"I'm s-sorry, you asked if they 'have faith'?" The major wearing the red jacket at the end of the banquet table asked, taken aback.
Edwin Barnes slowly turned, his plastic mouth wobbling in mockery. "I-I'm s-sorry, d-did I stutter?" He asked caustically.
The major's slouching body straightened.
The ripple of discomfort spread out and crept up the backs of the bishop and the minister who sat to either side. They were attentive. Fearful.
As they should be.
"I-I beg your pardon, lord Barnes, I'm a simple soldier - my men will be sufficient, carefully chosen for the task, at that! They won't shirk from their, ah, 'duties', let's say." The major said with a conspiratorial wink.
It found no purchase with his patron.
"I will repeat the question. Will they be solid in their conviction when facing down monsters?" Edwin Barnes asked, staring the major down whilst he sat. Even though the banquet hall's window stood tall behind Barnes and allowed the dying sunlight to creep in, its warm glow did not reach his shoulders.
"Well, if we've permission to deploy two pieces... absolutely. Sitting behind the shield of one of those beauties makes you feel like Christ himself." Major Evans said with relish, the corners of his obsequious smile hidden beneath the dark mutton chops of his beard.
"What, nailed to a cross?" Barnes asked, his jibe followed by a sycophantic chuckle from minister Pembrooke - and a surge of something from bishop Thomas. Raw, nervous... anger. That was most unexpected, at this juncture.
Most undesirable.
"Ah, excuse the idiom, lord," The major smiled apologetically, his eyes darting to the jowly minister in his brass buttoned coat, "So long as it's sanctioned, they'll cut 'em to ribbons."
"And it is sanctioned, isn't it, Penwood?" Barnes asked.
"Ah, it's Pembrooke, sir." Pembrooke corrected, his expression defaulting to withdrawn fear when he realised his mistake.
Barnes' gloved fingers gripped the table with an audible creak, caught between glutting on the despair that radiated from Pembrooke or venting his anger on the fat, bald little man.
"The moment your name is worth something, I'll commit it to memory, now," Barnes said, "Answer my question."
"I-if I'm not mistaken, the police have been bought and paid for, as for the Crown, w-well, with the depth of your coffers we can convince them - those few that are compos mentis, I mean - convince 'em of the good being done here. Rapid renovation of a condemned building, we could say? W-we could always spin it towards the vanquishing of your- ahem, monsterkind? Certainly it might encourage vigilance but if operations were to cease for a month, lie low...? We could even suggest that you- ahem, that that particular public menace was slain in the incident along with this Scarlet-"
"You've said enough, Pembrooke," Barnes snarled, "You won't mention me, you'll have them turn a blind eye if they should notice, and that's that. Now, bishop, to secure such a peace we will require coin, and silver to arm our men.
I assume there won't be a problem?" He asked, regarding the thin, hook-nosed man, dressed as Pembrooke but for the clerical collar at his neck.
"I am afraid I must refuse." The bishop said quietly.
The major and the minister turned as they comprehended the bishop's words, realised he was being so stupid as to break step. "Bollocks, man, the church has plenty of both! Surely you have some to spare." The major tried to be jocular but there was no mistaking the tension in his voice.
"I'm afraid," Bishop Thomas repeated, "I am only here as a courtesy. I felt it best to inform you face to face, mister Barnes, that I won't be funding your... endeavours, any longer."
It was faint, it was meek, but it was defiance. Like the Chinese girl in the square.
Gods, how he hated it.
"Best think carefully, old man," Barnes said, his voice rigid and even, "About who put you so high on the wheel of fortune."
"You have my gratitude, but I cannot do this any longer." Thomas said quietly, his chest lifting as he resigned himself to his fate.
That took the sport from the thing. Barnes felt his rage soar, felt the pressure mount on him to leap the table and grab this impudent-
"Lord Barnes, shall I escort the bishop Thomas off of the premises?" A man in the crisp, black-and-white attire of a butler emerged from the shadows of the cold, empty banquet hall. His almond-shaped eyes were grey and hard, his hair silvered and cut short.
He took all three of the guests by surprise, his intense, dead eyes regarding Barnes, who reluctantly smiled.
"Prosechtikos." Barnes nodded his thanks to the butler.
"Very principled stand you're taking, if I may say so." Prosechtikos said as he guided the bishop through the halls.
"My thanks." Bishop Thomas whispered, his hand cradling his throat.
"Mmm. Reminds me of an old charge of mine. Large man, tall and broad, kind heart, valued education tremendously. Really brought a light to the world." Prosechtikos smiled secretly, his eyes watching the bishop in his periphery as he led him to the main gate.
"He sounds like a fine fellow." Bishop Thomas said, his confidence seeming to return.
"Yes. It was painful to watch him suffer." Prosechtikos said quietly as he paused, the gate barely ajar. "Well, at first." He shrugged his shoulders, making to step aside.
"Thank you." The bishop said simply, throwing Prosechtikos a nervous glance as he strode to leave, looking ahead to the sunset that peaked over the houses that overlooked the Chateau Obscura's front garden. He dared to hope that he would reach them.
That was the hope Prosechtikos had been waiting for.
The bishop heard a rattle of chains before blunt, cold metal bit into his neck. The breath was driven from him, his fingers grasping at the linkage as Prosechtikos drove his foot into the back of the old man's knee, driving him to the floor.
"That's it," Prosechtikos rumbled as the bishop fought. The butler's face and fists shook as he held his victim to him, waiting for the fight to end, savouring the bishop's last struggle for survival, "Call for help, old boy..."
The bishop finally went limp, his neck a livid red. Prosechtikos shuddered with ecstasy as he took a step back from the corpse, taking a moment to observe his handiwork. Once he was satisfied, he held the chain aloft as he opened his mouth. He took his time, enjoying the act of reconstituting with that murderous parcel of himself. Each link of chain melted in his mouth, fleshing out his form as the taste of hope, despair and overwhelming panic nourished him. His reverie was spoilt by the presence behind him.
Even in this form, he could sense everything and everyone that happened within the chataeu - and there was nothing quite like Hundredshanks.
He could feel its many arms and legs scrabble and thrash across his carpets, he could sense the tension as it stood behind his avatar, waiting for him to leave the bishop's body.
"I'll leave the disposal to you, aye, 'Dreadshanks? There's a good boy." He murmured as he stepped into the wall of the mansion as though the surface was made of water.
For a few seconds, the corpse of the bishop lay there on the cold, shadowed flagstones before a long, skeletal arm lashed out and dragged it between the doors as though it were nothing but a child's doll.
"We need to talk." Jill Barnes said, her handsome face drawn, her dark hair in a frayed mess.
The major and the minister looked uncertainly to the man who stood at the head of the table, the light shining on his back only seeming to enhance his shadowy aspect.
"Well, let's talk." Edwin Barnes replayed.
"Without them." Jill nodded to the major, who did his best not to look relieved.
"...Right, gentlemen, have no fear, bishop Thomas will come around, or we'll find someone who will provide us with the silver necessary for our initiative. Feel free to show yourselves out."
The two outsiders left as fast as they could.
"Humans. Spineless little things." Edwin muttered, sharing a smile with Jill.
She did not indulge him, speaking quietly and quickly. "This peace we have, here in London? We can still rescue it."
"I hear you, 'sister', but I think it's about time we enforced it. Make an example. They slew an agent of ours." Edwin replied crisply.
"Please, don't be so stand-offish with me, not now. Tell me why you need this Remilia dead-"
"She doesn't afford me the respect that is due. Her or her gatekeeper. I am the lord of this place, and I demand-"
"You know how precarious our position is?" Jill cut in, "The humans have won. Everyone and everything, from goddesses to gremlins, are crawling under whatever rock they can find so they can merely live. We thrive thanks to what you created. Don't throw that away.
Call off the lions and the men, and this marvel we've created might be able to survive this." She implored.
"And make myself appear weak? This is my empire, our empire, THIS is our time! I won't surrender it to anyone." Edwin hissed scornfully.
"When did I suggest we surrender anything?! Remilia's claimed an old man and a girl, so what?!" Jill protested.
"And my servant!" Edwin roared.
There it was. The girl with the gift. The silver-haired, silver-eyed servant girl. Her mind so fractured and subservient and malleable and his.
"...You know, it's not necessary that we remain here-"
"No, but it is what I want. I wish to remain here. The servant girl is necessary, so necesssary..." Edwin Barnes whispered, half to himself.
Is that why you've beaten her half to death on a dozen occasions? For a moment, Jill contemplated uttering the sentiment. Contemplated fighting him, truly fighting him. She didn't know if it was weakness, fear or even love that persuaded her to spare them both.
"So we need the maid. Will you relinquish your designs on De Vere?" Jill asked.
He gave no answer.
"I will include that in my next attempt to appease her. There will be other morsels. There will." She promised, moving in, a hand going to his wrist.
"Get out." He hissed.
She hesitated. She changed her tack, her fingers rising up his forearm. "Why," She managed clumsily, "I wouldn't mind if you'd act out your predations on me-"
"Get out!" He shouted, his arm lashing out and shoving her back. She staggered, a flash of anger on her long face. He stared back through his plastic features, the both of them registering how carefully the other moved now.
She obeyed, quietly horrified in the revelation that she could no longer control him so easily.
"It was me."
Edwin Barnes paused as he prowled the tenebrous corridors of his home, his eyes settling on the pale, sunken features of Morgen.
"I was the one who sent the Hackney dog after Remilia." She said, triumphant.
"Why?
Why would you dare to act above your station?" Edwin Barnes asked pointedly.
Morgen blinked coyly. "I saw that she'd irritated you, my dear, so I thought I'd give you the dead girl's head.
Or, a just cause to make war on her." She murmured.
Edwin seized her. He studied her for a moment, the mounting pressure of his fingers digging in against her drowned flesh.
He rushed in to kiss her. Hard.
Obediently, she reciprocated.
Alhajin watched in vague disdain as Edwin picked her up and seated her on a conveniently placed chest of drawers. Humans were repugnant enough, but the halfbreeds in front of him-
He felt an ache in his jaw. A warning, that someone was trying to interact with his work.
He thought initially to say something to Edwin, but the distasteful copulation playing out in front of him - and his master's diabolical temper - made him decide he had best handle it himself.
He left his body where it was, throwing his spectre wide and far in the direction of the servant girl. He would see his work unsullied and the tamperers broken, for he was a djinn - as far as most mundanes knew - and no sorcerer, witch or magician had bested him on this side of the equator.
Koakuma watched anxiously through the crystal ball as a pillar of ash and smoke drifted over Whitechapel.
"Mistress Patchouli, we have an unidentified fantastic object fast approaching..."
"I'd rather not face it myself. Not at this point in time." Patchouli said over her shoulder.
"WHAT?!" Koakuma whirled around. Patchouli stood with her old, gnarled wand in hand, delicately prodding and pushing the glyphs apart. Beneath the shining display lay the unconscious Sakuya, who was laid atop two desks pushed together.
"What? I'm sure I could match him," Patchouli said calmly, "But it is too early a time for me to fight."
"Can't- Will the traps not hold?" Koakuma asked.
"Privacy wards? I mean, they may bewilder his senses, particularly if he's not physically here, but, no," Patchouli said haltingly as she checked the glowing glyphs against dusty reference books, "They will not stop him."
"The Daedalus portal?" Koakuma asked hurriedly.
"Mmm..." Patchouli lifted her chin, her brow furrowing, "I think it's still active."
"Is it or isn't it?!" Koakuma begged.
"It is, I think. No- yes." Patchouli smiled secretly to herself.
"This isn't funny, y'know. What if he gets past me and reaches you?" Koakuma admonished.
"Nope. Not buying it." Patchouli said, throwing a sly glance over at her familiar.
There was a pause as their eyes met.
"Ahhhh, I thought I had you going." Koakuma declared, giving the witch an odd grin.
"I'm frankly amazed you're still worried about dying, you've done so many times before. You'll return, so long as I'm around to summon you back. And even if I die, you'll wander, as your kind does." Patchouli said nonchalantly.
"Whilst I still have your attention, mistress, could you add some degree of... impossibility, to the terrain? I am dealing with a djinn's intellect." Koakuma asked, changing the subject.
"Dealing with someone capable of impersonating a djinn's intellect," Patchouli corrected, "And yes, consider it done. Lead them on a merry chase." Patchouli said, granting Koakuma's wish with a flick of her wand before returning to her patients.
"Alright.
Once you know I'm done, you'll turn around and defend yourself, okay?" Koakuma asked.
"Understood." Patchouli said quietly.
"Good luck, okay?" Koakuma added.
Patchouli looked around at Koakuma just as she was flitting up to the drawn drapes of the magic library, her head, arms and torso already disappearing inside the voluminous curtains.
"Honestly..." The witch murmured to herself as she turned to work Sakuya free of her curse.
Alhajin blasted through the curtains in a storm of sulphuric cinders that blew down the lonely red hallway. Red carpet, red walls, red ceiling.
He had expected a library of sorts, or some ballroom. From the outside, it had been spacious.
Already, his scattering ashes confirmed his suspicions. The witch here had constructed an othernatural trap; a place to confound creatures like him. If he had brought his physical body, he could destroy this construct with a thought, or perhaps avoid it entirely.
But now he would have to navigate it.
"Yoohoo! Did someone leave the window open?" Called a woman's voice, distant and sing-song. The owner was nowhere to be seen.
Alhajin scowled at the flippant tone. He drifted forward, hoping his opponent would not resort to something so trite as a neverending passageway.
"Oh, come now, it's not trite! Perhaps a little overused..." The faraway voice trailed off. She could read his mind.
Expected.
"If you know I am here, come forth and face me." Alhajin demanded, conjuring a scimitar with a stab of will as he approached the passage's end. He saw the carpet give way and spill into an opening in the floor, rolling down a series of steps.
"Why on earth would I do that, O' djinn?" The voice teased.
As he suspected, the stairs suddenly gave way, bricks clattering into the darkness. Alhajin forced a brick into being beneath his foot.
He felt claws slash at his heel, shredding his voluminous harem pants and slicing at his bloodless, formless tendons.
Like he needed those.
He allowed himself to tumble forward, turning into the fall, his mindsword slicing the space beneath and behind him. A black-and-white blur burst across his blade, strands of severed cherry-red hair dancing in the air before him as he landed, his feet melting into tendrils of matter that rooted him securely.
The strands hardened into needles and darted in, pinging away as his sword flicked them aside.
He looked on at them, waiting for the hairs to dissipate.
But they remained.
She was physically inside the construct. That made her stronger, more responsive.
It also meant he could hurt her.
"I was hoping to face a practitioner of the arts, not indulge in parlour games." Alhajin responded, his burning eyes scanning as his legs reformed. It was a set of stairs, flanked by sets of stairs that led to more stairs. He scanned, only finding more steps, not all of them leading up or down, none of them leading anywhere concrete or real, not a one seeming right.
Stairs upon stairs upon stairs. The whole room, an Escherian rat's nest.
"This is all you have?" Alhajin scoffed, scattering his ash across the plains whilst his eyes scanned what he could comprehend.
"It's all I have. An illusionist isn't your thing, I take it? No, I imagine you'd rather some big scary fella to plunge that sword of yours into." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. His deceived senses swore she was in, atop, around and beyond every staircase.
No, there. His ash settled and bounced off of a presence, his opponent. He turned and flung his sword, the scimitar spinning end over end towards the flank of a set of stairs.
The girl with the cherry-red hair emerged from the bricks and leant aside just in time, spoiling her camouflage glamour as the mental blade struck the artificial brickwork next to her head, spattering cement chips into the stair-filled abyss.
Alhajin saw the two pair of wings that rested above her ears and her shoulder blades.
"You... are some kind of imp?" The djinn asked.
"Oh- yes, that's- well, no, you could say I used to be. Koakuma's my name, I'm more-" Koakuma stopped gabbling when she saw his hooked fingers curve upward.
She spun away as the sword burst from the brickwork behind her, almost taking the top of her head off as it returned to its master.
"I am Alhajin. You are a third rate devil.
Contractless, at that." Alhajin sneered, catching his blade without effort and raising it in a two-handed grip.
"Oh, we don't do that anymore. Times have changed.
Also, Alhajin, a djinn? Could you be less original?" Koakuma grinned.
He paused.
"What do you mean by that?" Alhajin asked.
"Oh, I think you know." Koakuma raised her eyebrows, a clear challenge.
He leapt from his own staircase to reach her, but she was already flying up her own set of steps, both pairs of wings beating. He pursued, his questing claws going for her ankle-
He felt pain bloom in his hand as a metal prong punched through it.
Her leg was no longer a leg, instead the iron shaft of an imp's fork. The illusion fell away, his sword chasing after Koakuma's smalicious grin as she eluded him, harrassing him as she went. The blows she landed were minor. Inconsequential. Annoying, at most. His 'body' was still strong.
"You fight like a coward." Alhajin snarled, his sword's swings less practiced now, the seething edge of his mind's weapon whistling through the air.
"I'm told I laugh like a monkey, as well!" Koakuma declared over her shoulder, cackling as she ran and climbed and flew to get beyond him.
His weapon bit and crashed and clanged off of the terrain, but it never parted flesh.
The sword jarred once more on brick, the stinging shock travelling down his arm.
He forced himself to cool even as he chased her. Despite his rage, he was starting to get a hang of this place. Which door led where. Which stairway led to what.
He was gaining on her. He could almost catch her skirts in his maimed hand.
There!
He grasped at her back, his claws tearing the fabric but gaining no solid hold. Koakuma screamed as she fell against the steps. He leapt for her, desperate to grip her as his sword struck for her. The point connected-
She exploded, shattering into glass pieces.
No!
He rushed to his feet as the mirrored glass scattered across the floor, her mocking, deep laughter booming through this new illusion.
"Oh, yes! You almost had me, you almost..." Koakuma wheezed, her laughter from her belly, "Woo! A second later, if you'd dug any deeper... Oh, this hurts!" She admitted.
"It'll do more than hurt, imp." Alhajin said with a voice that dripped with poison as he turned, his many reflections staring back at him from the many mirrors that now surrounded him.
As one, they stepped towards him, swords raised.
Patchouli finished penning the mantra, her purple eyes leaving the page to look over Sakuya's body. Then her gaze lifted to the glyphs that hung in the air, their golden glow replaced with a dull brass colour. She'd get one shot at this. Dormant though they were, one mispronunciation, one mistake in her wand magic, one wandering thought, and their reaction could kill the subject.
"Little devil, how are things?" She called.
"...Yep..." Koakuma spoke on the inhale.
Patchouli could hear the pain in her voice. "Hold on. Hold on!" She commanded, rapping the butt of her wand on the desk. The drawn circles awakened, lighting up.
She began the recital.
Koakuma was running out of ideas.
Iron did not repel him. Salt did not stop him. The sight of himself did not captivate or frighten him. Patchouli's loaned magic was spent.
Koakuma ran through the labyrinth, calling on the countless books she'd read and her own penchant for trickery to create illusions and challenges in her wake. She gave him byzantine paths to follow, devilish riddles to solve, bewildering nonsense enemies to unravel.
He blew through them all like a bird passing through a spider's web. In a panic, she turned to face him, thrusting her fork at his face, a prong piercing his cheek-
He carried on, his fist and sword handle smashing into Koakuma's nose in a spray of blood.
She fell.
In desperation, she willed a river into being beneath her. Water swallowed her sense of hearing as the current afforded her speed, vagueness and momentum, her metaphorical self tumbling along with the waters as she felt the djinn's fury set fire to the river bank.
If he was thinking in his right mind, he could've taken the form of a fish and caught her, or dammed her improvised escape with a landslide. But his temper was her saving grace.
It wouldn't be for long, she realised, as the river caught fire. His anger made him stupid, but he was powerful. With blunt force and a thirst to wreak havoc on her mind, he was catching up.
He started to overtake her.
The landscape closed in on her. Running became the only option. It didn't matter that Koakuma was physically there, that she'd built the construct. It was being shaped to the djinn's will. He forced her to run across haunted battlegrounds, desolated cityscapes, graveyards of empires half buried in the sands, his breath on her neck all the while, promises of catastrophic damage catching in her ear.
He caught her by the Nile, on a barren stretch of sandbank. Her shoes were gone, her feet made raw from what felt like days trekking through the desert, her ankles weighted by manacles. Her white and black uniform was gone.
She was wearing a funeral gown instead.
"Shit, shit, shit!" She hissed as she staggered on, her limbs feeling like lead. She swallowed the air through cracked lips, every gulp full of sand and ash.
The delicious flavour of cool air was gone. He was weakening her, stripping her. He was in the air. He was all around her. He was-
"He's right here, child."
She heard the rattling trundle of wheels behind her.
The mighty warhorses that drew his gilded chariot slowed to a halt. They pawed at the muddy sandbank in eagerness, their teeth gnashing for her flesh. Their driver - a corpse, desiccated and leathery-skinned - clutched at the reins with withered hands. Her eyes lingered on the long, leg-cutting scythes that jutted from the painted wheel's hub.
"Your imagination is but a frail, mewling thing before mine own. Truly foolish, to think that you could match me."
Alhajin stood tall in the regalia of an Egyptian pharoah, his eyes burning beneath the hooded copper crown. He had a curved, painted bow in one fire-blackened hand, the other lazily dragging an arrow from a gilded quiver on his back, nocking the arrow. He drew back the sinew with his dark, muscular arms. He commanded Koakuma's senses to not just hear but focus in on the bowstring's creak. She was made to hear the projectile click to rest by thumb and bowstave.
She could see herself through his hunter's gaze, staring down the dark arrow shaft.
Her banishment would mean little to her, she knew that.
But Patchouli needed more time.
"Was it, though? You came at me from a long way." Koakuma mumbled. She knew he would hear her.
"Working under my own whim, at that. The odds were against me, and yet..." Alhajin thought haughtily, perfectly still as he took aim. He would shoot the demon in its black heart and end it.
"D'oh, don't give me that. You've bent the rules, runt." Koakuma spat.
The arrow thunked into Koakuma's thigh, sending her crashing onto her back. She writhed, a pained scream echoing across the sands. Alhajin loaded another black dart onto the string.
"Your agony is a fine wine, though I must ask that you fight through the pain to tell me what you mean. Satisfy my curiosity or my penchant for violence, I care not which."
He injected an obscene fate into Koakuma's head, filled with heat, hate and pain. Her mind reeled and her skin crawled at the prospect. She clung to the reality that if she relented, the invader would turn its attentions onto Patchouli.
"You're no real djinn, not really. You play at the role, but you're something else. I know that if you attacked us, I mean really attacked us, we'd have you. We'd destroy you, rip you up and gnaw on your bones-"
Another arrow hammered into her stomach, forcing another roar of pain out of her as she felt him rooting around in her head.
"Tell me about her.
The one you serve."
Even in her agony, Koakuma paused.
"No."
Alhajin was suddenly close to her, a charred finger probing her bottom lip as his questing tendrils tried to force their way into the depths of her mind.
"Don't be shy, young devil. Forsake her, and I will spare you an excruciating mind-death."
She answered back with a thought.
"NO!"
Koakuma snapped forward, her teeth biting hard into his face. His skin ran like water, reforming as he backed, laughing as he went. He'd struck a nerve. That pleased him.
"Mmmm... then let us-" He began, his aroused cruelty turning to dawning realisation.
The sand was leaving. Sinking, running into holes in the ground, as though his lands were positioned over a great sieve. With a deafening crack, the sky - his sky - fractured, and in the distance, in every direction, sand plumed up in great pillars.
Whatever they had been doing to the maid, they had completed their work. What's more, they were focusing on his intrusion now. The columns of sand sped towards them both, revolving, rolling into an almighty storm as it approached.
"Reconvene at a later date?" Koakuma's voice turned him around in time to see her spitting blood onto the ground as she continued, "I'll kill you if you go there again. That's a promise."
Alhajin did not dignify her words with a response. In an eye-blink he was back in his chariot, wheeling it about and driving it away as the sandstorm consumed Koakuma.
It was always disorientating, being summoned back into being. To be summoned so soon after such a mental thrashing left her unsteady on her feet. Koakuma landed badly, her palms striking the lush red carpet of Voile, her fingers curling as she prayed it was real and not some trick. She told herself that the pain in her gut and leg was imagined, but it lingered all the same. She was clothed as she'd always been. She craned her neck to look up.
"Whew..." She managed, seeing Patchouli glancing her way from the pushed together desks, with Sakuya lying still atop them. Her expression was serene, her chest rising and falling gently with every breath.
"Did you..." Koakuma asked, her heart leaping when Patchouli gave her that lop-sided grin of hers that she never, ever showed to anyone but her.
"Did Voile fail in its task to research and resolve a hex? Ha!" Patchouli preened.
Koakuma allowed herself to smile. "Of course you succeeded." She muttered as she got to her feet.
She saw the glyphs around Sakuya. They were dimly lit and rusted over, but they still hung close to her.
"Wait- is she okay? I can still see them." Koakuma pointed out, her brow furrowing in confusion.
Patchouli licked her bottom lip as her celebrations were cut short. "I... Well, it's solved, for the most part. Now, I need you to bring Flandre here. It's time she knew what was going on."
"Yes ma'am." Koakuma stated, giving a weary salute before experimentally leaning on her leg. There was no physical pain where the arrow had perforated - it had been a mental attack inside a Daedalian construct, after all - but it still felt as though something was absent, less than whole.
"Say, Koakuma?" Patchouli asked.
"Yes'm?" Koakuma said.
"I did not come to your aid until the very end, where did the djinn 'go', exactly?" Patchouli asked.
"Oh. Oh, nowhere important. I figured it'd keep his attention." Koakuma lied before making her way out of Voile.
"That's what I thought you'd say." Patchouli said to herself as she watched her assistant walk down the aisle.
Flandre's bedroom in the basement was preceded by a walk-through washroom with a wall closet.
It had been recently added upon Patchouli's suggestion. The idea had been sold to Flan through the convenience it provided her; if she was leaving her room to explore the mansion, she'd be able to wash and dress herself appropriately.
It also made a fitting barrier; vampires couldn't cross running water, meaning Patchouli could contain any emergent tantrum with a burst pipe and a little magic.
That had been the theory. When Flandre discovered that had been the true reason for Patchouli's proposal...
Koakuma shuddered at the mere thought of the fallout she'd had to tidy away. It had taken a considerable effort from all quarters to restrain Flandre, but she'd never been soothed. Remilia had failed then to say the right thing, and the relationship between sisters had only worsened since then.
The librarian's assistant slowed to a halt when she heard the agitated muttering. Her ears perked up as she strained to listen by the ajar bedroom door.
It was Flandre, she recognised the voice, whispering - though it was biting now, caustic. Unkind.
Koakuma nimbly took a few steps back. She took in a breath as she mentally prepared to walk the tightrope. Be kind. Be respectful. Be attentive. Be firm. That's what Meiling - who seemed to have a rapport with the little sister - had told Koakuma upon prompting. Knowing she'd never be ready, she called out. "Mistress Flandre!"
The muttering stopped.
Flandre's resentment was palpable enough to be heard, the sound of blood roared in Koakuma's ears.
"What do you want?" Flandre asked in an acidic tone.
For a second, Koakuma floundered, surprised at the restraint being shown. Koakuma also knew if she dallied longer she might feel the inexorable crush of Flandre's power.
"Meiling's been hurt." Koakuma called out.
The tide of noise slowly abated.
"What?" Flandre asked, her voice suddenly small.
"Patchouli's healing her, she'll be in safe hands," Koakuma rushed out, "But Patchouli felt it prudent to send for you. Would you like to see her now? Meiling, I mean."
There was a pause.
"Yeah." Flandre mumbled.
Within a minute, Koakuma was walking back with Flandre at her side. The girl looked sleep deprived in her red pyjamas, her eyes ringed with darkness, her bejeweled wings hung low.
"So she's not in danger?" Flandre asked.
"She's safe. Miss Patchouli assured me as such." Koakuma promised.
"Patchy's been wrong before." Flandre replied sullenly.
Koakuma consciously inhaled, ignoring the slight, knowing Flandre wasn't speaking from a good place. She walked on in silence with Flandre for several minutes before finally letting her curiosity overwhelm her good sense.
"Mistress Flandre, please tell me if I go too far, but I heard you talking to someone." Koakuma said quietly.
Koakuma felt herself be pushed forward and away from the pressure that radiated off of Flandre.
This was fear of embarrassment, nothing more. If Koakuma laughed at her, insulted her, did anything that could be construed as derisive-
Koakuma didn't want to fathom the damage that could be done to her. She turned to regard the scarlet devil's sister.
"You were spying on me?" Flandre asked sharply.
"Not intentionally, no. What was the other person saying, if you don't mind my asking?" Koakuma asked steadily, watching Flandre's hands carefully.
They stayed at her side as she answered the library assistant's question. The vampire's red eyes watching Koakuma warily. "They were telling me to get angry. Break stuff.
Hurt people."
The roaring in Koakuma's ears grew louder. "I won't tell if you don't want me to." She promised.
It had been a good promise to make. The pressure abated, encouraging Koakuma to go on, "What you're describing sounds like something my kind were encouraged to get up to, back then. Whispering bad things to people, playing tricks and such like. Make you do stuff you'd regret so we could laugh about it."
Flandre's expression soured at the thought of being mocked, her hand curling into a fist. Koakuma raised her hands in surrender, knowing she shouldn't show fear and yet failing to stop herself, her voice melting into a gabble. "I-I would never do that to you, miss Flandre! That's not me, that was never me!
I'd just caution against listening to such voices, without challenging them, y'see? Who's to say they've your best interests at heart?"
Nothing was said in reply, and Koakuma feared for a moment that Flandre would take hold of her and break her. Koakuma had died countless times, but she'd never experienced...whatever Flan did to things.
She inwardly thanked whoever was listening when the invisible force receded.
"Take me to Meiling." Flandre said. Koakuma meekly obeyed.
After a minute's walking, Flandre spoke again.
"Why do you care, anyway?"
The question took Koakuma off-guard - but she knew that if she inadvertently ignored Flandre, she invited her wrath.
"It probably has to do with how me and miss Patchouli met."
Once more, there was a pause before Flandre spoke again.
"I wanna hear the story." Flandre said decisively as they approached the great doors of Voile.
"Then... perhaps miss Patchouli will allow me to tell you the story when your bedtime rolls around?" Koakuma suggested evenly.
"Yeah. Let's ask her." Flandre huffed through her nose and smiled, excited at the prospect.
At nine o'clock in the evening, the shroud of clouds that had begun rolling over London began to pour, the rain pelting the rooftops and whipping at the windows, the drizzle chasing London's nightlife beneath awnings and doorways where they could escape the damp.
The Chateau Obscura suffered the undiluted focus of this downpour, the flagstones flooded and the garden mutilated by the scourging rain and the wailing winds that carried it. For a second, the servants and the sycophants panicked, declaring some attack before they were silenced by those that knew better.
As the rain and the gales howled against the whitewashed walls of the manor house, a storm brewed within as Edwin Barnes was made aware that his maid was no longer wholly his.
As the rest of his cabal sought cover, his sister watched the rain run down her bedroom window.
'Tonight, you will hear the angels weep, to have me at your doorstep.'
It had never rained on this day before. Thousands of days, thousands of quiet, overcast nights, and now this anomaly, right after Remilia's arrival?
Another otherworldly wail sent a shiver through Jill Barnes' shoulders.
She worked her fingers through her hair and tried to find a more palatable reason, an explanation that meant she still controlled her own fate.
"I feel like this library could be put to better use as a theatre," Remilia said with relish as Patchouli clomped up the stairs, "or a ballroom, perhaps?"
"Uhuh." The teenage magician agreed with her friend's flippancy without fuss as she lingered on the last step that led to the library's gallery.
When her friend didn't rise to the bait, Remilia stopped. It had been a long day for all involved. "I can hear the rains on the windows," Remilia indicated the curtained windows before running a finger over her slender, bat-like ears, "and you tell me the winds are carrying them to Barnes' estate?"
Patchouli forced herself to complete the ascent, her hand grasping the bannister as she managed the final step. "I do." She said, trying not to gasp.
"As expected of Patchy." Remilia grinned smugly.
If Patchouli enjoyed the compliment, she made no outward sign. She joined Remilia at her central position at the railing, seeing how the vampire's gaze lingered over the bookcase that sheltered the sleeping Sakuya.
"Koakuma is partially to credit for the breaking of the lock. Without her study on the languages present in the text, I would have been working blind. I got the impression she would like to explain her findings in detail, so I won't spoil her fun-"
"Oh! Have you forgiven her yet?" Remilia asked, smiling genially as Patchouli floundered.
"...But I will tell you that we were successful in easing the magic that binds her. Somewhat." Patchouli finished.
"Somewhat?" Remilia asked.
"The... magical compulsion to obey and stand by her master. If she tries to defy it, she becomes stricken with anxiety. She suffers panic attacks or fainting, and suffers from chronic fatigue and an acute feeling of despair. Now I've-"
"You can tell all that just by looking at her?" Remilia interrupted.
It was Patchouli's turn to let a little smirk pull at her lips. "I may not be able to talk to people, but I know them."
Remilia let her eyebrows rise, surprised, before beckoning Patchouli to continue.
"So," The magician took her cue with grace, "With the information given to me by Koakuma, I was able to understand the language of the locks I was picking and rebalance Sakuya's mind... to a point."
"Meaning?" Remilia asked.
"The magic is a compulsion designed to instill... loyalty, obedience, what have you, but the workmanship is crude. The djinn - assuming he is the author - did not design it with compatibility in mind, or Sakuya's welfare. It was inadvertently reinforcing the trauma already there. She won't faint anymore, nor will she suffer panic attacks.
But she is still in despair. Her mind is in tatters." Patchouli explained. She was surprised to see Remilia look troubled by that.
"Because of Barnes? He beats her, I think." The vampire said quietly.
"After viewing your interactions with him, I would not be surprised. He seems unstable, to put it lightly." Patchouli replied.
"He certainly was angry." Remilia agreed, for a moment recalling the spoilt expression on Barnes' face when she'd met him in the square, brandishing a pocketwatch as though it were a pistol.
Then her face lit up in realisation. "You were spying on me! How did I do? Was I ladylike?" Remilia asked hurriedly.
"You had a lot of heart. Now, listen," Patchouli admonished the mistress before continuing on, "She's no longer being immediately reminded of her fate, but it's still there."
"Right, right..." Remilia murmured, her expression turning thoughtful as she held her chin with her fingers.
"Whatever is to be done, you have... a week, assuming my preparations are delayed, your lessons are lengthy and Barnes doesn't throw caution to the wind and blow our mansion down." Patchouli pointed out.
Remilia's expression deepened, becoming a scowl as she regarded Patchouli. "You're talking about the djinn?"
"He is perhaps the greatest threat. Not the only, but definitely the strongest," Patchouli admitted, "What's more, if the djinn is not slain, or Barnes does not relinquish his grip on her... I'm not sure if Sakuya would survive a journey away from this place. She's still leashed, I've simply removed the studs on the collar."
"I see," Remilia muttered, "So I have to convince Barnes to let Sakuya go."
"Which is impossible." Patchouli said simply.
"What?! I wasn't that rude, was I?" Remilia appealed.
"It's not you, I think it's her importance to him." Patchouli replied, a long-sleeved hand pointing idly to the slumbering maid down in the library, "Whatever she is providing Barnes, he cannot do without. I have my own theory, but I'm not overly confident in it."
Remilia blinked, her gaze imploring Patchouli to go on.
For a moment, it seemed she wouldn't.
"I had her hair examined and found wild magic," Patchouli caved, swept up in her own thought process, "now, that's nothing spectacular, I'm likely to have contagious magic in my hair, given my vocation, but! I bookmarked the sample and currently have Koakuma checking the air around the mansion's perimeter hourly, just as I'm taking strands off of Sakuya's head, examining them both under a microscope, and! Same magic! Though, the stuff in the air is processed and mixed up with arcane runoff - that dross that can be left over after spells - and all of that is Sakuya's!
I must confess, I don't yet know where it's happening or who, what enchanted foci is doing the leeching-"
"What's a foci?" Remilia asked.
Patchouli reached up to strangle some imaginery creature as her rhythm was thrown off. She exhaled.
"Ah, a magician's focusing item. Helps you channel magic, streamline the process, 'focus' it, even. You need rare ingredients or an item with a history to it, and it normally comes in the form of a wand, a staff, but it can come in other forms. Jewels, shrunken heads-"
"Like a pocketwatch?" Remilia interrupted.
"Yes, I don't see why not, but will you listen? I'm reasonably sure that she is at least capable of passively powering a spell, a city-wide spell!"
"To contain the humans?" Remilia asked distractedly.
"Yes, Remi!" Patchouli startled her friend with a raised finger, tacking on a 'very good' before continuing, "That just leaves what form the magic takes, assuming my theory is correct. Perhaps Sakuya teleports escaping humans back to the city limits... Though, that'd be too demanding for one girl to do, even if it was instantaneous - assuming she carries them physically. Perhaps she's just a magician herself. Or maybe the compulsion doubles as a... a beacon that transmits her servile mentality? No, that doesn't explain her leaping out of view." Patchouli's hand tapped urgently on the wooden railing.
Remilia recalled Meiling's earlier confusion at how Sakuya had skipped in and out of her sensory range, as well as the chess game where the maid had handed Remilia a piece of paper without seeming to move an inch.
Paper.
She had a hunch about something. The newspaper.
"Excuse me, Patchy? I'll be back soon, promise." Remilia ran out of the library.
She returned with an old newspaper in hand and with orders for Patchouli to man the crystal ball.
"Okay, what am I doing?" Patchouli asked as she coaxed the smoke within with a brush of her fingers.
"Shhhh!" Remilia hissed, her red eyes scanning the pages as she all but ripped the papers open. An article on Nikola Tesla, talk of disease in another quarter of the city, Queen Victoria, long may she reign, foreign relations, illustrious goings-on of the british army...
"What's that?" Patchouli stressed. Remilia peeked her gaze over the papers to see Patchouli pointing at the front page.
She turned it over, setting the papers on a table before reading.
"The Ripper returns, notorious knifeman of Whitechapel claims young maiden's life. Police are reasonably sure that this is a mere copycat, though the authenticity of the inflicted wounds, blah, blahblah- Oh!
Date is March 22nd, 1900, here on the paper!" Remilia declared, pointing at Patchouli with a triumphant grin.
"...Okay?" Patchouli said.
"The crystal ball. Find today's date!" Remilia insisted.
The bemused Patchouli complied, muttering the command.
"...March 12th, 1910.
1910?" Patchouli repeated, looking around at Remilia to find the undead princess holding her fists up in the air, exulting in the moment.
"Now find today's date here in London!" Remilia cried, the newspaper crisply rustling as she thudded her fists down on it.
Patchouli's mind sparked, catching on to Remilia's discovery.
"Show me the current date and time here in London, Whitechapel!" Patchouli demanded.
She winced away as she heard a fierce, reverberating screech, like nails on a blackboard. Her eyes caught a flash of numbers in the glass before they were buried in the roiling smoke.
"So the time here in London doesn't flow as it should?" Patchouli murmured as the screeching abated.
"Maybe the glass is broken." Remilia pointed out.
"It shouldn't be that. I hope it isn't." Patchouli replied, her hand combing through her long purple hair as she contemplated giving this task to Koakuma, if the crystal ball insisted on wailing at every other question.
"What date is it for mister Jared Osbourne?!" Remilia shouted.
"Don't!" Patchouli protested, "There's no-"
The screech didn't start up again. Patchouli looked warily to the glass, seeing digits float into being through the pool of smoke in answer to Remilia's query.
"...Huh. December 5th, 1888. So does that-"
"Show me the date for miss Olivia De Vere!" Remilia interjected.
The globe complied.
"January 2nd, 1901?" Patchouli said in a perplexed tone, scarcely noticing the soft rustle of Koakuma's shoes on the carpet behind her.
"Mistress Remilia, Miss Patchouli-"
"Sakuya's a time machine!" Remilia declared excitedly as she looked up from the newspaper, her delighted expression softening when she saw who accompanied the librarian's assistant.
"Now that's not necessarily true. We should research the significance of these dates to these people-... Miss Flandre." Patchouli put her rebuttal on hold as she inclined her head deferentially before Flandre's sleepy red-eyed gaze.
"Hey, Remi." Flandre murmured.
Remilia swallowed nervously as she turned to properly face her, smiling fondly. "Hey, sis."
"I'm glad Meiling's okay." Flandre admitted.
Remilia nodded. "Me too. Me too... Would you like to come sit?
We've a lot to talk about."