Author: srh

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part I…

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Rory burst into the kitchen, leaving the mud room door to the garage wide open.

“Hey hey, there mister… shut that door. We don’t want Bixby getting out!” Nana admonished from the sink, elbow deep in pie making adjacent mixing bowls.

Meanwhile, and notably not moving a single muscle, Bixby laid on her customary memory foam mattress near the sliding patio door and barked once loudly as if discounting the whole idea of any escape.

Rory turned on his heel and in a smooth spin slammed the door shut and faced Nana in a panic. He held his hands out as if he was about to stop the room itself from spinning.

“A DRAGON? SERIOUSLY. NANA!?” Rory was yelling. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood at strange angles from yanking off the bike helmet so roughly. A small line of spittle was dripping from his lip, dangling precariously.

If Grandpa had been within earshot, he probably would have smacked Rory for yelling at Nana. Rory did not care. There was a capital G, capital D dragon in the capital, underlined, heavily emphasized F-ing neighborhood. And to be clear, while a raised voice felt appropriate at the moment, using actual swears would definitely be the wrong choice.

“Its barely a dragon,” Nana laughed dismissively. “You have a little something hanging from your lip, dear.”

“Yeah I puked,” Rory wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked over her shoulder again, her eyebrow raised. “You puked?”

“Don’t worry about that! Nana! The draaaaaagon!?” Rory felt like he was the only sane one. What would his mom and dad think? “What would my mom and dad think?”

Nana shook her head. “Well considering your mom was raised in this house, she would probably think that her son puking is a bit of a concern, silly. Your dad did think it odd, but I think he had the hots for your mom, so it didn’t really matter.”

“Oh my god, I must be crazy. Why am I the only one that thinks this is crazy?” Rory was walking in circles in the kitchen, pacing without even realizing it. “Does the military know?”

“Out of all things that are crazy in this world, young man, having some neighborhood wildlife is the least of all of them.” Nana said, ignoring his other questions as she shifted rinsed bowls to the drying rack. “Where did you puke?”

“In Grandpa’s trashcan,” Rory looked over his shoulder as if looking towards where he did the deed. “Its fine. Its just… Nana! Its not a flock of turkeys.”

“I know, she is definitely not a turkey. She eats the turkeys.” Nana rinsed off a platter, moving it to the rack. She wiped her hands on a towel at her waist and turned to face her grandson. “You will need to hose it out.”

“What?”

“The trashcan.”

“Oh my god, Nana. Can you please forget about my puke. I’ll clean it up. But. What. About. The dragon!?” Rory tried again, he felt flustered that there was not a bigger commotion about this.

“A cockatrice, Rory love, and her name is Wella. She is mostly harmless.” Nana shrugged.

“Mostly harmless? Doesn’t she eat kids?” Rory felt his voice rising again.

“Oh that was decades ago, she has plenty to eat.”

“Nana!” Rory stomped his foot. Angrily.

Nana tried to suppress her grin, tucking her lips between her teeth and clamping down.

“ITS NOT FUNNY.” Rory exclaimed, his fists shaking at his sides.

“From where I am standing, love, I would say otherwise. This is a show.” Nana teased. Her tone shifted to something more authoritative. “Go clean out the trashcan and then come back when you are calm. I will be glad to tell you everything you want to know. I have some cookies that Grandpa doesn’t know about. Good ones.”

“Nana!”

“Rory!” Nana imitated him and she did not budge. Her hands were on her hips, which meant she was all business.

“Dammit.” Rory groused.

“Trashcan.” Nana raised a singular finger and with it waved him out of the house.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He trudged out the door and let it close behind him. He went about cleaning out the puke like he was washing a dog against his will. He threw the hose down, he threw the trashcan down, he threw the nozzle to grass, and the universe allowed him to throw his little fit without interrupting.

He could see the trees that were standing over in the other lake bed over the top of Nana’s house, and they seemed to move in the wind. Or did they? Was that actually wind? Was it the dragon moving around? What if it got hungry? He was out here all by himself, hosing out a trashcan into the runoff drain, a tasty little snack in a jacket and jeans, just ready to be stripped clean. They would find a running hose, an empty, mostly clean trash can, and maybe a singular sneaker, just lying there alone in the browning grass. Accusingly.

He shook his head, clearing the thought away. Nothing but the breeze spoke in the distance, and the call of far off birds was carried upon it.

Rory finished rinsing his crime down the storm drain. He tipped the trashcan on the rocks to dry out in the afternoon autumn sun of late November, and put everything away as he had found it, just like Grandpa told him time and time again. Rory trudged in, kicked of his wet shoes in the garage and sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of cookies and a glass of milk was sitting and ready.

Nana sat on the other end, drinking a cup of tea and reading her book. She took a heavy sip, marked her spot with a clipped coupon and set the book down. She watched Rory carefully as he sulked to his seat, huffed as he sat down, and ate a cookie in sullen silence. Not for the first time she was reminded that her grandson was a lot like his mom had been, but for some reason, even more adorable? The volume of personality contained within the child was nearly volatile.

“So you are obviously fine. Why did you vomit?” Nana asked with a smirk.

“I went too fast.” Rory grumbled around another bite of chocolate chip.

“Too fast?”

“Adrenaline? Got all excited? Scared? I don’t know. The trees moved… and Mrs. Givins spooked me, I guess.” Rory tried. “I pedaled home as fast as I could, and I must have… ah… overdid it.”

“Oh?”

“And Mrs. Givins says hi,” Rory added.

“Ah, well that is good.” Nana said. “But you didn’t see her? Wella?”

“No. I didn’t see her.”

“Ah. But you did see or hear something,” Nana ventured. Her face was making an odd expression.

“I heard it.”

“That will do it,” Nana smiled at some form of confirmation. “Have another cookie, love.”

“Have you seen her?” Rory looked up from his cookie.

“Of course. It is hard to miss a dragon, Rory. She sometimes flies over the house to get to the big lake.”

Rory’s eyes went wide. “How is this not national news? Isn’t a dragon… I don’t know… a bit of huge deal, Nana?”

“No, silly. Lots of things happen every day and never make it to the news. Too many news stories about fat old white men stealing power and money from other fat old white men… and then everyone gets all fired up about which political party is doing what when they never stop to think that all the parties are there to protect the fat old white guys on both sides. Who would ever care about a dragon? Especially a good girl like Wella? She minds her business, we mind ours, and everyone gets along fabulously.”

Rory leaned back and nibbled the edge of his cookie, thinking it over.

“Probably lots of dragons in the world, but everyone is too busy fighting over the silly things. They never look up to see it fly over their house.” Nana smiled graciously.

Rory frowned and nibbled another bite from his cookie. He felt famished all of sudden… the excitement was starting to wear off and it was turning against him.

“Is it a secret?” Rory’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Wella is a ‘she’ not an ‘it’, and no dear, she is not a secret. What your grandfather does is a secret, but Wella, she is no secret. How would one keep a Cockatrice a secret?”

“I suppose,” Rory thought it over. “Does she really eat kids?”

Nana laughed brightly, looking years younger than she should have been. “Only the naughty ones. She has good taste.”

“Wait.”

“What?” Nana raised an eyebrow.

“What does Grandpa do and why is it a secret? I thought he was a Forest Service Ranger? Isn’t that like the ones at the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone?”

“You have to keep this a secret.” Nana finished her tea and set it down on her place mat.

“I promise.”

“Your grandfather is a Ranger, yes, but he is not employed by the US Forest Service. He is a… different… sort of Ranger.”

“The park kind still?” Rory said.

“Oh yes, most definitely. Still the park kind. He is a… conservationist.” Nana smiled as if waiting for a reaction.

“That doesn’t sound like a secret.” Rory admonished is grandmother. He was disappointed.

Nana reached over and pulled a drawer open, she pulled out a stubby length of wood, something that almost looked like a burnt length of tinder.

“Do you know what this is?” Nana asked, handing it over to Rory.

Rory held it in his hand, feeling the texture of it, the weight as it rested between his fingers. It was strange. Like it was delicate in one moment, but unbelievably heavy the next. He had the impulse to drop it, but it was locked to his fingers like they were sticky. The length was nearly black, but he noticed a fine webbing of cracks all along its length, they flickered like they had gold nestled in its hidden folds.

“Is it a pencil of some sort?”

“The technical name is a caduceus. In make believe books, it is called a wand. We most often refer to it as a rod.”

“Like a magic wand?” Rory’s eyes went wide.

“Sort of. Wands give the wrong impression. This is not used to wave around and cast silly spells with funny words. No, this rod is a conduit for energies. The energy is prevalent all over, but in some places it is stronger. It collects. It attracts certain types of creatures, plants, and… people to it.”

“Like a Cockatrice.” Rory made the connection.

“Yes. And…” Nana’s voice trailed off.

“Like you and grandpa.”

“Yes.” Nana appeared to be very proud of something all of a sudden.

“And grandpa protects those places… doesn’t he?” Rory asked. But he knew the answer. It was like a light turning on in his head. “He is a Ranger for creatures like Wella.”

“We both are. In our own way. Especially Mrs. Givins… And most other folks around here.”

“That’s why.” Rory sunk back in his seat. The world returned to a sudden level of normalcy in nothing but a mere moment for him and he felt a sense of peace about it, still holding the rod in his hand.

“What’s why?” Nana asked.

“That’s why you are all acting so normal about it. Because it is normal.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Is it normal for my mom? Or my dad?”

Nana shrugged. “I love your mom and your dad, but sometimes, modern life snatches our family away from us. Your parents don’t see things the way we see them, Rory. Which is fine, it just makes us a little bit different.”

“Like what do you mean?” Rory’s brow furrowed.

“Like that caduceus you are holding.” Nana waved her hand. “Your mom can’t see it. Or your dad. But you see it. You are even holding it correctly. Over the centuries, they have been called all sorts of things. Divining rods, dowsing rods, holy staffs…”

“Ca-de-se-us?” Rory tried the word, it felt strange on his tongue.

“That’s right.”

Rory waved the strange rod around in his hand, feeling the weight change as he moved it. It was like it was attached to something at one end. He yanked on it a little, and Nana’s hair fluttered around her head.

“Huh.” Rory grunted. He felt a set of senses that overlaid his own like he was seeing, smelling, hearing, and touching with a new set of limbs and sensory organs he had never used before. He felt duplicated in place, like there were two Rory’s occupying the same seat. At first, he felt a sense of panic rush over him, but the next there was a sense of peace, as if it was supposed to be this way and somehow he had just forgotten that fact somewhere along the way.

He felt ageless. Like he had always been here. But at the same time he knew that he was nine years old.

Nana watched on quietly, her lips pressed together in the semblance of both pride and happiness. She looked fit to burst.

The ancient at the hearth watched on passively. He wanted to say something, but it would break the bounds of his altar, which would decouple him from his vessel. So he watched as well, carefully taking in the scene so he could give his opinion later on. Aron wasn’t surprised that Vera’s grandson had the Touch, but it was odd that it had taken this long to manifest. The Touch was usually present from birth, not something that came on later. That was exceptionally rare. Aron knew that if the boy pointed the rod at the hearth, the boy would inadvertently satisfy the conditions of the altar and Aron could finally say something aloud. His voice bubbled in his head like a geyser needing to fount.  

Nana sensed Aron watching and turned her head towards him as Rory played with the rod, sensing the currents in the room. She shook her head softly as if telling him to relax. Aron would have curled a lip if he had a lip, but he was just a skull in an ornate box.

She held her hand out to Rory and took the rod back, she made a strange movement and the rod was gone from sight. “Tell me what you felt?”

Rory’s head felt like it was spinning again. The cookies and the milk sat forgotten, and he was staring at his palm in wonder.

“Nana, I could see you. But not with my eyes. It was like I could see…” Rory tried, but he found he didn’t have the words to explain it. “When can I get one of those?”

Nana laughed again, her joy was sparkling at the corner of her eyes, something that Rory had never seen before. Nana wasn’t just happy, she was jumping out of her skin happy.

“You have to make your own.”

“Like a lightsaber?” Rory’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you and grandpa like Jedi?”

“I suppose we are. I have never thought of it like that, though. Because what we are is far easier to understand. We are ecologists.”

“Is that like a tree hugger? Dad is always saying that the tree huggers are ruining this country.”

Nana rolled her eyes. “Yes, I would expect that, I suppose.” She paused. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Can I hold it again?” Rory asked instead.

“No. You won’t be able to. The test was passed, and that caduceus was not meant for you. You will have to make your own to hold one again.”

Rory growled. “That seems like a stupid rule.”

“A rule? Not a rule, just a fact.” Nana waved an arm like she was shaking a bug off, and held out her hand. “Take it.”

Rory looked at Nana’s open, empty hand and then to Nana’s face. She was serious. “There is nothing in your hand.”

“My caduceus is right here, Rory. In my hand.” Nana nodded to emphasize she was telling the truth. “You will see it again someday, when you make your own.”

“But I saw it once!”

Nana nodded patiently as she waved her hand away again. “You did.”

“I want to see it again.” Rory argued.

“You will.”

“Why not right now? I don’t understand.”

“Do you understand the rising of the sun or the position of the moon?” Nana’s face was serious again. “Do you know the tides? The shift of the mantle beneath you? Do you feel the forces that act on your body, right now, as you sit there, Rory Masters? Do you know the gravity that pulls at your mass? Do you approve of the magnetic orientation suffusing your cells? Do you allow the bouncing of light waves in this room? Or agree to my voice reaching your ears through pressure changes in the air?”

“Huh? Uh? No?” Rory tried again. He felt unsettled. Nana’s eyes were fierce all of a sudden, far different than the joy and happiness she was radiating a moment ago. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, love.” Nana softened. “It is just important for you to learn these things in order. There is a reason that most people can’t see or feel or understand the whole of reality as it is. It would cause madness. The human mind is structured to survive… while the human soul is designed to connect. It takes time to build the understanding that allows one to bridge wholly to the other, and to do so in right way. That is why some things are as they are. It is the glimmer that we see on the edge of our vision… the sensation that something is just on the edge of our understanding, but then we ignore it and go about our day.”

“I… I…” Rory paused. “Does mom know?”

“No.” Nana’s voice was soft and brittle. “She does not have the Touch.”

“But I do.” Rory finished.

Nana looked up. “What?”

“I do. And that is good, Nana. You don’t need to be sad about it anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as if she was evaluating her grandson for the first time. “No, I guess I don’t. Your grandfather should be home any moment. Go wash up for dinner. You can help me and cut the lettuce. Hurry up. I need my sous chef.”

“Yes, Nana.” Rory pushed away from the table and ran past her towards the half bath to wash his hands.

Vera picked up the plate of cookies, took one in her hand and thoughtfully took a bite. “I know it is killing you stay quiet, but I think for the time being, you should keep your mouth shut, Aron.”

The box on the mantel rattled once, but it stayed mute.

Rory had just turned nine when he first visited Nana’s house in Everdeen. His mom told him time and time again that he had visited many times before, but for some reason, Rory could never remember those earlier visits. It was as if trying to remember the earliest memories was a competition with himself, seeing how far back he could remember, where the memories became fuzzy and tumbled over themselves into a confusion of sensations and feelings. Those weren’t real memories, they were something else pretending to be memories. He knew that he had been here before, the house was familiar, but the years in between visits made it feel like eternity had passed in the intervening time.

He definitely would remember this birthday because of the new bike. Nana had given him fair warning before he set out for his first ride.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him over carefully, her brown hair and barely lined face made her look like she was only but the older sister of Mom, something that Mom always grumbled about saying that Nana just had great jeans. Rory had no idea why blue jeans made Nana seem a lot younger than Rory’s friend’s grandmothers.

“Wear your helmet and mind my neighbors’ cars.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory replied dutifully.

“Ring your bell if you pass anyone, even if they see you ahead of time.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory repeated. He just wanted to go ride his new bike. Dad had set it up for him before they left for their mom-n-dad holiday. Lots of hugging and giggling involved, Rory had rolled his eyes every time they said it.

“And whatever else you do, remember to stay on the path around the Gulch.” Nana tugged on his shoulder sleeve to get his attention. It was straying like a kitten. “What did I just say, young man?”

“Stay on the path at the Gulch. Is that the first one or the second one?” Rory always got the ponds confused. They were called lakes, even though they were just ponds, but they all had different names, even though they were nearly the same. It didn’t make any sense.

Nana smiled kindly. “The big one across the street is Reservoir Three, that’s called Prince Lake, the dried out one behind the neighborhood is Reservoir Two, that’s Branson’s Gulch, that has the paved path around the big wooded area.”

“Where is Reservoir One then?” Rory shook his head. Another reason why it was confusing.

“There is no Reservoir One. Only two and three.” Nana stood up straight and adjusted her apron. She was baking a bunch of pies for Thanksgiving. “Stay on the path.”

Rory’s mom and dad were coming back from their holiday for Thanksgiving, and eventually, trudge back to the city to return to normal life. And that meant he had to go back to school. School was ok, but not going to school was way better.

“Yeah, yeah, I will stay on the path, Nana.” Rory wrinkled his nose and made one of his classic faces.

Nana grinned and lovingly patted his head. “I will know if you don’t. Grandmothers are given special powers when their grandbabies are born. We see everything.”

Rory was already running to the garage by the time she finished her declaration of grandmotherly super powers. He snapped the helmet around his chin, pushed the kickstand up, and tore out of the open garage and down the long driveway. Wind whistled through his handlebars and he turned towards the first lake. That was actually the third lake. Prince Lake. The other one wasn’t a lake because it was dried out, but it was still called a lake, but also Branson’s Gulch.

Rory shook his head. Adults could be silly with such things. They said odd things that just did not make any sense.

He turned down the street, and looked both ways for traffic (even though there were rarely any cars on the street), and pedaled his way towards the gravel path around the lake. He could see the other side, so it was not a like an actual lake that he was used to, the kind that disappeared at the edges as it carried onwards, blending into a fuzzy horizon. This lake was too wide to throw a rock across, but big enough that riding around it took a good twenty minutes or so. Prince Lake was also a wildlife sanctuary so there was no fishing allowed, no boats allowed, and there were birds everywhere. Little tiny birds all the way to owls, hawks, and storks… but the most of it was stupid geese and those mismatched ducks where the girl is an ugly brown and the boys have all the bright colors.

He biked all the away around the lake on the wide rolling gravel path, and turned between neighborhoods to follow a pavement path to the other reservoir that was not a reservoir, but still had a number, but was not a lake at all, just a wide forested area. It was about the same size as the actual lake though. If Rory squinted, he could imagine it filled with water.

Strange thing was this empty lake that was called the Gulch had hardly any birds. Just grasshoppers, crickets, and those invisible bugs that buzz buzz way up in the tree tops. The path was mostly paved on one side, with houses on the far side, and long empty creek bed that blocked off another side. It was nestled in between things, like it was a forgotten place. That is why Rory liked riding around it… it was ignored by all the moms with strollers and the fat joggers and the old ladies with their tiny white dogs that barked too much. It was just Rory, the stands of elm and cotton trees, and the thick tangled brush that kind of looked like a tree and a bush had babies all over the place. It looked like a place to have an adventure.

There could be treasure out there! Something like a long lost castle crumbling above with a kingly sum hidden deep in the earth somewhere in it’s courtyard. There could be a secret encampment of thieves in that brush, hiding away while they plan their next big job!

Rory pulled off the path onto a small overlook and pushed the kickstand with his toe. The overlook has a statue of what looked like angry chicken. He walked up to it, and laid a hand against one up raised claw, letting his hand rest on the burnished bronze. He glanced out among the brush and the trees, listening to the murmur of a breeze moving among the convoluted twisting maze of intertwined branches.

“The statue is a local legend…”

The voice came out of nowhere and Rory jumped nearly out of his skin. He spun in a quick half circle to find an old woman reading a book on a secluded bench peering at him with sly smile on her face.

“Sorry to startle you, young man. You must be Dennis and Leanne’s grandson? Rory is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rory finally managed. “I-I am.”

“You like the statue? My father made it.” She peered curiously at Rory over her half-moon spectacles.

“It is a nice statue. But why is that mad chicken a local legend?” Rory dropped his hand guiltily from the raised talon as if suddenly remembering it was there.

The old woman laughed brightly. “That’s not a chicken, its a dragon.”

Rory glanced back to the statue and studied closely. He had not noticed before, but the chicken was longer than it should have been and it looked like it had a long tail with a clump of feathers at the tip. Those details were hidden in the base if you weren’t looking for it. At first glance, yeah, just an angry chicken. Beak open, claw extended, and one wing raised in the air as if it was warning a rattlesnake off. The wing had talons too… that was odd.

“A particularly clever dragon species at that,” the old woman touched the side of her nose. “A survivor! Most places have their local wildlife… racoons, coyotes, maybe a bear or a mountain lion. Here at Branson’s Gulch, we have ourselves a Cockatrice.”

“That sounds like a bad word,” Rory grinned.

“I suppose it does.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My name is Mrs. Givins. But you can call me Merry, I don’t mind at all.”

“Merry?” Rory’s eyebrow went up.

“Like Christmas. Are you staying for a while?”

“I am out riding my bike… Merry.” Rory replied hesitantly.

Mrs. Givins laughed again. “I meant for the holiday, not here at the overlook. You are welcome to stay here as long as you want though. You are not bothering me… feel free to ‘hang out.’ Is that what it is called still? It has been a long time since I have ‘hung out.'”

“Yeah. I hang out all the time,” Rory grinned.

“‘Cool’ still a word?” Mrs. Given winked. “It was when I used it in the sixties.”

“Yes.” Rory nodded appraisingly.

“Cool,” she nodded in return.

“Why is the Cocka… Cocker… Coker-” Rory tried.

“Cockatrice.” She finished for him.

“Cockatrice, right. Why is it a legend?”

Mrs. Givins folded her book carefully into her lap and set it aside. “In Kenya, if you can across a Giraffe… would that be weird?”

“No?”

“And if you were above the arctic circle and came across a polar bear?”

“Definitely not. That would be normal, right?” Rory shrugged.

“A long time ago, other creatures roamed the world, and those creatures would be right at home in a place like this. Humans learned very early on to leave them alone, just like a human would avoid a mountain lion or grizzly bear. Some creatures are not worth disturbing.”

“Dragons aren’t real.” Rory grinned.

“What about dinosaurs?”

“Those are real, but they are not around any more. They died out millions of years ago.”

“Some dinosaurs died out, but some just changed along the way,” Mrs. Givins smiled a secretive smile, one that implied she was letting something slip. “You think all those birds at the Lake are there because birds have been always been around? They are just miniature dinosaurs, millions of years removed from their ancestors. And some didn’t die out or change.”

“Like the Cockatrice,” Rory said.

“Yes. Exactly. A little imagination and wonder is good for everybody, Rory. Even us old folks. Imagining that there are bigger, scarier things in the world helps us remember our own pasts when there were those scary things beyond our hut. There is a reason the dark is a primordial fear for all human beings. Because we are wired to remember that there are bigger things out in the dark. Things with sharp teeth, sharp claws, and large stomachs.”

“But not any more.” Rory smiled hesitantly.

“Maybe. Did your grandmother tell you to stay on the path?”

Rory felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yes?”

Mrs. Givins raised an eyebrow and made a humming sound. “Good advice for Branson’s Gulch, Rory.”

There was a soft rumble as if on queue from deep in the tree stands, something that sounded like the earth had resettled itself arbitrarily.

She smirked at Rory again.

“And that is Wella. Her mother,” Mrs. Givins pointed at the statue, “was called Ember. Dark red feathers, like crimson. Nearly. Wella has beautiful plumage, but not like her mother. Wella should be fairly active while you are here.”

“What.” Rory asked deadpan. He felt like Mrs. Givins was teasing him, but there was something in her voice that sounded like she was not teasing at all. Like a teacher sounded. Reliable. Truthful. It kind of made his stomach do a loop and then fall into his knees.

“She is brooding. Most likely there are two eggs in the clutch. They both hatch, the strongest one survives. Life goes on. Sometimes there are three and the strongest two make it, but it has been a lean cycle. Cockatrices are nothing but survivors, so three is very unlikely.”

“What.” Rory repeated. His stomach was now somewhere in his shins.

“She hasn’t eaten any kids for decades, but it could always happen. So stay on the path?”

Finally something broke in Rory and he jumped for his bike. It was mad. “Uh, bye, Mrs. Givins.”

“Say hello to your grandmother for me!” She called after him.

Rory rode like hell. His legs pumped until he screamed into the driveway, climbed off his bike in the garage, and puked into Grandpa’s garbage can.

This follows An Old Memory in the Met Part IX, Part VIII, Part VII, Part VI, Part V, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

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Milos craved Areti’s paintings as a diver craved air. It went beyond a desire or an impulse. It was a part of himself that would die without her. A primal fear awakened, thrashing about, knowing that if all things were kept equal, it meant death.

Remembering her hair, her smile, her skin, he felt a crush in his chest. A desperate longing from lifetimes ago that he had thought he had forgotten. It must have only been slumbering, waiting for the right time to emerge from its dark hiding place deep in his core. Milos had to have her paintings. He was but an addict with deep solace that knew he was finally gazing upon his next score. He was nothing but a series of moments from where he was without to where he would be within.

Captured by bliss. Elated and floating. Above all things… because he would have her back. At least the memories of her would belong only with him.

It was a comforting thought that each of the crew longed for an object in a similar way, even if they didn’t feel the visceral emotions as Milos did.

Shirin desired her first Domain, a relic that had been passed on from King Solomon and as important objects typically are, lost to time. Not the best of her Domains, but easily her favorite. And so many of her Domains had already been irretrievably lost to the unrelenting grinder of history.

Then Al, who longed for the comb from his first nation, the First Nation of what would become British Colombia once the colonizers had their way. It appeared to be silver inlaid whale bone carved into a simple hair comb, but it was much more than that. It was said to carry the touch of the Old Ones, a touch that would be like a salve on the open torment of his condition. The Old Ones were long dormant powers that may have been the Creator himself, but then again, they may have only been the lucid dreams as the Creator had slept on the seventh day.

Shirin could have known, since she was one of the Fallen, but she had been cast out long before God had the breathing room to dream about rest in the first place.

And finally, there was Liz, who coveted the necklace of her eldest cousin, Lady Eleanor, the one and only true love of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the Last Leader of Wales. The death of her cousin had basically had given birth to what Liz would become. If Eleanor hadn’t died, the crucible that Liz had fallen into would never had been fired to life in the first place.

Each of them finding something that they had thought lost only to realize it was just out of reach. Because of the fucking Accords.

Out of all of them, was the abject denial of desire the worst for Milos? He pondered the question as he walked the halls of the Met.

Vampires were not human. They were once human, yes, obviously. But being a vampire was like being an artist’s imitation of a thing. The result is only a creative representation of what came before, because the created objects was its own thing, a reflection of a thing, but still a thing of its own. Vampires looked human, could pass for human, but they were not human. Any more than a painting of a rose is also a rose itself.

Human and Vampire are inextricably connected, but one is not the same as the other, and the transition leaves little if anything of what came before intact. Vampires could be held akin to humans that had become grossly obese or extremely geriatric. The changes that lead to the outcome happened by degrees. Small changes over time.

A thin human does not wake up suddenly fat, shocked to find that they had tripled their bodyweight overnight. No, it is a battle of attrition, admitting to oneself every day that they should do something about it, but never fully committing to what it will take. Instead, continuing the pattern of behavior that leads to the small daily measures of inevitable weight gain. They wake up fat because they had woken the day before deciding that the comfort of food was worth more than a healthy body weight. Not the best example, but aging does not align wholly either. Obviously, one does not wake up in a body of ninety year old, wondering where the preceding seventy years had wandered off to since they had been in their prime. Aging is not a choice, where as consuming too many calories is. The uncurable condition of vampirism falls somewhere in the middle.

It is not a choice. But at the same time, it very much is. The changes are miniscule, taking place with every feeding, slowly evolving what was the prey into what will become the apex predator. The virus was an animamorphic curse, meaning it was both physical and spiritual in nature, the physical manifestation acting on the cells and systems of the human body, and the spiritual manifestation twisting and adapting the spirit of the person. Vampires have souls too. But they are unbound souls after the virus does its job… when the host dies, the spirit goes with it, released back to the cosmos. Only oblivion awaits a vampire at their end. As the virus propagates through the body, it is fed by the act of hunting in both ways, and it in turn morphs the carrier from their previous self to the next self. Every day, every hunt, it is small measure of iterative change. Vampirism is a slow gradual descent towards the impenetrable darkness of becoming ‘other’. Something that is forever apart from what it had been before.

Being a vampire, there is a day where one wakes up and realizes that they are as much a human as a fucking unicorn. Milos had hit the ‘I am a fucking unicorn’ stage somewhere around Ottoman conquest of Athens. By the time he met Areti, he had been a divergent ‘other’ for centuries.

Did Areti care? Did she look at him and think of him as a vile monster? Did she wonder how God could exist if this fucking thing was allowed to stalk and kill thinking, feeling, human beings such as herself?

No. She has looked through him, penetrating him with but a glance. It was if his severed soul was a mere plaything that she could pull from his chest and inspect any time she wished. She would look over his heart, his mind, the very threads of his being and come to the conclusion, that yes, this peculiar being was worthy of her love. She had loved him selflessly, with passion and fervor, and had loved him from the day they had met to her last shallow, rattling breath. A cruel joke to watch her spirit so freely fly from the world of men when his own was forever bound to the shell he was born into. A handsome and powerful shell thanks to the virus, but it was a dead end. There was no continuing on.

Perhaps it was being up past his bedtime, knowing there was an obliterating sun hanging in the sky outside, and that it would only take one thing to go wrong among a thousand possibilities of things going sideways for everything to be fucked… maybe all that weighed on his mind and it made him introspective. Thinking of his own death and the unfortunate consequences of the wisdom gained from a long age spent on the Earth.

What would the human version of Milos think? That version of himself was definitely not to be found in the wide halls of the Met. There was no method to pull the old human Milos up in some form of a memory and ask him either. That version of himself was lost to time, much like Shirin’s many Domains. Milos would like to think that his human self would not be horrified, but he knew that wasn’t true. It was horrifying.

The moments prior to death. A stretching conflated canvas of tumbling moments that feels like an infinite amount of time that lasts only a few breaths.

The moment of death. By itself, one of the few places in the universe where no measure of time exists. Nothing but an indivisible point on the timeline.

The moments after death. Measured by overwhelming moments of madness, despair, and wonder that has lead to every moment, every choice, every event afterwards. How does one measure a single lifetime, much less the span of a thing that lives for many lifetimes.

Milos had lived for nearly a thousand years. His memory did not stretch that far.

That was horror, wasn’t it? Knowing that you had known something, and that it was gone. Just gone. Evaporated in place, fleeing the sanctity of the pure mind, an inmate no longer contained by the walls built to contain it. Neurons surely had the shape of the memory somewhere, and they had forgotten how to retrieve it.

Memories like books of an abandoned library, moldering on a shelf never to be perused again. As Milos passed through the Armory exhibit, he laughed to himself, realizing that he had more in common with the Met than he had realized. Most of the collections were not on display, hidden from view. Just like his memories.

What was it about Areti? What made her so singular?

Milos strolled through the crowds, feeling the ache of being awake during the day deep in his bones, the dragging fatigue of daywalking grasping at his limbs like the air itself was water and he was a deep sea explorer figuratively out of his depth. Even his teeth ached. He groaned at the imposition of physical discomfort and tightened the straps of his simple backpack.

He listed and made small comments into his earpiece as the team performed their work, but he was lost mostly in his own mind, counting random things… the number of tiles in an alcove, the sconces in a hallway, the number of Flemish knots on a particular piece of armor, the number of eyes on the paintings in a single room. His mind flashed with arithmetic formulas for aggregating and collating data as his eyes drank in everything around him, yet he was disassociated from that as well, thinking about life, death, and the meaning to be had when you are lost in a world that does not want or need you.

He heard Al torch vampires at the offsite Network Operations Center. He heard Shirin disable security in the local office in the Met. He heard Liz confront an old front and handle him like the amateur he was.

Did he ruminate on what the Family would do when they found out about the room of torched vamps at the NOC? Did he wonder why the Watcher was no longer a consideration for Shirin? Did he marvel at the long history that Liz carried around with her, but so effortlessly, he should be feeling a sting of jealousy?

He didn’t. Because he had absentmindedly wandered right back to Areti.

There she was.

Hanging on the wall.

She was the sun.

She was the sea.

She was the light and the foam and the crest and the wash and the crash and the spray and the glimmers of flying beads of water as they scattered the light like laughter.

She was in every brush stroke. Every dot. Every tap from a brush that had turned to dust centuries ago. Yet here she was.

Liz’s voice sounded far away in his ear, but his name pulled him out of his trance like state.

“Milos. Are you ready? When I let go, our comms will be offline. Everything will be offline, at least until the Wards realign.”

Milos looked at what was left of Areti and smiled widely, letting his teeth show like the predator he was. “I am ready. See you all at Liz’s tonight.”

The lights flickered all at once.

Milos pulled the earpiece from his ear and slid it into his pocket. He crossed to the front of the small alcove of the gallery and pulled the rope across to block anyone from entering. He stepped into the larger hall and took in the chaos unfolding.

Like a herd of cattle looking upwards at a stormy sky wondering what thunder was, the humans had no idea that the Wards regurgitating the flow of their interrupted magic into the real world was epically fucking the devices that they so depended on. Like a wave of confusion, every person with a smart device pulled it out, looked over it in dismay, and compared the results to their neighbors.

Mutters and harsh whispers started, wonderings and assumptions flowed between human minds that were not equipped to understand the chaos the Wards were dumping throughout the entire Met. Small quiet voices overlapped in suppositions.

“It isn’t a terror attack, you think? Some middle east whackadoo?”

“No, no, I bet it is just an outage… it will come back up any second…”

“Power outage? Did you see all the lights flicker? They have generators?”

“I bet it the Governor’s fault, he is a Democrat. They can’t do anything right.”

“I bet a backhoe jockey hit something over on 5th. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Con Edison is ran by Republicans, and you know they can’t get anything right.”

“Attack on the power grid. I bet it is China.”

“Oh I read about cyberattacks, it could be one of those.”

Milos wondered through the comments like they were floating bits of ash on the wind. The humans couldn’t feel or see it, but the reverberations of the Wards were wild to witness first hand. Milos watched as ultravoilet flickered like fairy light amongst the metal objects in the room, sparks jumping into being as quickly as they faded away. The pressure waves against his psyche was like air pressure changes from a fan the size of an airplane propeller, washing over him and enveloping him in its propwash. His other senses, the ones that made him what he was, shirked in the onslaught, but in its own way, it was a glorious show of power. Real, absolute, unassailable power that most humans could only dream of.

Watch a tornado for fun up close and one might understand.

But it was a tornado that Milos could fucking ride. His smile stretched wider, and his mulling over the deep questions were washed away in the baptism of redirected power.

Milos pulled on the fountains of free energy the Wards were dumping off, as they shook the very fabric of the building and everything contained within it. Milos’s lethargy faded away as if it was nothing but a bout of anxiety.

Daytime outside? Who gives a fuck?

Sun in the sky that can end you permanently? Not today, Sun.

Surrounded by terribly fragile humans in a place of protected sanctuary? Who cares?

Protected under the Grand Accords of All That Occupy? Not rules per se, more like guidelines.

Milos unleashed himself from the constraints that humans have to deal with. He moved faster than their cow eyes could understand, rippling through crowds as if they were nothing. His feet did not touch the ground, and no part of his body brushed against any person he passed. He was like a ghost given flesh, tempted to interact with the world, but ultimately disgusted by the physicality of it all.

To the young boy in the Native American exhibit, a man materialized out of nothing, like a magic trick. Then, like a whole another magic trick, he lifted a display case with one hand like it was made of air, took a white comb out from the display and without any effort, put the case back. By the time the little boy got his mother’s attention, the man was gone again as if he had never been there. Just like the comb that had been in the case. The little boy gave up on his mom, who was enraptured with her malfunctioning phone, and he slowly read the tag in the case.

‘Whale Bone Comb with later inlaid silver, First Nations of North West Coast, British Columbia, circa. Comb 15000-25000 BCE, Silver inlay unknown.’

In another part of the Met, the lights popped in order from the entrance of the Hall to the other end, as if a ripple of a power surge took every light and rendered it useless. The crowds yelped and shrieked with timid smiles as they left the space in a hurry, rushing for the exits. His fingers smoking from smashing the lights in quick succession, Milos moved aside the glass, gently retrieving Liz’s necklace in a movement that was so fast, it was near breaking the sound barrier.

In yet another hall, a man wandered in casually, passed a plinth, and then wandered out just as casually. No one noticed that the small exceptionally detailed Assyrian vase that had been on the plinth had been replaced with a replica from the gift shop. There happened to be a naked woman nearby wandering just as casually and everyone watched her warily as a large crowd of security guards followed closely behind wondered what to try next.

And as if no time had intervened, Milos stood again in front of everything that represented Areti.

He shifted his backpack off, careful not to damage the vase, the necklace, or the comb within, and reached out to take the small paintings from the wall to add them quickly to his haul.

“Stop.”

Milos looked around the small gallery. Not a single person stood or sat nearby. Was it his imagination? The power of the malfunctioning Wards was making him giddy.

He reached out again, and he felt her hand on his own. He stopped and his sharp breath tore at his chest. How could he have forgotten her touch?

“My love. Stop.” Her voice was unmistakable. He felt a tear form at the corner of his eye.

Milos cleared his throat, feeling like a child. “Who is this?” He asked foolishly.

“Stop, Milos. They are where they belong.”

Milos spun in a quick circle in panic, looking everywhere for his assailant. He was alone in the closed off gallery, no one outside the entrance was even looking in on the olive skinned man standing alone appearing to have a panic attack.

Milos rubbed his hands together in frustration and reached out again for the small painting of the ocean sunrise.

“They are where they are meant to be, Milos. Just as I am. Don’t you remember?”

The tears came unbidden, the tightness in his chest rushed up his throat, and attacked his eyes. Milos realized these were the first tears he had since before the founding of United States. Everything is too long.

Milos felt her touch on his face, one hand on each cheek, just as she had all those centuries ago.

“I am my paintings, Milos. I am here.” A hand, invisible, traced the path of his tears and touched his forehead gently. “I am also here.”

“I will never get another chance, Areti. I have to take them now or I never will.” Milos managed through the first hitch in his chest. He forgot how physical grief was. It manifested itself in his body painfully.

“Then you will have to come here and remember me. How many do I touch now? How many will I be with in the future? How many people need me and not know it? I did not paint for only myself, my love. Milos. I painted for you. For them. For everyone.”

“I needed you. I need you.” Milos managed. He gently fingered the edge of the painting, temptation electrifying his fingertips.

“Yes. Yes you do.”

Milos waved his hands around trying to touch the untouchable. He wanted to grab her and pull her close.

Another touch on his hands. Stilling them both. “Stop.”

“And leave?”

There was no answer. Then he felt the presence of her immediately in front of him, at the tip of his nose, and her lips brushed his own. He felt her kiss.

He kissed her back knowing his answer. Then she was gone.

Milos gave another longing look at the paintings and sighed knowing he would be back to look at them until they were moved somewhere else. Then he would look at them wherever that was. And so on, until time either ended or he was lost to the cosmos.

He would never forget Areti again.

He grabbed his backpack and headed for the basement. No one saw him pass and no one saw him exit.

When the security systems finally came back online and a young naked woman was taken away by ambulance, and the security team finally reconnected to the NOC, and the consultants finally showed up…

That is when someone finally noticed something was missing.

It was four days later. And Milos had already been back twice to sit on his bench, wave at Martha as she wandered by on her duties, and stare at the paintings, knowing he was with her.

And she was there. In her own way.

This follows An Old Memory in the Met Part VIII, Part VII, Part VI, Part V, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

---

Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa, the Lady of the Mountain, was a typhoon of power completely defined by, and paradoxically in turn defined the true meaning of femineity. Not the soft, weaker sex that feigned distress and played coy games behind folded hands in Court, no, she was everything that women were in the long history of the Earth. That being primarily in the appropriate management of men, the co-opting of leadership opinion, and shaping of world events. Nothing that would be as what men proclaimed to be as a ‘woman’s place.’

‘A woman’s place’ was but a worldview of sad men that was solely defined by the pathetic men that believed it, and they were the ones that made their worldview real for the rest of the civilized world. The women had to be kept in check, in their place, behind the chair, off to the side, in the bedroom, working the kitchens, or minding the children, that was the natural order of things. They were weaker, softer, and more emotional than the men, so of course, that had to be the natural order.

Might made right.

Yet, most men would acknowledge that women held some form of power, even if it was not the open power that men flaunted without care and with unexcused privilege. Woman had power. But it was a silent one. A reserved one. It managed quietly at the neck. The head could not turn without a neck. Men were loudly arrogant about their power, real or imagined, swinging it about like their sexual member, proud of themselves for nothing that warranted pride.

Both in might and pride, the Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa was nearly a man by both measures. She was unrepentant and brash, wholly herself and willing to swing her power wherever she felt it was necessary or needed. She had many roles across Wales, Scotland, England, and further abroad in places like France, Austria, and Italy. Her locus was within Mount Wyddfa, and was always bound to it, but she flung herself where ever the winds of her soul bid her to go. In the great houses of the European powers she was the Lady Snowdon, and she was a force to not be taken lightly or who’s counsel was to be discounted.

Lady Snowdon was a brazen force of fyccin nature personified. And by consequence, she was greater than any man. And so far, every man that Liz had encountered in the presence of Lady Snowdon knew exactly what the Lady represented.

Terror.

After watching her teacher at work, Liz was certain that the imps of hell would refer to the Lady as their Queen. The Lady Snowdon did not suffer fools, which included Liz. In becoming her pupil, Liz’s world had opened up like a lightning torn sky that had unleashed the floods of the Old Testament. The heavens, the earth, and things behind and beneath them were slowly unveiled through the tumultuous, and often painful, instruction.

Trauma is a powerful rogue wave. Like a rogue wave, it often appears to come from nowhere, a fist of a swell that towers over the oblivious ones that preceded it and the meek ones to follow. It crashes against the beach, the wall, the cliff with a fury that the land is not capable of withstanding. Caves collapses, arches fall into the ocean, and entire beaches get swallowed by the tumult. Trauma is the same.

The death of a loved one. The diagnosis that no one expected. The fall of a powerful trusted leader. Trauma comes in many forms.

For Liz, trauma was watching her beloved cousin die in childbirth. Watching her bleed to death right in front of her, while everyone rushed to help a situation that could not be real. And in it, Liz was taken by the rogue wave. It picked it her up, buried her head beneath the foam and froth, and dared her to occasionally take a breath in order to survive the tumbling wash. Liz felt her head break the surface every so often, and she would gasp for a breath of normalcy, for routine, for the comfort of the life that came before, and she would realize that the air was poisoned by the very wave she was carried by. It was nothing but salty spray and bitter remnants of a life destroyed.

Her madness of being lost within her trauma set her up for something either terrible or something profound.

Liz had a touch of madness in all of her learning with the Lady. It was if she was a tiny whirlwind of her own creation that spiraled in the wake of the great storm that Lady Snowdon created. The Lady perhaps witnessed that in the dark, on the edge of a dying fire all that time ago… a young woman that was spiraling in her trauma. Not downwards towards destruction, but instead something much more rare, a thing that was spinning upwards in power, ferocity, and impact. Liz’s madness was ever nearby as Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa invested of herself into Liz, keeping lockstep with Liz’s ardent stride towards learning the ways of the deeper universe.

Liz discovered that reality was but an angry scab that settled on the fervent energies that lay below, churning and interlacing in the deeps of all of creation. Most humans were content camping idly on the mantle of reality, but there were a few that were either born of that chaos, or yearned to reach for it, to seek it out. Liz learned just how far her reach could go. And it turned out the madness was necessary component to keep her world in order with that reach. And because of that… the overwhelming regret that the Lady Snowdon had promised at that same fireside never seemed to arrive.

Liz’s teacher was just as shocked as Liz was. Regrets are often borne of trauma, and instead of discovering them, she released them. The trauma started to fall away in bits and pieces and the rogue wave retreated sullenly back to the sea from which it arose.

Liz discovered power. She fell in love with it. And in turn Liz became a lover to magic, as a nun gives themselves to the Church. Had the Lady Snowdon foreseen this? Could she have known what she was going to create through the process?

Liz had always wondered. And to her fault, she had never asked. By the time she discovered all the questions she had never had the time for, her teacher’s own time had given out. Whether by cruel circumstance, a choice of God, or the proverbial luck running dry, one witch carried on while the other had been destroyed, sacrificing all she was to save the mad girl she had found by the fire on a cold Welsh moor.

Ironically, the aforementioned regret did eventually arrive in some form. But it was not a profound wave of destruction, but the slow etch of a river on a mountain, more of a widening scar than a traumatic wound.

All of this had occurred before the one two punch of the Great Famine and the Great Mortality descended upon Europe with fury. Both of which gave Liz a reason to believe that she had been born at the highest point in Mankind’s history. When the Famine arrived in Northern Europe, she was already a solid 100 years old. Being 130-ish when the Great Mortality arrived, (she would be about 500 years old before it was called the Black Death,) she felt she had made all the right choices.

Any additional Regrets were few, and most were men.

She settled in Cardiff after the fall of King Ne Peris in 1315. Very few understood that the Great Famine was not caused by a shift in the planet’s tilt or by a variation in sun exposure or a change in atmospheric composition… It was because one of the major kingdoms of Fairie, under the auspices of Fairie King Ne Peris, had been completely eradicated by a great human host. An army of ten thousand men had vanished into the forest in France, and when they successfully executed their revenge and slaughtered the Fair Folk on their own lands, the stupid short sighted humans found themselves unable to come back home. Every portal between the realms snapped shut, and the reverberation on the natural world was cataclysmic. Every plant, every animal, every living thing felt the implosion of that connection, and the world would feel its effects for hundreds of years.

After that, human beings swept the world like a virus, exploding in numbers with their advances in technology, and in revolt, the other beings of the world tried to fight back. They fought with famine. They fought with disease. They fought with monsters. They ended up hiring people like Liz.

Work, work, work all the time.

But word would get out that a certain King had hired a certain person for that kind of work, and then the other opposing King would hire their own person for that kind of work. An arms race of a sort, long before there were superpowers and nuclear weapons, there were the other forces one could bring to bear to keep enemies at bay.

That is exactly how Ysabella “Elizabeth” de Montfort, now the Lady Snowdon, met Anton de Lionne for the first time. Unfortunately, Liz remembered the day down to the minute details.

It was spring. Versailles was in full bloom, and the rampages of the late winter had finally worn off. However it was France, and it was a royal palace, so of course the place smelt like shit. Liz was in a far corner of the gardens pretending to listen to some pompous ass that had some provincial holding that apparently had other courtiers lifting their skirts.

Liz desperately wanted to turn the vile little man into a toad and leave him in the fountains. If that were to occur though, others in attendance would probably intuit that Liz was a witch. And not just some random witch, but one of immense power, because they would all be turned into toads as well. Then Liz would use the pompous ass’s cane and see how the Scottish sport of golf played out on the palace grounds. She was daydreaming splendidly about hitting green and black toads as far as she could imagine, painting statues and walls alike in viscous remains of high velocity amphibians, when a strange blond gentleman took her by surprise.

He knew her name and his command of French was exquisite.

“Pardon the interruption, my lady. I have it in on good authority that you are the exceptionally famous Lady Snowdon? Your family line is something of a legend to my own. Not to be presumptuous, of course.”

Liz narrowed her eyes shrewdly, glad that she had aged down the last few years, appearing to be in her mid-twenties and not a day of her four hundred years. She could use the inexperience of her apparent youth to gain advantage with a handsome, as she sniffed, well-smelling… strapping young man.

Her interest was piqued to say the least. And at worst, she was immensely glad for the interruption. Anything to save her from the astoundingly boring country nobles pretending to flout about in fancy dress. She was the Lady Snowdon for god’s sake, she had more class in a single fingertip.

“One should not leave an introduction one-sided?” Liz nodded politely, dipping the edge of her unfurled umbrella in acknowledgement. “If one were to do such a terrible thing, wouldn’t I be at a terrible disadvantage with such an impolite introduction?”

The gentleman doffed his hat and bowed at the waist, a tightly flourished hand flair at his right knee as he dipped downwards in a formal bow. He had been well trained. Liz was still enjoying how clean he smelled, it was a rare delight to her senses.

“If such a disadvantage existed for the Lady Snowdon, which I sincerely doubt, why wouldn’t one take advantage of it? It is said she withers strong men down to their bones, and shatters all conceptions that would normally have any other person evicted from Court and wasting away in a pit somewhere. But I hear it said that the Lady Snowdon continues her consequence free reign. I would dare to maintain such advantage if it was to be had.” He smirked with only the corner of his mouth, tilting the edge of his full lip upwards devilishly.

Liz felt certain parts of herself start to warm up. She did not appreciate how her animal brain was reacting to the handsome man with the silver tongue. She walked down a path of the garden, and the gentleman followed a half pace behind.

“But alas, dear sir,” Liz curtsied formally in response, stepping away from the currents of conversation that carried on amongst the previous group. “I would say you are being presumptuous, counter to your previous assertion. I am indeed the Lady Snowdon, as my mother was before me, and while I have more titles than most men currently sweating in these gardens, I would think it would be any of their interest to not leave me wondering whom I conversing with.”

His smirk lowered as he worked through the veiled insult. Then as if a decision was suddenly made, it reversed course and his smile was wide and welcoming. “Anton de Lionne.”

“Choosing not to use a family name? No titles? Pray, what sort of Court am I attending?”

“One could say it does not fit the work,” Anton shrugged. “I find it better to trade on my own name these days instead of relying on my stout and oppressive lineage. Also, I should note that coming from the family that I do, such lineage is not the best help to my endeavors. This country is imprisoned in a regime that is slowly and painfully willing itself to death.”

Liz walked away from the group, and Anton followed at a respectful distance to her side. “And what endeavors are those, sir? “

“Have we already arrived at that level of trust with one another, Lady Snowdon?”

“Categorize it as discovery.”

“Ah! In the interest of discovery then. I am in employ of the King as an Advisor. Particularly in the location, isolation, and destruction of foreign agents that seek to undermine his Crown. One could say that I am a witch hunter.”

Liz’s breath caught in her chest, but felt she managed to hide it well enough. “A witch… hunter?”

Anton laughed. “Yes as crude as it sounds. Sometimes you just have to find the witch, or warlock, whichever it may be. Those nefarious agents of Satan himself abound.”

“And then what?” Liz feigned ignorance. Liz turned her head and she caught the shimmer in his aura. He has prepared to confront her. He was wearing a ward. Something old. This fucker had just twisted his chance of getting the best lay of his life into having his insides and outsides switch places, preferably through this pores of his skin.

“Well I usually start by binding the witch to an object, as to remove them from their locus, and then forcing a confession of sorts, for the courts of course…”

“Of course, of course.” Liz amiably agreed. “It is critically important to have legal standing in such things.”

“And then we convert them to faith, assist in the repenting for sins, and commit them to God.”

“You splash them with water, have a priest pray for them, and then execute them, if I am translating correctly.”

“Often all three at the same time,” Anton shrugged. “As the good book instructs, ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'”

“Yet.” Liz nodded sagely.

“Pardon?” Anton stumbled at the interjection and had to quicken his step to catch up.  

“One must be a part of what they hunt, no? A hunter must understand their prey. And that implies that one must suffer a witch to live.” Liz took the chance to look him over more closely, acting coy, all the while as she folded her fingers out of sight and uttered a small invocation under her breath.

‘Seven brushes by seven folds by seven depths, all untold. Six to witness, five to lie, four to death, three to sign, two to follow, and one…‘

“Divine.” Liz said aloud. The trigger rang like a bell in her head, and power flowed through her attacking whereever the nearest threat was.

Anton stopped walking. His hands lifted suddenly, scratching at his throat as if he was being licked by fire underneath his jacket.

“What ever is the matter?” Liz asked in a haughty tone.

“Damn necklace under my clothes. By the devil, what is this?” Anton ripped his buttons, one hand pulling his tunic open while the other threw his jacket to the ground. “My sincere apologies Lady Snowdon…”

He pulled a glowing necklace from his chest and dropped it on the ground. He blew on his fingers with a look of dismay.

“My father is going to kill me.” Anton whispered. The necklace curled in on itself, the metal fusing into a series of molten pellets, clicking lightly as it cooled.

“That is a protection ward?” Liz played up her ignorance all the more. Was was this Anton de Lionne’s game? He was either the stupidest man she had ever met, or this was the cleverest ruse she had ever been a victim of. He was an an admirable package and probably had an admirable package to boot. Her mind wandered back to the chances of a romp. It had been a while.

If she was going to get caught by a witch hunter, she could have some fun first. Right?

“It was a protection ward. Damn. My father carries a notion that I become some version of his uncle. He was a great hunter, worked for the Church, found some notoriety in Eastern Europe eliminating vampires or some nonsense like that.” Anton pointed at the ruined amulet. “Supposedly that was my great uncle’s.”

“Well congratulations, Mr. De Lionne, you have found a witch in the Court! You are a success!” Liz curtsied as sarcastically as her tone.

Anton’s eyes went wide. “Well, shit.”

…

“Well, shit.” The same voice, hundreds of years later, but the response was an exact match to her memory of the day she inadvertently made Anton de Lionne both a convert and an unlikely, yet strangely formidable, competitor.

Liz hated competition. Especially when they were people that were exceptionally resistant to her normal charms. Like Anton having a thing for his own gender. That made it all the worse. She would have to play nice.

Gag.

“Hello, love,” she replied from her alcove table in the Grand Gallery of the Met. Her fingers were smoking from the work on the Wards, and let them glimmer and spark as she took a small sip from her coffee cup.

“You are the one that is fucking with the Wards.” Anton smiled. His retinue of three assistants spread out behind him, taking flanking positions on every side they could to keep her from escaping. “After all these years, I find the one time Lady Snowdon fucking about with my shit. You know this is my job, right? I get paid for this, Ms. Montfort.”

“Elizabeth, please. And you must calm down, Anton, and have a seat. How many fellow gays you got running with you these days?” Liz turned her head slowly, getting small reads on every person he had with him. “Mixing work and pleasure? Do you take turns fucking each other? How does that even work?”

“You know, my sexuality aside, I remember a time when you thought I was worth a turn in the grass, Ms. Montfort.” Anton pulled a chair out slowly, and settled into it like a leaf on the wind.

Ignoring the fact that Liz had asked for first names was an annoying move. She deflected her anger as best she could. “Don’t remind me. It still irks me.”

“Versailles?”

“Forget about it,” Liz rolled her eyes.

“Come on.” Anton insisted.

“Yes, Versailles, obviously. How was I supposed to know? Now, can you let it go?”

“Sure, Ms. Montfort. Now tell me why you are fucking with the wards on my fucking building.”

“Anton, dear, the wards are intact. If you took a half measure to look, you would see that nothing is wrong.”

“At this point, if the Wards were to grow mouths and scream obscenities at our guests, I would not be surprised. I am instead fucking surprised to find Elizabeth de Montfort, of all people, sitting here, with her trademark shit eating grin spewing lies in every direction. Why are you trying to break them? I mean that is asking for an epic shit storm.”

“Break is such a harsh word. I am not going to break anything. Like so many of the works in these hallowed halls, the Wards are works of art themselves. I am only admiring them.” Liz smiled innocently.

“Yeah, right.” Anton scoffed. He waved one of his assistants over. “‘Admiring’ them. Keep your hands were I can see them, please.”

Liz rested her wrists on the table, setting her coffee cup down gently. “Now Anton. We don’t want to make this… problematic.”

Anton raised his own hands in response. “Look at my hands, Ms. Montfort. Now look at your hands. You have been caught red-handed. Literally.”

“It’s only literal when it is written down, Anton.” Liz eyed the assistant approaching the table.

“Then I will write it down and I will tack it to your fucking forehead. Stop what you are doing. Now.”

The nearest assistant pulled what looked like loops of hair from his satchel. Liz was impressed they were so well prepared. How many witches did they incarcerate at the Met on a yearly basis? To have Bindings of Morgane prepared and on hand to tie a witch up to restrict the flow of magic? Liz nearly wanted to ask who made the rope of hawthorn and the yew bark, since the person that makes it determines just how effective it is. But since she was not here for the pleasantries…

“If you want to write it down, perhaps, you should write this down,” she said instead.

“What is that?” Anton held his hand over his shoulder for his assistant to hand him the bindings. He sounded borderline annoyed he was having to interact with her.

“You. Are. An. Idiot.”

“Duly noted.” Anton sighed heavily. The assistant handed over the Bindings and stood behind Anton’s chair glaring.

“You didn’t write it down.” Liz said in a teasing voice. She noted the assistant was cute, in a confused Greenwich Village teenager sort of way. More rebelling against his parents than a true pupil of the art. His stylish pomp of curly hair was definitely ensorcelled. And once she got the smell of it, she knew those Bindings were his as well. Amateur hour at the Met.

“Kindly fuck off, Ms. Montfort. Now I am going to put these on, and I am going to escort you off the premises, and if you come back, I will notify the New York Accords Chapter to file a grievance.”

“Oh, no, a grievance. How terrible.”

“I mean it, Ms. Montfort.”

Liz dropped her voice to an sharp grating whisper. “For the last fucking time, Anton. You. Can. Call. Me. Elizabeth.”

She shifted her right hand to her left wrist in a blur, sending the half full coffee cup skittering across the table and falling to the floor. She laid her middle finger on the bracelet’s emerald. She winked at Anton and she knew Anton’s assistant would remember this day for the rest of his goddamn life.

Liz felt the dump of stored magic across her chest, a flash of warming through her lymph nodes as the energies she had carefully stored unfurled themselves through her nervous system. Her blood felt like it was sparkling under her skin, and she reminded herself that she did not have to pee, it was just a sensation.

Sure as the sun rising, she felt the urge to release her bladder. Liz pushed the urge away and instead… touched Anton’s hand.

Three things happened.

The assistant leaned forward in surprise, probably trying to invoke something idiotic while one hand pulled his boss out from harm’s way. Anton looked at his own hand as if he was just introduced to static electricity for the first time. And lastly, the spell hit the Bindings as if they were made of high yield detonation cord.

Magic is a powerful flow, like a river. It is the first thing a student of the art learns. It was the first thing Liz had learned. It is the movement of energy from all things, through all things, to all things. It is both of the world and apart from it. Magic flows through everything because it is separate from it. Like light passing through glass. The glass is real, and light is real, but because of the properties of both glass and light, one passes through the other. Magic flows through. Some things can handle it. Others… well, not so much.

Magic flowed through Anton. It flowed through the Bindings. It flowed through the assistant. And all of it was lashed to Liz’s will. Her eyes flashed, her retina’s glowed red momentarily as she released her invocation word.

“Calanthe,” Liz exhaled.

The Bindings had not been meant for this level of power. They were fashioned by an amateur that was not prepared to meet someone like Liz. She refactored their creation, and they flowed down Anton’s arm and up the assistant’s arm as if they were alive. Their eyes went wide as the bindings flowed under their clothing and around their bodies. Other strands leapt through the air as if they had been loosed as arrows from a bow, their sinews hitting the other assistants in a flash, writhing down underneath their clothing, to nestle against their skind and surround them as well.

It was over in about half a second. Human brains typically don’t process information that fast, but in the realm of magic, it could have been a lifetime. For the four of them, it probably had felt like a lifetime as they were put into submission in every single way that mattered.

To all the other patrons crowding the Met, nothing had happened. Three people were chatting nearby, two sitting and one standing. One moment, it looked as if someone had spilled their coffee, knocking if off the table as they were talking animatedly, and the next, the woman was apologizing for the spill.

“I am so sorry, Anton. But I was telling the truth, I am not trying to break anything.” Liz stood slowly, making eye contact with the other two assistants nearby. They were standing just as still as Anton and the assistant behind his chair. All of them were eerily still, as if they were waiting.

Which they were. Liz wiggled her fingers and all four of them wiggled a bit where they either sit or stood.

“Honestly, having marionettes is so much fun.” Liz grinned as she stood. “I should find a cliff.”

Anton could only blink and move his eyes. He did both a lot. Liz knew he must have been freaking out.

“Oh you shush, you will be fine,” Liz admonished.

She waved her hand, and the other two assistants wandered over. They were walking stiffly, but no one noticed. She made them pull chairs up and sit at the table clumsily. She stood and commanded the nearest assistant with the curly hair to take her previously occupied seat. “There. Now you are all the best of friends! You can sit here, stare at each other, and think about what you have done. I will let you all go when I am done admiring the Wards. Anton. Admiring them.”

Liz walked towards the core of the original building to finish her work. She was nearly done before she had been so rudely interrupted. Shirin had done her part. Al had done his.

Now it was her turn so that Milos could do his part. The vampire thief.

Liz laughed to herself. That sounded like a book title. The Vampire Thief by Anne Rice. Milos was about to do something that had never been attempted since the Met had been built. Oh sure, things had been stolen, and likewise, things had been recovered.

All of that was by humans. And normal humans were oblivious. Oblivious to the real world. The underlying complexity of it all. The ones that cared, the ones that figured it out, those humans reached a nirvana of sorts. They turned into familiars and scholars, into witches and warlocks, some turned into other things, all of the groups defining themselves for the very Accords that were written to maintain the balance between them. But most humans just assumed their reality was actual reality and blundered about in their sad little lives, waiting for payday and binge drinking their upcoming weekend away.

Those that were within scope of the Accords, that were the sorts that the Met was designed to keep out. The primary target of those protections were against the Fey. How does one keep the Fair Folk out? Especially since they typically ignored such preventions?

The Sentinels were there to detect them if those bound by the Accords tried to enter. Thanks to Al, and a little help from Liz, the Sentinels in question were quite crispy and unable to perform their duty.

The Watcher was there to trap those bound by the Accords if they attempted to sneak in. Thanks to Shirin, the Watcher was no longer watching anything.

And lastly, the Wards had two functions, one to repel those bound by the Accords if they had any intent to defy the Accords, and second, to contain them if they violated the same Accords. Breaking or destroying the Wards would have massive consequences, again, because of the Accords. It is a self referential trap that would collapse on anyone trying to fuck with it.

Liz thought about how silly it all was. How it simple it was in the end.

Magic is a flow. Technology is not counter to magic, per se. But magic flows. Technology is man’s attempt to infuse rocks with lightning and force the rock to think on their behalf. Of course, if you submerge something as delicate as micron level integrated circuits into a directed flow of any sort energy, then of course, things are going to get wonky.

One would wonder how a thief would steal anything in a well protected museum. It was about timing, preparation, and execution.

Liz could feel the Wards trembling. She had overlaid the same spells on top of them, inverting them in layers, subverting them by small degrees. Her work was ephemeral in nature, temporary and fleeting. The underlying work of the Wards worked into the very fabric of the building, carved into the stone and arrayed with design, that would persist. Her own work was meant to redirect it.

The flow. She was redirecting the flow of a powerful river, and it just so happened that the building was full of technology. Technologies that normal oblivious humans put so much stock into.

She knew it was ready. She just had to push. Liz pushed the commlink connect button on her ear.

“Milos. Are you ready? When I let go, our comms will be offline. Everything will be offline, at least until the Wards realign.”

Milos came back instantly, his voice sounded like he was smiling ear to ear. Which would be bad in the company of humans, even in his weakened daytime state. She didn’t know his part, but Liz assumed he had it covered.

“I am ready. See you all at Liz’s tonight.”

Shirin and Al both vocalized their sign offs and Liz did the same. She pulled the commlink from her ear and threw it into the nearest trashcan she passed.

Liz closed her eyes, waved her hands in her final invocation, and released the framework she had built. Mentally, it was like a powerlifter completing a rep and setting the bar down. She just released it.

The Wards gasped at the strain instead. All the weight that Liz had been shouldering in her work was immediately transferred to the ancient Wards, and the energy that flowed through them stopped, and instead went sideways.

Every single light in the Met flickered at once.

Liz turned on her heel, walked through the Grand Gallery, and out the front doors as every single cell phone, computer, camera, laser, sensor, server, and network collectively decided that lightning in rocks should not, would not, and could not work at the whim of any mortal human being.

Because… fuck ’em. That’s why.