Queenie Goldstein's heart was a caged bird, fluttering frantically. The warmth of scarlet flames lingered on her skin as she wound her way through the halls of Nurmengard castle. She wasn't needed. Not right now, anyway. He would let her know when he once again required her talents, and she would come. Willingly.
The silence was drowned in the echo of her heels upon the flagged stone. Her hand sought a doorknob at random, and she slipped inside, alone with her own thoughts for the first time in Morrigan-only-knew how long.
You're crazy. . . .
The words pounded against her skull in a ceaseless loop.
His eyes . . . his voice. . . . He'd been so scared. . . .
"It's gonna be alright, honey. I'm gonna fix this. He's gonna fix everything . . ."
"And then some."
With a gasp, Queenie spun toward the speaker. She hadn't heard anyone come in—no rustle of clothing, no tap of footsteps, not even a whispered stream of consciousness. A smirk turned up a corner of the newcomer's mouth.
"Fancy meetin' you here, Miss Goldstein."
Queenie's eyes widened. "Mr. Abernathy . . ."
Her supervisor spread his arms, the twisted smile broadening on his face. "Surprised?" he asked, stepping toward her. "Sure is funny how nobody suspects the little guy, ain't it?" His silvery eyes trailed up and down the length of her body, assessing every curve. "Talk about surprises," he murmured. "He said your heart would rule your head . . . and sure enough, here you are." A muscle twitched within his jaw. "Too bad it didn't work out for ya. . . . I lost my gal not too long ago." Abernathy's lips curled into a bitter grimace. "Helen. . . . Scared her off with my talk of the future. I reckon she weren't no different from your No-Maj fella."
"Don't say that," Queenie breathed. "You don't know Jacob. Fear does all sorts of things to people, but he loves me. When all this is over . . . he'll come back. . . ."
"Is that right?"
A shudder wracked Queenie's body as her former employer came closer. His presence was tangible at her back, the nearness of him turning her skin to gooseflesh.
"Well," Abernathy purred. "If he ever changes his mind . . ." His lungs filled with her scent.
Scrumptious.
Revulsion clawed its way up her throat as she felt the flicker of a forked tongue lapping the length of her neck. She jerked out of his grasp.
"Don't touch me," she hissed, stomach turning.
"What, you don't like it?" Abernathy replied, voice saturated with faux indignation. "A gift from the boss. To mark my allegiance."
Queenie swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. "It's fitting, for a vile, little snake like you!" she spat with a snap of her neck, curls bouncing off her cheekbones.
"Now, Queenie . . ." Abernathy sneered. "That ain't no way to talk to your supervisor, now, is it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't answer to you no more."
"No." Abernathy straightened. "We both answer to someone else."
Queenie stood, quivering, as he walked away, the line of his saliva cooling on her skin.
"You know . . ." Abernathy's voice resonated across the room. "I never saw much of Percival Graves. He never had time for us poor schmucks down in the likes of the Wand Permit Office. That is, not until your sister went and got herself demoted. Really, I have her to thank for all of this. After all, what's a wand registries paper pusher to an Auror? But because of her antics, he acknowledged respected me.
"You know what he said to me? He told me I was wasted in a basement bureau. See, he knew. It all comes natural to me—Transfiguration, in particular."
The skin on his face rippled. At first, Queenie thought it was merely a trick of the light, the dancing of shadows. Then, her own reflection—in a three-piece suit—grinned at her. She screamed.
"You're a . . . a—"
"That's right, doll." A Metamorphmagus. "He taught me my value. And I'm fuckin' sick of hiding. I deserve more. We, Queenie . . . we deserve more. Since the moment he revealed himself to me, everything I've done has been for him, and the world he's going to build for us all."
His own features materialized back into place. "He trusts me. Depends on me. And this—" Queenie squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to imagine that hellish tongue when she heard his mouth open wide. "—is just the start of his gratitude. And you . . . you're as essential as I am. Maybe even more so. Think of how we'll be rewarded, when it's all said and done . . ."
Queenie tore herself from his wandering hands, the foul heat of his breath. "Lookie here, mister, let's get somethin' straight: I despise you. But we gotta play nice if you and I are gonna be on the same team. And I told you not to touch me."
Abernathy blinked. "You're right." His hands drew back in surrender, palms empty, fingers splayed. "I'm sorry for my bad behavior."
Queenie was unsettled to hear sincerity woven within his thoughts.
"It's just, you always had a bit of an effect on me." Abernathy lifted his brows. "But you already know that, don't ya?"
Queenie felt sick. "Believe me, Mr. Abernathy, the inconvenience is mutual."
Smirking, Abernathy thrust his hands inside the outer pockets of his sleek, leather trench coat. Everything about his appearance was streamlined and lethal—gone was the prim and pompous jobsworth who plagued her days with micromanagement and awkward advances. Somehow, she'd managed to find his interactions at least a little endearing. But now, she was terrified of the man who stood before her, capable of more than she'd ever anticipated.
"I hope you enjoy your time here at Nurmengard, Miss Goldstein. And I hope you won't hesitate to let any of us know if you need anything. Anything at all."
As he left the room, Queenie mustered up the last of her resolve. "Mr. Abernathy?" Those large, gray eyes met her gaze. She swallowed. "Stay away from me."
His smile was cold and cruel.
"Whatever you say, doll."
The door shut behind him, and Queenie crumpled to the floor, consumed by convulsive sobs.
"Sweetheart, I'm sure this Mr. Graves is just as swell as you keep makin' him out to be, but is there any reason we can't have this business meetin' in a nice café or restaurant, like everyone else?"
"Because this ain't a normal business meetin', baby." Abernathy grinned as he tugged Helen along, her petite hand grasped tightly in his. The moment had finally come. She was ready, he was sure of it! And then, their work could well and truly begin. . . .
The couple turned a corner, deeper into the labyrinthine alleyways of New York. The smell of damp brick and garbage baked in the afternoon sun assaulted their nostrils as they walked, shoes splashing through puddles of filthy rainwater. Helen squeaked and snuggled closer to her beau.
"Honestly, Joseph, I got half a mind to Disapparate outta here! Just how much farther do you expect me to—"
"Not much longer now, baby, I promise!" Smile broadening, Abernathy wrapped an arm around her. She only ever called him by his Christian name when she was agitated. But it would all be worth the while. . . .
The clack of their shoes abruptly stopped. Helen froze against him, staring into the distant shadows. Abernathy felt his heart leap into his throat.
"We're here, baby," he whispered. "Helen, honey, I want you to meet Mr. Percival Graves."
Helen gave a start as a tall, elegant man stepped into the dim light filtering down from opened brownstone windows. As always, he looked immaculate, striking quite an impressive silhouette in the darkness.
"Mr. Graves, sir, this is my gal, Helen Cuthbert. Ain't she a vision?"
He knew he was beaming like an idiot, but the occasion had sparked a kind of giddiness in him. Helen shivered as Mr. Graves brought his lips to her proffered hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cuthbert. Abernathy speaks very highly of you, indeed."
"Well, gosh, the pleasure's all mine, Mr. Graves. Joseph speaks very highly of you, as well."
Abernathy chuckled. Joseph? Again? He gently tightened his hold on her, drawing her close.
All at once, a strangled sound escaped Graves' throat. "A-Abernathy," he gasped, twitching violently. "It's time."
Helen's hands flew to her mouth. "Mr. Graves, are you feelin' alright?"
Abernathy ran his palm soothingly along the length of her arm. "Shh, it's alright, baby. Now, Helen, honey, listen to me. Mr. Graves and I have somethin' real important to tell ya. . . . Somethin' ya gotta hear in person . . ."
Helen turned to him, her hazel eyes wide with panic. Graves' body had begun to spasm. On impulse, Abernathy seized her shoulders and forced her gaze toward his. "Helen, it's okay, everything's gonna be just fine. You gotta trust me, baby."
With a choking gasp, Mr. Graves slowly extended to his full height. Sensing his movements, Helen and Abernathy faced the man before them.
"Silencio."
Gellert Grindelwald's wand was raised before Helen had time to open her mouth. Her scream was stifled instantly, her other protestations nothing more than soft, muffled squeals.
"Shh, shh, Helen! Helen, baby, it's alright, it's okay! Remember what I told ya?" Desperate, Abernathy clung to her, consoling as best as his thundering heart would allow. "Remember what I said about our future? About makin' our world a better place? Well, this is it, baby! He can help us! He's gonna make it all possible . . ."
But Helen was struggling against him, wriggling as madly as an ensnared Grindylow. Abernathy shushed and stroked her hair, but she continued to fight . . .
A cool hand settled on his shoulder. The gust of another spell flew past, leaving Helen petrified in his arms. Abernathy took a step back.
"Helen . . .?"
The woman he cared for stood perfectly immobile, her eyes wide with animalistic fear. Disbelief churned in Abernathy's gut, before curling into a fist of disappointment, slugging him so hard, it was painful to breathe.
How could this happen?
She was ready . . .
"You mustn't force her into anything against her will." His master's voice coated his throbbing, confused heart. Trembling, Abernathy closed his eyes, basking in the balm of Grindelwald's words. "Let her go, Abernathy." The other man's breath caressed his ear, warm . . . fleeting . . . "It's for the Greater Good. Let her go."
Loathing. It was sticky and black, expanding within his rib cage, clouding everything. Tears glittered in Helen's eyes, tumbled down her beautiful, frozen face.
The world was silent.
Abernathy raised his wand.
Redemption. Freedom. Remorse.
All took the form of bright green light.
Abernathy drew a wavering breath, blinking back into the present tense. The pound of his pulse was visible within his throat, and he gulped back a wave of nausea.
Women seemed to bring out the worst in him, as of late.
Panting, he fumbled his way down the corridor, the smell of Queenie Goldstein's perfume swirling through memories of Helen's chestnut hair . . .
A flash of white cut through the shadows—a nephilim light in the darkness. Abernathy snapped to attention.
"Mr. Grindelwald, sir."
The faintest hint of a smile crossed his master's mouth. "Abernathy." There was something vaguely feline in the man's saunter. Abernathy straightened his spine with each muffled step of steel sole on the carpet running down the length of the hall. "I shouldn't think I need remind you that you are the most prized of all my Acolytes."
Abernathy refrained from smiling, even as the praise enveloped him like a warm embrace.
"But . . . I confess, I find myself . . . ill at ease."
The comforting heat of the moment prior evaporated, leaving him numb. "Because of me, sir?"
Grindelwald focused his multi-colored stare on his right-hand, his voice like a brush of silk.
"Abernathy, I know what your body craves, and that your heart is empty. But my tether to Miss Goldstein is . . . delicate, at best. And I'm sure you know how unappreciative I will be, should you sever that bond due to a moment of weakness."
Burning shame crept up Abernathy's neck, the same that had overtaken him the moment Grindelwald had stepped out of sight, and he had collapsed on the pavement at her feet, vomiting and sobbing like a child. . . .
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "It won't happen again."
A strong hand cradled the back of his head. "I know, Abernathy. I know."
