Bless your water. Bless it with all your heart. Douse yourself with it, even if it is cold. Drink it, to purge any lingering Malevolence. You must be clean. You must.

Shower. Hot. Scald away the Malevolence; this, too, is a mortification. Scrub until your skin begs for mercy, scrub some more, your flesh must be clean or father will know— father will know.

Cut. As much as you can— but not too much; repent, but not so much that you look as guilty as you are. Mortify until you are sure his judgement would require a second glance— a second glance which a man of his stature wouldn't doubt himself by taking.

Bind yourself.

(Bind?)

"Shut up," Weiss commanded her reflection, hurriedly strapping her forearms with thick bandages. When she looked down to observe her work, however, she caught the violent quake of her hands. She felt her heart slamming hard and fast— the lack of sleep? The two energy drinks? Or the stress? She didn't feel better after mortifying. Why didn't she feel better?

She forced a deep breath into her lungs and seized it there, holding the air until it needed to come out again, a little longer, until it demanded to come out— a little longer, until her fingertips hollowed and her chest clawed at her throat. She let it all come out at once, physical relief that meant she did feel better— she really did— and to prove it, she spent all of her next breaths praying Hail Marys until her throat was thick.

But she didn't stop praying, she just muttered ad infinitum until the syllables were coming out on their own, the sound a meaningless background noise as she equipped herself.

Underlayer: sports underwear, leggings, Seraphic seals of Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Raphael around the upper arms, prayer of Azrael's preservation around the waist, sports socks, latex gloves.

Clothing layer: Parley-custom clergy top, thick work pants, combat boots, fingerless gloves backed with hard plastic plates.

Utility layer: weapons belt, stab vest, chest rig, clip-on mask, knee pads.

Outer layer: Parley long coat— the only thing that wasn't black, instead a boastful Schnee white.

The Huntress checked all her ready pouches, all her coat pockets, but she knew they hadn't changed since she last refilled them. She slipped her pistol into its thigh-holster, then sheathed her dagger at her back— like all the other heavy equipment, its partner waited at the Schnee Estate.

She observed her reflection.

(You look like her.)

Her hands moved to her hair.

(Like her. Please.)

She gathered it up.

(She'd be strong.)

Twisted it.

(Be her.)

Pinned it.

(She was perfect.)

Just like she did.

(She is perfect.)

(She would never do that.)

(What you've done.)

(If you're perfect, if you're her, if you're good enough to be her, maybe you can be forgiven.)

She admired the bun.

(Forgiven by whom?)

Anybody.


Father had no words for her upon arrival at the Estate. Just eyes— widening, but progressively narrowing as if he'd seen a ghost, a ghost he had not hoped to see, but a ghost he was nonetheless appreciative for. He had nothing to tell that ghost. Nothing to say of her. Nothing to detect or judge, because its likeness was not one that could be marred. It simply was, and it was perfect.

Father took his daughter to the compound beneath the storm shelter, to the armory. The halls were long and straight, featureless concrete, but it seemed the lack of overt distinction brought the old Huntsman to a more conversational tone. He said to his daughter, "Why not your plate carrier?"

The Huntress nodded, understanding his question was as much genuine smalltalk as it was a test. "The blood cult is dead, so someone must've found the Vampires they were aiming for. But, since it's been so long, they probably know we've been on their trail. They're likely hiding underground, or in a dense urban area. With their enhanced senses, gunshots will wreak havoc on them."

Father frowned, but tipped his head in concession— something he'd never done before. Not to her, at least. Maybe the ghost. "You did erase that cult, but another one sprang up outside our jurisdiction— in Austin."

She snorted, for some reason, her mouth unable to not say, "Keep Austin Weird."

He looked at her, his eyebrow twitching, because— to him— it wasn't something the ghost would say.

"Is that…semen?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"I don't want to touch it."

"This is precisely why we wear gloves."

"That doesn't change the fact that it—"

"Just wipe the cum off, Weiss. Unless you think you can trace the circle back through a layer of dried jizz?"

"Eugh! Fine. But I'm using your hankie."

"Be my guest."

"God, it stinks."

"Chop-chop, we don't have time to lose."

"I know! It looks like it's depositing somewhere in… Texas? Out of our jurisdiction, wherever it is."

"Oh, I bet I know exactly where."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Well, you know what they say…"

She couldn't blame him. He didn't even know the ghost. Just its shadow.

He continued, a little closer to the tone she was more familiar with. "As I was saying, an amateur group managed to get their hands on it before Parley could. It's a good thing, too— they ended up feeding the cult enough for real professionals to trace the intent: right back into Schnee territory."

He opened the door to the armory, the metal slab perfectly smooth on its hinges. He didn't hold it open for her. She hadn't expected otherwise. "Who traced it?" asked the Huntress soundly.

He tipped his head again, begrudging acknowledgement that made her guts twist. "One of the Arcs."

She doubted that a threat of imminent castration would provide him with the name of any Arc, even the one he'd tried to orchestrate her marriage with. To be fair, she didn't want to think of them either. "And we're sure they're accurate?"

Father ambled to the center of the room and inhaled deeply, savoring the scents of gunpowder, oil, solvent, and metal. Each was was festooned with guns from top to bottom: bolt-action rifles, flintlocks, submachine guns, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, semi and fully-automatic rifles, lever-action rifles, light machine guns— from any and every era, every manufacturer, polished to perfection and organized in ascending caliber. The room itself had to be cavernous to accommodate its contents, along with the boxes upon boxes of ammunition, magazines, clips, and accessories.

Father turned sharply, and marched to the section populated with shotguns. He took down the 410 revolver and the bullpup 12-gauge, taking the latter by the carry handle while handing the former to his daughter. They both started searching through accessories, mostly by muscle memory, as the Huntsman said, "I double-checked their work personally; much as I am loath to compliment those bumpkins, I can't say they're sloppy."

('Those bumpkins' you wanted me to marry.)

She wouldn't mind continuing in silence. But… maybe father did? Because after only a short bout of empty air, he asked, "What did you bring?"

It took conscious effort not to whip her head around to see him, to stare with disbelief. She focused instead on strapping a thigh-holster around her right leg. She slipped the revolver into it and stood, finding her father actually standing there, shotgun already hanging from a strap around his shoulder, waiting for her.

She realized they were dressed almost exactly the same, the only difference being that his gloves were full-fingered.

"A nine," she answered, twitching open her white coat to reveal the other pistol.

Father squinted at her rig. "Where's your knife?"

"Around the back."

His eyebrows went high. "Why?"

"Because that's the way I train?"

"You don't train with your coat on, I take it."

"Of course not."

Father nodded, but his eyes only held a hint of smugness. "Draw it."

She reached into her coat, briefly having to snake her arm around inside the heavy garment to reach it. Father shook his head and tutted.

"You'd be dead if I were a Vampire." He suddenly stepped towards her, leaning forward, and plucked the coat open. She actually jolted, conferring a raised eyebrow as Jacques Schnee pointed at the front-left side of her belt. "Have it here if you're going to wear your coat, that way it won't get in the way."

He let the coat drop. She managed to pick her jaw up off the floor just before his eyes met hers. "Right. Of course. Good idea."

He straightened, brow still raised, but he didn't even admonish her. He simply regarded her with his eyes for a long moment, then turned, heading towards the back room. Hurriedly fixing her rig to accommodate his suggestion, she followed.

This room was smaller, and considerably more accommodating than the concrete chambers before. The walls were lined with warm wood slats, lit by the orange lamp of a ceiling fan, giving off the vibe of a classy smoking room. There were even bookshelves, brimming with tomes that were extremely illegal.

But the homely colors only contrasted what sat on the far wall: four frames of bright blue velvet, suspending in reverence the greatest Schnee heirlooms.

At the top: the Schnee axe, preserved from a time when the Parley as an organization was still young. It was built like a short poleaxe, its head and langets a bright steel contrast to its rich wood shaft. Its axehead was round and punched through with a cross, and the hammer in the back was knurled like a meat tenderizer. It had no metal spike— rather, it was topped by a long wooden stake. Father made the Sign of the Cross before taking it.

Below that: (Take it back. For her. For you.)

Second from the bottom: the rapier of Nikolas Schnee, one of the greatest masters of German fencing— not a Huntsman like his brothers, but so famous that the weapon's legacy carried real, venerable weight. It was long, with a fancy pappenheimer hilt that mostly covered its sweeping quillons, and the leading edge, tip, and false edge were plated with silver for good measure. It would sit in a belt frog on the Huntress' right. Just by looking, she could feel its beloved weight, and she made the Sign of the Cross before she took it.

Beneath all of those: a knightly arming sword, about half as long as the rapier, allegedly kissed by Pope Benedict XVI himself. The Huntress somewhat doubted that, considering neither her nor it were spontaneously degrading in the other's presence. It would supposedly go to Whitley— on the day he miraculously overcomes his hemophilia.

The Huntress slipped her rapier into its belt frog, angling it sharply so as to leave clear her pistol, and followed her father back out of the compound. This time, he held every door open for her until they were standing side-by-side at the drive-up, waiting. When he got a call that the driver would be delayed due to traffic, he sighed after hanging up, gave his daughter a single sideways glance, and muttered, "How have you been?"

The question hollowed her out completely. "Good," she lied.

"I see," he said, his shoulders slightly deflating. For the first time, he looked old to her. "Classes?"

Oh, right. She was a student in college, with classes and grades, maybe even a test or two that she'd missed while… while… "Good. This was a good choice of study."

Father nodded. He didn't criticise her. In fact, his eyes seemed to dull slightly, as if remembering a time that was somehow better and worse. "It's smart, doing what your sister did."

The Huntress sucked in a breath. Jacques did not look.

"I remember, I went to university for… something, or other. I think something chemistry-related at first, then some anthropology nonsense, then economics…" he sighed— wistful or mournful, she couldn't tell. "That's where I met your mother, in Professor…" he tapped his chin, ignoring or not noticing how his daughter's mind was unraveling at his new, alien demeanor. "Professor Oobleck's class— God, what a stupid name."

The Huntress wanted to peel whatever deceptive film had been laid over her eyes, but heavy blinking revealed nothing out of the ordinary. It only clarified the image of Jacques Schnee, the old man in the profession where men die young, the man who had never told her anything about his life that wasn't Huntsman-related.

"She helped with a lot of the coursework, since I still had to do Hunts to maintain my Parley membership— they dropped that rule before you were born, but back in my day you had to constantly prove yourself. Made it hard for a man to maintain his masquerade."

She stared at him. She wouldn't dare interrupt.

"But your grandfather," he chuckled— Jacques Schnee chuckled in his daughter's presence— before clearing his throat. It didn't hide the self-pride on his lips. "He saw the kind of man I was when I'd worked with him, clearing a few Covens before he retired, and we worked out a way to get me on Parley work full-time."

At this point, her eyes felt like they'd shrivel up with how hard she was staring at the man, trying to capture every wrinkle she could never notice before.

"All I had to do was tame your firebrand of a mother— preserve the legacy, you know— and he'd make me a Schnee."

She blinked. Her stomach went somewhere else.

"You know how she loves the bottle. It wasn't even hard— like she secretly wanted to drop that facade, all that weight those college girls were putting on her. And all in a Parley family; it's just too much, enough to drive any woman to hysterics."

He turned an eye to her. She was glad to be feeling so empty, as he must've taken her vacant expression for tacit approval.

"That's why I always pushed you, you know. So you can overcome that— which, really, I think you have." He laughed, making his daughter flinch, but he didn't notice. "I suppose I was a little overbearing. You just needed your chance to stretch your wings. I can see it, you know, in the way you walk and the way you breathe: you've been keeping up with your mortifications, haven't you?"

She walked and breathed in the way of a person who could be trusted to keep their faith. Lied like one, too. "Yes."

"And—" he gave her a quick scan up and down, smirking. "You found someone."

Her mouth went dry.

Father laughed, giving her a good-natured backhand on the arm. "Oh, don't look so scared! Bring him here tomorrow; we can have a celebration dinner."

"Ah," her mouth managed. "Right."

He grinned at her briefly, before turning back to the drive and sighing. "Your brother's a wet sock. The boy will never be a Huntsman."

(He has hemophilia, you dick.) "Where is he?"

Jacques raised an eyebrow at her. "It's four in the morning, Weiss. Where do you think he is?"

Stupidly, she wanted to ask after mother as well. She wanted to see the woman. See if her husband spoke true.

"Speaking of, I'm surprised you answered the phone so fast," Jacques commented. "Are you often awake at two?"

"My boyfriend," she claimed, her mouth spewing an excuse that her brain didn't process.

Father puffed out another chuckle, but the Huntress was already having to direct her mind consciously away from the man— lest she think too much.

(You made my mother like this? You're acting like a friend because you can't stand being alone with her and Whitley?)

She shook her head. Better this than what he'd always been. Right?

About five or six minutes later, the family driver pulled around in front of the Schnees in a big, modern minivan— the domineering type that was pushing up pedestrian fatality rates across the nation. Jacques moved to open the door for her (something he had also never done in his life), but it popped open suddenly from the inside, smashing the old man in the face with a satisfying thunk. He made a noise of wrinkled seniority, a veritable 'euuuuuhhh' as he retreated, allowing the Huntress to see the blessed executor of elderly battery.

"O—ohshit," slurred the occupant within. "W'zat the old man?"

And there went every ounce of schadenfreude from the Huntress' soul.

"Mr. Branwen," she greeted through her teeth, reaching down out of obligation to help her father to his feet. "I expected someone else."

Qrow Branwen, simply called 'The Drunk' in most Parley circles, grinned. "'N why'zat? You guys're th' only one w'the balls t'hire me."

"Hire?" Jacques repeated oldly, heaving himself into the van. "You're doing this for free."

Qrow guffawed. "Hilarious that ya think that."

She followed her father in, leaving the middle seat open for space. Qrow stared at her from the passenger's seat, an odd sharpness to his eyes. "So, kid," he said to her. "W'sup witcha? Haven't seen you 'n a hot minute."

Yes. One hot minute was all the time between now and the death of her sister. Sometimes, it felt like that. "Nothing."

He chuckled, saying, "Of course, kids these days," but the words didn't reach his eyes. Those irises, so unnaturally crimson, were boring into her. Knowingly.

Her eyes flicked to Jacques, to see if he was looking at her strangely, too, or if he was noticing Qrow at all, but he had extracted a small leatherbound book from his interior coat pocket and buried his nose in it. By the time she turned back to Qrow, he was reclining once more— as if he'd never been doing anything else in the first place. He even took a swig from his flask, but jumped when Father's voice rang in the interior.

"This is the plan," the old man started. "Target is in a defunct government housing project, built in '81 and abandoned only two years later when a fire revealed it wasn't built to code. They're only standing because it's the whole block that was built like that, and the refurbishment project has been completely deadlocked for years."

He flipped through his notes, continuing, "Energy signatures were traced back to the A building, somewhere on the lower floors. Qrow, did you bring the talismans?"

The Drunk nodded, revealing a pair of parchment slips. Each one was covered in dark scrawling, the ink marbled with living crimson tones. "Yup," he rasped, flicking a look at the only girl in the car. "Got'em right here."

Something rolled in her gut, but the Huntress pushed it out. She couldn't think about things, right now. She had a mission to focus on.

Father continued, "Perfect. You and Weiss will ascend to the top floor, clearing your way down. I will watch outside and prevent them from retreating— this way, they won't be able to escape upwards, they'll either come to me, or reveal whatever tunnel network they've been working on."

"Tunnel n'work?" Qrow repeated.

Jacques turned to his daughter and winked. "I have it on good authority that they're likely underground."

The Huntress' guts twisted again, unable to reconcile the real pride in her father's voice with the man she knew him to be.

"Once we have them cornered on the ground floor, or cornered in their rats' nest," Jacques waxed, as if he'd already completed the mission. "We can finish what my daughter started."

Her face hurt at the idea, her wrists itched with guilt, but Jacques turned to her with another look that could never be on his face.

"And, if you can prove yourself," Father added, his words so easy that they almost weren't apocalyptic. "I'll have this mission submitted as grounds for your promotion."

The Huntress blinked. "Oh."

(Isn't this what you wanted?)

"Wonderful."

(Your whole life, to hear those words?)

"I'm…"

(You were made to kill Vampires.)

"I'm honored."

(You're getting what you asked for.)

"Thank you, father."