Happy Birthday Monty.

Wicked Witch

The trick, the man thought as he slid the tension wrench into the lock, is knowing just where to push.

It was a good attitude to live by, in his opinion. Every lock, every tumbler, every high-security biometric seal could be cracked. As long as you knew how. Every house, every bank, every office complex and high-rise had some way in, some security flaw a clever thief like himself could exploit.

Not that this was one of those difficult ones. Biting his lower lip beneath his balaclava, the man turned his head just a tad, giving himself a better view down the darkened street as he fiddled with the pick, eyes narrowed in concentration. The lock that held the side door shut was old, with hints of rust creeping in along the edges of the metal. Old and big – it looked like someone had bought it for just that reason, thinking that a bigger, thicker lock would be harder to crack.

It wasn't. The lock clicked after a few seconds, and Roman smirked as the door swung open, silent on freshly-oiled hinges. Putting his tools and the small bottle of oil away, he settled his bag across his shoulders and stepped into the church.

He had to suppress a wince at the sight of the beatific Virgin Mary and the high ceiling designed specifically to make you feel small, as his catholic upbringing reared its ugly head. It was the one legacy of his childhood he hadn't quite managed to do away with, and memories of being bored out of his mind and swiping other children's snacks at Sunday school sprang unbidden to mind. Ignoring the urge to cross himself, he slipped down past the darkened pews, his cane swinging back and forth off one wrist.

It was odd, now that he thought of it. The last time he'd entered a church had been ... what? Ten years ago? Twelve? Long enough to finally forget the words to those mindless chants they'd forced him to learn.

That's not entirely fair, he chided himself, moving to the door that led to what should be the back rooms of the chapel. After all, some of his first thefts had happened in a room much like this one. For all he'd despised the constant sermons and the holier-than-thou back-patting that seemed to make up most of these meetings, this was the classroom where he'd learned that quick, clever fingers would let him put the quarter his mother gave him into a collection plate and come away with three.

And here I am, prodigal and returned, and about to do the biggest job of my career. He had to smile at the irony; he'd spent most of his adult life trying to get as far as he could from a place just like this, and after running halfway around the globe, his feet carried him right back into one of these sanctimonious hell-holes. Well, after all the crap he'd had to put up with, the least the church could do was make sure he was set up for life.

The door to the back rooms was even easier than the last one, and soon Roman found himself skulking past living quarters and storage rooms. He paused for a second, hand hovering over the doorknob to one of the side rooms, ears perked for any sign of movement, before moving on. What he was after wasn't the kind of thing to leave lying around atop some dusty chairs or among some deacon's personal possessions.

The mystery crate, brought to Roman's attention by one of his more unscrupulous contacts, had been shipped from the Vatican to Dubai, had its transport documents faked and replaced, moved onto a plane, flown up to Vladivostok, and finally shipped again, under a new set of falsified documentation, all the way to Japan. None of which made any sense. At least, not for something strictly legal. There were far better ways to move something sensitive, ways that didn't require breaking quite so many customs laws and bribing that many officials. Anything important enough to require this level of secrecy would be much more likely just to be sent by diplomatic courier, set in some sealed pouch along with a representative of the Vatican City. Whatever it was, whoever had sent it wanted it completely under wraps, most likely even from the church itself. For a man like himself, that just made it all the more tempting.

The priest's office door fell to his skills as quickly as the previous ones, opening onto a spartan room with just enough ornamentation to be impressive without making people ask exactly where the church's money was being spent. Books lined the shelves near the messy desk, set opposite a closet filled with cleaning supplies and a particularly moth-eaten coat. It took under a minute to find the safe, hidden – of course – behind a painting of some vaguely religious scene Roman only half-recognized. Grinning, the red-haired man got to work, well-trained fingers ghosting over the safe as he fiddled with the combination lock.

As jaded as he thought he was, he couldn't deny the thrum of anticipation building as he found each piece of the combination. The Vatican wouldn't put this much bother into a pair of holy candlesticks. A text was more likely, some dusty old tome, barely preserved, written in some ancient monk's chicken scratch that showed some historical gobbled gook about church life. Hopefully, some horrid scandal that the church would be happy to to have returned, and that foreign buyers would pay even more dearly to get for themselves. Not that it really mattered. It could be an icon of Saint Peter trimming his toenails for he cared. Judging from the effort that had gone into hiding it, whatever was in that package had to be valuable, precious, and that would mean an even bigger payday for whichever lucky thief managed to get his grubby hands on it.

He had almost found the last number in the combination when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the painting back over the safe and went for the door, only to hear the sound of a key being slid into the lock. For a second, Roman considered just knocking whoever it was over the head and leaving them hog-tied in the office while he left.

Then again, why do all the work here, if they can just do it for me? No reason to put in the extra effort if I don't have to.

By the time the door swung open, the room was completely deserted. Roman watched through the slits in the closet door as a portly man stepped into the office. Muttering to himself and running a hand through his short grey hair, the man Roman could only assume was the priest moved behind the desk and pulled aside the painting. From his hiding spot, Roman watched as he entered the combination, setting it aside in case he needed to get it open again.

He was just about to slip out the closet door, knock the old man over the head, and take whatever he had stashed away when the priest turned, an old, ornate, and very sharp-looking dagger held in his hands. The blade was the length of his forearm, and curved in a way that could only be described as 'wicked.'

Roman went still as a statue as he watched, mind whirling as the priest pulled an old, fire-blackened book from the safe, cradling it in his hands before balancing it under one arm and walking back towards the door of his study. With a click of the lock, he was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hall.

Exactly what kind of priest keeps a dagger in his safe?Roman thought, slipping out of the closet. I'd expect a personal bible, the church accounts, maybe a few naughty pictures of his altar boys. But a dagger?Unless ... maybe that was what had been in the package from the Vatican. It hadn't looked particularly valuable. Then again, maybe someone had used it to shiv some other important person. There was a considerable market for that sort of thing, and the more people killed with it, the higher the payout.

Curiosity piqued, he moved for the door, following the corpulent man's footsteps from the shadows. It wasn't particularly difficult. Inexperience, or just the feeling that he was safe in his own church, kept the priest from checking to see if he was being watched. Add that to the soft carpet beneath his shoes, and Roman could probably dance a tango behind the man without him noticing.

The priest led him out into the church grounds, back behind the building to a small cemetery hidden between a few ragged lines of trees. A small stone mausoleum sat at the back, looking Neolithic and foreboding in the darkness.

Roman hugged the wall of the church as the priest glanced over his shoulder, looking around for anyone who might be watching him. Finding no one, the man muttered something to himself and hauled open the door to the crypt, archaic hinges creaking as he closed it behind him.

It was an easy matter of dripping oil into the hinges before Roman opened the door himself and slid inside. The mausoleum was just as depressing on the inside as it was on the outside, dark, sinister, and smelling of mold and decay.

Voices carried up the stone corridor, and Roman was happy to listen as he tiptoed down the stairs.

"... don't mean to speak out of turn, but do you really think this is a good idea?" someone said, sounding higher than Roman was have expected from the heavyset priest.

"Would you rather leave the Holy Grail to be taken by some false conjurer?" There we go.The second voice was deeper, more formal, tinged with the rhetoric he'd expected. That had to be the priest. And the Holy Grail? If it were true ... that would be the heist of a lifetime. More than retirement money, that would be 'buy a small country with no extradition treaty and rule like a king' money.Ifit were true, and it was a pretty big 'if.'

"I understand, Father, and I agree," the younger voice said, grudging patience tinting his voice. "But, you've already had to use two command seals just to keep that woman from killing us and burning this place to the ground."

"You would give up? Forsake your duty to the Lord?"

"No, of course not. Maybe we could talk to the supervisor? There has to be a way to receive another Servant, one less ... disturbed than this one."

"There is not. Once one is summoned, the container for that Servant is consumed. Our only hope is to use her to defeat another Master, then form a pact with their masterless Servant."

"...you think we have a chance against them?"

"I think we do not have much choice. Not if we want to keep the Grail from falling into unclean hands."

Roman cocked a brow at that. This was making less and less sense the longer he listened. On the one hand, it was unlikely that the Holy Grail actually existed, or at least stillexisted after all this time. And even assuming it did, what the hell would it be doing in Japan or all places? All this about 'Masters' and 'Servants' ... maybe this whole thing was less 'religious intrigue' and more 'creepy priest has a bondage club in his basement.' That would be disappointing. Especially if the package had just been some tawdry secret the church had ransomed from a blackmailer.

No. The Vatican would have just destroyed the evidence, not gone through the trouble of sending it back.

Trying to decide whether to just cut his losses and leave, Roman snuck towards the lit room at the base of the crypt. Edging his head around the corner of the doorway, the thief peered into the room and ...

Holy mother of-

The older priest stood in the center of the room, blood dripping from his hand, falling down onto a circle etched into the floor. Long, archaic writing flowed around the circle's edge, crisscrossed by lines forming a pentagram in the center. The younger man stood beside him, dark brown hair mussed atop his robes, holding the fire-blackened book from the safe in his arms.

Moving as carefully as his heavyset body would let him, the priest reached for the tome. Holding it at arm's length like a serpent, he laid it in the center of the diagram, before stepping back and continuing his inane chanting.

So ... not Orthodox then, Roman thought, and slipped a little further behind the wall. Satanic, maybe? To be fair, that wasn't a bad thing. Disturbing religious artifacts always fetched a high price – no matter who was buying. The desperate thought owning some relic or other might make their afterlife a little bit easier. The uncaring and uninterested just wanted a little piece of history all to themselves.

Easing a little bit further past the wall, Roman caught a better look into the room and shuddered. One wall was drenched in blood, the too-red look of the stains making it pretty damn clear that it wasn't some corn-starch substitute for effect. Wax candles lit the room, balanced of recesses in the walls and littered around the circle's edge. From the new angle, he could just make out a third figure knelt on the opposite side of the circle from the two priests. It was a woman, wearing a black-and-red gown over a body that would definitely look better without it. Low-cut and close-fitting, the dress left little to the imagination. Pitch-black tresses tumbled past her shoulders, the sweep of her hair covering half her face as she knelt, head bowed towards the floor. She was beautiful, and the kind of beautiful that you just knew meant trouble.

Yup. Definitely some kink thing.

Deciding not to judge, Roman was about to leave when the woman's head twitched up. Her eyes were an unnatural molten gold, flickering in the firelight and smoldering with barely controlled rage. Silently, she met his eyes, her gaze piercing through the haze of smoke to meet his own.

Cursing, Roman slipped back behind the wall, ready to make a run for the doorway when he heard a feminine voice call out.

"Free me," she said, the sound a soft, velvety purr.

"Quiet, witch," the younger priest snapped, glaring from across the room.

The witch ignored him, her eyes staring straight through the robed men to the thief hiding behind the bend in the wall. "Free me, and I will promise you all the power the Holy Grail can possess."

Roman pressed himself deeper against the wall. Option one: he could leave, get the hell away from the whole mess, and spend the next few days inside a bottle to make sure he never remembered the sight of the blood-covered crypt again. All he'd have to do is leave. Leave, and forget about whatever payday he could get from whatever this pair of psychopaths was hiding. Or ...

"It can grant any wish, any desire. Anything that you want is yours, so long as your free me from these men."

"Silence woman. We will not be swayed by the blasphemous promises of some heretic conjurer."

Golden eyes sparkled as the woman glanced up at the priest, a small smile playing about her lips. "I was not talking to you."

Eyes wide, the younger priest whirled to face the doorway, just in time to see the heavy end of Roman's cane crash down between his eyes.

"Sorry," Jaune mumbled, waving vaguely around the kitchen. "I'm not exactly sure what you're supposed to do when a mythic hero comes home."

The redheaded woman smiled, and perched atop one of the stools by the counter. Without anything else to do, Jaune had settled on giving her the grand tour of the Arc mansion. Rider acted suitably impressed – although Jaune had no idea how she could find any of this interesting. Not after seeing Greek palaces in all their splendor. She was particularly interested in the microwave and the washing machine.

Apparently, the Grail gave each servant a general idea of the time into which they were summoned. Still, that wasn't the same as actually seeing modern conveniences in use. The idea of a machine that could keep food from spoiling, or wash your clothes on its own ... Jaune kinda got why Rider found them fascinating.

An easygoing smile crossed her face as Rider made room for her helmet atop the cluttered table. "In my time, hosts handed you food, drink, and told you who they needed killed. Trust me, you're doing fine."

"Nice to hear I'm holding up to Greek standards," Jaune said, relived that he wasn't accidentally insulting her by not being a good host. Or was she just being polite? "Are you hungry? We've got plenty of food."

"Thank you. But, I don't actually need to eat," she said. "Not like this."

"Oh ... right. Sorry." Jaune drummed his fingers on the countertop and tried to stop his leg from bouncing. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do. It wasn't every day that you had a mythic Greek hero in your kitchen, wearing full armor and trying to find a place to lean her spear.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Feel free."

"Why do you want the Grail, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, you were a hero. You're famous. As famous as Heracles or any of the other Greek heroes."

"That's kind of you to say, but even heroes have regrets, Jaune."

"Like Patroclus?"

The redheaded woman's jaw tensed at the name, her fingers tightening from reflex around the haft of her spear.

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly. "Among others."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's alright. It is strange to know that the details of your life are common knowledge some millennia after your death."

"Price of being a legend, I guess," he said. "And I wouldn't call them 'common knowledge.' Most people only know about you because of the 'heel' thing."

"My entire life's story is reduced down to my one weakness?"

"No, I mean, it's just the most famous part." "Achilles' heel is famous, but ... I mean, most people think you were a guy, and there's the whole 'hiding as Pyrrha' bit."

Rider laughed, a happy, chirping sound, and Jaune felt his ears go red. "In answer to your question, Jaune of the Arc clan, I would like a second chance. A chance to redo the Trojan War, to protect the people I cared about. Maybe this time, I wouldn't make the same mistakes."

She leaned in with a gentle smile, planting her elbows on the table. "Now, what is your wish for the Holy Grail?"

Jaune froze, his mouth half-open. It wasn't something he generally talked about. Actually, it was something he never talked about, something his family never talked about. Then again ... she had told him her wish for the Grail, more or less. It was only fair her returned the favor.

"My family ... our magic's dying," he managed, glancing down at the ground before he continued. "My grandfather was one of the great mages of his era, and now ... I can barely manage a spell without it blowing up in my face."

"I'm sure you'll make a fine mage someday."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "You'd be the only one."

Brows furrowed, the redhead reach across the table, laying her hand on top of his. "You managed to summon a servant for the Holy Grail war. That is no small feat."

"Winter summoned you. I'm ... I'm just backup. The family representative," he stammered, acutely aware of the flush spreading from his ears to the rest of his face. "She's the real mage. Not me. Hell, the whole reason my grandfather and her dad promised us to each other was so our line wouldn't completely die out."

"Jaune, you're participating in a sacred, age-old battle for an artifact that can alter reality. I doubt most mages can say the same."

"Fair enough, I guess."

"Good. Now, Master," she said, and Jaune was almost surprised that he didn't hear any trace of mocking in her voice. "What is our first move?"

Writer's Note: Please leave a comment, if you can. It's been a blast getting to read the responses so far.

Chapter 6 Preview:

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as Roman ground the tip of his cane against the man's throat, pressing just hard enough to cut off his air.

"Ah ah ah. No talking," he said, wagging his finger at the gasping priest. "I believe you owe me one grail of debatable divinity?"

The figure in black rose from the floor, her long gown swirling about her legs. "Not quite yet. Not while he still lives."

Roman rolled his eyes, letting up on the cane just enough for the man to draw breath. "Fine. Kill him, grind up an eye of newt, whatever you need to do, and let's get out of here."

"Unfortunately for both of us, I can't touch him." The woman moved to stand by Roman's side, staring down at the suffocating father in abject disgust and fury. "Not as long as he has that seal."

"So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she said, looking over at him as if he'd asked the dumbest question in the world. "Either slit his throat with the knife he was so kind to bring you, or cut off his hand and let me do the honors."