The three men do not dress the same- professional hitmen only dress alike in movies. They don't carry the same guns- don't want to give the impression of coordination. Grimy overalls or cheap flannel shirts, generic ski masks. Anyone unlucky enough to see them at work would guess robbers. Cheap revolvers and a rusted break action shotgun, sawn off and concealed beneath a ripped coat. Nondescript disposable weapons that take common cartridges and don't leave spent casings lying around for the inevitable forensics teams. They drive a rusty white pickup truck, park it around the corner from Justice Kay's sprawling Victorian townhouse. Law enforcement will fish the burned out husk of the pickup from the Potomac tomorrow. The three men get out, separate, their worn leather work gloves glint in the light of the street lamp.
Supreme Court justices have bodyguards- good ones- but the mercenaries are good too and they have the advantage of knowing when and where the attack will come from. The first Justice Kay knows of the attack is the shotgun blast that jerks him out of sleep as abruptly as it shatters the midnight peace of the upscale neighborhood. He sits upright in bed, the covers fall away from his bare chest, thin grey hair and sagging skin, but there's a core of undiminished strength beneath the signs of his advancing age. Outside, a revolver barks three times. His other guard dying, weapon still undrawn. Justice Kay retrieves the sleek semiautomatic from the safe in his bedside table. He knew that standing up for the undead would paint a target on his old back and prepared accordingly. He didn't know how large of a target he was painting.
Glass breaks downstairs. Heavy boots on the stairs. A creak outside his door. Justice Kay lives alone, little risk of friendly fire. He calls out anyway. "Hello?" He raises his gun. "Bertrand? Smithers?" It isn't his guards and the hitmen don't answer.
Justice Kay pulls the trigger. The gun kicks worse than he was expecting, but he holds on grimly. He stays athletic and his hands stay strong. Ears ringing, he fires a few more times. Four splintered holes in the wood paneling of his door.
Maybe, if he had run to his safe room, he might have survived. Maybe not, the assassins came prepared for that, but maybe. Instead he throws off his covers, stands, opens the door to check, meets twin shotgun barrels glimmering in the dim light of the moon.
The assassins don't speak, don't mark themselves out as anything other than simple robbers, don't boast or say who sent them. What good would it do? People expecting an attack sometimes hide recording devices. They take a few of the late Justice's more portable valuables and leave before the police arrive.
"Elsa?" Anna says. "We need to talk."
The litch sucks in a breath, holds it for longer than a human would find comfortable. She closes the news paper. "Oh," she says, voice small.
"Not like that," Anna sits next to the pale litch and bounces idly for a moment. "So," she says. "Magic. Teach me?"
Elsa sighs. "If you're careful," she replies.
"I'll be careful," Anna pouts, retrieves the translation of Elsa's book and slaps the thick bundle of paper down on the table.
"You need to be," Elsa grumbles and laces her fingers together because she doesn't know what else to do with her hands. "You've probably already taken a few years off of your life."
"I… what?" Anna scoots closer and takes Elsa's hands in her own.
"I thought you knew," Elsa is stiff beneath the little coffee shop's harsh lights. It's the last day that it will be open before Christmas break, and the renovation. Anna shakes her head so Elsa elaborates. "Magic is fed off of life force," she says. "Or maybe potential life? I'm not sure entirely, and I don't know anyone who is. People have a relative strength, or amount of power that they can handle without adverse effects, and the people who taught me said that I was particularly strong. I don't know if that potential is the amount of ambient magic they can handle- and there does seem to be ambient magic that I can usually take power from- or if it is unused potential life? I died young if you recall. Very young."
"But I don't have a lot of potential?" Anna guesses. "That's fine," she continues. "I'll stick to weak spells and try to figure out the like, great metaphysical secrets of the universe or whatever. Teach me teach me teach me."
"You don't mind that you won't be able to do much?" Elsa frowns.
"Dude," Anna grabs her by the shoulders and regards her with mock seriousness. "If someone is giving you superpowers, you don't say 'how powerful of a power,' you just snatch that opportunity right up."
"I," Elsa hesitates, but she's not the sort of person who can deny her beloved like that. "All right," she says after a moment. "Promise you'll be careful?"
"I promise," Anna nods firmly. "Super pinky promise. So, first lesson or whatever, what happens when you use too much power? I don't mean you generally, like what happens when someone uses too much because I think I've got a pretty good idea of that, I mean what happens when you Elsa use too much?"
"I don't understand," Elsa tries to pull away, but Anna clings to her shoulders with a sort of bullheaded determination unique to actual cattle, and to Anna.
"Well," Anna replies. "You don't have life force to use up? You're immortal. Or un-mortal, or something. What happens?"
"I," Elsa frowns, thinks for a moment. "Nothing I suppose. I pass out I guess, but other than that. Hmm."
"So," Anna bites her lip shyly, does her best not to show how nervous she is, and barrels ahead. Elsa can feel the little redhead's heart hammering in the flows and eddies of the ambient magic. "Uh, why not make me a litch? Then if I screw up, no biggie."
"Is… that your only reason to become a litch?" Elsa asks carefully.
"Nah," Anna shrugs. "I don't really like the idea of getting all wrinkly and fat and eeeeeew. And like, if some drunk asshole rams his car into me, it would be nice if that wasn't the end, you know? I can't really think of a downside. Unless you think you'll get tired of me?"
"I won't get tired of you," Elsa replies quickly. She tilts her head like a slender snowy owl. "I… would like to make you a litch… But there ARE downsides, you know. I can't eat or drink; it just comes back up and I can't taste it going down. I can't feel- not really. Not any more than the extremes. I heal slowly, I… everyone hates me."
"So what that you don't have to eat?" Anna sticks out her tongue with a sort of joviality she doesn't feel. "That sounds awesome! Save me a few hundred dollars a month and I won't need to worry about getting fat. I'll miss chocolate I guess, and bacon, but it seems like you can still smell, and that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the whole immortal thing. So what that you can't feel? Do you know how many times a day I stub my toe or bump my elbow? Who cares that I'll heal slowly? At least I'll heal when Kristoff decides to protect your virtue with the business end of a shotgun."
"Kristoff…" Elsa chokes. "Kristoff isn't… he…. Kristoff wouldn't shoot you, but bigots might." She pulls the collar of her sweater aside, shows the bandages still present from the incident at Anna's college.
"Then I'll bite them," Anna shrugs. "That seems appropriately undead-ish. Or magic them I guess. Anyway. Give it a few decades and everyone will be horrified that anyone was ever cruel to the undead. You've been around long enough, haven't you noticed that trend? Make me a litch and it won't matter how cruel people get now, I'll get to see when they aren't."
"Litches can die," Elsa says quietly. "Or, most can. Destroy their phylactery and they don't keep going."
"But not you," Anna says. "Yours is all fancy and indestructible. If that's your only objection then can your phylactery do double duty? Hell, make mine a brick of something that doesn't really decay and we'll bury it somewhere. Or… can you make multiple phylacteries?"
"I have no idea," Elsa sighs. "All right. Let me scrape together enough power for the ritual and…" she shrugs meaningfully, grins shyly. Anna returns the grin.
"That was a lot easier than it is in all the books," Anna laughs.
Elsa shrugs- Anna's hands move with the shrug. "If you want to become a litch, that's your choice. I don't know if it's the right choice or not, but it's your choice and you aren't uninformed."
"Awesome," Anna leans closer. Her hands slip down Elsa's slim shoulders and run lightly down the gentle curve of her back. "It's good you agreed because otherwise this would be the most awkward Christmas trip ever."
"Why?" Elsa eyes Anna wearily- what is she doing that close? "If we disagree, we just… talk…"
"Mm," Anna agrees. "No talking." She closes her brilliant green eyes.
Why did she- Elsa swallows. She can feel Anna's chest pressed against her own. How odd, Elsa didn't think she could still feel that light of a…
Anna's lips are hot on Elsa's. Elsa's are cool and waxy and unmoving on Anna's. It's… well, Elsa has kissed Anna's forehead before, but it's not the same. Anna's lips move on Elsa's, and after a moment, Elsa copies her. It's… Elsa's brain doesn't seem to be working, seems to be completely blank. Elsa wonders if she's finally dead, but then Anna is pulling away with a wide breathless grin.
"Yes?" Anna asks. Elsa nods wordlessly.
"No!" Kristoff barks from the counter. "Oh my god it's like pure sugar in my mouth. Oh god!"
"Sorry," Elsa gasps. She doesn't need to breathe, why is she so short on breath?
"Meh, deal with it," Anna crosses her arms smugly.
"Did you hear, one of the Supreme Court judges was murdered last night?" Elsa changes the topic clumsily but effectively.
Anna stands, stretches, sits on Elsa's knee- not so effective maybe. "Yeah," Anna puts her arm around the frail litch and leans close. "The news was saying it was a burglary gone wrong or something?"
"I," Elsa eyes Anna uncertainly then leans into her.
"You think it was President Wesselton?" Kristoff raises one bushy blond eyebrow.
"Or the Vice President," Anna frowns. "Whatever his name is. Frollo or something. He's a right stinker. You know, now that I think about it…"
"It's just… suspicious," Elsa says after a moment. "Suspicious like the talk show host that disappeared, what was his name? The one that made all the jokes about the anti-deadists?"
"The guy that always said anti-deadists were just afraid of death, and envious of litches or whatever?" Anna frowns. "He's missing?"
AN: I apologize for the short chapter. I felt like I needed to get a chapter out on this story's one year anniversary, and better a short one than no chapter at all. A thousand thanks for everyone who has taken this journey with me, here's to another year of litch Elsa.
Also, I have been requested to give ambulance pro tips at the end of each chapter so, sigh, here you go. If you insist on lawn mower racing, please make sure that the cutty bit isn't spinning. You might hit a ditch, go over the handlebars and get run over. Messy call. Guy looked like hamburger from the thighs down. It took like two hours to hose out the ambulance after.