Chapter 8: The Italian Job

"I love opera."

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?"

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

 

Chapter 7: When in Rome

The Roman colosseum was a breath-taking structure that, despite centuries of erosion, remained imposing in ancient grandeur. Or at least, so Spike though as he found himself briefly splayed across Titan's shoulders--enough time to admire the ancient world before he was thrown down, full throttle, into the arena dirt.

The cheer of the crowd woke him up. The soma did the rest, mostly saving him from his skull and spine turning into dust. The next thing he saw was Titan, flexing victoriously for the the audience. Of course, it was the flexing that had thrown Spike off his game to begin with. Had Gio not bounced his pecs hypnotically at the last second, Spike would have had this in the bag. Or so he thought.

Gio reached down to lift him up, nearly single-handed. "We are gracious winners in Italy," he said. Spike's heart melted. "Everyone, do a big yell for my little friend, Sailorboy Spike!"

The raucous Romans, emulating their ancestors, got to their feet in applause. Spike, sheepish, and a bit ego-bruised aside (everything else bruised too) put on a brave face and waved back. 

"Now you are my trophy" Gio laughed, picking Spike up like he weighed nothing, and slinging him over his shoulder. "Hahaha!"

"Hey," Spike giggled. "Where are you taking me, ya big, sexy lug?!"

The audience ate it up. A battle of the babyfaces was always a palette refresher. The hometown boy won, the foreigner was magnanimous in defeat, and the chemistry between them was remarkable. What wasn't there to love?

"Let the audience use the imagination," Gio said. He was a warm soul. Thank goodness he wasn't a heel, or Spike might found himself head first in the dirt again!

Back in the locker room, Gio quickly stripped off his gear. "Such a disappointment we cannot wrestle like they used to do here," he lamented. "Too much clothing."

Red-faced, Spike turned away--after sneaking a solid peek, anyways. "G-man, your muscles are what won you that match. If you and I had been naked, it would have gone a whole other way."

"What do you mean?" Gio said, innocently. Behind him, the eyes of his fellow peers nearly popped out of their sockets, getting a good look at the Titan's...titanic proportions.

Spike scratched the back of his neck. "Never mind, bud."

Gio was good at the actual spellbreaking component of the sport, but quite honestly terrible at everything else; a constant headache for Colt. Always the showman, the cowboy king had tried to inject some heat into Spike and Gio's upcoming bout. Spike was just happy to not be under the stress of chasing down dubious objects or fighting with with the supernatural, so he gladly put all of his scrappy, babyface energy into his promos. Colt billed the fight as a contest to see who was 'The Strongest Man in the World', pitting Spike's super strength against Gio's Earth-magick enhanced muscle power.

Spike, a natural, killed his spots with signature style: he was respectful, but cocky, and took every chance to flex his biceps and preen for the camera. "I hope all you cute Italian guys out there won't be too mad with me when I beat your boy!"

Gio, however was clueless in front of a camera. Though he was once a B-movie muscle man star, he had a script and could play a character, As a spellbreaker, he saw himself as...well, himself, despite Colt's insistence on 'coming up' with a character. The primitive jungle man gimmick was too ridiculous for him to do convincingly, and he didn't know how to 'act like a heroic god' for the camera (let alone look directly into one). Spike found himself in the hilarious awkward position of coaching his opponent on how the art of heat.

"But Spike! I do not want to be mean to you. We settle this fight like men, in the arena, not by saying bad words to each other!"

"No, Gio, it's okay--we both know we like each other, but the audience doesn't know that. You can call me a pipsqueek. I promise it won't hurt my feelings."

"But you are very strong! And too nice. I have seen you're fighting, and I would never be so arrogant to think I could just squash you! Even though I probably will..."

"Yes! More of that! Now, we just gotta' get it on camera..."

Now the struggle today was trying not to convince Gio to join him in the shower. Spike dried himself off, trying to ignore the chatter from the Italian muscle hunk spellbreakers behind him. 

"Ugh, I feel like I'm so out of place here," he sighed. He turned his back on them.

They gasped, eyes zeroing in on Spike's hindquarters. Making the sign of the goddess on their chests, the blushing men covered themselves up with towels and quickly left the room, nearly bumping into Gio (sadly, clothed now) as he walked in.

"Spike, Colt wants us to meet in the Villa Panfini to discuss..." he lowered his voice, "the secret matters."

The Chalices, Spike thought, grimly. He had enjoyed his little vacation away from hunting down artefacts and the stress that came with the operation. If he had thought spellbreaking would involve a part time reconnaissance gig with an international peace-keeping organization, he might have given this career a second thought.

Gio sighed, taking a seat on the bench as Spike put on his underwear. Gio was such a natural with nudity (Kengo's complete opposite) that Spike didn't even feel sexualized around him, which was an unusual comfort. 

"Well, big guy. Lots of cute guys here. Lots of cute girls too. I don't really hear you talk about romance. A sexy, giant guy like you...the men must throw themselves at ya!"

Gio blinked. "Of course they throw themselves at me. We are fighters. You ever get tope suicida'd by El Amante? But no. I am not good with the romance. I do not know when people like me, and I do not know what to say to them when they spell it out. People are hard to understand, outside a fight. That is why I like wrestling. It is an easier conversation."

Spike nodded. He knew Gio was atypical. "Nobody you have a crush on?"

Gio smiled. "Everyone have a crush on Spike, eh? But...to tell truth. Er...yes." He blushed. "I may not tell you now. Over drinks, maybe. Let me just say...I like other plant magi like me."

Spike cocked his head to the side, in thought, but before he could tabulate the information, Gio stood up and stretched.

"I tell you this, but keep it a secret. I am not sure I actually want to do the spellbreaking for much longer."

"What!? But buddy, you could be the next champion!"

"Mmm. But it is so much camera work and acting and socializing. Too much pressure. Joseph do it well because he is a man of the people. I just want to wrestle handsome men, and that be that. All of this work..." he made a hand gesture that Spike assumed meant 'meh' or 'over it'. "But my family thinks I will go back to the farm and make us a famous winery again. I do love wine and farming, true, but it is not what I want to do. But my nona..." he winced. "She tells me all the time I should stop spellbreaking before I get hurt."

"Oh, your grandma? Will I meet her while we're here?"

He swallowed. "I hope not. But...you will stay at my cousin's big apartment, with me. You have been very nice to me the last few weeks and I trust you the most while I am here. It is...strange to come home. Rome is not my city. I am country boy. Hahaha. Like Buck! But I need a...hmmm...I need someone to be like a shield for my family. Does that make sense?"

Spike laughed. "You want me to be the conversation buffer, huh, big guy?"

"Yes! You are very outgoing and talkative. You can protect me from my family." He bit his lip. "Except...nona. That, you must let me take care of. If she shows up." He looked at him, darkly. "And you will know when she does." 

Spike felt his spine turn to ice. He shivered, put on his 'nice, visiting-another-country clothes' (a polyester blazer and some tailored pants) and followed Gio back into the colosseum's modern annex. Spellbreakers mingled with each other backstage. Spike noted Italian fighters (who were mostly men) were more inclined to invite their groupies backstage, creating a chaotic mess of fawning women and hunky, hairy men. Spike thought Gio must be in heaven, but he looked distracted. Ever since he'd come back home, the jovial giant was more sullen. 

Even Spike, slow on the uptake, noticed a pattern here on the world tour. El Amante in Mexico. Cian in Ireland. Now, Gio in Italy. Returning to 'where it all began' was hardly a comfort to any of them. All of these guys had mixed feelings about their homes. Spike guessed he was probably the same, save for the lack of intimate ties to New York. He had no family. there. No lovers (well, no official lovers). He did, however, wonder how Varla and the old crew were doing. Buck had mentioned something about Varla, Spike's first manager, possibly showing up along the tournament. It might be good to see her again, he thought.

As Spike's mind wandered into the past, a dreamy perfume filled his nose, impactful enough that he immediately turned his head towards the source direction. He blinked. Was this magick or just a really good aroma? Standing a few ways away, a voluptuous woman in a dark dress and darker sunglasses smiled at him. Overcome with bashfulness, Spike broke eye contact. Pretty men made him bold. Pretty women, in the other hand, always made him nervous. 

"Oh, curse it all!"

Spike's attention was snatched by a small, boyish voice a few paces ahead of him. He looked over just in time to see a small boy with shaggy hair tumbled over his own feet. He landed with a thud on the stone floor, and the expensive camera around his neck followed. 

Behind him, larger spellbreakers pointed and laughed. "Nice landing, kid!"

"HEY!" Gio growled, stepping towards them. They all averted their eyes and fled. "Hey, Lucio! I thought I heard you. Still tripping over your own two feet, eh?"

The gentle giant helped the very small boy (dressed in expensive clothing, Spike thought) off the ground. The lad dusted off his knees, made sure his camera was still intact, before he looked up at Gio and gave the man a gap-toothed grin. "Thanks, Big Gio."

Spike was immediately charmed. "Oh, he's adorable!"

"Little Lucio," Gio said, making sure the boy was alright. "I'm glad you're safe. Hey, this is my friend, Spike. I'll introduce you."

The boy's eyes went starry. "Wowww...Sailorboy Spike! You're probably my favorite American spellbreaker! I mean, you aren't as good as Gio, but that's okay--nobody is!"

"Thanks," Spike said, striking his signature pose for his young fan. "I think?"

"Lucio is an enterprising photographer for spellbreaking," Gio explained. "His photos are actually really good! He is...what is the word...a prodigy."

Spike thought the little runt reminded himself of...well...himself. "Did you enjoy the match!"

"I did! You really gave it your all, Spike. Well, until Gio squashed you. But that's okay. As long as you aren't fighting him, you'll definitely win next time! Hey, if you don't mind, can I snap a photo of you two?"

I have a fan. Trying to hold back his emotions, Spike yanked Gio so hard over to him that the big guy nearly fell like his little friend. "Boy, would I! Come on, Gio. We gotta give this kid like seven of our coolest poses so he can show it off to his friends. Oh, and autographs! And we'll have Buck send him so merch too!"

After five minutes of photography, Lucio walked away a very happy fan. Spike no longer felt miserable over his defeat. "I love this, Gio! I could do this forever, really."

Gio bit his lip. "Er...sure. Yeah."

"Huh? Wasswrong?"

"Nothing." Gio smiled. "Lucio is a very nice boy. You are very good with fans and everything. I wish that I..." Gio trailed off. Thankfully, he put his large arm around Spike's neck and guide him out the door. "Come, little Spike. Time to show you la dolce vida."

*cue sexy accordion music*

---

Thanks to Gloria's ambiant mind magick, Spike was able to understand the local language. That didn't, however, help him with understanding the locals and their customs. The Italians spoke quickly and fiercely, with a mix of urgently needing to get somewhere fast, yet having absolutely nowhere to be. Old men watched construction crews (all roads may have led to Rome, but those roads were filled with potholes) and old women watched the street from their windows, like crows from their perches. Vespas zoomed past Spike as he followed Gio, whose pace was growing quicker and more nervous by the second.

"Gio, I thought you liked your family," Spike said as Gio punched the buttons on the intercom panel of a very nice apartment along the bustling Via dei Fori imperiali. "And also, wow, I didn't realize your family was seriously loaded. Kaching!"

The giant sighed. "It is my Aunt and Uncle. They worked with the government to get stolen antiques back during the war. The government bought them this apartment, and now my cousins moved in. It was all pretty shady, if you ask me. My family...they are nice. But they can be difficult."

"All families are," Spike said, cheerfully. "Well, so I hear. I wouldn't know, personally."

Gio smiled. "The GSA is your family, Spike. Many brothers and fathers."

"...More of an Alabama kind of family then, in my case..."

"Hmm. Well, I don't know much about the United States, but here, families are very loving and kind. Just..."

The intercom buzzed. "WHAT? WHAT? WHO THE HELL IS IT?"

Gio shoved his thumb on the speaker and growled. "Me, you fuckhaed. Now let me in."

Spike blinked. "Well...I definitely understand Italian now."

Gio winced as the door opened for them. "I forgot. Hey, do I sound like I make more sense, at least, with the mind glyph? I'm a pretty good study, but English was always tricky for me. Usually people think I'm slow on the uptake because I'm autistic, which is stupid of them. But it's even worse when they think I can't speak English."

Spike didn't want to insult Gio, but he did sound a lot more eloquent in his native tongue (translated into English inside Spike's brain). "Big guy, of all the studs in this fed, I promise that you always make the most sense."

At the top of the stairs, a peeled, painted door swung open revealing a weedier, scrawnier, clean shaven, and glasses sporting version of Gio. Spike was in shock!

The jittery man, the same age as his cousin, ushered them in as if Spike and Gio were seeking shelter from the plague. "In, in, come in. You." He pointed to Gio and made a rude gesture (or so Spike assumed) before brining Gio in for a tight hug. "Kisses. Kisses. Oh, you got bigger? I didn't think that was possible. You need to shave your beard, it's so scraggly. And who is this? Is this your boyfriend or your girlfriend?"

I am way out of my depth here. Spike grinned. "I'm Spike!"

"Come here, come here," Lorenzo said, kissing Spike's cheeks. "Good, very good, now get in, get in--TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES, WERE YOU RAISED IN A BARN! Do not answer that, cousin, I already know. You were. Nona would slap you up the side of the head so hard, your skull would land in San Marino. Now, the most important question...."

Lorenzo looked at Spike so hard in the eyes that Spike, who fought people for fun, suddenly felt very small.

"Did you eat?"

"No," Gio said, quick.

Lorenzo nodded. "Then you will help me." He ushered both men in towards a kitchen, which was half, welcoming chipped tile (garlic and cured meats hanging from the ceiling, of course, and half a mad scientist's laboratory. 

Spike identified the glass case of a soda shop joint, or ice cream parlor. Despite himself, his stomach growled. "Oh, sorry."

"NEVER APOLOGISE FOR HUNGER," Cousin Lorenzo shouted as he opened up the case, letting free a cool mist. He looked down into the case in the same way Spike had seen Dr. Frankenstein do to his monster in the old B movies. "Here we go. This...is my child. My life. My fate."

Spike gave Gio a sideways glance. "Is this...normal?"

"Yes," Gio said blankly. "This is just Cousin Lorenzo."

Using the daintiest plastic spoon Spike had ever seen, Lorenzo scooped up a small morsel of creamy, white gelato. "Here. Try this."

"Oh, thanks, but--"

"SPIKE!" Gio shouted, making him near jump out of his skin. He grabbed the boy and moved him into the kitchen. He spoke in a low, urgent whisper. "You NEVER refuse food here. Do you understand? Listen to Gio. Do everything I say and we will get through this. Okay? Eat everything offered to you. EVERYTHING. OR YOU WILL DIE."

Tears welled up in Spike's eyes. "Oh my Goddess, Italy is stressful."

"Good," Gio smiled. "Now...EAT THE GELATO."

"Yes, sir," Spike said, grabbing the spoon as if it was his life life and putting the dollop of frozen cream into his mouth. Gee, and I thought hot Italian men making me eat their cream would be more fun than this...

Gio nibbled on his. "So, this is your latest gelato?"

"Gio!" Lorenzo snapped as if he had just done something sacrilegious. He turned to his guest, with a maddened, red face. He looked like a mad wizard about to teach his apprentice the hidden magicks of the universe. "It is not JUST any gelato. You see, I am trying to get my gelato store off the ground. In order to do so, I need to be recognized by the Gelato Masters. And this...this creamy legend about to cross your pale, tasteless, American lips...is not just ANY flavor. It is the fior di latte--'the flower of the cream'--that which ALL gelato, is judged by. Simple in its essence, but complex in its flavor, the fior is like a good Italian wife. On the surface, she is humble and pure. Oh, but once you take her home, she charms and seduces your tongue with the rich wiles of a harlot. Do you taste the essence of it? Cream, churned from milk given to us by ancient cows bred in the hills of Tuscany since the time when Jove still made love in the shape of a swan. And those cows--who were rubbed with essential oils, I will have you know--were hand milked by virgins, under the light of the fullest moon. And then, ah, a dash of vanilla...procured from the markets of Madagascar. No treasure spared here. Men would kill for this, Spike, my precious little cannoli. Indeed, they have. You see...a gelato maker lives and dies by the fior di latte."

Spike nodded. "Yeah, it's...pretty good."

Lorenzo was crestfallen. He sunk to the ground. "GOOD? JUST GOOD!? Gio, I am ruined. Open the window, I throw myself--"

A knock at the door distracted Lorenzo, momentarily, from his self-destruction. "Hm?"

"I'll get it," Gio and Spike both said at the same time, pushing each other to get away from the kitchen as quickly as possible.

Spike got to the door first. "Buongiorno...?"

Posed with his arms folded, one leg up against the door frame, was another 'skinny' variant of Gio. This one, with a seductive five-o'clock shadow, slicked back hair, a toned build, and an expensive Armani suit. He blew Spike a kiss, throwing Spike off his feet and onto the floor.

"Ohhhh...." Spike moaned, cross-eyed. Only El Amante had the same effect.

"Cousin," the handsome man intoned, kissing Gio on both cheeks.

"Cousin Vincenzo," Gio said, with a sigh of relief. "Spike, this is my Cousin, Vinnie. He is a lot like you."

The charming Italian helped Spike off the ground, and then kissed his hand. Spike observed the expensive, gold watch hanging on his arm. Hell, Vincenzo even smelled expensive.

"Hello, and who are you, angel who peeled himself off the ceiling of a chapel and descended to Earth? Or is this a disguise of yours, blessed Eros, Son of Love, who has come to play cruel and mischievous tricks with my heart?"

"Ohhhh..." Spike melted like Lorenzo's amazing gelato. "You Italians have a way with words. Gio, has your cousin ever met Victor?" 

"Unless you want all of Rome to orgasm at once, and the Church to collapse, I suggest that meeting NEVER happen."

The handsome cousin's eyes went up from Spike towards the kitchen. "Why is Lorenzo crying and about to throw himself off the window."

"IGNORE ME AND MY FAILURE, COUSIN," Lorenzo shouted back, taking a long drag of a cigarette. "And I WASN'T doing anything so rash as that. I was taking a cigarette break and didn't want to smell up the kitchen. Speaking of which, did you eat?"

"Yes, about an hour ago."

"Okay, I'll make something." And just like that, Lorenzo was already head-deep in the fridge.

With greetings out of the way, Vincenzo straightened his suit and took a seat. "Dearest cousin, I did not actually come here to hit on your boyfriend--"

Gio's face reddened. He squeaked. "He is not my boyfriend--"

"I came here to talk to you about that little problem you spellbreakers are facing. Also, to make sure you are well. On the later, it appears you grew even taller since the last time. Or perhaps I have shrunk. Regardless, cousin, I think some wine is in order. Gio, I believe you know a good vintage?"

"Always," Gio said, reaching for the wine rack. "Lorenzo, you don't mind?"

"You insult my gelato and drink my wine? What else has changed. Use the Pinot Grigio, if you must. I don't care for the label."

Gio's family makes me tired, Spike thought, sitting at the table and trying to maintain a polite face. No wonder he's socially awkward. I would be too if I grew up here.

After sniffing and sipping the wine, Vincenzo got to business. "Spike, has Gio told you what I do?"

"Yeah, you're like an agent or manager for soccer?"

"In Italy, we say football, but I will forgive you because you an American and it cannot be helped. I do manage football, but I am also close with the spellbreaking leagues here in Italy. Compared to the US and Texas, they are very small, but it is easier to make...arrangements with them." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Gio dragged a frustrated hand across his own face. "Do not ask what that means, Spike."

Vincenzo snickered devilishly, as Lorenzo put a plate of ante pasta in front of him. 

"Is that gabagool?" Spike said, licking his lips.

Everyone else in the room groaned.

"What, is he Sicilian?" Vincenzo laughed. "Do you mean cappicolo? Geez, if I knew a Southerner was going to be here, I would have called for fumigation. My sweet little Botticelli angel, we pronounce all the vowels here in Rome. The dialects of Italy all formed around the tongue of the Tuscans during the unification. The Southerners, specifically those who fled to the United States, merely didn't get the memo. But I digress. Gio, as fate would have it, your old flame has offered us her help."

Spike, shovelling prosciutto into his mouth, turned to Gio. "Flame?" he asked, still chewing.

Gio pushed himself away from the table, and Spike thought he felt a the room tremble. "No. You do not mean..."

Knock knock knock

Spike looked to the door. "Wow, I didn't think knocking could sound so...flirtatious."

With a huge, shit-eating grin on his face, Vincenzo stood up and waltzed over towards the door. "That's her, probably."

"YOU INVITED HER HERE!?" Gio pulled his curly hair. "Lorenzo, open another window. I join you."

Suddenly, Spike zeroed in on a familiar aroma. Floral, bittersweet. Yes, this was the same scent from the colosseum! A feminine mist, to be sure (Spike knew the smell of men anywhere). Vincenzo opened the door. The woman who stood there, all curves and raven-hair, was like a living silhouette, a dangerous orchid. She could have walked from the set of a Fellini film. 

Her voice was low and smooth as polished leather. "Look at all these...handsome and pretty men." Her eyes landed on Spike.

Spike mirrored Vincenzo's devilish smile. He looked at Gio. "Oh, I get it. You dated a BADDIE."

Gio sighed. "The baddest. Spike, this is Francesca. Her spellbreaking name was...Belladonna. For her kiss is poison and she withers men's soul with her toxic touch."

Spike was obsessed. "Girl, same." He pulled a seat at the table for her.

"Fortunately," Gio said, embracing her, "I am immune."

"Such a liar," Belladonna purred. She kissed him on both cheeks. "My former rival. My former lover." She removed her gloves.

And then she slapped Gio across the cheek.

Lorenzo and Vincenzo both shot their arm out to Spike. "Italy," they reminded him.

"Woman," Gio growled. "You drag wickedness on your expensive high heels and pain on your painted lips! Hit me again. Harder."

So she did. And before long, Gio and Francesca were doing their best efforts at eating each's others faces.

"Oh, Gio," Francesca sighed. "My Titan."

"My goddess of the night. Corrupt me."

Awww it's just like me and Rage, Spike thought. Though, this was a bit more gratuitous. "Oh wow...uh...Lorenzo, Vincent? Should we leave?"

Vincenzo merely shrugged. "Francesca, did you eat?"

The woman tore herself off the giant, muscleman, pushing him away and readjusting her hair. "Yes."

"Okay," Vincenzo said, "I'll make more food."

Once Francesca was settled at the table, with another glass of wine in her hand, she motioned for Vincenzo to light her cigarette, placed delicately in her mouth. She pointed to Spike. "Sailorboy Spike. I admire your performance. You are very strong and charismatic. You are like the prettiest whore in the village."

Spike choked on his wine. "HEY!"

"In Italy, this is a compliment."

"Oh..."

"Mmm. I would enjoy stepping on you. But, priorities." The dark lady yawned. Gio, sitting across from her, resumed scowling and avoided her eye contact. "I shall make this brief. Recida Di Sangro is a duplicitous, snake of a woman, whose power and ambition knows no bounds. The bitch would cut her own grandmother just to get ahead! ...I love her. She funded my spellbreaking career early on and though I owe her a great debt, she crossed the line when she began supporting the Sons United." Francesca sighed, sorrowfully. "They killed my boyfriend, an anarchist."

This was enough to earn her some sympathy from her ex. Gio reached across the table to cover her hand with his. "Oh, Francesca, I am so sorry."

"No, it's okay; I was planning to do it myself. They robbed me of the privilege, and for that I would see them undone! And Recida kicked me to the curb when I told her I had no interest in helping her little alchemy freakshow. Without her patronage, I couldn't afford to keep up spellbreaking. So, I would see the bitch ROT." With this, Francesca banged her hand on the table, making everyone in the room jump.

"Also, she never gave me back the dress I leant her. What can I say? I am petty." Francesca reached into the folds of her ample cleavage and retrieved a small, rolled up piece of paper. She tossed it onto the table, and unfolded of its own accord. "Here. A map of the Palazzo Di Sangro, its entrances, and the locations of the vault and security system."

Spike and Gio leaned in. Neither of the two were equipped draftsman, or architects, but it certainly looked like a detailed floorplan.

The Sailorboy couldn't believe their luck. Tiger and John Henry are gonna be so proud! "Wow, just like that?"

Francesca stamped her cigarette out in a glass ashtray set in front of her. Somewhere outside, dogs were barking and people were yelling. "Just like that. There. Business concluded. Now, we can enjoy our evening."

By Spike's account, Gio didn't appear to be enjoying anything about this. Now that they had gotten the goods, it was probably for the best Spike make an excuse and retreat to their room for the night. Spike went to open his mouth, but the discordant sounds from the street had just intensified. Loud clangs and bangs accompanied a shout that Spike, his magickally enhanced brain trying to keep up with half-heard translations, processed as, "Oh no she has A SPOON!"

Eyes turned to the kitchen window, so at least Spike knew he wasn't hallucinating. "Hey, guys, what's that?"

Vincenzo, hovering over a pot of boiling water narrowed his eyes in confusion. They quickly widened into terror. "Oh...no."

Spike and Francesca were apparently the only two in the room who had no idea what was going on. Like dogs attuned to an earthquake minutes before it hits, the Di Toro boys stood on edge.

"Lorenzo," Gio shouted, "open the window again. We still have time to run!"

Now, Spike was genuinely afraid. "Guys, what is it? CAN WE FIGHT IT?"

The blood ran from Gio's face. "Spike. Choose your god and pray to them now. It's...her."

Now, recognition hit Francesca. She bolted up. "Oh no....I can't be here!"

"WHO IS IT!" Spike shouted.

Francesca's head turned towards him, slow, horror-movie like. "NONA."

As soon as she said that, the door threw itself open with a loud bang. A plume of dust and the scent of destruction rolled into the apartment. Squinting, Spike tried to make out the silhouette in the smog. He expected an eldritch horror. Instead, the person who hobbled out of the dust was none other than a tiny woman wearing a kerchief with a head covering. She looked impossibly ancient, her eyes hidden under folds and wrinkles.

In her hand was a long, wooden spoon.

"Do not move," Gio whispered to Spike. "Maybe she can't see us."

Suddenly, two orbs of red light shot out from the approximate location of Nona's eyes. The woman jumped into the air and SLAMMED her spoon down on the table. A moment passed, and then...a crack formed right down the middle.

Lorenzo was the first to speak up. With an exasperated sigh, he said, "But Nona, that is the fifth table you broke this year!"

The woman whipped her spoon towards him. "And it will be a sixth!" She marched forward, inspecting all the persons in the room. At last, she stood in front of Gio. "And the table not the only thing I'll break if my grandson gets hurt. YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Everyone: "Yes, Nona."

"Why isn't she translating completley?" Spike said to Gio outside the side of his mouth.

"I think she just might be that Italian that it...cancels it out?"

The atmosphere abruptly shifted. The terrifying woman smiled, full of yellowed teeth. "My sweet, precious GiGi."

Gio leaned down and wrapped his arms around the woman. "Nona. How I missed you!"

"I have put on the pasta," Lorenzo said to the woman.

"Ah, good grandsons." From Gio's embrace, she turned to Vincenzo. "Well, MOSTLY good." She let go, but not before holding Gio's face between her tiny hands (she still, somehow, retained her hold on the spoon). The coldness returned, as the woman glared in the direction of Francesca and Spike, their backs now against the wall.

"YOU! The pretty SLUT."

Francesca and Spike looked at each other. "Which one?"

Spike found himself staring down the barrel of the wooden spoon. "You. Blonde. Are you the boy who fight people in his underwear?"

"Er...yes?"

"Hmmm." She looked him up and down. "Much too skinny. Gio talk about you. He says you are nice." She smiled. "I can tell. A good heart."

With that, she punched Spike in the side of the arm. "Thanks!" he beamed. "And owww."

"BUT YOU!" Nona trained her spoon on Francesca. "You hurt my Gio and now your filthy claws dig into my sweet Vincenzo too!?" 

Both Vincenzo and Gio tried to intercede on her behalf. "Nona, please."

This woman is more powerful than any Spellbreaker! Spike feared taking her on in a fight.

After the tense moment had passed, everyone gathered around the (cracked) table to enjoy a helping of late night cacio e pepe. Lorenzo spooned some onto Spike's plate, explaining, "Despite what some may say, there is a place for American-Italian cuisine, provided it does not try to pass itself off as anything but! You see, Spike, real Italian food is actually very simple. I did hand-make the past, of course, because I am not a savage--however, the rest is Romano cheese and ground pepper."

Spike's taste buds were in Heaven. "It's like mac and cheese, but...better!"

Lorenzo winced. "Sure."

Food had somehow equalized everyone's emotions. Frencesca had moved on to canoodling with Vincenzo instead. Gio, remarkably comfortably with his grandmother, went on and on about his adventures (carefully excising the scary bits, Spike noticed). The old woman absorbed it like a proud, radiant sponge.

At last, she sighed. "GiGi. My poor, sweet, baby. You have seen so much of the world, but I am afraid for your safety and future. Come back to the farm where it is safe. If your mother and father in Heaven could only see their baby boy...brawling with near naked men in the pits instead of leading the humble life of a gardener!"

Vincenzo was quick to jump in. Spike could easily tell that he was the one to intercede on Gio's behalf when they had been growing up. "Nona, Gio wants to be a spellbreaker! He will be the champion!"

Gio gulped. "Vincenzo..."

"NO!" Nona shot back, making everyone in the room flinch. "He will come back and tend to the farm and lead the Di Toro vineyard to excellence. With his green touch, our grapes will be the envy of all Italy. The fascists will take one sip of our wine, weep, and lay down their swords." Nona wiped the corner of her eye with a loose piece of her headscarf. "Oh, what is to become of this country! It is happening again. Blood and tears will flood this blessed land of our ancestors."

Spike felt for her. He knew enough about the war (and what happened to his parents) that Italy suffered some of the worst of it. He wondered if he should interject.

Vincenzo got their first. Of everyone in the room, he was the bravest to challenge the old woman. "Nona, you must listen! I helped Gio become a spellbreaker and he will become the best spellbreaker that Italy--no--the WORLD has ever seen."

Now, Gio was truly uncomfortable. He tried for diplomacy. "Nona. Vincenzo. Please. I just wanted a peaceful, family dinner." 

"This is like all our family dinner's, though," Lorenzo said.

"Yes! And I was hoping it would be different." Gio's voice shook. Normally calm, collected, and quiet, this side of Gio was alien to Spike. He didn't like seeing him upset. It was like watching a giant, oversized pitbull whimper. 

Vincenzo and Nona went at it, shouting from either side of the table, gesticulating with hand motions Spike could only assume meant 'very aggressive'. At a certain point, Frencesca, without looking, handed Spike the entire wine bottle, and the sailor went about drinking it directly from the source.

It was not a shout, but a low rumble, quickly divulging into a full on tremor, that silence the room. Spike had felt it before. A trace of magick. "Gio!"

The Titant stood over all, one eye glowing orange, the other, green. "EVERYONE STOP!"

Short of the china tumbling off the shelves, the apartment stopped shaking. Everyone, Nona included, stared meekly at the giant.

His eyes resumed their normal, gentle, hazel liquidity. Embarrassed, and voice cracking, Gio pleaded with his family. "I do not want to be a farmer, Nona. And I do not want to be a champion, Vinnie. Everyone thinks just because I am strong and have a mind that works differently than most people, that I am some kind of...I don't know...god. 'Titan' is just a nickname. I am very mortal." He shrugged. "I am just Gio. I just want to be myself and do what I love. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Eyes turned downcast, to empty plates and empty wine glasses. Spike alone found his voice. "Gio. Buddy. It sounds like you have a lot of pressure. I think you have already made your family proud! But that doesn't matter...."

"SAYS WHO?" Nona quipped, violently.

"Eeep! What matters is that you do what you love and know that people support you." Spike looked at the others, even Nona. "I think your family understands that, yes?" I'm about to have my head split in two by a wooden spoon...

Nona stared death into everyone. Finally, she relented. "Well, rip my heart out and throw it into the Trevi Fountain why don't you! But...I suppose you must follow your own path. Nona can no longer protect you. Just...please be safe, my grandson."

Spike looked to Gio. "So, probably don't tell her about the hei-"

Gio clamped his giant hand over Spike's mouth. "Yes, Nona, thank you." Contented, he smiled, and resumed his seat. "I love you. I love my family. Now, dessert. I think, Lorenzo, we would like to try your fior de latte."

Lorenzo bot his lip; a wary eye on Nona. "Are...you sure?"

After a few minutes, everyone had a small bowl of white gelato in front of them. As Nona took a spoonful, her hand tremoring with age, Gio whispered to Spike. "I sense miracles in the air tonight, Spike."

Lorenzo leaned forward, with anticipation. "Well...?"

The old woman wore a neutral expression. "Hmmm..." Then she smiled. "A pinch of salt, and this is perfect."

Lorenzo promptly burst into tears of joy. "That's...the nicest thing you have ever said!"

Gio was relieved. "Spike, I should bring you to all family dinners. You are a good luck charm."

Finally, Vincenzo and Francesco stood up. "Francesca and I are going to hit the bars." Have fun storming the castle!"

Belladonna blew kissed at Gio with her eyelashes. "Ciao, Gio."

"She-Devil!" Nona hissed as they left the apartment.

With only the four of them left, Lorenzo began to clear plates. He stopped at Spike, stared him in the face, and then proclaimed to the room, "Ah, he is Italian."

Spike was confused. "No, I just like eating and sex. I actually don't really know what I am. I think my dad was Irish because of the last name..." He quickly nodded to Gio, "Don't tell Cian, I'll never hear the end of it. But as for my mom? Not sure. I just have one photo of her that the orphanage held onto, and it's not even a very good one." 

Nona touched Spike's head. He froze. "Hmmm...blonde hair, yes. But your father was a healer, you say? Bah. But healers are always pale with light hair."

"That's true," Spike added. "John Henry's wife, Sandra, has to dye her hair otherwise she's platinum. Oh, she'd kill me if she knew I said that."

Lorenzo pressed his finger to his chin. "Well, I still think he's Italian."

Maybe it was the family setting, or the topic at hand, but Spike felt weirdly introspective now. "I don't really know much about either of my parents, but...I know they passed on here in this country."

"Val D'Orcia," Gio said, softlt. "Same as mine. Do you want to go there and pay respects?"

"Not really. I am not good with sad things. I prefer not to think about it."

Shocking Spike most of all, it was Nona who placed her hand over his. "My beautiful child, if you do not face this grief, it will fester inside you, like a rot."

Spike felt a pang inside his heart. He would rather fight this woman than be sad in front of her.

She went on, tenderly. "Our family, Spike, has lost many good people to war, to disease, to accident. Though you are far from your home country, here you are not alone."

Spike's eyes welled up with tears. "Thank you. I never had a grandma I knew. So...that's nice."

She gave him a toothy smile. "I like you, Spike. You nice, simple boy."

Then, she punched him in the arm.

"Thanks," Spike said. "Owwww."

"She hit you if she like you," Gio added.

"And what does she do when she doesn't?"

"You don't wanna know..."

To Be Continued