It may be moot at this point in the story, but I feel that I should clarify my warning/rating. I'm not planning on the violence getting especially heinous here (although I make no promises every character will survive), and there won't be anything sexually explicit, but I am working with some dark themes, including mentions of rape and torture. Sometimes what happens between the lines is as disturbing as what is written out scene by scene, so I thought it prudent to throw this caveat out there.
I feel like I should also say that I am aware of some issues of race/ethnicity in this movie's canon. I don't see any real reason to go off on them in an author's note, but I'm aware some people have a problem with Sun-Lok's characterization (or lack thereof) in the film (possibly the people who have complaints aren't the same people who read fanfics, but there you go). I tend to think it was just shallow characterization, and that he was Chinese solely so they could have a visually appealing scene in Chinatown. I've tried to build up some hints about who he is/was and his motivations in this fic, and while I'm convinced I've done the filmmakers one better, and I've had no complaints, I'm sure there are plenty of issues with how I've written him. I'm not an expert on Chinese culture or history, just a writer with access to the internet and the library.
Now, if someone more knowledgeable than me has written or subsequently writes a Sun-Lok-centric fic, I'd be all over that. Because I like it when people flesh out minor characters.
Also, Sneakers the cat is probably the reason why Tank the dog lives with Dave the college student.
The butterflies were outside the tank when Abigail entered the room. Two of them perched on the lid; the rest were lined up on the windowsill. Wary, she hesitated, holding the plate of melon and saltwater in front of her as if it were a shield.
"You've escaped," she said, and was met with a soft, otherworldly chuckle.
You expect us to wait in a box until we are called upon?
"How did you get out?" She sidled into the room slowly. "I brought your dinner…"
The tank is not warded. Passing through the glass is hardly difficult. Set it down.
Uncertain, she placed the platter on top of the tank lid and backed up as they fluttered over to land on the sliced fruit. All the butterflies had pale blue eyes, and she found herself remembering the previous night's dream uncomfortably.
You have been gone for much of the day, you and the magician, the soundless voice pointed out, as the butterflies crept delicately over the plate. Tell me, did you learn anything of interest?
Her first impulse was to say no and leave, but to keep Sun-Lok completely in the dark would make him less useful to their cause. "We bought some ritual supplies," she admitted. "And collected news."
News? The prompt was gentle but she could feel a pressure on her mind as the interest of the beings before her shifted.
"Stop that," she snapped. "I know when my thoughts are being invaded."
There was a pause, then a laugh. My apologies, little maiden. You are perceptive. Tell me…I know the name of the man in whose noble home we reside, Mr. Stone. You have not told me what to call you.
She frowned, suspicious of the attempt at friendliness. "Miss Williams will do, for now."
Then will the virtuous Miss Williams condescend to discuss what goes on outside this room, if it is of interest or significance?
Unsure whether to take the sudden flood of courtesy as a change of heart or an expression of sarcasm, she turned and made a show of inspecting the bookshelf, trailing her fingertips over a black jade skull. "We've heard that Lady Morgana is dead," she said at length. "Killed in battle by the Prime Merlinian."
The boy with the ring has come into his own. That is very interesting.
"Morgana meant nothing to you, of course," she said. "I read your entry in the Encantus."
It would be pointless to lie, said the butterflies slowly. No, I cared nothing for your Lady and her rivalries. Maxim interested me, however. Ultimately, I do not think he cared much about Morgana, either.
She looked over at the butterflies, but could not read their body language. "Why do you say that?"
I lived with him for several weeks. I observed no sentiment in him, only ambition. If your Morgana had indeed taken over this world, she would have found, in short order, her chief lieutenant plotting against her for power.
Abigail thought about what Blake had said. A man who betrayed his own oathbound master. The apprenticeship contract was the most sacred bond known to sorcerers. If Horvath had broken his oath with Merlin, there was nothing but fear or calculation to hold him loyal to Morgana. No wonder she and Drake had been disposable to the man. He felt next to nothing for his betters; how much less must he care for his subordinates?
Feeling disillusioned, she sat on the armchair nearest the shelf. "It isn't meant to be like this."
Oh? How is it meant to be?
She scowled at the insects, aware she was being baited. "We're meant to be working together for a common cause, not scrambling over one another like starving wolves all after a piece of one dead rabbit. I trusted him!"
Angry, she hunched lower in the chair. It was true, though she hated herself for it in retrospect. She had trusted Horvath because he was foremost among their line. Because he was Morgana's lieutenant, and she wanted to believe in Morgana. And because her own master, Felicia, had been the only bright spot in a cold and tedious childhood. Now the foolishness of it seemed so clear.
Perhaps Miss Williams is not so wise as she once thought? The butterflies suggested slyly. Will she accept advice from her humble servant?
She narrowed her eyes. "I have no reason to trust you. I don't even really know who you are."
I am Sun-Lok and I am Pa She. I was the son of a whore who left me to die by the side of a road, in this very country, in 1849. I was raised in a city orphanage where the masters did their best to beat the Chinese out of me, and failed. When I went to my own country I found it crawling with opium addicts and smug white men who took everything they could carry and pissed on what was left behind. I learned what I could from monks and shamans, always searching for strength. For power.
"To what end?" She felt a twinge of sympathy in spite of herself. It was no small thing to be abandoned by a parent; she knew it all too well. His bitterness at the world was also familiar.
Does there need to be a specific end? If you cannot trust your superiors to defend you, you must gather and rule your inferiors in order to survive.
Abigail laced her fingers together, hands in her lap. "…survival is one thing, but the Morganian goal is to alter the structures of power over the entire world. To hold the keys to life and death."
I have no objection to eternal life. Do you?
"I hate the world too much to want to be here forever."
Even if you could reshape it in your image?
She hesitated, because this thought had been in her mind since she began her apprenticeship, but now she was uncertain she trusted herself to such a task. Seeking to change the subject, she asked, "What advice did you have?"
Only that you should remember what a man wants and what he says he wants are different things.
"Of course they are," she said, then her brows knit. She looked over at the butterflies. "You're not talking about Horvath anymore, are you?"
Mr. Stone is fond of women, is he not? It was a casual statement, but she felt a ripple of misgiving.
"What are you getting at? He has no interest in…we're not…I'm over a decade younger! The idea's obscene!" She got up, ready to storm out. "I'm capable of defending my own honor, thank you, and I don't need your filthy insinuations."
You have known him a very short time. Don't let down your guard. Without magic to level the field, he is the stronger.
"Shut up, and get back in the tank," she said coldly. "We'll let you know when we have need of you."
Of course you will. Your humble servant awaits your call. This time there was an unmistakably mocking tone coloring the courteous words, and she left, slamming the door behind her.
Drake was coming slowly up the hall, looking tired. "Going for more aspirin," he explained as she raised an eyebrow at him. "How are the bugs?"
"Obnoxious," she snapped.
"Hmm." He glanced at the room, wondering privately what had happened, but feeling too sore and ill to question her further. "…well, don't let 'em get to you. I called Bob in. He's going to come make dinner and tidy up, but he knows when not to ask questions, so don't mind him."
She nodded, but frowned a little. "Don't you have female employees?"
"'Course, but they're mostly in costuming and the business end of things. Don't need any of that right now." He glanced at his hands. "Well, except I do, but it's not top priority, I suppose. Unless you want to try fixing this mess?" He waved his fingers at her, but it was mostly a joke. He wasn't sure he trusted her with nail polish.
Rationally, she knew it was an innocent tease, but the conversation with Sun-Lok had planted a seed, and she recoiled, offended and repulsed. "I'm not your servant. Don't come near me, you painted harlot." The insult was quiet, but heated, and Drake was taken aback.
"Abby? What the hell?" He wasn't sure whether to be hurt or just confused.
Shaking her head, she darted away down the hall and into the guestroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.
He watched her go, glanced at his chipped manicure as if it might have answers, then gave up and went into the bathroom to retrieve some painkillers.
He couldn't recall ever having been called a harlot before.
"Your mom likes animals, huh?" Becky smiled at Dave as Balthazar pulled the car up the driveway of his childhood home.
Dave rolled his eyes. The lawn was adorned with concrete and terra cotta figures ranging from frogs to geese to cartoon-style elephants. "I blame myself. I gave her a bunny planter for mother's day when I was sixteen. It just kind of grew from there."
"That's kind of sweet." She elbowed him. "Better than lawn gnomes, I guess."
"Yeah, she has some of those, too." He got out of the car, held the car door for her, then jogged up the walk and knocked on the front door of the house. "Mom? Hey, mom, it's Dave!"
Becky followed, looking around, and Balthazar and Veronica trailed last, slowly. Balthazar seemed to be intent on listening, or possibly smelling the air. Watching his pensive expression, Becky wondered if he could really sense magic, or danger, so intuitively. After over a thousand years, who knew?
As they gathered on the porch, the front door opened a crack. A sliver of face peered out uncertainly, bright brown eyes flickering over them all.
"It's me, mom. Are you okay? Uh, these are…some friends of mine?" Dave sounded a little unsure.
The door opened wider. "Dave! Baby, I'm sorry, I was napping. You just surprised me. Why don't you all come on in?"
Dianne Stutler was a little short, with a full, slightly jiggly figure, and shoulder-length hair lightly touched with gray. Her smile was dazzling, though, and she pushed open the storm door and pulled her son down for a noisy kiss on the cheek. He gave a perfunctory struggle, sighed, and kissed her back. "Is it your day off? I wasn't sure you'd be here."
"I wasn't feeling up to snuff this morning." She shrugged and backed up to let them all in. "So what's going on? You don't call for two weeks and then you suddenly decide to visit?"
"I called you on Sunday," he protested.
"Whatever. Who did you bring me? Is this a girlfriend? Please tell me this is a girlfriend." She regarded Becky with a sly grin.
Dave turned red, but Becky laughed and shook the woman's hand. "Yes, absolutely. I'm Becky Barnes. I think I met you once, when you brought cupcakes to our first-grade class. It was a while ago."
"You remember that? You're better than I am." The older woman gave Balthazar and Veronica a questioning look, offering her hand. "Dianne Stutler. Call me Di."
Balthazar shook her hand formally, bowing slightly. "Balthazar Blake. It's an honor to meet you. And this is Veronica Gorloisen…my…"
"Fiancée," Veronica finished for him, and he looked relieved. Between one thing and another they had had little enough time to discuss their relationship since her release (and he was partly afraid to bring it up), but he had always meant the necklace to be a betrothal gift. Veronica shot him a shy glance, and he smiled at her.
"How sweet," Dianne shook Veronica's hand, then turned back to Dave. "You want to help me make some lemonade for your friends?"
"I'm not sure how long we're staying." Dave glanced at Balthazar.
"I think we can stay long enough for lemonade," he said smoothly. "Why don't we all help?"
"Oh, goodness. I hope you can all fit in my kitchen." She turned and made her way down the hall toward the back of the house.
The kitchen was decorated in shades of yellow, and there was a framed sampler on the wall next to a calendar featuring monthly cookie recipes. A plate on the counter had three apple turnovers on it, one with a bite out of the corner. Dianne opened the refrigerator and poked in the crisper drawer for lemons.
"I thought you were napping, not snacking," Dave nodded at the plate, and reached for a pitcher in one of the cabinets.
"…I was checking them for freshness," she said, emerging from the appliance with a plastic bag. "You can't leave 'em on the counter long, they dry out. I'll slice these, and you get out the juicer…"
Balthazar sat at the kitchen table, watching the interaction, and Becky fetched the sugar bowl. "I can't remember the last time I had homemade lemonade," she grinned.
"Don't tell me you drink the powdered shi—stuff," Ms. Stutler shook her head in mock-horror. "That's no good for a growing girl."
Veronica leaned against the wall near Balthazar, peering out the back door. "Do you have a cat? A grey tabby?"
Dianne looked over her shoulder uncertainly, in the process of getting out a kitchen knife to slice the fruit.
Dave craned his neck. "Yeah, that's Sneakers. Better let him in, he'll shred the screen if he gets impatient."
Balthazar's eyebrows went up, and he leaned forward slightly as Veronica opened the back door. "Dave," he began, but the cat's entrance interrupted him. It trotted into the room, paused in the middle of the floor, and stared at Dianne, fur rising. A low growl emerged from its half-open mouth.
"What's your problem, hairball?" Dave looked amused, but Balthazar was on his feet at once.
In a single swift movement, Veronica grabbed Becky and pulled her away from the Prime Merlinian's mother. Balthazar made a similar lunge for Dave, but the cat was in his way, and before he could react, Dianne had a knife pressed against her son's throat. "Okay, easy, everyone," she said. "I'm not looking for violence."
Nobody moved, except the cat, which hissed and dashed from the room.
"M-mom?" Dave went white, eyes wide and pleading.
"Sorry, kid. No." A ripple of energy coursed over the armed woman, her form dissolving and shifting. When it passed, a sturdy man stood in her place, heavily built but not much taller, gray-haired and dark-eyed.
Balthazar rubbed his ring hand. "Paolo? Paolo Candelario?"
"His son. Niccolo. Look, I don't actually want to kill anyone, so why don't you all just back away?" His gaze was narrowed, and tension sung in every line of his body.
"I kissed you. On the face!" Dave looked revolted.
"Yeah, I'll treasure our brief yet passionate affair until I die," Candelario said dryly.
"Put down the knife, or that'll be in less than sixty seconds," Balthazar said grimly.
"You think?" Niccolo raised an eyebrow. "Because I think the boy here might want to know where his real mother went, and if you kill me, it's gonna be a lot harder to find her."
"Then tell me," Dave said, swallowing hard.
"Please don't hurt him," Becky murmured. Her eyes were dry, but she clung to Veronica's sleeve, deeply upset.
"You're working with Maxim, aren't you?" Veronica said. "You know, that hasn't ended well for anyone. Ever, really."
"Lady, my choices are limited, but thanks for your concern." Candelario was watching Balthazar, who seemed to be considering his options. "I'm in the family business, whether I want to be or not."
"You're supposed to be a clerk, not a warrior," Balthazar said. "I hope you're being paid extra."
"Let's make a deal," Dave said, angling his head cautiously to look down at his captor. "You and me. I'll walk out of here with you; they can all stay here. And we'll talk."
"Wait, Dave!" Becky reached out impulsively. "Don't!"
"It's okay. I'm fine." He flashed a weak smile at her, then glanced at his Master. "Let me have your keys, Balthazar."
The ancient Merlinian blinked, then reached slowly into his pocket. "Hell of a way to get me to lend you my car," he said. "Are you insured?"
"This isn't funny," Becky glared at him. "What's the matter with you?"
Veronica hushed her with a gesture.
"Okay." Candelario watched as Balthazar withdrew his keys and tossed them to Dave. "Good. You drive, kid. No magic."
"Can do. Do I get a hint where we're going?"
"Not while they're listening." He pushed Dave ahead of him, shifting so the knife-point pressed against his kidney region. "Start by going south."
Balthazar watched them go, but didn't move. Veronica pulled Becky into a hug as Candelario and his hostage left the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed. Becky broke free from the older woman's embrace and rushed to the window in time to watch the car drive off. She looked near tears, but when Balthazar and Veronica came up behind her, she whirled around, livid. "Why didn't you stop them? Why didn't you protect him? You're supposed to be these great sorcerers, and you just let them go!"
"Easy," Veronica began, reaching out to comfort her, but she shoved her hand away.
"Becky," Balthazar's voice was gentle. "I let Dave go because I trust him. And you should, too."
She folded her arms across her chest, furious. "What do you mean?"
"He's the Prime Merlinian," Veronica explained. "Candelario couldn't have picked a worse hostage. Balthazar and I, we need our rings. We can't do magic without them. Dave can."
"He can't be separated from his magic," Balthazar added. "And that's his greatest power. I've taught him dissolution and reformation of matter. I've taught him attack spells. He could have turned that knife into a feather, or just reached out and broken Candelario's kneecaps. He wanted to wait it out, and see what information he could get. And I don't blame him. His mother could be in a lot of danger."
Becky turned away, but the rigid set of her shoulders began to ease.
Veronica sighed. The younger woman had seen some magic, but she hadn't witnessed the battle with Morgana, and she had no real idea of the extent of her new boyfriend's abilities. "You always worry," she said. "And they do make mistakes, and get hurt in spite of their best. But you have to trust them to come home to you. And they have to trust you, too."
Balthazar slipped his arm around Veronica's waist, hugging her gratefully.
"I'm sorry," Becky took a deep breath. "The magic thing is cool and all, but…I'm not used to all this. I'm not sure I want to be. But he's worth it." She gave them both an apologetic look.
Balthazar smiled awkwardly, relieved. "It's not always this chaotic, I swear. Do you two want to head back to the lab, and I'll wait in case he comes back here?"
"I think I'd rather stay," Becky sat down on the sofa with a soft moan.
"In that case," Balthazar squeezed Veronica, then let go and headed for the kitchen, "I'll go finish up the lemonade. I don't think the real Ms. Stutler will mind." He needed to think, and he needed to think alone.
Veronica watched him go, privately hoping the real Ms. Stutler was still alive.
Dianne awoke slowly, with an odd ringing in her ears, and tensed immediately because she couldn't see a damn thing. Dark fabric covered her entire face, and when she attempted to reach up and pull it away, she became aware that her hands were tied behind her, arms locked around a chilly metal or concrete pole. Heart pounding, she twisted her wrists.
The last thing she remembered was answering her front door. Two men, a bright blue light, and then nothing. Panic melted into confusion, then back into terror. Who would do this to her, and why, and where?
"Ah, you're awake."
She couldn't see the speaker, but could tell it was a man, with a cultured British accent. Tilting her head, she could hear his footsteps through the fabric as he approached. "I'm afraid I can't unblind you at the moment, but let me know if you have trouble breathing."
The fabric was a loose enough weave to let through both air and scent. She thought she smelled blood, and maybe paint. "Where am I?" she asked quietly.
"Actually, it's an abandoned church. Presbyterian, I think. Perhaps that will comfort you some, if you're a religious woman." The footsteps moved a short distance off. "We wanted to do the ritual at your residence, but there wasn't enough floor space, and I cannot bear writing cramped circles, especially for a spell like this. This one's coming nicely, though, and I think in the long run this location is even better."
She struggled to sort through this information. "…what the hell do you mean 'spell'? Are you some kind of Satanist?" The idea that she might be an appropriate sacrifice was bizarre, but frightening enough to make her yank harder at her bonds.
He laughed. "Oh, dear. Candelario was right. I've been out of touch with the people for far too long. Yes, the heart of a middle-aged secretary is the only food that will appease my dark master, I'm afraid. Oh, wait, you are still a virgin, aren't you? If not, we'll have to call the whole thing off."
"What? Are you insane?" Wrists burning from her attempts at writhing free, she recognized that she was being toyed with, but couldn't quite determine why or to what degree.
"I've always thought of sanity as a continuum," he said thoughtfully. "It's not a black-or-white thing. You're not either mad or not-mad. You're on the path to one end or another. But that's irrelevant. I've got you, and there's nothing you can do about it at the moment, so you may as well humor me."
She slowly ceased her flailing, feeling a few drops of blood trickling down her palms, and tried to force herself to breathe deeply. "Okay, then," she managed, "what do you actually want from me?"
"Ultimately, your son," he replied. "But in the interim, about two ounces of blood will suffice."
"David? Is he here? Dave!" Her voice rose shrilly.
"Quiet! Honestly. He's not here yet, and I'll be sure to let you know when he arrives."
"Don't you dare," she felt tears pricking her eyes. None of this made sense, but she knew a threat when she heard one, and when it came to her baby (because no matter how old he got, he always would be her baby), she wasn't having any of it. "I will kill you. I will buy a gun, and I will hunt you down and blow your face off."
He laughed again. "There is truly nothing like maternal concern. You make me wish I had known my own mother better. But you're in no position to threaten."
She had been listening to the voice and the occasional footsteps, and as they came closer, she took the opportunity to lash out with both legs, kicking as hard as she could. He had neglected to remove her relatively sensible pumps, and she heard a grunt of pain and an uneven shuffle as he staggered back. It made her wish she had worn stilettos.
He swore quietly, in a language she couldn't identify, but she knew cursing when she heard it. "Get close enough and I'll do it again," she warned.
"My mistake," he said in a low, darkly amused tone. "Perhaps I should have tied you tighter."
She was about to reply, feeling she had, for a moment, found the upper hand, but a cold feeling surged up her body, starting at the ankles. It stopped at waist level, tightening around her midsection like an undersized belt, and she found herself paralyzed. She gave a little cry of alarm, and felt a hand close around her throat. The pressure was unpleasant, but not enough to close her airway. "What…what did you…" she gasped.
"You're going to want to try to relax and take deep breaths," he said. "Unfortunately, the blood I need must come directly from your heart. If you don't struggle much, you should survive. But this is going to hurt."
A point of icy pain pierced her chest, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming.