# chapters

path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112211111212112111
author_id: imaj
title: The Raid, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Everything happens at once.<br/>
<br/>
Rob is closest to you and he reacts with alarming speed.  Unlike his brethren, he doesn’t gape in surprise or ask questions.  The bowl he had been using to paint the victims clatters to the ground, spilling the red-brown paint within across the floor.  He comes at you with a vicious backhand that catches you by surprise.  You tumble backwards, but Miko’s reactions kick in quickly and you turn the tumble into a backwards roll.  You come to halt a couple of metres back and spring back to your feet, poised and ready.<br/>
<br/>
The women take this as their cue, although their reactions vary wildly.  The first, the blonde, faints clean away, collapsing to the floor like a limp rag.  The second, a mousy brunette barely over five feet tall stumbles clear of the pillar she was tied to.  It takes her a few seconds to gain her bearings.  Her eyes widen when she locks them with yours, just after you’ve regained your balance.  For whatever reason, maybe she recognises you as her rescuer or maybe she saw you were the only person in the room without a robe on,  she runs and hides behind you.  She clutches onto your shoulder until you shrug free of her.  The third at least has the sense to run for the door, waves of crimson hair dancing in her wake like a fire.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile, Fyodor and Rick enter the chamber as soon as they see you are in trouble.  Fyodor charges in with a roar, barrelling straight towards you at speed.  The line of cultists lies between you and only one or two of them are quick witted enough to realise what’s happening and step smartly aside.  Leading with his shoulder and pushing upwards, Fyodor connects with an unsuspecting brown robe.  The cultist flies across the room and crashes to the floor some several metres distant.  The collision robs Fyodor of his momentum though and a gaggle of cultists rush in and try to pin him down with little success.<br/>
<br/>
Ricks advance is characteristically more circumspect.  He’s drawn that huge knife you remember from your very first encounter with him and is moving cautiously towards the cultists furthest from the entrance to the chamber.  With a wry grin you notice a stain spreading on the robes of one of the cultists nearest him as Rick uses his powers over water to wring out every advantage he can get<br/>
<br/>
The leader is scuttling away from you now, towards the small plinth where the cult’s two remaining sacrificial daggers have been placed.  You glance at the blonde woman.  She’s still out cold and you realise that she could offer no defence if Rob went for her now.<br/>
<br/>
Miko’s trim muscles spring into action and you sprint straight for Rob, launching into a diving tackle as you get close.  Rob is caught unaware.  Either he thought he’d dealt with you already or he’d discounted you as a threat.  You bowl him to the ground and the fight quickly degenerates into a messy scrum.<br/>
<br/>
You try to summon the sigil to your hand and knock out cult leader, but he sees the glow around your hand and manages to hold you by the wrist.  Miko isn’t suited to this kind of brawling encounter and the leader kicks away until the glow fades from your hand. He manages to free himself of you, leaving you tenders about your ribs.  You haul yourself unsteadily to your feet, spitting blood.  Rob’s gone for the daggers again, and this time you will not be able to get to him first.<br/>
<br/>
You look around.  Fyodor has the blonde woman slung over one shoulder and a trio of unconscious cultists laid about his feet.  The one remaining cultist near him is now backing away, stumbling as his legs give out beneath him.<br/>
<br/>
Rick’s downed a cultist too, but two more circle round him, having drawn serviceable, if entirely mundane knifes of their own.  You watch as he concentrates on one.  The other starts creeping behind Rick, raising his knife unnoticed to plunge it into Rick’s back.<br/>
<br/>
He’s only a couple of steps away, with your last reserves of strength you summon forth the sigil one more time.  You hit the cultist on the back of his head with the palm of your hand and he goes down.  He rolls over as he hits the floor and his hood flops open.  It’s George.<br/>
<br/>
Rick downs the cultist in front of him with a punch from his off hand.  Then he spins round.  Rick takes one look at you, then at Georges sleeping body in front of you and finally he looks back at you.  “Looks like I owe you one squirt,” he says with a tight smile.  Rick looks past you and his face falls.  You turn around to see what he’s looking at.<br/>
<br/>
Rob, the cult leader has taken the sacrificial daggers and is now standing on the platform at the centre of the room.  There’s no one near him.  You and Rick are several metres distant and Fyodor is off to the side holding the last remaining conscious cultist up by his clothes, their feet dangling in the air.  Rob’s gaze casts from side to side.  He knows it’s all over:  There’s desperation in his eyes and panic on his face.<br/>
<br/>
Yet to your amazement, Rob’s expression changes.  A wave of calm passes over his face, to be replaced in turn by that smug serpent like grin you saw this morning.  One of the sacrificial daggers clatters to the floor, dropped by the cult leader as if it no longer mattered.  He takes the one remaining one, grasping its hilt with both of its hands, and turns it until it points inwards, directly at his own heart.<br/>
<br/>
You don’t understand the significance, yet it’s clearly important.  Fyodor has dropped his cultist and stands reaching out to Rob, the word ‘no’ starting to form on his lips.  He’s too far away to do anything though.<br/>
<br/>
Rick though, has one last action to take.  He hefts his knife and with an ease that come from long practice he throws it at Rob.  The knife tumbles through the air and strikes home with almost supernatural accuracy.  The cult leader has just enough time to look surprised then the dagger slips from his hands.  He topples over backward, Rick’s knife sticking out from his eye socket.<br/>
<br/>
It’s over.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You sit on the edge of the platform in the ritual chamber looking at your feet.  You never imagined that there would be so much time afterwards spent cleaning up.  Fyodor stands a few metres away barking at five of the cultists.  They are the ones that weren’t in too deep.  The ones that joined this year, that thought they were joining some secret fraternity that would get them a seat on the Oxford crew at the next University boat race.  The ones that only flirted with human sacrifice and their own damnation.<br/>
<br/>
To you, it seems crazy that they get no more than a stern talking to:  Told not to do it again, told they will be watched and threatened with punishment if they do.  Fyodor is an intimidating man though, he looms over the cultists and they look thoroughly wretched.  A sixth is on his way to hospital and will get the same talk in a few days once he regains consciousness.<br/>
<br/>
The last two sit apart.  They are the repeat offenders, the ones who have returned at least once to participate in the ritual again.  They sit bound and gagged, with black hoods tied over their heads so they cannot see a thing.  One of them is George.  Their presence doubtless reinforces Fyodor’s message, though you do not know what will happen to them.<br/>
<br/>
Rick sits down next to you.  He’s returned from escorting the women to safety.  “The brunette asked for your number by the way squirt,” he says.  “Nice girl, cute glasses.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” you say looking up.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t get your hopes up though,” says Rick with a rare grin.  “It was Miko’s number she was asking for.”  You sigh and stare back down at your feet.  “I wouldn’t go there if I were you squirt.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do I look suicidal,” you sigh.<br/>
<br/>
“You look miserable squirt,” replies Rick.  “I’m gonna risk my hard won reputation for world weary cynicism and ask you what’s up.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t understand,” you explain.  “All through my training you’ve been careful that I don’t steal from anyone, and I got in so much trouble over the flight attendant, but you killed that cult leader without a second thought.  He was the only one left, another few seconds and we’d have knocked him out too.  I don’t get it.”<br/>
<br/>
“We didn’t have a few seconds,” explains Rick.  “He was about to plunge the dagger into his own heart without whatever protective bindings the ritual would have made.  You saw the look on his face, he knew <i>exactly </i>what he was doing.  So I had no choice.”<br/>
<br/>
“It just seems at odds with the whole ‘no stealing’ thing.”<br/>
<br/>
“Squirt, there are innocents out there and there are people who do bad things,” he replies.  “Do no harm to the innocents and let the bad guys get what’s coming to them.”<br/>
<br/>
“But how can you tell you did the right thing,” you persist, the question still nagging away at you.<br/>
<br/>
“Because we’re sitting here talking about it,” he explains.  “If I’d gone off the rails you’d let me know, or Fyodor would let me know.  At the end of the day it comes down to my golden rule,” he finishes,<br/>
<br/>
You have to ask.  “Which is?”<br/>
<br/>
“Do unto others as you would have them do to you,” replies Rick.<br/>
<br/>
“Uh… Rick… You killed him?”<br/>
<br/>
“Squirt, if I was so far gone that I thought that carrying out that kind of human sacrifice without ritual bindings in place was a good idea, that’s <i>exactly </i>what I’d want you to do.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You wander into Margaret’s library before breakfast the following morning, hoping to get your session out of the way quickly.  Her chair is empty and she is nowhere to be seen.<br/>
<br/>
Rick is hovering about outside.  “She’s down in the basement,” he explains.  “They’re deciding what to do with the two we brought back here.”<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122111112121121111
author_id: imaj
title: Two Trials
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You slip down into the basement just in time to see the first of the two - Well, you’re not sure if "trial" is the right word, but it seems the best fit. The first is drawing to a close.<br/>
<br/>
The basement makes for an odd courtroom. The undressed stone floor is covered with old rugs with unfashionable patterns. At the centre, lit by the narrow windows near the roof, is the first of the cultists, the one that saw you in the antechamber yesterday. His hands are bound in front of him, but his hood has been removed. <br/>
<br/>
Fyodor sits before him in a wooden chair that seems far too small for his bulk. They are looking at each other, and the contrast of attitudes is striking. The cultist glares hard and belligerently, but Fyodor stares back with an expression of open and friendly curiosity. He has one great leg crossed over the other, and cups his chin in one hand; there is a twinkle in his eye, but his smile is just a little sad.<br/>
<br/>
Margaret sits in a wheelchair to one side, hunched with her eyes closed, breathing heavily. She might be asleep, but you have the impression that she's actually concentrating very hard. Kali is by her side, one hand resting on the back of her wheelchair.<br/>
<br/>
Perhaps the strangest thing of all is the thing in the corner: a stout, wooden wardrobe with faded varnish. Its doors open into an inky blackness. Bizarrely, there's a small ramp in front of it, such that one could push Margaret’s wheelchair up and inside it.<br/>
<br/>
You sit on the steps to watch. Fyodor gives you a silent wink, then looks back at the prisoner. "What about the girls?" he asks in an almost off-hand manner.<br/>
<br/>
The air thickens, and if you weren't already sitting the pressure might have forced you to your haunches.<br/>
<br/>
But the cultist doesn't buckle. “What about them?” he sneers. “They weren’t important. Waifs, foreigners and undesirables.” He glares around the room, daring anyone to contradict him. That no one does takes him by surprise, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing. “So what if we killed them, it’s not like they amounted to anything. But if it would help me? A word in the right ear, meeting the right people, a little bit of extra stamina where it mattered out on the river, that’s all that’s important. It wouldn’t have been the first time I did it and I would have kept on doing it until it took me to the very top.”<br/>
<br/>
You are shocked at the naked confession. Then you realise that’s what Margaret is doing here, and that perhaps this is what all Lurgae, are capable of: crushing people under the weight of their burdens until they admit them.<br/>
<br/>
“He was teaching me, you know,” continues the cultist. “Rob. Let me kill one of the girls myself last year. The little dyke would have felt my blade last night if you hadn’t stopped us. I learnt a few workings from Rob, nothing big, just a couple of words that could make a room stand up and pay attention to me--”<br/>
<br/>
"And this is your defense!" Fyodor laughs as though it's a tremendous joke, but fixes the other with a keen eye.<br/>
<br/>
The cultist flushes. "You have no authority over me! I don't recognize this as a legitimate court! I call upon the power of--!"<br/>
<br/>
There is an inaudible thunderclap, and his mouth shuts hard. Fyodor leans forward with a sigh. "It is my judgment that you be taken from this court to a place of sleep, where you will rest until such time as you can take up the labour of repairing your soul." His expression is grave but not unfriendly as he gestures at the wardrobe.<br/>
<br/>
The cultist looks between him and it. "Don’t you know who I am?  When my father finds out about this there will be trouble!" he snaps, screaming ineffectual curses and abuse at Fyodor.<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor snorts a soft laugh, and the cultist folds up and falls to the ground. Fyodor rises, and bends to pick him up. He suddenly seems very small in the great bear's arms. <br/>
<br/>
"So unrepentant," Kali murmurs.<br/>
<br/>
"He is only a child, Kali," Fyodor murmurs back. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word."<br/>
<br/>
Nothing further is said. Fyodor carries his burden into the wardrobe; Kali and Margaret follow, the former pushing the latter's chair up the ramp and into the darkness.<br/>
<br/>
Alone, you sit on the step for what seems like an age, too terrified to follow them. Eventually, they return, but the cultist is no longer with them. <br/>
<br/>
Fyodor catches your eye. “We should put a lamppost in there, eh, Margaret,” he laughs loudly. The comment prompts the first little burst of emotion you have ever seen on her face: a flash of ire, and she gives the huge man a very pointed look. He just laughs again, and passes you on the steps, vanishing into the rooms above.<br/>
<br/>
“Where did you take him,” you ask Kali.<br/>
<br/>
But Margaret answers. “To the banks of the Acheron,” she whispers. <br/>
<br/>
“Is he… Is he dead,” you ask. You have to know.<br/>
<br/>
“Merely sleeping,” Kali says, and looks at the floor. “I fear he will sleep for some time.”<br/>
<br/>
You open your mouth to ask for clarification, but are distracted at Fyodor's return. He carefully guides the hooded George down the stairs until he stands in the centre of the room. Only when the cultist is in place does Fyodor gently remove the hood. George blinks a few times, accustoming himself to the light in the basement as Fyodor takes his chair again.<br/>
<br/>
Nobody speaks. George looks round, taking in your faces. He has seen none of you before except Fyodor, for you are wearing your own face rather than the guises you met him previously in. His curiosity sated, he fixes his eyes firmly on his feet, an air of despair settling around him.<br/>
<br/>
You feel the pressure in the room ramping up. Fyodor leans forward with that same friendly but expectant look. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks, and it sounds like a genuine question, not a pointed or leading one.<br/>
<br/>
George looks up at him. He starts to answer, then thinks better of it. He stands silently for some time, on occasion looking as if he is about to speak before thinking better of it. Finally the words come, slow and thick. “All I wanted,” he says, “was for my dad to pay attention to me.”<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor blinks, and his expression changes; he looks impressed by the answer. "Tell me about your father," he says, and cups his chin again in his hand.<br/>
<br/>
George’s tale is a long and unhappy one, and Fyodor seems utterly absorbed in it, interrupting only at points to ask for clarifications. <br/>
<br/>
It's a familiar one to you, though, because you glimpsed it yesterday when reviewing his <i>imago</i>. But to hear it in words ...<br/>
<br/>
He lacked for nothing in his childhood, save the affection of his parents. That is the backbone of his tale of woe.  On another day it might have left you sighing impatiently, but today you listen with a sort of horror to the extents that young George went to impress his father: the endless studying and hard work at expensive educations that could never quite hide his academic deficiencies. Even his scoring a raft of top grades in his final year, what he calls A-levels, and winning a place at Oxford was met with indifference at home, for he'd only met the minimum expected of him, and avoided the ignominy of being forced to attend St. Andrew’s instead.<br/>
<br/>
Sport was a more natural fit for him, but his father thought football vulgar, and his mother feared that rugby would disfigure his face. Rowing had seemed like a social acceptable pursuit, though his relative lack of height disadvantaged him, and his parents seemed to enjoy the initial rush of trophies and awards. But that had only been to raise the bar, and by the time he'd reached Oxford, his natural disadvantages we’re counting against him.<br/>
<br/>
“And that’s when I met Rob,” George says. “I was failing badly and he offered me an easy route to success. All it would cost were the lives of three innocent women.”<br/>
<br/>
"Did it work?" Fyodor asks. His expression is rapt, as though he's been listening to a ripping yarn and can't wait to see how it turns out.<br/>
<br/>
George seems not to notice. "My technique leapt up a level," he shrugs. "I was perfect, almost superhuman. I made the boat race team and my dad was proud. But by the time the trials rolled round again the following year I'd slipped back. I repeated the ritual. I would have this year too.”<br/>
<br/>
"Really." Fyodor's expression is keen.<br/>
<br/>
George stares directly back at him. “I think I’m glad you caught us,” he says hesitantly. “Every year most of the boys wouldn’t come back, they escaped back to normal lives. Rob kept pulling me in deeper and deeper and I kept going because I was scared of what would happen to me if I stopped. All my life I’ve lived for other people, hardly ever though about what I want.” He sighs and tries to wipe at a moist eye. His bonds prevent him. “I want that to stop.”<br/>
<br/>
The pressure in the air noticeably recedes as he finishes.<br/>
<br/>
“What happens now?" George asks, looking past Fyodor and at the emptiness of the wardrobe.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You meet Kali in the kitchen later, just as she is preparing herself some lunch.  “You’ve been through a lot in the last couple of days.”  She places a thick slice of cheese on top of some bread.  “And seen a lot.  I know I said we would talk about clearing <i>imago </i>that you no longer need, but I think you should take the day off.  Maybe take a walk round the town.”<br/>
<br/>
It’s a tempting idea, especially since the last time you tried for a change of pace you being drugged and abducted, but this morning’s trials in the basement have left you with questions.  Questions that need answers.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111221111121211211112
author_id: imaj
title: Goodbye, George
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You sit opposite Kali as she takes her lunch to the kitchen table.  “I’d rather talk a while, if that’s ok,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“About what you saw this morning,” says Kali.  Her sandwich stops a few inches short of her mouth.  “You have questions.  I would be surprised if you didn’t.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod.  “A lot,” you reply.  “The big one is why they both got the same punishment?  The first dude didn’t seem sorry at all, but George looked like he was about to burst into tears.”<br/>
<br/>
Kali takes a bite out of her sandwich and chews it thoughtfully.  “Not all go through the door Will,” she explains.  “From some we even strike the fetters and send them away. And though it is one door, they all find different things on the other side, for they each <i>take </i>different things with them."<br/>
<br/>
“So what happened to them,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“I do not know,” she replies, with a shrug.  “As I say, it will be different for each of them, although I suspect we may be seeing the second cultist long before we see the first again.”<br/>
<br/>
So much for that.  Kali’s answers have only left you with more questions, and you suspect that if you press her on the issue you will only be left with even more questions.  “Could that have happened to me,” you ask, taking a different approach.<br/>
<br/>
“What do you mean,” asks Kali, putting her sandwich down.<br/>
<br/>
“I was involved with Blackwell back home,” you explain.  “It could easily have been me down there.”<br/>
<br/>
“I suppose if you had made your choices differently then it would have been, yes” admits Kali.  “But as you saw, what you might have said to Fyodor would have made a big difference.”  You aren’t sure you saw that at all at the trials, but you nod.  “And if Joe ever catches Professor Blackwell then I suppose you might well see him at trial too.”<br/>
<br/>
“It scares me,” you admit.  “Not so much the… whatever the door in the wardrobe leads to, but how thin the dividing line is between me and George.”<br/>
<br/>
“It is to your credit that you <i>do </i>think about such things,” says Kali with a faint smile.<br/>
<br/>
“I want to get rid of George’s <i>imago</i>,” you say abruptly.  “I mean, it’s great that stealing his memories helped us stop the cult and everything, and I guess that’s going to be my job once you finish my training, but…”  You pause, thinking on just how to put your thoughts into words.  “I don’t want to fall across that dividing line, and I don’t want to remember falling across the line.  Touching on those memories yesterday was bad.  What’s it going to be like when I have more than one set of memories like that?  Two?  A dozen?  More…” you tail off.  It is a shock when you realise that the beginnings of tears are welling up in your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“Of course Will,” says Kali sympathetically.  “We can start today.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
That sets the pattern of your training for the next few days:  In the morning, grinding, painful sessions with Margaret, spent almost entirely in silence.  You sense that she is still looking for an answer to that question:  <i>How can you tell?</i>  The maddening thing is that you feel the answer is close, just out of reach somehow.<br/>
<br/>
Your work with Kali is more productive.  She starts with elementary memory exercises, which seems counterintuitive to you.  Not that you are ungrateful, for they seem to push your abilities to sift through the associated memories of an <i>imago </i>one step further.<br/>
<br/>
That in turn helps with what Rick has you doing.  Undeterred by your encounter with the cultist he has you back on the hunt for bedroom faces.  Hélène lead you to Peter – a rakish oaf whose angelic face had the quality of making women forgive almost any wrong he did to them.  Peter, in turn led to Arabela – a raven haired postgraduate student in Italian literature with a sultry voice and a body to die for.  The memory exercises help you keep each persona separate inside your increasingly crowded head.<br/>
<br/>
It is on the fifth day, as you meditate on a threadbare sofa in Margaret’s living room that the real breakthrough comes.  You are only dimly aware of your real surroundings , the dated furnishings of the room, Kali sitting keenly in a chair opposite you and Rick lying on his back in the adjacent couch.  Instead you are focused on the <i>imago </i>you have collected as they dance around you.<br/>
<br/>
Once they would have been distant, difficult to bring into focus. Thanks to Kali and diligent practice they orbit on steady courses.   Each one glides in magnificent isolation, unperturbed by the others not matter how close their courses take them to each other.  The wisps of their memories, which used to move about according to some chaotic pattern that you didn’t understand, now fly in a tight formation.  They are so dense packed together that they seem almost solid.<br/>
<br/>
You dive into Peter’s memories and they move about to accommodate you, sticking close.  It is now so easy to flit between them and pick out individual memories at will.  As you review every last detail, trawling through every linked memory you reflect that he is an unpleasant person, but a very useful face to have:  So surefooted in his seduction, you are sure you could use him to get close to almost any woman.<br/>
<br/>
You pull away from his imago, letting it slip back into its path.  It seems so easy to manipulate them now, nothing at all like the crude blast of force you used so long ago to first rid yourself Miko’s face.  It takes only the slightest touch to wrap yourself in an <i>imago </i>and use it as a disguise.<br/>
<br/>
That’s when the idea hits you.  Your ability to handle memories is so improved that you can move them about with ease.  What would happen if you focussed all your energy to move one now that it is so easy.  You single out George’s <i>imago </i>orbiting at the periphery of all the others and strain to push it as hard and fast as you can.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>imago </i>streaks into the distance, leaving nothing but a blinding line of light to mark its passage.  Carefully you probe in the direction you pushed it, sensing nothing.  It’s gone, truly gone.  As an experiment you pluck a lone memory from the cloud trailing in the wake of the flight attendant whose face you stole to travel to England, Jen Moore.  You don’t look too closely at the memory, an argument with her flatmate over some trivial thing months ago, instead subjecting it to the same treatment as George’s <i>imago</i>.  The wisp disintegrates into nothingness.  Try as you might, you cannot recall what the argument was about at all.<br/>
<br/>
You break your meditation and laugh.<br/>
<br/>
“Is everything ok Will,” asks Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, great,” you smile back.  “I worked it out, I got rid of George’s <i>imago</i>.  It’s gone.  You really helped me with that,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
Kali smiles widely.  “It’s what I do,” she says with a touch of pride.  You know her well enough to see that another little block of her confidence has been restored.<br/>
<br/>
“I also worked out how to remove individual memories too,” you explain.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s real good, squirt,” interrupts Rick.  He puts down the book he was reading, a trashy paperback, and sits up.  “We can start you on apprentice work soon.”<br/>
<br/>
You look excitedly at Kali.  “Is he right,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“I think there’s still some distance to travel before that, Rick,” she replies stiffly.<br/>
<br/>
“No you don’t,” replies Rick.  He’s grinning, which is always a bad sign.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, and I suppose you would be the expert on such matters,” says Kali, lacing her voice with a rare touch of sarcasm.<br/>
<br/>
“In this case I am,” he says.  “When was the last time you called the squirt ‘child’?”<br/>
<br/>
Kali looks dumbfounded.  You realise it’s been nearly a week since Kali referred to you like that.  It’s been ‘Will’ for several days now.  “I’ll concede you have a point,” replies Kali, smiling faintly as she finds her voice.  “But Margaret still hasn’t finished with Will yet.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m close,” you interrupt.  “Like the answer she’s looking for is just out of reach, I know it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hmm,” muses Rick, rubbing at his stubble again.  “She ain’t interested in the technical aspects of your education, I know that much.  Maybe you should tell her about what you learned here though.  It might unlock something.”<br/>
<br/>
Well, if nothing else, it’ll break the long painful silences you were expecting next time you saw Margaret into smaller chunks.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112211111212112111121
author_id: imaj
title: The Last Session
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You’ve grown accustomed to the overwhelming thickness of the air that greets you in Margaret’s library.  Not ‘immune to’ but accustomed.  Another burden to bear as Margaret works to lead you to the answer you are seeking.  You let it wash round you as you struggle across the room and into your chair.  Margaret is content to wordlessly watch your progress with those dead eyes.<br/>
<br/>
The chair is no more comfortable than it was the first day you stepped into this room, but it has grown familiar.  There’s a sort of comfort in familiarity as well and you shift in the seat until the impossible pressure squeezing at you seems a fraction more bearable.<br/>
<br/>
Margaret continues to gaze at you without saying a word.  <i>So it’s going to be one of those sessions</i>, you think.<br/>
<br/>
This has happened a couple of times:  An hour of painful, awkward silence as Margaret stares at you.  You’ve never quite been able to meet her gaze when it’s been like this.  Your eyes drift slowly downwards until you recall what Rick told you yesterday:  She might not care about what you learned but who knows, maybe it will lead to something.  At least it will break the silence.<br/>
<br/>
You look at Margaret, looking back into her flinty eyes.  “I learned something yesterday, how to remove <i>imago </i>that I’ve copied from people” you begin.  The air seems to thicken again, pushing you further down into the seat – you seem to have provoked a reaction.  “It’s important,” you protest, struggling with the words.  “What happens if my brain fills up with other people’s thoughts?  What if I run out of room?  I need to be able to manage it,” you stumble.  It’s hard to get the words out now, the gaps between each word have grown longer and it takes many minutes to get everything out.<br/>
<br/>
The sense of pressure ups again and you feel your spine twinge in protest.  Your lungs are on fire and you feel as if the life is being crushed out of you.  “There are…  There are some… memories,” you struggle to speak, your vision is starting to go fuzzy round the edges.  “That I want to forget.”  The last words burst out in a rush and the sense of relief is indescribable.<br/>
<br/>
Abruptly the pressure rescinds.  Margaret’s eyes flicker about, as if she is examining you in some way that you can’t perceive.  “Why,” she rasps.<br/>
<br/>
You spend a minute thinking of the words that you need:  “So I don’t have to go through the wardrobe door,” you say slowly.  Margaret says nothing, she just sits impossibly still.  “There are memories that I’ve taken that are dangerous,” you explain, the words coming slowly but steadily now.  “The cultist, George.  What he’d done, what he’d been taught to do.  The knowledge he had was enough to send him through the door.  Should I carry it with me,” you ask.  Margaret does not answer.  “I don’t think I should.  Even if I didn’t look at it today, what about tomorrow, or the day after?  There’s always the risk that I’d want to know, or use something I shouldn’t.”  You stop to mop your brow.  Sweat flow freely and your clothes are drenched in it.<br/>
<br/>
“There are memories I had no right to take,” you add.  “Jen the flight attendant.  Rick told me to stay in L.A., but I ignored him and came here.  I took her life for a day and made a mess of it,” you explain guiltily.  “I still know all her secrets.  I shouldn’t, but now I can forget them all.”<br/>
<br/>
You breathe deeply and freely.  The air of the room is as oppressive as ever, but it seems just that little bit sweeter now that you’ve unburdened yourself.  You start to lever yourself out of the chair…<br/>
<br/>
The pressure on you ramps back up, crushing you back into the cushions.  Have you missed out something?  You were sure you’d realised something very important but Margaret seems to think there is more to say.<br/>
<br/>
<i>How can you tell</i>, the question haunts you again.  Being able to remove memories and imago, that’s part of the solution, not all of it.  You are sure the whole answer is close.  Margaret must sense it too, otherwise why would she be pressing you so hard.  If only there was some kind of clue.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m dangerous,” you say hesitantly.  “I need to be watched.”  What Fyodor and Kali said to you in the garden after your very first session swims into your thoughts.  “We’re all dangerous, we all have to be watched so we watch each other.”  The words spill out slowly and unsurely, but now that you’ve spoken them, you are sure they are true.  “We have to watch ourselves, don’t we,” you ask, not expecting an answer, you need to give voice to the sentiment though.  “So we need to know <i>how </i>to watch ourselves.  That’s what you meant when you asked me how I could tell,” you continue excitedly.  Though you still feel the weight of the room pressing down on you, it somehow doesn’t seem to matter anymore.  You are like a long distance runner on the final straight – the aches and pains are still there but they only need to be borne a little while longer.<br/>
<br/>
You remember your conversation with Rick in the cultist’s ritual chamber.  “Rick’s thing about not stealing from people, that’s something he does to watch himself isn’t it?”  Margaret says nothing of course.  “I need something for <i>me</i>, and I need it soon, don’t I?”  Again, Margaret says nothing, but that doesn’t matter anymore.  “I’m dangerous but I’m no more dangerous than any of us,” you say in a flash of insight.  “But I am more dangerous because I’ve advanced so quickly, and it’s all about what I can do with peoples <i>imago</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
It all seems so simple now.  You can’t help but smile, an action that causes Margaret’s eyebrow to twitch.    “George’s <i>imago </i>helped us bust up his cult.  I’ll need to do that sometimes, but if I always get rid of the <i>imago </i>I’ve taken afterwards, there’ll be no temptation to use any forbidden knowledge later.”<br/>
<br/>
“Jen’s <i>imago</i>,”  you continue.  “I took it and I shouldn’t have.  There’s going to be times when I have to take someone innocent’s face for a while, because they are caught up in something or because I need to use them to get close to the bad guy.  But I’ll always make sure I don’t screw up their life, and I’ll always remove their <i>imago </i>when I’m finished.”<br/>
<br/>
There’s one more thing to say.  One final statement that answers Margaret’s question:  “I’ll only ever take someone’s <i>imago </i>when I need to and I’ll only keep it as long as I need.  That way I know I’m not abusing my prodigies.  If I slip up, Rick will tell me, or Kali, or Fyodor, and you’ll be here to help me.”<br/>
<br/>
Margaret smiles wryly as the last of the pressure slips from around you.  An enormous weight has been lifted from your shoulders, your worries about your future are gone.  You realise that it will be hard work to keep to the standard you’ve set yourself, but the rest of the <i>Stellae </i>is there to help you if you fall.  Rick, Kali and Miko have all shown you how to use your powers, but Margaret has shown you how <i>not </i>to use them.  Maybe that’s the most important lesson you’ve learned yet.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you Ma’am,” you say as you lift yourself from the seat.  You are halfway across the room when Margaret speaks again.<br/>
<br/>
“Will,” she says, her voice has lost a little of its rasping quality.  “Draw the curtains open for me please.”<br/>
<br/>
It’s an odd request, but in your half giddy mood it’s one that you are happy to accede to.  The thick curtains are stiff in your hand, almost resistant to being moved, and you tug them to side with difficulty before pinning them in place with loops of fabric.  Light shines through the window, creeping back into the room almost as if its long absence has made it nervous to return.  On impulse you pull the window upwards an open, letting the fresh morning breeze into the room.  The last traces of mustiness in the air evaporate<br/>
<br/>
As you turn to Margaret again to excuse yourself you see that her chair is empty.  Shocked is the only way to describe how you feel as you watch her take slow but steady steps towards you, entirely unaided.  She moves with a surety of purpose that belies her frail little frame.<br/>
<br/>
It might just be a trick of the light, or maybe you were never able to see her properly in the dim half light that shrouded the room before, but her face seems to change as she gets closer to the window.  The years seem to drop away, and though her basic features never seem to change, she looks more like she is sixty that someone far past their hundredth birthday.<br/>
<br/>
She looks up at you, for she is still a tiny little thing and the top of her head barely reaches your chest.  Her lively eyes lock with yours for a moment.  “Shall we look at the garden for a while,” she says quietly but firmly.<br/>
<br/>
You nod, your mouth agape and turn and face the window.  Beyond it, Margaret’s back garden is a riot of colour in the early morning light.  In the distance, the sun is rising hazily in the sky.  “I have one more thing to ask of you Will,” she says.  “Fetch Kali for me.”<br/>
<div align="center"><br/>
*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Kali is in the kitchen, along with Fyodor and Rick.  Though you can barely contain your enthusiasm about what you’ve realised, you dutifully tell Kali that Margaret wants to speak to her.  She leaves quickly.<br/>
<br/>
You settle in at the table and start gabbling about your revelation, talking hurriedly and excitedly.  Several times Fyodor has to ask you to slow down and repeat yourself, but as your explanation starts to come out, he rapidly becomes as enthusiastic as you.<br/>
<br/>
Then Kali returns.<br/>
<br/>
She stands in the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “It’s Margaret,” she says, daubing at her eyes with a handkerchief, vainly trying to stop the flow.  “She’s gone…”<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122111112121121111211
author_id: imaj
title: The Wake: Rick's Tale
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stare at the bedroom ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
You’ve been lying here for over an hour.  Kali hasn’t said anything to you since she came back to the kitchen.  Both she and Fyodor have been busy with…  busy arranging the funeral you guess.  You can’t help but shake the feeling that your last session with Margaret was somehow responsible for her death.  Worse, you think that Kali thinks the same.<br/>
<br/>
So you sigh and feel miserable.  There’s nothing that you can do, except lie here while everyone else does important things.<br/>
<br/>
Rick’s face appears above you.  “Feeling sorry for yourself squirt?  Playing nursemaid is more Kali’s speed.”<br/>
<br/>
You prop yourself up on your elbows.  “I don’t think she wants to talk to me,” you whine.  “I mean, it’s my fault isn’t it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” replies Rick  “Why’d you think that?”<br/>
<br/>
“I was the last one to talk to her,” you explain, your voice creeping upward.  “The weird thing is, she looked better than anytime I’d seen her since I got here.”<br/>
<br/>
“First off squirt, Kali was the last one to speak to Margaret,” counters Rick.  “Second, you still got a lot to learn about things.”<br/>
<br/>
“Meaning,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“Meaning if Margaret died it’s because Margaret decided it was time for her to die.”  You stare at Rick blankly.  “Christ squirt, I’m no good at explaining all this,” he adds, rubbing at his chin and then licking his dry looking lips.  “Look, Lurgas…  They have a way of hanging on until they’re good and ready.”<br/>
<br/>
“So she talked to me and wanted to die,” you say bitterly.  “I get it.”<br/>
<br/>
“You ain’t making this any easier,” sighs Rick.  “Look, you were telling Fyodor how Margaret had gotten your head sorted out.  And Kali was here to get <i>her </i>head sorted out.  Maybe she got you both fixed and felt that the time was right.  I don’t know.”  He throws up his hands.  “I only came up here to tell to you to come back downstairs,” he says angrily. “We’re…  I guess it’s a wake...”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“The function of wake,” lectures Kali, her cheeks stained by tears.  “Was to watch or guard over the body of the deceased in the period between death and burial.”  It takes you a minute to realise that she isn’t saying this for your benefit.  Instead she is talking, lecturing simply for the comfort of doing something familiar.  “For members of the <i>Stellae Errantes</i>, this was a doubly vital ritual because there was always the fear of… the fear of the departed’s enemies striking at them before their spirit made its… its way to its reward…”  Kali tails off as Fyodor hands her a glass tumbler and sits beside her.  He places one giant arm round Kali’s shoulder and hugs her gently.  She stifles a sob.<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor works his way round the parlour, handing both you and Rick glasses as well.  You grasp it nervously in both hands, unsure exactly what to do in the circumstances.  Fyodor returns from the cabinet by the wall moments later with an expensive bottle of scotch.  He pours Kali a generous measure and she thanks him with the faintest of smiles.  Then it’s your turn, he pours a smaller amount into your tumbler.  The amber liquid smells strong and peaty.  Finally he turns to Rick.<br/>
<br/>
“Water for me please,” says Rick quietly.  You glance at him out of the corner of your eyes.  He licks his lips again.  “Yes, I’m sure.  Water.”<br/>
<br/>
“This is unlike you my friend,” says Fyodor solemnly.  He fetches a jug of water from the drinks cabinet and pours some into Rick’s glass, before finally pouring himself another generous measure of the whisky.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well, there’s a story in there says Rick.  “I guess in the circumstances it’s appropriate that I tell you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Rick woke with a scream.  The dreams were getting worse and worse.<br/>
<br/>
They started out…  Harmless wasn’t the word, and tolerable wasn’t the word either unless you were one sick fuck, but the dreams had started out bearable.  The first one, he’d watched some broad getting cut up in an alley somewhere.  She’d way too few clothes on, and it had been dark, so Rick  had figured she was a hooker.  One of the night people that came and went with barely a comment in the city.<br/>
<br/>
Then the dream had repeated.  From different angles, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.  He’d seen then that it wasn’t a hooker getting cut, it was a hooker getting cut <i>ritually</i>.  The job was getting to him, Rick had thought.  It got to everyone, sooner or later. Rick just assumed the little extra work on the side for the <i>Stellae </i>meant it was getting to him faster.<br/>
<br/>
The dreams still hadn’t stopped.  When the dream had shown Rick the incident from the <i>attacker’s </i>perspective he had gotten a little spooked.  When he’d found out they’d fished out a dead body from the East River that morning cut just the way the broad in his dream had been, he got <i>real </i>spooked.<br/>
<br/>
He’d done he sensible thing and called Sam.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s good Rick,” Sam had said in that folksy twang of his.  “Ah reckon it jes’ means your connection to Eldibria is getting strongah.”  Sam was Rick’s mentor.  He’d been a Bureau man for a while and was retired now, but in Rick’s estimation Sam was a damn fine cop.  There weren’t many higher accolades in Rick’s estimation, so when Sam talked Rick listened.  “It weren’t you that did it son?  Didn’t think so.  You see, Eldibria knows the depths and Eldibria know secrets.  Sometime he’s gonna share some of them secrets with you son.”<br/>
<br/>
But the dreams hadn’t gotten better, the opposite in fact.  Now he dreamed about the hooker’s lifeless body being dragged to the river and dumped unceremoniously.  That wasn’t the worst of it, Rick was being dragged in with her.<br/>
<br/>
Rick couldn’t swim, not that it mattered in the dream.  The current would drag him down.  Down past the banks, down past the abandoned shopping carts and other detritus that people piled into the river.  Down and down, impossibly deep for it felt like he travelled for miles.  In Rick’s dream he flailed and floundered, his lungs filled with water as he had passed things that hadn’t swam in the oceans for aeons.<br/>
<br/>
At the far bottom it had found him, the monster of his dreams.  Crushing tentacles and a crusted shell, a maw like beak filled with row upon row of needle like teeth.  The creature had wrapped a tentacle around Rick, but it hadn’t crushed him, or delivered it to that snapping jaw.  It had just held Rick gently until he woke up.<br/>
<br/>
By that point the dreams were affecting his work.  He was tired and irritable, his face haggard and he was going without shaving.  His buddies had noticed it.  Rick persevered though, because Sam had told him to and because the job was important to him.  When he first saw one of the creature’s tentacles in his waking life, drifting out from a side alley, he’d chased off after it, leaving his partner trailing behind him.  The tentacle had led him to a second hooker’s body, cut the same way as the first.<br/>
<br/>
“There’s someone that can help you,” Sam had said when Rick had phoned him that night.  “Name of Margaret Dillon.  Jes’ get yourself a couple of weeks leave and get yourself to England.”<br/>
<br/>
And now Rick was here, in Oxford, England.  He hated every minute of it.  The Dillon woman just sat and stared at him as he talked.  He would have to explain his latest dream to her.<br/>
<br/>
“It was my old man,” Rick had told her.  “He came in stinking drunk, like he used to when I was a little older.  I thought he was going to beat on my mom, but his eyes started to bulge, his hair fell out and his skin turned scaly.  Like he was some sort of sea monster.”  Rick had sighed when Margaret had said nothing as usual.  “You know, I used to respect him.  The old man, I mean.  He was a beat cop and when I was just a little squirt I wanted nothing more than to be just like him – catching bad guys, protecting the innocent.  The job got to him.  I think he started drinking just to dull the pain.  Later on it became habit to him.  I swore I’d never end up like that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Drinking helped him forget,” Margaret had asked at that point.  “Should he have stopped?”<br/>
<br/>
“Sure,” Rick had answered.  “Once he knew how to forget without it.”  Rick had hesitated then, he’d felt as if something was crystallising around him.  “Is that it.” He’d asked.  “I need a crutch, just to get used to what Eldibria wants to show me?”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“And that’s it,” says Rick, draining the last of his water.  “Margaret helped me cope with Eldibria.  The drink dulls my senses and I see with my subconscious rather than my own eyes.  I’ve always felt a little guilty that I haven’t been able to put that crutch aside, but I guess I owed it to Margaret tonight.”  He makes a gesture with his glass and Fyodor brings the jug of water back over.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111221111121211211112111
author_id: imaj
title: The Wake: Fyodor's Tale
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“I too have a story about Margaret I’d like to share,” says Fyodor with a rueful smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Is it a war story,” groans Rick.<br/>
<br/>
“It might have happened during the war,” replies Fyodor a shade defensively.  “Besides, Margaret was inspirational during the war.  Very important.  It happened near the end of the war.  Everyone knew that the Germans were going to lose by this point, and that included both the <i>Stellae </i>and those warlocks hiding under the German’s skirts.  The warlocks knew we would be cleaning house once the war was over and they were getting desperate.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
I hefted one of the rocks from the riverbank into the river, just to see how far it would go.  It sank in the middle with a satisfying plopping sound.  Quite some distance!  My strength was continuing to increase all the time.  Besides, all this skulking around and waiting was boring.  I was starting to wonder how long this was going to take.<br/>
<br/>
“Could your apprentice be any louder Alexandre,” came a hissing voice from nearby.  <br/>
<br/>
I turned round to see a very small woman emerge from one of the bushes, I guessed she maybe came to the top of my stomach in height.  And so old looking, in her fifties at least, I thought.  “Pfft, let them find us,” I replied, not bothering to lower my voice.  “Better than all this hiding.<br/>
<br/>
“Margaret has a point Fyodor,” my mentor said quietly, emerging from his hiding place.  My mentor was as tall as I was, but gaunt looking.  Cadaverous even.<br/>
<br/>
“Who else is coming,” asked Margaret.<br/>
<br/>
“Just us,” replied Alexandre ruefully.  “The Germans might be retreating on all fronts, but all the warlocks that have been hiding in their territory are getting bold.  Or desperate.  I’ve had to detail members to clear up seven kinds of hell between here and Paris,” he explained.  “So just us.”<br/>
<br/>
“Diversions,” snapped Margaret.  “This is where the <i>Ordo Mortis</i> has moved to and they have something very, very big planned.  Didn’t you read my message?”<br/>
<br/>
Alexandre had told me a little about the <i>Ordo Mortis</i>.  Despite the Latin name they were only a few years old.  It would be wrong to describe them as a kind of anti-<i>Stellae</i>.  They were a simply group of Necromancers that had banded together for mutual protection, hiding out in Germany to escape our reach.  War was good for Necromancy.  There was always a plentiful supply of bodies.<br/>
<br/>
“I did,” replied Alexandre evenly.  “And if it was from anyone other than you I might have doubted them.  I have a contingency plan in place.  We have two days to recover whatever they are using to power this ritual otherwise it goes active.”<br/>
<br/>
“A shard of the Nothung,” replied Margaret.  “Which tells me that someone high up in the German government is desperate too. Desperate enough to work directly with the <i>Ordo </i>rather than keep them at arms length.”<br/>
<br/>
“Tell me what you’ve found out Margaret,” asked Alexandre.<br/>
<br/>
“No more than a dozen ritual sites, with the shard at the most important,” explained Margaret briskly.  “I don’t know which one that is yet, but Julius Keyserling is here.  Find him and you find the shard.”  The name was familiar to me too.  The <i>Ordo</i>’s leader: An American traitor of some kind, although Alexandre knew no more than that.<br/>
<br/>
“And the ritual itself?”<br/>
<br/>
“Three days from now,” explained Margaret.  “The city’s population is swelled by refugees.  Many will die if the <i>Ordo </i>is completes it.  Then they will come back as walking dead.  Unstoppable soldiers that can’t be killed because they are already dead.  Whatever your contingency is, it will need to be very powerful Alexandre.”<br/>
<br/>
Alexandre looked at the city, less than a mile downriver from us.  It was almost entirely untouched by the war.  “It is,” he stated flatly<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">-----</div><br/>
<br/>
We cleared our third site by the evening of the next day – a cellar underneath an abandoned house.  In truth they were hardly challenging.  It was all hangers on and followers.  No real necromancers worthy of the name.  It was only in the third site that I got a real fight!  A single unliving servitor with the cultist had required the efforts of all three of us combined to bring it down.  I could see why the prospect of an army of them worried Margaret!<br/>
<br/>
Margaret, however, was worried.  “We should be seeing more full members,” she said, kneeled beside the dead body of an <i>Ordo </i>lay brother.  They had defended with such ferocity there had been no chance to capture them.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m inclined to agree,” replied my mentor.  <br/>
<br/>
“We should be near the centre,” explained Margaret.  The ritual sites were supposed to be chained together, so each one led us to the next.  Each step closer to the centre and the heart of the <i>Ordo</i>’s cult.  “Not cutting our way through their chaff.  Give me a minute and I’ll work out the location of the next site.”<br/>
<br/>
I stooped to examine one of the bodies.  There was a little leather bound notebook protruding from his shirt pocket.  Flipping through it, it looked to be in English.  Not a language I understood back then.  The only language Alexandre, Margaret and I shared was French.<br/>
<br/>
“What’s this,” I asked, handing the notebook to Alexandre.<br/>
<br/>
“Instructions for the cultist here, ‘destroy on reading’ it says,” he replied, looking through it.  His face suddenly fell.  “No!  ‘Location number twenty five’,” he translated.  “Number twenty five – at least twice as many as your estimate Margaret, maybe three times as many”<br/>
<br/>
“Give that here,” she snapped, looking at the book.  “We can still manage this before your contingency,” she said after a minute.  “We just need to move fast.”<br/>
<br/>
Whatever Alexandre’s response was going to be, I never heard it.  In the distance a familiar wail started up.  One that I had dreaded since the first day I heard it in the early days of the war.<br/>
<br/>
“Air raids,” ask Margaret, her face quizzical.  “The allies never bomb here.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh no,” moaned Alexandre, his legs giving way beneath him.  “No, no, no…  They’re here a day early.  We have to take shelter.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">-----</div><br/>
<br/>
“I think it’s safe to emerge now,” Alexandre said.  It had been over a day since we had taken shelter in the cellar.  For me that time has been spent making constant adjustments to the sigils that protected our little hideout.  I was very tired.  Exhausted.  “Fyodor,” added Alexandre, nodding at me.  I took this to mean he wanted the sigils broken.<br/>
<br/>
I obliged him.  There was a faint his of steam and a little debris fell from the roof as I did so.  Then it took us maybe another hour to dig through the ruins.  Just my luck that I was the only one with Kenandandra’s strength!<br/>
<br/>
It was some time in the middle of the afternoon when we reached the surface.  The city was gone.  It resembled the surface of the moon.  Only a few broken shells of buildings remained.  There were very few signs of life.  In the distance I could make out a shell shocked survivor wandering the ruins in bewilderment.  There was a prisoner of war work gang that seemed to be clearing bodies from the ruins.<br/>
<br/>
I am ashamed to admit it now, but I felt exalted at the destruction.  It was only a couple of years since I’d seen the same devastation wrought on my own motherland.  Why shouldn’t the Germans suffer the same?  The smile disappeared from my face when I saw Margaret.<br/>
<br/>
Her face was grave, much more so than it had been in the last few days.  “There will be a trial for this Alexandre,” she said, with a quiet, yet steely fury in her voice.<br/>
<br/>
“I know,” replied Alexandre, his voice hollow.  “I want you to lead the case against me Margaret.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Wait a minute,” interrupts Kali.  “Are you talking about Dresden?  Are you saying that the <i>Stellae </i>was responsible for the bombing of Dresden during the second word war.”  The shock on Kali’s face is obvious, even though you don’t know what she and Fyodor are talking about.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes and no,” replies Fyodor sadly.  “The Allies intended to bomb somewhere into oblivion anyway, all Alexandre did was use his contacts to nudge their target a little.  They did not require much nudging.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thousands of people died,” says Kali quietly<br/>
<br/>
“Thousands more if the ritual was completed,” sighs Fyodor.  “But you are right Kali.  Margaret got her trial.”<br/>
<br/>
“But Alexandre was still leader when I was an acolyte,” says Kali slowly, confusion written across her face.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes.  He was acquitted.  ‘Exceptional circumstances’, they said, because of the war and the threat posed.  Then everything about the business, the records and the shard of the Nothung – we pulled it from the ruins of the Frauenkirche the following morning – was locked away in the archives.”  Fyodor’s mouth twitches.  “I always thought Alexandre had secretly hoped he would be convicted.  He carried the guilt with him for the rest of his life the way only a Lurga can.”<br/>
<br/>
There is a long period of silence.  Everyone seems to have faraway looks in their eyes as they reflect on Fyodor’s tale.<br/>
<br/>
“I think that’s why he chose Charles as his successor,” says Fyodor with a sigh.  “He wanted someone untouched by the horrors of the war.  The way I felt when I saw the city that morning…”  Fyodor shudders.  “I went to see Margaret in Brighton after the war.  To pay penitence for my part in it all.  She had grown distant… More severe.”<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112211111212112111121111
author_id: imaj
title: The Wake: Kali's Tale
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“What about you Kali,” asks Rick.  “You’ve gotta have some stories about Margaret.”<br/>
<br/>
“A few,” replies Kali with the ghost of a smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Well go on then,” says Fyodor encouragingly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Kali skipped across the playground, swinging her satchel behind her.  The school day was over and the afternoon was still full of possibility.  She avoided the bigger boys and girls as she danced her way to the school gate.<br/>
<br/>
“Haud oan Kali,” called Morag from behind her.  Kali’s best friend was just exiting the big red stone building, dragging her own bag long the ground in her wake.  The little red haired girl ran after Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“Come oan,” said Kali, rolling her eyes.  She took her satchel and started spinning round in a circle.<br/>
<br/>
Morag bumped into Kali and the two girls stumbled around for a few seconds before bursting into a fit of giggles.  “Wha’ we goin’ to do,” asked Morag breathlessly.<br/>
<br/>
Kali took a few paces away from her friend and turned round.  “Hows about…  Naw,” she said, biting on her lip.<br/>
<br/>
“Wha’  Wha?,” shouted Morag.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh I know,” grinned Kali,  “Doon the street!”<br/>
<br/>
“Doon the street,” echoed Morag  “Oh lets get some sweeties.”<br/>
<br/>
“How much money do yeh have,” asked Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“I dinnae know,” replied Morag, sticking out her tongue.  “How much money do <i>yeh </i>have?”<br/>
<br/>
The girls started giggling again.  They thrust their hands into their pockets and school bags, searching for any money they could use.  After a few minutes they sat on the wall at the edge of the playground and counted out their tally.<br/>
<br/>
“Is it enough,” asked Kali, looking at the small pile of copper coins.  Morag was more knowledgeable than her in the fields of both maths and confectionary.<br/>
<br/>
“Aye,” said Morag with a sticky looking grin.  “Mehbeh only wan bag though.”<br/>
<br/>
“Wan bags better than none,” said Kali nudging her friend.  “Come oan, lets go.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">-----</div><br/>
<br/>
Kali could only look around with a boggle eyed stare as walked into Conti’s after Morag.  The shop was filled with shelf after shelf of glass jars and each glass jar has a kind of sweet inside it.  Each looked more mouth watering than the last.  A tall counter, taller than both Morag and Kali stood between them and the sugary bounty.<br/>
<br/>
The shopkeeper was a more imposing barrier.<br/>
<br/>
Tall, although to Kali all grown ups were tall, with swarthy skin and oily black hair, he gave he girls an unhappy look.  Although he relied on children like Morag and Kali to keep himself in business, he knew that they were about to make his life difficult.  He wiped his hands on his apron and forced a smile.<br/>
<br/>
Morag dumped their collection of cash onto the counter.  “Gies a bag of sweeties mister,” she said with a toothy grin.<br/>
<br/>
The shopkeeper took the coins and counted them carefully.  “I can give you a little for that,” in an odd sounding accent.  Mind you, Kali’s Dad sounded different from everyone else when he was talking too.  “What do you want?”<br/>
<br/>
Kali looked round the shop again in wonder.  They all looked so tasty.  “I want these ones,” said Morag, pointing a glass jar full of bright green spheres.  A hand written label on the jar proclaimed them to be ‘soor plooms’.<br/>
<br/>
“Aw,” moaned Kali.  “I wanted the kola kubes,” she said, pointing at a jar full of misshapen red cubes.<br/>
<br/>
The two girls turned to face the shopkeeper.  “Can you gie us both,” they said in unison.<br/>
<br/>
The shopkeeper sighed.  For a moment it looked like he was about to say no.  Instead he got both jars down from the shelves.  He took each jar in turn, pouring a little from one, then the next into his set of scales.  Then he added a little more from the first jar, just to get it to the right weight.  Satisfied, he placed the jars back on the shelves and poured the contents of the scales into a small paper bag.  “There you go girls,” he said as he handed the bag to Morag.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks Mister,” she replied.<br/>
<br/>
The girls found a bench outside the shop to examine their purchase.  Kali leaned in and grabbed one of the green spheres.  She popped into her mouth and started sucking on it.  “I thought you wanted the red wans,” moaned Morag.<br/>
<br/>
“Doesn’t mean I cannae have those green wans too,” replied Kali smugly.  Morag grabbed one of the misshapen red cubes and put it in her mouth ostentatiously.<br/>
<br/>
“You said you wanted the green wans,” complained Kali.  Morag giggled and soon the pair were laughing away.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">-----</div><br/>
<br/>
“That’s me hame maw,” called Kali as she pushed into the small flat where she lived with her parents.  Morag followed and closed the door behind her.<br/>
<br/>
“In here darling,” called her mother from further inside.  The girls followed the sound of Kali’s mother to the living room.<br/>
<br/>
“Hiya missus Valentine,” said Morag, waving a sticky hand as they entered.<br/>
<br/>
“Hiya maw,” said Kali.  “Oh, hullo missus.”  Kali’s mother was talking to another woman.  She was old looking and short, although she was still taller than Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“This is Missus Dillon,” explained Kali’s mother.  She’s come up from England to speak to you Kali”<br/>
<br/>
“Is she going to speak to Morag too,” asked Kali anxiously.<br/>
<br/>
“Naw, I’m sorry darling,” replied her mother.  “Morag is going to have to go hame.  Would you like to come for your tea tomorrow though Morag?”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw that’d be pure amazing missus Valentine,” replied the little red haired girl.  “Bye Kali,” added Morag before running back out the door.<br/>
<br/>
“Sit down for me Kali,” said Mrs Dillon, gesturing at the small dining table by one side of the room.<br/>
<br/>
“Wha’d yeh want to talk to me about,” asked Kali as she sat down.  Kali let her legs swing loosely under the table.  The old woman had a golden disc in her hand and she was moving it over Kali, holding a short distance above her.  “Wha’s that,” said Kali, moving her head to follow Mrs Dillon’s hand. <br/>
<br/>
“Just a test Kali,” replied the old woman.  She put the disk in the folds of her clothes and sat opposite Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“Do I pass,” asked Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“We’ll see in a little bit,” replied Mrs Dillon.  “I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Um… ok,” replied Kali.<br/>
<br/>
“Have you heard of horoscopes Kali,” asked Mrs Dillon.  Kali nodded as Mrs Dillon pulled out a notebook.  “Well, this is a special one that’s going to tell us what you are good at.  First, lets start with your when your birthday is.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“That’s how I met Margaret and joined the <i>Stellae</i>.“  Kali finishes her tale and takes a sip from her glass, shuddering a little as she swallows.  You realise that Fyodor and Rick are looking at you expectantly.  It’s your turn.<br/>
<br/>
“I… ah… didn’t know her very well,” you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
“Long enough to have a story to tell though, huh,” says Fyodor with a lopsided grin.  He’s on to maybe his third or fourth glass by now.  “It’s traditional!  Where would we be without traditions?”<br/>
<br/>
“He’s got you squirt,” adds Rick.  “You have to say something.”  Fyodor nods, a gleam in his eye.<br/>
<br/>
“Um… ok…” you begin, not exactly sure what to say.  “You all know what’s happened over the last week and half, so I’m not going to repeat it, but…”  You pause for a second to marshal your thoughts.  “Well, I didn’t know Margaret very long, and I don’t think I realised this until today…  Margaret helped me to be a better <i>Stellae</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
“Amen to that squirt,” says Rick, lifting his glass of water a fraction and tilting it.  He downs it in one go.<br/>
<br/>
“She helped all of us become better <i>Stellae</i>,” murmurs Kali quietly.<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor suddenly looks very sober.  “Hear, hear,” he says very quietly.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Funeral
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your suit is uncomfortable.<br/>
<br/>
You flex your shoulders, trying to shift them into a position where you don’t need to stoop slightly for it to fit properly.  The fabric itches and it rides up in places you never suspected it could.  It’s a puzzle:  Every other item of clothing Fyodor has given you has fitted perfectly and exactly.  Yet the suit is somehow just off.  Maybe all suits are uncomfortable, you think, or maybe all funerals are uncomfortable.<br/>
<br/>
It’s been a week since Margaret passed away.  Kali and Fyodor have been busy arranging the funeral and other matters, so what little training you have done has been with Rick.  No one is going anywhere until the after the funeral and a part of you has wanted it over and done with so you can move onto the next stag of your training.<br/>
<br/>
Yet now that it’s almost here, you feel apprehensive.<br/>
<br/>
“Pshaw Will,” says Kali, fussing at your collar.  “Where did you learn to tie a tie?”<br/>
<br/>
 “Hmm,” you mutter. Your attention is focussed on the pitter-pattering rain on your bedroom window rather than her.  “Oh… um… I don’t usually wear one.”  You stand patiently while Kali fixes your tie.  “Are there going to be a lot of people there,” you ask nervously.<br/>
<br/>
Kali looks thoughtful.  “Just <i>Stellae</i>,” she says finishing your tie.  “Those that can travel here.  Charles of course.  Margaret outlived her family.”<br/>
<br/>
“Frank and Joe,” you ask hopefully.<br/>
<br/>
“In Saratoga Falls looking for Professor Blackwell,” replies Kali.  “Come on, we had better go.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The sun has come back out by the time you return to Margaret’s house after the funeral.  You watch as small group of mourners talk, and laugh and sometimes cry, in the garden.  The air has that after the rain feel to it that makes it seem refreshing and the garden’s colour seems only to be enhanced by the wetness.<br/>
<br/>
Yet you feel terribly alone.<br/>
<br/>
Kali is about the closest thing Margaret had to family, so she is drifting about the garden, talking to the mourners and thanking each for coming.  Though it’s clear she has been crying earlier, she’s smiling now as she makes her way from one guest to the next.  She’s too busy to talk to you right now.<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor is talking to one of the guests too, but unlike Kali he isn’t moving between them.  The mourner talking to Fyodor is another old man, with silvery hair and a ruddy complexion.  He’s small, and next to Fyodor he’s tiny.  They converse in low murmurs that are impossible to understand.  You wonder for a second who he must be that he can hold Fyodor’s attention rapt for so long.<br/>
<br/>
As for Rick, well he’s nowhere to be seen.  The last time you saw him was this morning, just before you left for the funeral.  He muttered something about “not doing funerals” before stalking out the door without so much as a good bye.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and take a slug of your drink.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey brother,” says one of the mourners walking over to you.  Like you, he’s in an ill-fitting black suit and tie, somehow making it scruffy looking.  The weird thing is, he pulls the look off well.  “Hal,” he adds, shoving his hand out at you.  He realises he’s used the wrong hand and takes a second to pass his beer bottle about before trying again.  “Hal Swann.”  You shake his hand silently.  “You must be Will Prescott.”<br/>
<br/>
“How do you know who I am,” you ask, a little surprised.<br/>
<br/>
“What, you think the people don’t talk to each other,” he grins maniacally.  “Fyodor told me about you.  Besides, we’re a small movement, what you see here is about half of us.  You’re the only person I didn’t recognise on sight.”<br/>
<br/>
“You know everyone here,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“Sure,” he replies.  He points at a statuesque blond, fully six foot in height and built like she should be wearing a horned helmet and taking dead warriors to their afterlife.  “Hilda Gunnarson, Europe’s answer to Miko Toyotomi.  Malacandra and…”<br/>
<br/>
“Perelandra,” you interrupt.  “Her face has the same ageless look that Kali’s does.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ah, got you,” replies Hal.  “Yeah, Perelandra.  The kid hanging onto her is her ward Malaika Mbulu.”  He shifts his attention to two elderly men standing stiffly next to each other.  One tall, with a mop of grey hair and oversized glasses.  The other is shorter, with a middle eastern complexion and a bushy black beard streaked with white.  “That pair of cantankerous bastards is Father Ed and Imam el-Bayoumi,” he whispers to you.  “Lurgae, both of them.  They’ll be our confessors now that Margaret is gone.”<br/>
<br/>
Hal sighs wistfully as he turns his attention to the young woman Kali is talking to.  “The Brazilian bombshell is Maria Cardozo, as tempestuous as she is beautiful.”  He catches himself.  “I mean she’s a fine sister and vitally important to our movement.”  Hal blushes and you can’t help but snigger.  “Perelandra and Eldibria… uh… obviously.”<br/>
<br/>
“Now, over by Fyodor,” Hal continues.  “Is… oh bloody hell…”  Fyodor and his companion are coming over to you now.  They grin at you and Hal as they approach.<br/>
<br/>
“Hal,” says Fyodor, putting his arm round your new friend.  “Come with me my friend.”  You would swear that you could see Hal grimacing, crushed by Fyodor’s bear like hug.  Fyodor steers Hal effortlessly away leaving you alone with the other old man.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s good to finally get a chance to talk to <i>you </i>Will,” says the old man, stressing the word you as if it’s some private joke.<br/>
<br/>
You recognise the voice though.  “Charles,” you murmur before stopping yourself.  “I mean, uh… sir.”<br/>
<br/>
“Relax son,” replies the leader of the <i>Stellae Errantes</i> with an easy smile.  “You know, I think this is both the first and third time we’ve talked.”  He’s right, in a way.  The first time you met was in your dreams, where you were the Moon and he was the King of Planets.  The second time you talked to him, you were stuck as Kali.  This is the first time you’ve talked to Charles as yourself.  “Fyodor was telling me how much you impressed him during the business with the rowing team cultists.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir,” you say hesitantly.<br/>
<br/>
“What’d you think son,” he asks.  “Do you think you and Rick and Fyodor made a good team out there?”<br/>
<br/>
“Well sir,” you begin.  Why did he ask the question?  “Rick and Fyodor did very well, but I made a couple of stupid mistakes along the way.  I let myself get drugged and abducted in the first place…”<br/>
<br/>
“Which you managed to escape from,” interrupts Charles.<br/>
<br/>
“I did sir, but I also nearly got myself caught again along the way because I wasn’t being careful enough.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re being too hard on yourself Will son,” replies Charles.  “No one expects you to be a perfect field agent already.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir,” you say again.  “But…  Well the really big mistake was not catching the cult leader with knockout sigil.  If I’d managed that, Rick wouldn’t have had to kill him.”<br/>
<br/>
He looks at you appraisingly.  “Kali tells me she still hasn’t got the problem of your second <i>ousiarch </i>licked yet.”  You nod in the affirmative.  “You should come out to Olympia sometime and we’ll see if we can’t get it tied down.”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh… thank you.  You mean, like now?”<br/>
<br/>
He laughs warmly.  “Once Kali thinks you’re ready,” he answers.  “I hear Rick has one last test for you, but that’s for another day.  You should meet some of the others today.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Hal,” you say quietly, giving him a gentle shake by the arm.  There’s no response.  It looks like he’s fallen asleep at the kitchen table.  An empty bottle topples from his hand and he starts snoring loudly.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should be getting to your bed.  It’s late and everyone else has left already.  You are about to stand up when Rick walks into the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
“Squirt,” he says, giving you a nod of acknowledgement.<br/>
<br/>
“Rick,” you reply.  “Where did you get to?”<br/>
<br/>
“I told you, I don’t do funerals,” he answers.<br/>
<br/>
“I got to meet a lot of the <i>Stellae</i>,” you tell him enthusiastically.<br/>
<br/>
“What, like Rube Goldberg here,” he answers, searching through the cupboards.  He pulls out a bottle and glass tumbler before sitting opposite you.  “You’ll probably end up working with a lot of them anyway.”<br/>
<br/>
“Charles said something about working out my other <i>ousiarch </i>at Olympia,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
“Eh?” says Rick, pouring himself a drink.  “That makes sense I guess.  Did he say when?”<br/>
<br/>
“When Kali says I’m ready,” you answer.  “He also said you had a test for me.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick frowns unhappily.  “I was gonnna spring it on you tomorrow, but…  ah hell…  Yeah,  I want you to get back to America by yourself.”<br/>
<br/>
“What,” you stutter.  “You mean…”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, get on the plane and through border control without anyone noticing.  No stealing to do it either.”  It sounds like a tough task, but you think you’re up to it now.  “You know what squirt, I’ll throw in something extra to make it more interesting:  Drop by Saratoga Falls on the way back and pick up the kid and the cadet’s imago without them knowing.  I’ll forget about the money you owe me.”<br/>
<br/>
“You mean Frank and Joe,” you ask.  Rick nods.  “I told you, I’m not taking imago that I don’t need anymore,” you explain primly.<br/>
<br/>
Rick shrugs.  “I’d say you need them.  Kid’s got a good bedroom face and the cadet is much more of a brawler than Miko.  You’d have got that Warlock if you’d used the cadet’s face rather than hers.  Remember how you filled in for Kali?  You might need to do that for the boys some day too.”</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Coming To America
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Rick was pleased when the first thing you did after taking on his challenge was to ask him for ideas.  You’d realised during your time in Oxford that the <i>Stellae </i>work best when working together, and since that was a lesson Rick wanted to reinforce he was happy to help you.  He talked about a lot of strategies, but the one piece advice that stuck in your mind was this:  “Take it slow squirt, it ain’t a race.”<br/>
<br/>
So you spent several days, including one as custodian and one at a check-in desk, planning it out. The extended knock out sigil you developed kept the real people out cold for the day while you filled in for them.  You hope that they will put down their sudden amnesia to the empty bottles of cheap liquor you left next to their beds.  They’d never talk to one and other anyway, so you’ve probably gotten away with it.<br/>
<br/>
The scouting for information paid off.  You’ve got a good idea exactly how to sneak past the insane amount of security the airport has installed, and an even better plan for being on the plane:  Walk on board with the rest of the passengers.<br/>
<br/>
You’ve found out that not all planes fly full.  Sometimes the people who booked a flight will not show for it.  Sometimes a flight is just to move a plane to where it needs to be the following day.  The day spent as a check in desk attendant helped you identify the perfect flight to sneak onto.  One that’s bound to only be half full.<br/>
<br/>
The flight attendants will do a head check before take off, just to make sure everyone that checked in got on board – that paranoid security again.  That’s easy to get around though, as all you need to do is keep them wrapped up in your cloak and they will not include you in the count.  To make it easier, you’ve chosen to fly to the east coast this time, to New York – reducing the length of time you’ll have to keep the cloak going.  You can travel the rest of the way home by train and bus.<br/>
<br/>
You check yourself in the restroom mirror one last time before launching your plan into action.  Hélène’s beautiful face smiles back at you.  <i>Make sure the details count for you</i>.  A woman as pretty as Hélène gets a few seconds extra if she’s spotted somewhere she shouldn’t be.  Maybe a lot longer than a few seconds depending on the guy that spots her.  Satisfied, you grab hold of the little hot pink suitcase that contains the handful of clothes you have from Oxford and trundle back out to the airport concourse.  It matches the colour of the crop top you are wearing, a little piece of detail that makes your disguise all the more convincing.<br/>
<br/>
You walk smartly along the concourse, pulling the case behind you.  It’s small enough that it can count as hand luggage.  No one bothers you, you look like you know where you’re going, but your eyes scan from side to side surreptitiously.  It’s too early in the morning for the airport to be busy yet, but a few people are wandering around.  A pair of armed, <i>very armed</i>, police officers patrol the area, guns held close to their chests.  They don’t bother you.  Why would they?<br/>
<br/>
There’s a bookshop opposite the door to the back area that you’ve identified as your route past security.  You linger round a table piled high with books, pretending to be interested in a trashy chick-lit paperback.  There’s a security guard by the door, but you wrap your cloak round him so he will not notice that you have one eye firmly fixed on him.<br/>
<br/>
It takes twenty minutes before your opportunity arrives – a custodian pushing a heavy cart laden with cleaning materials.  Ironically, it’s the one you replaced for a couple of days when you were planning this out.  You wrap your cloak round him as well before making your way out of the bookshop.  One last quick check round ensures that there’s no-one else close enough to watch you follow the custodian through the door.  It’s easy to slip round in front of his cart while he tries to manoeuvre it through the door.<br/>
<br/>
You lift up your suitcase and start carrying it by hand.  The noise it makes when dragged along the floor could attract the wrong sort of attention back here and you want to minimise the risk of being seen.  You chose this particular route because it was one of the shortest.  All you need to do is nip up a narrow staircase, turn down a short corridor and you’re almost back where you want to be.  That doesn’t stop you moving slowly and carefully, ever alert for someone approaching in case you have to blind their perception with your cloak.<br/>
<br/>
You’ll need to rely that there’s no one on the other side of the door that leads back into the waiting area on the far side of security.  It’s unlikely – who would be trying to sneak back <i>out </i>after all – but it’s a chance you have to take.  Luck is with you, and you are able to walk out of the back area unnoticed.  <br/>
<br/>
You put your suitcase back on the ground and stroll out into the waiting area is if you were just one of the other passengers here:  One that’s had their passports and boarding cards checked and has been scanned by security.  There’s a board showing the departures, so you check your flight.  It’s still a little while off so you find somewhere to have a coffee while you are waiting.<br/>
<br/>
A little part of you wishes you’d bought that trashy book so you’d have something to do.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You wait patiently at the back of the line while the flight attendants check the passports and boarding cards for the passengers.  They are already blinded to your presence by your cloak, but it’s not them you are worried about.  Sure, you could walk right past them now, but one of the passengers waiting in line might raise a fuss and that could break the hold your cloak has over the attendants.<br/>
<br/>
Back of the line it is then.  You’ll be the last person through the gate, but it reduces the risk of you being spotted.  You wait patiently as the queue slowly shrinks.  Finally only the people directly in front of you, a pair of businessmen in well cut suits, are left.  They show the attendants their boarding card and you follow them sharply through unnoticed.  The flight attendants seem more interested in talking about what they watched on the television last night than anything else.<br/>
<br/>
With a smile on your face you walk down the boarding ramp and onto the plane.  It’s mostly full, but there are a few empty seats to choose from.  You select an empty window seat near the back of the plane.  There’s already a wan looking man in the aisle seat, clutching tightly to the armrests.  He obviously has a fear of flying you think.  You realise he’ll be ideal – the attendants will be too busy with him to give much thought to the ‘empty’ seat beside him.  Hoisting the little pink case into the overhead locker, you dazzle the man with Hélène’s brightest smile.  For a moment the queasy look vanishes from his face and he is all too happy to let you past.<br/>
<br/>
The attendants return to the plane and start going through their pre-flight routine.  You wrap them in the folds of your cloak again, just be on the safe side.  They don’t notice you as the count up the passengers.  All you need to do now is hold the cloak in place round them for the next five or so hours.<br/>
<br/>
Just as well you spent the last week practising.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The last obstacle between you and home lies before you:  The Passport Control hall.  Half a dozen perspex booths filled with smartly uniformed border control staff.  You let the crowd disembarking from your flight drift towards them, forming queues at each booth.  You, however, move to the side of the hall, biding your time and wrapping each of the border control staff in your cloak when you feel that their attention isn’t on you.<br/>
<br/>
You need to play a waiting game here again.  Just like boarding the plane back in London, you could walk straight past the passport booths but the reaction of the other passengers would give you away.  As the queues diminish, you walk up to one of the booths and mime showing the guard there your non existent passport.  It’s for the benefit of anyone nearby watching, including anyone watching through the conspicuously obvious CCTV cameras dotted round the hall.<br/>
<br/>
With that pantomime played out, you walk out of the hall and onto the airport concourse.  You smile as you make your way to the bus terminal outside the airport, for you are sure Rick will be pleased at the way you have completed your task.  Within the hour, you are dozing fitfully on a greyhound bus taking you back towards Saratoga Falls, planning your next moves.<br/>
<br/>
Joe’s face is going to be the easiest to pick up, you think, and the way to Joe’s face lies through his pants.  The thought might have revolted you a few weeks ago, but your work on bedroom faces for Rick in Oxford means you now simply see it as a means to an end.  You remember the words at the end of Kali’s story about what happened in Seattle:  Hélène is exactly the kind of girl that Joe could fall for.  You could get a job as her somewhere you are likely to bump into Joe:  The Crystal Cave, the Flying Saucer or Munson’s all seem like good possibilities.  You’d just wait for him to show up and then charm your way into his bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
That might take a while though.  A riskier alternative is to infiltrate Eastman to get close to both Joe <i>and </i>Frank.  You could take the place of on of the students there easily, keeping the real one unconscious at home for a few days while you borrowed their face.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Backup Brother
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Can you clean up that table there Penny,” asks the other barista flatly.  That’s the name you’ve taken since returning to Saratoga falls.  It's what the two young women you share a cheap and poky apartment in the town centre know you as, and it’s what the rest of the staff at the Crystal Cave know you as.<br/>
<br/>
You consider briefly telling the other barista to clean it herself.  A glance in her direction shows that she’s cleaning the espresso machine.  Or, more likely given her character, she’s pretending to clean the espresso machine.  “Sure thing Leanne,” you say cheerfully.  It’s early evening and your shift is nearly over anyway.  You don’t want the bother of an argument with your lazy co-worker.<br/>
<br/>
You start mopping the table.  The Crystal Cave is quiet right now, so at least it's something to keep you busy. You've been here nearly a week, and still no sign of Frank or Joe, but Rick’s advice of being patient weighs in your mind.  There’s no rush.<br/>
<br/>
The door opens as you carry a tray full of used mugs back behind the counter.  Finally, after a long wait, it’s them.  Frank and Joe walk into the Crystal Cave and sit themselves at the table you just cleaned.  You set the tray of messy crockery down.  Leanne is still busy pretending to clean the machine, so you have a little time.  You check out your reflection in one of the other coffee machines:  Your hair, your makeup, you face, everything is perfect.  Grabbing your little notebook, you get ready to take the boys’ order.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What the fuck?</i><br/>
<br/>
Frank and Joe have been joined by someone else, a girl about your own age.  You watch with mounting horror as she slides into the seat next to Joe.  Joe wraps an arm round her.  They kiss briefly and Frank looks in the other direction while Joe and the mystery girl stare into each other’s eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You study this girl who has unknowingly put a spanner in the works of your plan, trying to work out what Joe sees in her.  It can’t be her looks, she seems average at best:  She’s tall and gangly, almost ungainly.  Her woollen jumper sits loosely on her, somehow leaving you with the impression of a little girl who’s still to grow into her clothes.  Straw blonde hair stretches down to the small of her back – Hélène’s instincts tell you she would benefit from the attentions of a stylist.  She moves as if she is unsure of herself but then you catch a flash of her eyes.  Warm brown eyes stare back at you through large, almost perfectly round glasses with a thick tortoiseshell rim.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you understand a little why Joe might get lost in those eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, sorry,” you say.  “I was dreaming.  I’ll be over in a second.”  The girls smiles nervously and you pick up a pen and walk over to their table.  “Hi, I’m Penny” you explain, pointing cheerfully at the little badge on your chest which also reads ‘Hi, I’m Penny’.  <br/>
<br/>
You are thinking furiously, trying to work out how to turn this one round.  Knock out the mystery girl and take her place?  Maybe later, it’s not something you should do in haste.  Joe mutters something and Frank scowls at him.  Ah!  Play on the sibling rivalry of course.<br/>
<br/>
“So what can I get you guys,” you ask smiling at each in turn.  You save the biggest smile for Frank and dip a little as you smile at him, giving him a quick flash of your cleavage.  Frank’s neck flushes a deep red, but the blush doesn’t quite reach his face.  You take their orders – a black coffee for Frank, a white coffee for the girl and Joe orders some bizarre confection of coffee, chocolate and caramel that’s going to be a pain to make.  He also orders a slice of pie, earning himself a nudge from the girl and another scowl from Frank.<br/>
<br/>
You retreat behind the counter and start making their orders.  Once the coffee machine is on, you sidle over to Leanne.  “Don’t you think that guy is cute,” you whisper to her, looking at Frank and Joe’s table.  Your co-worker follows your gaze.  “The one with the dark hair I mean,” you add.  Joe is looking at the pair of you right now, but that is entirely the point.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, whatever,” replies your apathetic co-worker.  Not that you care what she thinks, right now it’s all about playing the part.  Joe turns back round laughing.  You can see Frank grimace.  You get back to preparing the order, sneaking a peek at Frank every so often – and making sure Joe spots you doing so.<br/>
<br/>
Once everything is ready you fit it all on a tray and carry it over to the boys’ table.  You dump the pie in front of Joe haphazardly, earning yourself a small smile from Frank.  When it comes to handing Frank his coffee, you let your hand linger a little as you place it in front of him.  His hand brushes yours and you lock eyes with him.  You hold his gaze for a brief second before looking away shyly.<br/>
<br/>
“Excuse me,” you say, picking up the tray and walking away.  A little part of you is surprised that you know how well to play this part.  From what you remember of reading Hélène’s story, behaving like this almost comes naturally to her.  You must have picked up a little more of her than you thought.<br/>
<br/>
“Penny,” calls Joe behind you.<br/>
<br/>
You turn back round and hold the tray demurely in front of you.  “Is everything ok,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“I thought you might like to join us,” says Joe with a smile.  Frank scowls at him.<br/>
<br/>
You let a little flash of excitement play across your face before looking downcast.  “I’d like to,” you say, looking at your feet.  “But I’m not really allowed to while I’m working.”  You look up and smile faintly.<br/>
<br/>
Joe looks round the Crystal Cave.  It’s empty now, no one except Joe, Frank, the mystery girl and your co-worker Leanne.  “Hey,” he shouts to Leanne.  “Penny says she’s not feeling well and is going home.”<br/>
<br/>
“Whatever,” comes Leanne’s uncaring voice from behind the counter.  You never thought you’d be grateful for her complete disinterest in everything.<br/>
<br/>
“There,” says Joe.  “Now you aren’t working, so come sit with us.<br/>
<br/>
You let your smile widen as you place the tray back on the counter.  Frank shifts up to let you sit next to him.  You slide into place beside Frank and offer one of Hélène’s most dazzling smiles to him.  He can only smile weakly in return.<br/>
<br/>
“So who are your friends,” you ask Joe.  Your determined not make the same slip up you made on the flight to London and show more knowledge than you should have.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m Joe,” explains Joe.  “This is Rosalie…” he adds pointing to the mystery girl.<br/>
<br/>
“Hi,” says Rosalie with a nervous looking grin.  You wave back at her.<br/>
<br/>
“…and this is actually my brother Frank,” finishes Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“Wow,” you reply.  “You two look nothing like each other, I’d never have guessed you were related.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s because we’re the result of a genetic experiment gone horribly wrong,” explains Joe hammily.  “Luckily I got all the handsome and smart genes.”<br/>
<br/>
You’ve a decision to make here, you realise.  You could play along with Joe as he jokes away, but you could equally ingratiate yourself with Frank by feigning ignorance.  Although your original plan was to use Hélène’s face to get close to Joe, the fragment of her instinct you carry with you tells you that Frank is the easier target now.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at Joe blankly.<br/>
<br/>
“Ignore my brother,” says Frank calmly.  You turn to face him and raise an eyebrow.  “He was dropped on his head when he was little,” explains Frank with a slight shrug.  “Repeatedly.”  You let yourself smile at that, and are rewarded by a little crack in Frank’s cool façade.<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to Joe, who is feigning that this little exchange has hurt him.  He looks at you with puppy dog eyes.  “Is he always like this,” you ask Frank.<br/>
<br/>
“Sometimes I’m worse,” interrupts Joe, the agonised expression vanishing suddenly.  He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.<br/>
<br/>
“He is,” sighs Frank.  He looks at you critically.  “You’re new here aren’t you,” he asks, with just an edge of suspicion.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” you reply.  “Actually, I just moved to Saratoga Falls recently,” you explain.  Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Joe shovelling the pie into his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
“How are you finding it,” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.  Definitely suspicious.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh it’s nice enough,” you reply.  “The people are really friendly.”<br/>
<br/>
Frank stands up.  “Excuse me, I have to use the rest room.”  <br/>
<br/>
You move out to let him by.  As he passes you he stumbles.  His hand brushes your face as he tries to regain his balance.  He murmurs something quietly, which you instantly recognise as the words to remove a mask.  You feign ignorance, though on the inside you want to laugh.  He must have thought you were Blackwell.  “Are you ok,” you ask politely.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m fine now,” he says before disappearing to the restrooms.  When he returns, he is much friendlier and you talk a little about your background.  It’s all lies of course.  You made it up last week just in case you needed it.<br/>
<br/>
“Me and Rosalie are going for a walk,” interrupts Joe, jumping to his feet. He grabs Rosalie by the hand and starts pulling her up from her seat.<br/>
<br/>
“Leaving me to pay the bill,” says Frank with a touch of bitterness.<br/>
<br/>
“What’s that,” says Joe.  “I’m sorry I can’t hear you.”  Rosalie titters nervously.  Joe heads for the door urgently, pulling her along behind him.<br/>
<br/>
“Typical,” mutters Frank.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie comes back to the table, ignoring Joe – he’s standing at the door shouting for her to come over.  She places a few bills on the table before looking at you both for a second.  Rosalie bites her lip nervously.  “You two look kind of cute together,” she says quickly before turning and running back to Joe.<br/>
<br/>
You and Frank look at each other, both of you blushing.<br/>
<br/>
“So… uh…” you say hesitantly.  “Want to catch a movie or something?”</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Frank's Face
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You walk slowly along the sidewalk, Frank’s arm wrapped round your waist.  Although that makes you feel just a little uncomfortable, you’ve subsumed your own doubts in the fragments of Hélène’s persona.  It’s weird, but it’s almost like watching yourself doing something from afar.<br/>
<br/>
Frank comes to a stop.  You’ve reached the boys house.  Of course, ‘Penny’ doesn’t know that, so you feign puzzlement.  “What,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“This is our house,” explains Frank.  “I’ll just grab the truck keys and I can take you back to your apartment.”  He hesitates for a few seconds.  “I…uh… had a good time tonight,” he adds.<br/>
<br/>
You hold onto his hand as he pulls away from you.  “Could we have another coffee before we go,” you ask innocently.  It’s an expression that comes easily to Hélène’s face.<br/>
<br/>
“Sure,” replies Frank guilelessly.  He leads you up to the front door.  “Joe must still be out,” he says as he unlocks it.  There are no lights on in the windows<br/>
<br/>
You trail after Frank as he enters the house, catching him of guard when you turn around and push him against the wall.  “Forget the coffee,” you say, leaning into kiss him.  It is like kissing a statue: he is totally unresponsive.  Not quite totally, you realise, a greasy feeling starts to build up in the air around you as Frank reaches for his own powers.<br/>
<br/>
Again, that’s not something ‘Penny’ would recognise, although the change in the air would be noticeable.  You pull back from Frank.  “What,” you say, feigning puzzlement again.<br/>
<br/>
“Nothing, it’s just…” trails off Frank, momentarily at a loss for words.  You examine him closely.  There’s a sense of nervousness there, and a sense that he’s struggling to reassert his iron self control.  Is he into that whole self denial thing?  You’re sure someone told you Lurgae could be like that once, though you can’t remember who.<br/>
<br/>
“I thought we could have a little fun,” you say running one hand through Frank’s hair.  The other hand snakes down his shirt, feeling for the hard muscles of his stomach before winding round to his firm ass.  Frank almost seems ready to jump out of his skin, such are the competing pressures of his self denial and your – Hélène’s really - seduction.  Again, you marvel at just how naturally this comes to her.<br/>
<br/>
Frank seems to think about this.  He wavers as the competing pressure vie for supremacy.   Then, it’s almost as if he snaps, Frank’s arm leaps forward and pulls your head back in towards his.  He kisses you hard and fast, his tongue questing about inside your mouth like a sword looking for a soft, unarmoured spot to plunge into.  When he relents you are almost surprised when you find yourself purring your appreciation.<br/>
<br/>
“Bedroom,” growls Frank.  It’s not a question, but you are only to happy to follow in his wake as he grabs your hand and leads you up the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
Frank’s room is laid out with military precision.  Not a thing out of place and not a wrinkle on the bed covers.  You don’t have much time to look around though, as Frank spins back round and resumes his urgent kissing.  His hands roam your body, working their way inside your skirt and loosening it.<br/>
<br/>
You could take his <i>imago </i>right now:  Knock him out and lay him on his bed, sneak out of the house before he wakes.  It’s tempting, but even the slightest hint that something isn’t quite right could alert Frank.  He would probably wipe the floor with you.  Looks like you’ll have to wait till he’s sleeping.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, that means…<br/>
<br/>
Well at least you had practice doing Rick’s bedroom face work in Oxford.  You slip your own hands under Frank’s shirt, running them over his taught muscles before rushing to undo the buttons.  You’re locked into frenzied abandon with Frank.  Your hands and Frank’s desperately search each other bodies as you undress each other.  All the while your heads dart backwards and forwards as you kiss passionately.<br/>
<br/>
There is a sudden break and Frank regards you as you stand close, your hands locked round his waist.  He grins and pushes you backwards onto the bed.  Frank clambers on top of you and you squirm as he pushes apart your thighs.<br/>
<br/>
Then he gets back off you and stands up.  “What,” you ask, suddenly worried that the prize is escaping.<br/>
<br/>
Frank is almost a comic figure, standing their with his pants round his ankles, his cock at half mast and yet clearly deep in thought.  “I’ll be right back,” he says, kicking his pants and shorts off.  He dashes out of the room.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What the hell is this about?</i>  You can hear Frank rummaging about next door, in Joe’s bedroom.  At a loss for something to do, you strip the last of your clothes off and climb under the bedcovers.  After a few minutes, Frank returns, his cock sheaved in the semi-transparent plastic membrane of a condom.<br/>
<br/>
You try not to laugh at the absurdity of the reason behind the hiatus.  You’ve got no idea exactly how what passes for your biology now works, but you doubt you could get pregnant.  Instead you smile and cast the bedcovers aside, revealing Hélène’s naked glory.  Frank climbs back atop you and with careful, exacting precision guides his member inside you.  You arch you back as he pushes his way inside, moaning faintly.<br/>
<br/>
Frank goes very still for a second, then he starts moving, building up a rhythm as he starts driving into you.  He moves almost like a machine, plunging inside you and pulling back outwards with a mechanical regularity.  Each time he strikes deeply a little bit of you fractures and flakes away as if he were striking away at a dam with a demolition ball.<br/>
<br/>
That greasy feeling is back in the air, almost like the way Margaret’s library used to feel.  It pushes down on you, pushing you further into the bed just as Franks physical exertions do the same.  There’s a pressure building up down there too, the sense of a dam ready to burst as you get into the rhythm of Frank’s motion.  You can only make the slightest of movements, such is the force holding you in place: Tiny little motions that run just in time with Frank’s own thrusts.<br/>
<br/>
The pressure within you builds and builds, then just as you think it’s about to burst, Frank grunts and his own movement comes to a juddering halt.  You bite your lip nervously as he pulls completely out and the pressures around you recede completely.<br/>
<br/>
Frank leans down and kisses you again, more softly this time.  You kiss back, noticing a strange metallic taste to his mouth.  Was that there before?  Something to think about later.  Frank snuggles in close, hugging you tight.  He doesn’t say anything but sighs appreciatively.  His whole demeanour seems strangely unwound and relaxed, as if some long standing burden has finally been relieved.<br/>
<br/>
This is your chance, you realise.  He’s unlikely to think anything of it if he fell asleep now.  You dial up the power in the sigil so it will keep him knocked out till late morning.  With your hand already behind him, Frank doesn’t seen anything as you bring the sigil into contact with him.  He simply goes limp in your hands.<br/>
<br/>
You disentangle yourself from Frank’s sleeping body.  You should probably clean yourself up, so you search the floor for Frank’s abandoned shirt, slipping it on when you find it.  At the same time you are reviewing the imago you’ve just captured.  Frank’s going to be a, well you guess ‘combat face’ would be a good term for it.  So you are stripping out everything except for the fighting related memories and skills.  Hmm, you’d forgotten about the archery.  You can’t think when that skill might be useful.<br/>
<br/>
As you are freshening up in the bathroom you hear voices outside.  Joe is back with Rosalie.  You go very quiet and try to listen to them.  Joe says something about checking on Frank, then a minute later you hear the words ‘sleeping like a baby’ followed by Joe’s infectious laugh.  You wait until Joe and Rosalie move off before opening the bathroom door, mostly to avoid any more bad jokes.<br/>
<br/>
That said, you can’t help but sneak along to outside Joe’s bedroom door and press your ear against it.  You still need Joe’s face and any intelligence would help – perhaps a quick switch into Rosalie and then you could be out of the house before morning.<br/>
<br/>
“…but I’ll teach you.  I’ve been teaching you already haven’t I.” you can just about make out Joes voice through the door.  Rosalie says something indistinct.  “Well, they’d split us up,” answers Joe.  “Don’t you want to spend more time together?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t want to be hanging round Saratoga Falls too long Joe,” says Rosalie, a little louder this time.  Loud enough for you to hear her now.<br/>
<br/>
“Why,” asks Joe.  No answer is forthcoming  “Look Rosalie, I’ll ask Dad about you joining us.  Just… Later, ok?”<br/>
<br/>
You don’t hear Rosalie’s answer, you are far to busy picking your jaw off the floor.  Does that mean Rosalie is another potential <i>Stellae</i>?  What are the chances of finding <i>two </i>in a nowhere town like Saratoga Falls.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can think any more about that, the door to the bedroom opens.  Since you were leaning on it to better hear Joe and Rosalie, you stumble through.  When you regain your footing and look up, you see Joe directly in front of you.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Prescott,” he says with a knowing grin.  “How was England?”<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Too Clever For His Own Good
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Sorry, I just got lost on the way back from the bathroom,” you extemporise, stalling for time.<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs.  “Nice try, but I know it’s really you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, how,” you growl back before realising you’ve just given the game away.  “Ah fuck…” you bury your head in your hands<br/>
<br/>
“Hah, I knew it,” exalts Joe, he’s practically dancing.<br/>
<br/>
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on Joe,” asks Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
“This is another one of my friends,” grins Joe.  “Will Prescott.”<br/>
<br/>
“Is that short for Willow or something?  Wait, I though you said your name was Penny,” says Rosalie in confusion.<br/>
<br/>
“More like William,” laughs Joe, leaving Rosalie baffled looking.  “What are you doing here?   No wait, I mean what are you doing here looking like this.  You got a lot of explaining to do,” says Joe, waggling his eyebrows again.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well I’m not the only one with explaining to do by the sound of it,” you snark back.  “Since it seems like you’ve found another Stellae without telling anyone.  Does Frank even know?”  You’ve already pared down most of Frank’s memories, but there’s nothing in what’s left that indicates he does know.  “Apparently not,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
Joe suddenly looks very grave.  He sticks his head through the door and takes a look round before pulling you inside and closing it.  He sits you on the bed beside Rosalie.  “I was going to tell Dad,” he says looking crestfallen and more than a little guilty.<br/>
<br/>
“I think you should,” says Rosalie very quietly, so quietly that you seem to be the only one that hears it.<br/>
<br/>
“I really was going to tell Dad,” continues Joe.  “I just wanted to wait a bit first.”  He sighs.  “I’m probably in trouble now.”<br/>
<br/>
“We all make mistakes,” you say, recalling Fyodor’s words to you back in Oxford.  “Learning from them is the trick.”<br/>
<br/>
“When did you get so wise,” laughs Joe, his mood turning on a dime.  “Full introductions then:  Will is another <i>Stellae </i>like me and Frank”, Joe explains to Rosalie.  “His ousiarchs are Sulva and… actually what?”<br/>
<br/>
“Still don’t know,” you say a little sourly.  “Your Dad offered to help me out sometime.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sure you just need a really good horoscope done,” says Joe smoothly.  “Did Kali try a dream journal?”  You shudder at the question – you’ve been avoiding thinking about dreams since the nightmare you had in Oxford.  “Rosalie is going to be another <i>Stellae </i>Will,” Joe continues.  “We did a horoscope last week – her ousiarchs are Sulva and Glundandra.”<br/>
<br/>
“I thought Sulvae were supposed to be rare,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“They are,” says Joe.  “Or they were.  Typical though, nothing for over a century and then three come along at once.”  Joes face is suddenly serious again.  “Glundandrae are rare too,” he says unhappily.  “Did Kali tell you about how they work out who the leader of the <i>Stellae </i>is?”<br/>
<br/>
“Fyodor mentioned it a couple of times while I was in Oxford,” you explain. “Something about the previous leader picking the new one?”<br/>
<br/>
“Something like that,” replies Joe with a sigh.  “When the leader is getting near to death he always picks his successor.  And he always picks, because there’s always two to pick from.”  Joe’s voice falters and he wipes away a tear from his eye.  “So when there’s two new Glundandrae in the <i>Stellae</i>, you know the current leader’s time is getting near.”<br/>
<br/>
“But there aren’t any other young Glundandrae in the Stellae right now, are there,” you ask in confusion.<br/>
<br/>
“Malaika,” explains Joe.  That explains it – no one told you what Malaika’s ousiarchs were back in Oxford.  “She’s only nine or something like that.  We all thought she was the first of the new Glundandrae because we usually find them pretty quickly.  Then I met Rosalie a couple of weeks ago.  She must have been hidden because of Sulva, just like you were Will.  I’m scared if I introduce her to the Stellae I’m wiping ten years off Dad’s lifespan.”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw Joe,” says Rosalie kindly, hugging him.  You feel an odd pang of jealousy.<br/>
<br/>
You regard Joe suspiciously.  His story seems reasonable enough, but for some reason the innocence on his face puts you in mind with a kid that’s been caught next to an empty cookie jar.  One that wipes the crumbs off his hands and tells you it was for your own good because they were marshmallow and oatmeal.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you can leave sorting that out to Charles and probably Father Ed as well.  You have a more pressing question.  “Just how did you work out it was me?”<br/>
<br/>
Joe grins, delighted at the opportunity to show off.  “Remember what Rick said when Kali went missing?  ‘Keep an eye out for a pretty Arab girl with striking green eyes’?”  You’d forgotten about that.  Though it’s only been a few short weeks, Kali’s disappearance feels like a lifetime ago, such is the progress you’ve made since then.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but pretty Arab girls with green eyes aren’t that common round here,” he adds puckishly.  “So you must be Hélène right now.”  His lip curls.  “That isn’t her… her…”<br/>
<br/>
He doesn’t want to say ‘skin’ or ‘remains’, so you answer his unfinished question for him.  “No Fyodor has them…” you explain.<br/>
<br/>
“He’ll want to study them and figure out what makes them work I guess,” interrupts Joe.  “At least he’ll dispose of them afterwards.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” you agree.  “I just picked up her imago by touching them while they were still hidden in Kali’s apartment.  I didn’t get her memories though, just a few fragments of instincts.”<br/>
<br/>
“Probably just as well,” says Joe gravely.  He’s read Kali’s story as well, you remember.  You glance at Rosalie for a second.  There’s a hint of fear in her kindly eyes.  She must realise she doesn’t want to know who Hélène is.<br/>
<br/>
“Her instincts helped me with Frank, although I guess I should have gone with this one,” you say, waving your hands about your face and summoning Arabella’s <i>imago </i>– one of the bedroom faces you got for Rick.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie gives out a muffled squeak and practically jumps out her skin.  “Prescott’s a bit of a shapeshifter,” explains Joe.  “She’d be too old for Frank though.”  He grins wickedly.   “Did you go all the way with Frank?”  You blush reflexively and Joe bursts out laughing.  “Oh my god you did, that’s hilarious.  Wait until he finds out who popped his cherry,” he sniggers, ignoring Rosalie’s displeased look.  She presumably doesn’t like the way he’s talking.  “I should go tell him just now!”<br/>
<br/>
“He’s sleeping,” you explain.  “And will be till mid morning.  I can kind of adjust how long I knock people out for now.”<br/>
<br/>
“That is awesome dude,” replies Joe enthusiastically.  “You could like knock someone out for a day and pretend to be them.  They’d put the missing day down to amnesia or something.  One question though:  Frank?  Seriously, why Frank?”<br/>
<br/>
You blush again.  “Rick set me a challenge, get both yours and his faces without you knowing, which I guess I’ve failed now.”  You pause for a second before continuing.  “I’d really like it if you didn’t tell Frank about this,” you add quietly.<br/>
<br/>
“You can rely on me, soul of discretion,” grins Joe in a way that suggests it likely to be all over advertising billboards about town before the week is out.<br/>
<br/>
“I mean it,” you hiss.<br/>
<br/>
“Could you become me,” asks Rosalie quietly.  You and Joe both pause at the interruption.<br/>
<br/>
“I’d need to capture your <i>imago </i>first,” you explain.  “I’d need to touch you and put you to sleep for a few minutes to do that.  Then I’d be able to look like you and act like you.  Although I’ve kind of promised not to take <i>imago </i>I don’t need.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” says Rosalie quietly<br/>
<br/>
“So why do you need me and Frank,” asks Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“Well being Frank could be useful in a fight,” you explain.  “As for you…” you tail off.  You don’t think you could stand Joe’s ego if you told him he was a bedroom face.<br/>
<br/>
However, the look on your face must have betrayed you.  Joes laughs loudly again.  “I get it,” he smiles. <br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter.  “Laugh it up.  You’ll not be laughing when you have to call your Dad tomorrow and tell him about Rosalie.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe looks more serious again.  “Do I have to?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” both you and Rosalie say in unison.  You stare at her in surprise.  She stares right back.  “If it makes you feel better,” you add.  “I have to phone Rick and tell him how I slept with your brother.  Ugh.”  Joe perks up a little at that.  You flip back to being Hélène.  “I need to get some sleep.”<br/>
<br/>
“In Frank’s bed,” asks Joe, laughing again.<br/>
<br/>
“Fuck off,” you say as you walk out the door and head downstairs to the living room couch.  It’ll be easy to get out of the house before Frank wakes up tomorrow morning.  Then you can phone Rick and put this whole thing behind you.  At least you passed the main part of his test.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Someone shakes you awake the following morning.  You try to roll the crick in your neck that sleeping on the couch has given you and rub at your bleary eyes.  Your eyes focus onto Rosalie, who is wearingly a long tee with the legend ‘Princess’ emblazoned on it.  She isn’t wearing her glasses, but that means her eyes are screwed up looking as she tries to see straight without them.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Penny, er… Hélène, Will, whatever,” she says nervously.  “Have you got a minute to talk, just us girls?”<br/>
<br/>
You smile wryly at that.  “I’m not really a girl,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” she says, looking at the floor briefly.  “I mean you look like one just now, so I suppose you are one, aren’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
That’s a point that would take a while to debate.  More pressingly, do you listen to what she has to say or not?<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Twins
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Sure, what is it,” you say forcing a smile.  By the clock in the room it’s still very early and you are not a morning person.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie stands nervously in front of you until you realise she wants to sit down.  You swing your legs round and off the couch and she places herself next to you, her hands clasped firmly between her legs.  “Uh…  I was wondering,” she says quietly.  “You said something about getting Frank and Joe’s faces.”<br/>
<br/>
You look at Rosalie, she’s staring at her hands.  You wonder how intimidating all this is for her, being thrust into a new world like this.  It wasn’t that long ago that you were in the same position yourself, although your own introduction to the <i>Stellae </i>left little time for such nerves.  “Yeah,” you say, trying to sound friendly.  “Rick, that’s the guy who’s training me…”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re just a trainee,” interrupts Rosalie, her eyes going wide.<br/>
<br/>
“Um… Yeah, although I’m supposed to be ready for the next stage whatever that is.  But yeah, Rick wanted me to get the <i>imago </i>of Frank and Joe as a test.  That’s the word for someone’s body and memories,” you explain when Rosalie looks puzzled<br/>
<br/>
“Is it bad that you failed it,” asks Rosalie, genuinely interested.<br/>
<br/>
“Kinda bad,” you admit.  “I made a mess of something a few weeks ago and Rick sorted it out for me, but it cost a lot of money and I owe him for it.  He said he’d wipe the slate clean for me if I managed to get Frank and Joe’s <i>imagos</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s a terrible thing to do,” says Rosalie, her voice quavering a little.<br/>
<br/>
“No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly.  “I guess the point was if I could do it without anyone realising I’d have learned my lesson, or at least learned how use my prodigies without hurting people by accident.”<br/>
<br/>
“You hurt someone,” ask Rosalie, shocked.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, not hurt,” you protest.  “Unless you count stranding them naked in a foreign country without their passport.  Uh…  I did hurt them didn’t I,” you sigh.  “I spent a lot of time in England learning how not to do it again.  I made it back here without doing anything like that again,” you add proudly.  “That was the real test:  Get back to America without stealing from anyone or hurting them.  Frank and Joe were just for extra credit.”<br/>
<br/>
“It would be good if you could get Joe as well though, wouldn’t it,” asks Rosalie with a shy smile.  You admit that it would.  “Why don’t you use my, what did you call it, <i>imago </i>to get close to him?”<br/>
<br/>
Your eyebrows shoot up.  “Thanks,” you say.  “It’s a nice offer, but it wouldn’t work.  He’d be suspicious the moment he realised he’d lost a few minutes of time.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie smiles again, this time a little stronger.  “I thought about how to get round that,” she says.  She explains her idea.  To your surprise you find yourself nodding along as she goes.  It <i>would </i>work.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s actually really clever Rosalie,” you say she finishes.  She smiles back at you.  It’s an odd expression, almost benevolent.  “I’d still need to use your <i>imago </i>though.  You have to understand it means you’ll be unconscious for a few minutes and I’ll gain temporary access to your memories.  I’ll remove them afterwards.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie nods seriously.  “Just so long as you promise not to look at them and get rid of them as soon as you can.”  You can hardly blame her for the condition, you remember how Miko felt when you read her memories.<br/>
<br/>
“I will you say,” holding up your hand as if promising.  Rosalie starts taking her tee off.  “Whoa, wait.  What are you doing?”<br/>
<br/>
She pauses.  “Well you’re going to have to wear my clothes anyway,” she says.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not something I need to <i>see </i>right now,” you explain, gulping.<br/>
<br/>
“But you going to be seeing it from the inside in a few minutes,” she says, somewhat puzzled.<br/>
<br/>
“Guy,” you exclaim.  “Seeing another girl's naked boobs is one of those things that make us get all hot and bothered.  Look, we’ll change clothes in a second.  Are you ready?”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie nods.  You stretch out your hand and summon the sigil.  Dialling back the power of the knockout aspect to the bare minimum, you tap Rosalie gently on the forehead.  She falls backwards into the cushions of the couch.<br/>
<br/>
“You ok,” you ask when Rosalie wakes back up after a few minutes.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m fine,” she squeaks.  “Did you…” you nod.  With a moment of concentration you dive into Rosalie’s <i>imago</i>, submerging in it and letting it flow round you.  She gasps as you shift into her twin.<br/>
<br/>
Despite your promise not to look at her memories, a stray thought leaps at you as you change.  “You’re from Cuthbert,” you blurt out.  “I’m sorry, the thought just came at me”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie looks unhappy. “Can we talk about it later Will,” she asks.  “I’ve not even talked to Joe about it yet.”  She pauses for a second.  “This is too weird,” she says looking at you.  She raises a hand to feel at your face, and you jokingly mirror the movement with a hand of your own.  “Does my nose really look like that,” she asks.<br/>
<br/>
“I think it gives us a magnificent profile,” you reply, turning your head to the side to better show it off.  You start to unbutton the shirt of Frank’s that you slept in.  Rosalie pulls off her tee and you exchange your clothes.  You pull her tee on and grin nervously.  “What do you think?”<br/>
<br/>
“Frightening,” says Rosalie.  “You look just like me.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s the idea,” you reply.  “Follow me up and wait by the door till I tell you to come in.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe is still sleeping when you reach his bedroom.  You make a note of the time on the bedside clock as you walk inside and perch on the edge of his bed.  “Morning sleepyhead,” you say ruffling his hair.<br/>
<br/>
It takes Joe a few seconds to get his bearings.  He blinks a couple of times and checks the time on the clock – 7:35 am.  He looks into your face and, mistaking you for the real Rosalie, breaks into a grin.  “Morning,” he says goofily.<br/>
<br/>
“Mmm, come here and say that,” you tease.  He starts to push himself up but you lean down and kiss him, slipping one slim hand round his back to support him.  You run the other hand down the side of his face.  A sigil flares into life and Joe wilts in your grasp.  “Come in now Rosalie,” you shout.  “He’ll be out for five minutes,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie examines the way you’re sitting very carefully.  She’ll have to reproduce it in a few minutes.  “Did you kiss him,” she asks, her voice quavering a little.<br/>
<br/>
“It was the easiest way to distract him,” you say, just a little too quickly.  “It’s what you would have done.”<br/>
<br/>
She accepts the point with a sigh and starts to remove Frank’s shirt.  You gently lay Joe back down and pull off Rosalie’s tee.  It doesn’t take long to swap clothes again.  “You’re going to delete my <i>imago </i>now,” asks Rosalie as she takes your place on the edge of Joe’s bed.<br/>
<br/>
“Already done,” you say, removing her <i>imago </i>from your collection and flipping back to Hélène.  You flip the clock back five minutes.  Then you head out the door and wait.<br/>
<br/>
“Knock, knock,” you say when the time is up, walking back in.  “Oh sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting something,” you add.  Rosalie sits on the edge of Joe’s bed, perfectly recreating how you were posed five minutes ago.  Rosalie breaks off the kiss and looks round nervously.<br/>
<br/>
Joe frowns for a few seconds.  He checks the clock, which reads 7:36 now, and shakes his head.  That’s the genius of Rosalie’s idea – he hasn’t lost any time and there’s no indication that the Rosalie that started kissing him was any different from the one that finished kissing him.  That you’ve just turned up at his door muddies the waters even further.  You can almost see him discounting the idea that you’ve gotten to him somehow.  “It’s ok Prescott.  It’s ok isn’t it,” he asks Rosalie.  She just looks at her feet again.<br/>
<br/>
“Uh… yeah,” you reply awkwardly scratching the back of your head.  “I was just looking for a pen and some paper to write a note for Frank.  I made up some bullshit last night about Penny moving here after a bad break up, so I figured something about her ex turning up here and how she had to move on would explain why I’ve… she’s disappeared.”<br/>
<br/>
“You could just tell him the truth you know,” replies Joe with an insincere grin.<br/>
<br/>
“Very fucking funny,” you reply.  “Would you tell him if you were me?”<br/>
<br/>
“If I were you I’d be too busy…” Joe looks at Rosalie guiltily and catches himself just in time.  “If I were you I wouldn’t have gotten myself in the situation in the first place,” he says more soberly.  He sighs.  “If you want to keep it a secret I won’t tell Frank either.”</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: An Unexpected Journey
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“It’s all very doomed and tragic,” says Joe, reading over your shoulder as you write the last few sentences of your note in Hélène’s looping handwriting.  “And that’s just over the top,” he adds, pointing at one of the little heart shapes you’ve used to dot each i in the letter.<br/>
<br/>
“That how I… this girl writes,” you explain, pointing at yourself.  You’ve dressed again, recovering your clothes from Frank’s bedroom.  This note is the last thing you have to do before leaving, and Frank won’t wake up for an hour or so anyway.  “You think he’ll buy it.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs.  “Doomed, tragic <i>and </i>romantic.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the next bus out of town following you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well, try to stop him from doing that,” you say sourly as you fold the note over and write Frank’s name on the reverse.<br/>
<br/>
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here over the holidays” asks Rosalie, emerging from the kitchen.  “Joe was going to get us a tree in the next couple of days”<br/>
<br/>
“No, I need to get back to L.A again,” you reply.  “To finish my training with Kali and Rick.  It was good seeing you guys again though.  You remember to tell your Dad about Rosalie.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m just going to do it,” protests Joe.  You get up to leave and to your surprise Joe gets up as well and gives you a brief, if crushing hug.  “Later dude,” he says, bidding you farewell as Rosalie gives you a chaste peck on the cheek.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You get back to the poky apartment you’ve been living in for the last few weeks about lunchtime.  You’d popped into the Crystal Cave on the way home to spin the same narrative about ‘Penny’ having to leave Saratoga Falls because her jealous ex-boyfriend had shown up.  It was Leanne’s shift so whether or not the story makes it back to the manager there is questionable.<br/>
<br/>
The apartment is empty so you write another note for two women you share it with.  There’s a slight discrepancy between each story you’ve told – the note in the apartment states that the ex was hanging about the Crystal Cave, while the story you told Leanne, and wrote for Frank, was that he was hanging about the apartment.  Hopefully Frank will not pick up on the difference until you are long gone.<br/>
<br/>
You pack your clothes into the little pink suitcase and shift back into being yourself long enough to find the apartment phone and dial Kali.  It’s a courtesy detail, as you don’t think she would enjoy you talking to her with Hélène’s voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Hi Kali,” you begin when she answers.  “It’s Will.”<br/>
<br/>
She pauses for a moment.  “It’s good to hear from you Will.  Did you make it back to America?<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, that’s sort of what I’m phoning about.  Is Rick about,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“He’s doing whatever it is he does during the day,” sighs Kali.  “Where are you just now Will?”<br/>
<br/>
“Um…  Saratoga Falls,” you reply.  “I was just about to set of for L.A..”<br/>
<br/>
“Well that explains the call I received from Charles earlier,” says Kali wearily.  You wait for her explanation.  “He wants you to go to Olympia.  He wants a lot of us to go to Olympia apparently and he asked me to pass on as much when you contacted me.”<br/>
<br/>
“He knew I was going to call you,” you gasp.  No, it’s not a shock, you realise after a moments thought.  You told Joe you were going back to L.A., he must have told Charles when he phoned him.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” replies Kali.  “And now that you <i>have </i>called we can save some time and effort if you travel directly to Olympia with Joe.”<br/>
<br/>
“Joe’s going too,” you ask enthusiastically.  Spending more time with Frank, Joe and Rosalie is a very appealing idea.<br/>
<br/>
“”Yes Will,” replies Kali again.  “And I have the intuition that you know exactly <i>why </i>Joe is going too.”  She cuts you off as you start to explain about Rosalie.  “If I needed to know now, Charles would have told me when he phoned me Will.  I imagine I will find out in the fullness of time,” she adds.  “In the mean time, go to the boys’ house.  I shall meet you in Olympia.”<br/>
<br/>
You exchange your goodbyes and hang up.  The unexpected change in plans has thrown you a little:  You’d originally intended to travel to L.A. as Hélène, but that’s not practical now – you’d have to explain to Frank why ‘Penny’ was going to see his dad.  Since the apartment is empty, it’s easy enough to pull a set of your Will clothes from the suitcase and get changed. The humiliation of explaining why you have a pink suitcase to Frank and Joe is far preferable to the humiliation of having to explain to Frank who it really was he slept with last night.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The boys’ truck has gone when you return to their house.  Hopefully they haven’t left without you.  You knock on the door and wait patiently as you hear the sound of someone scrabbling about within.<br/>
<br/>
After a minute the door cracks open a fraction.  Rosalie looks at you suspiciously, her eyes more or less level with yours.  “Hi Rosalie,” you say, which only seems to make her even more suspicious.  Then you remember that this is the first time she’s seen you – <i>this </i>you anyway.  “It’s me, Will.  This is what I normally look like.  Well back to front I guess but that’s a long story…” you tail off.<br/>
<br/>
She thinks it over for a few seconds before smiling nervously.  “Come in Will,” she says, opening the door.  She leads you into the living room.  “Frank and Joe are getting some supplies before we set off,” she adds as you sit down on the couch.  “Nice suitcase,” she titters.<br/>
<br/>
“It made more sense when I was travelling as Hélène,” you whine.  “But I can’t do that now because…”<br/>
<br/>
“…because you don’t want Frank to know you slept with him,” finishes off Rosalie for you.  “You should tell him, but I won’t say anything if you don’t.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” you reply.<br/>
<br/>
There are a few minutes of awkward silence before Rosalie finally speaks again.  “Will, there’s something I want to ask you.  We’re both Sulva,” she begins.  You nod.  “Does that mean I’ll be able to change what I look like too?”<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate for a moment.  Rosalie looks anxious more than anything else.  It isn’t obvious how she’d feel about having your powers herself:  Frightened?  Excited?  Something else?    Not that it matters.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” you explain quietly.  “It’s from something else.”  Rosalie’s eyes widen as you explain about the spells in the book and how it let you create masks that could be used as an almost perfect magical disguise.  When she asks why you don’t use masks you explain how you fell through the book and how it left its mark upon you.  “So you see,” you finish.  “I’m not really myself anymore.  Even just this face is a weird mirrored reflection of how I used to look.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie locks her gaze with yours, her eyes sympathetic.  “Oh Will,” she says and gives you a comforting hug.<br/>
<br/>
“And that’s what the <i>Libra Personae</i> did to me,” you explain.  There is a fractional stiffening in Rosalie’s posture and she pulls away from you.  “What?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh… uh…” she stutters.  “I guess I must have heard the name somewhere before.”<br/>
<br/>
“Probably from Frank of Joe,” you explain.  “They must have mentioned it.  It’s someplace safe now I guess:  Olympia with the boys’ Dad.”<br/>
<br/>
“Where we’re going,” says Rosalie thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
“Where we’re going,” you confirm.  “I feel like I’ve told you my life story,” you add after a minute.  “What about you.  You want to talk about Cuthbert now?”<br/>
<br/>
Before Rosalie has a chance to answer Joe burst into the living room.  “Hello girls,” he says in a sing song voice.  “Oh it’s not a girl, it’s Prescott.  Hello Prescott,” he corrects himself.  You feel your cheeks colour.  It might just seem like a typical bit of Joe silliness but you know, just know, he’s referring to what happened last night.  As he catches your gaze, Joe surreptitiously winks at you, all but confirming it.<br/>
<br/>
Joe pulls Rosalie up from the couch and starts kissing her.  “Hello gorgeous,” he murmurs and Rosalie blushes.  You look away, and odd feeling in the pit of your stomach.<br/>
<br/>
“What are you doing here Prescott,” asks Frank as he enters the room.  His eyes narrow as he looks at you suspiciously.<br/>
<br/>
“I was just passing through,” you say weakly.  “I phoned Kali and she said to come here.  Something about getting you guys to take me to Olympia.”<br/>
<br/>
Frank smiles darkly.  “Just Joe.  He’s taking you to Olympia.  I’m staying here to sort out the remains of Blackwell’s library and keep looking for the fucker.”  Before you get a chance to ask why, Frank continues.  “My brother apparently forgot to tell everyone he’d found another potential <i>Stellae </i>member.  Looks like I’ll be on my own here for Christmas”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll be thinking of you when I’m digging into a turkey dinner in Olympia,” shoots back Joe.  Before you have a chance to comment the two boys start wrestling each other.  Frank soon has Joe in a headlock.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie looks on, quite bemused.  She never did tell you about Cuthbert.  Should you press the issue?<br/>
<br/>
The boys suddenly stop their fight.  “Nice suitcase Prescott,” says Joe from under Frank’s arm.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Road Trip, Part 1
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The road stretches as far ahead as you can see, utterly straight and unbending.  Seemingly endless cornfields lie on either side, with only the odd farmhouse to mark your progress as Joe drives the truck steadily along.<br/>
<br/>
Joe’s been good company for the last couple of hours.  You’ve related to him what happened you since you first left Saratoga Falls:  The time spent in L.A. with Kali, Miko and Rick.  He particularly enjoyed the part where you spent a few days looking like Miko, making a few comments that you think would have brought colour to the Japanese warrior’s cheeks.  You don’t know for sure any more as you removed most of Miko’s memories bar the fighting skills back in Oxford. <br/>
<br/>
Joe doesn’t have anything nearly as interesting to tell you, a fact he apologises for a couple of times.  That doesn’t stop him from making a great deal of how the house was party central for a week and a bit until Frank returned.  The process of dealing with the last remnants of Blackwell’s library have been painfully slow for Frank and Joe, although you are left feeling that Joe has been dragging out the work for some reason.  Similarly, neither of the boys have seen any hint of Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
“Apart from when you showed up,” finishes Joe with a laugh.  “Frank was convinced that ‘Penny’ was the fat fucker in another mask.”<br/>
<br/>
“He tried to remove it,” you explain.  “In the Crystal Cave, but I’m not so much wearing a mask as actually the mask itself,” you add sadly.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m surprised you went that far with Frank dude,” says Joe, taking one hand off the wheel to playfully punch you in the arm.  “Hell, I’m surprised Frank went that far with you!”<br/>
<br/>
“Um… Hélène just seems to be naturally good at that sort of thing,” you explain haltingly.  “It comes very easily when I’m her.  And Rick thinks it’s the best way to get someone alone and steal their face.”<br/>
<br/>
“Rick’s got a very cynical worldview, you might have noticed” laughs Joe.  “Great guy though.”  Joe looks thoughtful for a few seconds.  “In the story Kali wrote, <i>Retrograde Motion</i>, Hélène had Perelandra and Sulva as ousiarchs.”<br/>
<br/>
“So,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“So that’s a seducer’s combination,” explains Joe.  “Or seductress’s in this case,” he adds after a moments thought.  “The bad guy in the story called her a muse and I heard John calling the combination ‘the mirror of desire’ once.”<br/>
<br/>
“Meaning?”<br/>
<br/>
“Meaning that if it wasn’t completely impossible I’d say you weren’t just using Hélène’s face but you were using some of her powers too,” laughs Joe.  “Frank’s so tightly wound up I thought he’d never hit it off with a girl without supernatural aid.”  Joe flashes a wicked grin.  “Maybe he’ll relax a little now he’s had a good fuck.  It was a good fuck wasn’t it?”<br/>
<br/>
You say nothing, feeling your cheeks start to colour.  Joe burst out laughing again.  You glance round to the back seat to see what Rosalie thinks of all this, but she’s sleeping.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, she’s been asleep for the last half hour or so,” says Joe.<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate for a few seconds before continuing.  “Truth is I was aiming for you with Hélène…”<br/>
<br/>
“Dude,” exclaims Joe.  “That’s… that’s not cool at all.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re the one that said Frank wasn’t that into girls,” you reply with a shrug.  “I even though about knocking out one of the girls at Eastman for a couple of days and taking their place to get close to you.”  You pause to think for a few seconds – you don’t really know anyone at Eastman, although you’ve seen their cheerleaders at some of the Eastman-Westside sporting meets.  “Who is that cheerleader,” you ask.  “The blond one with the…”<br/>
<br/>
“Becky,” sighs Joe wistfully.  “Becky Torres.  Been there, done that.  You should have gone with Maddy Caron,” he says, taking his hand off the wheels and making a very expansive gesture that suggests Maddy might have problems balancing.  “Or Tina Branson,” he adds in a voice that is suddenly soft, feminine and with a southern twang to it.<br/>
<br/>
“Well,” you say, glancing back round at the back seat at Rosalie.  Her long hair has half slipped out of the ponytail she tied it in earlier and is disarrayed across her sleeping face.  For some reason you find yourself thinking of the mess that used to confront you in the morning, before all this started.  “Rosalie seems a little different from those girls.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” says Joe, a big inane grin spread across his face.  “Rosalie <i>is </i>different.”  He drives on in blissful silence for a few minutes.  “How to explain:  Becky Torres is beautiful.  Her are eye are a bit watery and her teeth are maybe slightly too big, but otherwise beautiful.  A good girl to have some fun time with, and we did.  But…” he says, gesturing with one hand.  “There’s a Becky Torres in every town we’ve passed through since Saratoga Falls, or someone like her.  That town up there,” he adds, pointing at the collection of low buildings visible on the horizon.  “There’ll be another Becky there too.”<br/>
<br/>
“When Dad sent me and Frank to Saratoga Falls I was looking forward to meeting Becky,” he explains.  “I didn’t know she was <i>Becky</i>, but there was going to be someone like her, you see?  We’d have some fun and then once me and Frank – but mostly me – had done the business, dusted the bad guy and saved world yada yada yada we’d move onto the next job and the next Becky.”<br/>
<br/>
“And Rosalie,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Joe’s glance flicks to the mirror.  “There’s only one Rosalie, and she doesn’t get left behind when we move on,” he explains.  “Do you know how rare <i>Stellae </i>are?  Yeah.  Well Rosalie’s going to be one of us.  I did her horoscopes myself – Sulva and Glundandra, which makes her triply rare.  You want to know something really weird?  I found out when I did Rosalies’s horoscope: turns out you both have the same birthday”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m a Sulva too,” you say quietly.<br/>
<br/>
“No offence dude,” replies Joe.  “But I don’t exactly want to kiss you right now.”<br/>
<br/>
You shift your <i>imagos </i>about, coming to rest in Arabella – one of the bedroom faces you collected in Oxford.  Your clothes are suddenly very loose, except for one very important area.  “I didn’t catch that last thing you said.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs loudly.  “Very funny, but I know it’s you underneath there,” he replies, not knowing just how wrong he is – there isn’t really a ‘you’ under there anymore.  You shift back to your mirrored face.  “Besides, you’ve talked to her.  She’s so kind, considerate.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not like you then,” you snark.<br/>
<br/>
“Not like me at all,” sighs Joe wistfully again.<br/>
<br/>
Joe drives on, a contented grin on his face.  You find yourself staring at him for a little while.  “You love her,” you say eventually, not sure if it is a question or a statement.<br/>
<br/>
That throws Joe off for a moment.  He looks uncharacteristically thoughtful before answer.  “I hadn’t given it a second thought,” he admits.  “I think you’re right, I <i>do </i>love her.  Wow, that felt odd admitting it.”<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to look at Rosalie.  “She’s a lucky girl.  You’re both lucky to have each other I mean,” you say.  She shivers in her sleep: plain looking, awkward, kind and gentle Rosalie.  Why does that leave you feeling bitter?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
 Joe pulls the truck into a gas station shortly before midnight, waking you as he slams the door shut behind him.  You glance blearily at the dashboard clock.  It looks like you’ve been asleep for a couple of hours.  Behind you Rosalie yawns and stirs from her own sleep.<br/>
<br/>
She looks out the window.  “I have to use the ladies room,” she says primly before leaving the truck.<br/>
<br/>
You unbuckle your safety belt before getting out yourself.  Joe is cheerfully whistling to himself as he fills up the tank. You smile vaguely but otherwise ignore him and wander aimlessly away from him.  It feels good to stretch your legs in the cool night air.<br/>
<br/>
It’s a cloudless night and you look up at the starry sky.  The moon stares back at you, waxing full.  Its presence is reassuring.  You close your eyes and are half way toward meditating there and then when you are disturbed by Joe’s voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Prescott,” he yells and you turn round.  He’s clutching a drink with one hand and throws you the truck keys with the other.  “Your turn to drive.”  He sucks at the drink noisily and gets in the back seat.  “Wake me in the morning,” he calls out from inside the truck.<br/>
<br/>
You are about to get into the driver seat when Rosalie returns from the rest rooms.  “I’ll drive if you want me to Will,” she offers.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Road Trip, Part 2
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You glance again at the dashboard clock – 2 AM.  The road is empty, illuminated only by the truck headlights.  You might as well be driving through an empty void of nothingness, so little can you see of the scenery around you.  The only way to judge your progress is by passing the occasional road sign that counts down the distance to the next town.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie is awake, but she is silent.  She simply presses her head up against the passenger side window and gazes at the night sky with a childlike curiosity.  In the back seat Joe snores loudly.  The empty drink cup hangs loosely from his hand, his mouth hanging open slackly.<br/>
<br/>
“Does he always snore,” the words float in the air for a second until you realise it was you that said them.<br/>
<br/>
“Hmmm,” murmurs Rosalie, only just now tearing her attention away from the moon and stars.<br/>
<br/>
“Joe.  Does he always snore?”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie gives you an odd look.  “I hadn’t noticed,” she says carefully.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s pretty loud,” you say.  This is getting a little awkward.<br/>
<br/>
“You want to talk about Joe,” she asks you directly.  “While he’s asleep.”  You think better of telling her that you and Joe were talking about her earlier when she was sleeping.<br/>
<br/>
“At least it stops him wisecracking from the sidelines,” you say feebly.<br/>
<br/>
“And that doesn’t mean you need to fill in for him,” says Rosalie with a sigh.  “How long have you known Joe?”<br/>
<br/>
“A couple of months,” you say after a little thought.  “I met Frank and Joe during the business with Blackwell.”<br/>
<br/>
“I hear them mention his name from time to time,” says Rosalie.  “But they never talk about what happened.  When I ask Joe about it he just clams up.  That’s not like him Will.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t blame him,” you say ruefully.  “It isn’t a happy story.  That’s how I ended up like this,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re not going to talk about it either,” says Rosalie, pitched halfway between question and realisation.<br/>
<br/>
“I’d like it if I didn’t have to,” you say, trying to let her down gently.  “Can I just say it was touch and go but in the end we stopped the bad guy at great personal cost.  Joe will tell you more when he is ready to.”<br/>
<br/>
“But the boys are still looking for Blackwell,” says Rosalie in confusion.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve probably said too much already,” you reply, shaking your head.<br/>
<br/>
You sit in silence for a few minutes, your attention focussed on the road.  “What do you think of Joe,” asks Rosalie hesitantly.<br/>
<br/>
You take one hand off the wheel to scratch the back of your head.  “Joe?  Really fun guy to hang out with,” you reply after some thought.  “In some ways I regret leaving him to visit Kali in Los Angeles.  Kali is another <i>Stellae </i>before you ask.  I mean, I learned a lot in L.A., and a lot more in Oxford.  But it sounded like Joe had turned the house into a non stop party zone while I was away.  That would have been a lot of fun.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie giggles a little.  “Yeah, there were a couple of wild parties at Joe’s house.”  You almost blink in surprise – it’s hard to imagine a bit of a wallflower like Rosalie as the partying type.  “I wouldn’t really have gone but Christina kept on dragging me along to them.  She was the first friend I made when I started at Eastman and she kept trying to help me make more friends.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s how you met Joe,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie smiles faintly.  “That’s how I met Joe, at one of those parties.  It was surprising,” she says hesitantly before starting to speak a little more confidently.  “He had one of those cheerleading types hanging off his arm, but he ditched her to come talk to me.  At first I thought he was playing some kind of sick joke on me, but he seemed genuinely interested.  Afterwards we…”  Rosalie tails off.  You glance round to see that she is blushing bright red.<br/>
<br/>
“When did he tell you about us,” you ask.  “The <i>Stellae</i>, I mean,” you add quickly.<br/>
<br/>
“A few days later,” replies Rosalie, matter-of-factly.  “I never thought I would have had that kind of power within me.”<br/>
<br/>
“It didn’t weird you out, did it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Why would it,” replies Rosalie uncertainly.  You think back to how Blackwell introduced you to magic.  You remember being scared and confused at the sudden change in the bullies at Westside, but you also remember being <i>excited</i>.  Excited at the possibilities that were laid out in front of you.  You guess you can see Rosalie’s point of view.<br/>
<br/>
“I bet Frank put a stop to the parties when he came back,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie sighs.  “Yes, that’s Frank.  He’s always so serious and Joe’s always so fun.  There’s no happy medium between them.”<br/>
<br/>
“How do you feel about Joe,” you ask without really thinking why.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie sighs again.  “I like Joe,” she says quietly.  “We’ve had some fun but…” she glances round at the back seat to check on Joe.  He’s still sleeping soundly.  “The reason I came to Saratoga Falls was to look for my betrothed,” she explains sadly.  You can’t help but note the use of the old fashioned word.<br/>
<br/>
“So you love that guy then,” you ask.  “The one you’re going to get married to.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes… No…  I don’t know,” says Rosalie.  She involuntarily grasps at her throat, her hand forming a ragged fist.  “The guy is a real bastard Will.  I wouldn’t wish him on anyone.”<br/>
<br/>
“But…” you stutter.  “You were going to marry him, right?  And you’ve came all the way to Saratoga Falls from Cuthbert to find him.  That’s what you didn’t want Joe to know about isn’t it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Something like that,” says Rosalie looking away from you.  She stares out the window for a short while.  “What about you Will?  Cuthbert’s a small town in the middle of nowhere, how do you know so much about it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh I have family out that way.  Cousins,” you explain nonchalantly until the gut wrenching memory of hauling your cousin to the secret basement at Blackwell’s house comes bubbling to the surface.  Horribly, your mind starts adding things up.  Your cousin, Will Shabbleman, came from Cuthbert to Saratoga Falls to be Blackwell’s apprentice.  Rosalie came from Cuthbert to Saratoga Falls find her missing fiancé.  An aching pit opens up in the seat of your stomach.  “His name is Will too,” you say stiffly.  “Will Shabbleman.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you know where he is,” asks Rosalie softly.  “Do you know what happened to him?”<br/>
<br/>
What can you say?  That you fought for the favour of a monster like Blackwell?  That he pitted you against each other until one of you prevailed?  That you dragged the defeated Will Shabbleman into Blackwell’s most secret prison and left him there for him to dispose of?  You doubt that you can.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” you say weakly.<br/>
<br/>
You don’t hear what Rosalie says in reply.  She says it so quietly and is still looking away from you.  Maybe it’s your imagination or maybe you’re just hearing things but for just a fraction of a second you think you hear her say ‘good’.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Hey wake up Prescott,” yells Joe, unceremoniously bringing back to the land of the living.  “We’re here.”  You check your watch:  Mid afternoon – you’ve been asleep for hours<br/>
<br/>
You wipe the drool from your mouth and make a vague attempt to fix your hair so it isn’t in flying off in every direction before crawling out of the back seat of the truck.  Frank and Joe’s Dad’s house is a modest tract home behind a chain linked fence.  There’s nothing to distinguish it from the dozens of identical home on either side of the street.  A small part of you is disappointed:  <i>This </i>is the seat of a millennia old tradition of magicians?<br/>
<br/>
Joe pushes the gate open and disappears inside as you open the trunk and haul out that suitcase of yours.  Another car pulls up behind you whilst you are still fishing around in the trunk.  You suppress a smile when you turn round and recognise the battered, worn and barely roadworthy junker.<br/>
<br/>
“Rick,” you say when the equally battered and worn driver climbs out.<br/>
<br/>
“Squirt,” he says noncommittally.  Rick frowns and looks past you.  You track his gaze to where Rosalie is getting out of the passenger side door.<br/>
<br/>
“This is Rosalie,” you explain.  “She’s the new member Joe found.  Rosalie this is Rick Bredon.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hello Mr Bredon,” says Rosalie shyly. <br/>
<br/>
“Just Rick,” he replies, still frowning.  Abruptly the frown vanishes, but he’s still looking at Rosalie, not you.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Rick,” calls Joe, bounding out of the house.  He half runs over.  “I gotta tell you, Prescott here made a mess of the challenge you set him.”  You scowl at Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“Getting through the airport,” asks Rick, his eyes narrowing.<br/>
<br/>
“He means getting him and Frank’s <i>imago</i>,” you explain.  “Getting through the airport went fine.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’ll need to tell me about it,” replies Rick.<br/>
<br/>
“I worked out who he really was as soon as I saw him,” says Joe a little too smugly.<br/>
<br/>
“Actually Mr Bredon,” interrupts Rosalie, ignoring Rick’s protestations of ‘Just Rick’.  “Will managed to get both Frank and Joe’s <i>imagos </i>without either of them noticing.”  Joe looks stunned at the interruption, not quite believing what he has just heard.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s true,” you admit.  “I can show you once we get inside.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick barks a short laugh.  “I guess you can tell me about that too,” he says with a rare grin.<br/>
<br/>
“Can I find out where I’m putting this first,” you ask, indicating your suitcase.<br/>
<br/>
“Nice suitcase squirt.  Colour really suits you.” </span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: A Passing Grade
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“It was part of my disguise to get through the airport back in London,” you explain, watching Joe lead Rosalie inside the house.  Rick grunts noncommittally.  “I travelled as Hélène because I thought she would give me more options,” you explain circumspectly.  Rick nods, indicating he gets your meaning.  “And this little pink suitcase was perfect for her.”<br/>
<br/>
“Good attention to detail,” replies Rick.  “Come inside, we’ll talk about it.”  He leads you into the house, taking you through the small living room, past the tired looking artificial Christmas tree, and into a poky kitchen at the back.  <br/>
<br/>
Charles Brennan stands there, bent over the cooker, working away at the grill.  “Sir,” you say respectfully.<br/>
<br/>
He straightens up and turns round.  The ruddy face breaks out into a grin.  “Easy there son,” he says warmly.  “Welcome to Olympia.  It isn’t much, but it’s home.  I’d offer you something, but you have the look of a man with his mind on business.”<br/>
<br/>
Your mouth gapes a little at the informality of it all.  “Thank you sir,” you reply once you regain your composure.  “I was going to report to Rick about the assignment he gave me.  That is, if it’s ok with you.”<br/>
<br/>
“You do that Will son,” replies Charles with a twinkling smile.  “There’ll be plenty of time to get down to our business tomorrow.  Besides, I imagine Kali will be tired from her trip too.”<br/>
<br/>
“Kali’s here,” you ask enthusiastically.<br/>
<br/>
“Came up with Rick,” explains Charles.<br/>
<br/>
“I dropped her off earlier,” interrupts Rick.  “Had an errand to run myself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Must have been a dry trip up from Los Angeles.  You’ll find a bottle of bourbon in the last cupboard in the row Rick,” says Charles.  “Help yourself.”  <br/>
<br/>
Rick licks his chapped looking lips and opens the cupboard.  He fishes out a bottle and glass tumbler quickly.  “Thank you Mr Brennan,” he says with uncharacteristic respect.  “Come on squirt,” he says to you, flipping back into his more normal way of speaking.  <br/>
<br/>
He leads you back through the house to a small study.  A small and heavily worn wooden desk is pushed against a window that looks out onto the street.  A single bookcase leans precarious by one wall, crammed full of old looking leather bound books with faded titles.  Rick takes one cramped looking wooden seat and gesture you into the other.<br/>
<br/>
“So spill it squirt,” says Rick as he pours himself a generous measure from the bottle he took from the kitchen.  The label says it’s cheap stuff, barely a step above household cleaners but Rick savours the smell of it long and hard.  “How’d you get through security at Heathrow?”<br/>
<br/>
You explain your progress through the airport carefully, making sure to describe the choices you made.  He nods as you talk and such is your level of detail, he only has to press for clarification on a couple of occasions.  As you progress, your attention fixes less on what you are saying – you know it already – and more onto Rick’s reactions.  He’s not impressed, but you don’t think impressed is a word anyone would use to describe Rick.  Satisfied is a better word – as if a difficult and troublesome task has been put to bed and no longer needs attention.<br/>
<br/>
“That was a solid effort squirt,” he says, draining the last of his glass as you finish.  “You planned it out well, paid attention to the detail – hell that suitcase really was a nice touch, whatever anyone says – and you didn’t make a mess of anybody’s life this time.”  He puts the glass down on the desk and leans forward, fixing you with a stare.  “Might have been interesting if something <i>had </i>gone wrong with it, just to see how you’d have handled that.”  You squirm uncomfortably.  “Relax squirt, I’m happy enough with how you did.”  Happy isn’t a word you’d use to describe Rick either.  “Now, you gonna tell me how you pulled a fast one on the kid?”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, he worked out who I was pretty quickly,” you explain.  “I’d tried to get close to him as Hélène, but I’d forgotten he’d read that story of Kali’s about her.  Between that and you telling him to watch out for pretty Arab girls with green eyes he spotted me easily.”<br/>
<br/>
“Kid always was good at making deductions,” murmurs Rick to himself.<br/>
<br/>
“But Rosalie offered to help me,” you explain.  “I used her <i>imago </i>to get close to Joe and once I’d knocked him out we switched back round.  I walked in the door just as he woke up so he wouldn’t think I was Rosalie.  We even put his clock back five minutes just so he wouldn’t realise he’d lost any time.”<br/>
<br/>
“Clever,” mutters Rick scratching at his stubble.  “I’d say getting someone to help you was cheating but given the look on the kid’s face when he realised you played him, I’m gonna let it slide.”  He pours himself another drink.  “You still got her <i>imago</i>?”<br/>
<br/>
You look at Rick.  It’s an innocent enough question, but that’s what worries you.  Although his face betrays nothing, you wonder angles he’s working out inside his mind.  “I deleted it,” you answer.  “I didn’t need it anymore.  That’s what I said I’d do, remember”<br/>
<br/>
“Pity,” he murmurs, sniffing at his drink.  “What’d you think of her?”<br/>
<br/>
“She seems really kind,” you say with a shrug.  “Generous.”  Should you tell him about her betrothal to your cousin?  It dredges up memories you’d rather forget about.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s Glundandra for you,” say Rick before you get a chance to continue.  “And speaking of being generous, since you managed to get Frank and Joe’s <i>imagos </i>with them both none the wiser, I’ll forget about the money you owe me.  My little present for you making the apprentice grade.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks Rick,” you grin.  “Wait, making the apprentice grade, what does that mean?”<br/>
<br/>
“It means we get you out of the classroom,” says Rick with a rare grin.  “Congrats squirt, you’re going to be working with one of us directly now.”<br/>
<br/>
“Is it gonna be you Rick,” you ask enthusiastically.<br/>
<br/>
“Could be squirt, could be,” answers Rick, rubbing his chin.  “Truth is me and Kali ain’t the only ones invited to this little get together.  Nash Cairns is about somewhere, garage probably.  The Jesuit too, but I think he’s here for the kid.  Maria Cardozo should get here sometime this evening, you met her at Margaret’s funeral.  Miko’s due in a couple of days.  She had to fly back to Japan to deal with something called a kuchisake-onna, which she tells me is some kind of incredibly polite demon.”  Rick shrugs as if confused.  “Could be you end up apprenticed to any one of them.”<br/>
<br/>
“Why,” you ask.  “Most of what I’ve learned is with you and Kali.”<br/>
<br/>
“Charles will want to see what your other <i>ousiarch </i>is,” explains Rick.  “He’ll make a decision that’s right for both you and whoever you end up with.”  He shrugs again.  “May even be he’ll let you make the decision yourself.  That’s his style.”<br/>
<br/>
The door to the office bursts open and Joe sticks his head.  “There you are,” he grins before taking a bite out of some grilled cheese.  “I’ll show you round.”<br/>
<br/>
You look to Rick.  “We’re done here,” he nods.  “You’re gonna have a busy few days ahead if yourself so you’d best get settled in.  I gotta speak to your Dad anyway Joe.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” you say, hoisting your suitcase and following Joe.  He darts ahead of you, excited to be back home.  You follow him back through the living room and down a short hall.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s my room there,” says Joe.  Out of sheer nosiness you poke your head round the door to take a look at where Joe grew up.  It’s small but crowded, with a bunk bed, another small desk and a bookshelf crammed with books and model airplanes.  You permit yourself a small smile – most of the titles on the shelves are Hardy Boys books.  Through the window you can see the shed at the bottom of the modestly sized garden<br/>
<br/>
“Rosalie not staying here,” you ask, closing the door to Frank and Joe’s childhood room behind you.<br/>
<br/>
“It wouldn’t be right,” shivers Joe.  “And Dad’s a little old fashioned that way.”  He looks around the hall for a few seconds before opening a linen closet.  The oddly pentagonal shape of the closet walls makes your eyes water.  That’s when you realise there’s actually a flight of stairs set in one wall of the closet.  “Guest rooms are this way,” he says, pointing up the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
“Attic space,” you ask unhappily.  You’re tall enough and clumsy enough that the heavily sloped roof of an attic bedroom is going to cause to you to bump your head a lot.  For a moment you wonder if Rosalie will have the same problem – she’s the same height as you after all.<br/>
<br/>
“Something like that,” grins Joe.  You follow him up the stairs, which improbably end in another linen closet.  Joe opens the door at the top and steps out…<br/>
<br/>
…into another hall.<br/>
<br/>
There’s no way this could fit in the roof space.  Now you think about it, those stairs should have cut Joe’s room in half. Half a dozen doors lead to different rooms and there’s <i>another </i>linen closet opposite the one you’ve just come out by.  “Great isn’t it,” says Joe, seeing your confusion.  “Dad only uses it when we have lots of guests over.  That’s your room there, just try not to think too much about the view from the window.” he explains pointing at an open door.  “Rosalie’s just opposite you.”<br/>
<br/>
You enter your room while Joe heads to Rosalie’s.  The guest room is simply furnished - a plain looking bed, a small writing desk and an old fashioned looking wardrobe.  There are a couple of empty shelves on the wall.  Almost empty, you notice that someone, probably Kali, has placed the leather bound notebook that served as your dream journal in L.A. on one of the shelves.<br/>
<br/>
With a sigh you lift the little pink suitcase onto the bed and open it.  There are two sets of clothes inside, a ‘Will’ set and a ‘Hélène’ set.  You travelled to Olympia as Will to avoid Frank realising who you really were.  Now that you are here, there’s nothing to stop you being Hélène, save that it might upset Kali.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: In Which Frustrating Little Progress Is Made
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You’re glad you stuck with being Will, given how much time you spent with Kali yesterday.  Rick wasn’t wrong when he said you’d be busy - yesterday was filled from just after breakfast to just before bed time with a run of horoscope sessions and dream analysis.  It started off with just Kali in the morning – no ground that you hadn’t covered already in L.A. and was predictably fruitless.  Charles took over lunch.  When he failed to make any progress they started working together.  Even Joe had been drafted in during the evening.  The little study had been very crowded at that point, but still the horoscopes were coming up blank and still the meditations on your dreams had revealed nothing.<br/>
<br/>
This morning was a little worse.  You’d found both Kali and Charles waiting for you together in the small study.  Yesterday they switched techniques every so often – jumping from horoscope to meditation and back again.  Today they just ran one long, long horoscope.  It seemed easy enough at the start, just answering the questions.  As they got deeper and deeper the questions became odder and odder:  ‘If you had a cat, and it died, what would you call the replacement’, ‘What’s your favourite colour, sour or deafening’.  Kali’s insistence that you answer immediately and instinctively only makes matters worse.  The constant barrage of questions has left you with a pounding headache.<br/>
<br/>
“This is no good Charles,” says Kali, midway through the third hour.  “Every question simply pulls him in an opposite direction.”  She taps her pen on her notepad.  “His first <i>ousiarch </i>is Sulva, there is no doubt of that.  It’s clear after only a handful of questions.”<br/>
<br/>
“But we can’t find the second,” says Charles rubbing at his beard.  “We could try a few more questions…”<br/>
<br/>
“What would that achieve,” snaps Kali irritably.  It seems you aren’t the only one who has been driven to distraction by all this.  “The first would push him towards Malacandra, the second would negate the association in favour of Catilindria and the third lead us in a different direction entirely.  We are chasing shadows here!”<br/>
<br/>
“I hear what your saying Kali,” says Charles unhappily.  “What would you suggest?”<br/>
<br/>
Kali thinks for a while.  “We have analysed and re-analysed every dream in his journal three times over now.  I am loathe to suggest it, but perhaps a conversation with Ed might loosen up a few avenues of inquiry.”<br/>
<br/>
Ed, <i>Father </i>Ed, has been Joe’s personal demon since you arrived here.  Apparently it’s not just enough for Joe to say sorry for not telling anyone about Rosalie, but he has to work out why he made the bad decision and work out some kind of penance for it.  Judging by the rather haunted expression on Joe’s face at mealtimes yesterday, it has not been a pleasant experience for him<br/>
<br/>
“Sitting right here,” you whine.  “Do I really need to see him?”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sorry Will,” says Kali.  “But we are making frustratingly little progress here.  If we cannot work out your second <i>ousiarch </i>we need to know <i>why </i>we cannot work out your second <i>ousiarch</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
“But didn’t I go through all in Oxford,” you plead.<br/>
<br/>
“After a fashion,” says Kali stiffly, brushing away a little moisture from her eyes.  Margaret’s death is still too close for Kali not to feel a tug of emotions whenever she thinks of her.  “But in that case you were more worried about your powers.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’ll find that Ed’s style is a little different as well son,” says Charles.  “Less pleasant maybe, but sometimes if something’s worth doing, it’s going to be a little hard.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t have much choice, do I,” you ask resignedly.<br/>
<br/>
“Not if you want to find out your other <i>ousiarch </i>son.”<br/>
<br/>
“I do want to find it out,” you say fervently.  “It’s hard to explain what it feels like.  Every I meet someone it’s like ‘here’s this guy, he’s this planet and that planet’ and then when they introduce me it ‘here’s Will, Sulva and we don’t actually know yet’.  It’s almost like I feel incomplete…” you trail off sadly.<br/>
<br/>
“We’re going to get this sorted Will,” says Charles.  “I promise you that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“Well the good news son is that Ed’s a little too busy to speak to you today,” adds Charles with a little forced smile.  If Ed’s too busy, it’s because he’s with Joe.  “So I guess you have the rest of the day free to use as you want.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir,” you say again before trudging back up to your bedroom.  You lie on the bed for a while, thoroughly miserable.<br/>
<br/>
There is a brief knock at the door and Rosalie comes in.  “Hi Will,” she says shyly as you sit up on the bed.  You smile vaguely at her and mumble a greeting.  “Maria was just going to take me shopping.  I heard you were free for the rest of the day and thought you might like to come”<br/>
<br/>
“I suppose I have some Christmas shopping to do,” you say.  “Not that I have much money.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie smiles.  “Just wait there a second,” she says and darts back out the room.  You stand up from the bed and briefly ponder what it is whilst staring out the window.  After a few minutes she returns, setting down a pile of clothes on your bed before sitting next to them.<br/>
<br/>
“Uh… What,” you mumble.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie suddenly looks very abashed.  “Well Maria’s going to buy me some clothes so…” she says nervously before finding the courage to look you in the eye.  “I was hoping you would model for me.”<br/>
<br/>
You almost laugh at that.  “I’m not sure I should do that,” you say with a faint smile.  “I only take <i>imagos </i>I need.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well I <i>need </i>to make sure that I don’t buy a dress that makes my ass look big,” says Rosalie, surprisingly defiantly.  Now that does make you burst out in laughter.  Rosalie joins in giggling along.  “You’ll do it then,” she asks.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” you reply.  “Just the face, I’ll delete any memories I pick up.”  The last thing you want to do is find yourself thinking of Will Shabbleman, and what happened to him.<br/>
<br/>
“Ok, go,” smiles Rosalie, closing her eyes.  You tap her on the forehead and gently lower her back onto your bed.  As you wait for Rosalie to wake back up, you blast away the memories you have picked up from her.  “Did you get it,” she asks sitting up again.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” you reply.  “Do you have a spare pair of glasses or something,” you ask.  “Otherwise I’m going to have difficulty seeing once I make the change.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie thinks for a second.  “Take these ones,” she says, removing the circular tortoiseshell rimmed pair she usually wears.  “I’ll get my spare pair from my room and meet you in the living room,” she says before leaving.<br/>
<br/>
You close the bedroom door and strip before letting yourself settle into Rosalie’s <i>imago</i>.  Turning left and right, you examine her in the mirror on the wall.  There’s a leanness to her, one that’s usually hidden under the shapeless clothes she wears.  It’s almost as if she’s ready to burst into motion and run and run.  You cup her small breasts then blush guiltily – this is too much of an invasion of privacy.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn’t take long to get dressed the clothes Rosalie has given you:  Loose jeans and a roll neck sweater over a plain tee and functional underwear.  Everything comes into focus when you put on her glasses and you take one last quick look in the mirror.  Rosalie stares back at you, but the unkempt hair and lack of makeup irritates some small part of you.  You fetch your Hélène makeup bag and hair brush and spend a few minutes tidying up your new face.  A few well placed clips and a comb take care of the wild hair.<br/>
<br/>
It’s a different Rosalie that stares back at you from the mirror when you are done:  One with makeup that enhances those kind brown eyes, one whose face is carefully framed by a few strands of hair while the rest is tied up at the back neatly.  Maybe you can show her how to do this later.<br/>
<br/>
The living room is empty when you arrive, so you take a seat by the Christmas tree and wait, wondering what could be holding up Rosalie.  It is Joe who enters the room first though, his face unusually glum.  His shoulders are slumped, weighed down by his burdens.  He looks at you but lacks the energy to muster even a half-smile.<br/>
<br/>
You get to your feet, moved by a sudden feeling of compassion that comes from nowhere.  You want nothing more than to alleviate whatever weights are eating away at Joe’s soul and bring him back to his natural balance.  Wordlessly, you hug him, rubbing at his back.  He lays his head on your shoulder and you hear him stifle a sob.<br/>
<br/>
You stand there for a few minutes, just holding him silently.  Then Joe lifts his head, his mouth meets yours and before you realise it he’s kissing you.  You pull away from him quickly.  He looks at you confused.<br/>
<br/>
“Sorry I took so long Will,” says Rosalie as she enters the room.  “It took me forever to find my spare glasses.”<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Twins, Again
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“I’m not angry at <i>you</i>,” says Rosalie for about the third time, twisting round in the passenger seat of Maria’s hire car to speak to you.  “It was an honest mistake.  And it was Joe that kissed you remember.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know what came over me,” you sigh, looking out the window as the streets roll by.  “He just seemed so pathetic looking and I thought ‘I have to cheer him up’.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s the sort of thing I do.  Are you sure you removed all me memories,” Rosalie asks, a touch of worry clear in her voice  <br/>
<br/>
You check your collection of <i>imagos </i>quickly and nod.  “This is really awkward.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie’s mouth forms an O shape.  “Oh my god,” she squeaks.  “You have a thing for Joe.  You totally have a thing for Joe,” she titters.<br/>
<br/>
“I do not,” you protest hotly, your cheeks colouring.  Maria’s eyes flicker to the rear view mirror and you have the feeling she’s watching you unhappily.  You suddenly remember her giving Hal Swann quite the bawling out after Margaret’s funeral.  “He just caught me by surprise.”<br/>
<br/>
“If you say so,” she teases.  She seems a lot more relaxed when she’s talking to, well, herself you guess.  “Oh this is going to be so cool,” she squees.  “Maria said she was going to take me to get my hair styled afterwards too.  We can do that together as well.” Her enthusiasm wavers as she turns to Maria in the driving seat.  “Is that ok Maria?  Can Will come too,” she asks nervously.<br/>
<br/>
“I  had only booked for one of you,” says Maria a little tetchily, her voice lightly accented.  She sighs audibly, and perhaps a little overdramatically.  “Very well, I will see if they can do you both.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you,” you and Rosalie say in unison, which only serves to send you both into a fit of giggles.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
 You wander about the department store, clutching a swath of bags close to your chest.  Working in the Crystal Cave back in Saratoga Falls had earned you a little money and Kali had generously given you an allowance when you reached Olympia.  A lot of that money is gone now, spent on the presents in the shopping bags:  A fancy pen for Kali to write her stories with, a bottle of whiskey for Rick and a set of scarf and gloves for Maria, who has complained about the cold every five minutes since you left her car.  Some of the others you aren’t so sure about, so you’ve stuck with the kind of meaningless gifts you used to buy your parents every year – ties, boxes of chocolates, that sort of thing.<br/>
<br/>
It almost makes you nostalgic for home and for a few seconds you ponder what the double that has been filling in for you back home is getting your family for their Christmases.  Then you push the thoughts to one side as you feel tears start to well up in your eyes. <br/>
<br/>
You seem to have lost Maria and Rosalie for the moment though.  That’s not a bad thing – it gives you the chance to buy a present for Rosalie.  Looking around, you notice that you’ve walked into the jewellery section of the store.  Girls like jewellery don’t they?  The prices here are a little more than you had hoped to spend on anyone, but something tells you that’s ok for Rosalie.  After all, you are the only two Sulvae in the <i>Stellae </i>– that makes you close, right?<br/>
<br/>
You browse through the necklaces.  Rosalie already has a necklace, you’re sure of it.  You’ve caught the odd glimpse of it here and there, peeking out from underneath her clothes.  Sometimes she has a habit of grasping at it.  Now that you think about it, Rosalie’s necklace is a bit old and worn out – it’s made from stained wood and chipped in places.  A replacement would make for a nice gift.<br/>
<br/>
“Can I help you,” asks a sales assistant suddenly hovering next to you.  She’s maybe in her thirties and expression is one of carefully pasted on politeness.  The assistant watches your bags carefully.<br/>
<br/>
“I was looking for a necklace for my… uh… sister,” you say.  “Twin sister actually.  She looks just like me,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
“Uh huh,” replies the assistant.  “And how much were you willing to spend?”  You tell her, it is a pitifully small amount compared to some of the most expensive items here.  “I see,” replies the assistant.  She directs you over to a shelf of simple looking necklaces.  Nothing very expensive, almost costume jewellery really.<br/>
<br/>
“Silver,” you ask nervously.  You aren’t sure why, but the metal seems appropriate.  The assistant sighs and shows you another shelf.  This one is more expensive but still affordable.  You settle on a simple chain with a trio of small red gems hanging from it.  The sales assistant is mildly surprised when you count out the cash to buy it. Her surprise grows when Rosalie appears at your side just after you’ve placed your purchase with the rest of your bags.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Will… uh.. ow…  uh…  Willow,” says Rosalie, grabbing you by your arm.  Inwardly you groan at feeble attempt at deception.  “You’ve been busy,” she adds, looking at your bags<br/>
<br/>
“Rosalie,” you reply with a smile.  “I think I’ve got something for everyone now.”<br/>
<br/>
“Great,” says Rosalie.  She hooks her arm round yours and leads you away from the sales assistant.  “Let’s go find Maria.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The hair salon is busy when you arrive, full of women and girls of all ages getting one last touch up before Christmas.  Despite this, Maria seems to have succeeded in wrangling the extra appointment for you.  Your bags are carried away from you and placed somewhere safe before a bored looking stylist leads you to an empty chair.  She looks barely older than you.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie is in the chair next to you.  She takes off her glasses and sets them on her lap as the stylist working with her, middle aged and with an obviously fake tan if you are any judge, wraps a cloth round her to protect her clothes.<br/>
<br/>
Your stylist looks at you pointedly.  “Can’t do anything with that comb in,” she says before blowing a bubble with her gum.  It pops loudly and she draws the mess back inside her mouth with her teeth.  You take the hint and draw the comb out yourself, setting it and your glasses on your lap.<br/>
<br/>
“So honey,” says Rosalie’s stylist to her as your own wraps her cloth round you.  “What’ll it be?”  You glance at the mirror – with your clothes hidden and your hair down, you and Rosalie now look completely identical.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie looks frightened, almost as if she’s never had her hair cut like this.  Given the way her hair looks you can’t discount the possibility.  You, however, at least have some of Hélène and Arabela’s experience’s to draw upon.  However, before you can interrupt, Maria walks over and starts talking very low and fast with Rosalie’s stylist<br/>
<br/>
“Well,” says your stylist abruptly.  Maria is still talking to Rosalie’s stylist, so it looks like you are on your own.  With a little help from Arabela’s memories, you manage to cobble together a request.  The stylist nods brusquely and gets to work.<br/>
<br/>
You relax and let her do her job.  To your side, Rosalie does the same.  In the mirror, you can see Maria is now talking to the salon’s manageress, a cup of coffee in her hands.  The odd thing is, she’s looking directly at you.  You have no idea what you did to annoy her this time.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and let your mind drift.  A memory from Saratoga Falls surfaces:  Climbing down the circular stairs at Blackwell’s house, the weight of something across your shoulders.  In the secret basement you drop your load to the floor.  It is Will Shabbleman, and his head lolls uselessly as he lays there.  Even though you purged her memories, a little Rosalie part of you squeaks at the discovery.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes snap open and you look at Rosalie.  She’s sitting there, staring straight into the mirror with wide eyes as her stylist transforms her look.  A strong current of guilt seeps from your stomach.  You know the truth about her fiancé and you haven’t told her.<br/>
<br/>
You breathe deeply and centre yourself, struggling to manage even such a basic part of your meditation exercises.  It takes some effort, but you manage to push the thoughts of Will Shabbleman to one side and close your eyes again.<br/>
<br/>
Another memory pushes its way to the front of your mind:  A mask sinking into the face of Aubey Blackwell.  You watch as his form melts into that of Jonathan Straussler.  Will Shabbleman’s killer, or as close enough that makes no difference.  You <i>helped </i>him escape.  The tide of guilt washes back over you and you grit your teeth.  It takes every fibre of your being, straining in concert not to yelp out.<br/>
<br/>
A third memory arrives, this one far more recent:  You and Rosalie talking in the truck on the way to Olympia.  She asks about Will Shabbleman.  She asks about Will Shabbleman and you <i>lie </i>to her.  The sense of guilt washes higher and higher.  You are sinking in it and you cannot bear it a moment longer.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes snap open again.  “Rosalie,” you say quietly.  She turns her head very slightly to get a better look at you.  “I know what happened to your betrothed.  I know what happened to Will Shabbleman.”<br/>
<br/>
She says nothing for a few moments.  “What,” she says in a very small voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Professor Blackwell killed him,” you reply.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: A Secret Revealed
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The stylist working on Rosalie puts down her scissors.  “I think we need to give you a few minutes alone honey,” she says quietly.  She gestures to the stylist working on you and the pair of them retreat to the back of the salon, leaving you and Rosalie isolated enough to talk in peace.<br/>
<br/>
“What happened,” says Rosalie stiffly.  In the mirror you can see Maria glaring angrily at you.  Well, she’s really annoyed now, but there’s not much you can do about that.  You’ve told Rosalie about Will Shabbleman and you have to follow that all the way through to the end now.<br/>
<br/>
“It was a couple of months ago,” you explain slowly, keeping your voice quiet enough so that only Rosalie can hear you.  “Blackwell had taken me and the other Will as apprentices but he decided he only really wanted one of us.  He pitted us against one another, without even telling me, to decide who he would keep.”  You look at the mirror, at the copy of Rosalie’s face you wear and sigh.  “I can’t say I outsmarted him, I was just lucky enough to be the stronger one.  Blackwell chose me.  The last I saw of your betrothed was in a hidden dungeon at Blackwell’s house.”<br/>
<br/>
“He might still be alive then,” whispers Rosalie in an odd voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Frank and Joe never found him before they burned down Blackwell’s house,” you explain.  “So either Blackwell killed him, or turned him into a golem and hid him somewhere.  Without finding Blackwell, we’ll never know the truth.  I’m sorry Rosalie.”<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t be,” she says with quiet vehemence.  Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “If this Professor Blackwell had set the two of you at each others throats, my Will wouldn’t have stopped until you were dead.  It wouldn’t have been the first time he killed someone either.”<br/>
<br/>
You can’t think what to say.  You knew what your cousin was like, but never expected him to have been that bad.  “But I could have stopped the Professor,” you manage to stutter once you find your voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Will Shabbleman was a bastard and got what was coming to him,” snarls Rosalie.  She grasps at her neck and stares at the ceiling.  “Do you hear that?  I’ve said it.  I’m glad that he’s gone.”  Just as suddenly the fire dims from Rosalie’s eyes and she is herself again.  She turns to look at you.  “I know which Will I’d rather have here,” she says calmly, extending her hand from under the covers.<br/>
<br/>
You mirror the gesture, taking hold of her hand.  “I’m sorry Rosalie,” you say quietly.  “I should have told you sooner but I was scared you’d be mad at me for my part in all of it.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie gives your hand a squeeze.  “Why would I hate you,” she says, smiling with a genuine and beatific warmth.<br/>
<br/>
Your hands linger for a second and slip apart.  As you both fall silent and focus on the mirrors in front of you the two stylists return from the back of the salon.  Rosalie’s stylist launches straight back into action on her hair, chatting inconsequentially all the while.<br/>
<br/>
The stylist working on your hair looks a little out of sorts.  She picks up her scissors, but they hang listlessly from her hands.  Eventually she leans down and whispers into your ear.  “What’s it like, having a twin?”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Joe is sitting in the living room with Charles when you return.  He breaks off from a low conversation with his dad as you and Rosalie manoeuvre your shopping bags through the door.<br/>
<br/>
“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he says to Rosalie as he stands up.  You smile faintly at Charles who is regarding you and Rosalie with a knowing grin.  “Unless it your hair I’m supposed to like what you’ve done with,” he adds, talking to you.  “How about I like what both of you have done with your hair.”<br/>
<br/>
You glance at Rosalie, who is fairly glowing at the compliment.  “Which do you like better though,” you ask quietly.  It’s not a perfect copy of Rosalie’s nervousness, since you expunged all her memories and persona earlier, but it’s close enough to throw Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s not fair,” he mugs.  “Which of you is Rosalie?”<br/>
<br/>
“I am,” both you and Rosalie say in unison.  “He’s Will,” you each both add, pointing at the other.<br/>
<br/>
Joe rolls his eyes.  “Ok, ok, which of you is Prescott then,” he tries.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie glances at you with a sly grin on her face.  “I’m Will,” she says.<br/>
<br/>
“No, I’m Will,” you counter.  The pair of you burst into laughter.  Joe looks confused for a fee moments before joining in.  Even Charles manages a chuckle or two.  Only Maria doesn’t seem interested.  She passes through the living room, barely looking at any of you.  She taps at her cell phone irritably before heading in the direction of the guest rooms.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie brings the laughter to an end by throwing her arms round Joe and kissing him deeply.  You look away with a touch of embarrassment as Joe picks up Rosalie’s bags and helps her take them back to her room.<br/>
<br/>
“That was well done Will son,” says Charles, after they have left.<br/>
<br/>
“Hmmm,” you reply, a little unsure.<br/>
<br/>
“Joe needed cheering up,” he explains.<br/>
<br/>
“He actually liked that,” you ask.  Charles laughs again.<br/>
<br/>
“Well each to their own, and Joe’s always been fond of a little bit of frivolity,” he explains.  “You and Rosalie make for a good team,” he adds.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir,” you say grabbing hold of your bags.  You make your excuses and head for your room, carrying your shopping bags with you.  As you open the door to your room you spot Maria at the opposite end of the hall, still playing with her cell phone.  She disappears inside her door.<br/>
<br/>
On instinct, you drop your bags in your room and follow up the hall.  The door to Maria’s room is ajar and you hover by it.  A quick peek inside and you see that she’s dialling someone on her phone.  You shouldn’t eavesdrop on her, you really shouldn’t, but there’s been something odd about her behaviour, something that you just can’t quite articulate.<br/>
<br/>
So you summon your cloak and wrap it round her.<br/>
<br/>
It’s a risk, of course, but you’ve used your cloak on Miko, Rick and Kali without any of them being any the wiser.  You squeeze through the half open door, but stay just inside it, ready to bolt if you need to.<br/>
<br/>
Maria doesn’t notice you, instead she holds her phone up to her ear.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s me,” she says into the phone.  There is a pause as the person on the other end talks to her, you cannot make out what they say.  “There was a problem,” explains Maria.  “She brought the Prescott boy with her and insisted he spend the afternoon looking like her.”<br/>
<br/>
Another pause.  You can see a scowl forming on Maria’s face.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes that is exactly what happened.  It was in the salon, I couldn’t see their clothes.  They looked identical.  I hit the one that looked out of place having their hair styled,” she explains irritably.  She pauses briefly again, cocking her head to listen.  “Guilt isn’t an emotion I’m used to working with.  It takes a while to get ready to use it.  Next time do it yourself.”<br/>
<br/>
She stops talking again.  You stare at her goggle eyed.  Is Maria responsible for your outburst earlier today?  That seems to be what she is saying.  More importantly, she meant to, whatever it was it she did – manipulate your guilt somehow, do it on Rosalie.  <br/>
<br/>
“Well it’s not my fault you lack the finesse to do it, idiot,” screeches Maria, hanging up.  She throws the cell phone into her handbag and storms out the room.<br/>
<br/>
You exit yourself a few minutes later a lot on your mind.  On one hand, another member of the <i>Stellae </i>has tried to use their prodigies on you secretly – and you leave aside the irony that you just did the same to them in return to find this out.  That’s a worry in itself.<br/>
<br/>
It’s why she did it that really frightens you.  Maria managed to force a secret out of you by stoking your guilt.  If she really meant to use her prodigy on Rosalie, does that mean she thinks Rosalie has some sort of hidden secret?  Rosalie has been nothing but kind and considerate since you met her, exactly as you might expect given her Glundandra <i>ousiarch</i>.<br/>
<br/>
Except Rosalie’s other <i>ousiarch </i>is Sulva, and you know personally that Sulva lends itself to deception.  Is Rosalie kind and considerate because she wants you to think she is kind and considerate?<br/>
<br/>
Your head is starting to hurt right now, just thinking about the possibility of all the deception and double dealing.  It might be an idea to talk to someone and find out what the hell is going on.<br/>
<br/>
But what if you talk to the wrong person?</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Not What You Were Expecting
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Rick catches up with you the following morning, just outside the little study where you are supposed to meet Father Ed.<br/>
<br/>
“Morning squirt,” he says nonchalantly.<br/>
<br/>
You consider telling him about what you overheard in Maria’s room previously, but then you remember his rule number two – trust no one.  He very specifically included himself in that rule, you recall.  Then there’s his rule number seventeen – always act dumber than you are.  Right now you know very little, only that something odd is going on.  Better to pretend to know nothing – that way no one knows that you know.  You hate to think the worst, but if the wrong people found out you knew something…<br/>
<br/>
“Hey Rick,” you say after a few moments.<br/>
<br/>
“Everything ok,” he asks.  “I heard you took Rosalie’s <i>imago </i>again yesterday.  Must have been fun seeing the kid all confused.  Did you keep it this time,” he asks, almost as an afterthought.<br/>
<br/>
“Rosalie asked me to keep the face,” you admit.  “But I’ve removed all her memories again.”  That was the first thing you did when you captured the <i>imago </i>yesterday, of course.  Now that you think about it, if you hadn’t done that you could get right to the bottom of this mystery in seconds.<br/>
<br/>
“Hmmm,” says Rick, frowning.  “Well, I just wanted to offer you one piece of advice before you speak to the Jesuit.  Don’t let him push you around squirt.  He thinks everybody’s guilty of something.  Trouble is, he’s probably right, but that’s just the way the world works.  No sense in getting all het up about it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks Rick,” you reply.  He opens the door for you and you walk into the study.<br/>
<br/>
Charles and Father Ed are already there, embroiled in a heated discussion which fades to nothing as soon as they spot you.  You sit down opposite Charles, who has a long suffering look on his face.  He gives you an encouraging wink.<br/>
<br/>
“This your shapeshifter then Chuck,” says Ed, squeezing himself into one of the wooden chairs in the study.  He’s a tall man with a grim face.  His glasses, ugly square things chosen for price rather than style, frame flinty blue eyes.  He stares at you with barely concealed displeasure.  “Hear you were running around dressed up as our new Glundandra yesterday young man,” he adds addressing you directly.  “You like pretending to be a girl?”<br/>
<br/>
The question throws you off balance.  “No,” you squawk urgently.  Ed continues to stare at you and you squirm in your chair.  “She asked me to do it,” you explain, the words tumbling out urgently.<br/>
<br/>
“So you’re blaming <i>her </i>then,” says Ed with a touch of smugness.  “What is it you’re saying, she’s some kind of deviant?”<br/>
<br/>
You’re left with the sinking feeling that there’s nothing you’ll say that Ed won’t twist or misunderstand in some way.  He’s a Catilindria, of course, and a contrarian streak isn’t unusual for them.  <i>Don’t let him push you around</i>.  You’ve had plenty of practice with Miko.  “No,” you reply, struggling to assert yourself and remain calm.  “I think she just wants someone to talk to.  I’m the one with most in common with her, and it’s easier still if she’s talking to herself.”  Ed lets out an unsatisfied harrumph.<br/>
<br/>
“We’re not here to accuse anybody of anything,” says Charles patiently.  “We just want to shed a little light on why Will’s second <i>ousiarch </i>is so hard to find.”<br/>
<br/>
“When you shine a light into the dark,” replies Ed, slowly and deliberately.  “Sometimes you are going to see things you wish you hadn’t.”  It almost sounds like a challenge and the two men stare at each other.  Something seems to pass between them, although you cannot make out what.  “Ok Chuck,” says Ed a little more meekly.  “Where do you want to start?”<br/>
<br/>
“At the very beginning,” replies Charles.<br/>
<br/>
The very beginning means how you found the Libra in Arnholm’s back in Saratoga Falls.  You explain how you returned it to the store as quickly as you could, but ended up selling it to Aubrey Blackwell instead.  “He identified that I had magical talent, although he didn’t really tell me that at first.”<br/>
<br/>
“What <i>did </i>he do,” asks Ed pointedly.<br/>
<br/>
“He sort of cursed some boys that were bullying me,” you explain.<br/>
<br/>
“And you let him,” ask Ed with just a note of smugness in his voice.<br/>
<br/>
“I didn’t know what he was doing,” you squeak anxiously.<br/>
<br/>
“Peace, both of you,” chides Charles.  “I think you better describe this curse in detail Will.”<br/>
<br/>
You explain how Blackwell marked a number of bills with what you now know was a sigil, and how you passed them out to the bullies at Westside.  They all became terrified of you after that.  It solved your bullying problem for sure, but it also created a host of new ones as the cursed notes passed about the school and almost everyone started to feel the bullies’ revulsion second or third hand.  <br/>
<br/>
Charles asks you to draw the sigil, giving you a piece of paper from a notepad to do it.  You draw it carefully from memory, but place it on the desk when you are finished rather than hand it to him.  He and Ed get out of their chairs to take a closer look.  When they sit back down a little burst of flame takes the note paper.  The smoke is darker than you might expect, but when it clears the paper and curse sigil are gone.<br/>
<br/>
“Nasty piece of work that,” mutters Charles under his breath.<br/>
<br/>
“How did that make you feel,” asks Ed slyly.  “Giving those bullies that curse?”<br/>
<br/>
“Creeped the hell out of me, if you’ll excuse my language,” you reply.  Ed gives you a dirty look but makes no comment.  “I liked not having my face punched in, but the way they reacted when they saw me…”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t think this is what we’re looking for,” pronounces Charles.  “Tell us what happened next son.”<br/>
<br/>
That’s when Blackwell told you about the magic, and the eventually the masks.  Ed presses you again about your feelings about what Blackwell told you.  There is an almost triumphant look in his eye when you admit that the possibilities excited you.  Before he can go further, you reach the point where your tale takes its first twist.<br/>
<br/>
“And that’s when I fell into the book, the <i>Libra</i>,” you explain.<br/>
<br/>
“How exactly did you fall in,” scoffs Ed, disbelieving you.<br/>
<br/>
“It was night, I’d snuck into the room where the Libra was being kept,” you explain.  “I looked through it, turned to a blank page, except it wasn’t blank any more.  In the moonlight it was covered in glowing silver letters and they seemed to react to my presence.”  You pause for a second.  Even now the memory of the guardian of Blackwell’s house sends shivers down your spine.  “I was attacked by something, and I sort of fell.  Into the book.”<br/>
<br/>
Ed scoffs again but Charles seems much more interested.  “What did you see?”<br/>
<br/>
“Sigils,” you explain.  “Giant, interlocking sigils, like the whole thing was one great clockwork mechanism, impossibly complex.  And when I woke up I was a golem.”  You go onto to explain what followed:  The time spent as Justin Roth.  How Blackwell set you and Will Shabbleman against each other. Meeting Frank and Joe.  You tell the whole tale slowly and carefully, yet Ed keeps on pressing for details and explanations.  You feel him pushing hard at you, and the feeling is not unlike the one you experienced in Margaret’s library.<br/>
<br/>
Charles grimaces a little as you reach the point where Frank gets possessed by Blackwell’s anima band.  It isn’t a happy part of the story.<br/>
<br/>
“He what?  Guiseppe did what to you,” interrupts Ed.  It takes you a few seconds to realise he means Frank.<br/>
<br/>
“Buried me,” you reply.  “Put me in a deep hole and left me there.”<br/>
<br/>
“And just how did you get out of that one,” snaps Ed.<br/>
<br/>
“I didn’t, I think,” you reply.  “Blackwell’s guardian, the thing that patrolled his house – I think it sort of ate me.  Then I sort of fell back <i>out </i>of the book, except mirrored like you see me now.”<br/>
<br/>
Ed laughs hollowly.  “That’s it?  You fell back out of the <i>Libra</i>?  We’re supposed to believe that?  What really happened?”<br/>
<br/>
“Ed,” says Charles quietly but forcefully.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t you ‘Ed’ me Chuck, he’s hiding something, I can smell it on him!”<br/>
<br/>
Are you hiding something?  You search your memories, seeing if there’s something you’ve missed.  Something long forgotten sparks in your mind.  “No, he’s right, there was something else.  When I passed through the <i>Libra </i>the second time I saw someone else,” you say.  Their argument stops instantly and they look at you, clearly surprised.  “An old man, in some sort of old fashioned lab.  He said something,” you continue.  The last piece of memory slides into place.  “He said I was ‘coming along nicely’.”<br/>
<br/>
“What do you think Chuck,” says Ed gravely.<br/>
<br/>
“I think we take damn close look at that book.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
 You stagger out of the study, drained.  Taking a close look at the book means fetching in from someplace Charles referred to as ‘The Archives’.  Nash Cairns, who you have met a couple of times in passing since arriving at Olympia is the man to do that.  Charles told you that it will take him a couple of days to fetch the <i>Libra </i>and return to Olympia.  That means he should return on Christmas Eve.<br/>
<br/>
That’s what you are getting for Christmas this year, you think as you stumble into the living room, your second ousiarch.<br/>
<br/>
You glance at your watch as you collapse into the couch besides Joe.  It’s late afternoon.  You hadn’t realised just how long you had spent in the study.  Joe’s watching television, one arm draped around Rosalie. She’s snuggling up to him, her head on Joe’s shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
“You ok Prescott,” he asks.<br/>
<br/>
“Just spent the day with Father Ed,” you manage to croak.<br/>
<br/>
“Ouch,” he says, somehow managing to convey a heartfelt sympathy into that one word.  “You gonna need to see him again,” he asks.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Night Before Christmas
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You shake your head weakly.  “I hope not,” you manage to say.<br/>
<br/>
“I hear you,” replies Joe.  He smiles wickedly.  “It can be fun tweaking his tail though.  Did they work out your second <i>ousiarch</i>?  No, wait, let me guess.  Is it Malacandra…  no… what about Kenandandra?”<br/>
<br/>
You haul yourself up until you are sitting upright rather than slouching near horizontally.  “They didn’t work it out yet.  Just found another clue”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh well dude,” says Joe with a half grin.  “At least you’re getting somewhere.  What was the mysterious clue,” he asks in a mock ominous voice.<br/>
<br/>
“Knock it off,” you sigh, giving Joe a shove.  “This is serious.  Your dad wants to have Nash take a look at the <i>Libra</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie unwinds herself from Joe as he sits up straight.  “Seriously,” he asks, the last traces of impishness vanishing from his face.  “They think it has something to do with your <i>ousiarchs</i>,” he ask.  You nod in reply.  “Wow,” he continues.  “That’s pretty heavy.”<br/>
<br/>
“Nash is going to get the <i>Libra </i>from the archives,” you explain.  “Your dad says he’ll be back with it in a couple of days.”<br/>
<br/>
“The archives,” interrupts Rosalie.  “What are they?”<br/>
<br/>
“Actually, that’s a really good question,” you say.  “Because your dad didn’t explain anymore than the <i>Libra </i>needs to be collected from them.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe leans back in his seat.  “Put it this way.  You know that bit at the end of that Indianna Jones film, the first one?”<br/>
<br/>
It’s an old film, but exactly the kind you’ve always liked, so you remember the ending pretty clearly:  The recovered ark of the covenant being boxed up and stored away in a large warehouse, all but forgotten.  “Yeah.”<br/>
<br/>
“Just like that,” replies Joe.  “Whenever we recover and artefact, it get’s taken to the archives and stored away carefully where it can’t do any harm.”<br/>
<br/>
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to destroy them,” asks Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
Joe shrugs.  “Sometimes that’s just as dangerous, if not more so.  It’s not just artefacts though.  Books, tomes, all kinds of knowledge, all stored away safely.  Nash and John Reilly know more about it than I do.”<br/>
<br/>
“So that’s where the <i>Libra </i>is stored,” says Rosalie quietly.  “And Nash is bringing it here.”<br/>
<br/>
“Just in time for Christmas,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“I hope they work out your <i>ousiarch </i>Will,” she says firmly.  “I really do.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
There isn’t much for you to do round the house till Nash returns with the book.  Rosalie seems to be spending most of her time with Kali and Joe is still busy with Ed.  That leaves you hanging and you spend most of the time watching old Christmas movies on the television.  When Rick offers you the chance to come with him and pick up Miko from the bus station in Olympia on the morning of Christmas Eve, you jump at the chance.<br/>
<br/>
The air is cold and there is an even spread of snow on the ground when you reach the town centre.  You thrust your hands deep into your pockets as you leave Ricks car.  The parking lot is just opposite the bus station and you hop along after Rick as he crosses the road.<br/>
<br/>
“What time does her bus get here,” you ask, carefully avoiding an icy looking puddle.<br/>
<br/>
Rick glances at the clock mounted atop a pillar at one end of the station.  “Soon,” he grunts monosyllabically.<br/>
<br/>
“She isn’t late or anything,” you ask, hopping from one foot to the other.  It is <i>cold</i>.  “She’d phone if she was wouldn’t she.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do I look like I have a cell phone on me,” shrugs Rick.  “She’ll get here when she get’s here.”<br/>
<br/>
You aren’t the only ones waiting.  A middle aged couple and an elderly man stand around nearby too, the man periodically checking his watch.  Luckily, the bus arrives soon after.  You were starting to freeze solid, you’re sure of it.  A young man barely older than yourself gets off first.  The middle aged couple spot him and he hugs them.  A slightly older woman and her young daughter follow, the little girl throwing herself round the elderly man’s legs.  People coming home for Christmas, you guess.<br/>
<br/>
Miko is the last person off the bus, a long sports bag hanging from one hand and a rucksack over her shoulder.  You shiver when you look at the sports bag, this time from nerves – her sword will be in there.  Miko surveys the area before stepping off the bus. She crosses the tarmac to you and Rick.<br/>
<br/>
“Rick,” she says frostily, greeting your companion.  She looks at you with a mix of revulsion and dread.  “You,” she mutters.<br/>
<br/>
“Uh, hi,” you say with a fixed grin.<br/>
<br/>
“I should be thankful you are looking like yourself again,” states Miko flatly.<br/>
<br/>
“If it makes you feel better I worked out how to get rid of the <i>imago </i>I have and I’ve got rid of most of your memories,” you say cheerfully.<br/>
<br/>
Miko steps in uncomfortably close.  “Only most,” she says in a low hiss.  “What about the rest?”<br/>
<br/>
You stumble back a few steps.  “I kept some stuff about how to fight,” you say, your mouth dry.  You glance at the sports bag again.  “You’re such a good fighter I thought it would help if I got in trouble.”<br/>
<br/>
A ghost of a smile flickers at the edges of Miko’s mouth.  Then she hides it, looking very stern and serious.  “I worked very hard to gain that skill,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.  “It is not right that you can gain it so freely and easily.”  She does not, you note, tell you to remove those memories.<br/>
<br/>
You really hope Charles doesn’t decide to apprentice you to her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Nash returns later on in the evening, some time after dinner.  He stomps into the living room, his boots still shedding snow.  You and Rosalie look up from the discussion you’d been having.  Kali taught her a little about the ousiarchs earlier today and Rosalie was keen to put her new found knowledge to use in understanding the people staying in Olympia better.<br/>
<br/>
There’s just the briefest sensation of the cold outside.  “Sarry took so long Charles,” says Nash, his cigarette hanging loosely from the edge of his mouth.  “Th’roads reel slow wit th’wethah’,” he explains a little incomprehensibly.<br/>
<br/>
Charles smiles and nods.  “There’s no rush Nash,” he explains.  “Will shall be here for a few days yet.  There’ll be plenty of time examine the book later.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve already waited a couple of months sir,” you say carefully.  “I can wait another couple of days.”<br/>
<br/>
“Shuah, I’ll get th’dingus stowed ‘way safe like,” replies Nash.  He lifts the heavy metal box he holds under one arm slightly.  It’s only now that you realise it is just the right size to hold the <i>Libra</i>.  “We ganna have a reel long tack soon.  We’ll get yer all fix’d up.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you need help with that Mr Carnes,” says Rosalie bouncing up from her seat helpfully.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll manage gal,” says Nash.  “T’anks fer th’off’r.”<br/>
<br/>
“I could open the doors on the way for you if you want,” adds Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
Nash thinks about it for a second.  He has the <i>Libra </i>stuffed under one arm and a second, heavy looking, bag held in his other hand.  “Shuah, Shuah, why not?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You curse yourself for the lack of foresight as you dig through the bags in your room.  All the Christmas presents you bought were there, and you’d felt vaguely smug that you’d managed get them all bought ahead of time for a change.  If only you’d remembered to buy gift wrap too.  If only you had realised you’d forgotten about it a little earlier than a couple of hours before bedtime on Christmas Eve.<br/>
<br/>
You managed to beg some off Charles and you’ve spent the last couple of hours haphazardly wrapping up presents.  It’s not something that you are good at anyway, and rushing to do it means everything is a bit of a mess.  It’s the thought that counts though, right?  You check your watch and it actually is Christmas now, well, after midnight anyway.  Better take the presents to the living room now rather than after you wake up.<br/>
<br/>
You grab a couple of presents and head to the door to take them downstairs.  In the corridor you notice some movement up ahead.  It’s Rosalie.  She looks about apprehensively, staring right through you.  You realise you’ve thrown your cloak around her without thinking about it.  You are about to pull it away from her when she opens one of the linen cupboards.<br/>
<br/>
Not the one that leads downstairs to the rest of the house, but the one opposite, which you’ve never been through.  Rosalie takes one last look around and darts through the door, quietly closing it behind her.<br/>
<br/>
You haven’t given much thought to what happened in the hair salon for a couple of days, but now you see Rosalie sneaking about the house at night you start thinking about it again.  Should you follow her and get to the bottom of what’s going on?</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Watcher In The Shadows
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You want answers and you want them now.  You can already feel your cloak’s hold on Rosalie slipping as she moves away from you.  The weird geometry that allows this floor to fit into the house probably doesn’t help either.  You walk calmly to the linen closet she left by and open it yourself.<br/>
<br/>
It’s identical to the one that leads up to this floor, right down to having five walls at odd angles that don’t make sense to you.  You check the corridor is empty before going through yourself and climb the stairs as slowly and carefully as you can.  Midway up you feel your cloak lose its grasp on Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
At the top of the stairs is a fourth linen closest, again just like the one that leads onto the lower floor.  It doesn’t surprise you when you open the door out a fraction and peek through the gap to see <i>another </i>corridor.  It’s almost completely dark though.  The lights are off and the only source of illumination comes from a window at the far end and glow from inside on of the rooms off the corridor.<br/>
<br/>
You creep slowly up the corridor towards the glow, your cloak at hand and ready to use.  It’s a faint silvery light that barely illuminates anything, but in the near dark of the corridor it casts the outline of the door sharply against the opposite wall.  As you close you see the shadow of a person moving in the outline.  It must be Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
You reach the door and lean round the frame to take a look inside.  It isn’t a bedroom, in fact the room is entirely empty except for a heavy wooden lectern in the middle.  A book, no <i>the </i>book, the <i>Libra Personae,</i> sits open on the lectern.  You realise with horror that the book itself is the source of the glow, just as it was the night you fell through it.  The moon looms large and low through the window at the opposite side of the room.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie is just a few short steps from the book, her hand outstretched as if to take it.  You let your cloak slip from your grasp and make ready to shout a warning.  You’re damned if you are going to let someone else suffer the same fate as you.  Before you can do anything, Rosalie takes a step back from the book and looks up at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” she says quietly and with a determination in her voice that you have not heard before.  “I’m not going to do it.”<br/>
<br/>
The shadows in the room start to moving in sickening jumps and starts, pulled as if on strings.  They move with a brittle juddering motion upwards.  At first you think they are coalescing into something, but that doesn’t quite describe it accurately.  It’s more as if they are wrapping round something and giving it form, something that’s always been there but you’ve never quite seen it.  Rooted to the spot, you watch as a great inky black bird take shape above Rosalie, more like a hole in space than a real animal.<br/>
<br/>
The bird, and you realise now it’s a crow, murderous and cruel, lazily wheels in the air above Rosalie’s head.  She seems just as surprised to see it as you but, weirdly, you somehow sense that she knew it was there already.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she shouts directly at the shadow crow.  Was this thing there, invisible and watching, in the hair salon?  Was that who she was really talking to back then?<br/>
<br/>
The crow’s movements grow more agitated.  It swoops at Rosalie, but she does not flinch and the crow misses her by the tiniest of fractions.  “You’re just a powerless, spiteful old woman,” she shouts.  The crow swoops one more time, but again Rosalie ignores it.  “Will’s gone and so is your hold over me.”<br/>
<br/>
The crow lands on the windowsill and fixes you with its glowing red eyes.  Rosalie turns and notices you for the first time.  Her eyes go wide and she almost runs the few short steps to you.  “Oh Will,” she says, burying her head in your chest.  You stagger back out into the corridor before your legs fall out from under you.  You end up sat on the floor, your back against the wall with Rosalie’s head lying on your shoulder.  Tears flow freely down her cheek, as if a dam had burst and was washing away everything before it.<br/>
<br/>
Miko is the first of the others to arrive.  She almost looks comical in her long nightgown and with her sword in one hand except that she rests the blade gently against both your and Rosalie’s necks.  The silver glow from the book dances on the wave pattern of the blade as Miko watches the crow with a hard eyed stare.  She says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you Will,” says Rosalie quietly.<br/>
<br/>
“What did I do,” you ask dumbfounded.<br/>
<br/>
“You were there.  You were you,” explains Rosalie, her voice barely raising above a whisper.  “All my life I’ve been part of the family – the Shabblemans.  My surname might be Stewart, but I’m still one of them.  I’ve never belonged though.  They might be the family, but they’ve never felt like <i>my </i>family.”<br/>
<br/>
You say nothing,  You cannot think of anything to say.<br/>
<br/>
“When I just little,” continues Rosalie.  “I used to pretend I had a twin sister.  We would have such adventures, in the woods round Cuthbert and under the moonlight.  I would feel safe, knowing there was someone just like me, even if it was only in my imagination.  I haven’t felt that way in a long time.  Not until I met you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Me,” you stutter.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes you,” replies Rosalie.  “Haven’t you felt it too?”  It seems crazy but you realise that you have – You and Rosalie have become very close, despite only knowing each other for a week or so.<br/>
<br/>
“What about Joe,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“What about Joe,” says Rosalie.  “It’s not like that at all, it’s like, you’re the closest thing I have to family.  Like you’re my brother and you are there for me.”<br/>
<br/>
“I was about to warn you about the book,” you say.  “It was glowing like that when I..  I had all this happen to me.”<br/>
<br/>
“Innerestin’,” says Nash, who has materialised above you.  He peers inside the room with the book, staring at the shadow crow.  It hasn’t moved since Miko arrived.  “I’m ganna hafta ask yer for th’dingus whoever set that watcher on yer gave yer gal,” he says to Rosalie, kneeling down beside her.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie nods.  She fishes out her necklace from under the long tee she’s wearing as a nightdress and hands it to Nash.  It’s a battered wooden thing, chipped and abused but he treats it carefully and with respect.  “Suttle craffsmanship,” he says, whistling out the side of his mouth.  “Not reel powerful, but th’maker knows their weck.”<br/>
<br/>
Nash does something, you aren’t sure what, with the necklace and the crow shatters into pieces.  The fragments of darkness flowing out and returning to the pools of shadow in the room.  “She’s gone,” murmurs Rosalie.  “She was watching me through that necklace and now she’s gone.<br/>
<br/>
“Yah,” replies Nash.  “I simmly…”  He descends into technobabble which would be hard enough to understand even without his accent laid over the top of it.  “Miko, yeh ganna take that sword away from thehr necks?”<br/>
<br/>
Miko sneers but complies with the request.  Then Nash helps you and Rosalie to your feet.  “Let’s get yeh two back to yer beds,” he says with a warm smile.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Christmas morning is a subdued affair.  You hand your presents out without comment and smile politely and say your thank yous when you receive presents back.  Maria seems genuinely happy with the scarf and gloves you give her.  Rick seems about as happy as he is capable of getting when he unwraps the bottle you gave him.  Nash’ present to you is perhaps the oddest you receive:  He hands you, unwrapped, your little pink suitcase.<br/>
<br/>
You don’t quite get that, but watch in awe as he opens it and flips a dial on the inside and the suitcase’s surface turns from hot pink to charcoal grey.  “Don’t go playin’ wit that,” he warns you.  “Only good fer a few tousand changes.”  You laugh and thank him.<br/>
<br/>
No one comments on the fact that Rosalie and Charles are absent for the morning.  Joe, though, looks distraught and wracked by guilt.  There are more than a few nervous glances shared and painful silences as the morning progresses.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie and Charles appear shortly after noon.  Again, presents are handed out.  There is a certain tension as this happens.  Rick doesn’t quite look Rosalie in the eye when he gives her a present.  Joe tries to hug Rosalie when he gives her his present but she seems diffident and only kisses him gently on the cheek.<br/>
<br/>
You hand her the present you bought her, smiling faintly as your eyes meet.  She seems sad, disappointed in herself somehow.  You wait patiently as she unwraps it.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you Will,” she says unsteadily.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not magical or anything,” you explain.  “I just thought you might like a new necklace.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie catches you by surprise when she enthusiastically hugs you.  The force of it almost winds you.  “Thank you, really,” she whispers in your ear.  When she releases you, the doubt weighing on her seems lighter somehow.<br/>
<br/>
You find yourself talking with Charles a little later.  Not about anything important, although you’ll remember the story he tells you about Joe when he was younger for the future.  He’s obviously spent the morning talking to Rosalie.  Should you ask him about it?</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Rosalie Explains It All
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Sit down boys,” says Charles, ushering you and Joe into the study.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”<br/>
<br/>
You and Joe sit down in the poky wooden chairs.  Snow is falling lightly outside and you watch the dance of the flakes rather than make eye contact with Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“About Rosalie,” he says haltingly.  You turn from the window.  He’s nervous.  He’s actually nervous.  You don’t think you’ve seen him like that before.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s complicated,” you say, your eyes falling just sort of meeting his.<br/>
<br/>
“I just want to say…” begins Joe before being interrupted by the door opening.  Whatever he wants to say will have to wait.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie walks in, eyes downcast and sits in the third chair, followed by Charles.  He closes the study door and leans back on it, arms folded.  “I could tell you about what Rosalie and I talked about, but it isn’t my place to.  You’d both be better of hearing this from Rosalie herself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you Mr Brennan,” says Rosalie with some difficulty.  She looks at you and then Joe and bites her lip nervously.  “The first thing I need to say is sorry,” she begins hesitantly.  “Because I haven’t been honest with both of you, or anyone I suppose.”  She pauses, unsure what to say next.  “I guess the start is when Grandma Shabbleman sent me to Saratoga Falls.  I don’t think she’s really my Grandma, I don’t know.  It’s hard to tell sometimes in Cuthbert.  She’s the head of the Shabbleman clan and I guess she’s a witch.”<br/>
<br/>
You remember something Blackwell told you a long time ago.  Magic runs in families, and that he sought Will Shabbleman for that very reason.  It shouldn’t surprise you that more of the Shabblemans have magical ability.<br/>
<br/>
“She sent me because Will Shabbleman, her grandson and heir had disappeared there while apprenticed to a man named Blackwell.  She wanted me to find Will Shabbleman, to find out what happened to Blackwell and to keep an eye out for something called the <i>Libra Personae</i> and disguise related magic,” explains Rosalie.  She hangs her head in disgust.  “I was betrothed to Will Shabbleman,” she says quietly.<br/>
<br/>
You look at Joe, fire smoulders in his eye and he looks ready to explode.  Before anything can happen, Charles walks over and places his hand on Joes arm.  Joe looks up at his adoptive father and the fire fades away, to be replaced with deep pools of sadness.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sorry Joe,” says Rosalie snuffling.  Joe doesn’t reply.  “I hated Will Shabbleman, he was a monster.  Grandma Shabbleman controls the marriages in Cuthbert.  She controls everything.  You wouldn’t understand what it’s like, what she’s like.”  She breathes deeply.  “When I met you Joe, and you told me about the <i>Stellae </i>it seemed like a chance to escape, she’s terrified me since I was little.  Your <i>Stellae </i>seemed like they might be powerful enough to stand up to her and I thought you could take me away from it all…”<br/>
<br/>
“More than powerful enough,” growls Joe uhappily.<br/>
<br/>
“…but you didn’t want to leave Saratoga Falls and I knew she was watching me somehow.  I could feel her hovering over me”<br/>
<br/>
“The crow,” you interrupt.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, the crow,” replies Rosalie.  “I never saw it for what it was until last night.  When you showed up in Saratoga Falls Will.  I can’t describe it, it’s so strange but I felt I’d known you all my life.”  Joe looks at the floor unhappily.  “When you got Joe to phone his Dad I was so happy because finally I was leaving everything behind.  At least I thought so, but I could sense Grandma Shabbleman’s presence still with me when we drove here.”<br/>
<br/>
“And this is where I can explain things,” interrupts Charles.  “Rick recognised the watcher hovering around Rosalie as soon as he spotted her.”<br/>
<br/>
You take a minute to think that one over.  “Because Rick sees things,” you say.  “And he sees more if he hasn’t been drinking.  He’d just driven up from L.A. so he would have been sober.  You even offered him a drink when he came in.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well reasoned out son,” smiles Charles.  “Of course, things would have gone a little easier if Rick had told me what he’d seen rather than take it into his head to solve the problem himself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Always act a little dumber than you really are,” you and Joe say in unison.  You stare at each other goggle eyed for a few moments.  Joe smiles a little.<br/>
<br/>
“Heh, that’s about right,” replies Charles.  “He persuaded Maria to help him out, figured if she hit you with a guilt trip he could get whatever you were hiding out from you,” he explains to Rosalie.  “Maria made a mistake though, she laid the guilt on Will instead by accident.”<br/>
<br/>
So that’s who Maria was talking to on the phone you think – Rick.  “We were in the hair salon,” you explain.  “We looked identical because we both covered up.  That’s when I told you about what happened to Will Shabbleman,” you add, talking to Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
“And that’s when I realised you were the first <i>real </i>family I’d had,” explains Rosalie.  “All of you, but especially Will.”<br/>
<br/>
“Interesting,” says Charles, rubbing his beard.  “I’m starting to think this wasn’t just a simple mistake.  Too much of a coincidence.  Maybe Sulva was helping you two out somehow.”<br/>
<br/>
“But you still tried to take the <i>Libra </i>last night,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie looks at the floor.  “After the hair salon I could feel Grandma Shabbleman watching me more and more closely.  I knew she wanted the <i>Libra </i>so offered to help Mr Carnes when he brought it here.  I almost took it, then I realised that wasn’t what I wanted at all.”  Rosalie tails off as she finishes.<br/>
<br/>
“What happens now,” asks Joe, looking at Rosalie.<br/>
<br/>
“Rosalie’s asked to join the Stellae Errante and I’ve accepted her application,” smiles Charles.  “Her entry has been troubled, but no more troubled than Will’s, or even your own son.”  You smile, then Rosalie smiles.  Everyone in the room is beaming, except for Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s not what I meant,” he says ruefully.  “I mean about you and me Rosalie.  It’s obvious that there’s something between you and Prescott.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie leans forward and grabs Joe by the hand.  “It isn’t like that,” she says, her thumb rubbing at Joe’s hand.  He seems uncertain, but you’re sure he wants to believe her.  “Me and Will are close, yes, but it’s like…  It’s like he’s my brother.”<br/>
<br/>
“Separated at birth,” asks Joe, with a twinkle in his eye.  That’s more like normal for him.  Rosalie blushes.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not unknown for two <i>Stellae </i>to develop a filial bond,” interrupts Charles, rebuking Joe gently.  “Something you and Frank should know.  To do it so quickly is unusual – even given their shared Sulva <i>ousiarch </i>– unless Will and Rosalie are already related in some way.”<br/>
<br/>
“We might be,” you say.  “Will Shabbleman was my cousin…”<br/>
<br/>
“…and everyone in Cuthbert is related to each other somehow,” finishes of Rosalie.  You look at each other and grin.<br/>
<br/>
“Then it’s worth investigating further,” says Charles.  “Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid everyone else will be wondering where I’ve got to.  I have to play the host at these sort of things,” he adds with a disarming smile.<br/>
<br/>
Joe waits till his dad has left the study then turns one of his trademark grins on you.  “Hey Prescott,” he says.  “I hope you weren’t planning on doing that whole ‘stop dating my sister’ shtick.”<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie bats at him ineffectually.  “That’s not funny,” she says.  Joe pulls her out of her chair and onto his lap where she wraps her arms round him.  You watch as they kiss and giggle, a yawning pit opening up in your stomach.  As you awkwardly edge out of the room unnoticed one thought sticks in your mind:  Rosalie is right, you are like a brother and sister – so why does watching Joe and Rosalie leave you feeling so jealous?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Nash catches up with you the following morning, a little after breakfast.  A cigarette already dangles from the side of his mouth and battered looking mug of coffee is in his hand.  “Yer reddy Will,” he says, the cigarette shuffling about in his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
“Fer what,” you reply.  “I mean, for what?”<br/>
<br/>
“We ganna have a tack and get this myst’ry oh yers fixed.”<br/>
<br/>
“My other <i>ousiarch</i>,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it,” he replies.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Cost of Shapeshifting
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It turns out that Nash wants to examine you in the garage for some reason.  It’s a normal garage in most ways.  Shelves filled with cans of paint and toolboxes, a garden house hangs on one wall and there’s a lawnmower in one corner.  The car is outside though, and the garage door is down.<br/>
<br/>
Instead the middle of the garage is taken up with a couple of impromptu workbenches where Nash has set up shop.  There are toolboxes there too, but the tools in them don’t look like anything you’ve seen before.  One or two leave you feeling some trepidation.<br/>
<br/>
“Kick off yer shoes fer me Will,” says Nash.  He’s standing at one of the workbenches, more interested in its contents than you seemingly.  He turns round, his mug of coffee in one hand, an odd looking implement in the other.  A simple haft fits into his hand, five prongs spring from one end, each one tipped with what seems to be a broken razors.<br/>
<br/>
His thumb moves on the shaft and the whole damn thing starts <i>spinning</i>.  The broken blades glow a dull red.  More than a little freaked out you back up a couple of steps, your bare feet almost sticking to the cold floor.  Your head darts left and right looking for an exit.<br/>
<br/>
Then Nash plunges the device into his cup of coffee.  With a hiss a cloud of steam rises from the mug and Nash withdraws the now inert device guffawing.  “Heh if yah could see the look on yer face,” he says taking a sip from his warmed up coffee.  “Lemme get the tools I’ll need.”<br/>
<br/>
He turns back to his workbench and starts fiddling around with it.  After a few minutes he faces you again.  Now he’s wearing complex looking glasses with arrays of dials an extra lenses hanging off them.  He flicks a lever, lowering a green tinted pair in front of his eyes that have the added effect of making them huge.  “Shirt off,” he instructs you brusquely.  “Pant’s too.”  You hesitate momentarily.  “Nuffin’ I’ve not seen before,” adds.  Reluctantly you disrobe<br/>
<br/>
You stand shivering, clad only in you shorts, while he moves round you.  Nash peers closely at you, pausing only to switch out lenses on his glasses or run an odd looking tool over some part of your body.  He whistles tunelessly to himself as he works.  Periodically he goes back to one of the workbenches to fetch another tool.<br/>
<br/>
“You can putcher clothes back on Will,” he says after a while, taking a few steps back from you.  Shaking from the cold you grab your discarded clothes and fumble back into them  “I got an idea what the problem is,” he explains.  “But I gotta look at the <i>Libra </i>first to make shuah I’m right.  Come back after lunch.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You return the garage mid afternoon.  Nash has pushed his workbenches as far back against the wall as he can.  The <i>Libra </i>lies in the centre of the cleared floor of the garage, surrounded by a complex pattern of sigils, apparently drawn by Nash himself.<br/>
<br/>
“Whoa there Will,” shouts Nash as you enter.  You stumble to a stop, your feet just short of a chalk drawn sigil.  He hops and skips round the floor with a surprising grace.  Nash takes an odd route to get to you, no doubt influenced by the patterns on the floor.   He takes a cloth from a vest pocket and kneels down on the floor, rubbing out the sigil with it.  “There,” he says standing back up.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s, uh… quite a lot of work,” you say waving an arm vaguely at the floor.<br/>
<br/>
“Ain’t it just,” grins Nash enthusiastically.  “Dis ting,” he adds pointing to the <i>Libra</i>.  “It’s somethink else.  I could spend years on it.  I can admire the way it’s put together, just not the ting itself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Did you find out what you needed to though,” you ask.  “About me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh that,” says Nash as if your problem is a far more mundane concern than continuing to investigate the book.  “Shuah.  Yah ain’t ganna like it though.  Yer substantias been altered.”<br/>
<br/>
You blink a couple of times.  “My what?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yer substantia,” he repeats.  “The material bits of you.”<br/>
<br/>
You take a couple of moments to think.  “But I knew that already,” you reply.  “Kali worked out that I wasn’t really me anymore, but more like a golem.”<br/>
<br/>
Nash sighs and shakes his head  “Why does no one ask me ‘bout dese tings.  She missed the mechanics of it,” he explains.  “Shuah, yer mostly golem now but when yah went in an’ out of the <i>Libra </i>somethink else happened.”  He pauses and the cigarette shuffles from one side of his mouth to the other and back again.  “Aw dammit to hell.  The reason why dey can’t work out your second <i>ousiarch </i>is you aint’t got one.”<br/>
<br/>
“I…  They…   What,” you stutter, not quite believing what you’ve just heard.  “That’s impossible,” you finally settle on.  “Everyone has two <i>ouisiarchs</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh yer had two,”  explains Nash.  He carefully works his way round the garage mopping  some of the sigils he has drawn.  “Then yah passed through the <i>Libra</i>.  It left the Sulva untouched and it clean lopped off the other.  As sweet an amputation as I’ve ever seen.  It’s like your walking round with only one arm and leg,” he finishes, scooping up the <i>Libra </i>from its position on the floor.<br/>
<br/>
Your legs seem to fail beneath you and you stagger over to on old crate by one of the walls.  You sit on it, unable to process what Nash has just told you.  “But I’ve used other <i>ousiarch </i>powers,” you protest.  “Joe’s ability to force people to tell the truth months ago,” you say, remembering back to the time when you inexplicably copied one of Joe’s abilities.<br/>
<br/>
“Done it since then,” asks Nash.<br/>
<br/>
“Joe said something about Perelandra on the drive up here,” you reply.  “And I seemed to be really good at making Joe feel better when Rosalie and I did the twin thing a few days ago.”<br/>
<br/>
“Lemme try somethink,” says Nash, fetching a couple of his tools from the workbench.  He points them at you.  “Try Rosalie for me.”  You shift to Rosalie and he runs the tools up and down your body.  “And back.  Looks to me like you showin’ all those other <i>ousiarchs </i>is your <i>essentia </i>tryin’ to comp’nsate for the fact your missin’ half yerself.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s kind of useful though isn’t it,” you say hopefully.  “Being able to use lots of different powers?”<br/>
<br/>
“Not good fer balance Will,” he says, putting the tools back down.  “It’s like yer walking round with a crutch because you got one leg missin’.  Ting is yer sayin’ the crutch is better than having a leg because you can paint it diff’rent colours.  Yah would be better off with a second <i>ousiarch</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
You slump against the wall.  So that’s it then, you’re some sort of magical cripple, doomed to only be half a <i>Stellae</i>.  What now?  You don’t really feel like going back into the house.  To be honest, you don’t really feel like doing anything at all.<br/>
<br/>
“Still here,” asks Nash.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug apathetically.  “Bit upset about the whole stuck with just one <i>ousiarch </i>thing,” you say quietly, trying to hold back the tears.<br/>
<br/>
“Yah ain’t stuck with just one Will, I tole you,” says Nash exasperatedly.  “Yah would be better off with a second <i>ousiarch</i>.  You get to choose.”<br/>
<br/>
“What,” you stutter.  It can’t be that simple, can it?<br/>
<br/>
“Well, yah ganna have to tack with Charles a bit,” explains Nash.  “It’s a job for him to get yah all set up with a new one, but he’ll let yah choose right enough.<br/>
<br/>
Hope soars in your breast and you leap to your feet.  “I could speak to him now couldn’t I?  It wouldn’t take long would it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Well I’ll write up a memo explaining the problem and you can take it to him…” begins Nash.<br/>
<br/>
“Forget the memo,” you interrupt.  “You can come and talk to him right now.  You don’t know how much this means to me.”<br/>
<br/>
“I tink I got a pretty good idea,” says Nash with a wry grin.</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: A Return To The Field of Arbol
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Slow down Will son,” says Charles. You’ve cornered him outside the study, almost grabbed him really.  “What did you say.”<br/>
<br/>
“Isaidwillyouhelpmechoosemysecond<i>ousiarch</i>,” you repeat, running the words together breathlessly.<br/>
<br/>
Charles blinks uncomprehendingly.  “Choose?”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s what Nash said,” you reply, slowing down.  “You need to help me choose.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not sure I understand son,” he says, confused.  You realise that your enthusiasm might mean you aren’t making a lot of sense right now.<br/>
<br/>
“Lemme tack to Charles Will,” says Nash, rolling up behind you.  You practically ran back into the house while he followed along at a much slower pace.  It’s only now that Nash has caught up with you.<br/>
<br/>
You tap your foot impatiently as Nash explains everything to Charles.  He is slow and infuriatingly thorough.  As Nash spins out his exposition, Charles looks increasingly grave.  He ushers both of you into the study and motions you to take a seat.  “Looks like we’ve been a bit foolish,” he says, his voice laden with sadness.<br/>
<br/>
“Yerl remember to ask me next time,” says Nash.  It isn’t smugness in his voice, but rather a well placed confidence in his own abilities.<br/>
<br/>
“I guess I will,” says Charles with a faint smile.  He turns to face you as Nash excuses himself and leaves.  “Now, as for you Will, this is all somewhat unprecedented.  We…  I should have seen better, but Nash is right – it is simply a matter of choice.  In hindsight it should be obvious.  In one of the dreams from your journal you did talk about wanting to be with all of the planets.  Hindsight is twenty twenty son,” he sighs.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s that simple,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“Almost. I’ll be your guide,” says Charles evenly.  He holds out his hands, palms facing up.  Their surface is lined with age but they are still strong enough looking.  “Put your hands in mine and we can begin.”  You hesitantly reach forward, almost pulling away on instinct when Charles’ hands snap closed round your own.<br/>
<br/>
Everything goes dark, but it is not pitch dark but rather the velvet darkness of the night sky:  A darkness of wisp like textures and the infinite pin prick lights of the heavens.  You look around, marvelling even as something massive and awe inspiring forms below you.<br/>
<br/>
You look down at its magnificence and even as the clarion calls of the trumpets begin you recognise it.  “This is Glundandra,” you say.  “Wait a minute, I could choose Glundandra?”  Your hands writhe and you feel Charles stiffen his grip on them.<br/>
<br/>
When Charles replies, the confusion in his voice is evident.  “You would do that?  It’s a harder road than you might think.  Why would you choose to walk it?”<br/>
<br/>
You float over Glundandra’s triumphant halls as you consider your answer.  It’s not about being in charge, because you’ve never cared for that, nor can you see yourself telling others what to do.  Only when you are close to giving up does the answer present itself:  “Because I want to be there for Rosalie,” you explain.  “Like she’s been there for me.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles laughs.  It is the loudest and most natural laugh you’ve heard from him.  “I guess you could choose Glundandra if you wanted son,” he replies.  “But lets look at all your options before you decide.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles leads you inwards, swinging in towards Arbol – the Sun – until the dry surface of Malacandra is beneath you.  You watch as tiny, tiny figures scurry far below you, eking out their existence on its harsh surface.<br/>
<br/>
“Malacandra would lend you some of its iron strength Will,” explains Charles his voice tinged with sadness.  “You would become our knife, leaping from the shadows to strike down your enemies.  Or from under the familiar face of a loved one,” he adds darkly.  “I won’t pretend that it would be a pleasant life, but it Malacandra would help you bear its weight.”<br/>
<br/>
The thought appeals, having the strength that Malacandra would give you.  The idea of being a killer, less so.  You don’t have long to consider it because Charles moves you on, pick up speed as you fall towards Arbol.  Yet you have one more stop before you reach the sun, quicksilver Viritrilbia spins into view.  The complex metal maze it presents both baffles and delights at once.<br/>
<br/>
A thousand voices babble at once, yet you hear one above the others.  “A powerful combination, Viritrilbia and Sulva.  Take this one and you’ll be a peerless trickster, able to confound foes without a single shot being fired.”<br/>
<br/>
The ability to out-Joe Joe.  The smile stays on your face even once Viritrilbia has faded from view and the white hot heat of Arbol takes up half the sky.  You raise your arm to shield your eyes, but such is Arbol’s strength you can almost make out the bones inside your flesh.<br/>
<br/>
“This one’s a contradiction,” explains Charles.  “Arbol, in part, represents the truth and Sulva, again in part, represents deceit.  But who can spot the truth better than a consummate liar, and who can pull apart that one lie hidden in a nest of seeming better than someone well versed with the truth.”<br/>
<br/>
There isn’t much time to reflect on that, as your journey pulls you away from Arbol and into the warm green foliage canopies of Perelandra.  The verdant growth bursts with life and energy.  “I know this one,” you say.  “Sulva and Perelandra makes a muse.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” laughs Charles.  “Sulva’s mirror allows you to both reflect and inspire.  You’d have a powerful hold over people if you wanted it.  But I think you know that already.”  You blush hotly.  Does he know about you and Frank?<br/>
<br/>
Charles picks up speed as Arbol and Perelandra dwindle behind you.  The lights of the stars around you blink out as they are obscured by the gothic splendour of Lurga – An endless maze of arches leading to inky blackness.<br/>
<br/>
“Sulva’s mirror would be at work here too,” says Charles, and you can hear the shiver in his voice.  “Who better to absolve a penitent of their sins than themselves?”  You realise what he means.  Margaret ground answers from you through sheer unrelenting pressure until you either realised the truth or succumbed under its weight.  Ed will complain and argue until the truth arrives.  If it were you?  You could plunge directly into someone’s own memories and use what you found there.  It is a chilling thought.<br/>
<br/>
A weight lifts from your shoulders as you tear free from Lurga’s heavy cloisters.  You roll about and glory in the freedom of space until you once again find your way to a planet.  A mirror smooth ocean covers everything from horizon to horizon, hiding everything in its depths.  You know you have arrived at Eldibria.<br/>
<br/>
Banks of mist move serenely across the water as Charles speaks.  “Eldibria would show you secrets Will son, and no one can keep a secret better than Sulva.  If you chose it as your <i>ousiarch </i>you would become our spy – the one that infiltrates cults and lays the ground for the rest of us to follow.  It would be a dangerous and lonely place to be though Will, and Eldibria does not grant you resilience like Malacandra does.”<br/>
<br/>
You think of Rick and remember the story he told you at Margaret’s wake.  Eldibria is harsh on those it shares its secrets with and the prospect does not thrill.  You are glad to see Eldibria vanish behind you as you shoot further and further away from Arbol.<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Ten Faces of Will Prescott
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You come to somewhere small and remote, a cold dark corner in the furthest reaches from Arbol.  Yet you can also feel the enormous energies bound here, working the great forges that loom out of the shadows.  Devices mundane and outlandish, and sometimes both at once, roll off the production line  “Nash is good at making things,” you observe quietly.<br/>
<br/>
“Most Kenandandra are,” replies Charles.  “And a Perelandra and Kenandandra combination like Nash is especially inspired to invent.  Kenandandra and Sulva though…  Well you would be best at taking apart the work of others and working out what makes it tick.  Maybe even adapting and changing it.  I suspect it would be a quiet life, tinkering away in the archives, but a satisfying one too.”<br/>
<br/>
To you it seems strange that there could be comfort in such a place.  At the same time, there is the strangest feeling of having come home.  It does not last long as soon you are moving again.<br/>
<br/>
Finally volcanic Catilindria hovers into view, its ever changing surface a patchwork of both renewal and decay.  “I left this one to last,” admits Charles, “because it worries me.  Catilindria can change people for the better, but the cost is sometime very high and the challenges to overcome can be great.  Your adventure to England is just one example.”  He sighs and pauses.  When he continues his voice is very solemn.  “Sulva can be a mirror, and with Catilindria that might amplify the effects.  With greater rewards would come greater risks.  Think carefully on that if you would choose Catilindria as your <i>ousiarch</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
Charles isn’t saying ‘don’t choose Catilindria’, you realise, but he’s coming as close to it as he is willing to.  You squirm uncomfortably again, momentarily feeling Charles grasp on your hands as you both fly upwards from Catilindria.  Charles turns until his heading points him towards Glundandra again.<br/>
<br/>
Yet before you reach it, the stars around you start fading.  It’s almost unnoticeable at first, just a few dim stars fading to nothingness.  Then the brighter stars start disappearing too, flaring briefly before extinguishing themselves.  It gets faster and faster until even Arbol itself is gone.<br/>
<br/>
“Sir,” you call out.  “Charles?”  There is no response.  You are alone in the pitch dark.<br/>
<br/>
Nine figures step out of the darkness, forming a circle around you.  You look at each one in turn.   They are you, different versions of you.  Then it strikes you – nine other <i>ousiarchs</i>, nine versions of you.  Somehow you are being offered a glimpse of possible futures again.<br/>
<br/>
You examine one of them in detail.  Surprisingly, this possible-you is a woman.  She is tall and athletic, strong looking even.  Her short tee clings tightly to her breasts and falls short, exposing pale flesh and a tight stomach.  Waves of hair so blonde as to almost be white cascade down the side of her face.  She looks right back at you evenly.  You wouldn’t say that she seemed happy, simply satisfied.  Secure in her place and confident in herself<br/>
<br/>
Your gaze moves onto the next and you almost recoil at what you see.  He’s recognisable as you but…  The straw like hair is matted to the sides of his head and wild eyes peer out from his grime covered face.  His gaze darts about, as if he is afraid of some unseen attacker.  The other you’s clothes are worn and dirty.  His fingernails are ragged and almost claw like.<br/>
<br/>
Then you look at a third, and almost double take in doing so.  At first glance she doesn’t seem like you at all and for a moment you think it’s Rosalie.  You look more closely,  the hair is similar to Rosalie’s and the body has similarly lean frame but there are enough subtle differences in the face to distinguish between the other you and Rosalie.  The other you looks back at you with warm eyes that somehow convey a depth of sadness.  They seem commanding and regal, yet somehow a little lonely.<br/>
<br/>
You turn and look at another one.  It smiles back at you with an easy confidence and a twinkle in its eyes.  He’s you, clearly so, but somehow this you seems better fed, better dressed and overall just plain better.  But there’s also a slick oiliness to him that sets you on edge.  You don’t doubt that if you took his hand he would give you the firm and reliable handshake of an honest man.  <br/>
<br/>
You wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him<br/>
<br/>
So you look at another one of the different versions of you.  This one is perhaps the closest to the face you have seen in the mirror all your life.  The wild straw blond hair, the bumbling awkwardness and the goofball grin are all present.  In fact, the only thing that makes him different from yourself is the levered multi-lens goggles propped on his forehead.  They are remarkably similar to the pair you saw Nash wearing earlier, except the lenses on the other you’s goggles seem to change colour as you watch.  He gives you a cheerily little salute and you can’t help but smile faintly.<br/>
<br/>
You turn your attention onto another one of the yous.  Although she shares many of the same basic traits as you – the hair, the height and such – she is quite simply one of the most beautiful creatures you have ever seen.  It’s hard for you to describe, as there’s no one feature that stands out.  It’s the combination of them, somehow coming together as far more than the sum of the parts.  At the same time there’s a strong hint of being the girl next door.  Even though she is you, you find yourself getting to want to know her better. Anyone that saw her would.  She would be anything they wanted her to be, but what would she want for herself?<br/>
<br/>
You spin around looking at the nine other versions of you again.  You pass the one in the long white coat that peers through her dark glasses as she measures something in her scales.  The one in the riotously colourful and clashing clothes does not hold your attention for long   Finally you notice something odd:  They aren’t spaced evenly round you.  Between the girl next door you and the version of you wearing a hooded sackcloth monks habit there is a gap.  It is large enough for another you to stand in, although you can not see anything but shadows.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart sinks.  There is another version of you there, shrouded in the darkness.  As you realise this you suddenly visualise him, smirking knowingly at you as you fumble about like a fool. <br/>
<br/>
You panic and run, pushing past one of the alternate versions of you, sending them sprawling.  You keep running until the other yous are out of sight and the stars start flaring back into life.<br/>
<br/>
“Are you alright Will,” asks Charles.  Your eyes flicker open and you are back in the study, breathing raggedly.  “I thought I lost you for a second.”<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath and try to relax.  There was something you saw whilst meditating with Charles, something that shocked you.  But the memory is fading fast and you cannot quite recall what it was.  Something about choosing your <i>ousiarch</i>?  “I’m fine now,” you insist.  “I think.”<br/>
<br/>
“Are you sure,” asks Charles sceptically.  You nod your head.  “Well if you’re certain…”  He pauses, giving you the chance to say that you <i>aren’t</i>.  Whatever that was troubling you seems to have completely evaporated from your memories though.  “What do you say then Will, are you ready to make a choice?”<br/>
<br/>
Just a short while ago, before Charles took you on the tour of the planets, you would have said yes in an instant.  Now that he’s explained the likely effects of choosing each <i>ousiarch</i>, you are a little more hesitant.  There is the nagging feeling that there is something else as well, an important bit of information that has slipped from your grasp that would be vital in making your choice.<br/>
<br/>
Are you ready to make the choice?<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Gathering
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Now that you’ve shown me sir,” you say nervously.  “I’m not so sure.”<br/>
<br/>
You’d expected him to be annoyed, or maybe even angry, but Charles just smiles and nods.  “It’s a big decision, isn’t it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” you reply.  “Thanks you for showing me, it really helps a lot, but I need to know more – a lot more – to make the right decision.  It’s going to affect the rest of my life, isn’t it?  I can’t just hop back into the Libra and get it cut back off again can I,” you ask with a faint little half laugh.<br/>
<br/>
Charles smiles at your bad little joke, more to be reassuring than anything else you think.  “I don’t think it would be a good idea, no.  If you give me a few days I think I can come up with a way to help you find out all you need to in order to make your decision.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you sir.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The living room is crowded, very crowded.  In the two weeks you’ve been here, you don’t think there’s been a time when all the guests at Olympia have been in it at the same time.  Yet now, just after lunch on New Years Eve, Charles has called a meeting and everyone has trooped into the living room.<br/>
<br/>
Kali, Miko and Maria are sitting on the small couch.  You’d actually been lucky enough to get a seat on it yourself earlier, but then Miko had sat next to you.  There were no seats left when Maria arrived and you’d wilted under their combined stares and generously offered your seat to Maria.<br/>
<br/>
Nash is perched on the couch armrest next to Kali, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.  It is unlit though, the air in the room is close enough without having cigarette smoke wafting through it as well.  The arm rest next to Maria is empty, and you know better than to perch on it yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Rick is leaning on the windowsill, looking a little ill at ease.  He isn’t anywhere near as awkward looking as Father Ed though.  Ed’s standing by the door and his arms hang loosely as if he isn’t quite sure what to do with them.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie and Joe are on the floor.  They’re leaning back against the little table the television sits on, arms wrapped around each others back.  Lacking anywhere else to go, you sit down next to Rosalie.  She smiles at you before turning back to Joe.  You grimace a little as your stomach turns.<br/>
<br/>
There is one seat still empty, an old high backed armchair.  It is threadbare and worn, the colours faded.  Charles enters the living room and takes his place in it, his back ramrod straight, his hands gripping the ends of the armrests.  The idle chatter in the room stops abruptly.<br/>
<br/>
“Afternoon folks,” says Charles with a faint smile.  “You know me, I don’t like to do these things much, so I’ll try to get it done with as quick as I can.”  There are soft murmurs round the living room and Nash leans and whispers something in Kali’s ear.  She giggles briefly and puts her hand to her mouth.  “Now Nash,” grins Charles.  “I’ve sat through your seminars and you’re just as bad.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s true,” laughs Nash.<br/>
<br/>
“We got two people to formally welcome to our family.  They’ve been with us for a little while already, so you all know them, but still…  This is New Year’s Eve and tomorrow is a time for new beginnings,” he explains as Kali nods knowingly.  “Firstly, a new acolyte:  Rosalie Stewart.  Rosalie,” he says, gesturing to her.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalie smiles vaguely and waves at everyone.  “Hi.”  There is a chorus of hellos and welcomes.<br/>
<br/>
“This should be no surprise, but Kali, you’ll be spending some time with Rosalie.  However…”  Charles pauses for a few seconds.  “As a Glundandra, I have a part to play in Rosalie’s education as well.  So for the next two months Rosalie will stay here in Olympia rather than got to L.A..  And so will you Kali.”<br/>
<br/>
There is a moment of shocked silence before Kali speaks.  “This is most vexing Charles.  I have only just fixed the disruption caused by my unexpected trip to England.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, I have a way of minimising the disruption that we’ll discuss later,” he replies.  He glances at you briefly, almost so quickly that you missed.  “If you’ll consent to it.”<br/>
<br/>
Kali must have caught it too, because she looks at you stiffly.  “Till then,” she says.<br/>
<br/>
“Secondly, Will Prescott, who becomes an apprentice today,” continues Charles.<br/>
<br/>
“Well done squirt,” calls Rick.  Joe leans over and gives you a friendly punch in the arm.  Everyone else offers congratulations and encouragement as well, even Ed.<br/>
<br/>
“Normally I’d assign an apprentice to a single senior member who was best suited to help them develop their talents, but Will is an unusual case,” continues Charles.  “We’ve discovered that Will only has one <i>ousiarch</i>…”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks to Nash,” hollers Nash, interrupting.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks to Nash,” sighs Charles.  “Although it would be simple enough for me to help Will choose a new <i>ousiarch </i>to be his second, Will has asked for more information to help him decide.  That’s why I’ve decided to apprentice him to several of you rather than just one person.  Over the coming year two or three months with many of you to help him decide which <i>ousiarch </i>he should take as his second”<br/>
<br/>
Joe leans over and whispers in your ear.  “That’s Dad all over,” he says enthusiastically.  “Brilliant solution.”<br/>
<br/>
There’s a lot of quiet talking in the living room now.  Obviously this arrangement is pretty unusual.  Charles simply holds up his right hand till everyone falls silent.  “Will’s first assignment will be with Miko,” he explains once everyone is listening.  <br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops.  She stares daggers at you and the message, though unspoken, is clear enough:  ‘So that’s what you think of me?’.  You gulp and try to force a smile.  It must seem terribly forced.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll discuss the arrangements with you later personally Miko,” continues Charles, either oblivious or ignoring the pair of you.  “And with the rest of you as the time approaches.  That’s everything.  Thank you for your time folks.”  He starts to rise from his chair but then sits back down.  “Oh Joe,” he adds as an afterthought.  “If you could come see me in my study.”<br/>
<br/>
The meeting breaks up and people start to drift away.  You sit for a few moments, lost in your thoughts until you realise a shadow is looming over you.  It’s Miko.<br/>
<br/>
“Get up,” she says brusquely.<br/>
<br/>
You jump awkwardly to your feet.  “Uh… yes…” your stutter.  “Yes…  Ma’am?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh <i>Ma’am</i> is it now,” she asks with a cat like grin.  “I think I could get used to that.”<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well this is going to be fun</i>, you think.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
<i>Will’s adventures continue in</i> "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11111" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">Reunion Tour</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11111" target="_blank" title="Open in new window."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a> <i>in </i>"<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914-The-Wandering-Stars" target="_top" title="A secret society of magicians fights evil--and sometimes each other.">The Wandering Stars</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914-The-Wandering-Stars" target="_blank" title="A secret society of magicians fights evil--and sometimes each other."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a>.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222
author_id: collider
title: London Calling
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're on the "Tube" - Jen's surface memories direct you straight to the subway station once you've picked up her luggage - by the time Rick would have got through customs. One of the advantages of being cabin crew is the ability to glide through airport security, and Jen's form lets you skip the delays and various hurdles Rick would encounter. You need the head start.<br/>
<br/>
The early morning journey on the Picadilly line from Heathrow will take about an hour before you to get to Jen's apartment - flat, as she thinks of it. You slump in the carriage seat, your heavily made up eyes fluttering with exhaustion from working the entire flight. By the time Rick realizes you're not meeting him, you should be safe in your temporary home.<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to think of how Rick will react to you running away. Kali's retreat to Oxford was unexpected and you remember how he and Miko responded. And that was Kali - you're still learning about your powers. You also saw the thunder and fury burning in his eyes on the flight. He wasn't just angry about you following him, you are sure. You close your eyes and think, calm, regulated breaths helping to clear your mind.<br/>
<br/>
First, you left a trace. Jennifer Moore is recovering back across the Atlantic, no doubt crying havoc about waking up in a toilet with a bundle of someone else's clothes. You vow not to mention you left her Kali's garb when you next see Rick; that's only going to add to his ire. Second, you gave yourself away. You didn't need to say Rick's name. It was a stupid error, one you promise not to repeat. Both mistakes could have got you killed in another sitaution.<br/>
<br/>
You open Jen's sleepy eyes, feeling guilty, stupid, and ashamed. Perhaps you should have faced Rick. No matter how bad he'd have chewed you out, it would have been better than running. You notice one of the other passengers in the small, dirty carriage glance longingly at your thighs, no doubt imagining what lies beyond in your pencil skirt. A flash of satisfaction - and revulsion - whips out from Jen's persona as you deliberately ignore the stare. At least you're able to maintain your borrowed identity.<br/>
<br/>
You let Jen's memories lead you off the Tube network at somewhere called Hammersmith: a grim neighborhood of black-stained buildings and old Victorian housing. You make your way from the station, dragging Jen's suitcase along the uneven flagstones, finally turning in to her building, then climb wearily up the stairs and open the door to the flat. It's a little past 7am in London, the day is dawning, and all you - and Jen - want to do is sleep.<br/>
<br/>
The moment you enter, you feel a brush of fur against Jen's legs, taking you a little by surprise. You close the door and bend down, scooping up the cat, smiling its owner's smile at it as you raise it up.<br/>
<br/>
"Hello, Jelly," you say, your English accent slipping out warmly. The cat blinks at you with imperious indiffernence. You set it down and take a step inside, relieved you can finally tug off the flight attendant's neck scarf and slip out of the deep red jacket. You seal your eyes and stretch, forcing some of the fatigue from your borrowed limbs.<br/>
<br/>
There's a noise, and, as you open your eyes, you spy another woman standing in front of you. She's much like Jen, an attractive woman if not naturally stunning: shorter, about five years younger, thinner and fitter. Her mousy brown hair is pinned back in an efficient bun. She's still in her pyjamas, and gives you a sleepy smile.<br/>
<br/>
"You're back." A strange, dancing accent - Welsh, Jen's memory identifies - is marred with a yawn. "How was the flight?"<br/>
<br/>
This, Jen's thoughts tell you, is Claire Jones, your housemate. It's an arrangement of pure convenience. As a flight attendant, you haven't settled yet and need to split the exorbitant cost to rent a flat in London. You posted an ad and Claire answered. As two single women working shifts, you're an ideal fit for each other.<br/>
<br/>
You probe Jen's thoughts deeper, wondering what shift work Claire does... OK, she's a firefighter. That's different.<br/>
<br/>
"Tiring," you sigh, as Jen would. Claire nods sympathetically. <br/>
<br/>
"I bet. I'd fix you some brekkie, but I've got to get ready. Someone called in sick, I've been asked to head in for emegency cover; got a duty shift starting in an hour. Oh, hey, we've got a message." Claire turns from the conversation, strides to the blinking phone on a small side table, and hits the answering machine.<br/>
<br/>
A sinking feeling passes through your gut. A cold shiver at the possible source of the message. You get your palm ready to summon a sigil.<br/>
<br/>
"You have one new message. Called today at 6.41am..."<br/>
<br/>
Within seconds your worst fears are confirmed.<br/>
<br/>
"Claire! Please pick up!" Jen's distraught voice sounds tinny but immediately recognizable on the machine. "I'm still in the US! You won't believe this but..."<br/>
<br/>
A look of complete confusion passes over Claire's face as she stares at the machine. Then at you. Then back again at the machine.<br/>
<br/>
You panic, summoning the <i>Libra</i> sigil in your hand, instinctively trying to alter the length of the stun. You stride over purposefully and slam your palm on Claire's forehead before she can react, catching her and lowering her softly to the floor as she falls unconscious and her <i>imago</i> enters your mind. Jelly the cat watches the scene impassively.<br/>
<br/>
Before Claire even reaches the floor, a thought of horror rears up. You realize didn't reduce the sigil - you strengthened it. You don't know how you did it, you weren't even thinking as you adapted the sigil, but you know you ramped it up to an even higher potency than with Jen. Claire is going to be unconscious for the next 12 hours.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll... Look, I'll try calling again in half an hour." The answering message, the real Jen's voice clearly shaken, ends, talking to the air. You stand in the flat feeling cold, numb and panicked.<br/>
<br/>
Things are just going from bad to worse. You wish you'd never got on the flight; all of this is more than you can deal with. You're wearing the <i>imago</i> of a flight attendant who is stranded on another continent, desperately trying to contact her housemate. Said housemate is unconcsious on the floor in front of you, and will be for the next 12 hours. She's a firefighter, and due at work in an hour. If she doesn't turn up, someone will notice. And she's already said she's coming in to work; you can't call in sick.<br/>
<br/>
If that wasn't bad enough, you are so tired, exhausted even, you feel dead on your feet. You can barely think.<br/>
<br/>
You could try and get in contact with the others, you suppose. Kali's <i>imago</i> must know Margaret's number; it might be best to get someone to help you clean up this mess before things get worse.<br/>
<br/>
Or perhaps you should try and clean up the situation yourself.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222
author_id: collider
title: London Answering
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Jelly sits watching you. He's circling his food bowl and meowing slow, repeated notes to try and seize your attention. He wants feeding, and you, after all, are his owner. Animals, you always thought, had a sixth sense about danger. If that's true, it's a sense Jelly lacks: he's just watched you drag the unconscious body of Claire Jones, still encased in her pajamas, back to her scrupulously neat and tidy bedroom. Claire is a clean-freak it transpires, and spends the vast majority of her off duty time either with her on-again, off-again boyfriend Paul, or scrubbing the flat to almost surgical cleanliness.<br/>
<br/>
You pluck the location of the cat food from Jen's memories, find a can and dole out a portion. Jelly doesn't appear remotely grateful, but then he's a cat: they take humans for granted anyway. <br/>
<br/>
Much like you have taken Jennifer and Claire for granted. They are just the latest in a long line of spectacular Will Prescott screw ups. You give the cat an affectionate pat on the head, and sink on to the sofa to work things through. <br/>
<br/>
You've already decided that you've got to deal with this yourself and somehow fix the problem you've created. The <i>Stellae</i> aren't going to appreciate this at all. If Rick was mad on the flight, you can only imagine his fury when he catches up to you. You remember the first time you met, when he pulled a knife on you. It's not a side of him you want to see again.<br/>
<br/>
The phone rings, shattering your thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
Shit. That's got to be Jen again; the <i>real Jen</i>. She promised she'd call back, didn't she? And if you are her when you answer, she's only going to freak out more.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, take a deep breath and meditate. Claire's<i> imago</i> floats in your consciousness, whips of her memories fluttering around like wild, spectral flares caught in a silent breeze. You focus, trying to grasp it. It's difficult, far more elusive than Jen's, perhaps because the phone is ringing and distracting you. Finally you catch it, and draw it close and around you, wrapping yourself in it. The attendant's uniform loosens as you shrink in size. The tummy tucker still pushes against you but your breasts shrink down and no longer push out of the blouse, and everything feels a little baggy in your new, shorter body. You blink, flicking through Claire's surface memories as you dash to the phone.<br/>
<br/>
“Hello?” You say, feigning a sleepy yawn and irritation at being called so early. Your Welsh accent almost severs the word in two. It's an easy part to play; you haven't slept in far too long.<br/>
<br/>
“Claire! Thank God! I've been trying to reach you!”<br/>
<br/>
“Jen?” You ask, pretending to be confused. “You all right, love? I thought you was due back?”<br/>
<br/>
“I... no. I'm not even close to all right. I'm still in the US. You're not going to believe this but someone...” Jen's voice is strained, hoarse even. Tears blub down the line. She babbles, almost incoherently, her story. You already know it, so instead focus on Claire's persona, her thoughts and memories. How would she react to all this?<br/>
<br/>
With difficulty. “'Ang on a minute,” you say, your Welsh accent strong and disbelieving. The rest of the conversation flies in multiple directions, as Jen's fears and traumas unravel to who she believes is her flatmate. You just try and hold on, responding as Claire would. “So somebody...took your place on the flight?... No, love. Nobody's been 'ere... you think they've got your keys? Well look, I'll change the alarm code, all right?... Wow, yeah... no... Of course. Of course I can. Look... I don't know what you want me to do, though?... OK, all right... look, I've got a duty shift starting in 'alf an ower... of course I can look after Jelly. He's a little sweetheart, isant 'e?... I'll be fine. I'll call Paul and 'ave 'im come over tonight, all right? Yes... that's awful... no. Right, all right. You just take care of yourself... OK then... OK... bye.”<br/>
<br/>
By the time the line clicks dead, you just want to curl up and die, or draw your Sulva nature close and hide away forever. Jennifer Moore is having the worst day imaginable. She woke in an airport, her last memory preparing for a flight that had left six hours earlier. But that was only the first part of her troubles. Confused, scared, she went to get help from airport security. But she had no memory of what had happened, and nothing to prove her identity. When the airline had been contacted, it confirmed Senior Flight Attendant Jennifer Moore reported for duty on time and worked a flight before departing at Heathrow. For her the past day has been some kind of nightmare; a nightmare that's left her confused, scared and vulnerable. On the phone to you, she even began to question her own identity and sanity.<br/>
<br/>
Jennifer is still trying to sort out with her employers, US officials and the British Embassy who she really is. Everyone is baffled, and so far the official position is to doubt every word of her story; she's worried they might have her committed. One thing is clear, though: she's not returning to England any time soon. You haven't just created chaos with your spur-of-the-moment flight; you've wrecked someone's life.<br/>
<br/>
You resolve not to make the same mistake for Claire. Her situation is different: she's at least in her own home. How you're going to fix her earlier encounter with you as Jen you don't know – convince her she dreamed it? Impersonate Jen for a few days? You'll have to come up with an idea.<br/>
<br/>
Regardless, before you can fix anything, 'Claire' needs to head to work. You gulp, and begin to shed Jen's flight attendant's uniform. You impersonated Kali well enough in front of her client; being Claire shouldn't be any different. Her memories tell you that today is actually the second of her supposed 'off' period – after this cover shift she has two days before she needs to return to work. If you can get through the next ten and a half hours helping out white watch (Claire is actually on blue watch), you'll be home free. <br/>
<br/>
Easier said than done. All you want to do is collapse and sleep.<br/>
<br/>
You finish pulling off Jen's clothing, grab her suitcase and hide it all under her bed. Claire is due to wake up in just under 12 hours, and if she wakes before you return, you want to make sure she doesn't see anything odd around her home. You head back to the main room, wipe the answering machine message from the machine, and then head to her bedroom, entirely nude. Jelly still takes no notice of the strange scene playing out in front of him.<br/>
<br/>
Your doppelganger lies unconscious on her bed, just as you left her. You pause, dragging up her memories to find where she keeps her clothes. You slip into her underwear, don a sports bra, and grab her uniform – a simple blue T-shirt and trousers, which fits your tight frame perfectly. Where Jen was an engineered beauty, Claire is more pretty than stunning; her attractiveness comes from her bubbly personality and fit, healthy lifestyle rather than natural looks.<br/>
<br/>
After a nervous glance toward the real Claire, you busy yourself in her mirror, replicating her hair bun and making sure the mousy brown locks look perfect. Claire would have taken a shower before work, but you've already wasted enough time. You nod to yourself in the mirror, still uncomfortable at stealing her identity, and gather her phone, Tube pass, wallet and keys. Claire 'Taff' Jones, a 34-year-old Crew Manager in the London Fire Brigade, looks back at you. Her eyes are tired, her expression exhausted, but the impersonation is perfect.<br/>
<br/>
“Lush,” you say, just as she would. It's time to work.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221
author_id: collider
title: London Burning
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Morning, sleepy head. You all right, Taff?” Mal King is chief on white watch, and gives you a broad smile as you head into the station, head bowed and eyes narrowed with sleep. You pull Claire's memories around you as closely as possible, almost as if you're worried the wisps of memory and personality will dance away.<br/>
<br/>
“Fine, I'm proper boss,” you say, almost bouncing as you conjure up a false, shallow version of her enthusiasm for the job. “It's just my flatmate. She's got a bit of drama going on.” You take your position in the roll call line up. The team of white watch stand along side you, back to a gleaming, polished fire engine; when not attending calls, the firefighters keep busy making sure their equipment is spotless. Claire, clean-freak that she is, heartily approves.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh man. What's going on with Miss cakes-on-her-makeup-with-a-shovel?” Tom Robson, standing next to you, laughs. Claire's irritation flashes like a spark in your mind. She set up Jen on a date with Tom last year, and it didn't go well. You turn, swinging a soft punch onto his shoulder. <br/>
<br/>
“Oi, you! She's my bloody friend! Don't make me kick your backside. And mind your own bloody business, all right?” <br/>
<br/>
Tom laughs, rubbing his arm, and looks down at you in amusement. “You can take the girl out of the valleys, but you can't take the valleys out of the girl.”<br/>
<br/>
“Too bloody right.” You give him a mock stare. Claire's perfectly at home in this banter, and you let her guide you. She's a popular member of the station, it seems – mainly due to her endless repertoire of filthy jokes and prowess when it comes to table tennis.<br/>
<br/>
“All right, pack it in.” Mal picks up his call sheet. “Roll call. Let's see... Cuthbert, Dibble, Jones, Robson...” you drift off a little, falling asleep, but as Claire you keep standing to attention. Mention of her nickname jars you back. “Taff, you're in Clarabelle today. Position three. Go grab your gear.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right you are.” You say, letting your memories guide to you obtain Claire's suit and respirator and store it in the cab. Clarabelle is engine two, and position three is your riding position – on the back seat, assisting with the hose or leading an interior team. Five minutes, and so far you've passed as her successfully. Just another ten hours, 25 minutes to go...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
It all happens so quickly, you have little idea what's going on. One moment you're in the station, the next a klaxon is blaring, and you're rushing to Clarabelle. The engine revs, the machine lurches into life, and you scramble to don your heavy firefighting apparel. It's just like in the movies. The only difference is that you didn't have a pole to slide down.<br/>
<br/>
“Listen up,” King is yelling over the engine and sirens, Clarabelle swinging violently from left to right as it cuts through the heavy traffic of London's streets. The motion rocks you, makes you feel car sick as you focus on donning the equipment. Tom is in the back of the cab with you and another firefighter, pulling on his smock as you are. He's finding it far easier.<br/>
<br/>
“It's a warehouse fire. Sounds like a complete bitch. I want two teams...” King is yelling. The siren wails. Your tiredness claws at you. The motion sickness makes you want to vomit. You're trying to don heavy, complex equipment. You struggle to keep hold of Claire's<i> imago</i>, her memories dancing around you, only making you more nauseous. You concentrate, forcing your legs into the leggings and heavy boots.<br/>
<br/>
“... Jones and Robson will...” Klaxon. Horns. Petrol fumes. Another sudden, violent lurch as the engine clears a bend. Claire's<i> imago</i> almost breaks free of your mental grasp. You tighten your eyes, forcing it back into place, throwing the jacket and oxygen tank on.<br/>
<br/>
“What's the matter with you?” Robson asks, concerned.<br/>
<br/>
“What?” Somehow you're still keeping Claire's <i>imago</i> close. <br/>
<br/>
“Come on, Taff. Where's the usual joke or two about a copper, a horse and six Viagra?”<br/>
<br/>
You frown, and pull your respirator on over your head. You try and regain focus, grasping at Claire's personality as it rushes around in your mind.<br/>
<br/>
“I want to contain...” Klaxon howl, horn, fumes, a sudden turn to the left that sends you careening into the cab side. Robson looking at you intently. <br/>
<br/>
You lose your grip on Claire, her<i> imago</i> becoming distant. You close your eyes, trying to concentrate, pulling a visage close to you and sheathing yourself in it. <br/>
<br/>
“Huh?” Tom reels back in shock. You understand why. You've pulled the wrong imago. You felt your body shift; not significantly in size or shape, but enough to notice. Your face and body feel completely different. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> You close your eye again, looking for Claire's<i> imago</i>. Her face appears in your mind and you grasp at it desperately. You pull it close, force it around you, concentrate on ensuring it's fast. You pray Tom didn't see too much; you're dressed in a full firefighter's jacket and respirator, after all – it would be hard to see a face clearly.<br/>
<br/>
“What?” You ask, relieved it's Claire's voice that spills out. Tom shakes his head, and gets back to donning his own equipment. <br/>
<br/>
“Nothing,” he says, clearly unsure of himself. “For a moment... for a moment I thought you looked... like a Japanese girl.”<br/>
<br/>
You laugh, its timbre wrought with nervousness. “You need help, Tom. Serious fucking help. So? You wanted a joke did you? 'Ere's one for you. A guy walks into a bar...”<br/>
<br/>
Outwardly you're calm. But inwardly you quake with fear. It was blind luck you were wearing a breathing mask when your face shifted. If you lose grip of Claire's<i> imago</i> at the fire, you'll have no idea what to do.<br/>
<br/>
The engine comes to a halt. <br/>
<br/>
It's too late to back out now...<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212
author_id: collider
title: Up In Smoke
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Taff, take that green back door over there. Last call put two people still inside. Probably out by now but we've got to check. Go.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod under your suit, rushing forward with Tom at your heel. Right now, you are so far out of your depth all you can do is cling on to Claire's<i> imago</i>. The warehouse blaze is like something out of a horror movie. Flames burst out of shattered glass windows, the searing heat melting guttering and blackening the building. Smoke billows silently out of doors. Both the station's engines are parked hastily, hoses unraveling and water shooting across the sky in powerful, quenching arcs. Behind a perimeter line, just outside of where it's unbearably hot to stand, crowds of locals are taking pictures with their phones.<br/>
<br/>
You've seen fires before. Most recently with Joe and Frank at Blackwell's. But this spectacle is something beyond your experience. <br/>
<br/>
You ignore it all, keeping into your own, isolated world inside the respirator, your breaths hissing in your ears and making you feel like Darth Vader. Already the visor is beginning to fog with condensation, and despite your heavy protection the heat feels like you're standing in front of a lit stove. You don't bother with pleasantries like seeing if the door you've been assigned opens. You just nod to Tom and he brings his axe crashing down, smashing the entrance to timbers.<br/>
<br/>
Inside, you proceed forward, always struggling under the pressure of the task at hand. You're in a small office complex to the side of the main warehouse, and it's surprisingly chill inside; the inferno in the warehouse obviously hasn't spread to this section, the fire doors are holding up. Claire's reactions guide your vision, instructing you how to scan corners, assess threats. Ash from paperwork scatters through the air, tiny fragments twisting in midair. A cool, low-rolling cloud of smoke surrounds your feet.<br/>
<br/>
“Check 'em,” you say. Tom follows your lead, scanning the rooms. Empty. They're all empty. <br/>
<br/>
You push further into the blaze, a rush of excitement sending a shiver up your spine. This is heroic stuff, and a surprisingly intoxicating buzz. Not only are you successfully pretending to be a woman from another country, but you're actually mastering a job that you've always admired, that you used to play at with action figures as a kid. This is a cakewalk.<br/>
<br/>
“Clear?”<br/>
<br/>
“Clear.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right. Up we go.” You turn up the flight of stairs, up to the next floor. There's less smoke here, fewer shadows to loom at you, fewer surprises to fear. Claire's memories come thick and fast, flashing at the edge of your consciousness, pulling at you for attention. You ignore them; now isn't the time to meditate. <br/>
<br/>
The thrill of what you are doing, rushing into a situation of mortal peril with perfect professionalism and control, is incredible. Perhaps this is the thrill of fieldwork? Why the <i>Stellae</i>'s burden is a heavy one, but a life that most seem to enjoy, even if they're not at ease with it? You think back to the battles in Saratoga Falls. You didn't realize what you were getting into then. Now though, you're beginning to understand what kind of life you might be preparing to live. You keep Claire's face close, unwilling to lose it again in front of Tom, but keep to your own thoughts. Claire gets a thrill from her job, but it's nothing like your experience of it for the first time.<br/>
<br/>
The building's all clear; there's no one inside. You give a thumbs up to Tom and turn on your heels, heading back to the stairwell. You're about to head down when you spot one last, final door; probably a store room, next to the fire door leading to the warehouse. A halo of smoke dances around it. Might as well be thorough...<br/>
<br/>
“Taff! <i>No!</i>”<br/>
<br/>
You don't hear Tom's warning until you've started to turn the handle. You don't notice Claire's memories either, almost screaming at you not to open the door.<br/>
<br/>
You do, however, see the smoke inside the room seemingly ignite, and turn into a whirling fireball in front of your eyes before it launches toward you like a scorpion's sting. A piercing, rolling ball of brilliant flame engulfs you, sweeps you off your feet, and sends you flying hard into the opposite wall with a deafening roar.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Backdraft</i>, Claire's mind tells you. <i>All the hallmarks of a potential backdraft, you idiot</i>. Then you lose consciousness.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You cough, wheeze, force out the soot from your lungs. You're resting in the open back of an ambulance, aching from head to toe. Your neck feels strained and awkward to move, your arm stiff and sore. You've been checked out, and beside a few cuts and grazes you're fine. This time. <br/>
<br/>
The equipment you were wearing has, quite literally, saved your life. So has Tom. You look at him with Claire's soot-blackened face, haunted and ashen after the peril you just faced. Your mousy-brown hair tumbles in stray locks, matted flat against your skin by sweat.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” you say sheepishly, for perhaps the tenth time. Tom shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
“Don't sweat it, Taff. Fucked if I know how you didn't spot that trouble spot, it was clear as day. Just a good thing you're not seriously hurt, is all.”<br/>
<br/>
“I'm not,” you state. Not seriously hurt; knocked unconscious, needed pulling out, but not seriously harmed. Or perhaps you mean that you're not really Claire Jones. That you didn't have her thoughts and instincts, or a clear picture of her training and experience. That you're just a cheap, knock-off copy of a woman unconscious at home. “Still thanks, though.”<br/>
<br/>
“You should head to hospital.” Mal, giving simple advice. “Shit, Taff. What the hell happened in there?”<br/>
<br/>
“I'm fine. Honest, I am. I just... I just messed up, all right?”<br/>
<br/>
You have. In a major way. Claire Jones is the second person whose life you've ruined in the space of 24 hours. Fortunately there was nobody in the building to rescue, and the fire teams have got the blaze under control; they're just pouring water over embers and ashes. But for Claire, this won't be the end of it. Making such a rookie mistake put her life, and the life of her team mate, in danger. <br/>
<br/>
Claire is going to face questions about her competency. Tests. Assessments. Doubts from her team mates, loss of esteem. And, probably, some kind of unofficial suspension until everyone's confident she's safe to work with again.<br/>
<br/>
“Right.” Mal is decisive. “Well, nothing for it now. Shift's almost over anyway. Head back to the station, stow your gear. And Jesus Christ, Taff, get some fucking sleep. You look like the walking dead.”<br/>
<br/>
You're still feeling awful – not physically, but mentally – as you prepare to leave the station. You've had a shower and cleaned yourself up, but the conversation with white watch was muted. You and Claire's persona both feel the tension from the others. It's hard to quantify the enormity of your mistake. So far everything you've done since leaving LA – since you arrived at LAX really – has just made things worse.<br/>
<br/>
There's also the question of what to do next. You could choose to return to the flat, as Claire, or maybe Jen; it's pushing 12 hours and the real firefighter will be beginning to stir. You wonder if you should just walk in, confront her and tell her she's having a dream, and relay what happened at today's major call out to her using her own face and voice. You think she'd buy it if you knock her out again, perhaps for longer; her memories tell you she believes in ghosts and superstitions, and nobody's going to question such a strange 'dream' after her experience. Or you could stay as her for a few days, and try and do something to make this error up to her.<br/>
<br/>
The problem with that is you're pretty sure Rick will be able to find you. And after what happened today, that seems to be the last thing you want him to do. Besides, the last time you tried to 'fix' something, you found yourself wrecking another life. That just makes you feel even more guilty.<br/>
<br/>
The alternative is to simply avoid Claire altogether, and escape this tangled mess you've made. You can leave her wallet, keys and phone in her locker at the station for her to collect, and simply walk off into London. You've got a range of faces – that you could use to hide away. Of course, none of them have any ID, or any money. You'd have to try and – well, there's no way to look at it other than <i>steal</i> – some from someone else. Or perhaps borrow; you can call on their account and pay it back. Although you have access to Claire and Jen's bank accounts, you've put them through enough already.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, thieves strike all the time in major cities like London, don't they? And this is a worthy cause. You could always only steal from someone wealthy, someone unlikely to miss enough cash for you to book into a hotel and survive for a few days. You could assume their <i>imago</i> too: not steal their life,  just copy their face and use it to hide out. You remember how Rick only spotted you on the plane when you used his name. And London's a huge city. As Claire, or even Kali or Miko, it would be easy to grab someone's<i> imago</i> and disappear. <br/>
<br/>
Just a few days. Just until you're ready to face the consequences of what you've done.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121
author_id: collider
title: New Old Flames
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You open the flat door as quietly as possible, feeling beyond tired and wanting only to collapse. You have now been awake more than a day, and have just worked two 10 hour shifts, back to back. You are drained, stumbling on your feet. And there's only one task left to do before you can sleep.<br/>
<br/>
You slide the door closed behind you, sidestepping to avoid Jelly prowling his territory. Claire, you can hear, is stirring from her slumber in her room. You curse the Underground system, and the ill passenger at Green Park who delayed your line. But it's given you time in your sleep-starved brain to come up with a plan.<br/>
<br/>
You step next to the TV, around the corner from Claire's room, and wait, getting ready to strike. As she steps into the room you summon your cloak, wrapping her up in it as you did the travel agent at the airport. When she steps into the room she doesn't seem to notice you, seeing the scenery but not the figure standing there.<br/>
<br/>
Claire, for her part, immediately starts searching the mantelpiece, cursing under breath. You slip into her memories... that's where she left her keys last night. You're surprised she doesn't seem shocked about waking up so late, or still in her pajamas, but she doesn't even seem to think about it.<br/>
<br/>
"Where the hell are they? 'Ey, Jelly? You seen my keys, lad? Fecking 'ell... Oh, and you'll want feeding and all, won't you?"<br/>
<br/>
You watch with confusion as she walks to the drawer to get the cat some food. She doesn't seem to have remembered anything. You scrunch your borrowed forehead in consternation. Then a thought from her mind hits you.<br/>
<br/>
Her clock is analog. You knocked her out for 12 hours and put her to bed. When she stirred, she saw it was seven and assumed it was morning, not evening. Your encounter has been brushed off as no more than a strange dream.<br/>
<br/>
You smile and walk up behind her, sigil appearing in your hand, before you slip her into slumber for another 12 hours. Once more you put her to bed, taking the time to slip her keys, wallet, phone and ID onto the floor, as if she clumsily knocked them off her dresser. She'll have lost an entire day, but that can be explained by her - your - fire trauma. You slip off her T-shirt and trousers, place them neatly in her laundry basket, and walk to the sofa for at least a few hours of sleep in safety. <br/>
<br/>
Jelly stares at you with contempt for depriving him of a meal.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
A soft hand brushes through your hair, caressing your scalp gently. The. A chin, light stubble pushing against your cheek. And finally lips, placed softly on your waiting flesh.<br/>
<br/>
"Mmm..." You murmur, shifting comfortably in your slumber, before you suddenly realize what that means. Your eyes bulge wide in alarm, Claire's persona instructing you to come out shoving. The man on the sofa, one hand already slipping along your exposed thigh, laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"Get off, you! Cheeky sod." You roll up into a fetal position, legs bunched together, and grab a cushion, slapping him playfully.<br/>
<br/>
"You're cuter asleep." Paul grins at you, shoving your legs off the sofa to take a seat. He's tall, built like a football player...<i> rugby player</i>, Claire's thoughts correct. Once had a trial as second row for Saracens. Now he's in PR, but has still kept fit. Sculpted, athletic, he's got a raw, rugged look that got the firefighter hot under the collar. It's a shame, Claire's mind concedes, that he has to be such a thoughtless jackass at times.<br/>
<br/>
"What time is it?" You stretch your frame, still only in your sports bra and panties.<br/>
<br/>
"A little before nine. Your friend Tom called, said you'd had a bad one. Thought you might like some company, so I came over."<br/>
<br/>
He holds up a bottle of wine as if offering it for selection, then makes his way to the kitchen. When they got back together last month Claire gave him a key, and since then he's more than made himself at home. In ten visits he's somehow left at least two full sets of clothes scattered around the flat - much to Claire's ire. She's hid them in her drawer as a lesson, waiting for him to ask if she's seen anything. So far he doesn't seem to have noticed he's missing anything.<br/>
<br/>
You follow him over to the kitchen. Claire would slip herself around him, rest her head against his back, but you'd rather not. Instead you just sigh, leaning against the counter.<br/>
<br/>
"To be honest, Paul, I'm shattered. I just want to go to bed, all right?" Paul smiles, sets the bottle and corkscrew down, and leans down, scooping you off your feet and into his arms. You squeak in shock.<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever you say," he chuckles, making strides toward Claire's room. Claire would be enjoying this, but a cold sweat crosses your forehead. This is the last thing you need... the <i>real Claire</i> is slumped in her bed. You laugh as she would, and slap him on his chest.<br/>
<br/>
"Down," you command, before nodding toward his trousers. "Both of you. I <i>am</i> tired, but not enough to turn down a glass or two of red first."<br/>
<br/>
Paul smiles, and sets you down. "Whatever you say, Princess."<br/>
<br/>
"I say if you call me Princess again I'll kick your clackers into touch. Now get that bottle open, will you? I want to get properly mashed tonight."<br/>
<br/>
It takes you an hour of awkward snuggling on the sofa in front of the TV, Paul clearly wanting something, you unwilling to oblige, before the wine starts to do its work. The moment he begins to feel tired and giddy you revolve Claire's body around, forcing your acquired breasts against his chest like a snake slithering over its prey, leaning up, and almost - almost - kissing him. He gazes at you dreamily as, silently, a look of hypnotic concentration on Claire's face, your hands dance up his body. First along his arms, then his shoulders, then a pause of anticipation above his head, out of his vision... then against his forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Paul slumps unconscious, and you roll off without a moment's thought, sighing with relief. In an instant Claire's seduction has turned to your exhausted, workmanlike disinterest. You stare at his body thoughtfully, wondering how you're going to drag the huge man to Claire's room. You had the foresight to reduce the length of the sigil appropriately. With any luck, Paul and Claire will come to within minutes of each other, both spooning in her bed, and assume their night was much like any other. You take a swig from her wine glass, sloshing it around your mouth before spitting it out.<br/>
<br/>
Then there's a knock at the door. Once more, you're on high alert... panic almost. You grab Paul, and, tilting him, position him neatly on the sofa. The door raps again as you retrieve a blanket and throw it over him. The door raps again.<br/>
<br/>
"Just a minute," you call out, scrambling madly to the clothes bin to pull on a top. Only then do you rush to the door, opening so the frame conceals your lower body. You blow an errant strand of hair out of your eyes as you swing the door open.<br/>
<br/>
Rick stares directly at you. You give him your best Claire frown. <br/>
<br/>
"Yes?" you ask. Rick's already leaning to the side a little, peering in past your head into the apartment set-up. He can probably see Paul, out cold on the sofa, sleeping it off. He ignores your question. <br/>
<br/>
"What?" you say, a little more impatiently this time. You also summon up some of Claire's disgust at Rick's general unkempt appearance. He looks at you warily, and  curiously.<br/>
<br/>
"Evenin'," he states. "I was wondering if you could help. I'm a friend of Jennifer Moore's, was looking for her. This is her apartment, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's 'er flat, yes," you correct, still wary of Rick's presence. "Is there something I can 'elp you with at all? And 'oo buzzed you into the buildin', anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"I reckon you can help, yeah. Mind if I come in a minute?"<br/>
<br/>
"I do actually," you stress, letting Claire's voice get a little angry. "My boyfriend's 'ere and Jen isn't. She 'asn't been back since she headed to America. Now is there something specific you want, or what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your boyfriend, huh?" Rick scratches, and looks at you with his usual suspicion before looking once more at the sofa. <br/>
<br/>
This is the point where Claire would start to slam the door on him. But since you dumped him at the airport, everything has felt so utterly exhausting; you yearn to be back with your friends and mentors. He's also managed to track you down in half a day, and he could do so again. It might be easier if you confess now, before he figures it out and just gets madder.<br/>
<br/>
Or you can try and fool him. After all, you almost succeeded on the plane...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211
author_id: collider
title: The One In Trouble
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide to drop the act. You're just too exhausted to continue. Besides, Rick would be smelling a rat, and no doubt would be hovering around. He'd spot you eventually, and then there'd be hell to pay. <br/>
<br/>
“That's right, boyfriend. So... oh,” mock realization crosses your face. “Oh, gosh, I'm so sorree. You're the guy Jen mentioned, aren't you? Oh my. How rude of me! Come in, I'll get that package Jen phoned about. Don't mind Jelly, he's a sweetums.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick looks at you with utter suspicion in his eyes, even more so once he's crossed the threshold and you've closed the door. He never takes your eyes off you, even when Jelly begins to hiss at him.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, and slump with your back to the door. “Sorree, Rick,” you mutter. “I just... had to get away for a few days. Had to.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick's face is serious, his words deliberate and slow. He studies you for an age, his eyes falling to your legs, then up again to your face. “Had a little fun too, squirt?”<br/>
<br/>
You blush. “No. He's her boyfriend. I put him to sleep.”<br/>
<br/>
“How long's he been out?” Rick says, chewing the thought over, his voice still quiet and deliberate, his eyes like waves smashing against the shore. “How long we got?”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh,” you look awkward in Claire's form, trying to avoid his gaze. “We've got about ten hours.”<br/>
<br/>
“Say what?”<br/>
<br/>
“We have ten hours. I... sort of modified the sigil.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick doesn't look angry. He looks curious. “Interesting,” he states. “In that case squirt, why don't you get me a drink. You've got some serious explaining to do.”<br/>
<br/>
You pick up the bottle of whiskey from the drinks cabinet, and go to collect a glass. <br/>
<br/>
“No,” Rick states simply. “Just pass the bottle.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
It takes a full half hour to relay the information, and you're practically ready to wither and collapse by the end of it. Rick listens patiently, occasionally asking a question. You explain it all. How you decided to stow away, how you discovered you could adjust the sigils and took Jen's identity. Rick interjects at this point to pass a verdict on the ability to adapt sigils. Two words: <i>interesting</i> and <i>worrying.</i><br/>
<br/>
You've had enough of worrying. That's all you ever get. So instead you explain the consequences of what you did to Jen's life. The guilt. Then how you then went on to ruin Claire's. And, finally, why Paul is slumped on the sofa next to you. Claire's dancing, jinking accent makes it sound like a high adventure, despite your utter misery. At the end, you simply mutter how you were scared. You didn't want them to think you'd gone... what was the word again? Retrograde? It was just you needed a break. <br/>
<br/>
Rick takes a vicious swig of spirit, shaking his head as the liquid flows down. “Nah squirt," he finally decrees. "They ain't mad at you. You seriously think you're the first initiate to run away? Come on, you're smarter than that. You got potential. You just made a couple of real lousy choices. Real lousy ones. You do that playing for keeps, you get killed.”<br/>
<br/>
You notice he seems to have relaxed a little. You wonder if its the alcohol, or if he's satisfied with your explanation. <br/>
<br/>
“Here's the thing, squirt. You're a Sulva. You blend in, it's what you do. But you've also got those effects from the<i> libra</i>. So why are they going to be mad at you for using your skills to blend in, assume someone's identity and vanish? Hell, it's what they want you to be able to do. The fact that you screwed it up so bad just highlights a lesson, don't it? That's why you need the training.”<br/>
<br/>
You look sheepish, and nod. You lean over and pull the blanket from Paul, wrapping yourself up in it almost defensively.<br/>
<br/>
“To be blunt with you squirt, it's me they've got a problem with. I'm the one who made you run. I ain't got Kali's touch.”<br/>
<br/>
“It's not you,” you disagree, quietly. “I just haven't had a break. It's just been relentless.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick takes another swig. “You think it gets any better? Anyway, they ain't mad at you but at me. I'm the one that's got to clean up this damn mess. Fire girl and lover boy here ain't too much of a problem, but that stewardess you left stranded in LA? That's going to take some hard work, and compensation, too. I gotta fix that, but first I had to find you.”<br/>
<br/>
“How did you?” you ask. Rick shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
“Wasn't difficult. Wouldn't have clocked you as her if it hadn't been for lover boy sleeping on the couch. After that... ” Rick shrugs again.<br/>
<br/>
“Fine. So, what happens now?”<br/>
<br/>
“Hold on,” Rick says, raising a hand. “I didn't say this lecture was over. <i>They</i> might not be mad at you, but <i>I</i> sure am.”<br/>
<br/>
Now it's your turn to listen as Rick explains, in detail, where you went wrong. A lecture about the impact on Jen's life, getting lucky, about taking risks, getting lucky, staying too close to it with Claire, getting lucky. By the end of it he's listed faults you were painfully aware of, and problems you were painfully oblivious to. He also demands his car keys back, and takes Jen's flight uniform and suitcase.<br/>
<br/>
Again, you ask what happens next. Rick looks at you intently. <br/>
<br/>
“Me? I gotta shoot to Heathrow, then LA. I got a mess to take care of. I'll also contact the <i>Stellae</i> in Oxford, keep 'em in the loop. You... you're going to get out of this woman's life. She ain't a face you want to keep anyway. The best faces are gonna be the ones people want to get alone with. She's not bad for bedroom work, you can do better.”<br/>
<br/>
“Bedroom work?" You gulp. "You mean you want me to...”<br/>
<br/>
“Easiest way to grab a face is to get someone in a game of hide the salami, squirt. You don't have to do anything with 'em, but a range of faces will be important.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don't think...” once again, Claire blushes. Rick shakes his head.<br/>
<br/>
“That's a hangup you're going to have to get over pretty quick if you don't want to end up dead. But nah, if you're going to go around stealing faces you need someone watching over you. I don't want you pulling bedroom work just yet. What I want you to do is steal one face. Just <i>one</i>. We've got to test that sigil adaptation power of yours, see how long it holds up. See how long you can knock someone out so you can borrow their identity.”<br/>
<br/>
You frown. “Whose face?” you ask. <br/>
<br/>
Rick shrugs, and takes another slug of whiskey. “Seeing as how you seem to excel at it, a woman's. Someone fit for bedroom work, but that doesn't mean you have to get it that way. Someone difficult to pass for. Hmm. Someone either with a family, or who's got a lot of connections. Nothing too fancy or famous though, or you ain't going to be able to use her face again. I'm going to be gone three days. At the end of it, you call me on this number.” He pulls out a grubby slip of paper and sets it down. “You stay as that person. You don't screw up their life. Keep 'em knocked out, and don't let anyone find the real them. Consider it an exam.”<br/>
<br/>
“Can I at least get some sleep first?” you whine. Rick shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
“Up to you, kid. But it's almost 11pm. That's a golden hour for a bedroom face.”<br/>
<br/>
“And what about their life? What if I screw it up? How are they going to justify not remembering three days?”<br/>
<br/>
“You figure it out, kid. And my advice about screwing their life up? Don't. I'm cleaning up your mess this time <i>pro bono</i>. Next time there'll be a charge.”<br/>
<br/>
"But... three days?"<br/>
<br/>
"Three days. Never said it would be easy."<br/>
<br/>
You pick up Rick's phone number, and contemplate what to do. Part of you yearns for bed; you've had barely an hour's sleep in the past day. But he's right – if you're going to pull this off, now is the perfect time. You've already acquired Paul's face and he has clothes in the flat; he could be perfect for finding a new identity to slip into for a while.<br/>
<br/>
Alternatively, your bed is calling to you...<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112
author_id: collider
title: The Blood on the Blades
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'm not doing anything tonight," you say, Claire's tired, weary eyes peering at Rick like slits. You know you're missing something, that he wants you to make some kind of connection that gives you the answer you're looking for, but it's just not coming. Three days? How do you account for someone missing three days?<br/>
<br/>
"Fair enough, squirt," he concedes. "Go collapse in the stewardesses' room. I'll take the sofa."<br/>
<br/>
"It's <i>flight</i> <i>attendant</i>, Rick. And aren't you heading to 'eathrow, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I will in the morning. Missed the last red eye by now, and I ain't got a ticket yet." He walks to Paul's comatose frame and grips it under the shoulders, dragging it toward Claire's room while still managing to keep hold on his whiskey bottle. "I'll kick you at five, that'll give us two hours to get out of here before these two wake up. Now give me a hand with sleeping beauty here."<br/>
<br/>
You help Rick put Paul to bed next to his girlfriend whose face you currently wear. Then you head off to Jen's bedroom, and collapse onto her bed. You still have no idea how you're going to explain three days' absence, but Rick seems confident you'll figure it out. <br/>
<br/>
You hope he's right.<br/>
<br/>
*****<br/>
<br/>
An oar crashes into the water, liquid slipping over the smooth blade before flowing in a trickling stream back into the river. A second oar crashes down, pulling though the gleaming depths. And a third. And a fourth.<br/>
<br/>
Your minds eye pulls away focusing on two long, thin row boats driving their way down a narrow river, forcing their way through the course, trying to outpace each other. Both are crewed by eight strong, muscular figures, a smaller cox huddled at the back, barking orders, counting strokes. The two racers are neck and neck; the moment one boat edges ahead, the other quickens its already furious pace to match. The crew on the right are clad in dark blue, a deep, dark navy; the crew on the left wear sports tops of a blue-green cyan.<br/>
<br/>
The river runs straight, although it's barely narrow enough for the two boats to both navigate and the opposing oars constantly threatening to clash against each other. On one bank sleepy reeds and restful trees give way to a wide, open meadow. On the other, a stiff old wall, like a castle's battlement, buttresses hard against the water, leading up to grey stone medieval buildings with strange, gothic arches and looming gargoyles.<br/>
<br/>
Ahead of the rowers and their titanic struggle is a small, arched stone bridge. Atop it, dancing perilously on the bridge wall's lip, a young woman writhes hypnotically, as if in a trance. She is clad in a single, flimsy robe, like a Greek goddess, its colors a harlequin patchwork of navy and cyan that contrast sharply against her deathly pale complexion. Her face is a perfect oval, unusual yet beautiful, with lips like a China doll's. Furious red hair fans out from her scalp, licking in all directions like a raging inferno, blowing up to the sky as if caught in an updraft. Her eyes are white, pupils rolled back into her head as she continues her strange, flowing dance. <br/>
<br/>
Her eyes roll down, staring at you with a deep, unsettling grey. Despite her dance she stares at you and points with one graceful finger, away into the cluster of gothic buildings. You find yourself following her arm's direction, swooping on to the bridge, then drifting through small, tight, cobbled streets that seem threatened by the old buildings towering above. Eventually, yourself facing a library. You don't know how it's a library - there's no sign, and the windows are latticed to prevent an outsider's gaze - but your instinct tells you great knowledge is inside.<br/>
<br/>
On the library's wall, gleaming in polished chrome, are mounted three wheels, mounted inside each other, with the final, largest outer wheel stretching a few feet in diameter. Each disk has a series of holes cut in, and in one hole on each disk, a blue light shines. The inner circle whirs and clunks, and the blue light flashes, whizzing around the entire circle before coming to a halt in the next hole down. Above the whole contraption, staring out at you with a hideous expression on its face, rests a giant, mutated grasshopper. It's a horrific thing, but, as you stare at it, you realize it's mechanical, and locked with the polished disks. <br/>
<br/>
It's a clock, you realize. Some kind of hellish, futuristic clock. The inner wheel is counting seconds, the middle minutes, the outer hours. Counting down.<br/>
<br/>
Your revelation is short-lived. You find yourself being pulled away, back along the streets, back past the girl dancing on the bridge, back to the rowers and their race. The strain of the pace is starting to take its toll on the crews now, but the two boats are still cutting through the water at incredible pace as they near their goal.<br/>
<br/>
Then, without a word of warning, the dancing girl with flaming hair stops her whirls and sways, holds her arms wide, and allows herself to fall into the river. Her body seems to drift down in slow motion, a feather in the breeze. You can only watch with mounting horror as you realize the boats, dark blue and cyan, keep going, keep driving, keep ploughing forward oblivious to the calamity lying ahead. You wince as you watch their bows slam into the falling figure, and scream as the river turns red and the dancer's blood splashes across the blades.<br/>
<br/>
You wake up in a cold sweat, screaming. Within moments Rick kicks through the door, knife drawn, ready to brawl. He catches himself as he looks at you. The small clock in Jen's room shows 5am.<br/>
<br/>
*****<br/>
<br/>
"Old buildings and a river, huh? Libraries and colleges? Sounds like Oxford." Rick muses, having listened to you relay your nightmare. A little snippet of information pops up from Claire's memory.<br/>
<br/>
"No," you say. "It wasn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? How do you know? You haven't been to Oxford."<br/>
<br/>
"It was Cambridge. What you just said about Oxford jogged something in Claire's memory. Claire and Paul watch it every year. The boat race, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"The boat race?" <br/>
<br/>
"Yes," you nod, the memory coming clearer. The more you speak, the more certain you are. "Oxford and Cambridge universities. Their rowing teams race every year down the Thames. Oxford in dark blue, Cambridge in light. It's some kind of annual event. That was the first clue. But the buildings were Cambridge too. The race was down somewhere called 'The Backs'. Claire went there once for a day trip. You can hire a punt and drift along."<br/>
<br/>
"OK, enough with the description, you sold me." Rick thinks for a moment, before muttering again. "Interesting. And worrying."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think the rest of it means? The dancing girl with fire-bright hair, and the clock?"<br/>
<br/>
Rick shrugs. "Beats me. There are better people to ask about that, so that's what I'm gonna do. I'll give 'em a call at the airport, report that I've found you, and what you've come up with. We're going to have to look into it."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean we're going to Cambridge?"<br/>
<br/>
"I meant 'we' as in the <i>Stellae</i>. You and me ain't going, squirt. Whatever you just dreamed about needs someone better at dealing with that kind of stuff, someone with more experience."<br/>
<br/>
"But my dream..." you protest. <br/>
<br/>
"Was just that. Doesn't mean you're in charge, does it? So you stick with what I told you last night. Find a face, keep with it, focus on your training. I'll clean up your mess and pass on your dream to the <i>Stellae</i> in Oxford. Let them deal with it. Now get dressed and let's get out of here."<br/>
<br/>
You nod in agreement. You're still not sure how you're going to fulfil Rick's test, but he's certain you should attempt it. And the last time you ignored his instructions, everything was a disaster.<br/>
<br/>
But then he's going to be gone for three days. And while you can only imagine his fury if he finds you've run off a second time, the lure of Cambridge is a strong one. It was your dream, after all. And a little snooping won't hurt. You could be back in London before he returns from LA...<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122
author_id: collider
title: Welcome to Cambridge
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You know this is a bad idea the moment the train pulls into the station. You're sure it is by the time you're deposited from a bus in the centre of Cambridge, outside a clutch of new, upmarket shops set inside buildings that look like they've been there for centuries. Cambridge is a maze, just as it was in your dream, made all the more dazzling by the fact everyone seems to know where they are going, and insist on getting there by bicycle. You're almost hit four times in as many minutes just walking down the streets, gazing at the ancient, ornate buildings and trying to work out where you are heading. Within five minutes you're alert for the soft tinkle of bells, indicative of a cyclist that won't stop just because you're in the way.<br/>
<br/>
You can deal with this. You survived Westside's corridors, after all. Though not without a few bruises, of course.<br/>
<br/>
You left Rick in London a few hours ago, promising you'd meet his requirements, then headed straight for the train to Cambridge. You know it's stupid, but part of you calculates it's all down to semantics. Rick said to take a face for a few days. He never said <i>where</i> you were to do it. He gave you only 50 dollars - no, 50 pounds - before he left, muttering something about you 'hardly needing it' to pull off your task. You've spent most of it on train fare.<br/>
<br/>
You dropped Claire's appearance before you left the flat, returning to your usual shape and borrowing Paul's left behind clothes. The trousers were a baggy fit, and a shirt that probably was a bit tight on him is too loose on you, but at least you're more or less yourself again.<br/>
<br/>
You drift through the streets, looking for any sign of your dream. There isn't much; the city seems entwined around the colleges and their grey, crumbling brick walls. Each has a closed gate, usually with an unfriendly sign warning the college is closed to visitors.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually you stop in a large, central square, one side dominated by the majestic, soaring spires of a cathedral. On the left is a cluster of small shops, dusty and almost forgotten in the square. The rest are colleges. You turn around, trying to get your bearings... And come to a jarring halt.<br/>
<br/>
The clock from your dreams is mounted on the wall. A hideous thing, it dominates the entire corner. The grasshopper looms over the silver disks and the mechanical LEDs flash the time. It's just as unsettling as in your dream.<br/>
<br/>
"Ace, isn't it?" You turn around. Behind you stands a scruffy student type in his early 20s, wearing a battered army jacket and torn jeans flecked with paint. A piece if red cloth is strapped around his arm. It's evident with one look that he wants to be Che Guevara.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You ask. He answers like a terse telegram; rapid sentences jarring to a sudden halt.<br/>
<br/>
"The clock. Donated by a wealthy lunatic to Wyndham College. Promised to refurb the college library. Only caveat was he got to mount a clock on the wall. Brilliant, isn't it? The creature at the top is a chronophage. Eats time. The hour's chime is based on a funeral bell."<br/>
<br/>
"Very creepy," you note.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it is! But that's what I love about it. That and the design. Creativity is the spice of life." The man grins, deciding to slip the conversation to his true purpose. "You student? Local? Signed our petition yet? You should sign it."<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head, trying to keep up with his outbursts, and surprised that he thought you might be local. It's only then you realize you've been speaking with an English accent the whole time. The student thrusts a piece of paper at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," he says. "Fight the oppressive dichotomy of privilege and class mandated by support for elitist competition."<br/>
<br/>
You take the leaflet from him, frowning. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
He grins maniacally again. "Stop the boat race. We're out here campaigning against it. Whole boat team is based at Wyndham. Why we're here instead of outside the boat shed. I'm Hal. These are my comrades." He points to a bunch of assorted students, each as scruffy as the next, trying to hand out flyers to the disinterested crowd.<br/>
<br/>
"Hal?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, Hal. I prefer it to Henry. Makes me sound like an evil computer. Very cool." He grins again, only for the grin to fall off his face as he looks across the quare. "There's one of them now. Quick lads!"<br/>
<br/>
You watch in surprise as Hal points toward a short young woman dressed in track pants and a T-shirt, carrying a selection of text books under one arm. She's short, barely five foot, with blonde hair thrust back in a ponytail. There doesn't appear to be an ounce of fat on her. Her face is strong, spirited, and beautiful. She reminds you of a smaller, slightly older Chelsea Cooper. The moment she spots the scruffy gaggle of protesters heading toward her and quickens her pace, her lips curling in annoyance. She joins a steady stream of students heading in to the waiting doors of Wyndham college. The protesters stop a few metres away from the door, and start their slogans.<br/>
<br/>
"No to the boat race! End the dominance of the 1%! Down with privilege! Socialism for all!" Hal is yelling at her from a distance, having remained next to you, clearly enjoying himself. You frown at his badgering.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought the boat race was two male crews?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mary Dunsdale, their cox. Sits on the back barking orders. Cox has to be bossy but light. Average weight is 110 pounds. Can be either gender. Just as bad as the ones doing the rowing. Down with the class system!"<br/>
<br/>
"I see." You don't, really. You're just eager to get away. Doubly so, when you look at the direction of the young woman, now power-walking to slip into the safety of her college and away from the three or four protesters running over, waving flyers. Behind her, other students are watching the panic, trying equally to reach the sanctuary of Wyndham college.<br/>
<br/>
One of them is a woman with a perfect, oval face, wild strands of flame-red hair trailing behind her. She's less confident than in the dream, wearing thick-rimmed glasses that smother her natural beauty, and ducks her head almost shyly as she tries to avoid the attention going on outside her college. She just clings to her satchel, holding it tight against a large woolknit jumper, and rushes inside.<br/>
<br/>
"Excuse me a moment," you say, stepping away from Hal. You find yourself rushing forward across the square, pushing past the small, ineffectual protest and toward the students entering the hall. The dream girl is almost through the gates, and you watch as she holds up her access card to the guard on the door, managing only a week smile. The cox has already passed through, and the protesters seem to lose interest, going back to their steady process of handing out flyers.<br/>
<br/>
You keep your focus on the girl with red hair. She must mean something. After all, she's the sole reason you're here. You keep walking forward, following her into the college, stepping past the gates with the other students. For some reason the guard doesn't even stop you to ask for your ID; you just pass straight through. Suddenly you're out of the square, out of the noise of the city, and inside the open, cloistered courtyard that comprises the centre of Wyndham College. The grass immaculately trimmed, and the students thin as they slip through heavy, black-stained oak doors to their classes or dorms.<br/>
<br/>
You keep following the girl, her hair an easy beacon to locate. It seems strange to run in this hushed, academic hall, so you're barely able to keep up as she navigates the old building. You follow her down corridors of creaky, polished wood and wainscoting, and up flights of stairs modernized in the late 60s, at a guess, with painted portraits of old, stern lecturers glaring down at anyone using the stairwell. Finally, you twist, turn, and find yourself walking down a dorm room corridor.<br/>
<br/>
You come to a halt. This can't be a coincidence. It's all just too perfect. It all just fits together too well. <br/>
<br/>
In front of you, opening their respective room doors, are Mary Dunsdale and the mystery girl. Their rooms are directly opposite. Neither glances back to you as you walk down the corridor; Wyndham college has students of either gender. You're just someone else residing in the hallowed hall. You watch as they both slip into their opposing rooms.<br/>
<br/>
You stand alone in the corridor, wondering what to do. There's something going on here. Didn't Rick always say to pick away at a mystery? The next step would be to take one of the <i>imagos</i> to get some answers. And, you reason, if you stuck as them for three days, you'd meet the criteria of his little test, too. Both of them have what he's class as a 'bedroom face'...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221
author_id: collider
title: The Mystery Warning
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide your course of action, and walk up to the room. A single rap leads to an answer. You bring your cloak forward, enshrouding the room's occupant as she opens the door. <br/>
<br/>
The mystery girl leans out, clearly confused as she glances up and down the corridor. She turns white as a sheet, eyes bulging, quickly trying to slam the door with a look of terror on her face. As she does so, you press your hand to her forehead, and slowly lower her inside, wincing as the door partly closes on your hand.<br/>
<br/>
The mystery girl's <i> imago</i> tickles your senses, and you flick through her surface memories for a name. <br/>
<br/>
Grace. Grace Simpson. 18 years old. Lived in Devon for most of her life. And... oh wow. The moment she thought someone knocked on her door and couldn't see anyone, she assumed it was a ghost. If you looked up meek in the dictionary, Grace's photo would stare back at you.<br/>
<br/>
Grace is a painfully awkward loner. She grew up with strict religious parents, wanting only to come home after school, sit in her room, and read. She's as shy as a mouse, with few friends and no bad habits at all. She doesn't drink. She doesn't go out. She has had two boyfriends, both of whom she sort-of kissed a few times, but never anything more. She tried a cigarette once and is convinced God will never forgive her for it.<br/>
<br/>
Grace's room is neat and tidy, and as you lay her down on her bed, shoving several stuffed unicorns out of the way, you wonder how often she vacuums the carpet. Every two days. Yikes. Her desk is neat, a perfect workspace with little post-it notes marking chapters, and little heart stickers placed strategically on her notebook. A Bible sits on her side drawer. A picture of Jesus hangs on the wall, warning against the sins of self-pleasure and vice.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, and channel Grace's mind. The wisps of memory float around you, illuminated by the Moon's constant beam as they drift near and far. You remember her first day at Cambridge – she's a straight A student studying Modern History  – right through to today and her fright at the protest outside. You remember her losing her phone a few days ago, panicking for an hour about what her parents would say, before feeling relieved when she found it outside her dorm room door; it had fallen out when she put away her keys. You remember your conversations with Mary, too. Or, at least, Mary's greetings to you. <i>She's so pretty, and that just isn't you. You should have said hello, at least. She might be nice.</i><br/>
<br/>
You can't help but feel sorry for Grace, as you pull off your clothes and don her <i>imago</i>, her bright red hair cascading onto your shoulders and tickling your neck, her stunning face and cherry-shine cheeks complimenting a pale complexion dotted with freckles. You watch her face in the mirror, tilting it from side to side, barring its teeth, testing her crystal clear English accent. It's an incredible visage, and you don't know how she can't see it. Her nose is perhaps a little long, a slight bend on its bridge, but other than that it's the face of an angel.<br/>
<br/>
An angel that would never, ever, go dancing. Let alone dancing on a bridge. Let alone dancing in some flowing robe, writhing and contorting as you saw in your dream. You lean over your sleeping double and take her glasses off, placing them on your new nose. Then you begin to undress her, feeling ever more guilty that you're stealing her life for a few days.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You spend the afternoon studying Grace's life. She's definitely got a 'bedroom face', as Rick would put it, although you feel almost as bad looking at it as you do Miko's or Kali's. At 5pm her mother calls, and, firm in your new <i>imago</i>, you answer her questions with the same self-effacement and happiness at hearing her voice as Grace would. A little after, Grace unconscious and hidden under the small, dorm-standard single bed, you decide to head out. Her one social interaction outside of study groups and church is her book club. And, if you're going to adopt her life for three days straight – as per Rick's instructions – you need to play the part of Grace Simpson perfectly. <br/>
<br/>
Besides, you can't help thinking of the dream. She may not know what's going to happen, but you have a terrible premonition that something wicked is coming into her life. Something terrible that you can help stop.<br/>
<br/>
You brush a comb through your incredible, wild hair, and don Grace's jumper and warm, dark grey jacket. Then, making sure your door is locked, you slip out the college gates. Cambridge is a relatively safe city, Grace's memories tell you, but that means nothing. You're a woman, and women are vulnerable on the streets. Your family always taught you that. It's why you carry a rape whistle <i>and</i> a panic alarm. You cling tightly to your handbag, worried a slight breeze could steal it away.<br/>
<br/>
<i>If someone did try something, wouldn't they get a surprise</i>, you think.<br/>
<br/>
The square is almost empty, the sun fading as people head either to the city's bars or their halls of residence. Almost empty. Hal's cronies are gone, but he's still there, sat by the freakish clock, picking apart what looks like an elastic band he's wrapped intensely on his thumb. As you leave the college, careful not to pay him any attention, you hear him call out.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, you!”<br/>
<br/>
You quicken your pace, head down, as if you close your eyes he'll just go away. Grace would want to shrink and vanish and disappear. Will Prescott can, of course, or at least wrap Hal in his cloak if he manages to get out of direct sight. But you're not going to risk exposing yourself. You stick with Grace's preferred method of walking at pace.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey! Girl! I don't want to harm you! Wait up!”<br/>
<br/>
<i>I don't want to harm you.</i> That's virtually stalker code for 'I'm going to take you down a dark alley and break your neck'. You follow Grace's instinct and spin on her heels, dashing back for the safety of the college. Somehow, Hal's crossed the entire square, and looms toward you, a sinister shape in the setting sun.<br/>
<br/>
You curl up, readying for impact, squeaking with fear as you scramble in your handbag for the rape whistle.<br/>
<br/>
“Hold up! Sister, please. Hear me out.” Hal has stopped a few metres away, his hands in the air in surrender. <br/>
<br/>
“What do you want?” you manage, in a barely audible murmur. <br/>
<br/>
“Just... listen. Please.” Hal's voice is reasonable and calm though still firing like a telegram: rapid bursts, with sudden stops. “You need to get out of Cambridge.”<br/>
<br/>
You look up at him, your beautiful face failing to mask your own utter confusion. Fortunately, Grace would have much the same response. “What do you mean?” you ask, still avoiding eye contact.<br/>
<br/>
“I can't explain and won't explain. But it's imperative you do so. Trust me. Go back to your hall, pack your things and go.”<br/>
<br/>
What the hell? You try and understand what's happening. The mad protester from earlier is...warning you? About what? And why?<br/>
<br/>
“No.” Grace's voice is still quiet.<br/>
<br/>
“Please. Just trust in a higher power, comrade.” He takes a step forward, hands imploring you, voice rich with sincerity.<br/>
<br/>
“Only if you tell me why.” Grace's voice manages.<br/>
<br/>
“I can't. Not now.” He sighs with exasperation. “I'll show you in the morning if you promise you leave Cambridge when I do. You'll understand why. You leave and do not come back for a week. Just a week. That's all I ask.” He offers a manic grin, tinged with desperation.<br/>
<br/>
Grace isn't strong-willed enough to resist that, even if she's petrified. You bob your head furiously, hot tears streaming down your face in sheer fright.<br/>
<br/>
“Good. Now please, forget about tonight, go home and lock your door. Don't answer it for anyone. Meet me at the clock at nine. I'm Hal. Hal Swann. Remember, lock the door. Not anyone. I'm watching out for you, trying to keep you safe. But I can only watch so far.”<br/>
<br/>
You pause. Clearly he's got his reasons. But you're trying to impersonate this girl, too. And you're far more capable of taking care of yourself than Grace is; this <i>imago</i> you're wearing, this fingerprint, is nothing more than an illusion. Surely you can continue her schedule, despite Hal's warning?</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211
author_id: collider
title: A Nightmare Explained
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You have no idea how to respond to Hal other than to comply. Your freckled face and dainty lips nod furiously in panic and, as soon as he steps away, you dash back to the college, a look of sheer horror on your face. The moment you're out of sight, you stop running, flex your neck, ruffle your flowing hair, and smile. <br/>
<br/>
You played the scared choir girl quite well. <br/>
<br/>
You head up to your room, just in time to see Mary leaving hers. You duck your head down and brush past, putting intense effort into avoiding her gaze. She offers a greeting as usual, and you ignore it, as usual. Something catches you, a faint brush against the hair descending down onto your shoulders. You raise an eyebrow, but ignore it. <br/>
<br/>
It must have been your imagination. A reaction to being so unaccustomed to having such long, wild hair. <br/>
<br/>
You spend the rest of the evening forcing yourself to finish Grace's term paper, ensuring the comatose girl is located comfortably, and wondering how you're going to explain away her three days out of the world. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
<i>Your dream is intense and frightening. Actions are inky black, fogged and muted, like stumbling in a room with no light. If not for the Moon, lighting up the dream like a faint, glowing candle, you'd struggle to see anything.<br/>
<br/>
You walk down a monochrome corridor. Black and white, with nothing beyond. You step down the stairs, down another flight, into the very bowels of Wyndham college. There, ahead, you see a golden light. A brilliant light, emanating from a figure that beckons you ever closer. <br/>
<br/>
More figures. Nine in all. All glowing. One speaks, and his voice glows ever brighter than his figure. You see the words form, vivid colors emanating from a golden light that obscures the faces. The sound forms fireworks that hang in the air.<br/>
<br/>
The golden figures command you to dance. And you do. The words are irresistible, the colors too vivid and intense, the sound too beautiful. It's a choir of angels, instructing your every breath. You cannot resist the order.<br/>
<br/>
They tell you to remove your night dress, and you begin to do so. No, says one. You halt. The golden figures talk, and you wait patiently and obediently for them to finish. You dance again for them. You jump. You bow and nod and speak as they command, until they order you to leave.</i><br/>
<br/>
You wake up shaking, and immediately check your borrowed appearance. Grace's<i> imago</i> still cloaks you, seemingly unchanged. You roll out of her bed, careful not to step on the real Grace as you cross to the bathroom. Instinctively, you rush to the mirror and stare at your face. It's still the perfect, innocent beauty it was the night before. But now everything feels wrong. You can't place it, you can't say why, but you feel like something terrible has happened. <br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and meditate. The Moon is out in force, as always, burning large and bright, this time in warning. You don't know what happened last night, but it was something terrible. <br/>
<br/>
It wasn't a dream. You don't know how you're sure, but there's no doubt in your mind. You shower, pull on Grace's typically modest attire, and fix your hair, donning the glasses that dwarf your pretty face's features. <br/>
<br/>
You need to talk to Hal. You need to know what happened.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You're sat in some beatnik cafe off the city centre. It's dark and dirty, and the walls are covered with faded bands of posters, slogans and badly printed flyers. Chinese propaganda, portraits of Castro and Lenin, and slogans about strikes sit uneasily against Betty Page prints and a velvet Elvis. It's part kitsch, part 70s revolutionary. This is where Hal's taken you for breakfast.<br/>
<br/>
Hal listens as you give Grace's version of events. You leave out all your true knowledge and understanding, all references to the moon and magic. As far as he's concerned, your a scared young woman relaying a terrifying dream. He sighs, a look of disappointment - and annoyance at himself - wrought large across his face.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you to leave," he says, launching into a short monologue of stop-start sentences. "I said to get out of town, tried to warn you. It's too late now, you don't have a choice, sister. You're part of the movement. Part of the collective. Part of their scheme. They've got their hooks into you and they're not going to let go. So you'll just have to push back."<br/>
<br/>
Grace's eyes begin to water with fear. You've already cried twice, and are showing visible signs of stress and discomfort just sat in the cafe. Even a cup of warm cocoa isn't helping. "What do you mean, hooks? What did they do to me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Some kind of control spell," he says matter-of-factly. "You're now under their control, I imagine - your dream last night wasn't a dream, it's what you did."<br/>
<br/>
"Spell?" You begin to cry again, horror on your face. "But I don't feel different." That part is true; Will Prescott doesn't feel any more different than Grace Simpson.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you can't feel it. You can't see it either. I can't, and I can see all kinds of things. But I know it's there. And it will be there until it's removed. No matter how far you run now, they'll just pull you back."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm... possessed? By a demon?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. You're more like a zombie puppet. They control you somehow, command you to do things. At least that would be my guess; it's hard to say. You can't avoid doing them. It's like a hypnotic trance. It's not on all the time, but they can activate it whenever they want by snapping their fingers, or equivalent. And when they do, you won't be able to resist their commands. If they say 'come here', even if you're at the other side of the world you'll get to them as quickly as you can."<br/>
<br/>
"Who are 'they'?" you ask, pleadingly. Hal shakes his head.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm pretty sure I know, but it's better you do not. Don't want you to say anything to them, or give away that you know. I'm on this, trust me. But I don't want any of the coven to escape."<br/>
<br/>
"Coven? As in witchcraft?" Your pink cheeks turn pale and you start to blub again.<br/>
<br/>
"If you like, sister. They're the witches, and they've crafted you into what they need."<br/>
<br/>
"So they're in league with Satan?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ha! Yes, if by Satan you mean corporate greed, the class system and exclusive elitism that prevents social change. But if you mean the Devil? Beelzebub? Old Scratch? No. This is potent, but it's nothing like that."<br/>
<br/>
You find your posture slumping, your arms folding up defensively, hands tucking back into the folds of your jumper.<br/>
<br/>
"Can't we go to the...?"<br/>
<br/>
"Police? They're only there to preserve the elite, not to help the likes of you. Church? Ha! Next to useless. University staff? With what? If you turn up and claim you're possessed they're going to laugh at you, aren't they? Nope, I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with me. I'm your only option."<br/>
<br/>
"And who are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's....complicated. And if I tell you it's just going to mess you up even more. For now, all you need to know is that I'm here to fight the power." Inwardly you groan; do people even say that any more? You continue the waterworks and sobs.<br/>
<br/>
"But why<i> me</i>?" Why Grace? She's a complete innocent. You're just glad you're facing this, not her.<br/>
<br/>
"You're just unlucky." Hal sighs. "I imagine whatever they are using requires a woman, or a redhead, or a virgin - you are a virgin, right?"<br/>
<br/>
You look mortified he even asked.<br/>
<br/>
"Right. So maybe they needed a redhead, or a virgin, or both. You just were unlucky enough to fill whatever criteria they had set. I noticed they were looking at you strangely; that's why I told you to run last night. You didn't, and now you're ensnared. And the only way you're going to get out of it is to smash the coven with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Smash the coven?" You manage to look both scared and horrified; inside you're relishing the prospect, excited beyond words.<br/>
<br/>
"You ask a lot of questions." Hal continues to talk with barely restrained energy, as if he's marshalling a stage at a rally. "Questions are good, they drive improvement. Keep questioning everything, it helps. And yes, I said smash it down. You're not going to be able to sidestep this. You'll have to help me bring this thing down on top of itself. You've got to be the change you want to be. Which, in this case, is breaking free of their hold."<br/>
<br/>
Once more the tears start to flood. Tears, you have come to realize, are a powerful, manipulative weapon, and play into your part perfectly. You want to destroy whatever did this to you. You have to.<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you do that for me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Perhaps I can. But if we're going to burn this down I'll need a match to strike. And after the flames, you can rise from the ashes." Hal holds up his hands, as if he's a magician showing there's nothing up his sleeve.  You're losing track again. He keeps dancing around the subject. It's almost like he's doing it intentionally.<br/>
<br/>
"What...exactly do you want me to do?" you stuggle to understand. Hal grins cheerily, sitting down next to you, leaning over well into your comfort zone to whisper conspiratorially.<br/>
<br/>
"I want you to go to the Wyndham College library and bring me a little book. It's in the private collection, in the reading room. Red, bound, probably looks quite old, and will have a little weird-looking bird on the front. That's it. And then I'll be able to help you."<br/>
<br/>
"You want me to...<i>steal</i>?" You emphasize the word, as Grace would. Her thoughts flick furiously at the edge of your consciousness. <i>Thou Shalt Not Steal.</i><br/>
<br/>
"We're together in this fight. We're comrades. And that means working for the collective good. If you want to be liberated , you're going to have to help me break you free. And for that, I need that book."</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111
author_id: collider
title: Steal the Book
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Grace's gaze falls to the table, trying not to look Hal in the eye. You can just make him out through your thick glasses. Of course you're up for this. You're not Grace, and there's no point living her life exactly as she would. It's enough that everyone believes your a whiter-than-white Christian girl on course for topping her class. Grace's exquisite face and her mannerisms are just a mask. Her<i> imago </i>is a disguise. Does it really matter if this is 'out of character' for her? You're in worse trouble than you've been since your duel to become Blackwell's apprentice. And Hal doesn't know how 'Grace' would behave.<br/>
<br/>
"OK," you agree, mustering a voice slightly larger than she would be able to. "But why do you need the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"My business," Hal says, before shaking his head at himself. "No, it's your business too. You need to know. I'm here to troubleshoot a little problem. There's a book recently acquired by the university, 'donated' by the Fane Foundation. It's a conglomerate, focused on producing replicated commercialist trappings for the bourgeoisie. But its chair seems to have come up with quite a little collection. Despite an outstanding taste in clocks - you know, the one on your library wall? - he's been lavishing Wyndham College with little presents." <br/>
<br/>
"The book?" Slowly, you're raising your voice to something a human would consider talking level. Your imago is firm, like a fingerprint seared onto your blank flesh. It's completely comfortable talking and acting like Grace. You take off her glasses, rubbing them on her jumper as she does when she's nervous.<br/>
<br/>
"One of his gifts. It's called the... are you a languages student?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. History."<br/>
<br/>
"In that case, I shall spare you my Ptolemic Greek. It's called the Song of the Nile. Sounds beautiful, right? It isn't. It contains a rather nasty selection of ideas and opinions. And, as any society knows, ideas and opinions change the world."<br/>
<br/>
"And this...whoever has hold of me... is using the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"It would make sense. It was part of a display on ancient Egypt donated by the Fane Foundation. Placing it in a university is the equivalent of putting a kitten in a coffee morning and asking people not to pet it. It's why I'm here."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not a student?" Hal Swann is in his early twenties, or certainly seems to be, but what does that mean? He shakes his head, laughing. <br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm on staff. Well, not really. I'm a postgraduate. I'm working toward a doctorate in political science. I have to oversee a handful of supervisions a week. The rest of the time is mine to do with as I please. Technically I should be finishing my paper. But I've got more important things to take care of." Hal fidgets across the table. "I serve a higher power."<br/>
<br/>
Grace's eyebrows, an exquisite light strawberry but in need of plucking, raise up hopefully. "The Church?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!" Hal looks almost offended. "Nothing like that. I just troubleshoot little cults like this. The Fane Foundation donated an item to the college. It came to my attention. But before I could get to it, someone else got there first. Someone <i>dumb</i>. They've got some minor, trivial plan, no doubt, to help themselves. They've become what I would term a warlock, and have probably set about recruiting others. They're trucking in little control incantations, some minor guardian stuff, maybe even..."<br/>
<br/>
"You seem to know a lot about this," you interrupt. It's completely out of character for Grace - she would never dream of interrupting anyone. But you don't need to hear what you already know. And you already suspect just who Hal Swann is. You're waiting for him to tell you.<br/>
<br/>
"I do. My group are there to sort this out. I'm what you might call... a problem solver. Now where was I? Ah yes. Some idiot found the book, and thought they'd try a few spells. They probably stole another one of the artifacts, too. That's the hook; from that moment on, the book had a hold of them. This idiot is the one I need to identify. It can be any one of nine people. The other nine are trivial - just fools who are marching to someone else's tune. Just as the book-wielding idiot is marching, unwittingly, to someone else's scheme. Black magic, for want of a better word, is just a pyramid scheme. You get a couple of independents, but mostly it follows the same pattern that imprisons thought and free will everywhere in the world."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're going to stop the pyramid?" Once again, your nostrils flare at the scent of an adventure. You're enjoying your masquerade, but the chance to actually do something constructive gives you a rush of excitement.<br/>
<br/>
"Eventually. I'll have to call for some help on the higher levels, anything beyond this idiot with the book. I prefer to work alone, and this isn't tricky. But once I get higher than the book... I'll have to call in the cavalry. Or the Red Army, at least."<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to fight them?"<br/>
<br/>
Hal laughs. "I fight everything I consider unjust, sister. Like what happened to you with this control they've slipped on you. Speaking of which, my guess - and it is a guess - is that it's basically what you'd think of as voodoo."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Blasphemy and devil worship,</i> Grace's mind chips in. You ignore it."Like the doll?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, like the doll. Only you, sister,<i> are</i> the doll. Now... hey, don't cry. That is not going to help anymore. You have to step up, be brave. My mentor, the guy that taught me all of this? He told me this story once about how an entire city, starved and bloodied, without anything to fight back but its hands and sheer will, defeated the greatest evil the world as ever known. It was glorious. And that's your chance here. For a silver of glory, for an opportunity to cast free the shackles of oppression and rise up to fight the..." Hal catches himself as he rises from the table, fist in the air like he's at a rally. Normally he just loses you in his tangential monologues. This time he seems to have lost himself, too. He offers a triumphant fist-shake at the cafe's patrons in solidarity, and sits back down. The cafe returns to normal.<br/>
<br/>
"So..." you try and phrase your next question carefully. You want Hal to think that Grace is coming into this without any knowledge at all, but you also want to pump him for some of the stranger, more important mysteries that he's trying to shield you from. "How did they, uhm... get control of me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hair's best. Probably stole your comb."<br/>
<br/>
No, you think. It can't be; that would put Grace under their control, not you. It had to have been something in the past day, since you assumed her identity. It had to be...<br/>
<br/>
You pause as you think of that strange feeling in the corridor. The slight tug. Mary, the rower opposite. She couldn't have cut your hair, could she? <br/>
<br/>
"Mary Dunsdale." You say it with rising anger, entirely out of character for Grace. It's anger at your own stupidity. Hal leans forward, seizing on it at once.<br/>
<br/>
"Go on?"<br/>
<br/>
"I... I think she might have cut my hair. Last night, after I was talking to you. When I went back to my room." You reach behind you, bunching up the mass of ginger strands, checking to see if any have been recently cut. It's almost impossible: it's just a tangle of wild strands. <br/>
<br/>
"That would make sense," Hal confirms, sighing. "I didn't want you to know, but I guess you do. I think it's the rowing team. The whole rowing team."<br/>
<br/>
"But...why?" You think of the dream. The rowers, smashing into Grace's falling body. It wasn't her body. It was yours. You pale. <br/>
<br/>
"The elite of any class will break the rules to get ahead of their rivals. I think the idiots probably think you can help them win the boat race."<br/>
<br/>
You laugh, a short, shocked bark. "This is about a race?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," Hal says, shaking his head. "This is about power. The race is just bait." Like the dollar bills for you. "If they've taken your hair, they'll be able to do some rather nasty things. They probably scoped you out days before, too. Made sure you were the right candidate." <br/>
<br/>
You frown, a memory that you ignored popping into your head. "A few days ago," you begin, "I lost my phone for a few..."<br/>
<br/>
At once, Hal's hand is outstretched. "Phone. Now!" His usually abrupt personality just became even sharper. You pull it out of your pocket and pass it to him. At once, he hunches over it, twisting himself to conceal the phone from the cafe patrons. Nobody is paying much attention anyway. He reaches into his pockets and grabs a small, thin screwdriver. It's almost too long for anything other than electrical work, looking like a long needle. He twists it in his hand, and rams it as hard as he can up the battery slot.<br/>
<br/>
The phone explodes. Shards of glass, plastic and electronics fizzing on the table. You pull your head back as tiny fragments shower onto your glasses. Hal seems completely uninterested, at once poking through the shards. You turn around and look. Nobody in the cafe is paying you any attention.<br/>
<br/>
"Found it," he mutters. He picks up what looks like a battery. On it, almost glowing, is a small sigil. It's nothing you recognize from the <i>Libra</i>. And it looks strangely ethereal - like revealed invisible ink.<br/>
<br/>
"They were listening to your phone calls." He says. "Probably siphoning off a bit from you, too. Felt ill the past few days? Run down? No matter. Fixed, now."<br/>
<br/>
"My phone isn't," you observe. Hal shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"Consumerist crap. Get a new one. The words you are looking for are 'thank you'. And you know what the best way to thank me would be? Go get that damn book. They'll be guarding it now. So watch for rowers. Wow... never thought I'd say <i>that</i>."<br/>
<br/>
There's no doubt in your mind, now. Hal is <i>Stellae</i>. He has to be. And maybe, if he knew who you really were, he'd share even more information. But what if you're wrong? What if he's someone else? Maybe you should just get the book, and leave him thinking you're Grace...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112
author_id: collider
title: Grace Under Fire
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You sit in the library, textbook open, your eyes looking beyond the book or polished wood desk, glancing over Grace's glasses toward the door to the private collection. Outside, rain patters on the window, tinkling against the panes. You shiver, despite wearing a large, oversized woolknit jumper that swallows Grace's body whole. A bedroom face, Rick said. Remove her glasses, comb her hair and dress her in something that shows her figure, and Grace has one. Right now you look as if you want to duck into that jumper and vanish.<br/>
<br/>
The reason for your pretend study is that the door is guarded, by two men you assume are in the rowing team. Certainly they look like it: twin colossuses, both tall, muscular and handsome. They're hardly subtle about it; one is slouched on the door, one is talking to the other from a nearby desk. Attempts to access the private collection are rare, but when anyone comes over they quickly step up to have a word, turning students away. <br/>
<br/>
Nobody questions it. They're the Boat Race team. That gives them almost excessive power at the college.<br/>
<br/>
You find yourself chewing on your nails. It's a Grace habit, one she always lapses into when she's nervous. Are you nervous? Perhaps a little, but mostly you're exhilarated by this. You're in a real mission, playing for the highest stakes. Your only real concern is the fact that you have accidentally become the puppet. It means you have to act quickly before they exert their control again; when will they? And what will they do with it if they do? They're questions that cut through your bravado and the thrill of impersonating someone to help smash a cult. The solution, it seems, lies with Hal Swann - who still thinks you're Grace Simpson, devout, shy student. You wonder what he'd think if he knew the real Grace was, at this moment, unconscious on her bed.<br/>
<br/>
And Hal wants the book. He was emphatic about it, even more so when he warned you not to read it. <i>Ideas</i>, he stressed,<i> are dangerous</i>.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, massaging your smooth, blemishless forehead, and focus internally. Grace's <i>imago</i> stares back at you, as do the other pinpricks in a night sky that represent faces you can assume. The Moon glows too, <i>What do I do?</i> you ask. The Moon pulls away once more, showing the shower of constellations. Another dot winks at you. Claire's. You wonder what it means, confused. How is a Welsh girl who knows nothing about magic going to help you here?<br/>
<br/>
You pull her image close enough to flick through her thoughts. Then your eyes snap open. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Fluoroform.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You're against the wall, only metres away from the rower guards and the private collection. You rose a few minutes ago, walking casually into the maze of library shelves. From there, you worked your way from section to section, walking calmly and curiously, just another student doing some last-minute revision. Until you got to the final row. Slipping around, you could see the rowers away to your side. It didn't take a moment to catch them both in the folds of your cloak, and walk up to them. Not because you're going to slip past them - you won't be able to open the doors without their notice. You want what's next to them. But their conversation causes you to freeze in your tracks.<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't mind getting hold of that little trinket." <br/>
<br/>
"Dawes isn't going to let go of it, you know that." <i>Dawes</i>. You make a mental note of that for Hal.<br/>
<br/>
"He could at least let us have a little fun with her. What's the point of having a puppet if you can't get a blow job?"<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>know </i>what it's for, and why there's no touching the goods. You think you're the only one who wants to have a squeeze of those shapely little boobs? Now Mary's in, we're all united on this. Tonight we'll do it. Can't do it in the college though."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because we need to boat, idiot. How are we going to get that inside?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. Right."<br/>
<br/>
"How the fuck did you get into Cambridge, Ding?"<br/>
<br/>
"Piss off, I just wasn't thinking. Is it even going to happen tonight? Dawes said there was a problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"A complication, that's all. We burned up her hair's potency in the test last night. That's what he thinks, at least. Something to do with the sympathetic link, or the 'essentia' or... I don't know. Dawes gets this stuff, I don't. Hell, I didn't even believe it was real until..." his voice trails off.<br/>
<br/>
"A little blood dance goes a long way." <br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. Anyway, apparently her hair burned up, or something. After we'd taken her down and put on her dancing shoes, it all collapsed."<br/>
<br/>
"Did it? I fucked off to bed."<br/>
<br/>
"According to Dawes. One moment it's bright ginger, the next it's withered and grey, then it crumbles to dust. He figures we sucked up her lifeforce, or something. Same way we've been sucking stuff down the phone. Who gives a fuck, though? Not like it will matter after tonight."<br/>
<br/>
"So we need more hair?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yah. Mary's on the case. Tugged it out of little-miss-prissy, she didn't even notice. Or maybe she did, and was just too weak to say anything. Should be easy enough to do it again."<br/>
<br/>
You listen with growing horror, noting it all. Grace's - your - hair, turning to ash. The way they've been siphoning off something from her phone for days. The preparation for tonight, and some kind of terrible conclusion. You gulp down your fear, take a deep breath, and steel yourself for what's about to happen. You reach out Grace's hand along the wall, and jab your fingers into the fire alarm with surprising force.<br/>
<br/>
The alarms howl. The rowers look startled, as does everyone in the room. There are curses, groans, winces at the noise. Nobody moves. Shit. Shit shit shit. You were certain that would get them out of the library. As Grace, you've just smashed through a barrier she would never dream of: pulling a fire alarm? It would be unthinkable for her. That works to your advantage, you decide. If you are caught nearby, nobody in the college will believe that Grace Simpson could <i>possibly</i> have done it. But you need more than an alarm...<br/>
<br/>
The room begins to fill with gas. Cold, icy, uncomfortable gas, that soaks into your jumper and sends a chill down your spine; if you weren't already deathly pale, you probably would go even whiter. The two rowers, and the rest of the library's occupants, and now cursing, rushing out of the room in utter misery. You grin, delighted with the knowledge Claire's mind imparted on you.<br/>
<br/>
Libraries don't use sprinklers, especially with rare books. They use fluoroform gas. As a firefighter, Claire knew that. You were banking on the automatic protection systems for Wyndham College to be among the best in the world: and you were right. The moment the doors are available, you rush into the private collection room.<br/>
<br/>
The gas makes it hard to see, clouds of white puffing across your vision. The room is small, a square repository of leather-bound terms that reek of age. You ignore them. The gas is making it hard to breathe, but there's a small display up ahead, the items laid out on red silk. Above it, a logo of a sword flame with the word "FANE" is set on a display card. You run to the display, relieved there's no glass.<br/>
<br/>
There's a few trinkets. What looks like a quill and parchment, some old papyrus, a few coins. A strange shape, a cross with a loop at the top, is indented in the silk, but there's no item there. And next to it sits a small book. Brown with age, pages weathered and damaged, flakes of binding chipped along its spine, it's tiny - you could fit it in your palm. It doesn't look Egyptian; it looks like a small Victorian prayer book. But on its cover, inlaid in gold leaf, is a small bird. It looks like a hieroglyphic. <i>That has to be it.</i><br/>
<br/>
You grab the book, slip it under your jumper, and rush out of the room before the gas floods your nostrils. You rush through the main library, eyes watering and body shivering from the damp of the gas and its sub zero chill, before finally bursting out of the room, coughing furiously. <br/>
<br/>
"Miss Simpson!" Mr Latimer, the head librarian, immediately rushes over to you with a blanket, sheathing you in it as you shiver.<br/>
<br/>
"I tried to get my work," you squeak, once more slipping into Grace's mannerisms, avoiding eye contact. Your red hair is dampened flat against your forehead, your glasses are fogged and steaked with water, and your clothes are soaking. The book is safe inside. The librarian rubs you with the towel, trying to warm you up.<br/>
<br/>
"If you hear the alarm, you run," he says, with concern. He begins to lead you through the crowd. And as he does so, you feel a sharp pain in your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Shit. Your hair. You spin around, making a verbal 'ow!' and bulging your apparently frightened eyes. One of the rowers stands behind you, and you can see a faint strand of hair - your hair - in his hand. <br/>
<br/>
"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to bump into you."<br/>
<br/>
There's nothing you can do. Nothing, without alerting them or breaking character. You allow yourself to be led to your room, then slip inside for some privacy. You close the door, pull out the book, and remove off the soaking jumper, T-shirt and trousers, slipping in to Grace's bath robe. <br/>
<br/>
They've got your hair. You need to stop them tonight. And now you've got the book. Hal wants it, and warned you not to look at it. But you're<i> Stellae</i> too. Maybe you should take a look...</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122
author_id: collider
title: The Boathouse Brawl, Part 1
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><br/>
"OK, hand it over." <br/>
<br/>
You're inside a grubby basement apartment in an innocuous street away from the city centre. The houses are all grand frontages, but evidently they've all been converted for use by students. "To Rent" signs stretch as far as you can see, with windows displaying textbooks, pot plants and flags from various nationalities. <br/>
<br/>
Hal's room - a bedsit - is in a bad state of disrepair. This doesn't seem to have concerned him at all. A red flag with a picture of a coal pit blocks off most of the crumbling wall, the words "Scarnsfell Colliery" embroidered in gold. A broken sink has been repaired with what looks like parts from a vacuum cleaner, and around the room scrap metal, broken machines and broken keyboards are littered like debris from a high-tech shipwreck. At least four computers are functioning, casting strange green readouts across his bed. You have to move several plates of half-eaten instant noodles to sit down.<br/>
<br/>
You lean forward, handing the book over. Hal looks at it uncomfortably, pulling off one of his arm wraps and using it as an oven glove, as if the book were coated with something. Stranger still, he puts on a pair of welding goggles before he even opens it.<br/>
<br/>
"The Egyptians were a particularly nasty caste system," he observes. "Nasty gods and slaves. This is protection." He points at the goggles. "Nietzsche put it best - gaze into an abyss, the abyss gazes into you. And I've no intention of <i>anything</i> looking into me."<br/>
<br/>
"I know about ancient Egypt," you mutter, mainly as there is little else to do. "Exodus."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, but I'm talking worse than that. 'I am Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair'. Pretentious crap, I'm more a fan of Byron. At least he died fighting for a cause."<br/>
<br/>
Grace's mind reports that Bryon didn't die fighting anything but a fever. She wouldn't say as much, though, and you watch as, carefully, Hal opens the book. The zealous grin slowly melts to worry.<br/>
<br/>
"Ooooh dear."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh dear?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yup. Oh dear." He slams the book shut and stares at you from behind his goggles. "You need to <i>go</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"What? But we just arrived here." <br/>
<br/>
"Yes, and now you're going to march back to that bastion of aristocratic first estate pageantry that is Wyndham college."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." You let Grace's sad voice express your own disappointment. "But what about what they are ... <i>doing</i> to me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I wouldn't worry." Hal says, almost dismissively. "This will all be taken care of tonight. If I were you I would pretend this was all a bad dream. Like I do with Thatcher."<br/>
<br/>
"But ... my hair. They cut it again. They said they had used up a sample, that it had turned grey and crumbled and they needed me tonight but not after..." You let your hot tears spill again, confident in your "innocent" routine.<br/>
<br/>
Hal looks at you intently at this latest revelation. Hidden delight turns up the corners of his lips, and he scratches his scraggy hair.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought so," he mutters, before returning to his normal volume, and begins guiding you out. "No, nothing to be done! Stay strong, comrade! Tonight will be just fine, you'll see! Lock your door again. When I smashed the phone I broke the shackles of inequitable labor distribution. You'll be fine. Well done. Let me worry about the book. You worry about getting on with your life."<br/>
<br/>
"But... how can I...?" You're virtually pushed out into the street.<br/>
<br/>
"Where there's a will, there's a way, comrade." Hal slams the door after you, leaving you stranded in the street, alone and confused.<br/>
<br/>
Then you start to feel light. Light, and drifting, lost on a solar wind.<br/>
<br/>
You see a sound, like a long golden chord. It cuts through the street like a snaking serpent, weaving toward you, leaving a brilliant trail, sparkling in the fading sun, for you to follow. <br/>
<br/>
You can't resist as it coils around you; you don't even want to resist. Your deepest heart's desire is to follow that shimmering line. <br/>
<br/>
It leads to a choir of angels.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
The angels stand in a golden semicircle, their voices golden and sweet as honey, their presence a perfect balm. You wear the flowing robe, a cloth of light blue cotton, your thicket of red hair draped behind it. You sway, dancing as you are bid. The whole ceremony feels so<i> perfect</i>, so <i>wonderful</i>. The temple you are in is plain and unadorned, save for the figures in their robes, the golden angels. And their boat, pristine and perfect, awaiting your sanctification. You listen to their voices. Watch their actions. It's impossible to see who speaks, only that their voice is the voice of a God. You swim in the air, listing as you are lost to dream.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Brothers," </i>the central angel speaks and his voice is rapture. Above, in his hand, is a small ankh, something taut against its base. <i>"And sister. We gather here under the presence if Thoth almighty, Guardian of the Nile, to ask--"</i><br/>
<br/>
Bzzzz.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"That he grant our boat mastery of the rivers on which we row. We have summoned our puppet--"</i><br/>
<br/>
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Our puppet to dance the Virgin's Sacrifice across our oars. She will dance when bid, and dance until she dies of her wild abandon. This shall bless our boat."</i><br/>
<br/>
A full ringtone. The lead angel looks annoyed. <i>How dare anyone annoy such a perfect creature?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>"Puppet, she who will dance when bid. What is thy name?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott," you say in Grace's enchanted voice. <i>What else can you do when an Angel asks?</i><br/>
<br/>
A second ringtone.<br/>
<br/>
Everyone is confused, now. Every one of the angels looks confused as their cells go off in sequence.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Is this part of the ritual?"<br/>
<br/>
"My phone wasn't even on!"<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't Will a bloke's name? Or is it short for something? Wilhelmina, maybe?"</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>"For fuck's sake,"</i> the head angel snaps. <i>"Someone answer their phone!"</i><br/>
<br/>
An angel grasps a phone from beneath his robe, looking at the display with stunned amazement.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What does it say?"<br/>
<br/>
"It says: DOWN WITH...uh... OLI... OLI..."<br/>
<br/>
"OLIGARCHY. You're an idiot, Tom."<br/>
<br/>
"Mine's the same. Wait... Another one is coming through. LEAVE NOW AND LIVE. THE PEOPLE WILL RISE."</i><br/>
<br/>
The angels seem utterly confused. Scared.<i> How can something so beautiful be scared of anything?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>"Everyone chill, it's just the ritual. I hope. Puppet, advance to the boat. Prepare to dance furiously. You shall not weary or wane until your life force is spent. Do you obey?"</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>How could you not?</i> "I obey."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"This is way to creepy, Dawes. It's gone too far. We have to stop this. Look at her; she looks like a zombie."<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up! We have to win, don't we? Oxford's training makes them almost super-fucking-human. How do you compete with that? They've won years on the trot now."</i><br/>
<br/>
Behind you, a noise sounds. A low, mechanical hum. Above your head a light blows.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Shit!"<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone stay calm!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm getting out of here!"</i> The female angel runs, fading from your sight. You're surprised. The golden halo that surrounded her perfect body fades. She's just a woman now. <i>Mary</i>, you think. She does not interest you at all. You only have eyes for the angels.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Dawes, I can't do this..." </i>Another angel departs. Then another. Both fade into a human's shell.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Get back here... oh, fuck them."</i><br/>
<br/>
You begin to move to the running angel, readying to mount him.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Not you, puppet! Stand still."</i><br/>
<br/>
 You halt.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"I'm still in, but not if she's got that zombie face on!"</i><br/>
<br/>
The mechanical hum behind you rises, into a pitch only dogs can hear. There's a sound of a lock being smashed outside.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Shut up Jack, who cares if she's staring at us?!"<br/>
<br/>
"What the hell is that sound, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind the sound--"</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>"I'm with Jack, Dawes. Does she have to stare at us that way? Can't she turn around or something when she does this? Or at least look, you know, happy about it? Puppet, take that look off your face, OK? Smile or something."</i><br/>
<br/>
You comply. It feels so natural that you slip into your mind and cast away Grace's <i>imago</i>. It zooms away into the distance, gone and lost forever. The Moon blares a warning to you, Sulva shining bright. <i>But not as bright as the voice that commands you</i>. You reach out mentally, grasp the<i> imago</i> you have selected, and sheath yourself in it.<br/>
<br/>
Two of the angels scream. A third mutters <i>'What the fuck...?'</i>. The lead angel seems so beautiful in his uncertainty. More panic and flock to the back door, fleeing into the night, returning to their human forms. Only three angels now stand before you, still and perfect and serene.<br/>
<br/>
The face of Miko Toyotomi stares back at them, lost in their trance, lost in their world.<i> In utter peace, ready and willing to dance until you are dead.</i><br/>
<br/>
Behind you, you hear the sound of all hell breaking loose.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221
author_id: collider
title: The Boathouse Brawl, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The clamor behind you rattles through the temple, a low mechanical whine, combined with the sound of splintering wood and destruction. The mortals, fallen from their angelic grace, are scattering, rushing for an exit.<br/>
<br/>
<i>“What the hell, Dawes! Why the fuck has she turned into a...”</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>“I don't know! This isn't part of the ritual!”</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>“What the hell do we...?”</i><br/>
<br/>
Behind the door bursts, and a voice, dead and empty and pitifully human, speaks to the angelic host.<br/>
<br/>
“That's right, oppressors! It's Bastille Day! It's October! It's the Fourth of July! Now drop the arcane bauble or face the consequences.”<br/>
<br/>
The two angels waver, uncertain. Then the head angel, the little symbol in hand, issues is command.<br/>
<br/>
<i>“Get him!”</i><br/>
<br/>
You turn in an instant, the lethargy of your hypnotic trance fading from Miko's honed muscles, and burst to life, a war cry spilling from your lips. The human, so confident before, so stupid and silly and pathetic, looks at you in shock.<br/>
<br/>
“Ah.” He manages, before your vicious kick sweeps into his chest, driving the wind out of his gut and causing him to stagger. Somehow he manages to remain on his feet, swinging a vicious haymaker toward your head. You notice it and block with the flat of your arm, taking the impact and moving with it, letting the natural motion of the block twist your athletic body, sweeping your right hand to connect with his temple. He staggers under the weight of your hit. You keep going.<br/>
<br/>
<i>“Yes! Yes! Kill him!”</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>“Wait. Dawes, are we really...” </i>You pause under command. The human regains his poise and deals a punch to your gut. You take the blow, before his follow-up grapple drives you both to the floor in a mass of sprawling bodies.<br/>
<br/>
<i>“We are! Kill, puppet, kill him!” </i> <br/>
<br/>
You hear and obey. You curl into the brawl, scrambling in the rough melee, your senses full of the flutter of cloth and dirty, unwashed hair as you throw punch after punch into the intruder's waiting rib cage. He returns in kind, driving a knee into your kidneys, using his own muscles to force down your arms.<br/>
<br/>
“Will! Fight it!” He blurts, teeth clenched, a split lip causing him to foam blood and phlegm as he battles your attempt to throw him off. You don't care how he knows your name. He's weakening, while Miko's muscles can keep this up for minutes. Slowly, irresistibly, you begin to gain the upper hand. You get enough room to twist, and drive your knee hard into his groin. <br/>
<br/>
He rolls off with a dull groan. You roll the other way, flipping to your feet, ready to fight once again. The human is crawling away from you, a weapon in his hand, a weakened, defeated, wounded creature. You walk over, preparing to scoop him up and wring his neck.<br/>
<br/>
“Fight it!” The words have no meaning to you. The human is still crawling, away to the temple's walls. He's clutching his weapon, a mere screwdriver, and looking behind him as if he can find an escape route.<br/>
<br/>
Then he smiles. <i>Why are you smiling? Don't you realize I'm going to kill you for the angels, mortal? </i><br/>
<br/>
The human drives the screwdriver into a plug socket. Blue sparks and flame burst out, an electric charge that flashes brilliant in your mind. <br/>
<br/>
A thunderclap resounds through the temple. <br/>
<br/>
A nearby rowing machine lurches into life from the sudden jolt, its fan activating and blowing a stack of messy paper on a messy desk in the corner. <br/>
<br/>
The tipping paper hits a plastic cup, spilling it across the desk. <br/>
<br/>
The water trickles, slipping across the wood with ease, dripping down into a cheap bar heater. <br/>
<br/>
Small smoke rises as the heater fizzes and pops, before finally sparks fly out as it overloads. The electric surge drives back toward another plug socket, which blows and bursts. <br/>
<br/>
The final lightblub in the temple blows, a florescent strip light, sending it crashing down on the three angels. The angels bend under the falling debris, the small item falling out of the leading angel's hand...<br/>
<br/>
The angels <i>vanish.</i> They are replaced by three members of the rowing team. You blink, frozen, wondering what you're doing. <br/>
<br/>
You're dressed in a silk robe and Miko's imago, leaning down, about to snap Hal Swann's neck. Even in the darkness of the room you can make out his grin. You spin around, trying to work out where you are. There's a rowing boat in the centre of an old, beaten shed, filled with junk and mess. The fire exit is wide open, and behind you the main entrance seems to have been demolished by a chainsaw.<br/>
<br/>
You're in a boat shed, you think. The chill night air howls through it. Standing in shock and surprise are three students, muscular and tall, the middle one scrambling madly on the floor for something. The other two just look at you in wide-eyed confusion, brushing off the fragments of a burst strip light. You turn back to Hal, who's managed to scramble to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
“Sorry, Will,” he says, before his knuckles impact hard into your temple. Your last thought, before a jolt of pain your vision snaps to pure blackness and peace, is to wonder how he knows your name.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Easy.” Hal is sat on a rowing machine, touching a bust and bleeding lip with one of his arm ribbons. Already his cheek and eye socket are beginning to turn red. He's got a cut on his arm, too, a vicious gash that he's bandaged tight.<br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes and groan. Your entire head rings like a rung bell, every movement sending a shimmer through your skull. You sit up.<br/>
<br/>
“Do you want a glass of water? I haven't got one, but apparently they help.”<br/>
<br/>
“That's... not very useful,” you say. Miko's voice sounds bizarre in an English accent. “What happened?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, they were going to make you dance all over their fancy little rowing boat until you dropped dead. I scared most of them off. Only three were stupid enough to stick around. Two of them thought they were tough because their filthy, trust-fund lucre bought them a chiselled body from a gym. Shame daddy's money never bought them boxing lessons, huh? I let them go. That's eight idiots who will think twice before trying arcane practises or subjugating the masses for their pathetic needs.”<br/>
<br/>
You look at him with your elegant, oriental eyes. “You let them go? They tried to kill me and you let them...”<br/>
<br/>
Hal shrugs. “They learned their lesson. What did you think I was going to do, kill them? They're not going to pull this shit again. <i>This </i>bastard, however...”<br/>
<br/>
You focus your gaze. Hal Swann is sat, cross-legged, using a hog-tied athlete as a foot stool. The athlete wriggles with anger, but he's bound so tight in ropes procured from the boathouse he can barely move. A book is shoved in his mouth, and for a moment you think it's the <i>Song of the Nile</i>.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, it's not the Song, Will. It's <i>Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung</i>. The Song, and that little ankh of yours,” he kicks the cultist, addressing him for a moment, “are going somewhere safe. Where? I have no idea. And that's for the best. This guy... Phil Dawes, isn't it? This guy is the real problem. The rest are just sheep. And this guy is going to trial.”<br/>
<br/>
You look at him again. “How do you know who I am? How do you know I'm Will? You're <i>Stellae</i>, aren't you?”<br/>
<br/>
Hal laughs. “That's right. I'll explain everything on the way. Now help me get this prick in the car. I need to take him to Oxford...”</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211
author_id: collider
title: Swann's Song
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"If I were you, I'd cut out pretending to be Miko. She'll kick your bottom when she finds out." Hal's car is an old three-door stick shift, which seems to grind gears just to get moving. Phil Dawes is bound and gagged in his boot. You can think of more comfortable experiences, especially for someone of his height, but you don't really care; in the past few hours he's tried to kill you and force you to kill someone else. <br/>
<br/>
"Uh... I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her?" You're acutely embarrassed. It doesn't matter you were not in control of your actions; the fact is that when you feel like returning to a new<i> imago</i>, you seem to be drawn to hers. You realize you did it in London, too. You didn't lose grip of Claire's <i>imago </i>in the fire engine: in your panic, you made an instinctive choice in your tired brain to abandon it, become Miko to calm down and give you a moment to think. Why? Why not your own face? Is it her coolness and confidence you think you need? Or is it that you stopped being Will Prescott, at least physically, after your dealing with the <i>Libra</i>? Or do you just have a crush on her?<br/>
<br/>
Hal laughs. "You've got to be kidding! I beat her. Well, I beat you while you were her, but that's an academic distinction. Do you know how much bragging rights that entitles me to? Too late, I've already sent a text. You owe me for the bust lip, anyway. Thank goodness for the NHS and its socialist medicine."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," you reply with sullen sarcasm, not feeling remotely grateful. "How do you know who I am, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," Hal waves dismissively, driving along one-handed into the night. The lights of Cambridge vanish behind you, and the dotted streak of the road's streetlights extends out across the flat wilds of Cambridgeshire. "That was easy. I knew before. Although you did leave a couple of clues. Hair turning grey and crumbling? That wasn't how that ritual would work. And while most toffs are morons who subjugate the proletariat with little consideration for the finer points of their circumstance, they're not stupid enough to goof a ritual so badly it would turn a hair grey. So the hair wasn't real, and that meant you weren't really Grace. You also said your real name in your trace, too. That wasn't a subtle clue."<br/>
<br/>
"You said knew before that?" You wonder how you gave yourself away. Hal nods.<br/>
<br/>
"Think, brother! The people have a good communications network. You scram at Heathrow airport. You, the only shapeshifter in a group of individuals that only exists in double figures<i> in the world</i>. The first Sulva since... let's just say 'in a while'. Do you think Rick<i> doesn't mention this to anyone?</i> He got in touch with Fyodor, who got in touch with me, just on the off-chance. The next day I get another message saying that you've been found, and have had a dream about Cambridge, rowers, and a redhead girl dancing. Now I'm in Cambridge, ragging on some rowers I think are up to things they shouldn't be, tormenting them a little to see what they'll do. If you had that dream, obviously something wants to guide you to me. So I was expecting you."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think Rick wanted me to go to Cambridge..."<br/>
<br/>
"But you did. That's all that matters. Anyway, you were dumb enough to come up to Cambridge looking like your original self. When we spoke at the clock, I was pretty sure who you were. And then, when you vanished into Wyndham and<i> never came out again</i>? It was obvious you'd shifted <i>imagos</i>. I just had to figure out into who you were. Later on I'm out waiting and this shy girl with bright red hair comes walking out of the gate. The girl from the vision? Why not, she fits the profile. I was about 62.4 per cent certain then."<br/>
<br/>
"What about the other...uh...thirty..."<br/>
<br/>
"37.6? Maybe you were someone else; perhaps you'd replaced one of Grace's friends instead. So I dealt with you as I would have dealt with the actual Grace. It was only watching you in the library that made me certain you weren't who you said you were."<br/>
<br/>
"The library? You were <i>watching</i> me?" All of this shatters your confidence. So much for a perfect masquerade.<br/>
<br/>
Hal gives you another look before focusing once more on the road. "Do you think sprinklers start up the moment someone pulls a fire alarm? Do you know how many universities would lose their collected works of knowledge if they were drowned in sprinklers every time some Luddite pressed the button? It's not that simple. I was watching from the CCTV. You were too close to those rowers not to be seen, so obviously you were doing some kind of magical skulking. When you pressed the alarm, I decided to help you along a bit. I press a button, and -pow- the sprinklers come on.<br/>
<br/>
"After that I knew <i>exactly</i> who you were. I knew that you probably knew who I was, but I knew that you didn't know that I knew who you were, and wanted to keep it that way. Make sense?"<br/>
<br/>
"And what a about what they were doing? Did you know about that, too? And let it happen to me?" Miko's voice is perfect for conveying sheer anger and irritation. Hal gives you a quick glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Easy! I'm driving. Don't fight someone while they're driving. It's messy."<br/>
<br/>
"Why did you let it happen!"<br/>
<br/>
"Because it was a trap for them! You were bait. We all have to make sacrifices for the cause, brother! You fight oppression any way you can, and sometimes that means you have to have a little blood on the streets to create a revolution! The real Grace was out of harm's way, so everybody won."<br/>
<br/>
"I object to being used as bait!" You fold your arms in seething fury.<br/>
<br/>
"And I object to conglomerate coffee chains that avoid corporation tax. Life isn't fair. I used you. Risked your life a bit in a controlled environment. Get over it."<br/>
<br/>
You remain silent for almost half an hour before the conversation starts up again. Hal, for his part, doesn't seem bothered, spending the drive listening to a CD of a terrible, out-of-key folk singer with a thick London accent, who seems to sing mostly about closed ship yards.<br/>
<br/>
"What about the real Grace?" you finally ask. There's little point staying mad.<br/>
<br/>
"What about her?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've been her for two days. Rick set me an assignment to impersonate someone for three... although I think he meant for me to stay in London. She will have woken up by now, and won't remember what I did as her. And I think... I don't have her <i>imago</i> any more. I... got rid of it, somehow. I don't know how I did that."<br/>
<br/>
"It's probably for the best," Hal summises. "But you're right. She'll be a little confused as to how she's lost two whole days."<br/>
<br/>
"Rick said there was a way to conceal that?" You shrug. "I don't know it."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you do," Hal grins, pulling over. He's on his phone before the car stops. "There's a few ways. You could, for instance, tell her. Explain you stole her life, and why. If she accepts it, great. If she doesn't, who's going to believe her story? But that's cruel, and not subtle. It's useless if you're impersonating someone on the other side, someone who's an enemy, not an innocent. So a better way is... do you know Latin?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Nor do I, it's a dead language used for centuries to prevent the open access to knowledge. But I do know what <i>in medias res</i> means."<br/>
<br/>
"In medias res?"<br/>
<br/>
"It means 'in the middle of something'. Imagine you woke up in the middle of an exam. It's just starting to begin, and you can't remember the past three days. What would you do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Scream?" You offer.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, you wouldn't. You'd do the exam. You'd chalk up the amnesia to nerves. All right, think of it another way. Before all of this, you got on with your life. Could you remember what happened the day before? Or the day before that, when your existence was pure routine?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," you nod.<br/>
<br/>
"Only if you thought hard about it. And then not everything. Just a few salient points. So you need to make sure that when a face's real owner wakes up, they've got something to distract them. Something that they focus on, rather than trying to remember the past couple of days. That'll let you get away with anything. Take out their money, if you want. If it's a small amount, even if they looked at a bill they'd shrug and go 'I don't remember doing that'. Memory's not an absolute, Will. It's easy if you're careful."<br/>
<br/>
It's all so simple, so clean, you can't believe it would work. Could it really be that easy?<br/>
<br/>
Hal stops typing on his phone and grins. "As for Grace, I've sorted that out for you. Consider it an apology for letting you be my bait."<br/>
<br/>
You look at the mobile phone screen as he shows it to you. "That's it?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"That's it. Even university students rely on free online wiki encyclopedias to find out information. A quick anonymous edit, and now the most inaccurate trusted source in the world states that exposure to fluoroform gas can lead to short-term memory loss. Problem solved."<br/>
<br/>
He pockets the phone, and starts the car up again. "Right, Will Prescott. Now where exactly am I taking you? I've got to drop this oppressive tool of the corporate machine back to Oxford. I can give you a ride there, if you'd like. Or it's back to London. Rick doesn't need to know that you popped up to see me, and I'm sure you could snag a face and pretend to be someone else until he gets back."<br/>
<br/>
That manic grin emerges again.<br/>
<br/>
"In fact, I might know just the person. It'd be a comfortable life for 24 hours. And you could even do me a favor..."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112
author_id: collider
title: London Calling... Again
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What favor?" You're a little wary, after what Hal put you through the first time. Which was essentially a plot of sacrifice you in some kind of nightmarish ancient Egyptian disco ritual.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you know how to use a flash drive?" <br/>
<br/>
You turn and look at him with Miko's finest withering gaze. "Who doesn't know how to use a<i> flash drive</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
"Most of the<i> Stellae</i>, I think," Swann grins. "All I want is access to a computer system. I'd love to just walk through the door, but they've set up encryptions that, well, let's just say it's not your normal type of encryption. They know what they're doing. And it's not good."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you just give me a straight answer?"<br/>
<br/>
Hal shrugs. "Whatever helps the decentralization of corporate power into a cooperative state, comrade. The Fane Foundation - who provided those little arcane baubles currently in my pocket? - are a sub-set of a wider conglomerate. Usually they partner with another local company, or make it part of the 'Fane family'. Fane-Lustdorf is its medical arm. Based in Switzerland, it's got an office in London, too. You know the fastest way to get something into a population, other than the food chain? Medical supplies. Vaccines. Stuff like that. So far these bastards haven't done anything like that, but it's only a matter of time. They're setting themselves up, and we need to bring them crashing down."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what you're working on?"<br/>
<br/>
"In a way. I'm just picking at the edges, right now. We've got time. There's enough collected knowledge in the <i>Stellae</i> to know what they could try to pull, and to know they're not in a position to do it just yet. Knowledge is power in this game, Will. Knowledge of how to do things, knowledge of when to do things, and knowledge of what your opponent is up to."<br/>
<br/>
"So... the flash drive?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right, the flash drive." In front of you the sky is glowing orange; it's completely counter-intuitive given it's still creeping toward 10pm. It takes a moment for you to realize the light is just London: a sprawling mass of lights, combining to give the sky an almost irradiated glow. "I can't get in to Fane-Lustdorf to hack their servers, and I need their packets of data.<br/>
<br/>
"All right," you shrug. "So you want me to walk through the door as an employee..."<br/>
<br/>
"No!" Hal's face almost blanches. "At least not without more training. Oh, you could waltz around the offices without much trouble, I don't doubt. But the really juicy stuff is going to have certain protections on it. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're not at the stage in your own righteous revolution where you'll see them. So I want you to do something simpler."<br/>
<br/>
"Go on?" You're wondering if Hal Swann always takes this long to get to the point.<br/>
<br/>
"Matthew Crayson is a local corporate head for the company. Not sure if he's one of them; I suspect he doesn't really know what they're doing. Regardless, he lives in the breast of Babylon that is Kensington. One of those gorgeous houses that looks straight out of Mary Poppins, and extends a further three floors underground. That's what they do these days - preserve neat looking houses for the wealthy elite, and burrow into the Earth for a private swimming pool."<br/>
<br/>
"Right," you say, hoping this is his point. "So you want me to become Matthew Crayson? The problem is Rick said he wanted me to impersonate a..."<br/>
<br/>
"Hold fast, Will." Hal seems to know exactly where he's going as he switches lanes. London's arterial roads are bleeding into a complex, sprawling mass of junctions, turnings and the strange British obsession with roundabouts, but Hal barely slows down, instead weaving his way through traffic with ease. "That's not what I want you to do. Crayson's the kind of individual who people notice. If you replace him, and he's got time unaccounted for, my gut says he'll report it. And, given what I think you were about to say, I think I've got a plan."<br/>
<br/>
He gives you another manic grin as he sets the car toward west London. <br/>
<br/>
"Go on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Crayson's a family guy, wife and two kids. His wife's still a looker, even at 44. We're talking a serious Pilates and health food freak. She's also a Fane employee, works in their legal division. She's a solicitor, and... well, lets say our paths have crossed before. She knows how to write litigation." He smiles. "She's not high enough to be a problem to replace. Eldest daughter is Portia - which says everything you need to know about the Craysons, right? She's one of those fake tan, posh accent socialites, the kind that blight reality TV with their vapid obsession with consumerist trappings. She's 20 and still hasn't left home to do something with her life. Nor has daughter two, Nerissa. She's 18, and taking a gap year before university. Any of those women would be a far better option than Matthew."<br/>
<br/>
"So you want me to be a girl again?" <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. You're good at it. And it's important that you get even better at it. Sun Tzu said 'all warfare is based on deception', Will. You need to be convincing as either sex if you're going to survive." Hal calculates a gap, and accelerates past a stationary car, cutting straight through a red light. "As any one of them, you can get to your dear husband, or daddy, or whatever's computer, slip in the flash drive. There's a file on there called "Soup Kitchen". Just click it."<br/>
<br/>
"What is it?" <br/>
<br/>
"A little something I came up with that will give me access to their computers once he takes his work back to the office. Simple enough. Then you enjoy life for a day or so in absolute luxury before Rick arrives. Consider it another apology, even if you should be apologizing to me. My eye's bloody sore."<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry," you say, genuinely.<br/>
<br/>
"It's all part of bringing down the system," Hal shrugs. "When we get to Kensington I'll check where the Crayson ladies are on social media. People put far too much information about themselves on the web, comrade! Then it's just a matter of... Oh, balls, it's the rozzers."<br/>
<br/>
You raise an eyebrow and turn to see what the problem is, and notice the dashboard is pulsing with reflected blue light. You turn, and the police car's lights shine bright into Miko's eyes. Obviously the police noticed Hal's reckless driving. The cruiser is indicating for you to pull over.<br/>
<br/>
"This is bad," you acknowledge.<br/>
<br/>
"Well... considering I've got an athlete trussed up and gagged in my boot, two stolen items stolen from a private collection in my pocket and no car insurance, I think we might be getting more than a slap on the wrist. That leaves us with two options," he sighs. "Either I pull over somewhere out of the way and you're going to knock out PC Plod back there... or I'm about to floor it. What's it to be?"</span></div></div>


