As the countercurse began to do its thing, Mulligan's first impression was of someone's hand withdrawing from his forehead, someone standing over him, no, looming over him. For a moment he thought it was that bastard Auror, Taylor or whatever, getting ready to finish him off. Then he saw the tight black jeans, a white shirt with a few buttons opened to show off the multitude of golden necklaces, fingers with nails turned to deadly claws, at least one ring on each of her fingers. Skin pale to the point of albinism, shimmering blonde hair kept in an elaborate braid, her huge ocean blue eyes stared at him and through him.

„Idiot."

That was the first word he was cognizant of when he came to his senses. It was enough for Mulligan to understand he had made a mistake, a big one. His limbs slowly released from the paralysis, Mulligan looked up at Abigail LaFey looming over him, arms crossed. „Who... who is he?" he wheezed out the question.

„Jeremy Taylor. An Auror, an enemy of your master Malachi."

„Therefore my enemy," Mulligan finished, getting up and stretching, trying to bring life back into limbs that had been petrified a moment ago.

Sharp as a cue ball, this one, Abigail thought. She offered him her hand when he was done with his ridiculous stretching routine. „Come." He took her by the hand, and they were gone from the office.

Of all the gifts her Dark Lord had showered her with, the gift of teleportation was perhaps her favorite. The state between point A and point B, between life and death, when she briefly moved beyond the confines of the physical world, it felt profound in some way she could not place her finger on. In those moments, brief as they were, she felt herself to be free. Free of illusions, a shortcut to buddhahood, enlightenment was there, she just had to reach out and claim it for herself–

But no. That was when she remembered who it was that gave her this power in the first place. His very own glittering blood. She remembered the vows they had made to each other. She could not just abandon him. She would not.

And so at the cusp of an awakening she turned away. A blaze of light delivered her and Mulligan back into ignorance, back to planet Earth, United Kingdom, beneath St. Anne's Limehouse, into Malachi Greymist's base of operations.

They had teleported just past the entrance to the immense base. Fighting off the initial urge to vomit, Mulligan looked back and saw a tall and heavy double door over which was superimposed a magical seal, which prevented anyone without a special key from entering or exiting. Deep red in colour, the seal took the form of a coat of arms, displaying the coiling, stylized form of a dragon volant. Mulligan knew Greymist's philosophy well. Science was like an eagle, ever soaring higher and higher. Magic was serpentine in nature, unseen, hidden, so to speak occult, until it decided it was its time to strike. So what would the offspring of bird and serpent look like?

Not that Mulligan cared for such ramblings. Oh, he would aid the noble cause of establishing an empire of mankind, certainly, he would assist Malachi Greymist, that new Prometheus, in bringing fire to the muggles, of course... but he also wanted his cut.

Abigail LaFey walked down the enormous length of the base, her steps echoing loudly. Mulligan followed. The place resembled the interior of a cathedral but devoid of the decorations one would traditionally expect in a place of worship, bereft even of windows. They walked on through a great commotion, through the whirl and the rush of bodies, servants of the new Dark Lord moving this way and that, menials, workers, scientists, wizards, all toiling together in silence, working to construct a miniature cityscape of machinery and cables which snaked along the ground or wrapped themselves like vines around pillars. Here, muggle technology and arcane arts of wizards were being brought together. This hidden, fortified laboratory–temple needed no light, neither from torches nor electricity. The sorcery which composed the seal on the gate was clinging also to the walls, to the pillars in the form of sluggishly burning crimson fire. It writhed slowly in the very air, hung far above their heads near the ceiling. Mulligan could hear the power pressing on his eardrums, could feel it dancing against his skin, could taste it on his tongue.

„Wait here," Abigail said, and went on down the nave by herself. Mulligan's gaze was idly, against his conscious will, drawn by the sway in her hips. He saw that the girl was truly a woman, good for bearing children, pleasant to the eyes, a woman to be desired to make one feel like a man. How the hell did Malachi ever manage to–

No. That way lay damnation. He stopped himself before he could finish the thought, regained conscious control of his eyes. Not here. Not here, he sees, he knows. Do not look at her that way, don't acknowledge her. He is already inside your head. And hers. Inside the minds of everyone here.

An abrupt scream of agony shook the walls, shook Mulligan to the very core. It was the only voice to be heard, off in one of the cells to the left of the nave. Mulligan, faking composure and hoping his heart would harden to the screams, stood and watched as Abigail walked to the end of the great hall, to a raised platform beyond which the Dark Lord dwelt, opened a heavy gate like the one at the entrance, and stepped through.

The first thing one would see when entering were the two thrones, joined together and sitting on a raised dais. Six steps in the shape of the tip of a spear led to this dais and the two high seats, one for the Dark Lord and another for the Dark Lady. The thrones, and the steps leading up to them, were built from a single giant chunk of obsidian, sculpted into a monstrosity of jagged, twisted spikes. The only polished parts of the rock were the places for Malachi and Abigail to sit, and the parts which would serve as armrests. A monstrosity it was, but it possessed some symmetry. A single slab of obsidian shot upwards from above their heads like a sword, then four smaller slabs on either end, two under a forty–five degree angle and two partly merging with the floor of the dais. The overall impression was that of dark radiance, a black sun with the Dark Lord and Lady at its center.

The room was dimly lit and the only light within shone down softly from above, a ghostly light without a source. Beyond the thrones, she could faintly make out the Dark Lord's collection of tongues nailed to the wall, tongues given to him by his followers, a symbolic vow to never reveal his secrets if captured by his enemies.

And in case that wasn't enough he had broken in their minds too. How would his vast army communicate with him and themselves if they had no tongues? Through Malachi himself. He was connected to the mind of every one of his followers and they to each other, they spoke to him and he spoke back. She went up the steps and took her place at his right hand, watching and waiting on his return. His face was frozen in soundless agony, mouth open as if to scream in horror. His eyes were pitch black as his mind processed phenomenal amounts of information, one moment directing a pair of workers to shift some instruments to the side of the hall, the next moment appointing wizards for a scheme to capture the current Minister for Magic. Since they were also telepathically interconnected, the strain on Malachi's mind of governing so many people – 300 by Abigail's estimate, though there was space enough for at least 200 times as many people – was somewhat alleviated, if only barely, and he could relegate some duties to lesser wizards who would act as synapses.

In effect, this meant that Malachi's following constituted something bordering on a single super–organism, a hive–mind, a Portuguese man o' war jellyfish made of humans. Concealed within the confines of his base, the Dark Lord saw all. Omniscient, therefore omnipresent, therefore omnipotent. A god, in truth.

Then the god blinked and the whites of his eyes returned, his irises were back and the darkness was constrained to his pupils. The spirit had returned to its rightful domain. On the arm of the seat, the arm by which the two thrones were conjoined, there sat a cup of black tea. Malachi leaned back as if nothing happened and took a sip. The taste of it made him grimace.

How is it? Abigail rested her head on her hand. She thought the question teasingly, knowing what his answer would be.

He glared at her, appearing unamused at first, though she knew better. One of these days I'll get used to the taste, hopefully. He shifted slightly in his seat toward her. I've been considering something, he thought and looked vaguely around the throneroom. The look of this place has been feeling rather bland lately. I thought I might add something, something to...

She giggled. Really? Malachi Greymist, the interior decorator? But fine, what do you have in mind?

As if the lair did not resemble a basilica already, she looked inside his mind now and saw that he also wanted to add gargoyles. Not on the outside, since they were underground. She watched with her mind's eye as monstrous faces and forms were wrought from the great pillars supporting the roof above their heads.

One dark night in May, Abigail was transformed by the most precious blood, and since then there was nothing she could see that would make her feel any sort of fear or terror, as if his blood had purged the emotion from her entirely. But this idea was disquieting in a way she could not quite put her finger on. Gargoyles are placed on the outside of cathedrals to repel demons, she reminded him, though she hardly needed to. And you would place them on the inside?

Whatever, he shrugged. Enough about decor. You have some bad news for me, it seems.

She looked away for a moment. Yeah... we had a visit not too long ago, from professor Jäger's assistant. And another.

Another?

Jeremy Taylor.

Jeremy Taylor, he repeated, and put away the cup of tea, unfazed. „What took him so long?" He directed his thoughts outwards now, to the wizard in whose care he had left the good professor for interrogation. Report.

He keeps repeating his name and title. His mind is not so easily broken in, my lord.

Malachi Greymist stood up and took a deep breath. A moment later the professor was delivered to them in a wave of light, on his knees. An impressive man, this professor was. He had kept his hair from thinning and wasting away and his teeth from falling out well into his sixties, and though he had put on weight as most men his age did, still it did little to diminish his looks. When Malachi looked at him, he thought he saw lurking in his visage an age before, an age where this man could put the young Marlon Brando to shame.

But it was not his physical appearance he was interested in. He wanted what was in his head. „I have waited, professor. I will not wait anymore. The secret of atsilatree is yours. It will be mine."

The professor had only one answer for him, and it was the same answer he had given to his tormentors. „Professor Christian Jäger von Ruprecht–Karls–Universität Heidelberg."

Sometimes it looked like Malachi was about to smile, but never did. A wicked, sadistic man may have done just that. As a matter of fact, any man with a shred of emotion might've smiled when realizing he had leverage over his enemy, but Christian had never seen the young man lose his composure in any way. „My Lady," he simply said.

The dark lady, who had been sitting until that point, now stood up. She was taller than him, though not by far. „Yes, my Lord?"

„Professor Christian Jäger has a daughter, I believe."

She understood at once. „Yes, my Lord."

The professor looked on as she disappeared. He had no answer now, but there was something rewarding in his eyes.