Chapter 4! Chapter 4!

This one took a bit of rewriting before I was happy with the progress made - this story has so many moving parts, you guys, but I hope it'll be worth it. (I made a chart and everything!) While I;m working on the next chapter, I'll also be posting some oneshots in- and out-of-universe. Feel free to make requests - I'll be setting up a poll tonight.

Let me know what you think, and happy reading!

- Inky

The white light amnesia had been his idea.

Of course, giving credit for ideas meant nothing material in the Labyrinth. One could be complimented for an idea or a change that served their order, or condemned for an action or movement which backfired, but there was no true reward for having and acting upon a good idea than the pride of knowing it was yours, or a shred of favor from Leviathan.

He already had the favor of Leviathan.

The practice had come after a night that was unremarkable in most ways. The box was opened, they performed their duty. But a witness had slipped between their fingers, one whose soul and flesh had seemed promising in the glimpse he'd had of them, and he knew they would never open it after seeing them claim their caller. It was regrettable, truly, how humans could not recognize the gift offered them. The Labyrinth had such resplendent gifts to offer, such exquisite sights to see.

That was why he had given Leviathan his suggestion, with humility as only a Prince could muster. A flash of light and the first shock was gone, an easy fix to a difficult problem. To his immense satisfaction, it had worked, and many who might have been lost to the guidance of the Labyrinth opened the box and called him and his Gash forth.

The Prince and High Priest mused over this as he observed his latest student writhing in her binds. She had just crossed over, he could see in her eyes. There was a point where they reached the threshold of human limitations, and the Prince allowed himself a satisfied, proud chuckle as she found hers. The screams would change to moans soon, and from moans to pleading, to requests, to questions. And that was when the lessons could truly begin; this one showed a great deal of potential.

The lonely ones often did.

"Do not run from it," he said, watching her back arch and her exposed muscles contort, "you are at the edge of understanding. Let it consume you." His hand ran through her long, dark hair, soaked in blood and shimmering in the pale candlelight of her cell. "You will be with us soon."

As her eyes sunk shut, he let his thoughts return to those lost. One in particular had caught his attention, which was not unusual. She had held onto it for longer than usual, which was.

Anticipation was something reserved for the moments he sensed the box opening, the greeting of a new student, and precious little else. And he could not cross over and take her himself. But as the Prince watched the woman before him cry out, he found himself entertaining the notion (and, perhaps, even hoping) that the girl with curly brown hair would open the box herself. In the meantime, he would have to wait, and observe her when he could. And though he could not cross into her world of his own accord, that did not mean he could not peak. So he would wait, and watch, for Kirsty Cotton's arrival.

She had been much more intriguing than her father.

"This box?"

"This is the one." No Frank, but he had it back, and that did satisfy the doctor to an extent. It meant he had what he needed back for the time being, and perhaps more, depending on the temperament of the woman sitting across from him. "Kirsty described it in detail during our discussions."

"She never mentioned it." He was sure she had, but Channard knew that a month and a half could erode memory. Julia seemed uncomfortable to be here, and he liked that to an extent. This was a place for patients and subjects, for doctors and observers, and visitors from the outside world felt like an unwelcome intrusion at the best of times. Still, he would admit that Mrs. Julia Cotton was quite a pretty woman. It meant nothing to him, but he could admit it.

"This box draws surprising reactions out of people, from what I've seen." He turned it over in his hands, watched her eyes. Outsider or not, he loved seeing people react to the glimmering darkness that was the Lament Configuration. One day he would draw that reaction from people, he was sure. "What do you think of it?"

"I think it's something Frank would have spent money on," she said, and the way she said "Frank" – with familiarity, with comfort – caught his attention. "And it cut my hand. Still, it's a very pretty box."

Perhaps she was more promising than he'd thought.

"It is." He sighed, a practiced and wholly convincing act. "I was hoping to get her opinion on it, now that we actually have it… do you think you could…?"

"Oh, absolutely," Julia said, and she seemed all too happy about the thought of having somebody else take her place. It had taken her blood – he would remember that. But Kirsty was the one who had seen what it could do firsthand. He needed that, if he couldn't have Frank. Julia was already buttoning her purse, clearly ready to leave. "I'll call her as soon as I'm home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cotton," he said, "I look forward to hearing from you both soon."

"Of course." And she was out the door. The doctor waited five minutes before picking up his phone.

He had one other resource to mine.

John Merchant hadn't slept in four days. Nothing could pry him away from his work – not hunger, not exhaustion, and not his poor secretary who had to deal with screening all of his calls. He poured every ounce of energy into designing and building his works; he'd just been nominated for an award, and he needed to prove he was worth the nomination. That was his justification to his wife, his son, his secretary (who kept getting calls for him from some doctor in New Jersey) and his cousin.

His irritating, infuriating, idiotic cousin.

John didn't believe in curses, not even as a child. He was the science camp boy, the robotics team boy, the "Odyssey of the Mind" boy in the family. He lived for being creative in the moment, for what was right in front of him. He didn't believe in magic or other worlds or anything else Warren (Winter, he had changed his name to Winter Lemerchand like some pretentious prick) would go on about.

Winter did. He found a thousand and one stories about demons and angels and the sort, and for years had been trying to rope John into chasing them down with him.

Honestly, John was more impressed that Winter had even found him again, seeing as they'd met exactly once as kids. And, again, he was convinced that Warren Winter was an idiot.

So he wasn't happy, per se, to see his cousin at the art gallery as he was closing up shop.

With… a girlfriend.

God help her.

He was about to open his mouth and ask what she did to deserve that when his arms were grabbed, and roped, and he saw one of the guards lying on the ground before a bag went over his head.

God help him, then. The world went dark.