[IC] Pieces of 8

[AmongHeroes]

Reginald Hoyle
Reginald Hoyle watched the life pass from Max’s body as the gate to death closed, and he forced himself to watch the pain in Veti’s face as she caught her lover’s lifeless form. It was the least he could grant both her, and the spirit of the man she had just lost. For a long moment he was still and silent, following Veti in her solemn march behind Cornelius with his eyes until she disappeared. There was a grim miasma that seemed to cloud the space between the gathered members of the Boston Branch, or that was at least how Hoyle perceived the moment, and he wished to dispel it as quickly as decency permitted.

Once Veti had taken her full leave, Reginald stood to his full, though albeit diminutive, height, and looked around to those that remained. “Now, it is up to us to ensure that Max’s sacrifice was not made in vain. To ensure Decima does not achieve her goal before we can destroy her, we must continue our original mission, and find Lord Morpiér’s missing Piece.”

“If you recall,” Reginald continued, his voice now slowly regaining its familiar pleasant timbre, “Edvard Moraine, Morpiér’s trusted progeny, was to take possession of the Piece if the vampire lord should return to the light. Originally Moraine had called upon B&H to aid in the recovery of the Piece since it had turned up missing when he went to retrieve it.”

“For those of you who went through the ordeal at the night club, we gained some information from one of our assailants that Moraine had spawned hundreds of vampires for the simple purpose of killing the entire B&H team. On face value, that is a hard statement to refute, since the interrogation of the subject was done in a most reliable fashion by our resident Reaper. The truth, as best as Bain and I have been able to glean, is actually quite different.”

Reginald was now off pacing in between the center of the group, his mind now lost upon the wave of his own intrigue. “Given that the breach in our security at the Boston Branch would require an unparalleled amount of inside knowledge to achieve, coupled with the logistics of the use of the fox-spirit on the island, and the overwhelming task of creating dozens of new vampires to try and murder those that were spirited to London, we can only surmise that all of it was the work of our traitorous executive carrying out Decima’s will. There simply is no way that Moraine could have orchestrated such a plot, he is just not influential or powerful enough in his own rite.”

“This has led us back to our original purpose. That of finding Moraine, and finding the Piece he was sworn to protect…”

Archibald Bain
“...And that is where we have the upper hand for the first time,” Archibald Bain interrupted as he stepped from the dark hallway leading from his chambers.

The regal vampire appeared as hale and hearty as ever, now outfitted in expensive chinos, a navy sport coat, and a lighter blue dress shirt that was open at the collar. He walked with a fluid gate that he had not possessed the night before, and his face was relaxed and handsome where it had been previously taut and ashen. The vampire stopped beside his longtime friend, and smiled lightly to the group.

“It is good to be back among you, and I will say that I am deeply sorry for allowing myself to be so foolishly possessed.” His smile soured. “Those in Decima’s service are truly cunning.”

“However, as I mentioned, we do at last have the trump card. One of the goals of the recent breach in security was to gain access to Siya.” Archibald indicated the tiny vampire with an open palm and an apologetic look. “As I attempted to explain while under the influence of that traitorous trollop, Siya has the means to help us find Moraine on account of their shared lineage.”

He bowed his head slightly, “Now before emotions rise…” Archibald glanced fleetingly to Atticus, “…no blood magic or dark ritual is required. All that is needed is someone to focus and enhance the link that will be created to narrow down Moraine’s whereabouts.” The vampire looked slowly over to the perched figure of Oro Mai. “Someone with an ancient and firm connection into the realm of the ethereal would be best.”

Archibald turned to address the Muninn fully. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but I am sure that in your long years of study you have become aware of such magic?” He phrased his words as a question, but in truth it could’ve been spoken as a statement. Archibald’s voice was direct, but not brusque or rude. He looked back to Siya, his expression softened into one of almost sheepish imploration. It was an expression keenly foreign to the aloof vampire’s features.

“Siya, if you would allow this, this channeling of your blood-connection through Oro, then we could at last be on the main track of our quest.” His eyes looked from Siya, to Oro, and then once again the vampire girl, a thin smile affixing upon his face. “What shall it be?”

Atticus
The Incubus waited until Archibald left the question hanging in the air.

“Sir,” Atticus said, looking to the elder vampire, “just to clarify: this ‘link’ between Oro and Siya, could it be dangerous?” His eyes grew duskier, becoming a dark crimson, almost the color of dried blood before he continued. “With all due respect, our little band has suffered more than its fair share of attrition.”

Atticus was sure that his words were clear and forward, but lacked the edge of his previous confrontation with Archibald just scant hours before. The vampire had been possessed at the time, that much Atticus would concede, but he knew that Archibald was an ambitious and driven individual, and had never been known at the best of times as overly humanistic.

The vampire’s eyes narrowed somewhat, but if he took offense to the question, he refrained from expressing it. Instead he nodded, granting the point to Atticus.

“I appreciate your concern,” Archibald said. “I can assure you, that from what I know, such a magical link is only detrimental if either party involved wishes harm upon the other. If Siya or Oro desired to addle the mind of the other, this would be one way to achieve that end.”

[Derren Krenshaw]

"Addling the minds of comrades befriended to gun-toting werewolves has never been a sound idea... And yes, I am well-acquainted with the theory behind such a ritual."

Oro had been listening absently to the voices around him until now, concentrating instead on observing the -hopefully temporary- sacrifice of their comrade, with only a moment spared to bow politely in response to Henry's apology. It wouldn't do to ignore the Siren, but the Muninn's anger hadn't quite cooled enough to value his words over witnessing their Fledgling reaper... well... reap Max. It was a rare sight even for Oro, and despite how seemingly mundane it had actually been, he remained fully interested.

Oro was a demigod of Asgard, a traveler of the nine realms so worshipped by the nordic peoples of this world. While his own tasks had set him firmly among the mortals for millenia, he remained acutely aware of the other realms that bore his creator's homes, allies, and enemies.

Those realms belonging to other beings, however, had always remained just out of reach. Especially concerning the realms of the dead.

Hades was expensive to enter and near-impossible to leave, and Horus had always been strangely touchy about other birds searching for his father's domain. A similar story could be told for every realm of the dead that wasn't Hel... and he knew enough about that realm to never want to visit again.

Short story: Death was interesting.

So he kept firm attention upon the reaping of Max, examining the chill pillar their fledgling reaper had created, and the remnants that clung to the area after she and the warlock's soul had passed through. It was that simple for a reaper, then? To claim a life? Though the fledgling's reluctance to do so could mean that premature reaping was frowned upon. Hopefully she would return from that venture as well, conversation with her was more welcome than he had initially feared... Perhaps because she was always glamoured to look like Shana the weekend after cashing one of his checks.

The look on his apprentices' face after this job finally ends will be priceless.

...Provided she was still alive...

Oro cast the thought from his mind with a shivering of his downy mane, concentrating once more on the current conversation.

"I officiated a telepathic link back in that Dionysian den of Nightlings. Not quite what you are suggesting, but the fundamentals are the same. Drawing from that, it should be a simple matter to use Siya's blood connection to track down her distant sire..."

He offered a polite nod to the vampiress in question as his words trailed off, adding one last comment in the wake of current events.

"...Provided, of course, that she is willing."

[Lillian Thorne]

The only reason she turned to join the meeting, to hear the plans laid out to defeat the villainess at the heart of this trouble, was that Veti had asked it of her. Six words, riddled with so much pain, so much emotion, how could Siya say no? As she drifted silently to a chair all she could see was the face that Max, no, she supposed it was Thad, had borne as he lay still and dead. It was a stranger’s face but still somehow familiar as if some of the architecture was the same as had been possessed by Max. Her lip quivered and tears formed in the corners of her dark eyes but she did not let them spill. She had been told he could come back, but even so there was an instinctive reaction hard wired into her, he was dead, even despite her own evidence to the contrary, she feared he would not come back. But she held her grief inside and did not let it out. How could she do less than Veti? How could she not be strong, for Max?

She settled down in her chair and absently smoothed out the blue skirt of the dress that had been donned in joy and now seemed so frivolous in the face of their loss. Her customary black would have been a much better choice it seemed. She tried to school her features, to don a mask and be a blank slate but she was unable. Folding her hands on her lap she watched and waited. She didn’t have long.

Mr. Hoyle spoke first, reiterating how important it was to find the missing piece of eight, their original plan before the extent of the trouble was known. She nodded, it made sense. Then Mr. Bain was speaking and she turned to look at him, her face tightening just a little reflexively. Her dislike of her own kind was well established and largely unavoidable. His next string of words only further cemented her discomfort and unhappiness, her blood, her bloodline. Her unanswered questions from before came bubbling back to her and she felt a strange fear fill her.

All that was eclipsed in a fit of pique as the Vampire head of the company then sought to soothe Atticus for her sake. Not soothe her, soothe Atticus. It was too much, too dismissive and she would not stand for it. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, every inch the offended Princess. Her lips tightened into a scowl that was as furious as it was adorable and there was no mistaking the direction of her ire, it was all sent to Bain. When she spoke her tone was angry but respectful, she hadn’t lost her mind after all, just very nearly her temper.

“If it will directly aid Max then I will submit, if not then we shall see. Regardless, there are some questions I have asked that as of yet have gone unanswered. Before I agree to anything I wish for those answers.”

She did not take her eyes off of Bain though she did make an effort to sit up straight and not lean forward so aggressively. ‘Temper, Siya,’ she reminded herself. ‘Do not lose your temper, you might be of direct help to Max.’

“So how it is that you know of my lineage when I myself did not? My sire did not survive the making of me thanks to Veti. So how is it you have this knowledge? How long have you had it and why am I only now being informed of it?”

She raised an eyebrow, cocked her head and waited, still bristling with ire.

[Igraine]

Long fingers wrapped tightly about the plain crystal rosary, pale blue and silver glints danced off the pale skin of her hand. Veti would never know how or why Cornelius knew this was just the needful thing for her, but he did. And when she laid Thad beneath that glass, Cornelius had a rosary of rosewood and gold, and Veti had wrapped it about his cooling fingers, and wept , and prayed, amazing even herself how easily the words came back to her with every pass of the beads.

She'd no idea if he were Catholic or Pagan, Protestant or Buddhist or atheist or even a bit of the agnostic about the whole Divine Plan 'thing.' But the anima's thoughtfulness had given her with something at least, just a little something good and decent to leave with him, a small, mostly unknown and sacred piece of Veti's soul. Thad would know, though. He always had. And he would come back to her, somehow, some way. He would.

Veti had to believe that. She did. Or she'd fall to pieces right here, right now on these ancient floors. Lots of little tiny pieces, like shattered glass that would never be put together again. And so the werewolf let herself back into the grand room as quietly as when she'd left - and eternally grateful someone had thought to keep the hinges of these massive wooden doors well-oiled. She'd obviously returned at the very moment of that proverbial pregnant pause, that instant of collectively held breath while the whole world waited for... Something?

Something she obviously didn't have the least clue about, and so Veti silently crossed the room toward the group. Apparently a far more dapper-looking Mr. Bain had joined them as well, and suddenly the mystery of a very pissed off-looking Siya, her expression dark an ominous as a storm cloud even in all her uncharacteristically colorful finery, was suddenly solved. And this one time, Veti sensed it was fine, really and truly fine, for her to stay in Siya's shadow this day.

With precious little thought on the matter, Veti moved instinctively toward Nestor, toward the one man in the room her lover seemed to have truly befriended, however unlikely the pairing might seem on its face. Even the demoness, the one whose name she never caught, was... She was wearing Max's boots. The old motorcycle boots all beaten to hell on that island with the fox-thing. Veti still didn't know what it was, since she and Max - Thad - Had been far too absorbed in their own cascade of sweet moments to linger over talk of dead monsters.

Veti settled cross-legged on the floor beside Nestor's chair, her head resting slowly against the arm, the only sound an exhausted sigh escaping her throat. Absently, her fingers ran over the crystal beads of the rosary, one by one, her lips moving even as her distant gaze almost dutifully turned to her employers.

[Clumsywordsmith]

There lingers the soft air of a light sea breeze, thick with the tang of salt and the endless, rolling cadence of the waves; shattering against rocks, beating themselves in a frenzy upon the shore as shards of foam go scattering in a rush to join the ever shifting winds. I stand here for a time, lost in my thoughts as they go spilling out in all directions – caught in the middle of a veritable storm, with a thousand mismatched ideas swirling endlessly about me. To reach out – to snatch just one, to hold it just long enough for the impression to last – enough, maybe, to give some direction.

But there is something.. something missing – and as the sun's last light slips below the further horizon, I glance down to my feet and find the water has begun to freeze, each new wave building upon the one below, the entire stretch of pebbly beach now a wash of silver-white.

“Salt. It brings to mind the taste of tears, though I shed none now – neither for myself or for them...”

Nestor's words – spoken, as it were, to one standing directly in front of him – tumble suddenly from his mouth in little more than a whisper; he seems quite unaware of the fact that he has spoken, and only happens to shift a bit in his seat at Veti's arrival – perhaps her warmth encroaching on the chill air surrounding him enough to alert him to her presence. And though he does not speak, he does tilt his head a little to the side and glance in her direction; a smile of sorts is offered – if it could be seen as such, being no more than a little twitch in the upper corner of his lips. Yet his eyes are vague and distant, and had he any sympathy to offer it would be all but lost in the conflict of thought and emotion that has seemingly taken hold.

But his Demoness, it seems, has a little more to say – a few quiet words borne on her icy tone; she speaks from somewhere behind the Wherewolf's shoulder:

“Here's a dangerous one, Wolfgirl – and he neglected to mention... those he befriends see their lives cut short without fail. The cold you feel...” – and here she drops her voice, her invisble form perhaps bending over and whispering close into Veti's ear “extends far beyond what is merely real; a warning, I should say. But, of course, for your own good.” With that she is gone, leaving only the chilling touch of unseen fingertips against the woman's cheek. But the cold lingers still with her passing, dangling from the edge of her cryptic words.

[LimeyPanda]

The night before seemed a distant, alcohol tainted memory. Jay-Jay remembered fireworks, Daisy’s transformation, Veti being a lamebutt about Nevis’ dare and Atticus getting’ freaeaky with the vampire. She could not for the life of her recall when she fell onto the sofa in about as ungraceful a heap as one could imagine and slipped into the realms of the sandman.

Her dreams never came, and that left Jay-Jay to nurture a mean hangover and her demoness to act as Sentry. The guest had no need for sleep unless she overexerted herself, so it made sense that she keep a phantasmal eye on the surroundings. She never left the side of her host though, as the fire-demon was as overprotective of Jay-Jay as a mother lion would be of a cub. Their symbiosis transcended the necessity of one or the subservience of the other: and it was quickly becoming clear that the demon would not be able to keep her secret any longer. The actions of Henry had shown her the depths of personal sacrifice that people here were willing to go: and if she were not willing to sacrifice some of her safety, she would be besmirching her hidden name and the name of her host.

Besides, she could likely get some benefit out of sharing her name: if she tried hard enough. Even revealing that would not endanger her up-coming deal with the Raven-demigod. The one secret she kept to her chest was probably the more interesting a fact than he’d gathered in the longest of time.

As dusk became dawn, and as night became day: it was the shout of Reginald Hoyle that alerted the demoness of movement amongst the group. The dazed Jay-Jay stirred, but the demoness ran tender fingers through the host’s locks: Soothing her as she crooned to the young, sleeping, probably still hung-over Jay-Jay. ”Hush now, Jay-Jay; rest for a while longer. I will attend the meeting for now.”

And so, the ethereal demon left Jay-Jay’s body in a manner not dissimilar to the times she’d met with Oro. It was proving a most useful ability: and she was glad to have it. She floated into the room and merely watched the events: more than aware of the limited number of people who would know of her presence. In likelihood, she didn’t believe anyone other than Oro would know of her presence here.

And so, the demoness played the silent witness: not wishing to interrupt the events of the meeting: if only due to a strange sense of distance from the group. She felt like she was not a part of the entourage, more a voyeur than an active member of the group. It would have been interesting to post the question to the group: but that would defy her very notions of her place in the dynamic.

Despite all she’d seen in her years, the demoness was surprised by what she witnessed: the folly of the plan and the sense it made; the defiant objection of the Raven god; the Siren’s staunch defence of the plan and his mighty rebuttal, and finally the conviction showed by the Warlock. Jay-Jay might not have liked the man, but the fire-demon suddenly found a respect for him, at least.

Things continued on, and the pace was maintained as the Reaper and the Warlock soon departed for whatever realm of death mortals went to. Slowly, the group: like a meeting of widowers, mourners and shell shock victims were suddenly trying to find some conviction in their plan. The demon floated over to Oro, speaking words into his ear.

Tell the group that Jay-Jay will accompany the group in a moment. I would also finalise the deal with you now: Raven. If Jay-Jay is to go to war, I want your word that she will have a teacher to keep an eye on her.”

With that, the demoness started to drift backwards, giving the Raven little time to answer her directly as she moved towards Jay-Jay. Suddenly the fire-child awoke with a start and looked at the group of gathered individuals. She counted numbers in her head and for a moment she looked like a dopey child, awoken from an innocent, not alcohol induced, nap. After a handful of seconds, the fire-headed girl got up and briskly walked towards the nearest bathroom.

Alcohol is evil.

[DotCom]

It had started out so well.

Well. She couldn’t say it hadn’t been fun. Fun-ish. There was always room for more boys, more coffee, and more trashy fashion/gossip rags. But she couldn’t complain.

And someone was probably wondering whether a Reaper could die. Probably GodBird. He seemed the type to be into that shit. She could tell him it had just been a voice, coming in over a loudspeaker to rock the ages. ‘You’re dead? You’re fired.’ Donald Trump in a shitty toupee and long white robes. She could get GodBird or Henry to file a lawsuit against illegal termination based on a pre-existing condition, wherein said condition was rigor mortis. It’d be an HR nightmare, though nothing so gruesome as your supervisor up and telling you to go to hell. Literally. Poor SchizoLock. Maybe she could leave a note to grab on his way back. One of those “if you’re reading this, I’m already dead.”

Oh. Wait.

No, Max needed her to be alive to make it back to Veti and GodBird and Henry and the others.

Well, shit.

“Sorry, Veti,” Daisy mumbled aloud, rather surprised she could still speak. But more surprised at her choice of last words.

She’d have gone with something more ironic.

140 characters or less.

So someone could tweet her epitaph.

—-

To her credit, things really had started out well. Quiet, which was weird as fuck, but all for the best, so she didn’t complain. She’d gone ahead, and Artie behind, and Max in the middle of them, all mopey and shit. She could have told him he wasn’t technically dead yet, but she didn’t think he’d get it. Besides, if everything went according to plan, he would be soon.

That, and she was afraid to take her eyes off the horizon.

Daisy liked being a Reaper. Clothes were cheap. She never wasted money on food. And, barring super hot jock idiots like Justin, she could get just about any guy she wanted. In theory, at least.

The job gave her a lot of freedom. She could more or less set her own hours. There was no dress code, outside the classic “try not to look too dead” staple. Pay was…well. Pay was shit. But that’s why she’d taken on the second job with Bain and Hoyle. Which, okay, was a lot less wiggly in terms of contractual wiggle room. But it also meant a lot less dealing in Death, literally and otherwise.

And yet somehow, she’d been roped into not only taking a few too many tours over the last couple days, but breaking the only two rules known to Reaper-dom:

Only one living soul allowed at the Gates at a time, and
No killing. Ever.

And she’d paid. In exhaustion first, and then…the thought trailed off, ending in a shiver as she lifted a hand to the band of burn cold wrapped around her torso. She managed to keep from wincing as she touched it, only because she’d been ‘practicing’ at it since the night before, like a kid poking at his first loose tooth with his tongue, bitching when it hurt every fucking time.

Except when this tooth fell out, she wouldn’t be getting a dollar from the tooth fairy.

Daisy hid what might have been called a nervous whimper in anyone else with a cough and made herself keep walking, knowing full well if she stopped, she and Max and Artie were fucked. Veti and Tiny Vamp and GodBird and all the others, too.

Anyway, this part was easy. Between her and Artie, she had enough power left in the Scythe to shield Max from prying eyes. She could get him as far as the Gate without too much trouble. And she’d figure out the rest on the way back. She thought best on her feet, anyway.

The journey there was quick, maybe twenty minutes, though barely an instant would have passed back on the other side. Daisy pulled up to the veil of gray fog that marked the Gate and stopped. She was about to break that second rule now. As far as she knew, there was no real method to it, though she’d never been beyond the Gate before. That bit was reserved for souls. Dead souls. Taking Max through…well. It wasn’t like this was the only bridge she’d ever burned. Just the only one left between her and the rest of her childhood.

Eh. Innocence was overrated.

She turned to Max and made her face into something that maybe sort of looked like a smile she hoped.

“So, you wanna turn back, this is your last chance. If you’re gonna be a total fucking man-child and chicken out…sing ‘God Save the Queen’ backwards. And land a triple salchow.” She waited. Nothing. Or neither of those things.

Daisy smiled for real, feeling positively nauseas. “Good. C’mon.” And she stepped through the veil.

On the other side, Veti would just be catching Max’s limp, cold corpse.

—-

It was a bit like falling through mud. Like, a lot of mud. Definitely falling. Upward or downward or sideways, she couldn’t tell, but her heart was in her throat, and she was moving. But it didn’t feel chaotic or out of control. If she was someone else, someone dumber, she might have enjoyed it.

The thought made her laugh. Max was probably having a field day.

She didn’t look at him, though. She was trying hard not to look at anything. This was Death proper, not the Gates, not the Reaper’s realm, and certainly not anywhere she was supposed to be. It made her wonder, not for the first time, why it was so easy for Reapers to kill when they weren’t supposed to. Maybe the Big Guy just had a sick fucking sense of humor. Maybe he liked to see Reapers end up where Daisy was headed.

Asshole.

Anyway. This side of things was as much of a mystery to Daisy as the next dead guy. She gathered they were in some sort of crossroads. What she did know of Death was that it had levels, like a big, grayish shopping mall, each with its own weird ass attributes and downfalls. An afterlife, heaven, hell, and everything in between, literally and otherwise, she couldn’t speak of. Even a Reaper couldn’t venture beyond the crossroads. That much she knew intrinsically.

So, all that was left was to transplant an actual soul, which should work out like normal. Max was, after all, dead now. So. There was that. And she knew how to search for souls, too, even the baddies, though she wasn’t sure what kind of accuracy the crossroads would give her. Death proper was both larger and more fluid than the relatively tranquil waters of the Gate.

Even so, it only took a moment of searching, the Scythe clutched in her hands, solid and study as it was ephemeral and fleeting. The pull was strong, quick, sudden, and she’d opened her eyes before the Gate to the Fourth Realm.

Somewhere in there, Decima waited.

Hopefully not as bitchy as Bitch in Red Dress had been. But probably still pretty bitchy, because let’s be real — Bain and Hoyle had, like, no friends right now.

“Ping. Level four: women’s shoes, petite miss, hordes of the greater dead, and evil bitch souls intent on devouring all that is good on Earth.”

She drew the Scythe up through the pillar of ice that marked the Gate of the Fourth Realm, and it began billowing gouts of inky black fog not a moment later. It rolled over her feet and its touch chilled her to the bone.

Fun.

Daisy turned toward Max and shrugged unimpressively.

“So, um. Here’s where I leave you. You’re gonna wanna just…step into that.” She pointed at the gaping black maw in the silver-blue pillar of ice. “I assume it’s warmer than it looks, but I really can’t say.” She cleared her throat and looked down at Artie, a flash of unmistakable affection flitting across her face so quickly as to be taken for an illusion.

“Artie’ll be with you. He’s new here, too, but he’ll have a decent idea of what all is going on. He’s a good guard dog and a better messenger. So, when you finish with whatsherface, just…well, he’ll let me know. I’ll meet you here. Take pictures. Don’t break anything. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and uh…good luck, I guess.”

She waited for him to hop to, and almost missed her chance, reaching out to stop him in a manner completely out of character and not even the slightest bit apathetic.

“Wait! Max — er…SchizoLock. Dude. Whatever.” She paused and ran a hand through her hair, and Daisy strongly suspected if dead things could blush, she’d be eight shades of red from head to toe.

Small fucking mercies.

“About…um…last night. That…stupid dare, or whatever. I don’t blame you. I don’t hate you. I don’t really like you. But I don’t really like anyone. And…for the record, I thought that was pretty bad ass. Douchey. But bad ass.”

She dropped her eyes to study her bubblegum pick Chuck Taylor’s and shrugged again.

“So, yeah. Give her hell. No pun intended.”

She waved the Scythe and let the portal close, Artie and Max on the far side, and she still walking the Crossroads of Death.

It had started out so well.

From there, things got worse.