Part Two

Chapter Summary: In which we jump forward thirty-seven years, still in the unnamed Romanian village. Karl is seventy-nine years old though he still maintains the appearance of a man in his early fifties. By this point, he has settled into a tentatively peaceful mother-son relationship with Miranda following her mercy killing of Marianne Wilder thirty years back. Ken Heisenberg is dead and has been turned to Sturm, and Ethan Winters will soon be making an appearance in the village.

Warnings: soft (daydream) smut head

X

2000

"Hey. Listen. Y-you ever wonder where they got the name soap opera? It originated sometime around the Great Depression - bit of a contradiction, don't you think, calling something a 'great' depression?"

"Mm-hm."

"Anyway. What was I talking about? Ah, yes - soap operas. And I'm not talking about that cheesy televised shit either! No, before that! Back in the golden age of radio, when things were really starting to take off - I'm talking about the Mutual Broadcasting Network, NBC's Red and Blue Networks, and CBS - radio companies had become a huge hit! I mean those fellas behind the microphone were rich, I tell you!"

"Uh-huh…"

"...what was I talking about?"

"How the fuck would I know?"

"Because you're supposed to be paying attention, God damnit! Right! Soap operas! Back then, they had only just started branching out into new territory: I'm talking broadcast show dramas - something for the whole family to listen to, mawmaw and papa included! Aired 'em right in the middle of the day, for all those sexy housewife vixens to listen to as they washed the stains out of their husbands' trousers, ha! And listen, doll, y-you wanna know who sponsored those programs?"

"I dunno. Soap companies, or something?"

"Soap companies! Domestic comfort manufacturers seeking to target the stay-at-home work woman who had nothing to do but listen to the tales of men on horseback toting pistols in their pockets and their pants! Lone Ranger types, like myself."

"..."

"Aw, fuck you. You wouldn't know a Lone Ranger if he branded his name across your ass! Anyway, they called 'em soap operas….shows like Just Plain Bill, Backstage Wife, Ma Perkins. And believe you me, doll, I've heard all of 'em. Nothing like that soft, sappy shit that they play on the radios or American television nowadays. Everybody has an agenda in this era - push this product, shove this ideal, insinuate this notion or that…implicative political refuse bubbling up between one speaker and the next, feeding the hungry sheep too bleary-eyed and star-struck to stick with a dialogue over three seconds long. Tch. Look, let me tell you something - I…I've been around for a long time, longer than you could ever imagine. I was there when some of the greatest radio broadcasts were born, real shit with real men and even realer women - so real that you felt that you could reach out and touch 'em…."

Karl barely even noticed as the young woman reached her arms over her head and then wandered over to the window. He was steeped in memories of his childhood heroes - ones like the Lone Ranger - whose stories and voices had captivated him and kept him comfort throughout his lonely years. By then, the infamous radio shows of the 1930s had faded into obscurity, only to be replaced by 'sappy, soft shit' that he (ironically) couldn't bear to listen to for more than three seconds. But every once in a while he'd catch the fragmented end of some nostalgic American broadcast replaying the old shows in order to catch the attention of the new age hipsters who claimed to be 'all about that sort of thing.' Though the actors changed in both body and voice - god, Americans and their wailing showman bravado - he still found himself reciting the old, familiar lines while scrubbing irritably at the pinpricks in his eyes.

With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early western United States. Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!

Except, the Lone Ranger hadn't ridden in over forty-three years. He had died roundabouts the time Karl Heisenberg had stopped aging. It was funny how that worked, he often thought to himself. Funny and cruel.

The woman caught his eye and gave a pinched smile. She was a young thing - he could see it better, now that she was standing in the light from the window - but spectacular nonetheless. It was obvious that the rolling village famines had missed her, judging by the glowing paleness of her cheeks and the twinkling brightness of her eye. But she hadn't been spared from the toils of village labor. The hands that she now braced across the window sill were strong and calloused enough to intimidate him, and she seemed to have settled well enough into the thick men's work boots rising past her calves.

Karl sighed. He knew her type immediately, could sense it the moment he opened his door and saw her smirking back up at him: one of the many amongst this newer village generation of women who had heard tales about the strange, ageless recluse residing in the factory on the edge of the village. They had sought him out for reasons of their own - maybe to spite the authorities governing their drab lifestyles, maybe made desperate by the quickly dwindling lack of able-bodied men in the village. It didn't escape him, the fact that only a few years ago the mothers of these women had come shuffling to his doorstep, hoping to tease out the affections of the last well-to-do man in the village. By any means necessary. Oh, to catch the affections of one of the village Lords! Salvatore Moreau wasn't a viable option for them to court - though Karl didn't doubt that some of them, in their desperation, had tried - and so that left him.

It had pained him to see their reddened eyes peeking back up at him from beneath a face full of powder and reddish lip stains smeared across the cracks lining their lips, their last good clothes pinned up in a sad facsimile of something sexier. Sometimes his sense of righteous morality made him lash out at their insulting attempts at seducing him, and he'd send them away with many select curses in their mouths for his entire bloodline. And other times? Well, a tradeoff was a tradeoff.

Karl Heisenberg had ninety-nine problems, and being celibate sure in the hell wasn't one of them.

"Hey," the young woman said in a voice so sickly sweet that she could have been talking to a clumsy puppy that had just knocked over a bowl of milk. "What were you thinking about just now?"

"Little too late to give a damn, don't you think?"

He allowed her to mull this over as he cupped his hand around the end of his cigar and lit it. Poor thing. She had a practiced smile and a way of holding his eye that betrayed the fact that she knew her way around men. But she hadn't been fast enough to hide the confused look of calculation in her eyes. How to navigate a conversation with the infamous village weirdo?

"No, no, go 'head," she said quickly, fluttering her hand at him in a manner a little too condescending for his taste. "Keep talking about the…the-"

"SOAP OPERAS-" he thundered then immediately fell into a brooding silence, wondering how the hell he had ended up sitting in a small room trying to correct a girl on the proper terminology for a housewife's chosen form of midday entertainment. "Again…why the fuck would you care?"

"You're right, I don't." She pushed herself away from the window and sauntered over to him, rocking her hips with a little too much dramatism to be genuine. She stopped and knelt between his splayed legs, bracing her elbows against his knees and curling her fists beneath her sharp chin. There was that look in her eye - the one that translated to I think I want to fuck you. He didn't like it, not at all.

"You know," she purred, running her finger along the buttons of his shirt. "There's a lot of gossip in the village about you. Among the women, I mean. They are…" Her finger found the edge of his belt and lingered there. "Curious."

"About how much suction is needed to siphon the fucking life out of me, no doubt?"

She gave a tinkling laugh that didn't sound very genuine to either of them. "Oh, Mister Heisenberg, you're so fu-nny! Though, I wouldn't mind finding out the answer to that question myself. They say-" her finger curled around his belt and gave a little pull, just enough to expose the little curlicues of hair leading down into his pants. "That you have a really big hammer. Good for pounding…"

"Yeah, it's over there-" He tilted his chin towards the hammer leaning against the wall. She didn't bother to look, and instead crooked her eyebrow at him. Again, looking at him as if he were a puppy that had just knocked over a bowl of milk.

"No, silly. I mean-"

He startled and grabbed at his pants as she simultaneously tried to yank them down. The woman wasn't just horny - she was adamant, and that scared the ever-loving shit out of him. Her eyes trailed him with disbelief as he hopped away from her with one hand clutched clumsily around his belt, the other wielding his cigar at her as if it was a sword before a fire-breathing dragon. Tens of years ago he would have been positively elated at the thought of a woman like her wanting to fuck a man like him. But he was seventy-nine years old now - or something like that, he had lost count - and sex had lost its novel appeal. No, what he really wanted was the one thing that the women in the village were leery of offering: companionship, someone to talk to about radio shows or religion or even the color of the goddamn sky.

He wanted Marianne.

"Hey, l-look," he said, slinking nervously along the wall and she pushed herself up and began to move towards him. "Let's just talk. About anything, alright? Doesn't have to be radio shows, we can talk about-"

"I didn't come here to talk. I came to get my brains fucked out."

"Okay, well, we can talk about that-"

He screamed 'oh, shit' and ducked as she vaulted over his desk and tackled him to the ground. Her breath was hot and uncomfortably moist against his ear as she slung her arm around his neck and squeezed tight. He was thankful for the shades drawn across his window, for the scrutiny of the men within the courtyard would have made the whole debacle very awkward: there was Heisenberg - Lord of the factory and Lord of the land - screaming like a frightened mouse as a one hundred and seventy-pound woman attempted to wrestle his pants away from his thighs.

"Okay, okay! Wait, god damnit, wait - fuck!"

"That is what I'm trying to do," she grunted as she braced her feet against the floor and yanked at his pants with an ungodly might. Seeing no other option but to defend himself by any means necessary, he snatched up a mop and wielded it between them. His pants ripped with an ungainly zzzziiiiipppp, sending his zipper flying halfway across the room. At some point, she had knocked over a beaker of whiskey, causing them both to stumble and slip like drunken dancers. Now, she sat upon the floor panting and glaring up at him with a bit of fabric in her teeth as he held his pants up with one hand and wielded the mop with the other. There was a soft knock on the door, and they both looked up in surprise at the man who peeked his head around the corner.

It was one of his servants - Number 28, if he remembered correctly - and he could have thanked his lucky stars for the man's impeccable timing.

"Busy, sire?" The man asked in a voice dripping in irony. Karl huffed in response.

"Get her out of here," he ordered, pointing at the woman with the end of the mop. She sucked her teeth in response and crossed her arms.

"I was just about to siphon the life out of your master," the woman said, running her pinky along her lips. Servant 28 shrugged.

"I commend the effort, but my master is quite adept at siphoning the life out of himself."

"Must require a lot of dexterity," she said and the servant shrugged again.

"Oh, yes, well, Lord Heisenberg is nothing if not well-versed in contorting himself into a tizzy to satisfy his needs."

Karl cleared his throat rather abruptly and the two of them glanced back at him in annoyance.

"Right!" Servant 28 said, smoothing down his vest and glancing at the woman. "My dear lady, it is my duty to inform you that you must leave now-"

"No."

"Ah, well. I tried. Sire," he said, now turning to face Heisenberg. "Mother Miranda has come-"

"Hold on, she did what now-?"

"Why, sir, you seemed surprised by the fact that a woman has come in your factory!"

"That makes two of us," the young woman chipped in. Karl was suddenly inclined to wonder if he was the jester or the spectator in the odd little charade happening in his room. Either way, he couldn't help but feel as if he had been put on the earth to suffer.

Servant 28 turned to him with a tired smile, really looked him up and down with an expression full of pity. But for what? Karl couldn't tell. The longer the man had dabbled in his servitude, the more comfortable he had gotten with giving Karl That Look. As if he was the one to be pitied. Several years ago he had tossed Servant 28 off of a balcony and then reinforced his shattered skull with metal plates as a form of apology. Perhaps that's where the pity had come from.

"Sire," Servant 28 said, although the way that he had said it made it sound as if he was intending to say you poor, daft thing. "Mother Miranda awaits your presence in the dining room."

"Shit," Karl hissed under his breath. As the two of them watched, he clumsily hopped his way out of his work ensemble and slid into his old cinnamon-brown tweed suit, the one that Marianne had bought him some fifty years ago. Both the young woman and Servant 28 bit their lip at the sight of Karl unfurling his undershirt across his scarred abdomen, but he had no time to hope that they were doing it for different reasons. A quick glance in the mirror revealed what he feared the most: disheveled hair, a face drained of all color, the damn squint that he couldn't keep out of his eyes. But he had no time nor ability to remedy his appearance, aside from a quick rake of his fingers through his air and a swig of whiskey to wash the stale mustiness from his mouth.

"How do I look?" He asked, turning to face the others. Servant 28 put his hand to his chin and looked him up and down again.

"About as dashing as a Lycan squeezed into a too-tight church suit," Servant 28 proclaimed then, seeing Karl's thunderous look, quickly backtracked with a flurried wave of his hands. "No, no - I only mean to say that you clean up very well!"

Karl sighed and put his hand on the door. Why was it that every single living organism was hell-bent on gnawing away at his dignity? "Best fuck that girl while I'm gone," he said to his servant. "Because I swear to God I'm going to blow your brains out when I get back."

"Well, I thought that's what she was for!" His servant squealed, pointing at the rather unamused woman. "Anyway, if you do intend to shoot me, best not aim for the metal plate lest your bullet ends up in an eternal ricochet between our thick skulls. Sire!" Servant 28 called as Karl whipped around and squeezed out the door. "Try not to tumble down the staircase and knock your forehead against the rail again. I'm sure Mother Miranda would much prefer you with your head intact!"

X

Karl galloped down the staircase, his hand sliding down the rail as he took the steps two-by-two. He couldn't help but feel slightly nervous, despite the fact that he and Miranda had struck up a ritual of monthly dinner soirees in his factory for the past few years. Oddly enough, she never invited him to her home above her laboratory. At first, this had nettled him and, picking up on his unspoken disgruntlement, she had assured him that staring at jars and jars of slimy Cadous would only serve to spoil their appetites.

Which made him theorize that she was most likely working on experiments that she had no desire to reveal to him.

Seventy-nine years, and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of trusting her fully.

He was forced to stop in front of a window near the staircase. Panting, he braced his forearm above the sill and pressed his nose against the frosted glass. It would only take a minute for him to collect himself and allow his body a moment to catch up with his thoughts. That, and he had no intention of sweating through his best suit.

Beyond the window, he could see the desert wasteland that made up the factory's front yard. A group of men were sitting beneath the shadows of the withered trees that Karl had not had the time nor desire to have pruned, spaced out in a single line like school children waiting for a roundup. Though he was too far away to hear, he could tell by the odd gesture and shifting of postures that they were deep in conversation. For a single, jealous moment he wished that he could have been out there with them. But his presence would have shifted the topic of conversation into safer waters, for sure.

These were his latest set of factory workers, a grizzled generation of rough men who had come crawling to his door in droves some twenty years ago. Back then they had been different: beardless, rambunctious, each jockeying for a place in conversation with him. Oh, how they had looked up to him when they were that age! Back then he had been less odd and more mysterious, less antiquated and more old-fashioned - a wise gentleman descended from royalty, graciously willing to hire them for work in his factory.

But something had changed within the past twenty years. They had gotten older, he had not. While their bodies began to fail and gravity sloughed their faces into premature wrinkles, Karl's body remained obstinately strong, his swagger proud and spine uncurled. "T'aint natural," he had once heard one of the men say. "A man c'aint be fifty for twenty years straight."

The man who had made the comment had 'disappeared' only a few days later, as would half of the men sitting beneath the trees. Karl did a mental count and decided that he could afford to steal away half of them without rousing the suspicions of the villagers. He had given them a chance to leave their fields and find productive work in his factory, and in return, they would sacrifice their lives in the name of his own personal science. A tradeoff was a tradeoff, he reckoned. It was only fair.

Of course, such a train of reasoning always required a bit of mental dexterity on his part. He was sure that Servant 28 would have a lot to say about that.

He pushed himself away from the window and leaped over the three remaining stairs. His body hadn't completely stopped aging. The process had merely been slowed down, and he was reminded of this as a jolt shot through his heel, reminding him that he was still, in fact, a seventy-nine-year-old man. Even if he didn't look like it.

He leaped on one foot, cursing under his breath before coming to a stop before a grand doorway. Only a few feet beyond, Mother Miranda was waiting for him. He hadn't seen her in over a year, and the thought of her finally being so close made his heart give a giddy thump in his chest. He slapped himself, quickly smoothed down his hair, and then pushed open the door.

The old room had been expertly converted into a fine dining room. The clutter had been cleared and replaced with a large obsidian-black table, several mahogany chairs flanking either side. White candles were everywhere: wedged into alcoves, placed upon shelves, lining the table like many sentries - the glint of them riding the walls and heating the space. And not a drip of wax anywhere! He had to give props to Servant 28 after he killed him of course.

Miranda was standing at the end of the table, one hand braced against the polished wood as she stared down at the dishes crowded along the tabletop. She had slipped out of one of her shoes and was now rubbing the tip of her foot tiredly against her pale ankle. Her odd village attire had been replaced with a simple waxy-white suit: a boxy skirt that stopped at her knees, a jacket so stiff that it could have been starched, hair tied back at the neck. The kind of outfit that distracted and intimidated a man for all the wrong reasons. Or the right ones, depending on who was looking at who. It was strange, the way that America could pull a village woman right out of her shawls and make her believe that she was more comfortable in pure polyester. But Miranda hadn't been completely finessed from tradition. The way that she was rubbing her bare foot against her ankle was proof of that.

She looked up at him with a smile so dazzling that it outshone all the firelight wriggling around the room. It hadn't even been the smile but the genuineness to it that made him smile back. It took all of the strength in him not to rush over and wrap his strong arms around her in a crushing embrace. Instead, he strolled over, placed a lingering kiss on her cheek, and then pulled out a chair for her.

"You thought I wouldn't come back this time," she said as she picked up a set of utensils and then promptly set them down again. Was she nervous, as well? He couldn't tell. She crossed her arms upon the table and gave him a look that was impossible for him to decipher. "I can see it in your face."

"Wouldn't have blamed you if you had chosen to stay in America," he said jauntily. "I'm a swell fella, but I'm willing to bet I ain't got nothin' on the miracle of microwaves and indoor plumbing."

"Don't bother being impressed. American products are made to be broken and replaced with newer, more expensive models every year. You'd find more sturdiness in a village cradle."

"Mm," he took a sip of wine and immediately regretted it. Sanguis Virginis. He'd have to talk to Servant 28 about accepting gifts from Alcina. No doubt this was one of her failed batches that would have him vomiting his guts out later. "And here I was hoping that you'd swindle me with tales of all the good stuff in an attempt to have me go back with you."

Again: that show-stopping smile that took his very breath away. Neither her village attire nor laboratory garb could exactly take away from her natural beauty.

"If you truly wanted to go to America, son, you would have allowed certain influences to lead you there a long time ago." She paused, glared at the wine swirling around her cup. "Your heart is here. Therefore mine is, as well."

"You're flirting with me, Miranda."

"I'm sure it's what you would have hoped, considering your choice in cuisine this evening." She shifted her knuckles to the bottom of her chin and pointed around the table with one finger. "Artichokes…oysters…red wine…asparagus and figs."

He laughed good-naturedly at this. "Well, I'd be a fool now not to try, wouldn't I? Looking at you, it's easy to forget that you're - what, now? - over a hundred"

"Easy, also, to forget that I am in some ways your mother."

"Pshaw," he leaned back in his chair. "I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference. Two roads lay before us, Miranda: the one that we've been traveling for years in which I continue to call you mother…or the one less traveled in which you drop your inhibitions and pick up a little indiscretion. I am not bound to you by blood, after all."

X

There it was - that look. A quick flare in her eye, eerily reminiscent of the way that the young woman had looked at him only a few minutes earlier, before launching over his desk and tearing away at his pants. I think I want to fuck you.

The oyster shell dropped onto her plate with a clatter as her lips parted in surprise. It took her less than a second to leverage herself onto the table and he was just as quick to do the same. Dishes were overturned and candles were knocked over as they crawled hand-over-knee towards each other, never breaking eye contact, not even when a candle caught the tail end of the tapestry hanging off the table and set the surrounding room ablaze.

He raked his fingers through her hair, freeing it from its clasp and causing it to spill like a pale-flaxen stream around her shoulders. Their lips met as he tore hungrily at the zipper lining her white coat. The stupid thing was stronger than he thought, but not strong enough to withstand his urgent desperation. Snap it went and scattered across the floor, followed soon after by the coat itself and the blouse beneath. He pushed her back onto the table and fondled the slick, smooth calf that she brushed playfully across his jaw. The sight of the garter wrapped tight around her thigh was enough to send him into a frenzy: he tore it off with his teeth and spat it across the room.

"Oh, Heisenberg," she moaned as he spread his palm across her breasts: so small and yet plump. Perky. Perfect. He rolled his tongue along her nipple and then tugged gently at it with his teeth. Years of fucking village broads had made him a master of this particular craft, and he couldn't wait to show her all of the tricks that he had up his sleeve.

There was no time to take her panties off. They were pushed to the side without another thought and he whistled at her gorgeous pinkness.

"Ain't that a pretty kitty," he said before crooking two fingers inside of her. "I've called you mother for so long. Ain't it about time that you call me daddy?"

X

He opened his eyes and immediately crashed backward out of his chair, and his decadent reverie. He pushed himself up with some difficulty and glanced over at her. If she was aware of the naughty daydream that he had just fallen into, she had grace enough to hide it. Gently, she set her teeth against an oyster shell and scraped the pale flesh into her mouth.

"Are you familiar with the works of Sigmund Freud?" She asked after smacking her lips in approval of the oyster's meat. "Somehow, someway, little boys are always seeking out their mothers."

There wasn't a single woman in the world who could make condescension sound so hot. Cheeks blazing, he thrust his arms beneath the table and rubbed frantically at his wrist. It was a little trick that he had read about in a raunchy American newspaper: stimulate the blood in the forearms, and it'll draw the blood away from other, less desirable places. He had known that his attempts at seduction would fall upon deaf ears, of course. He'd have better luck usurping the Queen of England than chipping away at the cordial mother-son bond built up like a calcified fortification around his relationship with Mother Miranda. But, as he had told her, he'd be a fool not to at least try.

"Y-Your trip to America," he said quickly, hoping that his desperate attempt at hiding his clumsy flirtations wouldn't come off as inelegant. "How was it? Tell me: how does the Miraculous Mother Miranda spend her time in the land of the free?"

"It went well," she said daintily, placing another oyster shell between her perfect Chiclet white teeth

"You haven't answered my question."

"Only because I fear that my answer may come off as anticlimactic, for a man like you. I…visited my sister. She gave birth to a handsome baby boy - named him Evan, at my insistence. He was born with a head so full of hair that his Romanian descent is undeniable, though she does try to deny it. I warned her that she'd better get used to it, as the boy will be cooking sarmale with cabbage and mamaliga before he can even speak

"Liar."

He hadn't meant to say it, but there it was. Miranda paused and looked up at him in surprise, which quickly gave way to righteous indignation. Slowly, she pulled the oyster shell away from her teeth and set it down upon her plate - so slow that every movement became an act of purposeful deliberation.

Miranda didn't have a sister, and she sure in the hell hadn't gone to America to witness the birth of some phantom boy named Evan. Karl only knew this because he had been keeping tabs on her, discreetly of course. The lines of communication set up between the village and Marianne some forty years ago were still going strong. It was how he kept himself updated on the news of outsiders with a special interest in his village. Every few months, he'd pick up a Manila envelope from the Duke containing information about the movements of notable figures such as Oswell E. Spencer.

By that time, Karl knew all about the Progenitor Virus, and the rise of the Umbrella Corporation. Though the original girls that had worked in Marianne's brothel back in America had either died out or settled into retirement, the new generation of prostitutes had proven quite reliable. One, in particular, had proven especially resourceful, and her liaisons with the members of the crime syndicate aptly named the Connections had provided him with some rather interesting intel.

Though the image was blurry, the information in the envelope provided a rather interesting overview. Miranda had gone to America to work with the Connections, who had promised to help her resurrect her daughter in return for a sample of the black mold meant to be used as a mind-controlling bio-terrorism weapon. Something big was in the works and, though the information was rather vague, he got the rather pressing sense that something was bubbling along the horizon. Whatever it was, Miranda was right at the center of it.

And yet, for some reason, she had decided to withhold this information from him, instead choosing to concoct a rather insulting lie about some fantasy sister giving birth to some fantasy child.

"What did you say?" She asked slowly, though it was obvious that she had heard him the first time.

"I said you're a liar. Sarmale isn't made with cabbage. It's made with vine leaves."

"Oh!" Her face softened with relief and she threw back her head with a tinkling laugh. "Well, I suppose you're right. The recipe differs by region. Though I would have never pinned you as a chef, Heisenberg."

"I'm just full of surprises, aren't I, Mother Miranda? Just like this village."

He wasn't feeling hungry. Her attempts at deception had soured his appetite tremendously. She watched as he leaned back in his chair once again and cupped his gloved hands around a cigar.

"Case in point…" he added slowly, fluttering smoke between his front teeth. "You heard the news? Andrea Beneviento finally gave birth, no more than a few days back. Heard she's going to name it Donna, or some village shit like that."

"That poor thing," Miranda muttered under her breath. "Perhaps this'll be the one to remedy their bloodline."

"I highly doubt that. While Andrea was pushing out that poor, ill-fated Beneviento spawn, her husband was out wandering the streets with his wrists slit to ribbons with the same knife he uses to carve patterns into his dolls. And he was high as all hell, of course. I honestly couldn't tell you who was wailing louder: her, or him!" He took another drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out pensively. "I give 'em five years before they both-" he slid his finger across the front of his throat. "Not that I'd wish that on anybody," he added.

"I'll admit that I am…curious about how their girl would take to the Cadou experiments."

"She wouldn't. M-maybe you didn't hear me, but them Beneviento's are off in the head."

"But they still have ancestral links to Berengario…which counts for something."

He sighed. The cogs were turning in her pretty little head, he could see it in the distracted way that she was running the tip of her fingers through the flame of a candle.

"Do me a favor, son. Bring her to me."

"Donna?" He asked stupidly, and then quickly backtracked to save face. "Y-you don't want to wait until the parents off themselves? You know, give 'em a little time to get to know their daughter before they-"

"Sentimentality does not suit you, Karl. I want the girl. You, yourself, said that the parents will kill themselves anyway, and so I am merely asking you to…speed up the process. But do not be sloppy about it, son. It must look as if they took their own lives."

"Yes, mother."

He picked up a knife and blew foggy air across his reflection as she rose from the table and stretched her arms above her head. Execution came easy to him, and he knew exactly how to murder the Benevientos in a manner that would spare them any suffering. But the thought of killing them so soon after the birth of their baby girl nagged at his conscience. As Miranda had said, Donna could have been the one to remedy their familial curse.

"Thank you for dinner," Miranda said as she pulled the zipper higher on her collar. Neither of them had eaten much. The many twists and turns of the evening's conversation had suppressed both their appetites. She leaned forward with a light smile as he bent down and pressed a swift kiss on her temple. "Will you be alright? Do you need anything?"

"I need for Salvatore Moreau to stop creeping around outside my factory like some kind of disfigured pervert." He couldn't help placing his hand against her lower back as he steered her down the stone staircase, privately relishing the intimacy of the touch. She tossed a scarf around her neck and looked both ways before stepping into the snow.

"He looks up to you. Well, I suppose we all do. You've gotten so tall! When are you going to stop growing, son?"

The irony of this joke actually made him chuckle. He bid her goodnight with a friendly reminder that if she found her mattress too cold, he'd be more than happy to come and help her warm it up. Then he slid his hand in his pocket and simply watched, whistling tonelessly, as her silhouette was engulfed completely by the flurries of snow.

X

He returned to his office later that night. The young woman had already left, unfortunately for him. As always, his liaison with Miranda had left him feeling hot and bothered. He threw himself back into his chair and began to unbuckle his pants with his left hand. The Romanian word pizda had been burned into his desk - the young woman's doing, no doubt - and his eyes roved distractedly over the burnt-in letters as he did exactly what he had to do to take the edge off.

At the end of the day, he figured, all a man really had to depend on was a bottle of scotch and his own left hand. It was a wonder that he hadn't grown hair on his palm already.

His door suddenly flew open with a bang, causing him to jump a mile high and knock his knee against the table.

"Oh! Sire!" Servant 28 said. "I was just about to ask if you needed me to lend a hand with anything! Though, I pray your answer is no…" he widened his eyes pointedly at his master's crotch.

Karl said nothing to this and instead rebuckled his pants with a sigh. Now two parts of him were throbbing: his dick and his knee. Blue balls would be a bitch to deal with in the morning.

"How was your evening with the Black Prophetess?" His man asked. "Or…would it be White Prophetess? Or, perhaps, maybe Beige Prophetess? I'm never sure what to call her…'

"She-"

"Oh! I know! Dewy-Cream Prophetess with Yellow Undertones. I think that adequately defines her pallor."

"She-"

"Now you, my strange and twisted Sire, would be more of a…Subtly Sallow Sepia. It's a wonder how the village paleness skipped right over you and Maria-" Servant 28 raised his hand with practiced alacrity and snatched the knife whizzing towards him right out of the air. "Nothing wrong with craving both dark and white meat," he added, wiping the edge of Karl's blade against his vest. "So long as the center isn't too pink, I say a man is free to take a bite out of any meat he so desires! Though I do happen to know that you like your meat with the bristles intact. The bigger the bush, the sweeter the berries or something like that?"

A sudden, pounding headache was the only thing stopping Karl from wrapping his hands around his servant's neck and shaking him like a snake's rattler.

"Mother Miranda wants me to bring her the Beneviento child."

"Eighty-one years, and she's still attempting to resurrect Eva." Servant 28 shook his head and tutted as he set a silver tray upon the table. "Then again…this is the same woman that pined patiently after you for over seventy years. Dare I say she is obsessed with being obsessive."

"She's broadened her horizons, though…working with crime syndicates and political organizations and what have you." A pile of papers distracted Karl, causing him to trail off into silence. There was a clink of porcelain against porcelain behind him, followed by the sound of a cup being filled to the brim by a watery stream. He turned around and found his servant neatly balancing a tray bearing a single kettle and teacup. The servant was easily four foot eight - and that was being generous - but the unblinking nature to his sparkling emerald irises wizened him in a way that intimidated Karl.

"You've been grinding your teeth in your sleep again, Sire," the man said as Karl lifted the cup from the tray. "Still feeling that chill along your fangs?"

"It's fine," Karl lied.

"It is not. A little bit of hot tea should help to warm things up in that cavernous maw of yours."

"Wait, how the fuck do you know that I grind my teeth in my sleep?"

"Because I watch you while you sleep," Servant 28 said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "To keep you from choking on the vomit too often conjured up by your nightmares. I've saved your life more times than you know. Anyway, I suppose now is an appropriate time to mention. I did some digging around Miranda's laboratory - or Mi-ran-der, as you would say it. Her last few Cadou subjects had shown signs of an odd secretion - one potent enough to cause hallucinations or mirages. Though the experiments themselves failed, it's obvious that Miranda is now able to…fine-tune her craft, so to speak."

"Y-you mean-"

"I'm willing to bet that we both know which particular power the young Beneviento will exhibit by the time Mi-ran-der is finished with her."

"Shit," Karl said. He braced his hand on the table and tossed one ankle over the other. When Servant 28 wasn't poking at Karl's mind like a kid with a stick, he was actually a very gracious conversationalist.

"Hallucinations and mirages, huh? Might as well be the same thing as waking nightmares."

"I suppose it depends on what is conjured up….images of old friends, for example, could be quite nice. You know, Karl. With phenomena such as this, you wouldn't have to just dream about her anymore."

With that, Servant 28 slunk out of the door, leaving Karl to wonder just what the hell he had been talking about.