...Through the burning hunger
A sense of deepest dismay
And then a violent kiss to hold
Three words we cannot say...
Marik tugged the satin purple tie from around his neck and threw it across the bedroom with vengeance. Rubbing his throat vigorously, he cursed in several languages before sending the pressed coat flying after it.
Damn them! To hell with the little fucker politicians and their expensive catty whores! He'd known strippers less shallow and twice as dignified as that vicious lot of sharp-clawed gold-diggers.
Loosening his black silk button-down shirt and kicking off his expensive shoes, Marik snarled and marched into the kitchen.
Helping himself to a ice-cold whiskey shot, the Egyptian felt the familiar burn in his throat and looked at the bottle with appreciation.
Whiskey. Vodka. The two things on this planet that were fucking reliable.
He drank another. And another.
Well, admittedly not only whiskey and vodka. An image of cool mahogany eyes and ivory skin flashed briefly in his mind and the corner of Marik's mouth curled in the weak semblance of a smile.
Ryou. Ma'at, he needed Ryou right now! If anyone could make his mood swing from angry demon to happily-dancing-on-the-rooftop-naked-without-the-influence-of-spirits-either-alcoholic-or-literal the snarky half-Brit could.
It was odd to think that when they had met at Battle City - not Yami Bakura and himself, but rather the tomb keeper and the Millennium Ring's host, who only had possession of the body briefly - Marik had been a psychotic hormone-driven teenager with issues and Ryou had been a cuddly-toy who appeared sick at the sight of blood.
Marik asked himself again and again how he had not recognized his partner at that time. He had WHITE hair for fuck's sake! Admittedly, he hadn't been in his right mind at the time, but honestly Ryou hadn't changed much at all since they'd met those years ago in the rough backstreets of Cairo.
He cut his musings short with the knowledge that if he continued, he'd sit there all day reminiscing with a glazed look on his face. He was not a dizzy blonde, thank you very much, and did not wish to give any appearance that agreed with that stereotype.
Besides, if he wanted to call the albino bugger he'd have to do it now. Ryou didn't like unnecessary impromptu very much, and wouldn't thank him for a delayed message. Better get this call over with before the ivory-haired Brit decided to change the security codes on him...again.
He punched the numbers into the phone and waited for an answer. His fingers tapped against the table in rapid succession.
"If I'm not on the bloody phone, then use that thing commonly coined 'a brain' and call me at a normal time, stupid wanker."
Brown fingers snapped the lid shut.
Why couldn't Ryou be like other people and have 'please leave a message after the beep' rather then a Marik-personified insult?
But then, Marik Ishtar wasn't exactly your average Joe either. Let Ryou Bakura have his dry humour and sarcasm and rare bouts of innocent adorability.
But what did the moron mean by 'call me at a normal time'? It couldn't be very late. He had only just come back.
Catlike eyes that fairly glowed in the shadowy room turned to attend an illuminated digital clock.
It was just after two in the morning. Fucking politicians!
If it wasn't the beginning of summer, he'd have noticed it at once. As it was, the sky had just become navy and star-studded and the day's stifling humid air had become pleasantly cool.
He wasn't drunk or selfish enough to switch the phone onto a warning alarm, which would have made Ryou answer immediately. Although he was close to doing it. Very close.
Despite being involved in saving the world, Marik hardly won the award for 'least selfish person on said planet'. Heck, he wasn't even in the top ten of the list of most selfless people he'd ever met. Topping that list would be Yuugi Moutou, followed closely by Mokuba Kaiba.
Sighing in a very resigned fashion, Marik exchanged his trousers for a more informal pair and eased himself into a pair of shoes before he stretched, rippling the lean, brown muscles of his torso attractively.
He didn't bother changing the shirt. If his ogling of his partner on said partner's birthday gave any indication, slinky button-down shirts were sexy especially when loose, with the throat bare.
The aforementioned Brit with silver-white hair had been very odd after that birthday and would not be convinced to wear an thin silk shirt again - much less an unbuttoned crimson one that was nearly transparent - despite Marik's subtle leers and childish pleadings.
The exalted Head of the Ishtar clan grabbed the black helmet that hung on the back of his door and lazily fastened it on. He sauntered into his garage and ran an appreciative glance over his sleek black Harley.
Hooking one leg over his motorbike, Marik ignored the biker gloves hanging off the wall despite the knowledge that without them he'd end up with raw hands. He adjusted the helmet and uttered the codes that would have his garage open.
Flying out onto the pathway with all the semblance of a demon in black, Marik pushed in the codes on the motorbike's handle, enabling the security to reform and lock up in his absence.
Ra, he loved technology!
The house was the one gift he had not refused. Ryou hadn't let him. They needed a secure HQ, and comfort was a pleasant option. Luxury was a small word for what it stood for. The place had been built and cared for, even as it was unused at the time. Created and furnished down to the last detail, courtesy of Seto fucking Kaiba.
Ooooh, better not put the word fucking next to Kaiba, Marik's pants went a little tighter. The CEO may be a cold ass bastard, but he was a gorgeous one and Marik really didn't need any...distractions while he drove.
His mind flew automatically in the opposite direction. The whiskey remedied the normally steady patterns of his mind.
He had been drinking. That was already hindering his ticket to the nightclub if the cops were smart enough to notice. Whiskey wasn't a scent that faded easily.
Fucking coppers. Marik hated them nearly as much as Ryou did. It was easy to recall the bloodstained clothes that had to be burned and the little hospital gown on a tiny, sickly child. The blotted bruises that faded and the scars that never would.
"Promise...?" the wide, tearful eyes and the clutching little hand on his wrist.
"Promise."
His hands tightened dangerously on the handlebars. Never again. Never fucking again.
There was the nightclub. He heard it before he saw it. Time to get thoroughly pissed and hopefully find a talented bird to ride. It wasn't a good idea to muse on the fuck-ups of the past. Even if it was the anniversary of that fuck-up.
Finding a parking space, and strutting off towards the screaming lights of the club with the earthquake of music shrieking at his ears was the first step.
He did not need to look far for company.
"Hello gorgeous," a catty brunette with cherry-flavoured lipstick slid into his lap. A spray of cheap perfume immersed him as she proceeded to explore his mouth with secretarial thoroughness. Alcohol had made her eyes bright and pinked her cheeks.
Her smile and breasts were a little plastic, her nose rather pointed, and her legs close to skeletal, but after a few shots the smudged red on her mouth and the slender hands opening his knees again were positively sensual.
They wasted no time procuring a room below.
The girl - Mai, was it? Or Yuki? Meirin? - was a vixen in bed. When Marik's head cleared enough to take in her nude, sated appearance one more time, his chest sank heavily again.
Yes, the sex had been good. Beyond good. There was nothing wrong with her abilities to give pleasure. She just wasn't who he wanted.
There were few people that stuck in his mind like burrs, but something inside him compared every casual lay he had with the idea of one of those bodies beneath him, breathing his name...screaming his name...
Right now there was one at the forefront. Which meant he needed a man for release. Preferably one with pale skin and silver-white hair.
His phone rang. The annoying ringtone that he had never bothered to correct was muffled in the loud tsunami of drums and guitar that issued above them. Still, Meirin - Kaia? Ino? Suki? - shifted in her present slumber and curled a slim bangled wrist around his arm.
With a hum of annoyance, he drew his arm away and glanced at the number. Rishid. He took the call.
"Marik? That noise...never mind. It is not important. I am calling you because your sister needs more treatment," Marik's heart turned to cold hard granite in his chest, "her attacks have returned. The visions are uncontrollable and will not focus at all. It is getting worse. The morphine is the only thing stopping her from extreme self-violence. Apparently, the vision's source has realized that the human body it uses is incompetent without the necklace and has been trying to..." Rishid finally let some real pain bleed into his impatient tones, "rectify the...mistake."
Marik thought quickly, knowing that the cost for regular doses sent to Ishizu would be crippling but necessary. He felt as if he were signing his soul on a dotted line when he replied.
"I'll have another dose sent by Wednesday. Think she can hold out until then. I don't think I can manage any earlier then that, but I'll give double the amount sent last time."
"Wednesday...that will be difficult...but should do the trick. You have our thanks, Marik. The delegations have offered their services as usual. I completed the formalities, just like you said. Is there anything else?"
"No. Keep her safe, brother."
He heard Rishid's sigh and the faint happiness in his tone at the familiar term. "We miss you too, brother. Goodbye, and may Ra guide you."
"Goodbye."
There was a beep and then only static.
You have one missed call. One missed call...
He checked the number quickly, but relaxed when he realized it was not Ryou's. With the danger they were in regularly, it was no wonder that he worried frequently about his (admittedly extremely competent) comrade.
It can wait, thought Marik, through a great deal of drowsiness and a sizable headache. A couple hours shouldn't make a difference.
He should have known better. As an Ishtar, and a focused child of Fate, he should have known that dismissing a call would end only in more trouble yet. If he had known exactly what would happen because of his delay, he would have not wasted a moment in his haste.
But Marik was not Ishizu. He saw no visions or flashes of bright light. No, he was not the Necklace Wielder. There was a tiny nudging that was quickly dismissed, and that was all.
He was tired.
Glancing over at his companion, it was easy to note that she would not be in any position to wake, let alone attack him (no weapons other then her fists and teeth) for hours at least. The door was locked securely and no one outside of the reclusive Tomb Keepers knew Lord Ishtar by his face.
He closed his luminous purple eyes and wrapped an arm around the girl. His fingers traced circles on a smooth thigh. What would it be like to hold Ryou like this? Would his skin be cool or heated under his touch? Smooth or callused?
Slowly, wondering these things - riddles gods knew not the answers - Marik dreamed.
The world was red beneath his eyelids.
He saw Ryou standing in the Egyptian sand wearing darkest crimson on his lips and kohl around his eyes. He was beautiful and smiling and he had no need for cigarettes. The smoky taste didn't encourage kissing much. And he was made for kissing.
There was the half-rememberance of a fight and a young, handsome man with dark hair that fell into ancient eyes and a cloak of shadow around his shoulders holding Ryou in a desperate embrace, but none of that mattered now. Ryou was living, breathing perfection.
Marik reached out to feel him, taste him. But Ryou slipped through his fingers like mist.
"The sun is setting. The time of pharaohs is over."
The lack of cynicism in the words made Marik stare more intently at the vision and try to connect the bright smile Ryou was wearing with the jumbled patterns in his mind that told him his best friend did not exist.
Ryou removed the heavy robe he was wearing, letting it fall fluidly from his shoulders. It was for coronations, Marik noticed vaguely. But when it fell, he saw only the expanse of ivory skin.
And he did not comprehend beyond the host of scars.
They were not white or pinked like scars ought to be. There was darkness seeping in and out of them, bursting through the veins. Marik knew that Ryou with his smiling face was in agony.
"You forgot her hair, Marik. You forgot her hair..."
And the sand was no longer sand but many golden locusts crawling towards him. They all spoke in the tomb keeper elders' voices and said: "Lord Ishtar, Lord Ishtar" as they overcame him.
The sky was red. Bathed in the blood of lost planets and stars. But there was a star. No that wasn't a star, silly. That was Saturn. Very bright tonight. Very bright.
Now Ryou was Bakura with red eyes and the scar on his cheek. They looked very alike now. He only knew it was Bakura because of the scar. And Ryou was telling him that was silly and he was a stupid wanker, because everyone knew that he had the scar and the spirit had just copied him.
But the darkness rising from Ryou's scars overshadowed the sun and children were screaming. Marik had the sudden feeling that he ought to know these children, but he didn't.
And then Ryou toasted a glass to him, filled with the blood dripping from the red sky, and Marik saw his reflection.
He was not Marik at all. He was Ishizu. The Millennium Necklace was glowing around her throat.
And then he woke up.
The world was no longer spinning, but his head did hurt. The sheets were soft beneath hypersensitive skin and he felt rather than saw a fly crawl across the ceiling. Each tick-tock of his watch was like a series of heavy hammer blows against his temple.
"Mmm...darling...?"
He glanced at his undressed companion, who half-opened her eyes groggily before smiling and let them fall shut again. The arm half-draped over his shoulder tightened possessively.
What time was it? He checked his watch and blinked. Fuck Fuck Fuck!
He snatched his mobile and narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the screen.
You have three missed calls. Three missed calls...
Ahamad twice. And then Ryou.
He sat bolt upright. Ryou had called him. About three hours ago.
It had been Ahamad calling when he had been talking to Rishid. Wonder what that was about. Probably some piss-easy shit that the jerk was too lazy to sort on his own, Marik thought uncharitably. (If he was fully awake and rational, he would have noted that Ahamad was very competent and would be insulted at the idea of shirking his work.)
On the other hand, Ryou rarely called him unless there was some sort of emergency. But there had been no warning dial, no message.
Maybe he hit the wrong number, Marik thought with a sharp, near-staggering pang in his chest.
It was irrational how much pain he derived from a casual possibility. Of course Ryou could call other people. It was good for him to socialize. Very good. If not for his constant visitations to the children, he was far too inverted to be healthy.
The ache sharpened if anything.
Should he call back? His fingers hovered indecisively over the numbers.
Strange indeed, how friends were far more frightening then enemies. Stranger still, how bittersweet they were.
Marik's life had fallen through stages of blinding white light amid the long, swirling dark agony. Never one to do things by halves, he was either standing in the sun or drowning at the bottom of the sea.
But Ryou was the only one who could make him feel like he was doing both simultaneously.
As he stabbed the buttons in with more force then needed, Marik attempted at convincing himself that he was doing this for Ryou. Perhaps there was some important message his friend wanted to send him. Whatever the case, it was common courtesy to reply to a call.
He still felt that chuckling, nagging part of his mind that sang: "You're not even WITH him and you're already hopeless! Sounds like somebody's whi-ipped."
Marik ignored this part of his mind well. He had been following this tact religiously for the past six months.
There was that moment of wincing, of course, when the annoying jangle of a ringtone hit his ears. He frowned, waiting for the calm, clear voice to answer. If Ryou was in a hurry and did not know it was him, he'd answer politely. As per usual, however, he did notice it was Marik and gave a dry insult.
Ryou rarely wasted extensive (and admittedly witty and cutting) insults upon anyone other than Marik. The dark eyed albino had insisted it was practically regulation for best friends to insult each other and share beers on odd occasions.
Ryou had been too busy for beers recently.
The children were of highest importance in Ryou's life, of course. Marik understood that. They had no families, no homes; nothing other than the orphanage that would have closed down two years ago if Ryou hadn't put all the leftover loot money from his Yami's thefts into restoring it.
Marik had been right beside him, helping every inch of the way for the first few months. Both of them knew what it was like to live without parents or homes or any reliable (strictly legal or otherwise) forms of income.
But he had also the responsibilities that he had so studiously avoided before. He was Lord Isthar, Leader of the Clans, Peacemaker Supreme, Hand of Ra, and Blood of the Pharaohs.
He had to restore the clans, rebuild their world, and destroy their enemies.
And he had to do this without magick.
Ryou and Marik had lost their shadow magick the same time their Millennium Items were taken.
No, that wasn't quite true. Marik lost his ability to perform shadow magick when he gave the Eye back to Yuugi. Ryou lost it when Zorc was fought and bound away and the Items were far out of reach.
They didn't care. They didn't need magick to live.
Marik had risen to power without magick. Ryou had become the most skilled sniper in Japan and Egypt respectively (although he couldn't claim that as a fact, as he would be dragged to prison under such a open supposition) without any help from that damned shadow realm.
Sometimes, though, Marik felt the oddest feeling - as if the power was bubbling right under his skin. And he was certain that Ryou felt it too, due to the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the smooth way he freely initiated a conversation with anyone who happened to be in the room afterwards.
As he rang the dial and heard the click of Ryou picking up, it happened again.
It wasn't just the chill of a ghost hand on his shoulder or a goose walking over his grave. Marik felt raging fire burning the blood under his skin and then something bright glowing above his eyes.
He looked up, spun around, and caught his reflection in a dirty glass.
"About time, fucker," said Ryou's voice across the static of the phone. "We need to talk."
Marik was frozen for a moment longer, even though the blazing sensation had faded when Ryou uttered the first word across the line.
For a moment, he had thought he'd seen something golden gleaming on his forehead.
But of course that was nonsense. A trick of the light.
"Love you too, prude," said Marik with a joviality he did not feel. "Shall we chat over the phone, or shall we have a face-to-face confrontation."
"Where are you?"
"Out." Best to be vague.
"where?"
"A club."
Ryou groaned, and, despite the sense of foreboding that Marik had hanging over his shoulder like a looming giant, he could not help but find it extremely erotic.
"We'll speak over the phone. In all probability, you have a killer headache and have forgotten the name of your bedpartner - as per usual."
Sometimes Marik hated how Ryou knew him so well.
"I have more children coming in today," said Ryou quietly. "I'll come over tomorrow to collect."
Marik stood up abruptly and nearly fell right back over again. One hand pressed hot fingers against his flaming temple. "We have a gig today, Ryou. You can't hold out on me."
A little sigh, like he had hoped to avoid this exact argument. "We've talked about this before, Marik. Yesterday was my LAST job. I'll see you around, but I'm not doing any more gigs. I have enough to keep me going for a while. And you don't NEED to work your way up any farther. The opposition is falling away, you have no one of any importance to stand against you. You don't need my help anymore."
Marik heard a shifting of blankets behind him. He barely comprehended.
Of course he needed Ryou's help, because he needed Ryou! But if he said that, Ryou'd call him a fucking broad, and that was better then what would happen if the assassin realized he was serious.
He was selfish and he knew it, but for a moment he made a desperate inner plea. He wished he could hold on to their fragile connection. They had been brothers-at-arms and he feared that now they had no battles - no enemies to gang up against - they were falling apart again. It wasn't right!
Marik wished Ryou needed him as much as he needed Ryou.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His lips curled upwards in the cruel mimicry of a smile. "Wanker. Leaving me out there with all those sharks."
A little snort. "Yeah, and you're a fish? Get real."
But Ryou was amused.
Score.
Marik had successfully averted the depression on his best friend's side. Ryou had not wanted him to get upset, and Marik had dutifully remained cool with it.
Or the closest he could get to it.
"Does this mean you won't ever do the Japanese schoolgirl for me?"
"Fuck you." Oh yes please.
Marik faux-gasped. "Darling, you're killing me!"
Ryou laughed over the line, and Marik tried to crush the supernova in his chest that came from hearing it. Ryou so very rarely laughed.
That royal-pain-in-the-ass-voice-in-his-head seemed to sigh: "Fuck, but you have it bad."
"I hope you don't have such a dirty mouth when you speak to all the orphans," said Marik, trying for an admonishing tone. He ignored the knowledge that the ratty street kids had probably heard much worse.
"Unlike you, love, I know when to hold my tongue. Recall the pole-dancing incident?"
Marik's wince was overpowered by his grin. "Touche."
Here they were, babbling nonsense together again. Ryou was calm and sarcastic and nothing could be more perfect.
"And unlike you, I simply do not feel the need for endless sex."
Except that.
At least Ryou didn't flinch anymore. The high collars were no longer vampiric and occasionally he didn't wear gloves outside HQ.
When it was the anniversary of the girls' deaths, he bought the orphanage flowers.
They always assumed it was his birthday.
Ryou didn't remember which day was his birthday. He remembered the year and had a good guess on the month, but didn't care too much about it.
(It had been last year: 'Sometime this year, I believe I'm fifteen! Never thought we'd live this long, did you?' and then this year: 'what do you know? Eventually I'll be actually legal!')
Few of the orphans knew their own age. Hell, Marik only knew his age because his fucking bastard of a father marked it in the Ishtar records.
Ryou's eyes did not burn cold and bright, like steel, when Marik last mentioned the long-ago hospital incident. Hopefully, he was moving on.
But that was doubtful. No one ever moved on, much less someone stuck on a relentless roller-coaster of ill fate like Ryou.
"I'm running late." Marik might have imagined the affection in his tone. Wishful thinking, as usual, " I'll call you later, asshole."
Wait, what. Already?
"Promises, promises. You've been a very bad, bad boy, Ryou." He took the husky voice of a woman famous for her awful phone sex.
Ryou laughed and murmured some insulting reassurances before he hung up.
And that was it. It wasn't anything other then he should have expected. Marik stared at the bright screen for a few moments. then he gave a little bitter laugh and turned to meet the large eyes of a very awake, very naked woman.
"Friend of yours?" she cooed. She looked at him as if he was a very appetizing piece of meat.
He was.
But he was no longer in the mood for any sexual encounters. "Yeah. I have to go now. Late for work, gorgeous. You understand?"
She did not hide her disappointment.
"Maybe I'll catch you here again?"
"Sure," he forced a smile.
Marik firmly believed his fake smile was far sexier, seeing as it was far more perfected then his real one.
By the way she purred coyly in return before slipping her smooth legs over the side to collect her clothing, he knew he was right.
He dressed quickly and gave her one last lingering kiss.
She flushed prettily and smiled as if he had announced his wedding vows. There was nothing plastic about her smile anymore.
He was probably the best lay she'd ever had. Fuck, all his Ex's only agreed on one thing: that he was a veritable god in the sack.
She still deserved better.
When he retrieved and unlocked his motorbike, Marik slipped a mint into his mouth to take away the smell of alcohol on his breath, then straddled the vehicle. The helmet was fastened securely in a matter of moments. Anyone ought to have been worried about the safety of a bike in an open area - much less that area - but Marik's beauty of a Harvey Davison was more then met the eye. Latest technology and fingerpad locking. No thief could steal that sexy ride.
Unless it was Ryou's Yami using shadow magick. But that piece of shit was dead and gone; locked away in the Shadow Realm with Yami Marik. If they weren't eaten alive by the netherworld by now, they were going through regular mindfucking torment.
win-win on both sides, either way.
As he rode across the ways, heading toward HQ, Marik noticed something mildly odd.
He was being followed.
It was odd, because usually he wasn't trailed when he was driving the Bitch Queen. Walking, running, driving a normal vehicle; yes, he had been followed. On a motorbike, it had been one of those rare occasions one put in their journal as irregular.
Now, who could it be? No one around here outside the clan knew him by his face. Hell, only a few of the elders and Ryou and Yuugi's gang (who were all presently on another continent) even knew Lord Ishtar's first name.
As famous as Battle City had been, the records of Lord Ishtar's involvement had never mentioned 'Marik'. Namu had been a vague memory in the papers. Unfortunately, the focus on Ishizu Ishtar had been deadly.
Thirteen assassination attempts. And the police had ignored Every. Fucking. One.
Brushing aside the angry thoughts that arose with the memory, Marik noted the position of his stalker, but could not pin-point the identity.
No way in hell was he going to lead this very obvious piece of baggage to HQ. No, no. He was going to joyride through several strip clubs and alleys filled with clingy whores, displaying their wide variety of assets.
Humming a little to himself, Marik pushed the speed up. He only jumped it a notch. Any more and his sorry stalker would realize that he had been noticed and the Egyptian former-mage did not want that to happen.
The shadow picked up speed a little too quickly and the slow was more of a jerk and less of a drag.
Oh. An amateur. Figures.
Probably some sorry fucker who wanted to steal the bike. All the same, Marik knew better then to let down his guard. Maybe the shadow was pretending to be shit at this only to throw him. It wouldn't be the first time.
A professional was sometimes easier to trick then a newbie. So said one of Ryou's favourite mottoes. So said the scar under Marik's left ribcage.
So when he trailed through a strip club, only to double back and use his handscanner on the handlebar of the currently riderless motorbike that had been stalking him, he was quick and concise and slipped back through the bathroom window before joining a horny, laughing crowd all in a matter of minutes.
Then he sent the fingerprints he'd scanned to the database at HQ to check out the stranger. It would take a few minutes for the results to come in.
Marik ordered a drink, musing over the possibilities of the shadow having stolen the bike and worn gloves since. But everyone he'd known who'd even touched a bike had caressed and admired it with naked hands.
Which made his lips curl back in a very cat-like fashion as he admired his own fingerprints, or lack of them.
That was one thing he had magick to thank for.
No fingerprints for you to get ahold of, stalker! He glanced around casually, searching the room for his tail, but the fucker had managed to remain completely out of sight.
Not bad for an amateur. Obviously not a street kid, though. If that were the case, it would have taken him longer to be certain there even was a shadow. On the other hand, that would have made it a whole lot simpler.
It wasn't anyone sent by a gang lord. It wasn't a cop. He would have gotten an answer from the database if it had been. Something wasn't adding up.
And again, the world decided to fuck with his head by making his mobile ring.
"What is it?" He didn't throw in Ahamad's name when he knew someone was listening and watching him.
"Lord Ishtar!" he sounded incredibly relieved, like he had expected to hear anyone but Marik on that phone. This would make sense if it wasn't his FUCKING NUMBER. "There is something you need to see."
Marik ground his teeth. "Of course. And get me a brandy while you're at it."
He hung up; leaving Ahamad to be a little taken aback. Marik never drank brandy at the clubs. He preferred vodka. Chilled and with a slice of lemon.
Brandy was something that Seto Kaiba drank, or watered polite rivals with. Although, admittedly, he usually threw in a special additive that his guests only managed to appreciate once. It was called Cyanide.
The blonde Egyptian smoothed the creases in his wrinkled silk shirt and fastened two gold hoops through one ear. Two signet rings on the right hand and he was done assuming a plan.
Bitch Queen needed a break anyway.
Upsetting a table loudly with a quick heel movement, Marik slipped out and with one deft movement shoved the ridiculously sharp spike of his choker into the wheel of his tail's bike.
He withdrew casually and mounted the gleaming black Bitch Queen. Before there was a chance to blink, he had scanned for trackers and bugs and found none.
There was, however, the strangest buzzing feeling that wore its way into his head. He gave himself a little mental shove and the feeling dissipated.
He drove the bike to a near safe house and checked the database again.
No matches for the prints.
This little puzzle was going to fall into place sooner or later. And Marik'd be damned if he didn't start the earthquake that shoved them together.
The club was empty when Marik slipped in. It was closed in the middle of the day and staff were cleaning it up.
Narrowed purple eyes quickly scanned the area for Ahamad and found him holding brandy and gesturing expressionlessly.
Marik followed.
"You know what you told me," said Ahamad, voice null of feeling. "About if anything strange came up?"
"Yes."
"When we checked the High Lords body, we found something strange."
They arrived in a comfortable underground chamber. Ahamad drew something out of a glass case that had been hidden in the ceiling. He seemed careful to not establish skin contact with whatever it was.
"A stick?" Marik drew closer, eyes narrowing further.
It was polished wood and had been carved with extreme care. Shorter then the distance from Marik's elbow to his wrist and carved slender, it had all the appearances of a three-year-old's toy walking cane.
What baffled him the most, was the strange leaping fire that seemed to scorch his blood when he drew close. Like electricity feeling for copper.
"It repels touch. It blasted the scanner, when we tried to examine it." Ahamad looked straight into his master's eyes, conveying the seriousness of this matter. "After it blew all electric equipment to shreds, we put it under a microscope and look what we found."
He passed a picture to Marik.
"Carved Runes." Curious. An strange feeling prickled his skin again.
"I do not know what they mean."
Marik sucked in a harsh breath. "It's a Latin dialect."
"Latin? Can you read it?"
"No," his tone was curt. "But I know someone who can."
He had never texted so quickly in his life.
Zorc had used Rune Magick. This looked like his specialty all over again.
But why on a stick? And what did the nameless High Lord have to do with anything?
It was like an adventure with Yuugi all over again, only this time, there was no hero's luck or blasted shadow magick to help out.
Magick.
Marik's eyes shot open. No. It was impossible. He had given it up freely, there was no need-
Beep. Be-ep.
Ryou had sent the following: 'Marik, tell me this is some sort of misunderstanding. Why are you translating the rune patterns detailing a specific person's DNA in regards to DARK BLOOD MAGICK?'
Then, immediately after:
'Fuck. Phone me back in a bit (WITH A FUCKING GOOD EXPLANATION!) I'll have to replenish my credit. My phone's run out of juice. Everything is going static. Give a moment. Oh double-fuck, some idiot's waving a stick around and frightening the children.'
Marik's blood ran cold.
His eyes focused again on that horrible object balanced delicately on an ermine cloth.
'Ryou. Something has gone terribly wrong. Come to HQ immediately. I repeat, drop everything and come to HQ immediately.'
Marik waited desperately for an answering message, but all he could hear was a sickening, endless static...
