Beneath a relentless arctic wind, a short figure braced, and continued dogged steps across the flat expanse of scrub plains. Ahead of the figure, standing like snow-capped sentinels, rose the cragged peaks of the Brooks Range Mountains. Though the sun shone clear and unadulterated high in sky, the chill of the wind stole any soothing rays of heat from the air, and would force any ordinary man to consider a journey across the open plains true folly.

The figure that bent his face to the wind, as if in challenge to nature herself, was no ordinary man. Dressed in quality mountain gear from head to toe, and sporting a pack across his back that seemed to dwarf him, he trudged on across the flat, hard ground. Thick goggles and a black balaclava hid his face, and made his appearance almost otherworldly amidst the bright light of midday. Hours passed in this manner, with the man pressed against the wind, unfettered and tireless, the mountains beyond drawing nearer with every exhaustive step.

By the time the man at last reached the root of the mountains, it was nearing midnight. The sun yet shone however, still strong and bright upon his shoulders, until it was lost to sight behind a nearby mountain peak as the man traveled ever deeper into the range. Now amongst the crags and crevices of the rock, the wind’s fury lost some of its bite. The man stopped, pulling a GPS device from beneath his thick coat.

For several moments the man regarded the digital display before orienting himself to a point several degrees to the west of his original path. Stuffing the GPS away, the man set out once again, his pace quickening in anticipation. Two more hours passed, and the low plains behind him had long since vanished with the press of the mountainous walls surrounding him. Atop a low shoulder of rock that jutted sharply from the base of one of the mountains, the man now stopped.

Though the man appeared unsure of where to proceed, he did not withdrawal his GPS. Instead he brought a gloved hand to his face, and pulled the balaclava from his nose. The face that was revealed beneath it was weathered and wrinkled, but mostly hidden by a thick, white beard. He turned to the direction of the now gentle breeze, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils. Several minutes were spent in this manner, until the man abruptly stopped, and turned up to look towards the sloping wall of the mountain beside him.

With almost reckless abandon he began to ascend. Loose rocks and dust fell and skittered from beneath his hands and feet as he climbed, his grip sometimes perilously close to faltering upon the smooth granite. For several hundred feet he moved in this way, his speed and stamina belying his small stature and aged features. As he crested a small shoulder, the man was greeted with the sight of a diamond shaped opening in the rock, not ten yards from where he now clung.

Slower now, the man ascended up the rock face until his head was level with the base of the opening. As his goggled eyes peered over the edge, and inside, he was met with a dark cavern, apparently very deep. The still bright sun only penetrated a few feet inside the opening, which in reality revealed itself to be several yards tall, and about half as wide. With great care, the man lifted himself quietly into the cavern’s mouth and peered into the darkness beyond.

His eyes searched the gloom, and his ears strained to hear any sound that wafted through the deep. No noise reached his ears from within, and miraculously even the whisper of the wind beyond the cave mouth seemed to have silenced. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness before him, he traced his vision across the top of the cave’s pointed ceiling. He froze as a glimmer of white caught his eye amidst the dull stone. Fixated upon the spot, the man maneuvered along the cave’s walls until the object that commanded his gaze at last became clear.

There, hanging from the living rock was a wolf skull, its surface polished until it seemed to glow in the low-light. Across the skull’s forehead was burned a crescent moon in the style of a Celtic knot. Around the base of the skull were tied a wild arrangement of feathers, beads and animal bones. As he took it all in, the man’s breath caught in his throat, and he slid himself down the wall until he came to rest once more at the base of the cave. With shaking hands, the man brought his hands up to his head, and pulled the goggles and thick hat away, fully revealing his snow-white hair, cool grey eyes, and a face deeply wrinkled from hundreds of years of wind and sun.

Reginald Hoyle tossed the equipment aside, and with tears welling in the corners of his eyes, he raised his head to peer into the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, his voice tremulous and deep as words finally passed his cracked lips.

“Sister, I am here.”

Atticus sat looking at the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean Sea, and took a sip of his Maghrebi tea. The green tea was sweet, with a pleasant bite from the mint leaves that were pressed into the glass. He was on his second cup of the traditional three cup flight, in which each successive glass became stronger and bitterer as the tea continued to steep. Atticus tilted his head to recall the Algerian phrase that was to accompany the second cup, le deuxième est aussi fort que l'amour—the second glass is as strong as love.

His eyes shifted to the modernly styled Library of Alexandria, just a few hundred feet down the coastal road from where he sat at the outdoor café. Strong as love, he thought as he took in the magnificent beauty of the library as the sun sparkled of its alabaster stone façade, and the third cup is to be as bitter as death. The simile brought memories flooding back into his mind, and his jaw set with a frown.

Staccato images of the last battle with Decima flashed like a broken movie reel. The fire, the destruction, the agony of his friends, his family, as they fought in desperation against the mighty Daughter of the First Blood, all came to him now. It had been this way on and off for the eleven months since Decima’s final destruction, and the memories always ended the same way: with Max emerging from the realm of the dead, clutching Decima’s soul in his hands, allowing Atticus and the others to at last strike the vampiress from the world. And then, with horrific finality, Max was there again, being drawn back into the churning waters of death once more, gone from them all.

Atticus drained the remains of his second cup of tea, and motioned the waitress for the third. As bitter as death, he thought once more. Being a demon, he was familiar with the accompaniment of death in his daily life, and his profession had brought it often perilously close at times. It had never struck him as an inherently undesirable or absolute facet of reality. That is, it hadn’t until he had witnessed Max’s final sacrifice, and had seen him ripped from the world with his fingers still clutching at Veti’s outstretched hands. The tea arrived, and Atticus took his first sip of the steaming liquid. It was sharp and bitter, just as it was promised to be, and just as fitting for his thoughts.

Following the dramatic conclusion to the affair with Decima and the Pieces of 8, Archibald Bain and Reginald Hoyle had granted all of the Boston team indefinite leave, along with full pay and a large bonus for their troubles. It was a small consolation for ultimately saving the world from enslavement, but Atticus was glad for the time. In the past months he had devoted his time to roaming the world alone, searching for a means to bring Max back into the realm of the living. His travels had taken him across the globe; to Istanbul, Kashmir, Sri Lanka, Okinawa, Tibet, Columbia, Madagascar, and finally Egypt. His travels had yielded mostly false hopes, but in the depths of the archives in Alexandria, Atticus thought he may have at last found a lead with true promise.

Throughout his time away he had had little to no contact with his former team, and his mind often wandered to Henry, Veti, Daisy, Nestor, Oro Mai, and Siya. Especially to Siya. It was a strange sensation for an incubus, but there was something magnetic about the petite vampire that set his heart to missing her. The last time they had been together for any peaceful length had been the last night in London, before circumstances had thrust the entire Boston team into the maelstrom that would eventually lead to Decima’s defeat. Atticus had not laid eyes upon her since Max’s memorial service. He had sent her a small bouquet of White Zinnia’s some weeks ago, a flower he had learned traditionally represented thoughts of one who is missed, but he had not heard back. Atticus could say that given the conditions before everyone parted ways that he couldn’t blame her for the silence.

The buzzing of his phone in his jacket pocket brought Atticus back to the present, and the demon unbuttoned his tan linen suit to retrieve the device. The number on the screen was not one he recognized, but he answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Atticus?” came the reply, a voice as recognizable as any Atticus had ever heard.

Atticus rose from his chair. It had been months since he had heard the voice of Reginald Hoyle, and now it came as a welcome surprise. “Sir, yes this is Atticus. What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am hesitant to ask this of you,” Reginald paused for a moment, and Atticus could hear him exhale deeply, “I have come across a situation that is very near and dear to me, and I need someone whom I can trust to help me solve it. I know you and your team has already done so much for Bain & Hoyle, and for me as well. I…”

“Please sir, you don’t need to say more. Whatever you require, I am your man. I can’t speak for the rest of the old team however. To be frank sir, after what happened I could never demand anything of them again. I’m not sure how I stand with some of them in all honesty.”

The phone was silent, and Atticus could almost see the kind werewolf nodding his head in understanding. “Heavy lays the crown,” Reginald said at last.

Atticus did not reply to the comment, instead he chose to press Reginald on his request. “What can I do for you, sir? Specifically?”

Reginald answered, and described briefly the situation. Atticus listened, and did not interrupt. The werewolf’s story was a sad one, and one that set as bitter in his stomach as the tea before him. When Reginald had finished, Atticus agreed to get back to Reginald as soon as possible after he had gathered a team together. The pair rang off with a short goodbye, and Atticus settled back into his seat, his mind whirring.

He finished his tea, and ordered strong coffee. With his mind made up, Atticus withdrew a ream of paper from the attaché case that set beside his chair. The paper had a shimmering metallic quality, though it moved and felt like natural paper. Next he pulled an Omas fountain pen from the case, and unscrewed the cap. He took the pen and held its sharp tip above the blank pages. For a time the pen hovered in his hand, and then as if a switch had been flipped, he put the tip to the strange paper, and began writing furiously.

---

Atticus spent the next two hours writing fifteen letters in all. In them he explained that he had received a request for a team that would be tasked with helping Reginald Hoyle on an important personal matter. He did not specify the details of what or why. If the recipients of the letter accepted the request, they were to meet at the stone circle in Ardgroom, Ireland, by 7 P.M. the following day. When complete, Atticus crushed each letter until it formed a perfectly round metallic sphere. Once in this state, he released each sphere into the air, and it would immediately shoot out in search of its intended recipient. Letters were sent to Semyon, Anastasia, Sethan, Henry, Siya, Veti, Cal, Mila, Anselm, Adam, Nestor, Daisy, Aethelreda, Dr. Kinnon Blair, and Raleigh.

In the letter to Veti, Atticus added a second note, stating that regardless of whether or not she chose to join the team in this latest mission, he was pursuing a possible means to bring Max back from the realm of death. He urged her to at least contact him at her earliest convenience should she choose to not meet in Ireland.

The last customer had left nearly an hour ago.

The tables and bartop had all been cleaned, the lights were out, the earnings tallied and payments made. There was nothing left for the staff to do but lock the doors and leave, yet only two so far had gone outside. Both men -one tall and tanned, the other shorter and pale- they paced about the club's lot casually, eyes flicking to examine each shadow and gap between cars. Starting from opposite sides, they slowly circled, hands in pockets, waiting for something to happen.

"Semyon?"

The shorter of the two paused, dour features turning to the back door of the club. It cracked open, a young woman's face peering out, several more figures shifting behind her. Semyon took a moment to catch her eye, then turned, gaze shifting to the other in the lot. As if waiting for that moment, the taller man shrugged, shaking his head as he moved purposefully to the Chrome Harley chained nearby.

"It's clear ladies." Semyon's voice carried cold and dry, a winter's breeze met with a smile from the woman at the door. Quickly, she and the others filed out to their own cars, some still wiping makeup from their faces, others wincing at sore muscles or rolled ankles as they walked. They all made it, though, and he stood clear as they left one by one, waiting till the end to start his morning stroll home.

"Still walking then, Semyon?" An engine's rumbling purr followed the man's words as the bike pulled up beside him. "I thought Kevin was supposed to have his car already?"

"He couldn't get the money together until last night, so he's getting it back today." The young man nodded with Semyon's words, fumbling absently with the buckles of his helmet.

"Well, have a nice walk then."

"Drive safe."

The bike roared out and away, leaving Semyon alone on the outskirts of Boston. Waiting another moment to take in the pre-dawn sky, he finally set off himself, wandering beside the road. He moved aimlessly, turning whenever an intersection happened to appear. Left here, right there, slowly moving into the city proper, until he paused outside Franklin Park.

An aging man with wild hair accosted him there, begging money for food or clothes or good karma. He offered his sage advice in return as Semyon passed him a ten, and they found themselves talking for the better part of an hour, as the sky slowly lightened. They nodded or spoke out in turn, finally acknowledging that, while they were both certainly wiser than most folk running around these days, the aging man was by far the more pious. That was alright, however, for even he could see Semyon had potential, and before long even he might be able to achieve the same heights of enlightenment.

The flattery earned the aging man another few dollars, and then Semyon set out once more, moving with purpose now that the sun was rising. The city was fully awake by the time he reached his home, cars and people roaring in the background of his modest apartment. He moved straight to his desk upon entering, booted feet stepping surprisingly softly upon the thin carpet. A heavy book and scattered maps lay out in wait as he sat down, exactly where they had been hours before, waiting for their reader to get back to work.

Which was about the time a tapping was heard upon the window.

Semyon let it tap for a moment, then two, finally turning to take in the sight of a metallic orb hovering outside the glass. Eyeing it for a moment, he turned back to the desk, circling a pair of locations on one of the maps as it continued to tap, before getting up to let the letter in.

"Atticus..." Pallid lips mumbled the worlds as grey eyes scanned the letter's contents. They scanned it again, then a third time, one gloved hand running absently across the top of his bald head, before he let the letter drop.

"...Max first." Strides took him quickly to a heavy safe in the apartments bedroom, one hand drawing and dialing quickly upon the keypad of a basic flip-phone.

"Max? Yes I know the time..." The safe opened with a few swift twirls of gloved fingers, Semyor's voice unchanging as he picked up a camouflaged duffel bag and began to stuff it with supplies. "I wouldn't call now if it wasn't important. Remember when I told you about my mother...?"

A pair of heavy, plastic-wrapped books went in first, their covers barely visible through the wrapping, titles scrawled in illegible text.

"...It does. I'm heading out now. Hopefully I'll make it in time to say my goodbyes..."

A Stechkin APS was pulled out, loaded, and slipped straight into the formerly-empty holster at his left side. A pair of extended clips and a silencer found their homes in pouches inside the right of his coat shortly after.

"...Thanks for your concern, Max, really. I had already told Mr. Ruth this might happen, and he okayed it. So just let him know what I said, and that you'll be filling in until I get back..."

A box of loose rounds was added to the contents of the duffel bag. A plastic case followed suit, packed with gauze and bandages, gloves, antiseptic and surgical scissors.

"...Don't worry Max. He knows you and I know you. You'll be fine... yeah, thank you again. Stay safe."

A neatly-folded towel squeezed itself into the last remaining space in the bag, and Semyon stood up once more. The safe closed with a casual flick, and he was striding out of the apartment and back to the street, a new number dialing on the phone.

"доброе утро, <-Good Morning- Romanoff...>" Feet moved with purpose once more, his form neatly weaving through the growing crowds on the sidewalks as he made his way. "<I'm being called to Ireland, tell Michael that the research with have to wait ... Yes, can you get me a gate to the Island? ... Ardgroom, the stone circle. By 7pm ... Yes, Atticus sent the message ... That's why I'm coming now, how close can you get? ... Two hour walk? That's fine ... Yes, sooner is better. I will be there soon ... Stay safe. >"

That call done, Semyon slipped the phone back into his coat, and sped up the pace. As a higher-up in the Company, Atticus knew of the research projects Semyon was currently assisting in, didn't he? The meeting had to be urgent then.

He could not afford to arrive late.

---

It seemed that he had, in fact, arrived early.

Semyon's gaze moved slowly across the evening landscape around him. Rolling hills dotted in brush and tall grass, idyllic as any other picture you could find on Ireland.

Yet a certain few thoughts kept spoiling the view, like what shrub would be the most likely position to launch an ambush.

Bag dangling precariously from his shoulder, the wight continued to leisurely glance about as he approached, until finally he drew upon the circle itself. Atticus was there, but so far no one else, so he offered the incubus the requisite nod and salute all employers were due.

"Good evening, Atticus Mac Cléirich. Have you been doing well?"

(( <text set up like this is being spoken in Russian, so I don't have to tortue anyone who knows the language with google-translator's attempts> ))

Henry doesn't sleep. Not any more. Not since he made the bargain. Sleeping means letting a creature far more vile then any demon he had met know where he was. He traveled a lot, in hotter climates where the frost never formed. He all but lived in the tropics at this point, paranoid and torn between returning to the company HQ or not. He had told Atticus, that the price he had paid might never be possible to pay back. He had given up control of his life in a sense, what little protection he had been afforded had been voided, gone for good now. He stared blankly at the drink in his hand. The final battle had been intense, he had not been fully prepared for it either. And the pain he had seen, his magic had done nothing to stop it, she had been a monster and only Max, in his brilliant, fierce dedication to Veti, had been able to truly kill the First Daughter. A splendid man in truth, even tough Henry would not have ever have admitted it to his face. Brazen but true to his own, that was the Max Henry had come to remember.

“To you, you great idiot.” He muttered under his breath as he swept a glass of some sweet Brazilian booze. The buzz could hardly be felt for him. His unnatural physiology all but neutralized it. But the taste was pleasant. His eyes met a girl across the bar and he shot her a smile. The effect was immediete, the girl looked almost stricken with panic, the feelings running trough her went haywire. She approached him with a sway on her hips that meant buisness. Mean, frantic, sweaty buisness. He raised a eyebrow. His glamor these days was less of the androgynous supermodel veriaty and more akin to his true form in that he had chiseled, very much masculine feautures. His hair, once kept long, was cut short. His blue eyes remained their usual deep and mystifying self of course. He eyed her more critically now, and she was quite the looker. But that was not the reason she had called her ower with his inhuman charms.

“The man you are dating is a ritualistic cannibal. You snare guys who you then drug and lead up to a place off the usual tourist path, hidden with old magic. They you eat them. But you are just a mortal. And I am a fae. And the little chupacabra you used as a guard dog is dead. It's not nice to import rare creatures against their will. Even if it is a blood thirsty vampire dog.” He said slowly, in perfect Portuguese. She looked at him stunned and seemed to back off a little. But she was mortal, and the siren had already prepared a spell for her and her boyfriend. By the side of his stool rested a violin case.

“Where is he. Tell me and you may live. ” He said calmly, eyes hard and without a shred of pity or mercy in them. The girl nodded, seemingly stunned. Henry grabbed his violin and tucked it under his arm as he let her lead the way. She led him the usual way she led their victims, but this time she almost stumbled as she walked, as if drunk. They reached the place, a groove cut out for the purpose of sacrifice. The man standing there wore what seemed to be very illfitting for such a hot climate.

“Henry Grimm. I am with a company who was hired to find the whereabout of one Elizabeth Tarver. You ate her. “ He said as he carefully sat the by completely out of it girl aside. The spell he had woven around her was blasting full effect. She would wake up in a jail cell next time.

“As you ate her, I am to bring a end to you. The girl is mortal. I see that you are not, are you? Your blood is that of a Berserker, like Wolf in human clothing” He narrowed his eyes. Dressed in a wolf pelt, a animal entirely foreign to this land the man was a strange sight to see in the jungle. Eyes that were wild and red and with teeth that was those of a canine. Indeed, a old viking bloodline stuck in Brazil, dormant and then awoken for whatever reason. It happened ever so often that dorman powers awoke. The man was beyond saving, he would have a quick death and nothing more.

“nothing personal.” Henry produced his violin from it's case. There would be no more girls eaten after that day. Atleast not from the crazed Berserker. The berserker managed to take a single step before his vision dissapeared and blood poured out of his ears. He didn't scream, for the magic in Henrys sonata would not let him. By the time Henry had put the violin back and began to walk of with the sleeping girl, the Berserker was long since dead. The animals would to the rest.

Henry left the girl with the police, pointing them to the her boyfriends apartment for evidence of her guilt before strolling back to the Hotel. Nobody tried to stop him, his charm saw to that. As he arrived there was a neat, very Atticus like letter waiting for him. As he read it he sighed and looked to the plane ticket enclosed in the letter.

“Atticus.. What are you dragging me into now...” he muttered.

..
A day later
–

“good to see you Atticus” The Siren offered his sincerest smile to his old friend. “Must say I was hesitant. I have not been to Europe... since that time.” He eyed Atticus as he said this. He knew his friend and boss had not called him here unless it was off outmost importance. Atticus knew very well of Henrys situation. Yet here they stood, on Irish soil. On the upside, Henry could feel the powers return from being so much closer to his cold, northern rivers.

Nestor Grimsley: Demonspawn

...I rang the bell again, now for a fourth – then a fifth, a sixth time. Damn it all. I slipped the watch from my breast pocket, gave the numbers an irritated snarl – gave the bell an equally irritated ring. Seventh. Eighth. Still nothing, just that endless tapping on the glass behind me. The pitter-patter of rain against a dismal storefront in some seedy corner of an equally seedy little town; perhaps it had been a fine venue once – but the dark wood stain had all gone to mouldering rot, and the green of the slime that seemed to have worked its way up the further door led me to wonder whether the swollen thing could even be opened.

Ninth, tenth... still nothing. The tapping continued. I stared at the clock on the wall – four hours slow. Gave a snort. No wonder he was late. I had all but reached to ring the bell for the eleventh time when, to my vague surprise, the door actually opened a crack. A pair of strangely familiar eyes peered back at me from the darkness beyond. Something gave a little within me; something ticked in the back of my mind – I looked again at the clock, then to the eyes, then suddenly on a whim pulled my watch free again.

“You are late, Grimsley” The voice came from behind, and I whirled about in a start, the watch nearly flying free of my hands as I stared at the newcomer. The eyes vanished, and though I thought I might have heard something else – something from beyond the door even as it slammed to – I could not make out what it might be. Only notice that whomever it was had left a scrap of paper, left it to go drifting in lazy spirals toward the scummed stretch of haphazard tiles behind the counter.

“Late, Nestor Grimsley!” The speaker bore no features I could see, and his shadowy formed shifted to and fro without warning; I finally managed to pry open the suddenly resistant watch case, to take a few steps back from the approaching stranger. But the face of the watch was blank, an empty face, only laughter echoing forth as I mindlessly leapt behind the countertop, dove for the floor and scrabbled at the drifting scrap of paper.

The shadow proved faster, and I found my fingers snatching around the cold darkness of his empty form; caught up, swirling about me... and then a quiet nothingness.

***********
Nestor's eyes gradually opened. Blinked. Opened again. He groaned and held a hand up to his eyes at once, the blinding light from the window beyond branding itself painfully in the back of his skull. The surroundings were unfamiliar; where in the seventh circle of hell was he, anyway? Bland curtains, bland ceiling tiles, the steady hum of some quiet machinery -- that smell -- like an overly nosey bottle of some cheap twelve-year...

“Shit” Was all the Demonspawn could manage to mutter to himself as the realization dawned. The tapping began again – something at the window, it seemed. But the throbbing in his skull made rather certain it was no dream this time. With a groan he shrugged off the sterile embrace of the hospital covers, staggered upright, planted his feet firmly upon the floor and lurched upright. A move he immediately regretted, the motion sending a spurt of blood to his head, a fresh wave of pain wracking his form. Doubling over, he growled beneath his breath and staggered toward the window, mindlessly ripping free whatever needles they'd stuck him with the night before.

Squinting against the harsh morning light, Nestor gradually made out what seemed to be a small silver sphere, tapping incessantly at the window.

“I'll be damned...” Was all he could muster up once again. “Of all the things...” prying the window open just enough to retrieve the thing, he paused upon hearing voices in the hallway just beyond:

“Didn't look too good last night...”

“Nah, didn't think he'd pull through – strange though, you hear what they said last night?”

“Mmm?”

“Couldn't get an ID on him; no license, no cards, no nothing – just a few business cards in his wallet. 'Nestor Grimsley Consulting', or something along those lines.”

Nestor drew a breath – the ball clutched in one hand, he wasted no more time but headed straight for the door. The approaching pair still seemed caught up in their conversation, and it wasn't until he was halfway down the hall that anyone seemed to notice his presence.

“Excuse me, Sir!” Nestor walked faster – or staggered, rather – blundered toward the emergency exit and slipped through the door. Giving himself another moment to catch his breath, he paused just long enough before continuing to rip the handle of the fire alarm; as the blaring siren and lights came into play, he began his descent – steps becoming a little steadier with each flight, though the pain in his skull no better.

By the time he'd reached the garage floor and beat a hasty retreat to the streets, the droning klaxon had all but burned itself into his eardrums, reverberations continuing as he held himself gingerly against the nearest signpost. Gasping again, he heaved, fruitlessly gagging and spewing the acidic bits of whatever bile remained from his stomach. Too much too fast. He heard someone swear in dismay, to lower their phone and walk cautiously toward him

“Sir, you alright? Looking a little rough...”

“Yes, fine... I'll be borrowing that, though” He gave little time for response, snatching the phone from the would-be samaritan, brushing aside the ensuing exclamations as he dialed and brought the thing to his ear.

“Excuse me, just what the...” Nestor raised his left hand in an irritated gesture, listened to the ringing on the other end of the line.

“Edward Cunningham, speaking?”

“Damnit, Ned – where the hell have you been?”

“Ah, Sir! It's high time; I've been...”

“Who the hell do you think...?” Another irritated wave, now a waggling finger –

“Just shut up and let me talk! Ned – Never mind that; the hospital – just get out here.”

“Yes. Which hospital, Sir?”

“Damned if I know. Just follow the sirens.” With that he hung up, handed the pilfered phone absentmindedly back to its rightful owner, before proceeding to walk past the stunned bystander and taking a seat on a nearby bench.

Timely – as usual – Ned arrived only moments after the first of the fire crews, the sleek vehicle gliding up next to the curb just long enough for Nestor to slip inside, tearing off into the streets with a roar immediately afterward.

“Good to see you, Sir – if you don't mind the comment, you look like hell.”

“Ironic, really...” Was Nestor's unfinished reply, followed up almost at once with “Take us home, I need to change.” Ned offered a faintly amused quirk of his usually emotionless lips.

“Hospital gowns never did look very good on you, Sir.” The Demonspawn snorted and turned his attention to the sphere in his hands; allowing for just the right pattern of his own will to exude onto the thing, the interior of the vehicle momentarily dropped a few degrees before the letter sprang open with a metallic tear. Nestor snort turned to a growl of disgruntled dismay.

“Belay that, Ned – get me to the nearest B & H branch; apparently I've a meeting in Ireland a half hour sharp from now. Catch up with my things as soon as prudently possible, if you would.” The Vampiric chauffeur did not bat so much as an eye at this, only remarking briefly.

“Understood” With that, the Audi dropped into gear and took a sudden u-turn, slipped through a gap in the traffic and sped toward the heart of the city.

***********

By the time Nestor made it past the bewildered guards – who were at first inclined to stop the seeming-manic Demonspawn, but given room to think otherwise when he waved Atticus' letter wordlessly in their faces – and to the shade gates, he seemed to pause and take a moment to realise that he truly was still dressed in nothing but a hospital gown. He appears to hesitate for a moment, then – with an eventual shrug of his shoulders – he thrusts his right foot forward and steps through the portal.

His arrival upon the other side finds him, perhaps, a little less late than he had anticipated – strolling quite nonchalantly up to those who have gathered thus far, he offers the Siren a bit of a nod by way of greeting, but beyond that doesn't say much of anything – simply announcing the obvious in Atticus' direction:

“Well, well... I'm here. For the most part.” With that, he slumps to the grass, arranges the gown to cover as much of himself as possible, and wraps his arms about his knees – he might be seen to wince now and again as he rubs at his still-aching head.

Morning. The old battered coffee machine burbled steadily, thick black dripping into a hazy pot. The toaster on the corner of the worn counter ticked whisper-quiet as the coils heated inside, the spring-loaded lever biding its time. A rickety ceiling fan squeaked its slow rotation. Adam sat at his tiny kitchen table, unaware of the near comical disparity in size, reading the newspaper. Or more accurately, reading the comics. He read the comics first every morning. Why? He could not say. But something in the cartoonish depictions intrigued him. Business ads, sports, breaking news… They were all facts, easily assimilated, easily understood. But here was the true mystery -- an animated child and tiger with puzzling fantasy adventures, or there a bulbous canine riding his square red home in the skies, or the neanderthal forever perfecting a stone wheel.

Adam very precisely, very carefully turned the page.

The home around the golem was small and aged, but incredibly neat and clean. The meager furniture was all at perfect right angles. Picture frames, still with stock photos, hung in a straight line that stretched to every wall, a parade of smiling beautiful faces with no names. In the closet hung ten outfits at even intervals, all the same dress clothes, trench coats, and fedoras, and ten pair of the same oversized dress shoes beneath each individual outfit. The bed was made military tight. A multitude of old and new books were arranged by size and then alphabetically on the shelves.

Tom and Jerry re-runs played on a tube television in the living room that Adam could see from the kitchen. The golem looked over a moment, watching the cartoon feline chase an object of obsession. Chase and chase and chase, but never catch. At times, Adam wondered what the feline would do if he ever caught and ate the mouse. Would he be fulfilled at last? Would he find a new obsession? Would the feline be sad, to have consumed his only constant companion? Would he regret? Adam could not decide.

The golem glanced down to the large black and grey tabby curled round his ankle. Adam had named the feline Optimus Prime, in homage to the fictitious leader of a team of living constructs and because the feline was larger and braver than others Adam had seen. Optimus never seemed to regret the mice he caught.

“Do you?” Adam asked the feline, reaching down. Optimus bumped his head gently into a large dark palm that could rend stone, purr box revving quietly. Adam stroked the creature’s fur.

The toaster finally click-jumped. Adam stood to unplug it while Optimus lazily rose and padded for the cat-door. The golem also turned the coffee maker off. There was no toast in the toaster, and the golem did not drink coffee. It was the ticking and burbling sounds that gave him odd comfort, the aroma of scalding bean, the clockwork routine of it all. As Adam was pouring the full pot of fresh coffee into the sink, he noticed the metal sphere tapping against his kitchen window.

His head cocked fractionally. “Atticus,” the golem said aloud in a voice inhumanly deep and oddly distorted, the name somehow phrased as both question and answer.

Adam opened the window, and the metal sphere flitted to his giant palm. The shimmery page opened, and he read.

***

The golem approached the stone circle slowly, remarkably silent for a being so physically large. A dark tower in a charcoal trench and low-slanted fedora, sleek sun-shades hiding his eyes, mighty hands holstered in the deep pockets of the coat. He stopped on the fringe of the stones, only his eyes moving behind those shades to asses the others that had already arrived. Even though his thoughts were amiable toward most, he did not feel the compulsion for greeting or personal announcement when his looming presence alone should count for both.

In a motion that he had practiced many times, the golem retrieved a cigarette and lighter from those deep pockets. He half-turned a shoulder into the licking wind and put the white stick between dark lips, lighting up with a tiny click of flint and steel. He needed breath only to speak, but now he sucked in air slowly, coaxing life to the ember. Like his breakfast ritual, the routine had become a familiar comfort. Almost a true habit, like a true human would succumb to. The thought always pleased Adam, that he was capable of developing a habit.

Waiting for the others to arrive, the golem smoked.

The Bain and Hoyle Sponsored mansion, that had been bought and converted into a lair for a ‘dragon’ was quiet in the depths of the night. The staff who maintained the building had left for the evening and there was no security force to guard it at night. Besides what lived inside was more of a deterrent than a bunch of goons in uniforms could ever be.

But that didn’t stop a pair of men from slipping in under the cover of the darkness. They both were wearing black clothes and ski masks. One of them had a gun stuck into the back of his pants and the other held a set of lockpicks that he had just used to jimmy open one of the side entrances.

“You sure about this Tony?” The man with the lockpicks asked his partner in a whisper as the door slid open. “This is way above our normal hits.”

“Ya bro, my cousin Roger delivered food orders here. Last time he got a look around inside, it’s a gold mine.” Tony whispered back as the two men walked through doorway and into a kitchen full of archaic culinary instruments. Old fashioned spits and meat hooks hung over fire pits and racks of knives were displayed on many walls. A giant walk in freezer was the only obvious sign of modernity in the large kitchen

“The fuck?” The man with the lockpicks said in an exhalation.

“Roge said some odd lady lived here, a wealthy collector or something.”

“Right. And this is really her dungeon.” The nervous man shot back uneasily as his eyes flickered over the kitchen.

“He also said she goes around half naked in a bathrobe and was a 10.” Tony continued with a lecherous grin. “Let’s hope she’s home.” He pantomimed thrusting with his hips and laughed.

When his partner still seemed unconvinced Tony pushed by him and walked through a door at the far end of the kitchen. He swung a flashlight around, illuminating the walls of the hallway. Pedestals lined it on either side, pedestals holding up antique weapons and armor and most of the armor and some of the weapons looked like it had been scorched in fire.

“Can we even sell this stuff?” Lockpicks asked, breaking the silence as the two men looked over the hall and it’s lining of trophies.

“I dunno.” Came Tony’s reply as the big man ambled over to one of the pedestals and lifted up the large two handed sword that rested on it. Black ash stained his fingers as he took a mock swing. “But I’ve always wanted one of these.” He struck a pose, lifting up the sword. “All hail the king!”

“Shut up already.” A whispered voice cut him off. “We’ve wasted enough time, let’s find whatever valuables your cousin saw, bang the lady and get the hell out of here.”
“Way to kill a man’s fun bro.” The large man grumbled back but he started moving again.

The flashlights shone on new walls as the two men came to another room. This room’s walls were covered with a series of tapestries showing scenes from battles of knights and lords against dragons. But the tapestries didn’t show the victory and triumph of the men, but ended with cities burning and dragons gorging themselves on the slain men.

“Those we can sell” Tony said after a moment, “Let’s find the lady, and grab some artifacts and get out of here.”

Meanwhile Lockpicks was becoming more and more unsettled by the strangeness of the mansion and he just nodded and followed Tony onwards. Eventually they found a cavernous room with a high ceiling and a massive indoor pool. Tony looked confused and his flashlight hung by his side, swinging slightly and sending strobing lights across the water.

“This makes no sense.” The large man said finally. “Didn’t we just walk through a dressing room? This should be the bedroom.” He shook his fist that held the light. “Where’s the lady?”

“We shouldn’t be here.” Lockpicks stammered, looking around nervously. Was that a ripple in the pool? He wasn’t sure but he suddenly knew this was not the easy robbery job Tony had said it would be.

“What are you going on abou” the big man started as he turned towards his comrade before the still water suddenly erupted. Half of his body disappeared into the mouth of the creature that had just revealed itself.

Lockpicks could only scream in terror as Tony vanished. But his screams were mercifully short as the creature swung its head around to fix him with one of its, no her, somehow he knew, eyes. Then her mouth opened and she lunged forwards and the man knew no more.

________________________________________________________________

I so enjoy it when food comes to me. I don’t really like the taste of raw human and I do get reprimanded when I eat them, though the normal humans are such dreadful little creatures that I still don’t quite understand why. Besides they were in my house and robbing me of MY trophies.

My tongue flicks through my rows of teeth to try and pick out a piece of bone that had gotten stuck between them as I let out a satisfied exhalation. I doubt I can fall back asleep now since I’ve never slept that well right after I’ve eaten and I have to make sure these fools didn’t do any damage. I prop my front limbs up on the side of the pool as I start to lever my body out of the water and I let myself change.

When I emerge I’m almost human and I brush long white hair out of my face with a hand as I slip into a freshly cleaned silken bathrobe from a rack by the wall. But I can barely start to walk out the door before a metal sphere flies in. The fools who tried to rob me must have left the door open. I remind myself to check the doors before reaching out to unpack and read the message.
_________________________________________________
Leave it to Atticus to pick a location that was on the coast where wind and the dry salt air would make my skin crack within hours. I’m not just relying on my slime though, lotion is a wonderful human invention and it does help. I slip through a portal that I called in a favor to have opened and walk out into the circle of stones at Ardgroom.

Neither the cold nor heat bothers me so my clothing rarely changes and I wear the diaphanous silk gowns that I always have. Today it is white like my skin and I take pride in even my human form's appearance, but my hair is left unstyled. He really should have given us more forewarning before the meeting I decide but I hold my tongue, technically he outranks me despite seniority though my five hundred years of service make me rather unique.

I glance around the circle at the others who have arrived, I know most of them by reputation if not in person and I know of their competence. "Atticus." I speak and break the silence as I lower my head in a gesture of mutual respect that I am sure he will return. "It is good to see you again. I regret that in the chaos I went unawoken and could not aid against Decima." Anger still smolders inside after that, there was no excuse and the old servant who ordered the others not to wake me was later revealed to have been an agent of the enemy but still sleeping through a great battle is not my role. I ate him after his treachery was revealed.

A cool mist dropped over the surrounding buildings of England. An eerie feeling flooded the streets as most people seemed to lock up early. A full moon shawn over the large Sky. A drape of blackness floating over the night sky illuminated by the glowing moon that sparkled like a large diamond. It was the perfect night, at least for Anastasia.

Living in a large victorian style home with three floors was a rather peculiar women. Her home was beautiful to say, but represented its owner far more then it should. It's old style frame work with small modern touches to the finishing of the building. It held its history, showing its age but expelling its beauty. The dimly lit porch was not inviting at all but the exterior seemed quaint.

The inside was even more extravagant in its detailing, large pictures hanging on the walls of old masterpieces. Most of the portraits of dead people, she tend to keep the ones from the 1800s. Hanging in all sorts of directions one would assume they had been knocked but in fact they were all strategically planned. Everything In Her home was meticulously planned and implemented. Her furniture looked as if it was pulled from some 100 year old women's home after she had died. Truthfully most of it was, Anastasia had a particular taste in human things, she found them beautiful.

Living a secluded life she acquired many things in her travels. Her parents and other elves from her community shunned her when she decided to take the path of a necromancer. She couldn't help that her calling was to help the dead, assist them but also control them to her will. Not many know but necromancy in the elven clans was an abomination, so most who had gained the gifts ignored them which ended driving them mad. The elves kept it a secret, not wanting to have their named tarnished they kept it a secret. After expelling Anastasia she went and lived on her own for the last 100 years. A secluded life, with no other contacts accept to the dead can have an interesting effect.

The dead were her only friends, and she didn't complain much about that. She was contacted by a company who offered to be her friend, and she tried but leaving her home was not an easy task. Her extremely interesting features, the white hair pale skin and violet eyes drew to much attention. Thankful with b&h it was like a second home to her. She would visit the head quarters every few months when they needed an odd job done but generally they got her to do house calls. She so wanted to please them, being the first kind of anything to accept her into a society. She always relished the company.

Anastasia opened up a shutter window, dust and webs clouding the air around her as she coughed waving her hand to clean the air. She looked out at the moon and smiled at it welcomely

"...no I will not shut the window.."

She responded In an agitated voice.

" I don't care if you get swept off in the wind, your dead go do some exploring.."

She turned around and dusted off the bottom of her dress as she walked back over to her table. She sat in her country style kitchen , at a large Wooden table which seated six. She never had guests over, but she saved the chairs just incase, she he was still hopeful.

Grabbing some items from the table top she dropped them into a large bowl that popped and sizzled with the ingredients.

" ..I'm making a traveling potion... No... I don't know why I just have a feeling. Now will you please leave me be I'm trying to concentrate."

Anastasia paused and looked up at the ceiling, to anyone other then her it would appear no one was there but in fact there was three ghosts looking over her. They were her regulars she called them.

" ..don't you have some dead person convention you could go to.. "

She paused and listened to their response.

" ..I am not being rude this is my home and you are merely a guest, I don't care if your father built this house decades ago it is mine now, so will you shut it."

The ghosts finally calmed down, leaving her to finish her spell.

After a few hours the brew and finished and she bottled the batch in a few different vials.

"Aahh.."

She spoke softly, happy with the completion of her potion. Grabbing the vials she walked over to the cupboard and opened up the door to her potion pantry as she called it. Inside were potions for everything you could think of and she always had a spare... You know just in case.

Putting in the few vials she shut the door and smiled happily.

".. What do you mean there is a floating ball in my window, surely i would have noticed....."

She turned her head to look at her window which did indeed have a ball inside the frame. Walking over to it curiously she grabbed it with both hands, and pulled out the letter.

She looked at the letter and a smile painted her face.

"....I...got...a.LETTER! "

She twirled around with joy as she clutched it in her hands. The sounds of clapping echoing In her ears as the ghosts cheered her on.

".. Yes, your right I should open it.."

She opened the letter carefully , trying not to rip the paper inside. After reading it she looked up slowly , she had no idea why she was being summoned but she had a bad feeling. When Anastasia got a bad feeling, it was usually for a good reason. Standing there for what seemed like a good ten minutes she quickly ran around the house grabbing anything that would fit in her arms. Not caring what she grabbed but ensuring she had her essentials she ran back into the kitchen an dropped all her stuff on the table. Her cat looked up at her after being thrown on the table

" oh well I suppose you cannot come, maybe next time mittens..."

She kissed the cats head as it ran off angry at being woken.

She grabbed a bag that she had charmed. Giving it a spell that allowed her to put as much as she wanted in it without weighing her down came in handy. Using her arm she pushed all the stuff into the bag as it feel clinching and clanging as the items hit each other on the the way in.

Next she headed for the cabinet grabbing all her potions and including the one for travelling. Keeping one out and putting the rest in her bag she looked around the house. Not seeing anything she needed she was about to drink the potion but forgot the most simple detail ... She wasn't wearing any pants.

"Oh my I cannot got dressed like this ...what does one wear for such occasions.."

She didn't have much time to think things over, she did pack extra cloths just encase but decided to wear her native dress, it was made of a white silk covered in some precious stones from her home. The dress clung to her shoulders and dropped in the back revealing her entire back. Fitted at the hips It cling to her curved body , possibly to inappropriate for this meeting but she decided to take the chance. Fixing the flare at the bottom, she fixed her hair into her normal elvish style, this time ensuring her ears were covered. That's all she needed was to be know. As the crazy elven necromancer.

Grabbing the bag she clutched it in her hand and spoke the destination of the meeting effort drinking the potion in the the vial.

---

Stumbling on her feet as she arrived in front of a group of unfamiliar faces. She straightened herself up as she fixed her dress. Looking around nervously she realized now how over dressed she was.

" I know I'm over dressed, you don't need to rub it in"

she whispered to what seemed like herself.

Straightening up she pulled the letter from her bag and spoke to the people who had already arrived.

" hi! I um... This, got ....letter...."

She cursed under her breath, crowds made her nervous.

" shut up , why don't you just go back home... Your not helping "

She whispered again to herself.

" I got this letter, I hope I am not late... "

She was finally able to say.

"Livin' in the twenty-first century, doin' somethin' mean to it. Doin' it better than anybody y'ever seen do it."

Rapped lyrics played at a soft volume from Sethan's headphones as he subtly nodded his head and tapped his foot in time with the beat. A breeze off of the Mediterranean Sea gently pushed his beach parasol, sliding the shadow it cast on the man slightly to one side. Trying to stay in the comfortable shade, he fidgeted over in his chair, and then returned his attention to the book he had been leafing through. It was actually just a paperback that he had picked up in a Moscow airport the previous week, and skimming through it was merely a bit of mental exercise, as he had recently decided to teach himself Russian. He wasn't understanding terribly much of it, but it was something relaxing to do as he enjoyed the warm air and calm weather of a Maltese beach.

He had taken this assignment while wrapping up some work for the Palermo branch, mostly as an excuse to avoid writing out reports. Something about marine disturbances; fishing boats disappearing and a cruise ship coming close to capsizing. The Sangue Nostra didn't appreciate their businesses being upset, and so Bain & Holye Co. became involved. It really was no big deal, though. Sethan had taken care of the problem within four hours of landing in Malta, and decided to take the rest of the weekend trip relaxing. He was getting paid regardless, so the paperwork could wait until he had gotten some sun in.

However, it seemed that fate was disposed to forcing Sethan to do his job, and its hand was made known in the form of an enchanted letter. Setting aside his Cyrillic book, he ,retrieved the letter from the air and positioned his sunglasses atop his head so that he might read it more carefully. Atticus Mac Cléirich, eh? Sethan had spent some time with him while he was being "rehabilitated" in London. Last he had heard, the demon was a principal player in the business that went on the the vampire nobles a few months ago. Sethan was rather in the dark about that entire fiasco, though if it was resolved, he figured that there wasn't much need to go poking his nose into it. Yet. Regardless, it seemed Hoyle was in dire need of assistance in Ireland. Why the old wolf didn't just contact Sethan directly was unknown to him (he was quite proud of his new cellular phone), but if his "master" had need of him, it was Sethan's duty to answer his call. Unplugging his headphones from his mobile, he dialed up the B&H operative that had accompanied him to Malta as backup.

"Giorno? Yes, book me a flight to Cork. No, do it now; I need to be there by tomorrow. Good." Hanging up, Sethan sighed; the obedience of his servants was something he missed most about being king.

Sethan stood up and brushed a few stray grains of sand from his Armani swim trunks before stretching a bit. He downed the rest of his glass of moscato before heading back to his hotel, book in tow. At the shoreline behind him, B&H cleanup operatives worked at a furious pace to cover the tremendous blood smear on the otherwise pristine, white sand, and dispose of the bleached-white Kraken gladius in the sea where it would not be found by human authorities. Sethan could have easily wiped away the traces of his "morning exercise," but to do so would deprive the cleanup crew of their precious livelihood. Let it never be said that Sethan was not a benevolent ruler.

---

A black Cadillac pulled up a short distance from the stone circle, and Sethan emerged from the back seat. The car was a rental from Cork, as was the chauffeur, though the latter had been half-hypnotized into graciously offering his services for free. Operating a motor vehicle wasn't something that Sethan could quite be bothered with. After sharing a few words with the poor, deluded fellow, the car drove off, leaving Sethan to attend the meeting in privacy. He was the most overdressed individual present at the meeting in more ways than one, from his eight-thousand dollar suit, to his copious jewelry. His thick fur coat was rather unnecessary, as he could barely even feel the chilly weather, but it was Margiela and he didn't get enough opportunities to wear it.

The others that had so far reached the meeting were frankly quite disappointing to look at. A rather sad little balding fellow, another poor bastard in a hospital gown looking like he was going mad, a pair of discolored waifs and a man who stank strongly of fish. However, an ebony fellow off to the side, quietly smoking, rather interested Sethan. He would have to take some time later to investigate him. Not to be forgotten, there was Atticus, having not aged a day since they last met. That made two of them.

"Mister Mac Cléirich, I do believe it's been some time." He said, pushing past the small crowd that was forming around the man. "Good to see that debacle with the vampires didn't mar your lovely face. Though you are a fair touch hairier than last we met." He joked, rubbing his own, modest facial hair with a hand practically gilded with rings.

Raleigh gazed out to sea, mind as dark as the clouds. It was mirrored too in the water, grey and unsettled, sloshing against the ferry’s hull. Quite a day it was shaping out to be. It would rain soon.

Raleigh headed back into the lounge. He settled back into the booth he had occupied and took a sip of scotch. As he heard an Irishman once say, this’ll put a fire in ye belly. Raleigh hadn’t touched a drop of it in forty years but today it appealed to him. Atticus Mac Cléirich. The name fanned the flames in his stomach. Both evoked painful memories.

It wasn’t like Raleigh to feel bitter. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and rubbed. Why was he here? What did that incubus want of him now, after so many years and all that had transpired? It was all so conflicted. Whatever the nature of his summons, Raleigh deduced it was important and urgent. Inquisitive, Raleigh had obliged. Rain trickled down the window.

The Irish Sea was in a mood this morning. It was clear skies when the ship departed Liverpool at 10:00. Such was British weather, Raleigh thought to himself, a wild mistress. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was good to have been back home, he supposed.

Work had taken him abroad for longer than anticipated, five years longer. What had originally been a relatively simple job in the Amazon basin developed into something much more. The scale of deforestation was alarming and someone of his particular skillset was urgently required. Collecting samples and specimens, blessing trees, calming forest spirits, securing sanctuaries, Raleigh’s work was cut out for him. There was no time for creature comforts.

He had been enjoying a little time off when Atticus’ letter had struck him, smack in the face as he was about to putt on the ninth green. Raleigh couldn’t help feeling it was deliberate; outwardly it must have been amusing to see a man fall sideways into a sandy bunker and roll several feet downhill. He read the message in between sputtering fits. No rest for the wicked.

Vacation over, Raleigh terminated his golf session, gathered some belongings and set off for the Liverpool ferry port. Teleportation or the airplane would’ve been quicker and easier, but Raleigh felt a good drive would soothe his nerves and bring some clarity. The Irish countryside would be nice too.

Raleigh took another long sip of scotch. He watched as fingers of water ran down the window. It had been almost thirty years since he had last seen Atticus. Raleigh had had a brief stint at the Boston branch as several jobs had cropped up there that piqued his interest. It was there he met the then-director of operations Atticus Mac Cléirich. He was a likeable chap and Raleigh considered him a good friend. He had a magnificent beard as Raleigh recalled. The calamity that befell them all but severed their bonds. Raleigh stared into the dwindling whiskey. A woman’s face flashed in the amber, and then was gone. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“We will shortly be arriving in… Dublin,” an automated voice came over the intercom, alerting drivers to get back to their cars. Raleigh necked the remaining liquor, slammed the glass on the table, and got up, readjusting his fitted charcoal blazer. The Mercedes smelt of pinecones and cedarwood, reminding Raleigh of home. Soon the ferry arrived in port, allowing the passengers to disembark. Raleigh drove southwards, windscreen wipers swiping away the downpour.

* * * * *
Pebbles crunched underfoot as Raleigh neared the fabled Ardgroom Stone Circle. He saw eight figures dotted around the monoliths. Looks quite the party, he mused. Step by step nearer, Raleigh felt an intensifying weight deep down in his gut and a feeling that he was making a grievous mistake. It was too late to back out now. A cold breeze whistled by, soft and solemn. He walked into the centre.

“Hello, Atticus.”

Siya the Shadow sat on the padded window seat in her quiet little room in her shared apartment and brooded. She had her knees pulled tight to her chest, her heels flush against her bottom while her china-doll’s chin rested on her knees, all while enveloped in a gray angora sweater that made her look soft and lost. All in all it was a satisfyingly brooding pose for a satisfyingly brooding scene but for all that it wasn’t helping her work through anything.

Veti.

Veti was at the heart of it all, Veti and Max who had burned so bright that they lit up Siya’s world. Veti who had saved Siya and worried over her. Max who had made her smile and want to be brave as often as he’d made her roll her eyes. And now Veti was broken, Max was gone and Siya didn’t know how to fix anything. Her lack ate at her. She wanted to be for her friend what her friend had been for her, but it was all different. When Veti had saved her, Siya had merely lost her life. Veti had lost her heart. That was something Siya couldn’t’ fix even if she knew how, which she didn’t.

Her eyes flicked over to the vase of dead white Zinnias that she probably should have thrown away but couldn’t bring herself too. She knew what they had meant, she had looked it up. They meant she was missed. Missed, but not enough to call, not enough to come visit, not even enough for a post card.

But you didn’t do any of those things either, a small voice said in her head. She hated that voice, so reasonable, so correct.

I was taking care of Veti, she informed that voice. The voice was unimpressed.

And what a good job you have done with that, was the snarky reply

It was right, she had been taking care of Veti, for all the good it did. Food, attention, quiet affection and as many hugs as Veti could stand. Even so she could feel her friend slipping away, her broken heart slowly decaying inside her. Veti was away just then, to her spot in the woods where she spent her monthlies. Siya wasn’t fooled, this was about more than just going and getting her wolf on, this was about losing herself, working herself up to something terrible, something final. There wasn’t anything Siya could do or say to make Veti want to stay in a world without Max. Siya certainly wasn’t enough to hold her. She didn’t even warrant a text.

She sniffed and whipped away a pink-tinged tear and scowled at it in disgust. She was supposed to be brooding and not whining. But the pink of her tears gave her something to brood about. Daisy, daisy with her stupid pink hair, her silent mopes and her dog that shed all over the place. It was hard enough dealing with a fading Veti without a candy-colored Reaper hanging around. Siya would have run her off but for one thing, Veti seemed to like her, or at least like the ridiculous shedding dog. That he helped her friend meant Siya tolerated them. While she didn’t like the bubble-gum reaper (or maybe didn’t, she wasn’t sure but she wanted to be mad at someone) she and the girl had come to a sort of silent accord in which they both watched Veti.

But it wasn’t enough. They were losing her, it was just a matter of time.
“Shit.” Siya said her husky little voice thick with her accent and thickened further with loss.

That’s when the tap-tap-tapping came. She turned her head towards the sound with a speed that was not human, a hint at the power contained within the tiny body whose potential had not fully been seen. She’d learned a lot about herself, her abilities and her bloodline in the chaos that had taken Max from them, it hadn’t been a worthwhile exchange. She stared at the small metal ball and understood, Atticus.

For a brief moment she felt something swelling within her, joy, hope, something almost human. She smiled, her tear wet cheeks plumping as she carefully opened the window and took the ball into her pale, underfed hand. She hefted the weight of it and stared at it, savoring the imagined contents. She hadn’t been a onetime thing, he’d been occupied, would she forgive him? Finally when her impatience outweighed her savoring she began to read and with each line, each word her smile faded and she drooped.

She was such a fool. Business, it was all business. Work, nothing more.

But what more was there? With Veti gone, maybe gone for good and the Zinnias long dead there was little for Siya but work. She crushed the stupid letter and put it on the table next to the dead Zinnias and began to pack her bags.

***

She didn’t like traveling by Shade-gate, not after that disastrous side trip to London but there wasn’t time to arrange a flight that wouldn’t have her fried in seconds. So she endured, holding her breath and plunging into the cool gray mist of the gate cringing as the feel of thousands of cobwebs passed over her skin. It was over briefly and the disorientation was minimal especially when she found herself yards away from the circle she was due at. There were others there some she knew by name, some she only knew by sight and there was him.

She tried very hard not to seem pleased to see him but her traitor face did not cooperate, lighting up at the sight of his magnificent beard and the ink that peeked out from beneath his collar and sleeves. Ink that moved and lived, ink that writhed under his skin. She sucked in a sharp breath as a flash their night together took her over, skin on skin, heat, breath, and blood.

Oh the blood. It had done things to her she still couldn’t put into words. It had filled her and sated her so well she hadn’t needed to feed for almost a month despite all the chaos that followed that night. She hadn’t really eaten since, what was the point? Any blood she consumed would taste like cardboard after that.

She closed her eyes willing away the vision and the resulting physical reactions from it. She would be professional, she would let his reactions be her guide. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress and stepped into the circle trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t reeling. She looked pale and fragile but queenly as she stepped into the circle, out of the shadows of the stones and into the light of the full moon.

“Good Evening.” She said simply, her dark eyes on him, watching, waiting.

Sitting on a stump with a flask of ale stolen from a sleeping lumberjack, Patrick O'Toole sat on a tree stump, drinking and playing his flute. The notes haunted the woods and echoed off of the trees. He was unlike most of his people who were crazy with gold fever, at least that's what humans believed anyway. Patrick was more obsessed with figuring out puzzles and mysteries. His favorite book was Sherlock Holmes, which he read at least twice a year. Being able to teleport, he often "Borrowed" library books at night while they were closed. Suddenly the roar of a car engine cut through the fragile notes of the flute like a knife through butter.

Patrick jerked up and teleported across tree branches and watched as a limousine flew up the dirt road to the Stone Circle. The Circle was one of the few sacred areas left in Ireland, for his kind. He followed the limo up the road but paused at the clearing and watched an odd looking fellow get out of the back seat. Almost instantly several people appeared as if out of nowhere; he recognized the residue of magic use in the air and knew instantly this was no ordinary meeting of pathetic humans. They were circling around his Stone Circle.

Listening closely Patrick could almost make out the voices, he closed his eyes and concentrated momentarily as his body shimmered and then completely disapeared. He decided to get a closer look. He ran as quick as his short legs would carry him and then teleported on top of the tallest rock in the stone ring and laid down immediately. He had made no sound at all as he laid on the rocks.

Carefully he associated the voices to their owners, and on in particular he had recognized.

Atticus.

A good Irish name that one had, one his ancestors would be proud of. If Atticus was here meeting in his woods it could only mean one thing. Something dire had transpired or was about to, and his particular help was needed.

Anselm Dunn – Giant of Albion

The morning light was dim, grey and dull. A slow, thick and wet mist clutched the small town of Kirkwall in a firm grip. Few people moved about in the depressing weather, but an old, ragged figure that looked as if spawned by the cold mist sat slumped onto a bench by the stony beach. Anselm Dunn was dressed in a brown, patched coat that looked as old as the man himself, with worn-out, pale blue jeans and a simple grey shirt beneath the coat to match. Dunn took a deep, heavy breath. The smell of fresh sea salt filled permeated the air. Dunn didn’t think much of the old, sturdy capital of the Orkney Islands, yet found himself being drawn to the place all the same. It was similar to his homelands, which stretched from the Loch Linnhe to the Cromarty Firth on the Scottish mainland, although he had lived all over Albion. Rugged and dark but strangely beautiful in its calm all the same.

A good fifteen minutes passed by. Dunn lost himself in memories of old, as he often would. Torn between his heritage and his literally cursed humanity, Dunn usually found the two sides of him at odds. There was his hate for humanity and everything it stood for, and yet at the same time he had grown accustomed to it for well over a thousand years, finding his personality more human than giant. And he despised himself for it. Yet it had its perks – Dunn would be lying to himself if he claimed he hadn’t had a sort of intellectual awakening. His mind was surely far sharper than that of any giant before him, his reasoning quicker and his conclusions more accurate. Yet compared to other humans, Anselm was little more than average. On top of that, there was the fact he had lost his taste for human meat over the years, now finding the thought as repulsive as the average human would. While in giant form that was a different matter entirely, however.

“I have two thirds of the money. Surely that’s enough?” The sudden voice abruptly ended Dunn’s trail of thoughts. He looked up at the man who stood in front of him. He was in his fifties, sported a fisherman’s hat and a thick beard well suited to his potato nose and tiny pig eyes. Dunn turned his gaze to the bag the man held in his hands.
“You are as dumb as you look if you think that’s enough.”
“I can’t get that much!” the man exclaimed with a panic-stricken voice, before lowering it again. “There is 200 000 pounds in this bag. Enough to buy a fuckin’ house!”
“I don’t want a house, Berrett, I want my money. All of it.”
“Listen Dunn, Clark took 200 000 instead of the 50 000 he was supposed to, it’s not right to put that greedy fuck’s faults on me!”
“As you’re well aware, Clark is gone, and my money with him. You’re his boss, and I’m holding you responsible. We’ve been over this before, Berrett. I want my money.”
Berrett looked around as if hoping to find a solution standing beside him.
“I might be able to get another twenty, but I really can’t scrape together any more than that, Dunn. I won’t get by!” He was shaky and Dunn could see sweat drops forming on the wrinkled face.

Keith Berrett was a local scumbag. An embezzler and a thief, and Dunn had used the man and his brother, Clark Berrett, to find and take a large sum of money – 400 000 British pounds, to be precise – that had previously been stolen from someone that in turn hired Dunn to solve the mess. A freelance job. The client didn’t want his money back, instead offering it as a reward to Dunn if he could find it. His job had instead been to find and kill the culprit who stole it. That task had been performed, but he hadn’t been able to find the money, instead opting to hire talent. All had gone well until Clark Berrett decided to keep half of it for himself, fleeing the country and leaving Dunn shy of a hundred grand, as the last 100 000 was supposed to be split between the Berrett brothers.

Dunn stood up from the bench, looking the far heavier Keith in his eyes.
“I will feed you your entrails if I am not given the other hundred by sundown.” As Keith’s eyes widened in shock, a faint sound was heard from the west followed by a small, metallic globe that gently landed in Dunn’s left hand. Keith appeared to be equally shocked by the globe. Dunn opened it, and read the contents.
“Looks like this is a shitty day for you, Keith. I need to go to Cork, and something tells me your sorry ass won’t still be here when I get back.” As the meaning the sentence carried with it dawned on Keith, he put up his hands as his lips tried to form a word. Dunn guessed the word was wait, but didn’t wait to find out. He shoved a .38 snub nose up Keith’s chin and fired. The bullet travelled through Keith’s chin, mouth, nose and frontal lobe before continuing on the other side of Keith’s head. As the body slumped to the ground, Dunn picked up the bag of money from the ground and left Kirkwall behind him.

As Dunn arrived at the stone circle in Ardgroom, he did so with the same clothes and bag that he left Kirkwall with. A rather large amount of figures was gathered at the circle, some of whom Dunn recognized by face, and some by sheer reputation. Undoubtedly whatever operation Atticus was about to divulge would be a huge change of pace from what Dunn had been doing recently. He let the bag switch hands and greeted the incubus.

"Next page please....." The boredom was evident in Mila's voice. She had been reading the same book for over two hours and the water in the bathtub which had been steaming hot when she stepped into it was now luke warm. With an irritated sigh she reached down to the plug to let out some of the cooled water. The slurping sounds it made while running down the drain were too to handle for the sensitive piece of technology facing the bathtub. "Command not recognized, please turn of all other disturbances and repeat your message" Ughhh whatever She was getting annoyed by little things and it was an obvious hint she had to stop reading. Her hand snaked around the tap to turn on the hot water for the second time. There was nothing in any of the books she'd gone through the past two months. This was another fruitless attempt to find even the smallest of leads that there was a way to do it. Steam filled the air, clouding over the mirrors of the luxurious bathroom. Mila submerged herself shifting until she was laying on her side. Little bubbles of air floated to the surface in regular intervals. It looked like she was breathing but it was merely an illusion, something to lure in the curious and unsuspecting victim. The tub was no lake but submerging herself like this even in a few inches of soapy water relaxed her body and emptied her thoughts.

The bathroom was equipped with all manners of modern technology. A smart tv was neatly build into the wall facing the bathtub, it worked on voice command as did the blasted phone which she could hear even as it was diluted by the water. The ringtone was set to sound like an alarm clock or something annoyingly similar. She rose with a groan, splashing water everywhere out of frustration. Really? She couldn't have a few minutes to empty her head from those mind numbing texts. She loved reading that wasn't the issue but scrutinizing every sentence and word to find something nearly impossible put her patience to the test. "Answer incoming call" She spoke in a clear voice. "Mila?" A cheerful voice sounded on the other end. "Yes...." She answered. Of course it was her, she dialed her number so what did she expect. "How are you doing sis!? "Can you please not be so disgustingly cheerful" Mila said in a tone which surprised even her. It was a fact, she really needed to stay away from her research for a while. It was starting to mess with her in ways she didn't like. "Sorry I...." "Hey I get it, really, so how's the research coming along" "Nothing new if that's what you wanted to know" She said, trying not to sound like she was pitying herself. She drew her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees, a look of disappointment drawing her features down. "Oh poor little Mila" "How do you think the others did it?, they weren't wining after two months you're over a century old for Gods sake" Obviously she failed in her attempts not to pity herself. "Well they're not around to tell me now are they?" She spat, her accent growing thicker as her anger rose. She excited the bathtub with yet some more splashing.

Mila didn't bother with a bathrobe and grabbed a towel from the rack, not to dry herself off but to clean the mirrors. She sat down in front of the mirror and started to run a ornate silver comb through her wet locks. It was a tedious job but one she'd perfected and enjoyed. She was so absorbed in the simple task she didn't notice the small metal sphere whizzing past her. It came in such a rush that it crashed into one of the mirrors sending glass flying in every direction. It surprised her but she was largely unfazed. She eyed the sphere carefully while taking out some of glass that stuck in her skin. The cuts were bloodless and it was disturbing to see the carelessness with which she took them out. It was a letter, she'd seen them being used before. Now she was curious. In the last two months she'd only received one of these. An invitation to attend dinner with the famous founders of Bain & Hoyle at the Boston Branch. She left the bathroom and made her way to the bedroom to get dressed, the letter following behind her. While reading it she was also picking out something to wear, only when she was halfway in did it become interesting leaving her clothes for what they were. What did Mr Hoyle possibly hope to achieve and why did they need her to do it? In all honesty she was glad for it. She needed the work and the distraction. After all if she ceased to be of use to Bain & Hoyle she doubted they would extend her use of their library as some sort of friendly favor. Very well, lets see what all the fuss is about

******

She hated being late and when Mila arrived at the stone circle of Ardgoom many had already gathered. Lovely. She thought frowning. Most she recognized but she had only spoken with a handful at the company dinner. After that they didn't really "keep in touch" sort to speak. Mila had of course heard some rumors here and there but none of what she heard went into great detail. She wasn't the sort of girl to pry. "Evening......." She said entering the circle. It was an impressive site and windy too. The marine trench coat she wore didn't do much for her and the wind was constantly whipping her copper waves in front of her eyes.

Nevers, France

Nothing is as it seems.

The Nevers air was rich that day, especially outside the café. The scents of fresh baguette and thick soup and dark coffee swirled around the customers seated outside. They were the early-rising usuals—a few couples, a brother and sister, father and daughter, a few older women. Dawn had only just begun in the city, and the sun painted everything in a warm orange glow.

A man at one of the small tables near the street lifted his hand, and a waitress drifted over. A few words were passed and she nodded, heading back into the bistro. The man leaned back in his seat, gazing around at the people near him, and then turning back to the woman across the table.

There were many interesting things about her, but the most important was not the bronze wave of hair sliding over her shoulders, her sharp brow, or even the way her lips turned up at one end and not the other—leaving her with a permanent look of knowing something no one else did. No, it was her eyes. At first glance, they were simply amber. But things are never as they seem.

For a lot of the time, her eyes were ochre, with bits of azure, cobalt, and chartreuse pieced together inside like stained glass. They caught the light and bounced it back, and sometimes, at just the right angle, a little sliver of what was inside could be seen.

And then, sometimes, they were gold. Sometimes, her smiles would carry all the way up into her eyes, or her laughs couldn’t be held back, and her windows opened up. Her eyes would fill with nothing less than the sun itself, and her soul would shine out, and it would become clear exactly what she was. Captivating, brilliant, and deadly. She was untouchable, too bright for the eye and too hot to the touch and too distant for the heart. And, ever-present, there was a dazzling twinkle in her eye unmatched by anything but that of the man who had given it to her. He watched her now with it, and she met his gaze easily.

The looked like half of a family meeting for breakfast, but there was more, even to that. “L’homme dernier?” he purred, one dark eyebrow arching upwards.

Her eyes swiped around their surroundings imperceptibly and then settled on her father. “The last man,” she answered, “was a joke. Three-four-seven-one-six-nine-eight-two-five, and the devil’s number for the door. He said she hasn’t been heard from in months. Her numbers and addresses are in the bag.” She nodded to the black case at his feet.

He opened his mouth, but she answered him before he could question. “She’s in Africa—Lagos, Nigeria. Holed up with some old man who doesn’t know what she is. She’s good, he’s got no idea.”

Blake’s eyes twinkled as a smile drew across his face. “Bon, merci beaucoup. Votre prochaine mission est au bureau.”

She nodded. She knew her next assignment was at the office—she had already seen it. “De rien,” she replied, and then stood. “Au revoir.”

He leaned his head forward and moved his hand up, as if tipping an invisible hat to her. “À tout à l'heure,” he countered, dismissing her.

—

Ardgroom, Ireland

She had encountered the letter on her way home, the small orb rocketing up to her from seemingly nowhere. She had unwrapped it and read it, and then continued on her way. It wouldn't take long to get there, so she needn't travel until tomorrow. All day, her mind had wandered, wondering what was possibly so important Atticus was calling on them. What had happened? She wanted to know like nothing else—today could not have come fast enough.

Evening hovered at the stones, casting an odd light around Cal as she moved into the circle. Her light eyes flickered between Atticus and the others. She knew of nearly all of them, but wasn't especially acquainted with anyone. They all looked interesting, and more importantly, vital. Beside the urgent need to know why they had been called there rose another desire. She wanted to touch them, to find out when they would expire and how long each had until their dying breath. It was a question that was always burning in the back of her mind with any new face she encountered. For now, they were alive and moving and being, but one day all of that would simply end. And how easily it could happen—one misstep into the street, or tripping on shoelaces that made you late and put you in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even saying the wrong word could end it all so quickly. That, Cal had always thought, was the most fascinating thing about life. How quickly it could be taken.

Knowing now was not the time, she burrowed her hands into her dark jacket's pockets, and turned towards the man who had called them all here.

Dr Kinnon Blair
Immortal Druid

The hot African sun peeked through the canopy of trees, it's light diffused by the thick foliage and closely grown slumbering giants. A light rain was falling, that too was diverted by the thick leaves and heavy vines, it however tenaciously managed to find a way through to the forest floor. Dripping, as it did so, onto a man's shoulder, before trickling down with the rest of the raindrops.
Dr Kinnon Blair sat studying the small herd of Abada, a donkey sized, two horned horse with the tail of a wild boar, he was here because within the next few hours the Abada would begin the moulting stages for the next year, their horns would grow and shed the outer layers. Kinnon was here for those husks, they were excellent yet rare sources of antitoxins when ground down and added to an intravenus drip.

He was dressed in a sandy brown cotton shirt and a pair of heavy cargo shorts, thick well made hiking boots adorned his feet, although he would have preferred to be barefooted. His ensemble was useful in the humid temperatures, but it did not stop the native insects from taking a fancy to his blood. Kinn did not slap them away as he knew most people would have, he was a Druid, all life to him was sacred, even if it was a small life.
Above him in the trees chattered a small group of vervet monkeys indigenous to this part of Africa, their loud calls and accompany branch shaking brought a small smile to his lips. He knew all to well what the rowdy group were getting at.

"Mating season is nearly here and there are a couple of new females in the area that you guys would all like to impress eh"

Kinn's words, spoken to himself were heard by a particularly curious monkey., the little brown and white creature stared at the strange human with its wizened face and let out a small screech. Almost immediately the chattering above stopped, the brave monkey crept forward and then jumped from branch to branch until it was about five feet from Kinn's head. It stared at Kinn, who had been watching it all along, with a face that held a much too human look of interest on it. The vervet turned away suddenly, then without warning turned back just as fast, and let fly the small clump of droppings it had gathered.

Kinn was already moving before the crude missiles would have hit, he was laughing as he rolled out of the way. The small brown and white monkey screeched at him in a tone that Kinnon knew was meant as a warning.

"Do not fret my furry friend, I have no desire to take your females from you"

Kinn started to calm the irritated creature, his dark brown eyes lightening to a honey hue as he channeled the ancient power through him, before he could connect with the vervet however, a loud buzzing sound broke his concentration. Kinn shook his head and looked around, the buzzing was getting louder but he could not see the source.
Without warning a small metallic orb came crashing through the canopy, scaring the vervet away and hurtling straight for Kinn's temple.
The thud that resounded was enough to startle the Abada's, they ran from the clearing, leaving an unconcious Kinn crumpled on the ground, a slight trickle of blood racing down his temple.

Several hours later Kinn awoke, the light filtering down from above had faded, which clued him in as to how long he had been out cold. He gingerly touched the lump on his head, relieved to find that it had not done severe damage and then looked for the object that had been the cause of his unscheduled siesta.
He found the orb laying next his booted foot, immediately knowing what it was, he wondered who at the company would want him. He had hardly any field training and definately was not combat savvy. Curiousity got the better of him and he opened the sealed orb and read the message within. After re-reading it he knew he was seriously limited for time. He would have to miss out on collecting the abadas horns and a flight to Ireland would take too long. A portal doorway would have been a good second choice but he had left the satellite phone back in the camp and had no way of contacting anyone without it.

Kinn groaned as his wiped his head with his shirt sleeve, he had a third option, one that would definately end in a bad way. He would have to travel by fairy circle.
He knew there was a tribe of Aziza fairies living nearby, the small fairies were known for their fierceness as well as a fondness for tobacco. Kinn had brought some with him just in case he ran into any of them, but was not sure if it would be enough to buy him passage through the fairy realms.
All fairies lived in both worlds, moving about as freely as a person moves from one room to another, passing between the realms with ease.

Sighing at the lost opportunity to collect the rare ingredients that he had hoped to put to good use in a number of remedies, Kinn picked himself up and started walking off, his destination lay somewhere in the west side of the forest.
After almost two hours of walking through dense bush and vines, Kinn stopped in a small clearing. The circle of mushrooms lay in front of him. He approached with the reverance a place like this deserved, a meeting of the natural and supernatural worlds that did not disrupt the harmonious balance.
Kinn surveyed his surroundings, a cautionary act that might have been seen as stupid, due to the fact of his location. But one that he still practiced with his usual level of expertise.

Satisfied he was alone, Kinn began to sing an old Scottish rhyme that was used to warn people away from places like these, it also held a hidden meaning known only to the Druid however.

He wha tills the fairies' green
Nae luck again shall hae
And he wha spills the fairies' ring
Betide him want and wae.
For weirdless days and weary nights
Are his till his deein' day.
But he wha gaes by the fairy ring.
Nae duk nor pine shall see.
And he wha cleans the fairy ring
An easy death shall dee

No sooner had the last word left his mouth did Kinn know he was no longer alone. Several small humanoid creatures circled him, they were no bigger than a bag of sugar, their tiny dusk skinned bodies held aloft on various gossamer wings. One flew forward and held out a tiny hand, expecting payment.

Slowly so he did not appear threatening, Kinn reached a hand into his shirt pocket and took out a small leather pouch, he held it open and moved it in front of the fairy. The little man stuck his head inside and then pulled it back with a sharp intake of breath. Kinn saw a smile appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.
He knew he had a deal, but the payment he had might not be enough and he was already wondering how he would have to pay the rest.

The Aziza nodded his head and Kinn stepped into the circle of mushrooms. He placed the pouch on the floor and stood with his head bowed. After making sure his eyes were closed the fairies began circling him, picking up speed until it looked like their was a continuous shimmer surrounding the man. A glimmering light began to spread beneath the Druid's feet. He could feel the energy as it coursed through him. Within seconds he was engulfed in a comforting green light, he felt and saw nothing but the light, yet he knew he was travelling at a very high speed, he tried to compose himself as he knew that whatever lay ahead must be important. Not just for the company, but for him as well.

Almost suddenly the light began to fade, Kinn knew he had reached his destination, the circle stones in Ireland, Ardgroom, was a sacred place. As such it was also linked to the fairy realms, he would step out of the realm of the fae and into the middle of the circle. He just hoped he was not late.

He had no idea that as he appeared in the circle of the stones, the fairies extra payment would be revealed. He had not met anyone from the company in person before except for a long history with the Dryad Raleigh Oakwood, and was hoping to make a good impression. But how would he do that without any clothing.

Veti closed her eyes as she lay there on the ground, years-old autumn leaves and pine needles the only cushion to her naked skin, prickling softly along her back and buttocks, the soles of her feet. Sapphire eyes studied the cave's ceiling some feet above her head, her gaze following the whorls of the pale grey granite. The werewolf's lair was a small treasure found in one of the few old growth forests left in New England, where she could let the wolf run free the one night of the month Veti couldn't keep her from emerging. But that night had passed, and the woman had found herself once more. Her very human hand now lay over the ivory skin of her belly, a small, smooth and shiny something flipped over and over between thumb and long, slender finger like a talisman. A touchstone.

A year and a day...

Veti had no idea when those five words first entered her thoughts these past months, but they reverberated over and over in her thoughts now, the strangest mantra. 'A year and a day,' the time required by English law to legally separate cause and effect, an act and a death, and there'd be no blame to lay anywhere.

Slowly, languorously, she lifted her hand some inches above her face, entranced by the perfect little object suspended between finger and thumb, lightly glowing in the pale light that filtered feebly through the branches barring the outside world from her small lair.

A bullet. A single silver bullet, .357 caliber. The symptom and the cure for everything that ailed her. Veti would have been heartbroken to know she hadn’t been near as clever as she’d thought, nor inscrutable to Siya, or even to Daisy – much less Artie. But the relentless pain of living had finally worn even the werewolf’s stamina thin, frail and treacherous as a Spring ice floe with only the slimmest veneer to mask how little was still left inside after Max was swallowed back into Death, his life and his fingers mere inches from her own…

Veti winced, a single tear sliding down her cheek to disappear into her blood-red hair and the pillow of dead leaves beneath her head. A year and a day then, and she’d have to endure no more - and no one could be blamed. Eleven aching, empty months already slipped past, and she was tempted – sorely tempted – to steal the solace now, her bare toes raking against the hard plastic of the gun case where the .357 revolver lay nestled, waiting like a promise. Veti knew well what a burden she’d become to the people she cared for most. She could see it in Siya’s dark, grace-filled eyes, that endless worry, and feel it in every desperate embrace and it made her sick to be the cause of any misery to the little lady who’d already suffered so much in her too-short life.

And Daisy too. Quiet, pink-haired Daisy the Reaper who never once said a word of what went on behind those solemn eyes and the thin veneer of never-give-a-damn, though her presence alone screamed otherwise. She shared what warmth she had in Artie, letting Veti find what laughter she could in endless squeaky toys for the hellhound, and what sleep she could find beside his warm, doggy-smelling body in her bed.

The werewolf never minded the shedding, of course.

Veti heard the whirring while the incoming missive was still some quarter-mile away, hurtling toward her lair like a determined little gadfly. Her gaze never turned from the silver bullet, snatching the ball out of the air as it arrived with a preternatural swiftness. She blinked slowly, and her eyes turned toward the missive she unfolded with the fingers of her one hand.

Atticus…

The months of silence by the incubus had weighed heavily on Siya, and the knowledge of his demonic nature could only ever be cold comfort. The zinnias had been beautiful, but not nearly as lovely as the glow that followed Siya’s wake for days after their arrival. But not another word from him was forthcoming, not a single word more in all these weeks - and the flowers? Veti did everything in her power to keep those things alive as long as she could, to keep that brightness, that lightness in her tiny friend – but they were only cut flowers after all, bound to wither and finish their magnificent dying. There had never been healing or life in Veti's touch.

Max could have done something though, Veti was sure. If he could transmute woman to wolf in a single brilliant, flaming moment of consummation? Surely white flower petals to pearls, or even ivory, with stems of jade, delicate leaves of emerald - oh yes, he could do that in a moment. A rare, soft smile emerged at the thought, knowing full well that was just the thing Thad might have done to see Siya's lovely fanged smile…

Veti grimaced as she read the words once, twice, her stomach twisting into painful knots as she read the plea at the end. She had no idea that a glimmer of hope could hurt so damn bad. But it was nothing compared to the pain of living without any at all.

A year and a day - but that day hadn't come. Not yet. Thad's face hovered in her mind's eye, fading to the mask of Max - and then morphing silently into the ancient, age-carved visage of Reginald Hoyle, eternally kind, and patient. And sad. So very sad, only an inkling of his own ancient pain shared quietly very near a year ago. Veti sat up in the small cave, the silver bullet in one hand and Atticus' letter in the other, thoughtfully, grimly weighing the choice in each, and decided.

**********

Siya was already gone from their apartment when she finally arrived home, as were Daisy and Artie. Veti hadn't been back to the Boston Branch Office of Bain & Hoyle in nearly a year now, and she was only vaguely surprised to discover her ID card still worked, that she still had access. She shouldn't have been - she was still technically an employee after all, though Veti hadn't stepped foot in this place since Thad's memorial service.

Veti pulled the hood of her dark sweat jacket over her head, shrugging the shoulders of her leather jacket up to her ears, shivering at the preternatural cold of the portals in the company's basement. It would have been a damned lie to claim there hadn't been some small thrill of a hope in her heart as she stepped through the shade-gate, that maybe this time it would be tampered with once more, sabotaged to send her into yet another deadly trap, sending her to... Oh, she knew not where, but the call of oblivion still whispered seductively to her weary soul.

But there was only a whiff of disappointment in Veti's thoughts as she stepped into the cool darkness of an Irish night, the heels of her leather boots crunching lightly on the soil beneath. The dizzying array of scents and sounds and sights buffeted her ever-heightened senses, and she was glad the shade-gate had spat her out some distance from the stones and the gathering of all the Veiled World's denizens answering Atticus' summons this night. Instinctively her eyes sought out Siya, proud, graceful, beautiful Siya who always believed herself a shade, not much more than another shadow in Veti's own. The amusing irony had always been that the vampiress actually glowed, and always had in her sight, shimmering and cool like the moon - just as she did now as she approached Atticus, all poise and breathtaking dignity.

From beneath the confines of her hood, Veti's eyes traveled over the rest of the assembly, her heart skipping several beats when she found Henry's face, and then Nestor in... The werewolf blinked, and her heart ached that her lover could not be here now beside her, laughing that loud guffaw of his at the sight of 'proper Nestor' arrived in a hospital gown!? Veti laughed so softly, and then silent tears slid down her cheeks as she crouched quietly and alone in the shadow of one of the great stones.

Atticus leaned against one of the ancient monoliths within the stone circle, his eyes looking down with tepid curiosity at the small village of Ardgroom. The air coming off the North Atlantic, some distance to the northwest, was cool and crisp in the evening air, its breath heavy with fresh moisture. Atticus brought his wrist up to look at the Breitling Navimeter wristwatch; it was nearing the appointed time.

He stood from the stone that had been propping him up, and straightened his dark grey wool sweater. It, along with his midnight blue Levi’s, fit his athletic frame nicely, and accentuated the darkness of his hair, beard, and eyes. Even so, he yearned for the familiar touch of one of his Savile Row tailored suits, though he was forced to admit that the hills of Ireland were an odd place for such finery. Placing his hands into his pockets he roamed around the stone circle, his eyes searching through the green foliage for a sign of his first attendee.

When Atticus had penned the letters, he had done so with an eye to fulfilling the specific needs of the mission, no missions, at hand. Reginald Hoyle had described a very personal and grave situation, and the demands were going to require not only a group with finesse, but one that was also geared to delivering an ample beating when required. The short list of Bain & Hoyle agents he knew that could fit that bill had each received one of his letters. Several of those he requested he had only known by reputation, while others he had had the pleasure of working with personally in years past. The thread that linked them all was that they were undeniably among the best B&H had to offer, and the best was all that Reginald Hoyle deserved in Atticus’ estimation.

The rustle of grass caught Atticus’ attention, and he turned to see a slim figure approaching him with a bag hanging over one shoulder. The creature's smooth scalp, pallor, and dour expression were as dead a giveaway as any, and Atticus smiled to the Greater Wight as he made his way into the circle. Atticus stepped to him as the creature spoke in greeting, and he extended his hand to take the Wight’s gloved one into a shake.

“I have been doing quite well, Semyon Makarov. I trust your journey was pleasant enough?”

Atticus relinquished Semyon’s hand and moved to stroke at his own beard. “I heard tell that you were off with some business in Irkutsk. Something to do with an ancient stash of smuggled Chinese gold, if I’m not mistaken?”

The pair chatted for some time, until Atticus was met with the familiar voice of his long-time friend and assistant, Henry. He excused himself from Semyon and took the strikingly handsome Siren into a bear hug, tousling his hair as he did. He released Henry, and set his feet once more upon the ground.

Atticus let his expression fade to one of appreciation. “I know, my friend, I know. It means a lot that you are here.” He looked down to his feet for a moment, then back up to Henry. “You have more at stake in this than you yet know. I will explain later. For now, have you met Semyon Makarov?”

Atticus raised an arm to indicate the Wight, and he was about to formally introduce the two when his eyes caught sight of Nestor Grimsley meandering into the stone circle wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

“What the fu…?” Atticus whispered to himself before transitioning to a low chuckle as the Demonspawn took a seat against one of the stones.

“Nestor, I see you have been taking your downtime in your usual manner.”

Atticus walked over to where he had originally been leaning, and from behind the stone he pulled an ample North Face backpack. Fishing inside he withdrew a pair of dark corduroy pants, a wool knit shirt of deep blue, and a set of brown leather boots. He set the clothing down beside Nestor.

“It looks like you could use this more than me. Take whatever you’d like.”

Atticus stood, and looked up to see the imposing silhouette of a large figure crested with the clear lines of a fedora. The Golem stood on the fringe of the stones and brought a lighter to a cigarette. The low light of the lighter flame illuminated a face that was hard and etched with pronounced features. The dark eyes did not look up to Atticus, and as the massive creature extinguished the lighter, once again plunging his face into darkness, Atticus thought that demon or not, he would hate to end up on the wrong side of such a man. Atticus nodded in greeting, accompanied with a note of respect for Adam’s commanding presence.

Atticus turned back towards the bulk of the group as those gathered began to talk amongst themselves. He watched them for a time with his hand scratching idly at his beard. The group gathered before him was already an impressive array of individuals. Their unique skills and inherent traits were formidable, and while that realization was inspiring, it also lent a twinge of stark perspective onto the dangers they would surely face. Their adversaries would not be a meager group in themselves, and the thought made Atticus’ jaw tighten.

The call of his name from off to his left stole his focus, and Atticus swung his eyes to see the almost glowing white skin of Aethelreda, the Cave Dragon. In her human form she was a beautiful creature with a unique array of alluring features that made the tattooed demons upon his flesh howl and jostle silently beneath his sweater. Atticus kept his own expression professional and pleasant, bowing his head and casting his eyes downward in deference towards the ancient dragon. When she spoke of Decima, Atticus tensed, having not heard the name said aloud in almost a year. The incubus recovered quickly and shook his head to the alabaster woman.

“No apologies, Aethelreda. Many circumstances were beyond our changing during that time, but I am most pleased to have you with us now.” He smiled, “Having a dragon watching your back is as comforting a thought as any.”

Atticus’ conversation was stalled by the stumbling of another fair girl into the closure of the stones, this one seemingly frazzled and ill at ease. He watched the elven necromancer wave his summons above her head, the action prompting a slight smile from him, though Atticus chose to watch the spectacle in silence.

Again his name was called, this time boisterously, and it was soon accompanied by a handsome man that pressed his way to Atticus’ side. The man, gilded in more gold than a Brooklyn rapper, took his hand and shook it warmly.

“Sethan,” Atticus replied, a smile splitting his face. “You old bastard, it has been a long time. I am well enough, though I need the hair to hide the worry lines I get from this job.”

Atticus took the mummy by the shoulder and pointed him towards where Semyon Makarov stood. “Now, my friend, I know you to be a lover of all things gold. So, if you have not met Mr. Makarov, I highly recommend you do so. Make him tell you about the gold deal he was a part of in Irkutsk, and don’t take no for an answer.”

The bearhug was unexpected, but not un appreaciated. Henry was all smiles, much of his regrets coming here dissappared at the voice of his best friend. Atticus was like family to him at this point, they had been trough all to much. He nodded at the Incubus words and he gave Atticus a look of understanding when he suddenly said something that put doubt back into the back of the sirens mind. More at stake? He did not like the sound of that all that much. But regardless, he was apperently needed. And he was not gonna leave Atticus to do this on his own. Instead he adapted and applied that razor sharp wit of his to analyze the current gathering.

“Pleaseure to meet you Makarov” he took the wights hand, the Sirens voice all pleasant and calm.

Henry then looked a the people gathered. This time around, there were a feeling that they had gone with brawn over brain. He didn't mean it in any insulting way, it was just that there was less sorceress might apparent with the giant and the golem around not to mention the aforementioned Russian wight he just shook hands with. They were brawn, the very definition of brawn to be exact. The mighty giants of Albion had been things he had only heard stories about altought he had met a more northern 'cousin' to the them some years prior. But a denizens of Joutenheim were all anger and hate and took none to kindly on those smaller then them. So he had ended meeting on a sour note and he expected this Albion giant to boost just as much strenght if not more. The wight was another that gave him the sense of brawn. A undying combat expert, altough to be fair on the once-man, he was very knowledgeable and a excellent guide. The Sirens eyes found the Golem next, massive polished stone made to move and serve, yet this one appeared very much human in a comedic way. The cigarr was a nice touch Henry had to admit. He tried smoking once, his body promtly made him expel the sludge in the nastiest of ways. Golems were, as far as he knew, brawny, strong and durable.

Then came the Pharao. The look of dismissal on that mans face was to expected, but the way he seemed to sniff the air as if Henry smelt bad was somewhat perplexing. Henry smelled human and not bad at that, maybe the old dried up thing could smell his true being in a way not even Henry could? Again, it was a bit unfair, for a old supposedly dried up body the man looked like a rapstar with extra tackyness tacked on. Henry was especially appreciative of the suit. Regardless, old beings were always so impossible to agree with Henry had discovered so he let him be for now. Oro Mai had been like that as well and Henry idly wondered what the big ol' bird was doing now.

Nestor showed up just then, and the Siren just shook his head. Now there was a sight he had not expected. “Wardrobe malfunction Nestor?” he Asked as Atticus came to the poor Demon hosts aid with some clothes.

Another arrival, and the Siren caught himself grinning. This one was his fault. The Rusalka, lovely as only the water temptress could be, had tried to woe him once. With the intention of drowning him of course, like any self respecting water spirit would. But as a undead, she was not related to him in ways of species or genus. No, she had not had any idea that Henry was immune to both her charms and the act of drowning. Not to mention, very fond of bathing in lakes with scantily clad women to begin with. And Henry was never, as long as he lived, let her forget that. He had offered to put her incontact with the company shortly after of course. A source of endless amusement that one.

“Well...” Henry trailed off as he saw the Dragon. Now, salamanders might be different from their gold hogging, scaled and redicusly maglomaniac driven brethren. But they were still awe inspiring to the Siren, who had spoken in great length to lesser wyrms the past year in order to get some sort of read on the current going ons in the realm of Fae and immortal. He knew he was in the presence of a magnificent being and he afforded her all the respect. Of course, his attention was stolen by the sight of a naked Druid. He knew he was a druid becouse the way he came from a fae realm while not being a fae himself. That was a very Druid thing to do Henry decided. By the looks of him, he made a deal with some variant of a pixie tribe. God Henry pitied the man, Pixies were as unreliable and full of mischief as they came.

“..Pixies are a very unreliable way of transport Master Druid. May I suggest speaking to a different tribe next time? At least they may let you travel less... Au Naturalé”

And then Siya appeared and Henry bit off a little chuckle at how she lit up a the sight of Atticus. He watched as she approached, suddenly all grace and.. need. Oh, Vampire she was allright, just a petite, Incubus snaring kind. Henry let the two reunite in peace, well relative peace, there was many around them. Instead his eyes met those of Veti, and he could see her search for soemthing, he could only assume it was Max. He knew her pain, he knew it far to well. He waved at her and offered her the warmest smile he could muster. It was pretty damn warm coming from a being born in a frozen river.

“Glad to see you Veti. Really glad.” His words had a unspoken meaning to them, he had been afraid he'd never see Veti again. He knew what grief did to people.

Nestor Grimsley – Demonspawn

As the others begin to filter in, Nestor gradually seems to rouse himself a bit; a wrinkling of one nostril leads his eyes toward the stationary form of the golem a little ways off – catching a bit of the scent of smoke on the cool evening air, he lurches up to his feet and steps gingerly over the grass toward the hulking creature. He does not speak at first, rather, simply stands a little ways off, eyes on the silhouette of the swiftly fading horizon. After a time, his eyes tilting sideways toward the golem, he remarks quietly:

“Strange – I did not know your kind to take to such things.” Here he pauses, wets his lips – casts another furtive glance out toward the distance; the cold seems to trouble him little, despite the incessant wind tugging at the thin excuse for cloth of his checkered hospital gown. He does not speak again at once, though in the space between you might notice a sudden chilling of the air around him – perhaps nothing to bother a golem, if you even truly know what cold or warmth would seem to a human – a soft sigh of cold winter wind that whispers behind you, words spoken in the keen, icy tones of something inhumanely feminine:

“What our Dear Nestor means to add, I should think – to cut things right down to the goddamn chase – is that he'd like a smoke, and you've got one, but he's too damn stuck-up-the-ass to say it outright.” The words are followed by a subtle roll of the eyes on the Demonspawn's part, a shimmering of the air following in their wake, the icy-hard form of what might appear to be an ice demoness flickering into view on the Golem's opposite side. No mere vision only, but a real, solid construct – or appearing as much.

“Well, yes – now that it's out in the open, I suppose I shouldn't mind one, if you've got it to spare. The last few days have been... hmm... well – difficult...” He trails off into silence, plucking absently at a crease in his rather ignominious attire, before suddenly looking up again and offering a slender hand in the Golem's direction while exclaiming “Ahh, and my apologies – Nestor, Nestor Grimsley; I will refer to you as 'Golem who Smokes', unless you have a more appropriate name mayhap?”

Adam – Golem
Turning only his eyes, Adam watched the other B&H employee come nearer. The golem recognized the other by sight, but never had he officially met, only silently catalogued in distant golem fashion. Where others might have found an approach followed by a stretch of silence uncomfortably awkward, Adam simply waited. None could wait as patiently as he, and he imagined the other would not have closed the distance without reason. At the golem’s lips, the ember burned a bit brighter; the ashy tip grew. Adam breathed grey smoke out to the side slowly. Waiting.

Then the other spoke. Adam took his time to phrase a reply, as was his wont. Such things, the one before him had said. Was Adam a Such Thing? He supposed he was, in fact.

The change in temperature was barely noticed by the Golem, not on a conscious level at least. Cold, warm, clothed, naked, it was all nearly the same to Adam, subtle differences. He often had to take the cue how to react from the blood and flesh beings, and this hospital-gowned-one was not giving him the impression of frigid air. The icy words from behind, though… Adam did detect those. His reaction was minimal. Merely a slight turn of his head, the cocking of a dark ear, his large hand lifting ponderously to remove the cigarette from his lips with thumb and fore. He blew slow smoke, processing. Supernatural antics in the midst of his crew was not unexpected, and Adam did not startle easily.

Adam listened. He took a moment to consider.

“Oh,” the golem answered at last, the one syllable seeming to vibrate through the ground with its tonal depth. Spoken as a casual acknowledgment, as if it was customary for the golem to receive explanation from frigid demonic beings in his ear.

Adam’s shaded eyes crossed gradually back down to … Nestor, as the man had introduced himself. Adam regarded the outstretched hand for several seconds. Without hurry, the golem replaced his cigarette in his own mouth, then reached out, gripping and near mechanically shaking Nestor’s hand with obviously much-restrained strength -- the light touch was just shy of bone-crushing. Then he let go. He reclaimed a fresh white stick and lighter from his pocket and offered to the other.

“I am Adam,” said the golem simply.

Nestor Grimsely – Demonspawn

With a whispered breath the demoness' attention suddenly shifts, eyes locking upon the arrival of the elf and her entourage of invisible followers – invisible to the others, perhaps. But not to her, nor seemingly to Nestor, who turns himself and glances briefly; a glance preoccupied, and he takes only time enough to purse his lips in a moment's contemplation before returning his attention to the Golem.

The Demoness, however, has other plans; with a frenzied rush she swoops across the grass to stand directly in front of the Elf; bending down, she peers curiously at the woman, before beginning a slow, stalking walk in a circle about where she stands. Head canted, neck craned forward, eyes shifting to and fro – first to the Necromancer, then to one of the following ghosts, then back to the victim. Finally, only after drawing a long, slow breath and giving a viciously toothy smile does she speak:

“Now here is an interesting one, dear sweet thing... You smell Beau-ti-fuul. Positively gorgeous. Like.... death... but...” There is a pause here. The demoness stands fully erect, thrusts a finger into the air – as though expounding upon some point (though the importance thereof might be seemingly lost to anyone save her) – and glances sidewards at the newcomer before continuing “Different from the other girl – she isn't here yet. Not, not yet. But she will be. Oh yes! I can sense it. Do you see him, standing over there like the lummox that he is?” Here she seeks to gently lay one icy, clawed hand upon the Elven woman's shoulder – and, should she not attempt to slip away – coax her to look in the direction of Nestor and the Golem standing together a little ways off.

But, in the very moment of touching you, the sense of an inevitable death comes sweeping in – perhaps different, than in the past. Not one death, not a pair of deaths... no, rather an endless cycle of painful suffering, the crying and wailing of scores of lost souls – but the sound seems to come less from the demoness, and more toward the man to whom she points; and if you stare closely enough, no doubt you would begin to see his image morph and change on occasion. Now and then taking the look of some ghostly figure from time long past – human, inhuman, monstrous and otherwise alike... Straining to catch any individual death amongst the endless repetition seems to only further the chaos, and all in the moment that you think you might have seen -his-, his alone amongst... She releases her hold.

Steps back with a skip, gives an almost girlish giggle, covers her mouth with a hand and peers at you once more, as if gauging your response. Nestor, for his part, seems quite oblivious to it all.

Anastasia – Necromancer

Anastasia stood still talking to her friends when she was interrupted by a visit of a strange women. Caught off guard she took a slight step back "Oh..uh...hello" she said giving her a nervous grin but she seemed to not even listen to it. She watched the women talk to her, then stand up using some sort of finger magic. Hesitant to move away she decided she wanted to stay, she watched the women play her tricks on her curious to see what would happen. " wh-what other girl?" she asked slightly confused by this whole situation. Directing her attention to the group of men she had just left she looked at the two strangers. She was about to look back to the women but was interrupted by weird visions of one man, were they even visions she wasn't sure what she was seeing.

Her thoughts were immediately interrupted, the sounds of suffering an pain surfaced to her mind. She looked at the man she pointed at, Anastasia was used to pain and suffering it was not something she was unfamiliar with.Soaking in the cycles of pain she absorbed it into her body. She could see his image morphing and change slightly she wanted to take a step to investigate the weird images she was seeing more but then all of a sudden it stopped. She watched the girl skip back, seeing her eye her. What was that, what did she just see. Most importantly who was that man.

" No .. she is a friend.. i think. "

She whispered..

" I'm fine"

she got irritated now as she waved her hand in the ghosts form as it circled her. She walked over slowly to the group that the girl had just gone back to her eyes not leaving Nestor, she stopped right beside him her eyes not leaving him, and not saying anything. It seemed like almost five minutes before she finally said something " mmm...Hi.." she said giving him an odd grin before looking back at the women with a questionable glare. She looked at the other man with them and smiled at him aswell " Hi.." she nodded but looked back to the original man who she had spoke to first.

Nestor Grimsely – Demonspawn

The Demonspawn does not at first appear to note Anastasia's quiet approach – rather, he remains standing a little ways off from the golem, lips pursed and seeming half-distracted with some all-important thought as he puffs away quietly on the Golem's gift (and, the astute observer might notice the occasional flexing of his right hand... perhaps still attempting to shake off the smart of the creature's mighty grip); it is not until the woman speaks that he seems to take notice of her presence. His change in demeanour is sudden – in one moment staring into blank space, in the next gaining a little life as he turns to face the Elfen creature. Tucking one arm behind his back, he offers a restrained bow by way of greeting, then remarks with a faint smile:

“Good evening, Miss; she tells me we are to refer to you as 'Death Girl' – this seems to me... unseemly... but I know who you are already” Here he pauses, raising a hand slightly – as if to forestall any question, denoting an explanation as he continues (and meantime the Demoness – after offering a disgruntled kind of grimace at his words, comes to stand a little ways behind him – fingers laced, arms behind her back, she occasionally gives the Necromancer furtive glances, but remains otherwise silent): “Though don't be alarmed! Nothing out of the ordinary; I simply had occasion to read a bit of your dossier in the company files, and found your particular occupational talents... intriguing, shall we say?”

As he speaks, you might notice a gradual change in Nestor's eyes – for though they appear at first a cold, almost lifeless grey, the colour in the irises gradually begins to change, morphing with ever shifting speed from one colour to the next: blue, hazel, brown, green – even pink, red – then back again to their normal hue; still, his features remain mostly unchanged, even if now and again you might pick out the faint shadow of what seems to be some other face overlapping his own, then fading moments before you can make up your mind.

Turning, Nestor takes a moment to glance toward the Demoness – who meanwhile, it seems, has taken up a rather thorough inspection of the golem; hands still laced behind her back, she stalks slowly around him in faltering circles, pausing now and then to peer with childish curiosity at some aspect that seems to intrigue her – perhaps to remark “hmm....” or something equally inaudible beneath her frozen breath, but not as of yet actually saying anything.

Shaking his head, Nestor returns his attention to the Elf, finishing his thought:

“As it was, I have long been pondering a certain... hmm – difficulty, shall we say?-- of mine, and was delighted to find you here, as it may well be you could take me one step closer to eradicating the problem. If, of course, you are willing to help! It may well end up being quite dangerous – you may think on it, if you like. And ask anything you like – though I am sure we could have time to discuss the venture more when and if we have a chance after this little meeting; there are a few others I'll be needing as well.”

Anastasia – Necromancer

" death girl.." She thought for a moment as it brought a large smile to her lips " I have a nickname.. " the thought warmed her as she jumped for joy inside. Uncaring about the meaning the fact that someone knew about her before she even knew them made her warm inside. She was already liking this man, he bowed so politely and even gave her a nickname,,,, " I think he will be my new friend" she thought. Bringing herself to continue to listen to him the odd smile still plastered on her face.

" intriguing ... Well that is a first time I've heard that I suppose... I'll take that as a compliment...wait the company has a file on me... " she looked off with a happy grin " oh that's exciting ! I wish I could see my own file... Oh ... Or perhaps not, I do believe ignorance is bliss... " she paused "hmm or maybe I should know what if there telling lies and someone is out to get me... "Realizing she was talking to herself again she tried the hide the fact hoping not the weird out her new friend.

When she turned to look at him she was oddly taken aback by his ever changing face. This man was quite weird, she nodded to herself, " yes he will do well as a friend..." She thought as she cocked her head to the side getting lost in the Changing of his face and eye colour. She could hear words coming from his mouth but they seemed to go In audible in her mind. "Oh!" She bursted happily " you have lovely eyes, do they always change colours like that... And I think there is someone trying to escape from them but I can't be quite sure... " she started intensely without blinking for a few minutes.

Pulling herself out of a fascinated trace she clued into what he had asked of her. " you" she said bluntly " want me to help?" She paused as a shocked looked appeared on her face. " I would be delighted to help in any way I can... It's not every day someone needs me" she smiled again at him " when do we start." She clapped her hands together holding the in front of her gripping them together tightly egar to hear his response.

Nestor Grimsley – Demonspawn

Seeming upon the verge of replying, Nestor halts awkwardly in seeming-mid thought; one hand creeps involuntarily toward his face as his head tilts a bit to the side. Finally, he manages:

“Change colours... Oh? Hmm, well, I don't know...” But his momentary confusion is eased in an instant when Atticus arrives with a (much needed) assortment of clothing; Nestor's face creases into a grin before, quite briefly, he manages a laugh. Shaking his head, he offers in response to the Demon's remark:

“Perhaps when idle conversation is more prudent, Master Atticus, I might manage to tell you the more interesting details of -this-...” With the word 'this' he plucks once at the gown, before stooping to scoop up the pile of clothes and turning back toward Anastasia and the Golem. The demoness, it seems, is nowhere to be seen – having discreetly vanished moments after Atticus' approach.

“If you would both excuse me... I, well, will return directly. As for you... Death Girl – as you do not seem to so much mind the name!-- I shall let you know; but until then, do not become too eager; it is Atticus that called us here after all, and there is really no telling what surprises might be in store for us before another quiet moment.”

“Insofar as malfunctions are concerned, Master Siren... well, I do believe mine were functioning just fine right up to the point some overzealous hospital staff decided they were defective.”

With that, the Demonspawn offers a grunt, before beating a hasty retreat to the further side of the hill – though not without stumbling across Veti, crouched in the shadows nearby; he seems upon the verge of speaking, though one glance at her tear-streaked face seems to choke the words right out of him. He falters a moment, before simply remarking:

“It does me well to see you, Mistress Veti; as they say – 'Where hopes linger, the heart falters not'...” But some ways behind him, after he has vanished from view, a frigid whisper adds:

“Yet when the weight of the heart becomes too great to bear, the strings will snap... one by one...”