onizel

The winner swept up the money from the table and shoved it into a nondescript duffel bag. "Better luck next time, hey, fellas?" Though the burly men around the table stared at him with angry, clenched jaws, Vincent simply smiled smugly at them as he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder then turned to walk out the door. "Same time next week, yeah? 'Right, see you then."

As he left the old riverside restaurant, and his opponents to their furious discussions of what they'd do if they got their hands on him, Vincent put a few blocks between him and the river before slumping against a wall, slowly letting his body slide until his rear met the concrete. He'd done the same as he'd done every week for the past three months: beat a bunch of swindlers at their own game.
"Hell's bells, that was close," he said as he let his dizzy head fall back to look at the almost starless sky of London. "Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, Vincent. And right now, that's getting back home without being mugged."

He stood up again as soon as he felt the lightheadedness fade, hauling the bag up with him. It wasn't that it was particularly heavy in physical terms, but when something held one hundred thousand big ones, it carried a certain metaphysical weight to it. As Vincent began walking, he could feel the damp patches on his rear where it had met the damp cement of the midnight. He guessed that'd leave a stain on his white slacks. Something else to fix.

"I'm back!" Vincent called triumphantly as he entered the small apartment he called his own. Of course, there was no one there to greet him, as usual, but he had to practice. He threw the bag down next to the couch, flicked on the TV then whipped his clothes off. He looked at the butt of his pants before tossing them to the floor. Yep, a stain. He settled down on the sofa and closed his eyes, letting the drone of the news reader's voice send him off into oblivion.

"Miss Weihen, my name is Senior Constable Dobson. I'm going to ask you a few questions. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." The tired officer said his piece in a run-of-the-mill professional voice, though his tiredness shone through plainly. "You have the right to call a lawyer and the right to call a relative or a friend. Coffee?" Brigitte shook her head. She didn't know any lawyers, and it wasn't like she could remember her mum and dad's phone number off the top of her head. Even if she did, what would they say if they found out she was in police custody?
"I think... I'll be okay." Try as she might, she couldn't completely remove the trembles of fear and anxiety from her voice. Would that be incriminating? What was she even suspected of?
The policeman looked at her, cocking an eyebrow and twisting his round face into a suprised expression. "You sure, love?" Brigitte nodded. His mouth twisted into a thin-lipped frown of reservation. "Your funeral, then." As he sat down, he opened up a manilla folder. "Let's start at the top, then, shall we? You're suspected of the murder of a Miss Maria Sunnadara, age 14." Brigitte blinked back tears as Dobson slid a photograph of the girl across the table. "I am presenting exhibit A to the suspect. A photo of the victim." Dobson's hard eyes met Brigitte's. "I'm sure you want to get out of here as much as I do, love." The smile on his face didn't hold any happiness at all. Dobson stood up and began pacing up and down the table, drumming his fingers loudly on the table. Why would anyone think she was a murder victim? She just wanted this to be over. She hated this so much. What would Alessa do? Thoughts raced through her mind as quickly as Dobson's fingers were drumming on the table. "Did you know the victim?"
"What...? Um... N-No. I mean, yes, but... But not really."
Dobson slammed his hand on the table. "Give me a straight answer, love!" he yelled, sending droplets of spittle from his mouth across the table. Brigitte burst into tears. He took a deep breath and raised his hand, ready to bring it down again when the door opened. Another cop entered the room with a tray holding two mugs of coffee.
"Senior Constable Dobson, go take a break." The other policeman wasn't as thick set as the first. As Dobson stalked out of the room, he grabbed one of the mugs and slammed the door. "I'm sorry for my colleague's behaviour, Miss Weihen. Long day, you see. The name's " He opened a small grease-stained bag on the tray. "Donut?" He pushed the tray over after taking one out for himself. His pleasant, casual manner reassured Brigitte and she wiped at her eyes. The tears had stopped, but her chest still spasmed as she sniffled. "Guess not, then? Well, okay." As he drew the tray back, he stared at her intensely. "We know you didn't do it, love, so don't worry 'bout that." Brigitte's head shot up. "Sometimes we get cases like this. Weird ones. Curve balls." He took a bite of his donut and a swig of coffee. "You've got to understand, you see. We're putting you in the watch house tonight for your own protection."
Brigitte paled. She'd heard stories about watch houses. Was it like on the television?

It turned out that the watchouse was actually very dull, and had it not been for the horror she felt at being put in such an institution to begin with, Brigitte would probably have coped fine. As it was, though, she spent the remainder of the afternoon and well past the time the guards shut off most of the lights curled up in a ball against a wall. Some time after that, the sounds around Brigitte stopped. The snoring, the footsteps of guards, the banging against the bars of cells; they all stopped. Brigitte looked up from her position against the wall, her chest still spasming with despair. She couldn't see anything in the cell across from her. She thought there was two women in it. Standing up shakily, she approached the cell's bars.
No one was in the cell. In fact, it seemed like there was no one in any of the cells at all. Maybe prison had finally made her lose it. Something dripped into the middle of the white linoleum between the cells. Inky and dark, it splattered on the floor, the heavy drops marking the ground black. Brigitte tried to peer out of her cage to ascertain what was leaking the goop, but her eyes only met darkness. The drops continued, slowly becoming larger, quicker, and then suddenly they stopped.
From the pool of darkness shot a hand, thin and stick-like. With a shriek, Brigitte jumped back, away from the swift-moving limb clawing its way around the spot she was just standing in. The hand jumped upright, and in its palm opened an eye of red. It's iris surrounding its horizontal pupil was black, and it searched around the room frantically until it froze on Brigitte. At the bottom of the hand a mouth open, contorting into a silent, tortured scream. Child of the sinful bloodline..." The thin, rasping voice seemed to come from that mouth, though the black lips' movements were frozen in the soundless shriek. "You cannot run forever. Your blood belongs to us. Your flesh belongs to us. Your soul belongs to us."

Through the haze shone a light, blindingly bright. After failing to turn over, Brigitte closed her eyes again and groaned. "So you're back with us," said a male voice. She turned her head and squinted at the speaker. It was a policeman. She tried to sit up, but was unable. Looking down her body, she saw why--she was strapped to the bed. "Sorry about that. You went hysterical. Flailing about like a looney, screaming about eyes in hands or something. Brigitte just blinked. She was in too much of a drugged up haze to process anything. The policeman stood up and straightened his shirt. "My partner's waiting for me. You'll be escorted back to the questioning room after the anaesthetic wears off." The large man gave her a reassuring smile before heading for the door. "Oh, Miss Weihen." He stopped at the doorway, looking back at Brigitte, who returned the gaze, fighting hard to keep her eyes open. "You cannot run forever." As she slipped back into unconsciousness, Brigitte saw the man's eyes gleam red.

"I realise what I'm asking you to do is... Messy, brother," Malcolm said, looking out the window of the highrise apartment he'd recently acquired. His stylishly messy hair contrasted against his expensive, well-tailored silk shirt, black with a twisting vine pattern embroidered into it.

"You want me to kill a man?" Zachary asked. He was aware that his voice carried an unusual note of uncertainty. He'd sworn to make Mal's vision a reality. An end to the gang wars that had taken his family. But asking him to kill someone again... Zachary wasn't sure he could do that. But somewhere in the back of his mind, something was urging him to carry out the request.

"It's not like I'm asking you to kill a priest," Malcolm said, fiddling with a button on his cuff. He still wasn't used to the clothes he wore. It was a far cry from the raggish t-shirt he'd been wearing less than a week ago. Zachary wasn't privvy to where the sudden jump from rags to riches had been funded, but he didn't really care. He'd been offered some of the money, but he'd knocked it back. He had enough to get by. "It's a corrupt pollie. He's being paid off by Nirvana."

Zach made a small sound of irritation as he opened Mal's fridge. "Mind if I have one?" he asked as he pulled out a can of beer. With some satisfaction, Zach noticed that Mal's taste in alcohol hadn't jumped up with his taste in clothes. He didn't wait for an answer before he pulled on the ring, letting the carbon dioxide hiss into the conditioned air of the flash apartment.
"Just don't get legless, you piss-head," Malcolm said sarcastically. His mouth twisted into a wry half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If you took some of the money I keep offering you, you could drink the expensive stuff, man."

Zachary walked over to the window overlooking a busy street, taking a long swig of the cheap beer as he stared at the ants down below, running between the buildings as they went about making the city the flagship of the Kingdom. "I don't..." he began, not sure if he was about to lie to his sworn brother or not. "I don't really want another bloodstain on my hands, Mal."

Behind Zach's back, the smile flid fom Malcolm's face. "We've been blessed, brother. Since that night, we've been blessed with these powers. " Zach turned around, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "Don't think I hadn't ntoiced. You've become stronger, faster, haven't you? Got any other strange powers?" When Zach didn't answer, Malcolm continued, venom seeping into his voice. "Why do you think we have them? We were given these powers so we'd be able to protect people. The people we care about. If you're not going to make a stand against Nirvana, then I will, brother, but what do you think Graham'd say?" He paused for a moment, letting the verbal slap sink in. "What do you think Brigitte'd say, knowing that you let me fight your battles for you, brother?"
Zachary stared at Malcolm, a cold rage on his face. He crushed the can in his right hand, the undrunk beer spilling onto the plush white carpet. "Tell me who to kill."

Malcolm turned to a small desk, the smile coming back to his lips. He reached for a folder, lying next to a thick black book. He looked at the book for a moment before snatching up the folder and handing it to Zachary. "You'll need a codename. Think about it."

As she took out her books, Brigitte heard her name called over the P.A. system. It was Headmistress O'Leery calling her to the office. Brigitte wasn't sure what it was about. Was she up too late doing that essay? Did they know about it? A few eyes followed her as she left the class room, but she wasn't bothered by them. In all honesty, she appreciated the attention. The hallways of the large school were empty, as was to be expected. The small amount of noise coming from the classrooms seemed to make the halls quieter than if they were silent. As she went up the flight of stairs to the thirteenth floor, the lights flickered. It struck Brigitte as odd, but she supposed that things had to start to go sometime for them to be kept in pristine condition. She started as she had an idea. "Maybe that hooded person was the janitor!" Not that it really mattered right now, she realised, but that was one less thing she had burdening her mind. She followed the hallway around a final corner. O'Leery's office was just down the end of the hall. A girl sat outside the office on one of the benches, sobbing loudly. The girl was from Brigitte's grade--Maria something. Everyone knew about her. She was into magic, divination, all that sort of stuff. No doubt Alessa would have gotten along with her if she'd gone to London, as well. Her long black hair covered her face as her shape spasmed with the sobs. "Uh... Alright, Maria?" she asked awkwardly, waited for a reply for a moment and knocked on the headmistress' door when she got none.

"Enter," intoned O'Leery. Brigitte never imagined an Irish person could sound so strict. Brigitte did as instructed and closed the door with a sharp look from O'Leery. "Sit down, Miss Weihen." She gestured to the two plush, though somewhat plain seats before her desk. "Where were you last night, Miss Weihen?"

Brigitte blinked blankly at the question. "I was working on my english essay until late, Headmistress. Why?"

"I'm asking the questions, Miss Weihen," O'Leery replied fractiously, looking down at a pamphlet of paper on her desk. "The essay you are referring to is on Romeo and Juliette?" The aging woman looked at the young over her half-circle glasses. Brigitte nodded. "What did you select as the theme for your essay?"

"Separation, Headmistress. I submitted it over the computer system last night." With a few clicks, O'Leery presumably checked the submission. Brigitte had to wonder why she was going to such lengths to verify what she was saying. Was she under suspicion for something?

"3 a.m.?" Brigitte winced. She was hoping that the submission didn't have the time on it. "Why did you submit it at that time?"

"Um... I was rather unprepared," Brigitte said carefully. She wasn't about to come out and say she'd completely forgotten about it.

O'Leery rested her elbows on her desk and folded her hands in front of her mouth. "Let me be frank with you, Miss Weihen. A crime was committed on this campus last night, and you are a suspect."

"A crime?" Did this have something to do with the curfew? "I don't know what you're talking about! But... I suppose you'd expect me to say that, wouldn't you?" O'Leery nodded.

"Are you close to Maria Sunnadara?"

"You mean Maria outside your office?" Brigitte asked, not wanting to incriminate herself accidentally.

A look of surprise crossed O'Leery's face and she shot up, strode to the door, glanced briefly at Brigitte, then opened it. Brigitte watched as the woman's face turned a peculiar grey colour. O'Leery's jaw tightened and her facial muscles screwed into a fearsome visage. "Is this your idea of a joke, Miss Weihen?"

"N-No," Brigitte replied, taken aback by the even steelier tone in her headmistress' voice. In one swift motion that seemed impossible for someone her age, O'Leery swooped on Brigitte, grabbed her arm in an unbreakable hold and dragged her to the door, pointing to the spot Maria had been sitting. Scrawled on the bench was Brigitte's name around a five-point star. Scrawled on the bench in what looked like blood.

"Get in that office, girl. You're not leaving until we get to the bottom of this." O'Leery swung Brigitte back into the office and slammed the door behind her. The shadows beneath the bench seemed to ripple, and two arms reached out, pulling a humanoid form from the shadow. The shape stood up, and Maria Sunnadara walked down the hallway to the classrooms.

The next day, the entire school was called for an assembly. Strict curfews were put in place with no explanation given to the students. Brigitte didn't really care. It wouldn't disrupt her sports schedule too much. Track and field would have to be shifted to a different time. Hopefully it wouldn't clash with swimming or gymnastics. The rest of the assembly was the usual. Uniform, make up, piercings, etcetera. The old headmistress wasn't a particularly pleasing person to look at, nor was she a particularly pleasing person at all, really. She had about as much power, the countenance of, and all the motherly instincts of a berserk rhinocerous. But who was the person with a hood over their face at the back of the stage? The question stuck with her as the girls filed out of the auditorium to go about their daily classes.
"What a slag," said Nadine as she stepped in beside Brigitte. The athletic girl was a member of the track and field club and boarded in the same dormitory as Brigitte. "Can you believe her, Brig? Getting up there and putting all these restrictions on us? Who does she think she is? The P.M.?"
"This way, you might be able to focus more on your studies than boys, though," Brigitte replied with a grin, in turn getting a sharp look from her friend. "Who do you think that person in the hood was, though? Did you see them?"
Nadine glanced at the other girl quizzically. "You going crazy, then? There weren't no one up there but Headmistress O'Leery." Brigitte frowned, but put it down to Nadine's mind being elsewhere. The two girls went their seperate ways, and outside the window, a shadow followed Brigitte.

Faust walked down the ancient hallway, his well-tailored robes billowing behind him, almost whipping into the face of the young girl that followed him. Almost, but not quite. Faust prided himself on his precise calculations. At the large oaken door embellished with a white rose, he stopped, turned to the girl and regarded her coolly. He did not approve of this. Rubbish should be disposed of. "You must not speak unless you are spoken to by the young madam. When you do speak to her, you will use English, and nothing but English. You are to address her as mistress or my lady. At ten o'clock tonight, I will return here and then you are to come with me." Faust rattled off the instructions in a carefully regulated voice. "Do you understand?" The young girl nodded, her pink bob bouncing with the movement of her head. With that out of the way, Faust rapped on the door with a hand covered in white cloth.
"What is it, Herr Faust?" the precocious ten year-old asked from behind the door. Her voice carried a haughtiness beyond her years.
The butler allowed himself a brief smirk before drawing himself up into a perfect posture, hands folded behind his back. One day, that girl will be thrown down to the earth, too. "Your esteemed grandfather wishes you to meet someone. May we enter your room, young madam?"
A click signalled the unlocking of the old door. "I suppose it cannot be helped,"Alessa answered from behind the door. As the door swung open, pulled by tiny strings of glowing air magic. Unnecessarily showy, Faust noted, but he'd come to expect as much from her just as much as the overpowering scent of roses from her room.
The room was neatly kept, though that was due more to the work of servants than the granddaughter of the castle's lord. White lace covered practically every surface. The piano, the bedside table, the coffee table in the room; even the carpets were woven to emulate the look of lace. Placed around the room were vases in the same shade of white with white roses. For a man such as Faust who prefers darker colours, the room was an eyesore. The young madam sat with her back to the visitors, her blonde hair cascading down over her black robe. She was hunched over a large, old book. Faust could only guess what the topic of this one was. He'd prefer her to be limited to books on magic, but his master insisted that the girl have a broader worldview. Faust questioned the reasons for that. She didn't need that at all. Better to-ah, his mind was wandering. Faust was sure that had something to do with his age.
"Did you come to stare at mein back, Herr Faust?" the blonde haired acolyte asked without raising her head an inch.
In reply, Faust bowed. "It is the nature of the servant to remain silent until spoken to." He hoped that piece of advice had reached the mind of the girl following him. "Furthermore, it is my master's wish that you speak in English, young madam," he added, raising his head with his back still bent. "The Council of Shadows will have trouble understanding you if you appear to them talking like that."
Alessa clapped the book she was reading shut. "He-Mister Faust, I am a busy lady," she began, rising from her chair. "If you haff nothink of importance to... Who is zat vith you? A new servant, perhaps? Vhy is she not curtsyink?"
"Why indeed?" Faust murmured as he straightened his posture. "Forgive my young friend's rudeness, my young lady. She was merely so anxious and excited to meet you that it slipped her mind, I'm sure. Is that not true, Alma?"
The girl started as she was addressed. "Ah! Um, y-yes, sir!" She quickly curtsied clumsily, spreading her black skirts and twisting her ankle at the same time. Alessa raised the back of her right hand to her mouth, covering it as she chuckled. "It's a p-pleasure to make your acquaintance, m-mistress."
Alessa's eyebrows shot up. "Mistress? You make it seem as zough I em an old voman! Come, I am only fourteen, and you seem to be only a year or two younger, er, Alma, vas it?"
"Yes, that's right..." she mumbled, scuffing a food as she avoided Alessa's eyes studiously.
That mumbling would have to stop, noted Faust. Whatever she was subjected to away from the young madam was... Extracurricular. It was imperative that she behave as a model servant, not some tremulous milksop. But Faust forced a smile--at which Alessa did a double-take--and folded his hands together. "It seems as if you two require some time to become acquainted with one another. Unless you need anything else, young madam...?"
Alessa waved a hand at him in dismissal. "Please sendt a serfant up vith some refreshments for myself and Alma. Zat vill be all." And with a bow, he disappeared through the door. As soon as the door closed, a scowl appeared on his face. Fate was quickening. He only had to hold on a little longer...

...Seperation is inevitable. Whether it is something sentient or not, it will not be there forever. In a child's world of constants, seperation is terrifying. Brigitte looked over what she had written. Not bad for a last minute essay. Not bad at all. She saved the file then finally shut down the computer. It was such a relief to stand up and stretch! As Brigitte prepared herself for bed the way she did every night, it was obvious that the watcher outside the window had gone unnoticed. Brigitte rose from her prayers then settled into bed and the watcher dissolved into the night wind, hurtling over the sleeping city back to its master.

I slid the door to the warehouse closed then threw my coat off. The girl was leaning against a wall, her chest heaving from the sprint. Her duffle bag slipped from her arm, falling heavily to the bare concrete. No wonder she was so tired. What did she have in there? 'You right?' The girl looked at me with brilliant blue eyes beneath a frazzled blunt auburn fringe. She nodded jerkily.
'Look at you, Zach, bringing a girl home. Time flies so quickly.' Malcolm descended the stairs with a lop-sided, sarcastic grin on his mug.
I pegged the bundle of keys at him. 'Shut yer trap, Mal.' Would he believe what I saw? 'Give us a bit'a space.'
He chuckled and threw his hands up in the air. 'No going past second base, mate!' I scowled at him as he went back up the stairs. Black-haired git.
'Wanna cuppa or anything?' I asked, picking up the girl's bag.
'Yes, please.' Her voice sounded far away. Probably still in shock.
'Take a seat, get comfy, and it'll be done in a sec.' I put her bag next to an old couch. Yeah, it had a few bare threads here and there, but at least it was comfortable. She gave the couch a quizzical look. 'It's safe. There's no gigantic roach monster in there.' At least she still had some of her wits about her.
The kitchen area--at least that's what we called it--was just a mishmash of shelves, cupboards, draws, slats on bricks, an old stove and a dinky sink. The water from it tasted of iron, but you got used to it. Dishes and pots clattered around in a cupboard as I rifled through it for the old teapot we used. 'Alright, mate?' Mal called before leaping from the rails of the second level. We'd been able to do crazy stunts like that since that day.
'Just making a cuppa.' I didn't want to put up with his crap. 'You want one, too?' I didn't bother looking at him.
'Nah, I'm good. Hey, that girl, what's her name, then?' I shoved the kettle on the stove and lit the gas. 'Might wanna put some water in that, bro.' I grunted. I filled up the kettle and put it back on the element, watching the flame carefully. It looked like there were things inside the flame. Yeah, it'd been a long day. Bug men and fire pictures. 'You're a talkative fellow today, aren't you? She get you in a sensitive spot or something?'
'Mal, whaddaya want?' Earl grey? Irish breakfast? They were the only two teas we had.
'That book,' he said in a more serious tone that made me stop for a moment. 'Did you want to look at it?'
'What's in it?' Earl grey it was.
He scoffed. 'This'll sound insane, but it's like a journal.' A man like Ralph kept a journal? 'Some parts of it look ancient, some parts look like they were written last week. It looks like Ralph had been writing in it. It says he was given the book by some German guy.'
'Sounds like a rippin' read,' I said sarcastically as I took the whistling kettle off the stove.
'That's a no, then? I'll hold on to it.' He began to shuffle off.
'Why hold on to it? Just chuck it out.' I turned to him, holding the tea cup.
'Have a little faith, Zach,' he said over his shoulder.
'Faith in what?'
'History.'

Starting from scratch was hard. Without Graham, Mal and me had to try and work it out for ourselves. Then there were our new... Well, we called them powers. Kinda a stupid, I know, but, eh. We didn't have the first clue about them. We just kept doing what we had done while we tried to work out what to do.
Sometime when I was fifteen--it would've been a few months after we started to gather more members using our old rep--I'd been selling some necklaces in one of the Camden Markets I'd flogged from some ritsy jeweller's. The fuzz was on to me, so I was high tailing it out of there as fast as I could when some space cadet wandered out in front of me as I was checking behind me. The tumble ended up with her sprawled out on top of me. Not quite sure of what to do, I just lay there like a stiff.
"What the hell's wrong with you, you creep?!" the auburn-haired girl asked as she jumped up, grabbing her bag. Not wanting to make a scene, I got up, dusted off my coat and went to leave, but she grabbed my arm. "Hey, I'm not finished with you!"
I turned to say something to her, but the bizarre sight of a figure in a black cloak shut me up. "Is there some kinda dress up party on, mate?" The girl started screaming as she saw the hooded shape. Not wanting to put up with anymore crap, I shoved the girl toward the cloaked figure. "Take yer school girl and clear off, then." A pale, wrinkled hand reached out of the cloak toward the girl. Something shifted in me, and I heard the voice in the back of my head whispering to me. The voice from that night. The girl has to die. Kill her. Without even thinking, I'd pulled out one of the daggers strapped into my coat and began advancing on the two strangers. For the sake of the Advent, kill her. I drew the dagger back as it was engulfed in a layer of dancing fire, then thrust with inhuman speed, drawing an equally inhuman shriek from the cloaked grandpa before it dispersed into a shower of creepy crawlies. Roaches, centipedes, flies and assorted beetles scuttled and buzzed away into the shadows as quickly as they could. From the girl's scream, I don't know what scared her more, the cloaked creeper or the bugs. I flicked the dagger, extinguishing those flames that were becoming commonplace in my life. Killing girls just isn't my style, I decided. Regardless, I needed to get out of there even more now, and those cops wouldn't be far away, still, I couldn't leave that poor girl standing there. I grabbed her hand and ran as fast as I could.

The book that Ralph held as he killed the closest thing to a father he'd ever known was held up by Malcolm as he lay on one of the couches he and Dio had saved from the garbage man. No wonder Ralph was off his rocker. The book was a lot longer than it seemed, or maybe it was more like it shrunk and expanded somehow. The text in the book changed all over the place, looking completely handwritten. The first pages were in a faded, curly script. The language wasn't even in English.
Malcolm flipped through the book. The further he got into the thick book, the more he cold understand. From what he'd gathered, the book had been used to record the life stories of people. As he neared the end of the book, he found himself proven right. 'The book was passed to Ralph von Wettin from Gunter Weihen.' Malcom slammed the book shut and tossed it to the ground. He didn't want to read about that wanker's life. He rested his eyes as he lay there, ignoring the usual nagging feeling that something was watching him from the shadows.

'It wasn't supposed to... Be this way...' Ralph spluttered as he breathed his last, his own sword stuck through his chest.
'Then don't fuck with the Blades,' Malcolm sneered, red eyes glowing. He gave the blade a final twist before yanking it out of the pack leader. Malcolm turned to me, staring into my eyes. 'What's happened to your eyes, man?'
'Same to you, Mal. Your eyes look like one of the Wolves' goons.' I wiped off my bloodied daggers on a corpse's coat. 'You heard a voice, right? Blood and paper?' My black-haired friend nodded. 'Feel any different?'
Mal looked at his forearm as he flexed it, holding Ralph's sword in his hand. 'This is as light as a feather. I saw how fast you were moving. Now we're ahead of the game, Zach. The Blades'll be stronger than ever!'
He was so excited about it, but there was no way we could do it. 'The Blades are dead, Mal. Graham's gone, it's just us. We had almost a hundred members before. Let's just call it quits, mate.' This was a hollow victory. It was just death on top of death. Ralph's death's wasn't worth losing Graham.
'What are you talking about? You're pulling my leg, right? What else do you think you'll do? Get a job at Burger King? We've been blessed, Zach.' He walked over to me, sword in one hand and the other held out to me. 'Don't leave me alone now, brother. Don't leave me alone in the dark.' I stared at Malcolm. A brother, huh? I wondered how Josh was doing. He couldn't've gone off the rails as badly as I had. Malcolm had a point, though. What else would I do? 'We've been blessed. Don't let it go to waste.' I'd already screwed up with one brother, I didn't have it in me to do it again.
'Let's do it.' I took his hand and he pulled me up. 'But not tonight, man. I need to sleep.' Malcolm chuckled as he tucked a black book into his back pocket.

The world I woke up in was strange. Dark and suffocating, like breathing in someone's breath. Scratching noises echoed all around me, but they were almost unhearable.
'Do you want to live?' The voice came from all around me and from within me at the same time. It sounded like the crunch of Autumn leaves as you step on them. What sort of question was that? Of course I wanted to live. A glowing, but old looking scroll unfurled in front of me, and I felt a sharp sting on the tip of my right index finger. 'Press that finger against here, and not only will you live, but you'll have untold power. Imagine, Zachary, having the power to erase anyone you wanted with no more effort than killing an ant. That power will be yours.' Ralph... Without hesitation, I pressed my finger against the parchment, leaving a red stain on the yellowed surface. The blood shot out from the red spot I left, creating swirling intricate patterns.
'What is that?' I asked, eyes locked on the display.
'A parlour trick compared to what you'll be able to do, friend. Now go, Zachary. The world awaits.'
Never trust a disembodied voice that sounds like dead leaves.

Somehow the bullet had missed Ralph. It had to've; he wasn't dead or even in pain. The Wolves leapt at us.
I'm not entirely sure what happened in the middle of that scrap up. I was slicing wildly with my dagger at two large men. No matter how much skin and muscle I cut through, the two men kept beating down on me. I eventually lost conciousness to a lullaby of gunshots and bellows.
When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the pain. It was like my body was on fire. I groaned, trying to move an arm to no avail. I opened my eyes to darkness and shook my head, trying to clear it.
'This is the way all are first brought into the circle.' The voice was Ralph's. Then there was a scraping sound. Steel against concrete.
'Turn that damn racket off.' Graham made it out, too. He made a brave effort to sound confident, but with my sight gone, I could hear the strain in his voice. 'Zach, Mal, you boys okay?' I managed a grunt through a gag, echoed by an equally weak one from Malcolm. He sounded further away than Graham, but at least he was alive. The grating stopped.
'Perfect trust and perfect love, the two passwords.' Ralph again. 'Brethren, we are gathered here today to trace history in accordance with the book. It is written that on this day, the passwords will be entrusted to the holder of the book, bearing hope and despair in either hand. The word will be erased, quickening the beast.' What the hell was that arsehole on about? 'The world is narrow, the future is recorded, this blade is guided by the record. We now draw down the moon and sacrifice to the beast of the end.' I heard Graham yell out. It sounded painful, whatever happened to him, but I needed to focus on getting myself out. I thrashed, hearing the jingle of steel. Chains? 'Shh.' I felt Ralph's breath on my face, smelt it as swept over the cold sweat. It reeked to high heaven. Something was smeared across my face. A metallic smell invaded my nostrils, and the fire that had been running through every nerve stopped suddenly as I fell into a deeper darkness.

  After that day, Graham changed. He became harder, colder, far more millitary than before. Malcolm and I were swept along in the wake of Graham's thirst for answers and revenge. We didn't mind. We wanted them just as badly as him. We pulled in favours lent to us. There was no shortage of dirt we'd gathered on politicians, high-profile businessmen and cops over the years, and we could use all the help we could get. 

 Name: Genevieve Laura Bonnefoy

Age: 18

Birthday: July 14

Elemental Affinity: Light

Magical Power:

Personality: Strict, both on herself and others. Highly competitive, arrogant and set in her ways. She takes her role

Occupation: Researcher/heir to the Bonnefoy Coven of Witches

Relationships:

Francis Bonnefoy: Father

Henriette Bonnefoy: Mother (Deceased)

Violette Bonnefoy: Younger Sister (Deceased)

Renée: Familiar/Maidservant

Alessa Weihen: Rival/Friend

Alma: Friend

Limbo: Annoyance

 

Favourites

Food: Croissants, pan-au-chocolate, tartiflette

Drink: Low fat milk

Music: Joseph-Maurice Ravel

Pastime: Studying history

Colour: Purple

Clothes: Casual wear

Weather: It doesn't matter

Person: Pére

Otherwise: Her book of names, piano music, rodents

Dislikes

Foodwise: Anything with a heavy garlic flavour, overly salty foods, soy sauce

Personwise: People who can't use magic (plebeians),

Otherwise: broken promises, Snoopy

Skills

Domestic: Good at peeling fruit and vegetables with magic.

Physical: Has a killer right hook, not afraid to fight dirty when she has to.

Mental: Truename Magic, able to recall facts well

Other: Can go without sleep for extended amounts of time (record is three days)

 

"Mon cherie, is zere nosing I can say to make you stay?"

 

"No, pére," Genevieve replied as Renée finished moving her suitcase to the large, arched front door of the Castle de Flandre. Genevieve looked confidently into her father's worried eyes. She knew that his worry was well warranted, but she had to get to the bottom of the mystery. Her pride as the heir to the Bonnefoy seat of the Shadow Council demanded it as much as her personal reasons. And though her heart beat a rapid, anxious mazurka in her chest, and though her hands were slick with a cold sweat, she wouldn't show it to her father. “Au revoir.” Genevieve curtsied deeply to her father, Renée doing the exact same motion in perfect synchrony. The rest of the servants followed suit as Genevieve and Renée left the main hall, three large suitcases floating behind them, seeming to be pulled along by their shadows. The door shut firmly behind them with a creaking slam.

The countryside seemed to crawl rather than race past the window of the taxicab. “My lady, all will be well. Gaap has spoken, and he cannot speak mistruths about such things.” All that could be done was to trust in those words, the words of a demon retold by a demon. Unlike the countryside, the days since that day seemed to race so fast that they became a blur, certain things remain vivid in her mind.

Namely, the scene that she met with when she opened the door to that room.

Namely, the faces of her mother and sister contorted in terror and pain.

Namely, the two coffins lowered into the ground.

Namely, the seal of darkness carved into the flesh of her loved ones.

Namely, the feelings locked within her chest even now.

Spreading wings tainted with a veiled thirst for revenge, she searches for truth and a friend who she had not seen for seven years.

 

  Days seep into weeks, weeks trickle into months, months flow into years. No matter how much you wish or try, you can never go against time's current.

That is... Destiny gone awry, a tale of twin sisters seperated by the hand of man.

In Clophill, England, a woman gave birth to twin girls during a total lunar eclipse. The prophesized time had arrived. The Golden Witch had been born. The twins grandfather had been waiting for this exact moment, planning for this exact moment. This exact moment was the culmination of centuries of careful, precise manipulation of humans, global affairs and fate. The babies openened their eyes, strangely silent for new borns. One had eyes of an aqua blue, the other a violet purple. Destiny had use for but one of the girls. Which one would be the one to survive?
Their grandfather departed, heading back to his ancient castle in Germany, and the girls grew up normally. Alessa had her father's blond hair and light eyes, a stubborn attitude she could have inherited from either of her parents, an inquisitive mind her father insisted she got from him and a sharp tongue that he insisted she got from her mother. She was very much an inside girl. Her favourite pastimes in her early childhood were drawing and looking at picture books, which turned into reading by the age of five. Despite her apparent intellect, Alessa was a clutz. If she could fall over something, she would. Black and blue bruises marred her pale skin from falls down steps, up steps and over mats and tiles. Despite her stubborn nature, she was quick to cry when she was hurt.
Brigitte's face looked similar to Alessa's, heart-shaped with a sloped nose, but her mother's dark hair and dark blue eyes were passed on to her. Like her sister, she was stubborn, but that's where the likeness ended. Brigitte was a tomboy. Athletic, loud and energetic, she would rather be kicking a ball around outside with the boys than stuck inside doing something boring like looking at a book. Brigitte was not a girl to take things standing down. If a boy teased her or said something about Alessa, she'd beat them up; most of the time the boy would come out the worse. The sisters argued the way all siblings do. Bouts of hair pulling, name calling, pinching and punching happened once every few days, but they cared about eachother, and were very close through their younger years.
Underneath the azure sky, surrounded by the verdant countryside, those days seemed like they could last forever.

 I always got along well with Malcolm. We both had a wicked sense of humour and he was a quick thinking bloke. Always had his mind on the game. Like me, he rose up the ranks pretty quickly. He was ambitious, he wanted power. I guess I did, too, back then.

 In that alley on that misty day over ten years ago, the man that extended his hand to me seemed like an angel, the kind I'd heard about at church when I was a tyke. Smiling, laughing, kind. He led me to a run-down, derelict building, filled with others just like me. They took care of eachother there, the man told me. Everyone had to work, but everyone had everyone's back. I always wondered if that man started this path that I've been walking since then, or if that day was merely the continuation of something started some time in the past.