Author's Note:
For those of you who can't stand original characters, I apologise. Because this chapter is a literal OC dump. Ye have been warned! However, I can promise that everyone introduced is here for a reason. What those reasons are? Well, you'll just have to bear with me and find out. I promise we will be returning to our protagonists momentarily.
Additional notes on certain OCs can be found in the footnotes of this chapter.
Guest Reviews:
Crossover Junkie: Don't feel too sorry for Jack. Ok, maybe feel a little sorry for him - but it was his fault!
Guest (1): Aw! Thank you so much! I'm glad you're excited, there is plenty more to come. And as for writing the chapter...it was surprisingly painful. I thought exactly the same thing; that it would be a barrel of laughs every second. But after a while, nothing sounds funny anymore and you're constantly wondering if you're making dud jokes. I won't bore you. Basically, it was the most difficult chapter I've ever written, second only to this upcoming monstrosity, so I'm utterly relieved you thought it was hilarious! :)
Guest (2): Yes, Pitch did use the term "Godless", and I get the impression that may have offended you? Please remember that Pitch himself is not supposed to be human, I don't imagine he would subscribe to mortal religious beliefs and values at all, therefore I was not taking aim at any religion whatsoever. If he was referring to a God, it would have been the Man in the Moon. I see Manny as being the closest thing to a God the Guardians have (however flawed that reasoning may be), and if Pitch outright hates him, I didn't think it would be so far fetched to assume he would fling the term "Godless" around. However, just so I don't step on anymore toes, I've gone back and cut that line. The last thing I want is for my readers to be put out. I hope that helps, otherwise I will consider myself excused :)
Warnings:
Alcohol consumption.
Disclaimer:
As usual, I can't take credit for the works of William Joyce or Dreamworks, but I will take due credit for the many OCs in this chapter - sans one. Patrick actually belongs to Sumi Sprite, and I can't thank her enough for letting me borrow this wonderful ruff-nut (and his bar). And Sumi herself has contributed to this chapter immensely, to the point where I would happily call it a collaboration.
Whatever your thoughts on OCs, I hope you enjoy their escapades all the same.
Summary: In which, a new threat makes itself known in the seediest of the spiriting realms.
Chapter 4:
The Lesser of Two Evils
Most nights passed without notable disruption to The Rusty Pingin's regular ebb and flow of patrons. Located several nondescript miles south of the Irish border, on the edge of a sleepy country town, the tavern had an impeccable reputation for hospitable service, and was one of the few places an immortal could be sure to acquire a drink. This also made it something of a snake-hole; a place where the underbelly of the spiriting world laid bare its undesirables. Of course, there were gatekeepers present—the mediators of secrecy and extortion. None were more respected (or feared) than the owner of the establishment in question.
Patrick manned The Rusty Pingin like the captain of a ship. Sporting a dapper green vest over a white shirt, the ensemble did nothing to detract from the formidable presence his burly, broad frame imposed over the counter. He took no prisoners when he dealt with the thugs that often passed through, and if they couldn't tell by the jagged scar over his left eye, one look at the emerald-encrusted, gold-plated brass knocks on full display at his belt gave more than a hint to his brutality. Despite a hazy blanket of magical vapour—designed to conceal the more exclusive divisions of his ground floor parlour—from the circular bar beneath an open gallery, Patrick's poison green eyes surveyed his domain with sharp precision.
Mahogany booths of wine-red upholstery ran the perimeter of the floor, situated beneath shelves laden with trophies and relics to boast of pub brawls won. Harlequin, seated in one, was on his fourth round. Death would soon be joined by his associate Horsemen (a disquieting prospect when there was always reason to be leery of Pestilence). Patrick could even make out silhouettes of his more secretive guests in the upper tiers of the gallery. Yet, he ensured he was not privy to the shady dealings taking place therein. For ultimately, the Spirit of Prosperity only involved himself in the affairs of his patrons when he saw fit, and kept his nose down otherwise for plausible deniability. Furthermore, he was a gracious host, and while establishing just who owned the polished, cedar wood tables his guests sat at was by no means beneath him, his bars were almost always accommodating to those who wished to visit. Above all else he provided them privacy upon request.
His critical gaze panned over to the carved wooden front door as it swung open with a slight creak. It admitted a vixen—a siren, more precisely—that Patrick knew all too well. With hooded eyes and sultry dark lips, she was a kaleidoscope of red tones clad in daring skirts and a waist-cinching bodice. Armed with her bow and a quiver of arrows, heads turned momentarily to catch a wary glance of the gleaming weaponry before they bowed back into matters of delicate business. Patrick was the only one who kept his impassive gaze on her, and judging by her haggard appearance, he knew exactly what was to come.
"Your strongest whiskey," she ordered, her demeanour flat and resigned as she took up her usual place at the counter. "And don't skimp; I know where you keep the good stuff."
"Why thank you, Valentina, I'm doing quite well this evening. How nice of you to ask," Patrick said in mock-reply as he pulled a tumbler out from beneath the counter. She shot his smirk a withering look edged with a grimace.
"Sorry. Rough day," she grumbled.
"I can see that. On the rocks?"
"Neat. And on second thought, make it a double."
Patrick quirked a brow, but went ahead with the request. He pulled a crystal decanter from the shelf behind him and poured what little was left of its contents into Valentina's glass. "Be sounding more like a shite week than a rough day."
Valentina's hair tumbled about in a mass of auburn curls as she sank her forehead into her arms. "You could say that," came her muffled reply. "Forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three divorces in the past five days alone."
Upon hearing this, Patrick cringed. The Spirit of Desire had been a regular at The Rusty Pingin for a long time. Long enough for him to know that no matter how many arrows she sent out with the intent of encouraging true love, the happy couple didn't always stay happy for long. As such, the pain of so many broken hearts left her tired and drained…and usually placed him in the dual-purpose role of bartender and therapist.
"Chin up, Val," he said, pushing the glass towards her. "I said it once, I'll say it again; it ain't your fault. Old Cupid asks too much of you, that's all." When she didn't budge, he narrowed his eyes. "No seriously, up with you. I just had this polished, I won't have you marking it up. And what have I told you about putting that bow on the counter?"
Righting herself, Valentina rolled her eyes and took an unabashed swig of her drink. She then removed the mentioned weapon, and propped it up against her stool. Pushing his sleeves up to reveal solid, scarred arms, and the beginnings of a Celtic tattoo just above the elbow, Patrick leaned one forearm against the counter-top, and placed a hand to his hip. He met Valentina at eye-level.
"So, how will the lass be paying this fine evening?" he asked.
With liquor flooding her veins in a warm rush, the siren permitted the appearance of her trademark simper. "I was thinking," she purred, running a finger around the rim of her glass, "isn't it customary to buy the prettiest person a drink?"
"If it was, you'd be shouting me the next pint," he deadpanned, to which she openly scoffed. "C'mon, Val, I'm trying to turn a profit here. Can't flirt your way out of a double, and I ain't trading me livelihood for one of those accursed arrows, neither."
Valentina leaned back in her seat with a smirk, having known full well how he would take to her conniving advances. Old habits die hard though; and Patrick often made the funniest faces when she made more lewd comments. "Worth a shot," she said with a shrug.
"Will it be cash then?"
"Actually…" Valentina frowned for a moment. "I may have something of far more value to you than money. If you're willing to hear me out, that is."
Patrick's brow rose slightly, suddenly more than interested in what Valentina was alluding to. With shifty eyes, he assessed that they weren't keeping unsavoury company. For he was a leprechaun renowned for his intel of the spiriting underground's inner workings, and could divulge his share of highly valuable blackmail—for the right price, to the right person—but being privy to such information meant he usually had the help of a mole or two. Valentina just so happened to be one of his most reliable sources. Not averse to drinking on the job, Patrick poured himself a lager and dropped his voice.
"I'm listening."
"Have you heard about the Guardians?"
Sarcasm dripped from each syllable of Patrick's reply. "Can't say I have. Remind me who they would be again?"
"I know you don't want to hear it, but trust me. I think you might be interested in this."
The Guardians of Childhood were brought up frequently by purveyors looking to profit from the so-called 'dirt' they'd acquired, and Patrick had learned to expect little from them in the way of substance, or even accuracy. However, if there was one thing he knew about Valentina, it was that he could trust her to deliver more than the simplistic, malicious gossip most others tried to sell him about the Man in the Moon's favoured charges.
"Go on then," he said before tipping back his glass.
"Well, I heard from Lady White Snake, who heard from Mother Goose, who heard from Will-o-the-Wisp, who heard from the Seasonal Sprites, that Jack Frost is not himself," she reported with a devious smile. "And neither are the other Guardians."
"Not themselves…" Patrick repeated slowly.
"By the sounds of it, something went terribly wrong and it caused them to end up on the edge of that college town near Michigan. According to the sprites, they looked completely bizarre. Like their Centres—or physical attributes, at least—had been spliced. And, to make things even more fascinating, apparently Pitch Black has been caught up in all this as well."
"Interesting, but have you tracked the source?"
"Naturally." Valentina placed her chin in a propped-up hand. "I managed to locate the Seasonal Sprites and get it directly from them. It's all verified. In fact, bets are being placed as we speak to see which of them is going to throw the first punch."
"I'd put me dime on that golden turd with the nasty right hook," Patrick concluded while mirthfully contemplating his lager. "Bastard nearly took me pint and me eye out in one swing back in '83. Black won't be standing a chance." He looked to her suddenly. "Only question is, how did it happen?"
"That's the thing. Summer seems to think Jack admitted to using a spell book when he had no idea how to pronounce the incantation. Apparently, she was the first to find them, and she's convinced that she might have woken them up—probably because she's incapable of keeping her mouth shut. Anyway, she was there the whole time and heard him confess. You know, I always thought North was some sort of bibliophile, but spell books are difficult to come by these days! I bet he has loads more somewhere up-"
"Put a cork in it, lass," Patrick hissed when she grew too obnoxious to be inconspicuous. "You know I get all sorts in here…" At her sour glance, he riled to defend himself. "Don't gimme that sneer. Business is business."
"Well, you asked!" she retorted in a sharp whisper, as if to compensate for her earlier carelessness. "Besides, I could be wr-AH!" Valentina screeched and swatted at her drink, sending it flying off the counter. It tumbled to the ground, shattering in a spectacular bomb of broken glass and whiskey. Several leering faces trained their sights on the two, while Patrick shot her a steely glare.
"What are you doing to me bar?"
"Nothing." Valentina shrugged, once again the picture of nonchalance. "I thought I saw a cockroach or something on my glass."
"Christ, Val…" Patrick scrubbed a hand down his face. "That's the second one this week."
"Well, maybe if this place wasn't such a dive…"
"That's it! You're cut off," he snapped. A friend only aiming to get a rise out him she may have been, but Patrick would have no one—no one—speaking ill of the tavern he worked hard to maintain and keep somewhat respectable. If she wanted to have a go him, she could take her criticisms and shove them right up her—
Both felt their hackles rise as the front door swung open again. Normally, this would not garner any more than a fleeting glance from Patrick, but the energy this new entity brought in was enough to quiet the near-constant murmuring of voices. Several patrons either huddled into their seats or scowled over their shoulders when they recognised the hulking mass looming over the threshold. They were right to feel intimidated.
Long, keratinous horns protruded from a wild and matted mane of hair. Razor sharp, yellowing claws gripped a heavy, barbed iron club, which was carelessly dragged across the floor. A humanoid frame towered over them all, warped by centuries of starvation, and the wispy tendrils of his ghostly form gave them a good idea of just how weak he was.
But no sane soul would ever underestimate such a demonic entity.
For this grotesque creature of fading pinkish, ruddy flesh was an Oni. A ruthless and vindictive being capable of foul deeds that were frowned upon by anyone with a conscience. Not even Patrick would risk trivialising this unforeseen arrival, and he aptly made no effort to hide his gilded knuckles. Slipping them onto his fingers, he leaned further over the bar top. His shoulders were squared, his jaw was set—he appeared nothing short of a snarling hound poised to protect his turf. With their petty squabble forgiven and forgotten, Patrick made sure his hands were close enough to grab the tense Valentina if this unwelcome visitor tried anything.
Most nights passed uneventfully in the Rusty Pingin tavern.
This clearly was not going to be one of them.
Valentina shuddered as the Oni approached. The ogre-like beast stopped just behind her back, but she did not dare turn and meet the predatory crimson stare boring into the back of her skull. She cringed as she caught a whiff of his fetid breath ghosting over her shoulders. The stench appeared to make her ill, but it would have paled in comparison to the putrid and power-hungry desires she sensed rolling off the half-starved demon.
"In case yer lost," Patrick started sharply, "dumpsters are out back."
The cracked lips of the Oni's wide mouth spread in a skin-crawling sneer. "That's no way to greet a customer," he remarked, his raspy voice sounding as though he'd gargled scrap-metal. Much to their dismay, he took up a seat. It groaned under his weight. Patrick only wished he had not done so in such proximity to Valentina. Or at all.
"What do you want?" Valentina demanded through gritted teeth.
"What anyone else here wants." The Oni's eyes veered over to Patrick. "I am but a weary traveller seeking your generous hospitality, and I would like to experience it without the nagging of your infernal, succubus wench."
"Why you slimy…!" Incensed, Valentina's cheeks flushed. She shook with rage. She made to stand, but Patrick reacted in the nick of time and restrained her by a forearm. He wasn't game to find out what irrational course of action she had in mind, and instead kept his eyes trained on the Oni as they flashed an incandescent shade of sulphuric yellow.
"See, thing about that is, I don't want you here," he said, his voice dangerously even. "And if I don't want you here, I ain't going to serve you. I know what thugs like you do. I expect a certain standard of my customers and you're dragging it down. So, I suggest you hit the road before I turf you out myself."
"Ah." The Oni smiled his Cheshire grin. "If that's the case, I believe it is you who belongs in the mud, half-blood scum."
Valentina could not have taken up her weapon faster. In a flash, she had broken out of Patrick's iron hold to aim an arrow directly at the Oni's jugular. She would not stand to let the deplorable insult toward Patrick's dubious lineage go unanswered, even if he was inclined to ignore it. Her face contorted in a vicious snarl.
"Say that again," she spat.
Instead of berating her for drawing her bow indoors, Patrick bit back a triumphant grin at the Oni's slight disarmament. "You ever felt the keen sting of love?" he asked the demon. "'Cause it's rarely pleasant, I assure you."
"I've not had the pleasure," the Oni said. He remained unfazed despite staring down what was essentially the barrel of a loaded gun. "I only wonder…what would Cupid think of his arrows being defiled by harmful intent?"
"If my father were here, he would do you in himself," Valentina said, pulling the string tighter still. "Besides, as long as they're in my hands, they belong to me."
The Oni gave little more than a derisive sneer before he snatched the arrow out of her possession and proceeded to snap it like a twig. A shower of sparks fizzled from the fracture and Patrick knew, by the look on her face, that Valentina had felt a little something inside herself also break.
"Not anymore," the Oni said.
"I've had enough," Patrick snapped. He shoved back the sleeves of his shirt even further and balled up his fists. "Get out, or eviction comes with a complimentary facial rearrangement." Rather than fight him on the matter, the Oni held up gnarled hands with odd numbers of fingers in surrender. Valentina recoiled when their claws came far too close for her liking.
"No need," he said, "I can tell when I'm not wanted. Such a shame, I thought perhaps a place like this might have done well to serve up a bite to eat. I must say I'm rather...hungry."
And with that, the Oni rose from his seat, collected his club, and stalked out the door, making sure to leave the floorboards gouged and scraped in his wake. The tavern settled in a grim silence as the patron spirits attempted to process what the fiend had just uttered. Half were unsure if they had heard him correctly. The rest did not want to believe they had.
"Pat…" Valentina's wide, brown eyes met his now reverted to emerald. He was sure he appeared greener than usual. Stoic resolve deflated, he slowly shook his head.
"Aye, Val. I've got a bad feeling about this."
— O —
Being of rather gargantuan size, the Oni was more than relieved to be free of confined spaces, and relished the open air of a moonless night. Straightening hunched shoulders, he was adamant in resisting his body's urge to lean against his club like a cripple with a cane—though the thought was tempting. His stamina and strength were, admittedly, in critically low supply, and showing off with that harlot's arrow had done him more harm than good. But it had been worth it to watch them all fester in fear. Besides, simply keeping ahold of his club would be enough for him to maintain his energy. For the time being. He had long ago fashioned the barbaric weapon into a conduit for the life source that fuelled him. It had served him well over the centuries, but his reserves had inevitably been depleted and his power was waning like the infernal moon above.
He was so very weak.
But he wouldn't have to be for much longer.
He would now continue his arduous tour, scouting Europe and spying on the children instrumental to his plans. He was most drawn to the naughty; the insolent and bratty; the troublemakers. Though at this stage, he found almost any child would do. He was content to be indiscriminate.
When finished taking stock in this continent, he would move on the Americas. His interlude of riling the dimwitted masses within the oafish bartender's tavern had been but a mere indulgence. To remind himself and others of the chaos he had once wrought on the world. How it was only a fraction of what was to come. He suspected word would soon reach the Guardians of his movements, as unconfirmed rumours of their misfortune had reached him. He had taken a calculated risk in making a move so early, but this was one opportunity not to be passed. By the time the Guardians came to face him, he would be prepared to seize victory in his grasp—and he would ensure he had the upper hand either way.
The Oni's dark thoughts were interrupted by a snickering group of malformed, almost animalistic figures, barely illuminated by the Rusty Pingin's dim exterior lights. His eyes narrowed, and with impeccable vision, he assessed an unimpressive, rag-tag gang of spirits. There were seven in total, loitering outside the tavern in the cobbled street. They appeared almost as languished as himself, wasting away to almost nothing. But not quite. Indeed, some appeared stronger, healthier than others. Certainly, they were in better shape than himself. Still, it was plain the Oni was looking at the dregs of their society. Thinking nothing of them, he began his prowl down the street.
Until one of the blithering simpletons decided to openly mock him.
"Couldn't even hold his ground against a leprechaun," he heard from behind his back. "And a Halfling mutt at that. My, how the mighty have fallen."
The Oni paused. A growl built deep in his throat as he turned to snarl at them all, yet they had the audacity to dissolve into titters and jeers. He marched over to the hecklers with thundering footfalls, and without warning, swung at the prideful horse-faced offender. The blunt force of his club sent the pathetic spirit sailing down the length of the street to meet the ground with a dull thud. The rest immediately hushed and shrunk back into a wall as he towered over them.
"Who's next?" the Oni growled.
"Who said anyone must be next?" asked a slimy-skinned, toad-like entity. "No need to waste your energy bludgeoning in our heads. We don't have as much hot air in them as Orgill.
"Keep it up and a bludgeoning will be the least of your concerns," said the Oni, his threat far from empty. "Who are you?"
"Forgive us. We are the Spirits of Sin—the deadly kind," said another, his voice of a thick and oily quality. "They call me Schloemer." This brute was masked by shadow, but the Oni could make out what appeared to be a hog's head, complete with gnarled tusks and presumably flecks of food around his mouth. He was built like a tank with a generous gut, though he was still dwarfed in comparison to the Oni.
"Sin of Gluttony," he inferred from the evidence before him. He was by no means impressed, however he was beginning to wonder if this this irksome encounter could somehow benefit him. He then said without preamble, "You would have heard the rumours surrounding the Guardians, I presume?"
"You presume correctly."
His head veered round to face the ghostly creature that had spoken to him, surrounded by an eerily blueish aura. Standing on steel-hoofed hind legs, this spirit appeared to resemble a goat, with tufty, grey hair framing a harshly pointed face. Beady, black eyes appraised him from beneath the stumpy horns that grew from her forehead. Yet, what was most curious was that she appeared to be shackled by the ankle to a cinderblock.
"And you would be?"
"Hargerie. Sin of Sloth and all the apathy it inspires," she drawled.
The Oni hummed contemptuous interest. "Really. Tell me, Hargerie, what do you know of these whispers?"
"Oh, they're true. Verified in full, so I hear," said Schloemer. "The Guardians are effectively powerless to oppose anyone who might challenge them."
The Oni narrowed his eyes, assessing the Spirits of Sin again, though this time he was careful to evaluate each of them individually. The gears in his head started to turn, and his once dubious plans began to evolve into something darker. Something that called for these delinquents' specialised skills.
"Let's suppose I intended to do exactly that," the Oni began. "My final stops will be North and South America before I plan to stage my attack. It's a big task to evaluate two continents in my state. A task I'm beginning to doubt I can take on myself. I would like to make you an offer."
"We're listening," said the toad-faced runt.
"Not you," the Oni snapped, "My offer only extends to you…" he pointed to Schloemer, "and you…" he did the same to Hargerie. "You both have an influence that would be of invaluable assistance. The rest of you are nothing but dead weight."
Hargerie folded her arms and took a perch upon the cinderblock. "What's in it for us?"
"Free influence over any all children you wish to corrupt," the Oni said with a shrug. "But only if you work with me to bring down the Guardians once and for all."
Schloemer and Hargerie glanced at each other, ignoring the plain jealousy of their brethren. To them, it almost sounded an offer too good to be true, and for a moment it looked as though they would flatly refuse. However, they each broke into simultaneous, malicious grins.
"We have agreed," said Schloemer, "and we will help you in this plot against the Guardians. But remember, we always collect what is owed to us."
"And I always ensure I finish what I start," said the Oni.
"Then it's settled." Hargerie rose, and hoisted the cinderblock's chain up over her shoulder with unprecedented ease. "We leave immediately."
"Ah, but first, dear sister," said Schloemer, giving the Oni a sidelong look, "might I suggest we make a brief detour?"
— O —
The murmurings among the patrons of the Rusty Pingin had increased tenfold in the minutes that followed the Oni's unprecedented arrival and subsequent departure. Patrick stood braced against the bar, his eyes flickering subtle shades of green and yellow as he tried to keep his racing thoughts in check. Suddenly, he pounded a fist onto the counter-top with a frustrated grunt, making Valentina jump in her already shaken state. He worked his jaw for a few moments before he met her questioning gaze, but instead of enlightening her, he proceeded to address the rest of the tavern in full.
"Alright, everybody out!"
Several heads swivelled to face their host, their expressions blank and stunned. When no one moved, Patrick pinned them all with a glare.
"Are ye thick or deaf? I said everyone—now. Bar's closed. Next person to make me repeat myself will be personally escorted."
With no one particularly eager to experience Patrick's brand of chivalry, his customers filed out the door. Though, some still retained the nerve to throw him inconvenienced scowls on their way out.
"Right. Not that this hasn't been fun, but…" Rather than finish her sentence, Valentina could only muster a defeated shrug before she collected her bow. She bid Patrick farewell and went to follow the stragglers of the dissipating crowd, but she had barely taken more than five steps before he deftly jumped the bar, ran to grasp her by the shoulders, and wheeled her back around.
"Not so fast. I didn't mean you. I don't want you leaving just yet," he said to Valentina's surprised glance and skeptically risen brow.
"Oh, so now you want to be a 'gentleman'? May I remind you: I can take care of myself."
"Trust me, I know." Patrick shot her an amused smile, and deposited her by the counter while he went behind the bar to close everything down. "What I mean is I need your help."
With a hand on a jutted-out hip, Valentina smirked dryly at him. "That's never a good sign…"
"If the Oni's been travelling," Patrick continued, going to flick off the overhead lights and to lock up the store room, "it means he'll be looking to stir up trouble. Which is putting it lightly at best."
"So, what are you thinking?" She passed him the stack of dirty pints clouded with residual beer that had piled up on the counter. He gave pause as he took them.
"I'm thinking you and me are going to try and track down those Guardians," he said.
"What?! Why? Why do we have to be the ones to break it to them? Why do we have to get involved at all?"
"'Cause they exist in their own bleeding vacuum, don't they?" Patrick ducked down to stash the glasses in an empty wash tub for later, then reappeared. "Five quid says they've heard nothing. I know for a fact the Man in the Moon's only ever worried himself over Pitch Black, and I'd stake me money on it that he's not realised there might be something worse out there than the Boogeyman. They ain't going to see this one coming. Especially if what you said about them is true."
"Pat, I've already lost one arrow tonight, I don't want to risk losing any more."
"Well, it's a risk yer just going to have to take, 'cause yer the one who knows where they were last." With everything in relative order, Patrick exited though the counter's hinged panel and straightened up his vest as he went. "I don't like the Guardians any more than you do, but it's not about them. It's about those poor kids who've got no clue what's in store for them. I know you've got a moral compass in there somewhere, Val. Find it, and let's get going."
With that, he retrieved his brass knocks from his pocket, slipped them onto his fingers once more, and made his way over to the door, only to glance back when he realised Valentina was yet to follow. Her face bore a conflicted frown as she combed back frazzled curls with her fingers. Patrick breathed a sigh and backtracked until he was in front of her.
"It's not about the arrows, is it," he stated, rather than asked.
"It is, but I guess they're not everything," Valentina admitted. Her hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and for a moment, her lips pressed together in an angry line. "He…that thing said we were—"
"Oi," he cut her off sharply. "Are ye really listening to that fecking gobshite right now? If ye are, I'll be forced to knock some sense into ye—and don't think I'm talking shite, 'cause I wouldn't be arsed to say so otherwise." At his choice use of jargon, Valentina cracked a begrudging smile, as he had known she would and was his intention. His expression softened just a little as he caught her eye. "Don't let him of all eejits be the first you pay mind to. Alright?"
Her begrudging smile broadened and brightened. She nodded. "Alright."
"Just think," he added, "if we find the Guardians, we're already getting revenge on the devil."
"And helping those kids…" She let out a sigh in a sharp breath. "You know, I hate it when you're right."
He lifted a brow. "Is that a yes?"
"Yes. But!" She wagged a finger up in his face. "You owe me for this. Big time."
Undeterred, Patrick chuckled as she turned to lead the way. He followed, and flicked off the master power switch by the door, plunging the bar into darkness.
"Add it to the list," he called after her.
OC Notes:
Valentina:
For those of you who recognised my mischievous siren, this is a timely reminder that Russian Roulette is in no way connected to Return to the Shadows. Think of them taking place in alternate universes, because her backstory is vastly different in this fic, and will actually remain her official backstory for all future works...
If you were to refer to Valentina as Cupid, you would be sorely mistaken. She is, in fact, the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, born Volupitas. She goes by her middle name, Valentina, or Val for short, because of the constant overshadowing she feels from her parents, and the epic tale of their love is something from which she would prefer to distance herself. The pressure of being their legacy is nothing short of immense.
Valentina wants to become a formidable spirit in her own right, hence the reimagining of her image. However, her father has since retired from the line of duty, and has bestowed upon her his bow and arrow, intending that she continue his work while he takes a break from matchmaking. The only problem is, Valentina's true Centre is desire, not love. So while she tries to match true love to the best of her ability, she's constantly distracted by the pull of physical attraction rather than true compatibility - and she may or may not be responsible for the rampant hook-up culture our modern day society exhibits as a result. It's a constant source of conflict and makes her feel horrible when at least 30% of marriages end up in divorce. But she's working on it.
While comfortable flirting her way through most situations, she is very protective of her own heart and hasn't found anyone she truly wants to share it with. Yet. That being said she will wear it on her sleeve without a thought and speak from it, unabashed.
Patrick:
This is Sumi Sprite's OC, so I'm afraid I can't comment on him in as much depth, other than he has been an absolute joy to write and to take some creative liberty. However, I can direct anyone who wants to know more about him to her profile. There are an abundance of brilliant stories mentioning him and many other fantastic characters, so if you haven't read her work, remedy that oversight immediately.
The Oni:
My Oni is based on an ogre-like creature of Japanese folklore, and while I can't give away his backstory just yet, if you search up this asshole you'll get a pretty good idea of what he's planning. Sort of. Happy hunting.
The Spirits of Sin:
Again, I can't give much away. I can say that the seven spirits are indeed siblings, and terrible ones at that. Hargerie and Schloemer will be vital to the plot and we will be hearing from them again, the others... not so much. They are all based on the symbolic colours and beasts each Sin is represented by.
Additional note; Orgill is supposed to be the Sin of Pride - and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
