AN: This is intended to be a one shot or at least stand alone, but I may add chapters as time and inspiration permits. It's slight, but I hope you enjoy it.
Enzo St. John entered the main entry hall of the Armory and found that no one was about. It was early evening. He'd been traveling all day, and he was tired. He headed straight to the door to what he thought of as the "inner sanctum." He was still carrying the small duffle bag that he left packed at all times—ready to go on short notice. It contained everything he needed, and at the moment, something else as well.
Enzo placed his hand on the biometric locking device. The lock's indicator changed from red to green, and the lock snapped open. He paused where the hallway teed into two separate branches. He still felt a twinge of guilt each time he passed the hall that led to the cells where various supernatural beings and other persons of interest were housed—in point of fact—held against their will. He could empathize with their situation, as he'd once been in a similar one. And so a part of him struggled with the knowledge of his role in doing to others what had been done to him.
He turned and headed left toward the workrooms and storage areas. It seemed likely he'd find Alex in one of them. Alex St. John, who ran the Armory, was his cousin of sorts—of the sort where her great-grandfather who had long since passed from this life, would have been Enzo's contemporary. Instead, despite the generations that separated them, he and Alex looked to be of the same generational age. She was his family, or so she'd told him. And what a family it was—crap—right down through the ages.
It was the St. John family that had abandoned him at a workhouse at the age of four, leaving him on his own to make his way in the world. And owing to being turned to a vampire, he'd had more than a lifetime to wonder about his family, to speculate as to why they left him as they had, and fantasize about how his life might have been different if they hadn't.
So it shouldn't have surprised him that Alex had leveraged what she knew about him and his past to get him to join her and work for the Armory. Surely she'd known of his existence before Matt Donovan served him up to her on a plate. After all, the Armory's unwritten motto is that it knows everything. So it stands to reason that she knew, and never bothered to seek him out—at least not until she figured out how he might be useful to her. Generations later and the St. Johns were still a crap excuse for a family. In hindsight he wondered why he expected her to be anything other than a St. John through and through.
He entered one of the workrooms and tossed his duffle on the wooden work-surface in the middle of the room. He unzipped the main section, then in turn, the interior pocket, and finally drew out a roll of dark, felt-like fabric …
The contents had been smuggled out of Europe, by means unknown to Enzo—neither did he care. They had first surfaced for sale on an online site, known only to collectors of rare—and questionably obtained—antiquities, artifacts, and art. Alex had initially been outbid. She then struck upon the idea of offering the seller a trade for something priceless and rare from the Armory's collection. It was an offer that proved too tempting for the seller to resist. He agreed to hold off on the sale until he could see and authenticate the item that Alex offered in trade.
The seller agreed to meet Enzo in a public place on the following day. They agreed on a shop that was one of the dwindling numbers of purveyors of used books, which made sense for the college-saturated area of Boston.
Enzo drove all night to make the agreed upon rendezvous. He wondered whether the bookstore owner and the seller were somehow in league together. It heightened his sense of caution, but ultimately, he felt in control of the situation. He'd arrived half an hour early, with plenty of time to scope out the cramped dusty shop where the transaction was to take place—walls lined with volumes of all varieties, from cheap paperbacks to ornate leather-bound volumes, some accessible only by library ladders. Enzo made his way up an incredibly narrow and steep flight of stairs to the store's upper floor.
The seller was late—a tactic to which he'd become accustomed. Enzo had selected a few interesting volumes from the upstairs collection and sat perusing them when the seller finally showed up. They were rarely what he expected. For this particular artifact, he expected someone older, perhaps European, but certainly not a twenty-something with spiky platinum hair, skinny jeans and a worn backpack—perhaps he was the courier for the real seller.
It had been easy—this was why Alex sent him. He simply compelled the young man to produce the items, to forget him and the transaction, and stay where he was for the next hour. On his way out, he'd stopped at the counter, and paid for a book he'd found, and compelled the shop owner as well, to forget him.
The whole thing had taken only a few minutes once the seller had shown up—so easy. It was no wonder that Alex increasingly found his ability to compel the unsuspecting to be an asset to the Armory.
The door opened, "Lorenzo, you're back," Alex said as she entered the room, sounding almost as though she cared and was pleased to see him. She was a confident, self-assured woman, and attractive too, he thought fleetingly, though he'd never considered her in that way. Yet, from all he could tell the Armory was her entire life. He had yet to discover any of her other interests or passions in life. "Success?" she asked.
"See for yourself," he responded, slowly unrolling the fabric to reveal, one-by-one, five iron rods. Each one was five to six inches long, and ranged from a quarter to half an inch thick—and they were old—really old—twelfth century perhaps. Each one was worn down by time. Small inscriptions ran the length of each side; the inscriptions were worn to varying degrees of visibility.
Alex very carefully lifted one, holding it with her fingertips at either end. "Yes," she said, satisfaction evident in her voice, "I believe these are the ones I've been looking for." She set the rod down gently, and added, "It's a pity we're still missing two."
Enzo began to carefully re-roll the rods in the fabric. "I'll lock these in the storage room, and log them in, in the morning," he told her.
"Lorenzo," she began.
He could almost feel the admonishment to come. He headed her off by saying, "Look Alex, I traveled all night last night and most of the day today. I need a meal, a kip, and a wash." His frustration with the short leash on which she tried to keep him bled through in his tone.
Just then, her phone chimed, indicating an incoming text. She looked at it hastily then turned to Enzo. "Fine," she huffed. "I'm needed in Section B right now. Make sure they're secure and that you take care of it in first thing in the morning," she added, to be sure he knew she was in charge of the situation. Then she turned and left.
Enzo took the rods and his duffle and headed a few doors down to one of the Armory's many storage rooms. He chose this one for two reasons. First, it had a small safe that housed smaller items—jewels, charms, and the like—and he knew the rods would be safe there. Second, this particular storage room also contained supplies of various drugs, potions, and preparations useful to the Armory in its pursuit of the supernatural. Here, he could find vervain in a variety of forms, liquefied silver, and of course, pills refined from the blood of Rayna Cruz. It was the latter that brought him here. He opened the safe and deposited the rods. From force of habit, his eyes quickly surveyed the small room. He paused. He heard no breathing or other movement. He was alone and unobserved. Then taking an empty container from his duffle, he opened the supply cabinet, and filled the container with what appeared to be about a ten-day supply of the magic-suppressing pills. He never took so many that it would be readily apparent. He put them in his duffle, zipped it closed, and secured the door on his way out.
Enzo tossed his duffle onto the back seat, and slid behind the wheel of his car. He had had a couple of long, tiring days—most of them spent right there, in his car. He pulled out, down the long driveway leading away from the Armory.
About a quarter of a mile down the road, he phoned Bonnie. "Hi."
"Hi. So, are you back?"
"Yeah, I got back a little while ago. Hey, have you eaten?" he asked on impulse.
"I was about to pour myself a bowl of cereal," Bonnie replied.
"Do not," he said forcefully, "I repeat—do not pour a bowl of cereal. I'll be there shortly to save you from that fate."
When Enzo arrived at the small cabin in the woods sometime later, he found his fatigue had abated. He knocked. Having heard his tires on the gravelly drive outside, Bonnie was already on her way to make sure it was in fact him, and then opened the door.
Enzo walked in and placed his duffle beside the door. "Cereal?" he said without preamble, in a tone that suggested that the very word offended him.
"I lost track of time. It seemed the easiest thing to do …" her voiced drifted off as she watched him head toward the small kitchen.
"Bonnie Bennett—that's an excuse for the inexcusable." He pushed up his sleeves, washed his hands, and surveyed the kitchen for ingredients—some garlic, a jar of olives, some pasta. "One can always make something delicious with pasta, garlic, and a handful of herbs."
"One of the benefits of imprinting on an Italian line cook?" she asked.
"I suppose so. Gianni used to say that if you grate some hard cheese on top of anything, you make it a feast."
"What was he like?" she asked.
His hands went to work, as his mind drifted back. "He imparted a wealth of knowledge without ever thinking he was teaching. He was a keen observer of human behavior—especially people's follies and foibles. He was quick-witted and sharp-tongued." Catching his drift into nostalgia, he added, "Don't get me wrong though, he was a hard man. He barked at me from dawn until nightfall—'Enzo, take this, fetch that, clean this, scrub that, scrub it again until it shines.' He was hard work—actually the whole experience was."
He worked in silence for a time, before Bonnie asked, "What can I do to help?"
"Pour us each a glass of wine," he responded, clearly happy to be recalled to the present.
Bonnie poured two glasses of red wine. She set his on the counter next to the stove. Then she turned her attention to clearing the table of research materials, and setting it for dinner. A few minutes later, Enzo announced, "Have a seat, love. Dinner is served." He placed two steaming bowls of pasta on the table.
"Smells delicious," she said as she sat. He retrieved his glass and joined her at the table. She raised her glass, "To the chef."
His glass met hers, "Cheers." And then, "mangia!"
She took a bite of the pasta coated in a simple tomato-olive sauce. "Ummm, delicious."
He cocked his head, "And?"
"And so much better than a bowl of cereal."
"What? Is that all?"
"Okay—a hundred, thousand times better than a bowl of cereal."
"That's better, love." His satisfaction at exacting the admission was evident on his face.
They concentrated on their meal for a time, before Bonnie asked, "So what have you been up to?"
"Road trip up the east coast to retrieve these," he drew out his phone, and opened photos of the iron rods, and handed it to her. "I've taken to secretly documenting everything I acquire on behalf of the Armory," he noted. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Bonnie enlarged the image and looked closely at the image. "Druidic runes," she observed.
"I'm impressed," he said.
"Between supernatural calamities, I was actually paying attention in my Occult Studies classes."
"I'm sure Professor Saltzman would be proud," he laughed.
"So, what are these reputed to do?" she asked him.
"So far we've only tracked down five of them. There are two more. As I understand it, when you have the complete set they form sort of a portal … a portal to the past, or the future."
"Maybe they enhance some form of astral projection? Practitioners of astral projection claim to time travel, meet gods and demons on the astral plane, all sorts of things. What do you think the Armory really wants them for?"
"According to Alex they're semi-worthless, unless you have the complete set, and a key to decipher the runes. Still, they're valuable enough to the Armory, and Alex is undoubtedly already scheming to acquire the final two."
"And you believe her?"
"In this specific instance …" his hands made a gesture that conveyed 'who knows.' "The thing is," he went on, "they're collectors—the Armory, I mean. I sometimes think a big part of it is the very act of acquiring things—from the most innocuous relics to supernatural beings—it's all the same to them." A shadow passed over Bonnie's face. "Sorry, love." She shot him brief half-smile of acknowledgement.
After dinner, Bonnie cleared the table. She washed, and Enzo dried. When they were done, Bonnie invited Enzo to stay a little longer, and headed to the couch. She expected his usual "must be getting back" declaration, and so she was pleasantly surprised when he said, "I nearly forgot. I brought you something."
"More pills?" she sighed. Her ambivalence about suppressing her magic was never far from the surface.
"Yes, but I also have a present for you."
"Really?" she brightened up, smiling.
"Don't get too excited," he said to lower her expectations. "It's just something I picked up during my travels." He went to his duffle and retrieved the pills, and a flat, white bag. He placed the pills on the end-table. "The middle-man for the druidic runes wanted to meet in a public place. So he asked me to meet him in this random used bookstore. He was late, so I had plenty of time to kill, and I found this. He handed her the bag, then relaxed into the far end of the couch, awaiting her verdict on his gift.
"Books on 12th" the bag read. She opened the bag and took out what looked to be a quite old leather-bound book—The Layman's Guide to Magic: Spells, Incantations, and Potions Anyone Can Use! She opened it to the title page. It appeared to be a first edition from the late 1920s. "I remember Alaric telling us in class about the rise of interest in the occult in the 1920s. There were all of these secret societies and social clubs dabbling in the occult."
"So you like it? Because I wasn't sure how you'd feel under the circumstances—I mean not having access to your own magic."
"No, it's great—thanks. Besides, maybe I can picked up a pointer or two," she laughed. She scanned the table of contents and checked out some of the illustrations. "Usually, I'm a cover-to-cover kind of girl, but …" she flipped through the book. "Ha, ha—a spell to give your rival warts!" She flipped through a few more pages. "And these incantations look hilarious." She began reading one slowly aloud. She giggled, and turned to Enzo. His head was back; his eyes closed. He was sound asleep.
Bonnie couldn't help but smile. If only it was a spell to induce sleep, I'd be impressed, she thought. She took the throw from the back of the couch, and covered him with it. Then, as quietly as she could, she added two logs to the fire, to ensure that it burned through the night. Then she took her new book, and headed to the bedroom where her giggling wouldn't disturb his sleep.
In the morning when Bonnie woke, Enzo was already gone. She found a note on the table: Have to get back early. Thanks for the best kip I've had in weeks. See you soon, E.
~the end~