Note: Frick frack. Okay, I realize I made a continuity error. Even if Arthur hadn't told the twins about the whole possession-by-kitsune business in their timeline, Gareth was privy to the history that unfolded in Arthur's mind a few chapters back so he DOES know why Arthur can do the things he does without it being natural to him. I apologize for that. I'm gonna stick with Gareth knowing. If there's ever a future rewrite/next draft, I'll fix it. My thanks to Pipefoxesonthemoon for an early read-through and eyes on the chapter. Chapter title excerpted from The Phoenix by Fall Out Boy.


That night, the cabin was darker and colder than usual. Since Arthur's branch gathering had been interrupted, there was just enough fuel to heat the remaining pork and beans to edibility. Arthur divvied up four portions and set two tin mugs full of beans to nestle in the stove-shielded embers. Ginny and Arthur sat close to the stove, eating their portions and talking quietly.

Kay and Gareth returned in silence, Gareth with his head down. Arthur stood and crossed to him, pulling him into a tight hug.

"This is not your fault," you whisper in his ear.

Gareth clutched him tight enough to be perfectly clear that he didn't believe that at all.

You sigh, then raise your voice. "Ginny has things to tell you, and I need to speak with Kay. Would you two excuse us for a bit?"

Ginny's head hung low as well. She cupped one of tin mugs in her hands, green flamelets licking around the sides. She held it out toward Gareth, arms fully extended. A peace offering. He took it, still not looking at her, and they shuffled awkwardly out the front door.

"Stay close," you add, almost as an afterthought. You don't want to have to chase them around in the dark a second time.

Once the twins were out, Kay and Arthur claimed the ground near the stove. Arthur snagged one of the blankets off the bed and settled it across his shoulders, then lifted one arm in an invitation. Kay scooted in under his arm, which settled across her shoulders.

For a while, they just sat together. He didn't bother offering Kay food yet. Grief still poured off of her in cloying waves, but Arthur didn't soak it in. Instead, he held her close, occasionally reaching up to work his fingers through her tangled curls. Her face was like a stone wall, barely illuminated by the emberglow. Only her scent and her breathing, which hitched every few seconds, gave her away.

We are in agreement. Kay should lead the conversation. You wait in silence. Watching her.

Finally, Kay murmured, "I didn't know you sang."

Your mouth flips into a grin before you can catch it. "Well. I dabbled before somebody's 'religious restrictions' became a top priority for me." The grin fades a touch. You are curious. "How was I?"

Kay opens her mouth, then closes it, her brows drawing together. You snort. "That bad, huh?"

"No," she says quickly. "No. I mean, yes, but…" she is flustered, but it interrupts the sorrow for a moment. "I mean, nobody is going to be as good asnot that I'm bragging, it's just!"

You laugh softly. "It's just plain fact that nobody will be as good as a siren and you can hear every flaw. It's nothing to be ashamed of." You press a short kiss to her temple. "Your voice is nearly as beautiful as you, and I'm grateful to be graced with the ability to listen to more than a few seconds of it."

She leans hard into you. You bring your other arm around to cradle her.

"If I could," she breathes, "I would do what you did. Just, walk in on Hades and demand you back. Or find a way over now and demand a better fix for your future. But this." She wipes her eyes. "This is different. And it's not just me on my own waltzing in, right? I have to think about Ginny and Gareth."

You dip your head in acknowledgment. "I didn't have them to think about. That is one reason I could do what I did. I figured I was already going to lose everything in any case, there was no reason not to throw it all to the wind on a gamble on even the slightest chance I could change things. Other conditions were right as well, though. There were many factors that just… they aren't the same. I don't think they can be replicated. And I wouldn't have anyone trade for me, even if it could be done. Kay," you pull back, a note of alarm in your voice. "Please. Promise me you won't find a way to trade for me."

"You wouldn't have?" she asks, sharply.

"I… Kay, it was… different." You can't bring yourself to say more. You fear what desperation Gareth and Ginny may try if Kay attempts to find a way to trade. Their fates were not a consideration you had to shoulder before, and Aji took the choice out of your hands before it got that far.

She shuts her eyes. "I know. I know."

You let the silence close back over the two of you. The last embers go out, leaving you only moonlight to see by.

"If you knew all this, would you still have said yes to me?" you ask, just above a whisper.

She gives a broken laugh. "I asked you first, so I think that's my line."

You shut your eyes, squeezing her.

"Arthur… I… I know it's a lot to ask," she began, "But… I mean, look at Lewis"

"Don't. And whatever you do, don't even breathe the possibility in front of the twins." You take a slow breath. "Artie has already been thinking that over, but in the end, neither of us will promise you what we don't know how to control. I don't want to hurt you more if I can't do what Lewis did. Don't give the twins false hope." Against your better judgment, you add, "But if I could possibly help it, I would not leave you."

Her breath catches, but she nods hard. A pungent undertone of hope lines the griefsmell now, and your chest aches.

Several more minutes pass in silence. When it becomes clear Kay has no more to say, you murmur, "We need to find a town soon. We could use a few comforts and more basic supplies if we're sticking around longer. And. I… owe… a phone call." Dread crawls down your spine.

She reaches her hand up and runs her fingers from your cheek to your chin. "I would like to keep doing this for a while with you. But you could definitely use a shave."

And just like that, she has you laughing again. How, Artie, did you ever function without her?


Dib eyed the creature at the end of the shiny red leash he held. He would much prefer to conduct this situation in a lab while following strict observation protocols, but the emotional states required for this—any emotional states, frankly—were stupid things that didn't respond well to sterile environments and hours of intensive questioning. He wondered if he was getting to be a bit too much like his Dad these days. Kid Dib cared more about the experience, the hunt, the thrill of the chase, and getting any damn scrap of proof he could. Adult Dib had to worry a lot more about replicable results. Of course, kid Dib didn't have to deal with that stupid Membrane Trust board.

They walked past the Pepper Paradiso, the "Closed until further notice" sign prominent in the front window. The street leading past it had long impact cracks every couple of blocks, and every third or fourth window they passed was boarded up or covered in plastic sheeting.

"Thank Vort you didn't both make it to town at the same time," Dib muttered under his breath. He wrapped the leash around his left hand and crooked his right arm, tapping a wrist panel. He spoke quietly into it, glancing out of the corners of his eyes in case anyone was paying more attention than they should be. "Walk-the-dog log, day four. Subject still rather unresponsive, but fully obedient and generally exercising the requested amount of self control."

Dib was attracting a fair number of stares, but that was normal. What would have been abnormal was anyone following him, or trying to get closer while pretending to be distracted by other things. Instead, there was a distinctive berth all around him. Both satisfied and disgusted by this, he continued. "Minor downward energy spike noted in self. Further note to self, check vital signs record at this point in time later. Should be a notable downspike corresponding with the last few days."

"Notes, notes, notes," came a bitter mumble from ahead.

Dib paused a moment. "Hmm. Subject seems to have recuperated enough to be snarky today. All this exertion may have damaged his intelligence, however, since subject should know that dogs can't talk." He stressed the last three words, eyeballing the rather alarmed looking mother pushing a stroller past them as fast as she could. Fortunately, she seemed more concerned about the creepy middle-aged man in goggles and a black, full-body trenchcoat than the mumbling mutt.

As there was no reply from Mystery, Dib returned to his notes. "Subject seems to accept energy directed toward fascination and study of him. Investigation and obsession must be close enough to whatever is deemed 'worship' to be consumable. Yep. Oof." Suddenly light-headed, Dib staggered. "A little restraint?" he snapped. Jerking on the leash, he stalked over to the park. "I see you're recovered enough to have your own mood today."

Mystery's ears flattened a bit. "Bold of you to assume this isn't an outgrowth of your mood."

"Touche. Still, shut up. People are awfully stupid and willfully blind, but there's a limit."

"Not around you," came the retort.

This time it was Dib who was silent, striding fast enough that Mystery had to pump his legs hard to keep up. Dib plunked down on the first bench he could find, tying Mystery's leash to the closest leg of it. "Do your business. You know the drill. Nothing more than what people have in excess. No kids. No sick people. No pregnant women."

Mystery turned his head and looked at Dib with—yes, that was definitely disdain. Four days and the feeding regimen was starting to pay off. "Skimming shallow adoration from anyone who wants to pet me is scraps, Doctor. You haven't bothered asking where I could find a real meal."

Dib frowned, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Actually, I distinctly recall asking you that at least two separate times. I never got a verbal answer, but you kept staring at the people who asked me if they could pet you. So this is the best I could come up with, short of turning you loose on the general populace."

Mystery faltered. "I… I have been…"

"Out of it. Yeah. I bet." Dib leaned back. "How 'back in it' are you, at this point?"

"Still quite empty."

"So, where can you find a real meal?"

Mystery flicked an ear, glancing back toward the street. "I need to find places of worship."

"Churches?"

"Places of worship," Mystery insisted. "Anywhere where excessive emotional energy is devoted in one direction. I would prefer not to visit churches or temples. Stealing from other deities is… risky."

A wide grin spread across Dib's face. "Think I know just the place, doggo." He stood, brushing off his seat. "Do you have enough energy to find your inner dapper lad?"

Mystery gave him a long, dead-eyed stare.

"I'll take that as a yes. Off to the nearest alleyway we go, to make your inner dapper lad an outer dapper lad. We're headed to an all-you-can-eat buffet of vice and addiction. And hopefully, at some point, you'll find it in yourself to tell me what the flirk happened between the time you left us and the time you attacked Arthur."


Luck Be A Lady was a modest casino in the grand scheme of things, but it was the only one for fifty miles in any direction. The next one out was even smaller and had a substantiated reputation for card-counting table hosts and machines that never once paid out. With those factors, Luck Be A Lady drew more than enough visitors to stay in business, and a fair percentage of its patrons could be said to attend religiously. Newcomers were immediately assessed for wealth, status, and mannerism. Celebrity appearances were rare and cause for a great deal of speculation. The entrance of either type would kick off a whole slew of minor bets under the table.

So when the eccentric and potentially mad heir to the Membrane empire was seen entering Luck Be A Lady with a tall gentleman of shifty eyes and dour expression, tongues started wagging. Quietly, of course, but they flapped hard and fast. Oddly enough, it was the gentleman who drew the lion's share of attention. Was it the sharp tuxedo—an unusual shade of maroon trimmed in gold—and spotless leather shoes? Was it the strange hair, a mix of brown and red that would have better suited a rebellious teenager than a man of such solemn dignity? Or was it the things better left unsaid, like the teeth one caught a glimpse of when he spoke, slightly sharper than might be called standard? The eyes, certainly too light to be brown, but surely not actually red? It was just the dim lighting, of course, playing tricks.

The Membrane heir purchased a reasonable stack of chips, divided it, and handed the dour gentleman half and a few folded bills. Whispers and speculation increased, but faded into disappointed shrugs when the two parted company. The heir joined a poker game, neither winning nor losing overmuch in the course of the next few hours. It was as if he didn't much care to be there and was just killing time, an affect which affronted the local cardsharks.

The dour gentleman, however, drifted dreamlike from roulette wheel to slot machine to bar and back. He dabbled in Blackjack. Craps. Baccarat. He lost more often than he won, but it didn't worsen his demeanor. For a full hour, he just sat at the bar, staring at the shot he ordered like it hid the secrets of the universe. A few bets were placed on whether he would actually drink it, and if so, when. The Membrane heir placed five dollars on the shot being discarded, but didn't seem too disappointed when he lost the money. The dour gentleman finally downed the shot, then sauntered over to the poker table, seated himself across from the heir, and waited to be dealt in.

Every chip he'd lost at the outset came back to him at the table. In a few rounds, he'd won back his stack, as well as anything the heir had brought to the table, and more. The whispers started up again. Sure, some of the people around the table were suckers who didn't know how to bluff a bad hand, but there were some seasoned players there, too, people whose facial micromotions had not yet been catalogued. Yet the dour man seemed to know without fail when to fold and when to call.

Eventually, the heir left the table, towed the dour gentleman back to the bar and ordered drinks. They had left their chips behind, chips which were offered back to them once. On their polite refusal, the chips were distributed back to the poker players they'd left behind, and the odd behavior was chalked up to carelessness caused by vast wealth of the Membrane empire.

It was the bartender who fed the rumor-mill long after their departure. He'd overheard a conversation of sorts between them, though it sounded more like the dour gentleman was spinning a fairy tale. Just the sort of thing the mad heir would eat up, of course. The gentleman had probably suckered the heir somehow, poor sap.

There was something about a shapeshifter, or so the bartender claimed, who had escaped a laboratory facility. He left in search of his creator, or was it his mother? In either case, the shapeshifter was damned determined to find her. He didn't believe the nonsense about her being dead, though whose nonsense this had been was not made clear in the telling. Besides, who else was going to lift the curse out of Arthur if not the creator-mother?

Arthurian legends, the patrons agreed. They get stranger every generation.

The shapeshifter began his search at the beginning, the place of his own creation in a foreign land. She was not there. Then he visited the location of every shrine he could remember. Those that stood were stone-cold, neglected and forgotten. Most had been destroyed to make way for development. He searched out every place in the world where he and others of his kind had met in the years since they had lost the creator-mother, but there was no trace of her. At last, he went to the only other place he could think of, thinking to try there before wandering at random through the world. He went to the cave.

Later, the bartender tried to capture the way those two words, "the cave," had been spoken. It was as if two simple syllables had the weight of two ton stones attached, turning them into the sort of words that smashed aside everything else upon utterance. The heir had dropped his head into his hands. The dour gentleman had downed his drink in two gulps after that, before continuing on.

There, the shapeshifter found what was left of the creator-mother. She was barely a wisp, an existence that could not have been detected by mortals. A mere trail of withered cherry-blossoms on the wind, or so mortals would have deemed her. She recognized her name, but could not hold it in herself. So the shapeshifter filled her full of all the bad and good he carried. All the nourishment he had gathered over the years came to her in an instant. Then he was empty, and she was not full but had some shape. Many shapes, actually, all at once because she still could not hold her name within herself and so didn't know who she was.

Here, the story became strangest yet. The creator-mother seemed to have fragments of new knowledge from the shapeshifter, but not the whole, and the shapeshifter no longer had a will of his own to correct her understanding. Therefore the creator-mother understood only that Arthur had committed terrible atrocities since her demise, that he was a traitor shapeshifter in the guise of a man, and that he must be destroyed. The creator-mother also understood there was a woman of great importance who should be protected, named Vivi. Understanding these things, and very little else, the creator-mother sent the shapeshifter out to drag Arthur back for the ultimate unmaking of body and soul.

This puzzled those patrons who took the time to discuss the tale among themselves. This no longer sounded like a legend. What tale of King Arthur ever included a woman named Vivi? In fact, there were no gods and goddesses in such tales, surely?

Vivien, some spectacled heads nodded. They must have meant Vivien, who was most certainly part of certain branches of legends. She was often seen in connection with Merlin, who was a shapeshifter, so that settles the shapeshifter bit. Some tales even had goddesses in events leading up to the kingship of Arthur, so therefore the conversation still pointed to some strange bastardized Arthurian legend.

But then, others would counter, since when was the Membrane heir interested in those sorts of legends? Wasn't he usually staring at the night sky for threats?

In the end, it was concluded that the reasoning of madmen was best left alone. There was much talk in the wake of their departure, but little gambling. It was as if they had collected the energy of the establishment for the day and taken it with them. One rather inebriated young man swore that the formerly dour gentleman even had a smug expression on the way out, while the heir looked more exhausted than half the patrons combined.