, unwilling to accept their fate, but knowing it was inevitable. No one would be foolish enough to oppose him, would they?

And here was a group of random beings thrown together, stepping on each others toes, trying to find a way.

She took a breath, preparing to speak, not completely sure of what was going to come out when she heard a distant voice in the silence. "...they know what they have. Charles Gordon knows what he has."

Charles Gordon. She seemed to turn inside herself as she weighed the implications of that name. It had been a long time since she'd heard it.

"You kicked the hornets nest," she finally mumbled in that youthful, soprano voice. "Fine. If I decide to help you, we have to agree on a few things." She stood to her feet here, surprisingly graceful for someone with her hands tied behind her back. The wound in her chest, though sore, had finally stopped bleeding. Her arms tensed, and in the next moments there was a stretch, and then the snap of rope behind her back. She brought her arms to the front of her body, casually rubbing at the spot where her pale flesh had been reddened by her bounds.

"First of all, if you want my help, stop threatening me. It's putting me in a really foul mood, and I already don't like most of you." Her eyes shifted to the direction of the lycan and rolled away in irritation, "Second, you don't ask for my name. I can't be sure that anyone knows I'm here right now, and I don't want to be on their hit-list if and when this thing goes south. And finally..." She gave a quick glance over her attire with a wearied sigh, bloodied and torn from battle with these beasts, "You let me shower."

She paused, placing her hands on her hips and looking over the pairs of eyes that were staring back at her, "Agreed?"