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The heavy blue jewel at the top of a particular cane slammed into the right side of his head, just above his ear, and he was falling instantly, keeping his bearings up enough to turn as he landed on the leather bench seat. A plasma bolt was forming, but Horvath was too close and nailed his right hand with one of his own, then slammed the jewel onto his injured left ankle. The man yanked the door shut, pointing the glowing jewel at Balthazar's chest as he cowered against the other door.
"Drive this car," he ordered.
"All this drama, and all you want is a chauffer?" He was watching the cane warily, trying to focus on something besides his re-mangled ankle, his useless right hand, and the blood oozing from what felt like a hole in his head.
"Oh, no, Balthazar," he shook his head ominously. "I'm just getting started with you."
"Really." It wasn't exactly a question.
"After 1300 years bickering about Veronica, I think it's time to take our relationship to the next level; don't you?" but he jumped as Balthazar fell backwards out of the car, the passenger door suddenly open. It wasn't exactly an escape attempt, the blond man's head hitting the blacktop with stunning force, but there was a strategy to it, not that Horvath noticed. Furious, he hauled the other man up by his collars and threw him into the driver's side door. "Quit stalling and drive."
"Don't know much about cars, do you, Maxim?" he wondered softly, staring at the blurred images of the darker man until there was only one of him. "It's not an automatic, so I need both feet to drive, and I can't enchant it without the use of my right hand." Gritting his teeth in frustration, Horvath lifted his cane, the jewel glowing again. Balthazar's hands were instantly glued to the steering wheel as he was yanked in front of it, and the Phantom started up, though it obviously didn't recognize the magic, the engine whining annoyingly. It only started at all because Blake was in it. The 1935 model was built before seatbelts, but Horvath conjured one that tightened uncomfortably low on the man's hips; over his clothes, but under his coat.
"Your right foot can still work the gas and brake, and your left hand is fine," the man grumped. "If you try anything stupid, you're trapped, Balthazar, not me." He paused to let that sink in. "I'm not telling you this again: Drive."
Balthazar didn't ask where they were going; it really didn't matter, since he didn't think he was actually steering in the first place, and he would surely find out soon enough. Actually, the farther the better: Veronica and hopefully Dave would have a better chance of tracking him, then, once she realized something was amiss. Horvath barely glanced at the street; he was watching the other man intensely.
"I'm starting a penthouse mausoleum," he announced out of nowhere.
"Oh?" he realized, almost pleasantly surprised. Were they really going to Drake's penthouse?
"Yes," Horvath emphasized as the car entered a parking garage. "There's a private elevator over on the other side." A pause, "I already have two bodies, and I'll have a third very soon." He grinned evilly, and Balthazar deflated somewhat: So, Drake and Abigail were dead, after all, and he was going to be next. Mausoleum; right. "Park right next to the double elevators."
"They both go up to the penthouse?"
"Yes."
"Maybe you'll have four bodies," Balthazar said as he floored the gas pedal. Sorry, baby, he apologized as the Phantom clipped two parked cars and slammed through the elevator doors, the front end crumpling inward, the windshield shattering. People in the parking garage were sprinting towards the carnage, trying to come to the rescue, but there was nobody in the crumpled Rolls Royce, the two sorcerers having disappeared. Of course, there was blood in the car, but not from this accident.
"You've turned into a complete lunatic, Balthazar," Horvath spat in exasperation, holding the injured but grinning blond to the wall of the other elevator with his cane, the handrail twisting around the wrists, pulling arms uncomfortably down away from his sides. "I can't believe you did that to your own car." He had transported them out a second before impact, and it had drained him more than watching the maniacal look on the other's face. He pulled the cane, now, the other relaxing slightly, leaning his aching head back against the wall and closing his eyes. And then he dropped to the elevator floor as his wrists released, landing in a heap. "You're tired, Balthazar," he said, almost tenderly. "Go to sleep."
"Not a chance," he refused, immediately struggling to get up as Horvath watched with a combination of amusement and annoyance. "What I'm tired of you haven't a clue."
"Why haven't you healed that ankle, Balthazar?"
"You can't heel an ankle, Maxim," he evaded with a sarcastically toothy grin.
"Funny. Now answer the question."
"It's been healing, until a little while ago, and I've had the fever to prove it."
"Between you, Veronica, and David—" the captor began.
"It's not a priority, if you must know."
"Punishing yourself, again?"
"Maybe Veronica secretly likes men with canes," he shot back, looking around in frustration as the other's eyes widened: "This is the slowest elevator in the world."
"You always were the master at self-sacrifice; Merlin favored you because of it." Horvath was sniggering now, and the blond stopped trying to get up, eyeing him, hands on the floor, half-sitting, half-kneeling. "I've always found it pathetic."
"And you are the master at holding a grudge," he spat back.
"The Morganian Encantus celebrates your betrayal, Balthazar." Now it was his turn to smile overtly wide at his suddenly confused captive. "I'm sure the Merlinean one doesn't even mention it, being that you practically wrote the damn thing."
"What—"
"You're not supposed to fuck your apprentice, Balthazar, nomatter how badly he wanted you to." Horvath had seen him using the right hand again while trying to get up, and then leaning on it. He knew the other's temper would flare up into a plasma bolt at his mention of what the other thought of as secret knowledge. So he was ready, pointing the glowing cane at the hand again, his aim dead on, malevolent energy coursing into the other's ring, up the arm, and out of his shoulder. If the ring hadn't been a diamond, it would have shattered. Balthazar screeched in agony as he fell back down to the floor, and this time, he didn't try to get back up. And then the elevator doors opened just outside the penthouse.
"Let's remove this pesky coat; shall we?" Balthazar was sprawled on his stomach on the elevator floor. Whether he was conscious or not, Horvath didn't really care and, either way, he didn't protest as his captor gathered the collar in his fist, slowly pulling over and down, practically, harshly, peeling it off of him. "This hideous thing weighs almost as much as you do." He stepped into the short hallway, throwing the coat over a freestanding rack: "Not that you'll be needing it again . . . You'll be leaving in a body bag like the other two."
"Then your definition of mausoleum is wrong." Balthazar lifted his head slightly, watching Horvath open the main door, and the odor of death, though subtle, assaulted his nostrils. "But you definitely got the smell right." He recoiled as the other man stalked towards him.
"Don't worry, Balthazar," Horvath mock-soothed, hauling the injured man off the floor as his teeth gritted. He draped the useless right arm around his neck, grasping the wrist with his own right hand, his left around the other's waist, much tighter than it needed to be. "I'm not going to kill you right away." The blond found his face buried in Horvath's tweed coat as he was forced along through the large apartment. And no, he had finally noticed, the man hadn't worn his hat since Dave had hung it on the fence.
Veronica had taken a cab to the store to get some more supplies, and a few bottles of wine. Balthazar was leaving shortly after her, to start what he said was an attempt to reclaim a mystical store he had owned ten years back, called the Arcana Cabana. It would be a lot of monotonous paperwork, and he hadn't wanted to bore her. And, neither of them was in the best of moods after Horvath's hideous request to share their bed, an obviously thinly veiled attempt to force Balthazar out of it. It would have been much easier if Veronica had loved the dark haired man instead of the blond, but she just didn't, and never could. Balthazar had always had plenty of demons, but he rarely showed that side of himself. And he'd always been beautiful, and kind, and just, and smart, and strong, and funny. Maxim had always been dark; an excellent fighter, and fair, but was also selfish. Balthazar was the light to Maxim's dark, and the man shone like the sun to her, with those brilliant blue eyes. Veronica had nearly lost her bloody mind yesterday, so Balthazar had given the cane back, alone, telling Horvath to never bother them again, completely fed up with him and his antics, and very tired of Maxim and his ego. He'd lived too long, gone through way too much, and was utterly bored of Maxim's selfishness.
"I don't care if I never see him again, Veronica."
"But, we all grew up together; we're all friends; we're meant to be together, " she'd implored at breakfast, mainly her breakfast, as he'd had no appetite, inspired by the new day and trying, one last time, to be forgiving and generous. But her man was having none of it, having just seen his beloved pushed to the breaking point:
"We were friends for 200 years. Maxim and I have been sparring for 1300 years; you can't understand how sick of him I am." That was true; she couldn't understand that.
"I'm going to go to the store, and pick us up some wine and steaks, and a few other things," she said delicately, and he definitely liked that idea, pulling her into an embrace before she left.
So Veronica wasn't surprised at all when she arrived back at the turnaround to find the Phantom still gone. And then she saw the blood puddle on the street where the car had been. Stunned, she dropped the two bags she'd been carrying, and all three wine bottles shattered on impact, but she didn't even notice them. She felt horribly cold, hands clutching opposite arms as she stared at the blood, tears stinging her eyes. She pulled out her brand new cell phone, struggling to open it with trembling hands, and she stared at it a long time before pressing 2, Balthazar's speed dial. She could hear it ringing from inside the turnaround, and it went to voicemail as she silently cursed, knowing he'd forgotten to take it with him, and she hung it up. It's not like Maxim would have let him answer it, anyway, but he might have, if only to torture them. As usual. As it was, he was doing a terrific job. This was two days in a row, now, and Veronica had no doubt that she would lose her mind if this kept up. Desperate now, she stared at the keypad again, trying to concentrate. Studying it carefully, she finally pressed 4, the speed dial for Dave, because "D" was the fourth letter of the alphabet. He'd been awfully cheeky when he'd told her that, but at least it helped her remember, even in the state she was now in.
"Hi, Veronica," he immediately answered, never mind how he knew it was her. Technology.
"David?" Her voice was so weak and stressed that alarm bells immediately went off. "I think Maxim's kidnapped Balthazar."
"Where are you?" David demanded.
"At the lab turnaround."
"I'll be right there." Figures: He finally makes a class, and then has to leave in the middle of it!
"I like this bedroom; it doesn't have any pictures of Drake on the walls," Horvath said with delight as they entered the lush space, the door slamming and locking behind them.
"And I don't smell any bodies, here," Balthazar added with relief, somewhat pulled out of his stupor. Walking through the penthouse had not been kind to his ankle. They were standing just inside the shiny, black-walled room, complete with mirrored ceiling and a king-size, black iron four-poster bed. In response to his observation Horvath's left hand went from squeezing his waist to grabbing a handful of his wavy, dirty blond hair, pulling it to the nose, inhaling deeply.
"It's obvious Veronica's back; you haven't smelled this good in a millennia."
"Are you referring to the blood?" A good portion of his hair by the right ear was fairly saturated with it.
"No, but even that would be an improvement over what you've been smelling like."
"I'm flattered you've noticed, Maxim—"
"And why are you still wearing blasted armwarmers?"
"I think it's still February," he snipped back, somewhat confused that he honestly didn't know. He had two head wounds: A lump on the back from his strategic 'fall' from the Phantom, and the dent on the side from the cane, or was it a hole? It's not like he'd had a chance to examine it. There was a slight chance his skull was fractured, but nothing had been oozing out of his ear. Yet.
"You have no fashion sense at all," Horvath spat, supporting him under his arms, peeling off the armwarmers and tossing them into the blazing fireplace before shoving him onto the bed, practically stalking him. "Good riddance. Those made you look like a BlackJack dealer in Las Vegas." Balthazar scrambled backwards on top of the red satin comforter, using his good hand and foot, until he was sitting up against the headboard.
"If I didn't know better, Maxim, I'd think you were trying to undress me." Horvath's face went red, but he couldn't figure out what the emotion was, until the bedposts attacked him. His left hand was snared around the wrist, and it coiled and pulled until he was almost lifted from the bed, the arm suspended. The post on his right twisted around his waist until he was sure his ribs would break. Again. The two on the bottom wound around his legs up to the tops of his thighs, pulling them further apart than was comfortable, or natural. It was bad enough when the posts had changed forms to slither over him like snakes, but then they went back to being iron, hard and unyielding. The force against his skin, and especially his bones, was excruciating.
"You were saying, Balthazar?" the man smiled from his right as he struggled to adjust to the pressure, barely able to shift, and almost completely unable to move.
"An overcoat and spats, Maxim?" he breathed, turning his head to face the man, dizzy from the stress. "Spats went out of fashion in the 1920s." Horvath sat on the bed, now, leaning closer to his prisoner.
"Still the jokester, eh, Balthazar? I'll remove the spats and coat in a minute, if it would please you." The bright eyes widened in alarm as a hand wound its way into his hair again. Now he couldn't move his head, either.
"Maxim—" But the man interrupted, his voice surprisingly soft:
"I've been waiting to do this for 1300—no, 1500 years." And then Maxim Horvath kissed Balthazar Blake.
Veronica hadn't moved since she had called David, standing in the exact spot where the Phantom had been parked, the street wet from the alcohol.
"What the hell's the matter with that woman?" the cab driver barked, yanking Stutler from his worried thoughts as the car stopped.
"She's in shock," the young man realized instantly, shoving a $20 bill into the guy's hand. "Keep the change." The door slammed, and the driver left immediately. "Veronica—" But she was already pointing to the blood on the street:
"Balthazar." For a second, he almost agreed with the cab driver. Plus, she smelled like a winery, but then he saw the grocery bags, and immediately understood, trying not to say something stupid.
"You think it was Horvath?" he wondered, squatting down to the blood, trying to examine it.
"It's the only thing that makes sense." Well, something had to. Certainly, giving Horvath back his cane hadn't, at least not to him. He'd grown up in modern times, where people turned on a dime. His master had finally started to waver about returning it, but Veronica had insisted, and Balthazar seemed to almost always defer to his beloved. Dave should have destroyed it behind their backs, if it was even possible to destroy it. That wouldn't have made him a turncoat, as they so seemed to think; it would've protected them; him, his master.
"Did you try reading it for a memory?"
"No," she whispered, tears streaming down her face, furious at herself. The guilt was killing her, already, but there was always hope, at least until they had proof that there was no hope. Dave focused his ring on the small pool of crimson.
"It's a head wound, caused by the cane," he fumed, unable to hide his disgust as she gasped. "It couldn't have been that bad," he concluded, standing, looking gently at the distraught woman. "He let himself fall back out of the car to leave us this clue."
"Which means he now has two head wounds," she said as the realization hit them both. "Do you have any idea where Maxim might be?" she paused while he regarded. "I'm not sensing any more blood around here. Balthazar will leave a trail, if at all possible—"
"A trail of his own blood?" Veronica was better, trying valiantly to focus, and now Dave was starting to lose it.
"If that's all he has to work with; yes."
"I only know one place Horvath might be, so I think it's a long shot, but it'll be interesting, if nothing else—"
"I don't need interesting," she snapped suddenly, calling a cab. "I need Balthazar." She paused in the middle of dialing, blushing, having just realized what she had said. Dave had originally ignored her mistake, having set her off in the first place by saying something incredibly insensitive: 'Well, even if Horvath is off killing Balthazar someplace other than where I think they're at, at least this place'll be interesting.'
"I don't think Balthazar and interesting are mutually exclusive," he finally said, squatting back down to retrieve the salvageable groceries as Veronica watched him. "In fact, he's easily the most interesting person I've ever met."
"Easily," she agreed, smiling, finally finishing calling that cab. They could've transported, but they were saving their energy for more important things. The street was cleaned up before the vehicle arrived.
A/N: I hope ya'll are still with me (I'm from New Jersey, USA, by the way. Anything remotely Southern is me channeling my OC). Reviews are welcome, whatever kind, even anonymous; I have thick skin, been writing for 30 years, and I know I'm a nut. I've vowed in my profile to review every Sorcerer's Apprentice (2010) story on here, so I'll probably get back to doing that when I'm done posting this one. Unless I think of something else . . . I'd hate to have all the pressure on my one consistent reviewer, though I thank her dearly for her interest and generosity.
