Disclaimer: see chapter one, no challenge, no profit.

A/N: The Yamato mythos here has no grounds in actual Japanese swordsmithing and mythology.

Chapter Two

"A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, where underneath the grove of sycamore that westward rootheth this city side, so early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was ware of me."

--Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

The Silver Dollar crouched between a pool hall and a dry cleaners. His reluctant informant had told him of the place and provided the name of an informant inside. Then, his usefulness had expired. Vergil had dispatched him with a brusque twist of the neck.

He tugged briefly on the broad brim of his hat before entering. It had taken some time to settle on his appearance. He needed to gather more information about this Tony Redgrave , yet pass unseen and unnoticed until he knew for certain this other was indeed his twin. His disguise options were limited. His pale hair would not take to any dyes--Mother had tried that once when they were boys and fleeing Father's enemies. But then, the Hounds hunted by scent, not sight, so it would have availed naught. His hair refused to grow past a certain length. He might cut it, but it would restore itself within a day.

The sons of Sparda were not meant to conceal themselves.

Inside, the bar looked and smelled like any other cheap watering hole in the country. He could smell the toilets in the back and the cloying faux pine scent that attempted to mask it. Dante's agent operated out of here? he thought, glancing around. The entire structure looked a missed bribe away from being condemned.

He spotted his quarry near the back, seated under a moth-eaten moose head mounted on the wall. Enzo Ferrino wore baggy clothes, perhaps to hide his portly physique. A faded blue golf cap sat askew on his glossy black curls. Two aging whores sat on either side of him, and an assortment of glasses and empty bottles cluttered up the table. The informant continued his story, with much handwaving. The women, sensing Vergil's approach began to ease away.

"---so I said to the guy--"

"You are the one called Enzo."

Surprised, the man glanced around, then focused on Vergil. A hint of wariness tightened his features as he noted the sword Vergil held so casually between his hands.

"'Kay, you found me." Enzo held his hands up in mock surrender. The whores, having a better read on the situation, drew away. "What can I do for you?"

"I seek Tony Redgrave."

Enzo's face went from jovial to blank in the space of a breath. "I might know somebody who knows somebody who goes by that name."

Vergil let slip a chill smile. "How odd. I know someone who knows you manage Redgrave's contracts."

Enzo pursed his lips, looking Vergil up and down. "You don't look like you're hiring, big guy. If it's info you're after... "

"I have business with Tony Redgrave. Personal business, and I will be most annoyed with anyone who interferes with it." He took a step forward, effectively blocking the informant in. "If your reputation is not as I have heard, you and a great number of people have wasted my time. I will expect to be compensated for that."

Vergil ran Yamato's tasseled cord between his fingers, the way some men might touch a woman's hair. To his credit, Enzo held his ground, though he blanched and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"Like you said, I manage contracts. No contract, no business. No business, no info. You can go run the gauntlet at the Cellar like every other newbie in town."

"The...Cellar."

"Bobby's Cellar. You got a job to offer or services to render, you go there. It's not exactly in the tourist guides, but if you've got half an ear for these things, you'll find it."

"And I will find Redgrave there."

Enzo gave a nonchalant shrug that did not hide the sweat stains under his arms. His fear smelled vinegar-sharp and chloroform sweet. Humans were such disgusting creatures.

"Best place to find him."

"Then you will show me to this place. As..." Again, he gave the man cold smile. "...a professional courtesy."

"Sure, sure buddy, whatever. Lemme just settle my tab--"

Without blinking, Vergil reached under his coat and withdrew a folded set of fifties. He dropped them on the table, narrowly missing dunking them in a half-full glass.

"Consider it settled."

* * *

Enzo insisted on waiting another two hours before taking him to the Cellar. Mercs of Redgrave's caliber, he explained, kept odd hours, and Redgrave's were odder than most.

"Never had such a picky client," Enzo grumped. "Jobs worth thousands, but nothing doing . Redgrave's peculiar, only takes special jobs, you see. Thing is, the special jobs can look an awful lot like the boring jobs, so I never know which is which until I make my pitch. "

"Yet you continue to prosper."

"Redgrave ain't the only game in town. Just one of the best. I know about this one guy, he's tried to kill Redgrave ninety-seven times! Or mebbe it's ninety-eight now, it always ends the same."

Vergil frowned. "For what reason is this man allowed to live?"

"Cause he's pathetic. Redgrave shut down the operation he worked for, and this guy, he don't work so good without a group. Nobody else wants to take 'im on. He's a worse beggar than Scrounger."

How very odd. After all the care Dante had put into avoiding pursuers, one who showed this much persistence should have met Rebellion's edge long ago. Unless... Dante had laired here. Mercy was a waste of energy, but some pests caused more trouble dead than alive.

"Two years ago, you wouldna recognized this place," Enzo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Numbers rackets, protection rackets, pimps, pushers, bangers, you name it, it happened. Business was good in those days." Enzo drank a toast to the old glories. Vergil began counting the cracks in the plaster, just to keep from reaching over and strangling the sot.

"Then this kid with white granny-hair blows in and takes the place apart." Enzo chuckled and shook his head. "That was somethin' to see. Some of the toughest dons and their cappos, hightailing it outta town like something outta Analyze This, but without the tractor."

White hair. Vergil twined the tasseled cords around his fingers again, stroked them smooth. It had to be Dante. The scrying spell, the Hellgate, these descriptions from two separate sources... Dante was somewhere in this city, alive.

"Changed how everybody did business," Enzo said reflectively.

Vergil watched with something like horror. Some men, after the amount of alcohol Enzo had consumed, succumbed to a revolting display of weeping and displays of affection. But Enzo just sighed and sat up a little straighter.

"Can't say I mind. Make a better living pitching services to a group than working for a group people hate."

Vergil quirked a brow in silent question. In his experience, humans felt safer as part of a group, be it family, political, religious, or corporate. The herd of prey versus the pack of predators. It took an extraordinary human--like his mother--to stand alone.

Still, this Redgrave person was teaching humans to be strong--at least, as strong as humans could manage. It was, perhaps an extension of their father's work, or an homage to their fallen mother. A useful enough hobby to occupy Dante's time until their reunion.

"Now the... businessmen hire out. You represent the business, you're a beggar in a suit. You represent a specialist," Enzo gave Vergil a conspiratorial grin, "they come to you."

"Deal from a position of strength," Vergil murmured.

"Precisely!" Enzo slapped the table for emphasis. He peered at his watch, a knock-off of a knock-off Rolex, probably chromed plastic. "Hey, it's after midnight! We can check the Cellar now."

"Excellent." Vergil rose to his feet.

"Wait a sec, buddy." Enzo leaned both hands on the table. "If you want an introduction, you gotta give me a name, and a reason for bein' in town besides lookin' for Redgrave."

He hadn't expected to need an alias. What could he use that he would remember to respond to? He had no family name, aside from Eva's and his given name was too archaic for this time and place. Yet Dante, shielded by his own pseudonym, should be able to decipher it.

"I am called Gilver, " he said at last. "I ran bounties in Europe."

Enzo clapped his hands together as if closing a bargain. "All right then, Mr. Gilver. This way, and watch your head."

* * *

Bobby's Cellar proved to be a pit below a dive. He had to admit, he might not have found the place without Enzo. A narrow alley, barely wide enough for a slim man to pass through, sloped down into cracked and crumbling cement steps. Trash of indeterminate age had mashed together into a kind of dirty white wadding along the walls.

The smell was atrocious. Vergil tried to breathe as little as possible as he descended. As they drew near the door, he caught a familiar scent: burnt candlewax and cordite. Dante's woman must come here. And she could lead him to his brother.

Enzo shoved open the door. "Hey, hey, how's it goin' tonight?"

All conversation in the taproom stopped. Several pairs of hostile eyes locked onto the men in the doorway. Hands slipped under jackets, disappeared under tables.

The barkeep, a caricature of his kind, complete with beer belly and bad comb-over, snorted and wiped at a glass with a rag of dubious origin. "Get a calendar, Enzo, tonight's Tuesday."

"Hey, I'm not workin' tonight!" Enzo protested, raising both hands, a gesture that coincidentally showed he was unarmed.

"What, Kerry under new management or something?" someone japed.

"More like under somebody," came the reply.

"Hey, hey, Kerry's a doll. An ugly moe like Enzo'd be bad for business!"

The jokes thawed the icy atmosphere. Vergil folded his arms, careful to leave Yamato free. Kerry... Could that be the woman Dante kept? No, this woman sounded like a prostitute. He did not remember Dante as particularly fastidious, but feeding from a whore would be like drinking water from a dirty cup.

"Oi, I don't work stables," Enzo said in mock affront. "Bobby, m'man, somebody here I want you to meet."

The barkeep continued to rub at a glass tumbler. "Does it look like I'm looking for any new friends?"

"Don't be like that!" Enzo's voice took on a wheedling tone that made Vergil's back teeth ache. "Somebody asked me to introduce him, and I couldn't say no!"

Without looking back, Enzo made a slow come-ahead gesture with his left hand. Vergil took three precise strides, stopping in the exact center of the taproom.

To his disappointment, he saw no head of silver hair, sensed no spike in the magic that had led him here.

"This is Gilver, from way outta town. Worked bounties, and is lookin' to set up shop here."

Bobby looked him over, from the broad-brimmed hat and dark glasses, to the fingerless gloves and the unfashionable but serviceable boots that clashed with his dark green suit and coat. "Not too flashy," the barkeep said, and went back to polishing glasses.

That seemed to be some sort of approbation, for the other patrons turned back to their drinks and cards. Conversation resumed. Vergil did not wait for further cues from Enzo, but walked up to the bar.

"Whaddya drinkin' ?" Bobby asked. He set down one glass, reached for another.

Vergil eyed the offerings listed on a whiteboard above the man's head. "Stout," he said finally, making the best of a list of bad choices.

The barkeep grunted, flipped over a glass with surprising dexterity, and turned to the taps. A moment later, a tall glass filled with a coffee-dark liquid with a dense head of beige foam appeared before him.

"Is Redgrave due in tonight?" he asked.

"Maybe. Nobody's on the clock around here 'cept me. That'll be twenty, even."

Vergil set a fifty on the bartop. As messenger fees went, it was small. The bill disappeared into one of the wide pockets of the man's dirty white apron.
"You might ask Grue," Bobby said. "Big guy, carries a Python. He an' Tony work together a lot."

"Yeah," snickered a man on Vergil's left. "Ol' Scrounger's always pickin' up somebody's crumbs. Redgrave's the only one stupid enough to let it go on."

"Shit, man, if you pulled down Redgrave's fees, you could afford to be generous, too. Once you looked up the definition, you tight ass."

"What'd you call me, you--"

Vergil sighed and moved further down the bar. Humans and their recreational toxins. If Redgrave did not appear tonight--and how long should he wait here? Too long, and he risked appearing weak. If he left too quickly, he might miss him.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Vergil turned, just as the red-faced man who'd mocked Scrounger jabbed two fingers towards Vergil's shoulder. Vergil made a small corrective movement, and the man's hand skimmed past, as if he were too inebriated to see straight.

"You think 'cause you got Enzo to vouch for you on behalf of somebody ," the man crooked his fingers in air-quotes, "you can just waltz in and not pay your dues?"

Vergil sipped from his glass, letting the silence stretch. The man's lip curled, showing yellowed and browning teeth.

"Look at you, sunglasses at night. You think you're some kind of celebrity, too good to show your face? Or so bad you hope nobody 'll recognize you?"

The man made a swipe at the glasses. Vergil caught his wrist and twisted, almost to the breaking point. His sharp hearing picked up the high, thin sound of straining tendons and stressed bones. The liquid in his glass barely sloshed.

"Ahhh! Leggo, you crazy fuck!"

" I always pay what is owed," Vergil said in a low voice. "Now, return to your drink and your cards, before I decide to tally your debt to me."

"Get a load of this guy!" the merc sneered. "Comes waltzin' in here, actin' like he's some kind of samurai or something, and we're supposed to be shitting ourselves 'cause he did bounties in Europe. Like that's hard."

"Been to the Balkans lately, Timmons?" another man muttered from the end of the bar.

From the way he hunched over his drink, eyes flicking from windows to door, Vergil guessed that this one had.

He set his glass down on the bartop. The unimaginative insults of boors such as this meant nothing to him--but an insult to Yamato was something he could not overlook.

"I think he screwed up." Timmons came closer, an ugly gleam in his eye. "I think Fancyboy here blew it, and dragged his sore butt back to the U.S. of A. Am I right, Gilver, or did you run squealing from Interpol?"

Vergil eyed the man before him. His knuckles were white with thick scar tissue, a mere brawler, a legbreaker in the local parlance. From the way he held himself, Vergil felt certain Timmons carried no firearms. He might have a knife, but knife fighters were usually lean and light on their feet. This one made an ox look like a stepdancer.

"I did not run from the Mossad, I do not fear Interpol, and I have no further time for you." Vergil made to turn back to his drink, but Timmons made another grab at his shoulder.

Vergil side-stepped it and lifted his glass. He took a generous sip, rolled the dark ale on his tongue. No. It still tasted like thinned roofing tar. He set the glass down.

"Oh, now he thinks he's Barryshinkof!"

"That's Baryshnikov, you idiot," he said. He caught the meaty fist before the punch could so much as ruffle his hair. This time, he did not stop, but spun the man so he slammed into the bar. Vergil wrenched the man's arm up behind his back. The brawler's pain sent little prickles of anticipation through Vergil's blood. It had been a long trip, and he was hungry.

"But I will dance on your unmarked grave if you do not cease pestering me!"

Grabbing Timmons by the collar of his jacket, Vergil turned and spun the man towards the door. Vergil turned back to his drink. How much longer could he afford to wait for this Redgrave, anyway?

The sound of the man's body smacking against the lower steps almost swallowed the sound of the door opening.

"What the hell, Bobby? You start the party without me?"

Vergil stiffened. That voice... His own from childhood, but ripened into a woman's smooth contralto.

Bobby balled up the dishrag and threw it aside. "Show up on time if you wanna play too, Redgrave."

Keeping his expression stone-blank, Vergil turned, one thumb just pressed up against the hilt guard.

The unfortunate brawler lay groaning at the base of the stairs. Above him, one booted foot planted firmly on his rump, stood a woman. She wore faded black jeans and work boots, and a cropped black jacket. She had his eyes, his face, though softened and feminized. The light cast the same sheen on her silver hair as it did on his.

Tony Redgrave was a woman?

Redgrave stepped over the prone man. He twitched, made a tiny swiping motion with his hand. Without looking back, Redgrave planted a boot heel in his face and kept on walking.

Hoots of laughter rose from the assembled mercenaries.

"Awww, she likes you, Timmons!" one of them said.

"Love hurts," another agreed, and they clinked beer bottles in mock solemnity.

She walked right past him, bootheels loud on the floorboards. The silver charms on her jacket chimed as she moved, all of them as powerless as the shattered pieces from the red coat. She passed so close he could taste her scent on the air. Magic clung to her like a whore's perfume. Candlewax and demon's blood, wearing his brother's face.

On her back, she bore a wide broadsword. An intricate harness held the blade in place, and provided support for a pair of holsters as well. Some type of handguns, he thought dazedly, one black, one nickel-plated.

Just like their --just like his father's.

She did not so much as glance in his direction, or acknowledge him in any way. Shock kept Vergil silent and still. He'd expected Dante's pet to be a lamia's cast-off, or even a low-caste gaki. With the Asian gangs moving in, their supernatural predators were bound to follow. Not once had he ever anticipated that it might be a mirror-doll.

"Gimme the usual, Bobby."

A glass thumped against the bar. Ice rattled. Vergil caught a whiff of strawberries and the sharp-sweet smell of ethanol. The bartender waved a laconic hand.

"Toni Redgrave, meet Mr. Gilver. Enzo brought him around."

Now he heard the difference, the faint lilt on the second syllable the masculine name lacked.

"Well, that's an endorsement, of sorts," she chuckled.

"Hey!" Enzo protested, but it sounded faint and far away.

Certain he could keep his expression impassive, he turned to face the thing. For a mirror-doll, he had to admit, it was a good one. Her skin was smooth, her eyes clear and intelligent. She had come in here alone, meaning she could function away from her master's sanctum without a handler.

His eye caught the line of a heavy-linked chain. It disappeared under the slashed neckline of her red t-shirt, but he felt the power. If he lifted that chain, he would see a familiar half-globe of red crystal, warmed from being held between her small breasts-

A sharp slap stung his cheek.

"Hey, sunshine. My eyes are up here."

The blue eyes glaring at him held no shadow of recognition. Surely a mirror-doll would have had been implanted with recognition patterns! Even if she were so badly designed this pathetic facade fooled her, his scent, the fact that he carried Yamato in his hand, all of these should have revealed him to her!

Did she call one of the men here Master? He wished Bobby had not intruded so soon. He could have watched and seen which human she approached first, who she deferred to. But she would do nothing that might reveal her master-creator now.

"I heard some guy was looking for me," she continued, one hand braced on her hip. "So, you got anything to say, or are you just going to stare? 'Cause this ain't a peepshow, sweetheart."

Someone gave a juicy smack of lips and called a ribald suggestion. Without taking her eyes from Vergil, Toni flipped off the heckler. "And that's as close you get, even in dreams, Ecole."

Laughter greeted that riposte. Vergil gathered his scattered wits. This changed everything. Someone had been able to harvest enough of Dante's living tissue to craft this mirror-doll. He had to know who, he had to know why, and especially why they had chosen to shape it as a female.

"My apologies. The name... led me to an incorrect assumption."

"I get that a lot," she sighed, perching on the bar stool.

"It is usually a male name," he offered, watching her closely.

She shrugged. "Not when it's short for Ántonia," she said, then swiveled around to fix the room with a general glare. "Which I. Never. Use."

"This has been a point of contention?" he asked. So like Dante to bristle up over something so minor. Except this was not--could not--be Dante.

Ántonia. He remembered their mother reading the Willa Cather novel to them every night for a month. Dante had always fallen asleep within the first five minutes. Vergil had stayed awake, partly envying his twin his easy rest, partly out of respect for their mother, and wonder at why the tale of an immigrant girl so beguiled her. It was but a tiny childhood memory, an odd detail to include in a mirror-doll. Odd, and difficult to retrieve.
 It could be coincidence. It could be another bit of bait to dangle before him. The most effective lies were built with truth.

But surely his enemies could not hope to convince he'd had a sister in place of a brother? He dismissed the most obvious possibility at once. This construct appeared to be the same age as Dante and himself--there was no chance that Sparda would have risked Eva's wrath by siring outside the nest she'd created.

She shrugged again, a gesture so familiar it made things hurt inside. "It's a girly name."

Vergil thought about the side-effects of pointing out the obvious again, then said. "You are a girl."

"And a mercenary. I don't want my name known because it's girly. I want it known for what I do."

"The lone mercenary who shut down two Mafia families. The specialist who has put every hitter sent after her in the hospital or in the morgue."

Toni paused, her glass halfway to her lips. "You're not going to start quoting from The Untouchables, are you?"

His personal lexicon translated untouchable as the very bottom of the Hindu caste system, which had no possible relevance to their conversation. "Those are the most common things told about you."

And somehow, no-one had thought to mention that Toni Redgrave was a woman. Freetown's rumor mill had some gaping flaws. Or someone had paid very, very well to keep that information off the table.

"So you have been asking about me," she said with a delighted grin.

Why should this apparent interest please her? If this was his twin, that delight would stem from their reunion. But this was a mirror-doll, and her emotions could rise only from fulfilling some dictate of her master's. So she was bait, a lure to bring in the other son of Sparda.

"I had been hoping to arrange a meeting in a more...civilized fashion than this."

She arched a brow. "Is this where you invite me up to see your etchings?"

"I don't have any etchings, and even if I did, I'm not here to discuss my art collection."

For some reason, that made her laugh. "All right. Bobby, get the guy a drink. We're being civilized."

The fat man barely glanced up from the glass he d been polishing for the past fifteen minutes. "Whaddya drinkin' ?"

Vergil reached over and picked up Toni's neglected glass. "This. The...lady will have another."

"So what do you want to talk about?" she asked, sipping at her fresh glass.

"I have heard," he said, "that there is one in this city who enjoys playing with dangerous toys."

"No fun if there's no danger," she said, not looking away.

He must not succumb to such an obvious glamour. This was not his twin. This was a servant of the thief who had robbed him, no matter how her scent marked her as kin.

"Is that an economy-size letter opener, or can you actually use that thing?" She tipped her head at Yamato.

For a moment outrage flared. To insult the gift of his father--that she did not recognize...! But why would she recognize it? This was not Dante, who had grown watching their father practice with this very sword. He laid a hand on the weapon's hilt, soothing it. "It has a name."

She leaned back, tipping her stool onto its rear legs, an annoying habit Mother had scolded Dante for countless times. "And a type. Not a katana, though it's modeled for one. May I see the emblem?"

Surprise kept him still. The mirror-doll held itself loose and relaxed, no shift in scent to warn of a trap or intensifying lure. Silently, Vergil set the sword on the bartop. Toni leaned forward, brushing her hair back with their--with his mother s own gesture. To her credit, she didn't touch it, just examined the twin dragon emblems on the hilt guard and the intricate tooling of the scabbard.

"The maker's mark would be on the tang, under the hilt," she mused, sipping from her glass. "But this is a Yamato, right? the ideal sword the master smiths of the East sought the blessings of the gods to create, granted only when the swordmaker and the sword-wielder are deemed deserving."

"You know blades. And their lore." It was hard to speak clearly. She'd given him, almost word-for-word, the lesson Father had given when a young Vergil had asked about the blade. She even pronounced the name correctly, stressing the first syllable.

How could some conjurer's plaything know this, unless the creator had cracked his young twin's mind like an egg? Unless Dante was dead in all but fact, his body, mind, and soul mined for power.

"Use one m'self," she said, and reached back. The blade swung into view, and recognition sang through him. Rebellion. He knew that blade as well as he knew his own. Yamato shivered almost imperceptibly under his hand, recognizing its old sparring partner. If she had produced his brother's head, he could have had no stronger proof.

Unless it was as fake as the creature that wielded it. Yamato had recognized the blade, and his spell had led him here... Bait, he realized, anger rising like a buzzing wall of wasps in his head. The one who'd taken his brother had made this thing to lure him in. And then to further the insult, had given it Dante's sword to complete the illusion.

Vergil had not made any friends over the past ten years, but that did not mean the ones he had killed were also alone. Some few of those had known him as the Son of Sparda. Some of them had known Sparda had sired twins.

He kept his gaze fixed on the woman's sword, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. "A broadsword. Unusual choice for a female."

"Oh?" Her grin widened. "Some would say broads and broadswords are like bread and butter."

He should have seen that one coming. Dante was always three steps ahead of him with witty rejoinders-- This was not Dante, he reminded himself. This was a copy, assembled by someone too stupid to think he wouldn't notice the obvious difference. He had to remember that, to stay angry, or she would beguile him completely.

"I meant rather, it looks heavy. Too heavy for one of your build." Vergil ran a finger along Yamato's scabbard. "Quips aside, such swords were not meant for women."

Some of the nearby mercenaries began to chuckle and draw back, giving each other knowing looks. Women were rare in this world, rarer still as powers in their own right. The 'weaker sex' , as if the entire race wasn't fragile as reeds.

"While I'm also known for my rapier wit," she drawled, "that kind of steel doesn't hold up to the work I do."

So she had--at least in part--a devil's strength and speed. Rapiers were battle weapons, no matter how the cinema portrayed them. But lighter weapons, unless dark-forged, would shatter under the stresses exerted by a demonic wielder.

"And you work for a name of strength and honor. You wished to be known for strength, Redgrave," he said. "So do I. I wish it above all things."

For might was all, and in strength lay power. Power was the lifeblood, the prime sustenance, of those with demonic blood. And nothing was more alluring than the determination of one who would be strong.

"Looking for a playmate?" Her grin never dimmed, even as she watched his hands, for his eyes were hidden from her. "Next time, try the newsstand first, it'll cost less."

"And what will you cost me?" he asked, standing. As if from a distance, he heard others--insignificant humans, at least with enough wit to scatter before their betters--moving away. Making room.

Her grin widened. "What 're you worth?"

Challenge. He felt it reverberate on a level silent until now. Even his brother had not reached so deeply into him, demanded such a response. Vergil moved before he could be slowed by the act of processing the experience.

Quick-strike, three blows so fast that to the human eye, they appeared as one. She parried with ease, eyes ablaze with the adrenaline-joy of combat. A human woman could not have held against him, but she blocked him, turning his strength back. Testing, he feinted, a ploy from their childhood, one Dante had unraveled early.

She evaded the first thrust, letting Yamato stab forward, just whispering past her upper arm. And she turned again, even faster than memory, Rebellion up and ready to block Yamato's return slash. He hissed as their blades clashed, his momentum checked.

"So," she purred over their locked blades, "how far do you want to go?"

"First blood", he said in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his own. The darkness in it nearly choked him. He wanted that blood like he wanted power. To touch it, taste it, would be indelible proof of her identity.

She laughed and spun back out of range. His blood throbbed in his veins. This was not his lost twin, but she had been modeled after a high-caste demon, and a female. He could not help but respond to that.

"First blood, hmm?" Her eyes changed, a glimmering of shadow and light. "Then bleed for me," she spat.

"So confident," he taunted, but he could not press forward. His body would not obey his mind. She wanted and he must provide, that was her due.
 No! He forced the compulsion from his mind. This was mere glamour, the enticement a female demon could weave around a male. She was not a full demon, not even a hybrid like himself and his brother. He owed her nothing!

If he fought her now and defeated her, it would send a clear signal, to the humans here, to the sorcerer who had crafted this thing. With enough of her blood, he could track the sorcerer. With her heart, he could read her entire history--and Dante s fate.

The Cellar had a low ceiling, made lower still by three lazily turning ceiling fans. The normal range of acrobatics available to the demon-blooded would be foolhardy here. Very well, he thought, we can play human for a short time.

Vergil lunged forward, bringing Yamato across in a cut that could turn a half-dozen men into corpses. Grim-faced now, Toni switched to a two-handed grip and swung the wide blade up in a brutal arc. Both blades clashed off each other, sending their wielders staggering back.
Toni recovered first, swinging wide. Vergil jumped clear, smacking her blade aside.

"Hmph. How boring."

Toni bared her teeth in a predatory grin. Rebellion spun, as if she were whirling a quarter-staff around her torso instead of eight pounds of demon-wrought steel. Chairs and table edges sliced clean away.

Oh, for...she's nowhere near me! he thought. He blinked against the strong wash of air--and almost missed her next attack.

Toni erupted with a flurry of lunges and thrusts, Rebellion's point jabbing closer and closer. He spun Yamato, trying to use the speed of the whirling blade as a shield. Sparks flew in a spray of hot blue and white. Vergil crouched low, just as Toni leaped, her sword raised for a vicious overhead blow. Vergil jaunted back, feeling the room twist and shift around him. Her blue eyes widened in surprise, too late to check her momentum.
 Rebellion slammed about an inch deep into the splintery floor boards. With a low hum of satisfaction, Vergil slashed Yamato in a flat, two-handed horizontal cut. Before it connected, Toni kicked up out of reach. Using Rebellion as a pivot point, she spun, planting both feet hard in his chest.
Vergil flew back, losing his grip on Yamato.

But Toni had lost Rebellion as well, landing on one knee with a wince-worthy crack. She wavered a bit, her balance just a little uncertain.

"You're pretty good," she said.

"You have no idea," he said, his breathing a little ragged. He could smell the blood pooling under her skin. Contusions, but no tears in the flesh. No blood yet for him to claim. "But I will gladly teach you."

Both Rebellion and Yamato lay beyond reach. Well, where steel failed, flesh must serve. Vergil rolled to his feet. Toni scrambled up, a half-second slower.

He didn't know who threw the first punch. Time dissolved into a haze of interlocking blocks, blows, and openings. Vergil spun into a side kick that caught Toni hard on the side of her head. She dropped like a sack of lead weights, rolling just in time to avoid a kick in the ribs. She grabbed the leg of a barstool and swung it at Vergil's legs. He jumped clear with ease.

"Pathetic," he sneered.

"Not done yet!" Toni rolled to her feet--and laughed. She clutched a handful of darts that had been scattered across the floor at the beginning of the fight.

"Ha!" She flung the entire handful at his face.

He swept his arm up to knock them aside, already gathering his power to push himself back out of their limited range. Again, the room smeared into a blur, his opponent the only thing standing sharp and clear in his sight.

Vergil shook sweat out of his eyes. She'd worked him breathless, made him sweat, something swarms of lesser demons could not do.
 Someone's trained her well, he thought. He could recognize elements of Dante's own style in her moves.

His boots skidded on the floor, then gripped. At once, he spun into another kick--speed was her advantage, he needed to slow her down for fists to be effective. She arched back, arms spread wide for balance. His foot skimmed past her face. She leapt up, left knee drawn up close, her right foot snapping out in a sharp kick to his jaw.

Vergil reeled back, swallowing a thick mouthful of blood. Bleed for me. Not yet, not for this pretender. Toni sprang forward--and stumbled to the side as he planted a vicious left to her face. That's it, he thought, feeling something warm and wet smear across his knuckles. That's done it.

Toni twisted around and grabbed his arm. With a complicated twist and roll, she pulled him down to the floor with her. She pressed her knees to his chest, pinning his shoulders with her hands.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. A fat red droplet spilled down from her split lip. It splashed across Vergil's own lips. Automatically, he touched his tongue to it. It tasted like his own, almost exactly the same, but for some minute difference he couldn't-

She grabbed his left wrist and wrenched his hand into view. Her blood smeared his knuckles, where it mixed with his own in the skin split from the blow.

"First blood, huh?" she gasped out, eyes blazing. "I think this one's a tie."

He put a hand on her chest to push her off, saw her tense.

Cold water sluiced over them. They split apart, Toni hissing like a wet cat.

"Get a room, you two!" somebody yelled.

"'Least now we know what his private business with Toni was," Ecole said, to much laughter.

Bobby waddled out from behind the bar, setting down the empty fire bucket with an annoyed clatter.


"Alright, you two, that's enough!" He jabbed a sausage-thick finger first at Toni, then at Vergil. "You know the rules, Redgrave! And you, newbie, are gonna learn 'em, or I'll ban ya both! Fists're fine. Swords, too, til ya start hackin' up the woodwork."

Toni cast a guilty look at the smashed furniture, winced a little at the pool table that no longer had one of its corner pockets. Vergil just crossed his arms. A dive like this went for third-hand chipboard in most cases. It wasn't as if Bobby's Cellar was a fine old pub with generations of history behind it.

Water droplets speckled the lenses of Vergil's sunglasses and still more dripped from the brim of his hat, which had somehow survived the brawl. He dared not remove them to mop his face. Even a drunk human would notice the resemblance between himself and Toni, especially now with his hair wet.

"So. in the interest of keeping this place standing," Bobby planted his fists on his hips and glared around the room. "You two are gonna have to settle this the old fashioned way."

Toni groaned. Startled, Vergil glanced over at her. The mirror-doll righted a chair and dropped into it, folding her arms. She looked up at Vergil and shook her head.

"Might as well grab a seat, newbie. Change of venue." She waved a hand at a fallen chair. "To the strongest stomach go the spoils for this round."

He stared at her. She could at least face defeat with some dignity Or... was this another test? She operated here from a position of power. Did she wish to see how he could navigate these human labyrinths of ritual and false fronts? Perhaps her master truly believed he was fooling Vergil with these ploys.

He bent down and scooped up a chair. "As the lady wishes."

She scowled at him. "One way or another, newbie, you're going to quit calling me 'lady'. Tonight."

He allowed himself a slight smile as he sat down across from her. The expression had always infuriated Dante, and it seemed to have the same effect on the mirror-doll. She sat up a little straighter, her eyes narrowed. Her lips pressed together in a thin line. She even had Dante's tells, he marveled.

That did not bode well for his brother.

There were spells that could copy a personality--mirror-dolls needed language and socialization skills after all. But that deep harvesting could not be done without significant, often fatal, injury to the original. It took an enormous amount of power and a great deal of time. Mirror-dolls were toys, disposable constructs usually meant for an immediate purpose. So why make one that could function without a handler, that might endure for years, then turn her out alone into the world?

Bobby set down two glass vessels the size of flower vases. Something flickered in the back of Vergil's mind, a story of an Amsterdam drinking contest involving drinking beer from an almost life-sized glass boot.

Then Bobby set down a wooden cask that would not have looked out of place on a 17th century British sailing vessel.

"Welcome, you two, to the Dead Man's Party. Drink like ya wanna die."

-tbc-
A/N I know novel!Vergil concealed his identity behind bandages, but that just didn't work for me.