Some blush to the cheeks. Then, the mascara.
"Before punk, it was my first love. The passion."
Long pink hair fell under an androgynous, striking face. Mischievous, narrow eyes, lined dark blue. Lips painted with the color of a fading rose.
"The drama. It's how I learned so many languages, you know. My mother would always paly it. Well, that and boss nova. Spellbreaking. Pro wrestling. Opera. It's all the same."
Iggy Astro turned to Victor, resting on a Roman couch beneath a fresco of a Renaissance plaza scene of two lovers blessed by cupid. "Well, handsome, how do I look?"
"Beautiful, like always," Victor said, buttoning a lavender shirt, unable to fasten anything at the chest level these days. "Hmm...perhaps I need to cut down on pec day."
Iggy rolled their eyes. The white gown fit them well. "Speaking of chest. Turns out with the right positioning of undergarment wires and a bit of stage makeup, I can pass for a rather busty broad."
"Tetas. The universal truth."
Iggy sighed, placing the makeup brush back in the palette. "Honesty hour. Does it bother you, seeing me like this?"
"Huh. Iggy Astro...being vulnerable? About GENDER?"
"Only to you." The diva glared. "Don't make me arm bar you....in a dress. I've done it before."
The old, Italian villa creeked. Somewhere outside, the voices of the other spellbreakers rose and fell. Arguments. Teasing.
The masked man laughed, embracing his lover. "Mi amor...I am in love with love. And love? Has no gender." He kissed their partner on the cheek. "Well, speaking of honesty hour. I honestly don't think you should be doing something risky like this so soon."
Without thinking, Iggy pressed their lace-gloved hand to their side. How funny. Getting shot hardly hurt as much as they thought it would. And the scar? Well, it was sexy if anything. Gave them more edge.
"It's the only chance we have," Iggy said, studying the picture of the beautiful opera singer that bears an uncanny resemblance to themselves. "It's my revenge aria. Against these megalomaniacal idiots. Besides, I haven't sung Donizetti in ages. I'm getting rusy." They teased and hairspray their hair, trying to replicate the woman in the photo. "I'm glad they gave me Lucrezia Rosellini to replicate. She's hot, at least. Uncanny how we have the same bone structure." Iggy puckered their lips and kissed their reflection. "Cheekbones that could cut a man to ribbons."
"Whoever thought Italy's greatest opera diva was such a fan of spellbreaking!"
"And so easy to bribe. But, I know a mischievous spirit when I see one." Iggy studied themselves. "Been awhile since I did full drag. I suppose it's passable. With all the light, nobody should be able to tell the difference. I just hope this shit works."
"It will. We have no choice. Let's go meet the others."
Iggy stood, a vision in white. "The curtain rises."
---
The sprawling lawn in front of the manor was dotted with ancient pines. Like the warriors of a bygone era, the men of the GSA met under the cover of trees. And on the broken wall surround the property, a young, eager boy, Lucio hopped onto an unsteady perch. He adjusted his camera and clicked away.
Gio, wearing a tight fitting t-shirt, was the first to notice. He gave his young friend a fatherly smirk, and shooed him away. "No, Luci, this is a private matter!"
The boy frowned, shrugged, and hopped off the wall. Gio's face shifted from patient to worried. This wasn't just a treasure hunt for magical dishware--people's lives were at stake here. The war had made many orphans of Italy's children. Kids like Lucio, who were bright eyed and eager and had no idea of what their country had been only years ago. Gio couldn't allow that to happen to anybody, ever again.
Shoulder to shoulder with Spike and Kengo, the boys listened in as John Henry (quite fetching in his tailored suit) was primed to lay out the plan of attack on the Palazzo Di Sangro. Next to him, Colt--in an unusually hands-off capacity--nodded for his former tag partner to begin.
"Okay, boys, thanks to Spike and Gio's efforts, Salim and I were able to study the floorplan of the palace. Here's what we know."
A Gothic, Italian castle...perched dangerously above roaring tides.
"The Palazzo Di Sangro was once the residence of an alchemist and sculptor known to the locals as The Black Legend. He was a sculptor, at least to the public, and his statues were so lifelike that people feared he actually turned them into stone. Whether or not that's true, we have no idea, but this family has ties to all the big names in Old European Magick nobility. Cagliostro. Flammel. Rosenkreuz. For a palace, it's actually not that large. Well, compared to most creepy, Italian castles anyway. Most of the guests will be hosted in the ballroom. What we're after is in the vaults, appended to the dungeons, which rumor has it has been converted into alchemical laboratories. Freaky stuff."
Laboratories full of boiling, strange liquids. Wood carvings of stoic-eyed suns and naked androgens in gardens. Figures in hoods and masks. The Alchemists were mysteries since their genesis. Ostensibly, they were the first to push back during the time when only the nobility held glyphs.
"The whole compound is protected by magick dampeners and Goddess-knows-what-else the alchemists have invented. The Sons United are notoriously anti-magi, which is part of their appeal, and considering Italy's history with magi oppressing those without glyphs, it's easy to see why they're so popular. Even so, there's still a few magi among those in attendance, so those who have glyphs won't necessarily stand out as suspicious."
They believed they could conquer magick with science. In reality, they ended up fusing the two in the hopes of creating something...different. But like most great underdogs of history, they eventually found themselves in the same position as their former oppressors, though they preferred to operate from the shadows. The three great alchemist cells of Europe were house in Paris, Prague, and Rome. Eventually, a schism occurred, mostly over ethics and the influence of the Alban Empire's incursion. The Paris alchemists were killed by the Albans. The Prague alchemists withdrew, disgusted with their Italian brethren. And the Roman Alchemists, the most secretive and duplicitous of all, decided to parasite their way into society, influencing everything from small businesses, all the way up unto politics.
Spike played with his hands, uneasy. Of everyone assembled, he felt the least capable. He looked to Kengo. His was the face of a student, intently listening. No shocker there. Cian, as always, looked like he was spoiling for a fight. Ahead of the crowd, next to John Henry--whose name was Iron but whose tongue was silver--Joseph Haw, the White Tiger, stood like a dutiful soldier with his hands behind his back. Seeing him, Spike felt more confident.
"Of course, getting into the vault is going to require magick--no doubt about that. We're looking at a three-pronged effort. At 8:00 PM sharp, guests will be treated to a performance from the opera diva, Lucrezia Rosselini. Or...so they think. Lucrezia Rosselini herself will not be in attendance. We have a decoy. One of our own..." With sly glint in his eyes, John Henry nodded to the crowd.
The spellbreakers murmured to each other. This was more complicated than they'd thought. Cian was one of the few boldest to speak up. "Wait. Hold up. Excuse me, Mr. Iron, sir. How are we gonna put a man in a dress and pass them off as an opera singer."
John Henry smiled, slyly. "Not, 'he'. 'They."
As soon as he said that, a long, sonorous note came from the partition of trees to the group's left. A flash of white, lace gown drew everyone's eyes to the ethereal, long-haired figure--a ghost or a goddess--emerging from the tree bank, alongside masked Victor as their escort.
The unearthly, beautiful woman recited the Night Queen's aria from the Magic Flute, in perfect pitch and measure (though with an albeit somewhat, husky, masculinity to it)
"Aaa-AH-ah-Ah-AH-aaaaah...
Meine Tochter nimmermehr."
Victor applauded. "Brava! Brava!"
Spike was confused. "But ain't that the opera chick you was just talkin' about?" He narrowed his eyes. Ms. Rossellini winked at him, and then flipped him the bird. Spike's jaw dropped. "Nooo WAAAAY. Iggy?"
The beautiful spellbreaker blew Spike a kiss. "Que surpresa, putas."
John Henry laughed. "That's right. We have the night queen herself. Um...I should stop looking at you, Iggy. It's making me question somethings."
Iggy held their nose up and flipped their hair. "That's the point, darling. Anyways, it's been awhile since I attempted to sing soprano. Thankfully, Lucrezia herself has already passed on a rumor that she's come down with a cold the last few days. But...the show must go on. However, I only agreed to sing Lucia di Lammermoor if they could guarantee the original glass harmonica in the orchestra."
John Henry cleared his throat and continued. "A distracted audience will work to our advantage. Already on the inside, Iggy is going to unlock the windows on the third floor, before taking the stage. Joseph will jump in and deal with security, and then shut down the anti-magick system. While this is happening, Cian--disguised as the head of security--will appear at the front door and distract the grunts on the ground. His job is two-fold. He needs to extract the vault security code from them and pass it on to Gio, Spike, and Kengo, and myself, who will enter through the dungeons. We'll be communicating with earpieces supplied to us by Aradia. Closed channel. Military grade stuff."
"I did not sign up to be a soldier," Gio mumbled.
Spike crossed his arms and looked at Cian, incredulously. "And how they hell is Cian supposed to do that?"
Cian glared. Did you forget my glyph means I'm psychic, boyo?
"Eeep!" Spike jumped. Everyone looked at him. "Okay, yeah, but don't you have to like touch people to do that?"
"Eeep!" Spike jumped. Everyone looked at him. "Okay, yeah, but don't you have to like touch people to do that?"
Cian blushed. "Prolonged contact or a quick brush." Spike, keep it quiet about our cuddle session the other night, man!
"There's an iron grating there that will need to come off the wall to allow us safe entry," John Henry explained. "I'll take care of that. Alchemists often employ metals and alloys in their arsenal so I should be on the front lines."
Colt glanced over at him, concerned. "John, you sure--"
"I'll be fine, Colton," Mr. Iron said. "Besides, I'll have muscle with me, we can deal with any security in the dungeons. After that, and with security systems shut down, the Chalice should be located easily enough in the main vault. We get out before backup arrives and get the hell out of Italy." He sighed. "That's it. Any questions?"
"Yeah," Spike said, scratching his head. "What happens if we fuck up?"
---
Recida Di Sangro hated parties.
They reminded her of her parents, during the war. While the rest of the country was starving, diseased, or succumbing to terror, the rich were safe within these walls. With an ample reserve of wine to fuel their debauchery, as the war went on, the tastes of her parent's guests turned decidedly more deviant. Her parents, thankfully, kept the guests at bay. Her mother would have easily cut the balls off any man who tried to touch her. But she still bore witness to the depravity. If these walls could talk, then the so-called conservative men and women hobnobbing with each other, bending over to kiss their own asses, would simply faint.
Such was the price to pay, Recida thought bitterly, as she robotically entertained her guests. She stood over the balcony overlooking the ballroom floor. An orchestra played, but hardly anybody danced. Waiters and waitresses weaved through the crowd of the people in expensive dress. Gargoyles leered down from their perches, regurgitating melting candle wax. Their eyes, aglow, lit the room in a sensuous chiaroscuro, a shadow play. Candelabra, scattered across the perimeter of the ballroom, did the rest.
The security guards were positioned efficiently enough. With guns in their holsters, they eyed Recida from their posts. She kept reminding herself they would be enough. If not? Well, an Alchemist always had a backup plan, and many friends waiting in the wings. She looked out at the guest room and identified the people in lavish robes and masks. One of them, in porcelain, Venetian masquerade, quietly touched the back of select guests, discretely marking them with chalk.
They would be safe.
After excusing herself from the bloviating, rich, pearl-dripping cow in front of her, Recida looked out on the open air balcony at the far back of the room. It was a curiosity that easily drew they eye. All of the guests commented on it. There was no stone railing at the edge of the lanai--just a sheer drop to the craggy rocks and roaring tides below the castle. Seeing it made Recida smile. Ah yes, those devious parties of yore...they did so often have interesting endings. The Di Sangros family had retained a very traditional way of dealing with undisciplined guests, as it were.
With this in mind, Recida placed a gentle hand on the hunched figure at the massive pipe organ. The man looked as old as the stones themselves. More of a corpse, really. Recida wasn't even sure the organ player was aware of her presence.
She tapped her velvet mask, across her face. Compared to the other guests, it wasn't spectacular. She didn't really enjoy dress-up. "Are you prepared?" she asked the old player.
The man nodded, with the stiffness of a marionette. He leaned towards the old, worn music score in front of him--a gift of the Black Library.
Recida smiled. "Excellent."
"Excuse me? Are you the Lady Di Sangro?"
Recida frowned at the smoky, foreign voice. She turned around, steeling herself for the next moron. "And who wants to...oh."
He was beautiful. There were no other words to describe him. Incredibly built (a model, perhaps?) with long hair and a black, button up shirt (revealing quite a canyon of male cleavage). The man's features were soft, feminine. True to the assignment, he wore a half-mask in the shape of a butterfly wing. He wore his long hair in a ponytail and he smelled expensive. His eye, the visible one, anyway, was solid black. The candles reflected within his dark iris and pupil reminded her of starlight. He was the universe.
"I'm Conrad," the man said, with a certain innocent boyishness. He shook her hand. "I do media messaging for the Sons United."
Recida was taken aback....in a good way. She nabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one off to the handsome stranger. "Ah, and why is that propagandists are always so attractive?"
Oh yes, she still had it in her. It had been awhile...
"Oh," the man blushed at her forwardness. "Well, thank you. I suppose it's self evident! I wanted to come and thank you for throwing this party. Not to speak ill of my companions here, but I sense sometimes they take these venues for granted." He gestured to the idiots clad in an atmosphere of their own self-importance, gathered in clusters around the grand, Gothic ballroom. "This is magnificent."
"Well," Recida said, suddenly very aware of how she looked. "Thank you, I guess. Conrad. Not an Italian name?" She studied half of his face. How she wanted to see more. "Sicilian by way of...?"
'By way of Argentina," Conrad said, quickly. He sipped from his drink, shyly. "Um...I'm actually quite a fan of Renaissance architecture. It's a dream to be standing here."
It was apparent he had no idea who she was. He spoke too casually. Normally, this would bother Recida. But, considering this company, his innocence was a gift. She knew she should be keeping an eye on the party, watch out for any...problems. But... something about this man...
She nodded for Conrad to follow her up the staircase towards the orchestral balcony. "Speaking of taking things for granted, I never do when it comes to my family's home. Restoration is always a balancing act, but I'm serious about the upkeep. Especially the statuary."
"Yes," Conrad said, examining a veiled woman in the staircase alcove. "So...lifelike."
Recida smiled, knowingly. "And if you believe the stories, there's good reason for that."
With his hand against the bannister, grinning sheepishly, Conrad asked, "Do you believe the stories?"
Recida looked away. This was silly. "Look, I need to attend to things but..."
"Ah, pardon. I didn't mean to impose! I was just..."
"Hm. What?"
"Caught up in the...moment, I suppose."
I could eat him alive and save some for seconds. Not even Recida could decide if she was thinking in metaphor or not. She put her dink down on the flat head of an ugly gargoyle and extended her hand to her new desire. "Come," she said. "Let us shirk our duties together."
Conrad beamed. "Yes. Perhaps you can tell me about this spooky looking organ here..."
----
Meanwhile, yards below the ballroom floor, in the torchlit catacombs of the ancient castle, a large, handsome sumo squeezed his way through a hole in the wall. "This is a tight squeeze," Kengo grunted.
Spike encouraged him. "You got this, bear!"
Kengo breathed. His compatriots--Spike, Gio, and Mr. Iron--appeared behind him, in the shadows. "Good thing I am on a shedding cycle," the beefy spellbreaker said, wiping his brow. "Oh, I hope I do not completely lose my belly. It is one of my best features."
"You have a lot of good features," Spike said, smiling, and looking down at Kengo's backside. Pity he was clothed today. They all wore their best 'heist movie black'. "Okay, we're in."
John Henry held his hand out, testing the mineral composition of the room--specifically, the ore and chemical based traps the alchemists were said to employ. A fine, black dust filtered in from the concealed corners of the room and swarmed around his fist. He compressed it into a rather beautiful, aesthetically pleasing, black sphere, which he tossed gently to the ground.
"Hematite!" Gio pointed out.
Mr. Iron smiled. "Very good! The old kinds o Egypt used to line their tombs with it. The blood stone. In powder form, it's extremely lethal when inhaled. Now, once we get into the dungeons proper, the anti-glyph field will kick and we won't be able to use our magick." He nodded to Gio. "Ready, muscle man?"
"If you mean ready to see the Mr. Iron at work!" Gio led the way into the spooky tunnel. He made sure to keep close to his old coach, and just out of Spike and Kengo's earshot. "Mr. Iron, I know I'm just a grunt still, but...I think this is too dangerous. You have a family."
Mr. Iron's face was hard as...well, Iron. "Yeah. I do. And I want to protect them. I have to do this, Titan."
"I know, but..."
The muscle men came to a broken wall, with a gap wide enough for them to pass into the accompanying room. It was a holding cell. The shackles on the walls and floors gave Spike a mixture of ideas, both bad and fun.
Gio pointed to the iron bars fencing them on this side. "Ready to ruin the architecture?" he said to John Henry. "I do not like the Alchemists."
"That makes two of us." Mr. Iron motioned for them to stay back. He made a quick, snapping motion with his wrist. The iron gating squealed, albeit quieter than Spike or Kengo expected. The beams floated through the air and landed gently against the wall. Subtle and impressive work.
"Beyond here, our glyphs are useless," John Henry explained. "I can already feel my magick fizzling out. So, to stay on the safe side, we hide out here and wait for Cian's signal. Iggy should be taking the stage any moment now. Hopefully they've released the locks on the windows upstairs."
Spike tried to relax. His heart was beating at double time. "White Tiger about to do what he does best, huh?"
----
Upstairs, in a cramped and dimly lit security room (more modern than the rest of the old castle) a ruddy-faced man in a tie stared down his minions at their desk. He pointed to an empty, paper back with his name on it. "Hey, which one of yous toucha' my pasta fazzu---OOFF!"
The man fell forward, onto the floor, unconscious. His wide-eyed subordinates looked up to the statuesque, silhouette of an impossibly handsome and dashing Asian man, massaging his knuckles.
The Tiger looked up, his eyes going silvery white. "Good evening, gentleman. Have you ever been choked out before? It's fun!"
The three men stared blankly, while their companion at the end of the row batted his eyelashes, holding up his hand.
A few minutes later, the security men were bound in red rope and enjoying a nice, long nap. One of them was now sans clothing. Joseph adjusted his tie and caught his reflection in a CRTV monitor. "Not bad," he said. He pressed the receiver in his ear. "I'm in. Tiger to Cub, do you read?"
"Ugh, why do I have to be the cub?" Cian said, somewhere on the outside wall of the castle, as he choked a guard out with his thighs. "Of course, I know 'you're in'. Everyone always fecken says that!"
"Well, yeah, it's a heist...."
Cian stood up and sighed, one eye on the grunts guarding the impressive castle doorway, where limousines had deposited their wealthy occupants just a half hour earlier. "I'm in position. How good are you at envisioning the face of the head of security?"
"I got eyes on him now," Joseph said, dropping the older man's limp hand to the ground. White Tiger walked out to the hallway and then to the open window Iggy had unlatched a few minutes before. Tiger presumed they were just about to go on stage.
"Psychic ability is not my strong suit," Joseph said, sticking his head out (thereby bypassing the anti-glyph field). "But I do know a thing or two..." He closed his eyes and thought hard.
On the ground, Cian blinked, the vision of a squat Italian man coming into his head. "Damn, are you just good at everything, Tiger?"
"Yes. Did you get all that?"
"Yep." Cian sighed. "Ugh, why didn't they hire a more handsome head of security?" He concentrated, allowing particles of green light to reshape his form into the man Joseph had just clobbered silly. "Okay, I'm in disguise. Waiting for Iggy. Then, I'll make my move. One of these grunts has to know the code for the security and anti-magick field."
Joseph looked to the drooling, tied up idiots back in the room. "Interrogation is messy, otherwise I might have gotten it from one of them. You're our best bet now." Joseph positioned himself at the terminal, and keyboard, that controlled the alchemical tech. "In position. Iggy...showtime."
Back in the ballroom, voices hushed. Recida and Conrad stood, side by side, at the front of the stage as the curtain rose on the notes of mournful, beautiful flutes....and a glass harmonica.
The angelic spectre that was Iggy slowly descended the staircase, bloody hands extended out towards the audience, their beatific face pleading.
Il dolce suono mi colpì di sua voce!
Ah, quella voce m'è qui nel cor discesa!
As they walked, the audience captivated by their voice and their graceful descent, a patch of red blossomed on their white gown--an eerie illusion recalling their brush with death a month or two ago. Those in attendance knew, however, that the blood belonged to another...in the context of the opera, anyway.
Iggy's voice carried out into the entrance court. "Beautiful," Cian muttered to himself, in the guise of a stranger. He steeled himself and approached the guard at the gate. The man's nervous reaction told Cian that his illusion was presentable.
Cian channelled Gloria's linguistic power (they did, technically, both have the same type of glyph) into his own mental influence...with a dash of what Cian knew of Gio's accent. "We just got a tip off. There's a breach on the third floor. You guys go upstairs. Take the men off the floor. I'll speak to Lady Di Sangro and monitor activity down here."
The man, paled, looked confused. "Are you sure, boss? I mean...it's your funeral." The man turned away.
At the last minute, Cian remembered his task. He gripped the man's shoulder.
"Yow! You been hittin' the gym, boss?"
"Er...yes. My wife...she likes guys with muscles. I was going to ask...do you have the security for the vaults memorized? If there's a breach, I'll want one of you to change it."
"Oh, of course," the man said, nervously. He moved on, past the small antechamber leading into the foyer.
The digits came to the forefront of his mind, like bubbles rising up from the bottom of a champagne glass. Cian counted the order, memorized it just like he memorized moves--with expert precision.
"Perfect," Cian said. He walked into the antechamber, with its ceiling full of Renaissance angels and demons. As Cian approached the foyer, he heard the large door behind him slam shut. He turned, and just as he began to wonder who had closed it on him, the door opposite him shut too. A bolt of panic struck Cian in the heart. He tried the latch. Locked. There was a tiny window in the center of the door on which he had a perfect view of the ballroom. Looked like the performance was still going on.
Cian pressed his finger to his ear. "Hey, Joseph. Something's wrong." He waited. Static. "Joseph?"
A noise from the ceiling grabbed Cian's attention. The ceiling panel retracted. Jagged iron spikes appeared in its stead...slowly descending.
"Oh...shit."
----
Down below, in the catacombs, Spike tapped his toes impatiently. He looked to Kengo. "Hmm?"
The large spellbreaker cocked his head to the side and glared. "I have a feeling."
With great concern, Mr. Iron turned towards Kengo. "What? What kind of feeling, Ken?"
"Even without my glyph, I know something is not right here."
As soon as he said this, the boys whipped their heads towards the flicker of movement in the dungeon ahead of them. Peeling off the wall like shadows, the robed figurers in their masks swarmed them from both sides. They men had no time to react.
A familiar brunette in a violet evening gown stepped out from the group. "I do love being stuck in a dungeon with big, strong, muscular men."
Spike reeled. "Honey, most of us are gay."
Gio gasped. "Francesca!? What are you doing here?"
"Betraying you. What do it look like? It's a trap. And you all fell for it."
The robed figured withdrew long instruments from their robes. They clicked. It was only after Spike examined the sharp implements that he realized what he was looking at.
"Crossbows?" Spike sniffed. He rolled his eyes. "What is this, Medieval Times?"
Gio wasn't even annoyed. "Ugh! Just like our first date. I knew I should have expected this."
"Then why didn't you, bud?" Spike snapped. "No suspicions from the sexy evil lady?"
Francesca approached Gio and wrapped her arms around his neck, seductively. "Just like old times, my Titan." She kissed him on the lips.
Gio's eyes bugged out. And then, he fell backwards, collapsing.
"GIO!" Spike screamed. Kengo went to his side, checking his pulse.
"Do not worry," Belladonna said, patting the corner of her lips with her kerchief. "It's my venom. A small dose. He'll be fine." She shrugged, walking away into the darkness. "Maybe. I dunno. Keep your crossbows trained on them. I'll inform Recida about our party crashers."
----
Iggy's opera came to a splendid clothes, with 'The Bride' sundering her own veil and tossing it to the audience in a fit of splendid rage. Applause followed suit. Recida looked to Conrad and thought she saw stars in his eyes. He was a lover of beauty, of art, clearly. A very quiet voice inside of her, one that she had not heard in a very long time, tried to speak to her. Stop this madness, it said.
And, had a few seconds passed before she felt the crystal in the pendant around her neck buzz, she might have thought otherwise about the evening. Pulled from her trance, she pulled up her necklace and stared at the jewel in the serpent's eyes. Black. Francesca's signal.
No turning back now.
"My lady, what's wrong?"
Recia looked to Conrad. How could a man like him be working for such brutes? "Wrong? Oh nothing. Just that my rat trap has sprung." He looked away. "I'm so sorry. You should go."
"Why?"
She spoke to him sharply, with great urgency. "Just listen to me. Take the exit in the back. Go. I'll find you later." She turned her back on him before she could see his reaction. He was an innocent. Likely why he had gotten wrapped up with such vultures. They tended to put pretty words into pretty heads.
Recida scrambled up the marble staircase and approached the gaunt organ player. "Maestro, if you will prepare?" Then, she walked to the edge of the balcony. The false opera singer below, whoever she was, glared up at her. Recida felt a strong wickedness in that glare. Well, too bad for her...
"If I may have your attention," Recida announced to the silent and perplexed audience. Her voice carried, clear and resolute. "I wanted to thank everyone for coming tonight to witness the culmination of a movement. The Sons United will propel Italy to a new golden age."
The smug, satisfied faces in the room all applauded, self-congratulatory.
Recida waited, with relish, for the applause to die down. "And as their new leader, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart."
Some applauded. At first. Then, confusion set in. Furtive glances.
A gentleman in a top hat and peacock feathered mask looked at his harlequin-dressed companion. "Leader?" He stepped forward. "Di Sangro, what is this about?"
Recida smiled at him. "Unfortunately, I have some feedback about our current committee. I think we'll have to make some cuts." She gestured to the imposing organ behind her. "Another musical gift for you all, this evening! Maestro here has a very rare sonata. Legend has it, it was composed by a madman--incarcerated on the cursed island of Poveglia--and allegedly possessed by demons. It is seldom played...for good reason. My friends at the Black Library will probably not mind me borrowing it. Or rather, they won't know. And now...the 'Waltz of the Mad'."
Maestro leaned forward and began to play the slow, steady, strange waltz. The music was like nothing the crowd had ever heard. It was atonal, to an extent, but melodic in contradiction. Its eldritch harmony washed over the crowd. Behind expensive masks, pupils dialated. For some, ears even bled. Nobody did anything. Just stood there.
And then, in step with the rhythm, they began to shuffle. They danced, in a perfect, synchronized mass--like a drunken school of fish--towards the sheer drop balcony leading off the ballroom.
Inside the trap antechamber, Cian tried calling upon his magick, but it was pointless. The field prevented it. The spikes continued to descend. He knew his strength, but he did not know if he was strong enough to hold back a ceiling. "Damn it. I knew a spike would be the death of me..."
Outside, Joseph--having parkoured his way from the roof (the third floor had been sealed with steel doors, preventing exit to the ballroom below) stood outside the entrance to the Palazzo di Sangro and calculated his next move.
"Hm." He reached up and caught the crossbow bolt that had zoomed past his head. As he turned around, he deflected the next one with a summoned wave of water. "The anti-glyph field doesn't work outside the manor," he said to the six or seven robed figures closing in on him. "Also, crossbows? Really?"
A whirlwind materialized in the central court, blowing the robes up around the alchemists and blinding them to their quarry.
"That's the problem with you alchemy weirdos," Joseph said, rising into the air. "You prioritize aesthetics over practicality. Now...any last words?"
Back in the auditorium, Recida looked over the balcony, adjusting her ear plugs to make sure none of that haunting melody leaked in. She noticed a slender figure, robed in red velvet, to her left--the woman with the porcelain mask.
Recida grinned. "Ah, Stefania, my dove. You'll find that the backs of the guests I need alive have been marked by our staff with chalk." Recida handed her a small, velvet puch. "Plugs. Hopefully these dogs wash their ears. Once you're done, signal me and I'll have Maestro play the final bar."
The woman, Stefania, nodded. "Madame."
In a perfect line, the glassy-eyed party guests stood on the edge of the precipice...Iggy among them.
In the foyer, Cian laid down and tried not to scream. "Go out brave, boyo," he said to himself. "No. I can't die now! Not before I even get a boyfriend..."
How long would it take to be impaled? Would it go quickly? Those spikes looked like they were coming down slower than he thought...or maybe this was just his mind drawing it out.
"No...wait. They've...stopped?" He looked. Definitely stopped. "Ok, Cian, don't blink...don't breathe...and definitely make a note to leave some pretty fecken' sweet offerings on your altar later..."
---
The alchemists in the basement had corralled Spike, John Henry, and Kengo into a circle within the bounds of the anti-glyph field. Spike sucked his teeth. He looked down at Gio, still passed out along the limestone corridor.
These nerds. These losers. Turns out, the absence of magick really was the great equalize. John Henry could easily rip the bolts out of these crossbows and beat these idiots over the heads with them if he could channel his power...
A sudden flash of blue light made Spike wince.
"HEY, FUCKHEADS!"
The masked figures turned around to see a tall pyre of blue flame rise up from the ground...as well as the monstrous shadow sprouting from within its tongues. It was a bear, of all things. A sun bear.
The gold-eyed creature grabbed the two closest alchemists with its claws and smashed their heads together. They fell to the floor, unconscious, dropping their bows.
Mr. Iron cocked his eyebrow. On a hunch, he moved his hand, yanking the bolts from the other two grunt's crossbows and--true to Spike's wish--smashed them both over the head with it. They too, fell to the ground, knocked out.
The phantom bear approached Gio's body and sniffed. "Shit, big guy's out in a bad way, huh? Let me see if I can revive him." His eyes intensified in their gilded glow, and the blue fire surrounding his body grew taller.
Gio coughed, sputtered, and rose off the ground. "What? ...Bear?"
Spike breathed out, feeling his legs turn to jelly. "Minoru. Shit! How?"
Kengo spoke for his summon. "Spike! I noticed my magick is working."
"So is mine!" Mr. Iron said.
Titan stepped into the torchlit corridor. He could see the crumbling staircase up ahead, leading to the upper levels. "But who deactivated the anti-magick?"
---
Recida sipped from her wine glass, observing Italy's greatest politicians trapped in her spider's web. How easy it would be to walk around them, look into their eyes, before pushing them into the abyss! She had to savor this moment. To think, the spellbreaking morons, Firebird, and her political rivals, would fall in one evening. The Grand Master would be pleased.
Fuck the Master, Recida then thought. He was probably here, looking through the eyes of one of these morons. And knowing him, he was playing pretend...probably unaffected by the spell. He was, much to her chagrin, frustratingly powerful.
"Excuse me."
Recida flinched. Had he somehow read her thoughts? No, she'd already be dead if that were the case. She turned, locking eyes with a beautiful man in a butterfly half-mask.
"Conrad! But I told you--" She sputtered. Then...she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.
Something was amiss...
Conrad. "Your organ player really should retire, mi amor," he said, removing his ear plugs and tossing them aside. He grabbed the frail man by the neck, like he was a sickly kitten, and tossed him out of his chair, onto the floor. The old gremlin coughed and sputtered.
Recida rolled her eyes, then snapped her fingers. The 'old man' crumbled into dust...they clay from which he had been sculpted. "Golems. Useless."
Conrad responded by snatching the yellowing pages of the cursed music score and ripping it cleanly in two. A sickly, green smoke rose from the pages, and the parchment promptly burst into flame. "More Black Library nonsense," Conrad said.
On the floor, the guests snapped out of their trance, some of them shrieking and falling back upon realizing they were standing at the edge of a sheer drop. Panic immediately seized the room.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" Recida yelled, plunging into Conrad and immediately smashing her fists against his broad chest. "You're RUINING EVERYTHING." Gripped by a maddening rage, she clawed at his face and ripped off his mask. She wanted to look into the eyes of the man she was about to flay and salt!
Conrad gently gripped her hands, pushing her away. She got a look at his face, and the heart-shaped scar over his eyes.
"Who are you?" Recida spat.
"Just warrior," 'Conrad' said. "Of love! Oh, and I deactivated your anti-magick field. Turns out, you don't need love magick to extract the information from cute security guards." He smiled and flexed. "You just need to be a great kisser."
Fleeing from the panicking mob, Iggy--still dressed as the mad bride, Lucia di Lammermoor--ran to the landing below the balcony. They looked up at Recida and...
'Conrad' caught their eye. He held his finger to his lips. "Shhh."
Iggy rolled his eyes. "Of course. Well, guess that answers Spike's question of what happens if we fuck up!"
"I am the contingency plan!" Victor said, cheerily. With magick restored, he grabbed Recida by the neck and pulled her in tight. "Hey. You really wanted to kiss me earlier, didn't you?"
Entranced, Recida nodded.
"Okay! Just making sure."
Victor planted one on her. He lowered her, unconscious, to the floor, and then joined Iggy and the mob below.
The robed alchemist soldiers jumped from their hiding places. Cian and Joseph burst through the door and immediately attacked them. Soon, the ball room erupted into a chaotic clash of thrown bodies, shattering masks and wine glasses, and panicking party guests.
On the ground by the organ, Recida's pendant glowed, absorbing Victor's magick and reviving her. Hair a gnarled mess, the enraged alchemist stood up, shoulders stiff, claws at her side. "You BASTARDS!" she screamed, presumably to the beefcakes currently body slamming and power bombing her compatriots. "Alchemists! Kill anybody I haven't marked!"
Below, Gio, Spike, Kengo, and Mr. Iron jumped into the fray.
"We could have fucked up so much worse!" Spike said, as he jumped off Gio's shoulders and moonsaulted a bunch of alchemists. He peeled one's mask off. "Oooh, you're cute!" He then sat on his face. "Good job, team!"
Cian bent over, all of his adrenaline spent from his brush with death. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he said, picking up a robed figure by the legs and slamming them into the tile. "But not as sick as this idiot."
Recida snarled, pulling at her hair. How! How had she climbed so high and fallen so quickly? Behind her, Mr. Iron--clutching the chalice in his hands--approached her gently.
"You're outgunned, Recida. You have no glyph. Let us go peacefully and we can form a truce. Aradia is willing to make concessions."
The gall! "I DON'T NEED A FUCKING GLYPH!" Recida snarled at him. She yanked her Ouroboros necklace off its clasp and held it out. It formed a small dagger.
John Henry looked down at the object. "Woman, you know I literally control metal, right?"
She sneered and then slashed the right hand of her palm with the device. Startled, John Henry drew back, watching as drops of blood flew upward from her wound. Like a river in reverse, the stream of blood floated and formed into a wine-colored mass. A weapon. A scythe.
Recida jumped up into the air "I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"
John Henry snorted and held out his hand. Then, he froze. This wasn't magick. This was...something else.
Spike, covered in spilled champagne, climbed onto a statue to get a better look of what was going on over at the balcony. He had just enough time to see the red, bloody weapon come down across his coach's neck.
"JOHN HENRY!"
The gentle giant fell to the ground, blood across his neck and shirt.
...But not his own.
Recida fell backwards. "What....you?"
Golden robes swept across the palace marble. The massive man--larger than the man on the ground--even, turned around and showed her the pulpy mass in his hands. She couldn't see the gold masked Jackal's face...but somehow Recida knew he was looking down at her with a very smug expression.
Behind him, John Henry checked his neck. He sighed. "Goddess damn..."
"Killing off the black guy first, Recida!?" the nasally, yet deep-voiced Jackal sung. "You really are with the fascists."
Recida looked down at the wound, already closing in her hand. How had he done it? This wasn't magick she wrought, but alchemy. "WHAT...What?" was all she could get out.
The Jackal pressed his hands to the sides of his mask, girlishly. "I gotta' admit though, the whole setup with John Henry's wife being pregnant added some really good tension to this moment. Real high stakes shit. A solid misdirect! 10/10 no notes."
John Henry got off the ground, stoically. "Sorry. Did you say that my wife...is pregnant?"
The giant Jackal squirmed. "Oh, shit, fuck. That's right! Well, congrats, big daddy! I'd tell you if it was a girl or boy, but gender is a social construct, so it doesn't really matter. They'll be fine. Er...just don't send them to Space Camp when they turn 11. I promise you. Anyways, I need to preserve the timeline, Recida. So...hands off the hunk."
Recida pulled herself off the ground. Vipers, all of them. "Jackal. What are you doing? Did Firebird..."
"Lol no! But man..." With a swish of gold cape, Jackal surveyed the chaotic ballroom scene below. "You guys managed to pull off a Final Fantasy VI and a Fifth Element? I knew Iggy was my favorite for a reason."
"What the hell are you talking about!?" Recida blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Traitorous snake!"
The Jackal formed a natural wall between Recida and John Henry, who still clutched the blue Chalice of Voice in his hand. "Get out of here," the masked man said, in more serious tones. "I'll hold them off."
John Henry didn't question it. Still, he gave the massive man a good, hard look before he made his retreat.
Down on the floor, White Tiger shouted for the spellbreakers to clear out. Spike turned around and ran with Cian towards the exit. "What about Colt?" he asked his redheaded friend.
Sweaty and panting, Cian shook his head. "I'll tell you later. He wanted to stay back."
In case we all died, Spike wondered, grimly, as he passed through the foyer.
Above the foyer bannister, on the second story landing, a group of masked alchemists stepped forward. It was not crossbows they had in their hands, but rifles.
White Tiger was the one to catch it, at the last second. "Spike, watch out!"
"Huh?"
The masked man set his crosshairs on the blonde below. He took aim, and pressed down on the trigger.
"STOP!"
The woman in the porcelain mask, Stefania, threw herself into her compatriot, knocking him to the ground just as the thunder-crack of a bullet went off.
It missed Spike by several feet, only serving to draw his attention to the balcony. He looked up.
The woman in the mask looked back at him.
Something in the back of his head was screaming at Spike. But he couldn't place it. He just knew that the figure in the mask was looking at him. "What..."
Cian gripped him by the arm and tugged him towards the door. "COME ON, WE NEED TO GO!"
"Right." Spike snapped out of his trance and fled with the panicked party guests.
The ballroom near empty, save some stragglers and a few security guards, Recida stood amid a pile of her knocked out alchemist. Bitter and enraged, she kicked one, not caring if they could feel it. A tell-tale clicking of stilettos on the floor announced Francesca's presence.
The beautiful spellbreaker--who had proved utterly useless--tapped her on the shoulder. "Recida!? Recida, I don't understand! I thought you had everything under control?" She looked down, in horror, noticing Recida's wound. "My Goddess, what happened to your hand?
Annoyed, Recida rolled her eyes, held up the Ouroboros necklace-turned-dagger, and promptly slit Belladonna's throat without blinking. The woman fell to the floor, in a pool of blood that Recida gingerly stepped over.
"We'll regroup," Recida announced to a collection of alchemists standing by the door. Her sights then turned towards the weedy little man in the top hat, scrambling to get off the ground. Looked like he had wet himself, by all accounts.
Recida grimaced and ynaked him off the ground by his collar. "Listen to me, you LITTLE SHIT. You tell what remains of the Sons United that I AM in charge now, do you you understand? They've seen what I can do now, and I will do it to them. Consider tonight a demonstration."
The man struggled and choked. "Y...yes." Then, he sniffed. "Is...something on fire?"
Recida blinked. She dropped the man onto the floor. Yes, it was quite hot in here all of a sudden, wasn't it. Suddenly, her cadre of robed henchman cried out.
"Fire!?"
Tapestries, alight, dropped from the ceiling, charred as cinders. The room filled with black smoke. "No..." Recida cried out. "No...NO! Not my home!" It was all burning. Too quick to put out. How had it ignited and spread this quickly? Was it the GSA? No, this was well beyond the scope of those boy scouts.
As the remainder of staff fled the collapsing ballroom, Recida turned towards the conflagration, not away from it. There, amid smoke and flame, she saw a figure. She squinted. Why was he not running?
But why would Vahni Rage run from a fire of his own making. The sinister, handsome man smiled and waved at her, before turning into the wall of fire, becoming one with the inferno.
To Be Continued
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