Warning: This chapter contains strong themes such as drug use, sexual encounters, and human trafficking. If you are against these themes, do not proceed.
Chapter XIV
Cold winds are blowing from northern mountains.
Inside a truck, six figures are similarly dressed in the cult's preferred fashion. Men wear black hooded robes with a silver brooch at the throat. The women, despite the raging winter season, wear strapless corset dresses with straps across the length of their thighs. They all wear black butterfly masks, akin to the masks used in a masquerade. Huddled together in the dimness of the truck, their breaths smoking in front of their faces, they remain silent and ignore each other's presence.
Valtiel tucks her frozen fingers underneath her bare thighs. She shivers, teeth chattering, though she tries her best not to seem affected by the cold. The people around her are unaffected, so why should she? Besides, the Phantom Troupe is on a mission tonight, and they are kind enough to let her participate. Tonight, there are no room for mistakes−unless she wants Feitan's claws around her neck.
The truck stops all of a sudden. One of the cultists opens the back of the truck and nods to everyone inside. Like them, he wears black all over, from the overcoat and boots. Instead of a butterfly mask, he has a plague doctor's pointed bird-like mask. He gestures for them to exit the truck, one-by-one, assisting the women while practically ignoring the men.
A small stone church stands inside a crevice of two mountains. Snow swirls in the wind, whipping their robes and skirts. The cultist leads the new group towards the church's entrance, where another masked cultist waits for them. Beneath the leather coat and the ominous mask, Valtiel could not tell whether they are male or female.
As she approaches the entrance, she feels a familiar touch on the small of her back. His fingers are careful not to touch the exposed skin there. Her breath hitches at the sudden touch, but her expression does not flicker as they step together towards the cultist.
"Do you have anything to declare?" the cultist demands, his voice rugged like a bear.
"Indeed." Her companion produces a familiar canvas from underneath his robes. It is a painting of a seven-headed dragon, its wide mouth open to swallow a blazing golden sun. He hands it over to the cultist with a smooth movement, like the experienced thief that he is.
"Go ahead, my brother and sister." The cultist raps his knuckles on the wooden door. It opens, another bird-masked man gesturing for them to enter. "Enjoy the show and the auction."
"Thank you," Chrollo answers, polite as always.
The flagstone pathway makes their footsteps resonate throughout the dim hallway. Torches mounted in iron sconces serve as the only means of light in the place, and warmth. Valtiel is utmost glad to be out of the snow and not shivering in these ridiculous clothes. She reaches out for Chrollo, in spite of him being too silent and ignoring her for most of the journey. Her fingers clutch at his dark sleeves, pulling themselves flush against each other, her white breath coming in short bursts.
Chrollo only laughs under his breath.
At the end of the hallway, another cultist blocks the way. He nods once at Chrollo's direction and undoes the locking mechanism on the door. The pair steps inside.
The auction would take place in an underground operating theater. The circular room boasts of an ancient brass chandelier, tiered cushioned seats, torches and candle stands. A wide arena is at the very bottom of the room, a platform raised and black curtains to match. A lone pendulum clock stands somewhere near Valtiel's right. A number of people have already arrived, chattering and sipping from wine glasses. All of them are dressed in the same fashion as the new group, though some had taken the liberty to wear fur-trimmed coats to ward off the chill.
Chrollo leads Valtiel to a pair of empty seats, at the right side of the room. It is close enough for them to watch the auction, and it is also close to the exit should troubles arise.
A woman server in the same corset dress and garter belts bends low at Chrollo's face to offer him champagne. Her green eyes glitter beneath her plague doctor's mask.
Smiling, Chrollo accepts the offered drink without a word. The woman frowns before she offers the same drink to the elderly man seated behind Chrollo and Valtiel.
"Can you see them?" Valtiel asks.
Her finger fiddles with the outer layer of her skimpy dress, made of thick lace and tulle. She looks around the theatre with disgusted curiosity, evading her eyes when a woman goes down on the stranger in front of her. The other cultists are just as bad, in her opinion, old perverted men smoking and chittering like pigs in a barn. When her eyes land to the far corner of the room, golden meeting blue, she sighs in relief and relaxes against the Spider leader.
"I saw Machi-san."
"Good. They should be close by." Chrollo spots Machi and Nobunaga on the left side of the room, also acting like couples. Then, far below them, near the platform, are Pakunoda and Yuan, pressed so close together one would assume they are also another couple present to enjoy the show.
"I am not excited about this."
"You are not?" There is a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He sets his champagne down. "How come? I had thought you would enjoy being here. It is a change of atmosphere from fancy hotels and restaurants, hm?"
"It is not," she counters, firm and stubborn.
The place is an epitome of corruption in every corner: young, beautiful women exchanging drug packets, young adult men groping a single woman, another young man half-naked as he slits his wrist with a blade.
Valtiel shudders at the scenes unfolding before her, thoughts unable to process such acts. Though she has never seen anything quite like this, does Chrollo really think she would enjoy herself watching these people? She peeps at his face, and he looks like he is actually enjoying the degradation spreading around them. He even manages a small smile. The bastard.
Her eyes wander towards her near left, where another woman is on her knees before a man, her head bobbing up and down between his legs. When the woman's head comes up, Valtiel sees a hint of flesh glistening with saliva under the chandelier's light.
"I need a tall glass of holy water after this."
The Troupe leader laughs behind his hand.
"What's so funny?"
"You are," he says with an earnest smile. His eyes follow where the woman is still occupied with the man. As if on cue, her magenta eyes slide to look at Chrollo. She licks her lips. He merely smiles back.
Then he wraps an arm around Valtiel's shoulders and pulls her closer to him, her head almost brushing his chest. She stiffens against him and looks up with a confused expression. "Keep your eyes on me instead, why don't you, sweetheart?"
Suddenly, the old man behind them jerks. His champagne spills over his knees, the glass shattering. Given the noise and the constant low humming from the guests, no one notices him but for the young pair.
He bends down, his head between Chrollo and Valtiel. Intimately, he whispers in their ears. "I have never seen so young and beautiful a pair come here," he observes, his breath stinking from the various drinks he has already tasted. He hiccups and belches, breath still ghosting over their ears. "What made you come?"
Chrollo has a polite smile prepared, as always. "We are admirers of what the Lord does here."
The man winks. "Ah, I know what you mean. He is the most gracious of all," he slurs, and then turns his gaze on Valtiel, whose attention is firmly glued towards the empty platform. "And you, my dear?"
"I have strange hobbies," comes her well-thought lie. She smiles at the man, and over his head, she could see Chrollo grinning at her. "My husband likes indulging me most of the time."
"Interesting." The man bobs his head in a sleepy nod and backs down to his seat.
"Perhaps next time I should just stay behind," Valtiel hisses in Chrollo's ear, none too pleased with the attention they are getting. She clutches his forearm while his hand pats her bare knee, as if to comfort her. She is about to bark a snide comment when the theater suddenly blacks out.
The crowd gasps in excitement. Then a single candle flame dances at the very center of the platform. A higher-ranking cultist, his overcoat black but his mask golden, stands there. He raises the hand that carries the candle. As if on cue, two long lines of cultists emerge behind the black curtains and carry torches high above their heads. They saunter towards the audience, the women flaunting their smooth and long legs over the male audience, while the men fumble at their robes and open them down to their navels, revealing hard muscles, enticing the young female audience.
One man spots Valtiel and ambles toward her with a sly smirk playing beneath his mask. With his right hand, he undoes the brooch at his throat and the robe falls open, sliding over a muscled shoulder in the process. He does not acknowledge Chrollo's presence as he kneels down before Valtiel, his free hand slowly reaching for her thigh, their eyes locked together in a sensual contact.
Chrollo's hand darts out beneath his sleeves and clutches the man's wrist. "No, thank you."
The man shrugs and lights the torch nearest to them. He leaves without so much another glance.
"Are you okay?" Chrollo asks, all gentle and tender and−
"No," Valtiel snaps, all narrowed eyes and a growl. "I am not. This place is sick."
"Troupe members do not complain of the mission given to them, or the role assigned to them," he says with a slight frown. His eyes are back on the platform, where the host creates fascinating displays with the flames. "You are the first one to complain to me, and you're not even one of my men."
"That's why I complain a lot," she points out, a little elated with the arguing. Nothing lifts her mood but a good debate, perhaps with some snide comments and trash talk. And also chocolate. The cultists are too primitive not to be serving chocolate to their guests. "How long until our target item shows up?"
"It is the last I believe," he says. "So you would have to sit through the show until the end."
"Oh, joy." She slumps back on her seat, arms folded across her chest, and shivers again.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs.
"I'm fine, Danchou."
The host starts the program with a prayer spoken in a different language. Some of the audience pray along, though some−the five Spiders included−are content in watching and listening to the words. Like a cat, Valtiel perks in her seat and blinks. She purses her lips and glances at Chrollo, but he is too engrossed in listening that he must have not noticed her staring. She sighs as the prayer finishes. The host tucks his candle to a nearby iron stick and with a sweep of his robes, starts the auction with the first items.
Two male cultists push a large silver cart towards the center of the platform. Above the cart is a naked young woman with leather straps crisscrossing her petite body. A black kerchief muffles her cries for help. The quick, panicked darting of her purple eyes makes the crowd chitter with laughter.
Valtiel stiffens in her seat. Beside her, Chrollo leans his elbows on his knees and inches forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the host says. "For our first item, we have this delicate desert flower from the plains of Fuen Desert. She was acquired through careful means, so as not to damage her porcelain skin or her delicate health. As you can see, she has the loveliest eyes amongst her people−"
At this statement, Chrollo laughs.
"You may choose to keep her inside the cage, for it is free−" The crowd snickers−"Or you may choose to keep her on a leash, walk it around your manors as your personal pet, play dress-up games with her, or you can sell the parts of her body that do not interest you. The starting bid is 100 million."
"150 million!"
"210 million!"
"300 million!"
Meanwhile, Valtiel could not take her eyes off the struggling woman. Another shudder runs down her spine as she watches the woman plead for mercy, her pale face stricken with fear. Then she has to wonder: what if she is in that situation? What if these monsters are selling her to another monster? She already feels exposed in her corset dress. What more if these monsters parade her on a cart, naked and weeping?
Below her, a young man wins the bid with 500 million. The male cultists lead the weeping woman backstage again, disappearing behind the black curtains.
The next item wheels onto the platform. Another woman, this time dressed in fiery robes. According to the host, she is a princess of a sun-worshipping tribe on a mountain. Unlike the first woman, she meets the audience's grins with a defiant sneer of her own, her black eyes catching the glint of the candles. The same male cultists strip the elegant robes off her, layer-by-layer, tantalizing and slow. Still, the princess stands on her dignity, never flinching even as the last garment slips from her bronze skin. The bid starts at 900 million, sending the crowd into a flurry of higher bids.
Valtiel feels her stomach drop after each item. She despises the pageantry, but her curiosity overwhelms her. She suffers through five or six more items, all of them people, either dead or alive. The live ones sell the most, while the dead are chopped into portions and offered separately to the eager guests.
When the host brings out young twin boys, she wants to get out of there.
"Excuse me." She stands abruptly, but Chrollo's hand in hers stops her. "I am going to the bathroom."
"But of course, darling." He smiles, feeling the weight of the old man's stare bore through them. "Be quick."
"For you, I will be." Her lace skirts billow outwards as she finds the nearest way to the backstage restroom.
The backstage is dark and damp, with the chilly winds entering through a lone round window. Only few are stationed here, she notices, either guarding the platform and curtains or keeping watch. One of the tall cultists break off from the group and trudges toward her. Like the princess, Valtiel stands straight and defiant, her glare meeting the man's black eyes. He roughly grabs her and whisks her to a dark corner. He pulls his bird-like mask over his face.
She sighs in relief. "Oh, Phink-san."
He nods, looking down on her nervous face. "Yeah, who'd you think I was?"
"Fei-san." Lord save her should Feitan catch her sneaking around during the mission.
"Feitan? This tall?" He snickers.
Her cheeks flush at the realization. "I... didn't mean it like that..."
Phinks grins broadly and pats her head. "Nah, you're good, doll face. Fei's busy keeping tabs on the items. Our target should show up sooner or later." He blinks, lips pursed to the side, as if there is something he does not understand. "So, what're you doing down here, kid?"
"I wanted to go to the bathroom."
"Oh, I see." He smirks, haughty. "The old bathroom excuse, huh?"
Her cheeks flush in shame. "Of course not! I really do have to use the bathroom. Show me where it is."
He taps his chin thoughtfully. "Fine, fine, fine. You're on the wrong side of the backstage though. The bathroom is on the other side, just by the end of the hallway. You should be able to notice it."
She pats his arm as thanks and moves along. She makes eye contact with two more masked figures, and when one of them winks behind his mark, she knows for sure she spotted Shalnark and Feitan. She smiles back and follows Phinks's instructions, passing by another group of cultists getting ready to bring the newest item. In her peripheral vision, she sees it is another pair of twins, young boys yowling like puppies. She shakes her head and then bumps onto someone.
The young man is equally flustered, holding her forearm to guide her balance. He speaks in a rapid undertone, in the language only half of the audience could understand.
She realizes that she knows the language, and answers the man's constant apologies. "Jeg brehar." I am fine. And then another realization hits her: he is the same cultist who had danced before her earlier.
He looks equal parts surprised and amused. Again, he chatters in his language.
"Jeg ter bedetter," she answers his question. I am looking for the bathroom.
"Elo ten, elo ten." This way, this way. He leads her behind the platform and shows her the dark alley that leads to the bathroom. Contrasting his seductive demeanor before, he is warm. He still wears his costume, but his mask his gone, revealing quite a handsome, friendly face. "Nidh her." In here.
"Nae stakk." Thank you. She enters the bathroom and pulls the butterfly mask off her face. The black strings come undone, along with the ribbon that holds her hair together. Platinum blonde hair falls in loose ringlets over her shoulders and across the length of her back.
Ignoring her face, she starts pawing at her eyes until she could see white spots. She paws at them as if she could erase the images of the women and the twins being auctioned like animals for butcher. She washes her face with the freezing water, returns her mask, and goes outside to see the young man still waiting for her.
Still in his language, he introduces himself as Jørn. He calls one of the female servers and offers Valtiel a cup of coffee, since he notices her shivering under her dress.
Grateful for his kindness, Valtiel takes a sip and warms her fingers on the mug. She starts asking him about himself, making friends in such a place, and receives honest answers from Jørn. Then, curiosity taking over, she asks about the auction itself−who funds the event, why are they doing this, why in such a crude and dehumanizing manner.
Jørn shrugs his shoulders and explains that it is has been going on for decades. He has no idea who pulls the strings behind, and that he wouldn't have participated if not for the high salary he receives for simply removing his robes for the guests.
A cart passes before them, carrying a dead man's chopped limbs, painted in gold-and-silver, and on its way to the platform.
He senses Valtiel's repulsion and lets her in a little secret. His mouth on her ear, he whispers words he should not be telling her, for it would cost him his job. More importantly, it would cost him their lives. But he whispers on, one eye on his colleagues, who are too occupied flitting about. He pulls back when he finishes, nodding at her horrified expression.
She excuses herself and purposely bumps onto Phinks's large build.
"Woah! Careful, Val." Phinks steadies her with his hands on her shoulder. He peers down on her face and blinks at the glazed look in her golden eyes. "What's the matter?"
"It's a trap!" she whispers in a panic, clutching at his chest too tight. "Jørn says everything is a trap. We must go or−I don't know−but it is a trap!"
Phinks goes straight to the most important detail. "Who the hell is Jørn?"
Shalnark and Feitan appear beside Phinks. "Any problems?" the former asks.
"It's a trap!" Valtiel grabs Shalnark's hand and leads him on the platform's corner. The layers of black curtains hide them from the audience. She turns his head upwards and points to a projector mounted on the ceiling. "That is the trap. Jørn says the projector does all the work around here; it shows the items, but they are not really here. He says…" She pauses, uncertain. "He says it's called Nen."
"What the shit," Feitan grumbles under his bandana.
"Are you certain?" Shalnark asks. He hums and keeps staring at the projector. "What else did he say?"
"That everyone here is in danger," she answers, feeling fear creep into her system. She presses herself closer to Shalnark. At least he would not mind the closeness, unlike the grumpy Feitan or the easily flustered Phinks. "The projector makes images of the items that are not here. It's a trap."
"Well, your information is dubious at best," Shalnark rules, "but it is not too over the moon. You're right that a Nen user probably can conjure images and make the viewers believe them. Our mission is compromised then. Too bad." He sighs and scratches the back of his head.
"Should us move to Plan B?" Feitan asks.
"Plan B, indeed," Shalnark beams.
"You go back to Danchou," Phinks says to Valtiel. "Things will get bloody after this. You don't want to be in the backstage when that happens. Believe me." He grins. "And tell Danchou we're compromised. That should give the two other pairs a heads-up."
"Okay. Will you be all right?"
Feitan rolls his eyes. "We the Spiders. They should be the ones worried."
She sighs. "Fine. Just do not kill Jørn. Please. I owe it to him."
Phinks waves his hand in goodbye. When she is out of earshot, he bends down to Feitan's height and whispers, "Who the hell is Jørn?"
Back in the theater, Valtiel spots Machi and Nobunaga and wonders to herself if she should warn them as she did to the others. But then she feels someone's intense gaze on her and decides to head back to her seat. This is the mission of the Phantom Troupe. They can handle whatever problems might arise. As long as she would stick close to any of them, she should be fine.
The old man keeps staring at her with his black piggy eyes.
As she sinks into her cushioned seat, she hears Chrollo's soft voice.
"Kiss me on the cheek," he says in a barely audible voice.
She just blinks at him, uncomprehending.
His gaze on the show never flickers. "Just do it."
Quietly, she leans over his seat and plants a soft kiss on his left cheek. As she intends to pull away, Chrollo turns towards her, brushing their noses together, flashing her a tender smile. She stares in his dark eyes, drowning in them. Again, she leans close and kisses his cheek, sliding her lips across smooth skin until she could whisper in his ear.
"We're compromised," she says tersely. "Shal-san has decided we should move to Plan B."
"I see." He nods and pulls back. His thumb plays across her bottom lip. "You are too sweet to me tonight, my love."
"Am I not always sweet?" The words are too sweet for her own good. She wants to vomit them, but holds still. The old man is watching them; he is listening to every word said, he is noting every touch. She could tell Chrollo is enjoying putting a fake show, but whether for her discomfort or the old man's annoyance, she could not tell. Perhaps a mixture of both.
Down below, the host introduces a young man with milk-white skin and stark black hair.
Chrollo's eyes search for Machi in the crowd. He finds her, and it only takes a brief second for them to understand the next course of action. He searches for Pakunoda or Yuan next. It is Yuan's electric-blue eyes he finds. He nods to him as well and watches as Yuan whispers something in Pakunoda's ear. The blonde woman reaches for the gun stashed underneath her skirts.
Around them, the crowd keeps bidding for the item.
Suddenly, a man on the right side unsheathes his katana and slashes a circle around him. The crowd barely has the time to understand what is happening when the woman next to the man jumps up and curls her hand into a fist. People jerk upwards to the ceiling, suspended by invisible threads. Nobunaga rips the ridiculous bird costume off him and starts waving his sword, cutting down people as easy as cutting grass. Machi's other fist tightens, sending another group of people soaring to the ceiling.
The people are shouting and panicking in earnest now. They push and bump onto each other, regardless of their previous activities. They try to exit through the door at the top, but it opens and Uvogin enters. Seeing the strange face, the crowd hesitates to climb any further−when they hear gunshots from the arena. Again, they scream in terror as Pakunoda guns down most of the guests seated at the front. Like ants, they scatter across the entire arena, all desperate to get out.
Yuan takes the platform and holds the candlestick with one hand. Slowly, his bronze skin turns black and hardens. It consumes his entire body, even his face, though his eyes remain the same electric-blue and his hair silver. In this new form, he batters the guests with ease, breaking their bones and smashing them against the wooden platform, destroying it in the process.
Shalnark and his team emerge from behind the curtains and take part in the massacre. As usual, Phinks and Feitan are on a competitive mood and are betting as to which one gets the most kills. Uvogin jumps from the top stairs to the arena and joins the game, tearing people down like paper dolls.
Not one to be left behind, Chrollo stands from his chair, though he does not participate in the killings. He removes his black coat and smooths down the tuxedo ensemble he wears underneath. With a reassuring smile at Valtiel, he goes past the curtains and rummages for anything he could find interesting.
The carnage continues to enfold before her very eyes. Valtiel sits back, hands on her lap. She tries not to think of much as she watches the Phantom Troupe do its wonders−what the world knows them to be. She could not stomach the wet squelch of blood or the horrified screams as Feitan breaks necks one after the other. Even Machi, as tall and petite as Valtiel, murders the guests without a hint of repulsion in her face.
Someone falls back behind her seat. She turns around to see the old man scrambling towards her, limping on his wounded legs, his pudgy fingers seeking purchase on her high heels and skirts. His unaccounted strength and heaviness makes Valtiel fall to the ground, the man on top of her, with his breath fanning over her face. How many times does she have to endure men and their perverse ideas? How many times does she have to suffer them all, weak and helpless that she already is?
She backs away from him while he advances on his hands and knees. The very image makes her shudder as she keeps backing away. In this carnage, in this wildness, no one would hear her scream. Perhaps no one would even help her; she might have known them from Meteor City, but she is no Spider. The Phantom Troupe would not even notice if she dies amongst the crowd tonight. The thought alone saddens her, distracts her even, that the old man finally reaches at her skirts and rips the fabric into ribbons.
Valtiel slams her back against the massive clock. The glass cage shatters into thousands of shards. The brass hour and minute hands detach from the mechanism.
The old man keeps crawling towards her like a man possessed. Her previous encounter with the Prince of Kakin sends tidals waves of fear and horror in her system that she desperately snatches for the hour hand and embeds it deeply into the flabby flesh of the man's neck.
She could feel every pump of adrenaline in her veins as the man's body lightens, his head lolling awkwardly and bloody. Trembling, she backs away to the nearest wall and hugs her knees.
What have I done? What have I done?
I killed him. Look. I killed him, Danchou.
Where are you? Please. I killed someone.
The crowd suspended in Machi's threads keep squirming. At last, the Spider decides enough and opens her fist. The threads slash through the bodies and cut their limbs in uneven portions. A rain of warm blood showers upon them all, and Uvogin actually basks in the rain.
Thus ends the one-sided massacre.
Nobunaga finds Valtiel curled up on the wall, staring at a man's lifeless body. "You okay, brat?"
Her bangs fall across her eyes as the samurai crouches beside her. "Nobu-san…?"
"Yeah. What happened here?" He follows when her sight lands on the dead man. From the way the brass hourhand sticks from the throat, he does not need an answer from her. Instead, he pats her hair like a puppy. "Good job there, kid! I knew you had it in you. Oi, Uvo! Look at this!"
"Stop bullying her," Uvogin chides, arms over his chest. Blood stains the bearskin draped over his shoulder. Even his spiky grey hair has a hint of red at the tips. "She already looks like shit. Stop rubbing it in her face, you mean bastard."
"Who said anything about bullying her?!" Nobunaga fumes. "I meant look at that guy over there! Pretty dead, huh? Guess who killed him?" he singsongs, poking Valtiel on the arm. "This one right here!"
"Oh!" Uvogin's hazel eyes sparkle as he crouches down too. "That's awesome, kiddo!"
"Val killed someone?" Shalnark approaches them. Machi and Pakunoda trail behind. He claps his hands, excited as the two other Spiders are. "Cool! This calls for a celebration!"
"I call dibs on teaching her how to kill!" Uvo cackles.
"And I'll teach her more creative ways to gut someone," Nobunaga adds.
"We not even finished yet," Feitan scolds, standing beside Yuan. "We not have our target item."
"We kind of spared the host," Phinks adds, sheepish. "Should we interrogate him or what?"
Shalnark grunts and joins his team members with the battered host on the platform. Nobunaga follows next, Machi and Pakunoda shrugging and following. Uvogin helps Valtiel to her unsteady feet, seeing that she is stumbling from either exhaustion or fright, he carries her on his arm and joins the others.
The eight Spiders surround the host, while Valtiel sits on the nearest bench.
Phinks kicks the host to his back and presses a foot on his neck. "Where are the items, punk?"
"Let me," Pakunoda intercedes. She kneels beside the host and touches his wrist. "The items are hidden somewhere else, are they not? Where? And your master−who is he?" She smiles to herself. "Oh, I see it now. Very well, then. Phinks, do the honors."
"Gee, thanks."
Valtiel closes her eyes, but she still hears the deafening crack of skull. When she opens them again, she sees Chrollo emerging from the backstage, one hand in his pocket.
Unlike them, who had been showered by Machi's ceiling corpses, the Spider leader remains clean and composed, no hair out of place, a smile always present. Only when he notices the blood on Valtiel's thighs and the tears in her eyes does he seem concerned. He kneels on the floor in front of her.
"What happened to you?"
"I killed someone," she sobs, more tears flowing down her bloodstained cheeks. She paws at her eyes, desperately wiping away the tears. "I am sorry−I didn't mean−It was an accident. I am so sorry."
Chrollo glances at everyone, who inch forward to them. Everyone looks concerned as well. He proceeds to remove his black coat and puts it over her bare shoulders. "Don't be sorry. You did well. I am proud of you."
She looks at him through her tears, aghast.
Pakunoda clears her throat. "I know where the items are," she announces. "There's a manor at the other side of the mountain. According to his memories, his boss has the ability to emit images through a conjured projector. The boss has to see the images live and transmit them to the projector. Everything we saw on stage is the transmitted images. The rest are props."
"We should get going then." Nobunaga scratches his beard.
"Yeah. Let's go. This weather is freezing my butt," Uvogin complains with a large yawn.
"You have no butt," Feitan mumbles.
"What?! Say that again to my face, shrimp!"
"I said nothing."
"I heard something!"
While the two Spiders are bickering, Machi slows down and turns back to their leader.
"Danchou," she calls out to earn his attention. She does, but only briefly. His attention is focused on his bloodstained Kurta. Dressed in black skimpy clothes, she looks like a doll to Machi. She has to wonder if Danchou is worried that his little plaything is broken over a traumatizing massacre. "Are you coming along?"
"I think not," he answers at length. He takes Valtiel's hand and guides her to stand up. "Perhaps we would sit this one out. I am sure Shalnark and the others would understand."
We. Machi does not like the sound of that.
"Is she hurt?" Her blue eyes study the other's figure. In her trained eyes, nothing seems to be out of place.
"She's shaken, that's all. I will take her back to base with Franklin and the others."
"Ah, that is probably the best." Machi walks beside them and notes how the Danchou is gentle towards the Kurta. She could not remember the last time he is like this. Is he always this gentle? No−Danchou is playing the part of an affectionate man. Behind his charming smiles lies a very dangerous predator.
Once outside, the Spiders split into two groups: one going to the mountains and one going to base.
For this mission, the Phantom Troupe is staying in a large hunter's lodge in the far side of the snow-capped village. The winter season in this country falls heavy, all snows for hours on end. One cannot recognize the pathway, and the thickness of the snow does not allow vehicles through. The villagers are buried deep up to their torso. The farm animals are tucked away in the barns.
With half of the Spiders gone to retrieve the target item, the lodge is fairly peaceful and quiet. Franklin sits on the corner of the living room, one big arm over the window's ledge. He keeps watching the drifting snows, traces a large finger on the frost dancing across the glass. Bonolenov has found a flute somewhere in the dead hunter's stash, and is playing quite a melodious tune. Kortopi sits cross-legged by the fire as he cranes his neck and gazes upon the animal heads mounted on the walls. Omokage, smirking to himself, sits nearby another window and sews a new ragdoll together.
Chrollo idles in the living room for a few minutes. Sipping from his cup of coffee, he joins Kortopi in admiring the taxidermy present−heads of deer and buffalo, a preserved body of a red fox, a raccoon's claws, and a blue-eyed wolf's torso. There are small birds lined up on the shelf above the fireplace.
After waiting a while, Chrollo goes to the second floor and heads straight to his bedroom shared with Valtiel. He lets himself in without preamble. The room is spacious and warm, equipped with a smaller fireplace and a bearskin carpet. A preserved body of a peregrine falcon is mounted on the wall above their bed.
He blinks when he does not find her on the bed or by the window. Hearing the constant splashing from the small bathroom, he puts his coffee down and decides to check on her.
The bathroom door is wide open. There is a naked Valtiel curled up on the floor, the water pattering down on her. Like a woman possessed, she keeps rubbing and clawing at every inch of her skin. She scratches deep, forming long red scratches over alabaster skin. Her platinum blonde hair is a damp mess over her naked shoulders and back. She does not stop even as Chrollo rushes to her side, kneeling on the damp floor, having the cold water soak him from head to toe.
"Val−" He tries to pry her nails off her skin, but she scratches on, more distressed now. He tries again, putting more force in his touch and more authority in his voice. "Valtiel, that is enough."
"No, Danchou. I must," she insists, sniffling. She snatches her wrist from his grip and scratches there, adding more red lines. Her tears mingle with the water. "Can't you see? I am covered with blood. I see so much blood. I can't see anything else… I have to be clean… I have… I must, Danchou…"
"You're not covered in blood," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. "Valtiel−"
"I killed him," she hisses. She reaches out for her thighs and rakes long nails over the inner skin there. She sobs as she pats water to her skin, washing away the invisible blood. "I killed the man behind us, the old pervert… It was an accident. I didn't mean to…"
"Of course you did not," he agrees in a quiet voice. His dark eyes carefully look away from her exposed body. He fetches a towel and wraps it around her. "You never meant to kill anyone I know that. Remember what we talked about before? About compromising? You did that. You took care of yourself and the problem. And for that I am proud, so proud of you." He kisses her forehead, then her closed eyes.
"But I killed him," she mumbles, too weak to fight as he carries her out of the shower.
"You did. I am proud you're not relying on me that much," he says, implicating an old joke between them. "Come. Let's go to bed."
He lies her on the mattress, still wrapped in a towel like a baby in her swaddling clothes. He sits at arm's length away from her, resting her legs over his lap. "You were having a cold shower in the height of the winter season. Are you asking to have a cold or something?"
She shakes her head, tired. Her skin is hurting and stinging. "I just wanted to wash the blood away."
He chuckles and pats her legs. "And you did. You're already clean."
"Am I?"
"Absolutely."
"Good." Her head rests against the headboard. "I am tired."
Chrollo leaves her for another ten minutes, giving her the privacy to change clothes and perhaps think of what has happened in the shower. He leans against the wall outside their room, thoughts ever drawn to the sight of Valtiel naked on the bathroom floor. He wonders why she is not at least disturbed that he saw her like that. Is it due to her trauma? That her concerns are elsewhere rather than worrying about decency? He shrugs to himself and enters the room again.
Valtiel is already on her side of the bed, and now dressed in the silk pajamas he had stolen for her en route to this village. She sniffles quietly as the Spider head joins her under the covers.
They do not speak for a while. Instead, they listen to the powerful howling of the wind outside. It rattles the window from its panels, and it threatens to give way. They listen to the fire cackling in the hearth. They listen to each other breathing.
"How did you know the language?" he asks after another minute of silence.
"One of your books."
His eyebrows knit together. "Which one?"
She rises and reaches over his body, fetching one of the many hardbound books still untouched on the bedside table. She rests her cheek on his left shoulder as she hands him the book. "It's a children's fairy tale story of a dragon-king and a knight," she whispers. "It's very good."
He flips through the first pages. It is a picture book depicting a green-and-black dragon spitting flames of black-and-gold. "And you knew by simply reading this?"
"No. Only that your book reminded me that I know the words."
"But how did you know in the first place?"
"I don't know." She shrugs, and then a look of worry crosses her tired face. "…Is that not normal?"
"It means you are talented," he assures her and returns the book to its rightful place with the others. He turns the lamp off and tucks the blanket under their chins, his other arm draped over Valtiel's waist. "And how did you know it was a trap?"
"Oh, Jørn told me."
In the room's darkness, his eyes blink. "Who?"
She shifts in his arms, so that her nose is almost against his neck, inhaling his scent. "The man who danced before me," she mumbles, already very sleepy. "I am sure you remember him."
"Oh. Of course I do."
"I hope he got away from the massacre. He was very kind to me."
Chrollo falls silent. Then he feels her body lighten against his, her breathing becoming faint. He stares at the frost-covered window and watches the snow falling harder. In the back of his mind, he could not bring it to his heart to tell her that he was the one who killed Jørn.
Author's Notes: Three cheers for the Spiders for being the best supporters when it comes to murder! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!
Extra posessive Chrollo is 👌.
So! I gave a little warning about this chapter's events at the start. I wanted to show the darker, more vulgar side of the Phantom Troupe since we all know that they are not above murdering parents and children and gouging their eyes out. Drugs, human trafficking, and maybe even some prostitution are some things that I can see the Troupe partaking in. I wanna say "Poor, Val" but our girl had it coming when she tagged along with them.
Since I missed replying to everyone's kind reviews the last time, get ready for a long reply!
*xenocanaan - Thank you! That monk's words will surely come back to bite Danchou in the ass. Spoiler! Haha, just kidding!
*Dontcha - Why, thank you! This is such a sweet review! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! If you have suggestions, please let me know!
*Luminaaa - Glad you liked the rewriting memory ability! Thank you so much for thr review!
*Happy New Year - Thank you!
*Amy - Paku, you sneaky little minx! And you're not a big fan of Omokage, eh? Yeah, I understand. Me neither. This guy is good at making people feel uncomfortable. And Danchou being more attached...? *wink wonk*
*AwkwardBlackCat - Thank you! I always love reading long reviews! Now that you've mentioned that Kurapika's alive (and he certainly is!), I can somehow imagine how he will rage when he finds out that Val's been hanging out with the Spiders all this time. Haha! I'm not sure whether to feel sorry for Chrollo or what.
*belladu57 - Thank you for the review!
*Minato - Ooh! Hisoka?! Our resident magician won't be around for a few good chapters... but in my opinion, since Val is good at handling people, who knows? She might be able to handle Hisoka while Hisoka will probably flirt with Val just to make Chrollo's blood boil. Oh well! And thanks for reviewing!
*mpepper1023 - Wow, thank you! It's nice that you love the story! I just hope you won't get in trouble for reading this while working. Haha!