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Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 8 April 1943

Where would Edith begin?

The war had been long and painful, and every scar and bruise was a reminder that one wrong move could render it all futile. Maybe it was futile to begin with - the nature of war, every philosopher would say. But the mirth present in the villa was genuine - a camaraderie born before the world went to shit, and continued in spite of it.

Still, the blood of the past few months still felt fresh in her mouth. “I don’t know if anyone wants to hear my tale," she confesses as they moved to the pool. "It’s long, and a rather unhappy one."

Emily - dear Emily, somehow grown both more stern and more heavenly since they last glimpsed each other - presses a tea glass into her hand. “Well I think there’s quite a few of us who are very interested in your stories. And maybe we can make us some new stories. Happy ones, you know. Get out from the shadows, finally.”

She gets a kiss for that. Chaste but shameless, the way sweethearts might on a picnic in the park. Her old friends barely blink, and the new ones smile knowingly - it's a troupe that would surely shock her father's heart. "Alright then. Well, I don't think I know any stories that are completely lighthearted, but..." she taps her lips in thought. "Well, let's establish a few things. You all mentioned an encounter with a vampire correct."

"Kenneth Crichton, may he roast in hell," Michael states.

"Cheers to that," Roger adds from his perch across the pool, raising a glass of rakı towards the man.

"Right, so we can accept that those tales are real. Who here is familiar with Bram Stoker's Dracula?"

The entire party raise their hands, and Mark cocks an eyebrow at Anthea. She casts a scowl back at him. "I was in Greece, not underground. We have libraries. What about you? How did gothic horror find its way to your backyard?" she teases.

"Stole it off some visiting businessman when I was nine," Mark replies with a grin. "I'd meet with the other kids in the middle of the night and we'd read passages of it to each other, quaking at what it would be like if a vampire showed up in our little town."

"Anyways," Edith interrupts, "it shouldn't be too much of a shock were I to disclose that most of that book was inspired by true events."

Pat Mason sputters his own drink in surprise, drawing looks and laughter from the rest of the party. "I - sorry, sorry miss, I just -" He looks at her, really looks. "Harker. Edith Harker. As in -"

"Jonathan and Mina. My grandparents."

Pat nods in wonder. "Carry on then,"

Edith nods back. "The story is quite close to the truth, but if you want something really interesting - a gothic romance of sorts that set that tale in motion.

"It began with the passing of Abraham Van Helsing's firstborn son Arthur. The boy was quite young and it took a toll on the parents - Elisabeth fell into depression and was sent to stay with her family lest she be committed. Abraham, however, was too distracted by his own theories to become despondent. The doctors had told him that Arthur died of consumption, but Van Helsing could tell they were just as unsure as he was. The symptoms came on too swiftly, and did not match tuberculosis completely. It was like Arthur's blood had been drained. We can all say a vampire is to blame now, but for him so long ago to suggest something like that would certainly have gotten him sent to an asylum himself.

"His wife Elisabeth very nearly was. Hysteria gave way to catatonia, and it took all of Abraham's urging to let her live with her family instead of being committed. Over the course of a month he went from a family man to someone with nothing - nothing but his hunt for the truth. He started gathering evidence as best he could, even though he couldn't ask specific questions or reach out to the authorities. He tracked what he could. The past month had seen many reports of consumption throughout his neighbourhood, but none of them seemed to be passing through families - they cropped up at random. He spoke with families under the pretense that he believed it was a new strain, but many told him to leave and the ones that didn't weren't much help. According to the story, he very nearly gave up until he decided to check the visitors records for Arthur.

"He and Elisabeth were on the list, as were several doctors. But one name stuck out - Velanna Lupescu.¹ She wasn't a doctor Van Helsing could recall, or a nurse. When he asked the hospital staff who she was they seemed just as confused as he was. He checked the other consumption patient's records and found her there as well. But the city records had no word on her living there, and the local inn could not say whether she had stayed with them. Though he was convinced she was connected somehow, he had run out of leads. Meanwhile, he needed to resume his own practice to support himself and Elisabeth's family. So he kept that name in the back of his mind, waiting for a chance to pursue.

"She came to him first. A year to the day of Arthur's passing, he was visiting the boys grave when he saw her. "

Amsterdam, Netherlands, 31 October 1861

The walk to the graveyard was always the longest he ever took. Arthur had been so full of joy and wonder at the world, and then without warning he had fallen ill. Abraham Van Helsing and his wife were helpless as their pride and joy turned ashen and eventually perished. Elisabeth fared little better - her grief consumed her to the point that Abraham felt like he was mourning two people instead of one. He dared not betray his vows by abandoning her to an asylum or divorcing her, but he also had never felt more truly alone. And through all of this, the only thing that kept him going was the hunt - the idea of a vampire, an old folklore daemon, seemed preposterous to him most days, but the way Arthur had wasted away from lack of blood was all too similar to the stories he'd heard in passing. All he really had to go on was a name, but it was a name he was always wary of. He kept tabs on the post office, the city leger, anything where it could appear again, but never any luck. As the cold September air bit at him, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and his fingers grazed his his pistol. It was barely used, as he was no marksman or hunter, but he'd purchased it when the hunt began and he felt more comfortable having it on in the event that he found the woman and could...what? Would he threaten her? Kill her? Could he be certain that she was, in fact, the one who had killed his son? Or was he just flooded with paranoid delusions of a grieving father?

Every step he took was another step closer to giving up on this madness, simply chalking it up to cruel fate, and moving on. But Van Helsing had been dancing on the edge of that line for a while now, never daring to cross back into the possibility of the mundane. If he did, then this past year would be a waste. But it would also be a relief to reach his son's grave and see a place of rest instead of a mystery to unravel. He made up his mind there - that he would stop this obsession once he paid respects to Arthur on this anniversary - and turned the corner.

And saw her.

She stood out in the graveyard despite the overcast sky and dim light of dusk. She was clad in a billowing white cloak and had an ostentatious hat perched atop her head, but it didn't hold down the wild brown hair that blustered in the wind dramatically. She stood perfectly still, and the more Van Helsing watched the more he felt that, had her hair been pinned and her jacket tightened, he would have mistaken her for a statue. What was worse, though, was that as he approached her realized that she stood at the very gravestone that was his destination.

He gripped the pistol and approached with caution. "Neem me niet kwalijk? Missen?" he called out. "I think you may have the wrong grave. That is my son's, and I am certain you did not know him in life."

She slowly turned her head towards him, the motion fluid and purposeful like a reptile. "Goedenavond, dokter." Her voice was light and sharp, like violin strings. "No, I did not know him in life. In death though..." She chuckled, and a chill deeper than autumn ran up Van Helsing's spine. "You have been looking for me?"

"Velanna Lupescu, I presume."

"Indeed. I wanted to take my husband's name, but he detests undue attention."

Van Helsing blinked back tears. "You killed those people. You killed Arthur."

"You already know the answer to that."

Van Helsing nodded, then pulled the pistol from his pocket and pulled the trigger. He was met with a dull clicking noise.

Velanna chuckled again. "You though you could shoot me? How quaint." Then she lunged at him.

He had no time to react; her speed was inhuman and her strength was terrifying.The woman snatched him up by the neck and held him two feet off the ground. Van Helsing struggled to breath, and as he clawed at her hands he could see she was laughing. "You foolish little man." Her accent sounded Eastern European - Romanian, perhaps? "You have no power over me. This is my domain. The domain of the dead. I could gut you like a fish if I wanted to." She opened her mouth wide and Van Helsing saw horrific fangs extending from her canines. Her eyes glowed red and she made a noise like a starving cat as she brought him closer to her maw, but at that moment the crucifix around his neck fell upon her exposed skin. There was a searing sound, like meat on a stove, and she shrieked as she recoiled. Van Helsing was flung away, his fall broken when he smacked into a gravestone. His whole body ached, but he still struggled to his feet and faced the woman.

"What are you?" he demanded.

The woman was nursing the wound that had appeared on her hand, but she still gazed upon him with a look of playful malice. "If you so desire to know, doctor, meet me at Castelul Corvinilor.² And come alone" Then she sped off, faster than he could chase, but at least with some manner of hint.

"He chased her, of course. A vengeful man desperate for retribution would have travelled around the world if she had asked him to. Within a day he had packed and boarded the first train to Frankfurt, and in a week's time he was in Budapest. From there he had to make do with rented cars, carriages, and travel by horseback, but another week later he found himself in the shadow of the Castle."

Castelul Corvinilor, Romania, 14 November 1861

The castle loomed above him, it's gothic parapets carving into the overcast grey sky like teeth, which he thought was fitting in a moment of dark humour. He dismounted his horse and tied it to a nearby tree - tight enough that it wouldn't wander off on it's own, but loose enough that he could flee at a moment's notice. Taking a breath for courage, he made his way inside.

The place seemed abandoned, but it was nowhere near the ruinous state the locals had made it out to be. Indeed, it seemed like whoever took care of this fortress did a very good job. The stonework remained immaculate, and the carpets and drapery decorating the entrance hall looked freshly cleaned. Yet at the same time the place seemed so...lifeless. His breath appeared in front of his face as he entered, and he had to hold his coat tighter to keep any warmth close to his body. His free hand stayed in his pocket where it gripped the wooden stake there. He was not going to pretend that he knew exactly what he was dealing with, but whenever he happened to mention his destination to someone in Romania they would eye him grimly and suggest he be wary of vampires. Some of the advice was in jest, but much of it was decidedly not. So he wore the cloven garlic around his neck alongside his crucifix and held himself ready to hammer a stake into the chest of any dark creature that crept upon him.

"Velanna!" he cried out. "I came alone, as asked. Now tell me what I want to know!"

"'What you want to know?"' The voice echoed all around him. "You already know all you want to." There was a scuttling noise above him, but when he looked up he saw nothing but darkness. "You know I killed your son and the others in your city." There was a shifting of stone all around him, but he still saw nothing moving. "You know that I am a vampire - and I can smell your detestable herbs from here." There! He spotted movement in the corner of his eye, but it was too dark and too quick for him to keep his eyes on it. "And you know that you cannot kill me."

"I've found ways!" Van Helsing shouted out. "I've done my research!"

"Clever clever, hmm?" she taunted from the shadows. "But in all that research, did you ever wonder why I called for you in the first place? Asked you to travel across Europe to my home?"

In that moment Van Helsing felt akin to a fly caught in a spider's web, and it was then that Velanna revealed herself - descending from the ceiling silently and meeting him at eye level as he whirled around. Van Helsing held a crucifix up between them, and though she flinched slightly she did not seem distressed. "Killing your sweet Arthur and those others in Amsterdam was a fun appetizer, but it was like slaughtering lambs. I find that what I truly am...is a hunter."

There was a horrific roar from nearby, and Van Helsing turned to look for it's source. That distraction lowered his arm, and Velanna took the oppurtinty to dodge the dreadful icon and snatch him by the neck once more. "Your desperation has been building since you left your home, seasoning you perfectly for me. I'll take a taste now, then leave you to my dogs." With an demonic snarl she sunk her fangs into Van Helsing's neck, and he shrieked in agony as she drank of his blood. Just before he felt he might faint of terror she let go and flung him towards the door. "Run, dokter. Let's see how far you get."

Van Helsing scrambled to his feet and bolted for the outside, pressing a hand to his neck to try and stop the torrent of blood seeping down his body. He saw his horse there, whinnying in fear like it could sense the danger they were both in. Such feelings proved true when, in a flash of fur and shadow, a massive creature burst from the underbrush and tore through the poor creature. Van Helsing only had a moment to observe the ursine figure snapping up the pile of guts and viscera before it turned it's red eyes on him and bore it's fangs - fangs too long for a normal creature. Another roar behind him send him running, and he had to assume that two vampiric bears now pursued him.

"Vampire bears?" Roger asks in shock.

"Castelul Corvinilor is said to have a bear pit," Emily suggests. "And if vampirism is a disease, well, plenty of doctors have suggested there are afflictions that can jump from one species to another."

"Good thing Crichton never thought of that," Michael sighs. "He would've been incorrigible."

"What happened next?" Mark asks, rapt with attention like a child asking for a bedtime story. "He got away, obviously."

"Well...barely," Edith continues. "The bears did get to him, and he got torn up so bad that he nearly died. His wounds were bad enough that he'd blacked out, but when he next awoke he was aware of two things."

"The first was that he was alive, though he could not say how. The bears had clawed through his torso, and in his deliriousness he knew that he had been soaked in his own blood. And though his body ached, he could tell that such wounds had already been healed and he felt no worse than a night of hard drinking.

"The second thing was that he had something on his face. A mask made of metal."

Zefiro Village, Latveria, November 15 1861 ³

He reached his hands up to take it off, and immediately felt his wrists grabbed. "Do not remove it," snapped the voice - a woman, but not Velanna. She had a similar accent, but despite her urgency she did not seem nearly as cold. "If you remove it you could doom us all."

Van Helsing opened his eyes and was met with the face of a beautiful dark-skinned woman. Her brown hair was tied back with colourful cloth, and the light of the midday sun behind her made it seem like she had a halo around her. "Who...what..."

"My name is Victoria," she replied, and she careful let his wrists go but kept an eye on him to ensure he did not try anything else.

"Abraham Van Helsing," he replied.

"Ah, that make sense. You were delirious when we found you - kept muttering 'Bram Velsing'. Here." She guided him to sitting up. He grimaced at the flare up in his wounds but noting that it was nothing compared to the pain of receiving them. "You need to get your strength back. You have been through a lot. Eat this" she said, and put a bowl of soup and a spoon in his hands. He took a spoonful and nodded with appreciation after tasting it, giving her assurance she could continued. "As for what...well, it is difficult to explain."

"I was...attacked by vampiric bears..."

Victoria chuckled. "I suppose so. Very well. You are in Zefiro village, Latveria."

"Latveria?" Van Helsing would have raised his eyebrows if they were visible. "You mean the country of -"

"Do not say the word," Victoria cut him off. "I know this nation's reputation, but my people are Romani.⁴ It would do you and your European friends to remember that."

Van Helsing nodded. "Of course. I'll pay any respect to the woman who saved my life. Though it still seems like quite the undertaking to depose that woman and her beasts."

"Oh, they're still at large," Victoria sighed. She held up her hand and Van Helsing let out a small gasp as rings of light manifested in the air above her palm. "I only know enough sorcery to hold them off - that castle lies just across our border, and she's always sending minions to try and devour us or chase us out. Smaller, weaker vampires I can destroy, but she and her pets are stronger." She turned back to him. "She bit you. That means that she has a connection to you - or she would, if not for the Mask of Death."⁵

Van Helsing touched the mask again. It clasped tightly to his face, but left his mouth uncovered enough that he could theoretically eat more than just broth. He could feel some manner of design on it, and realized it was the crude form of a skull. Travelling higher on his head, he felt out two shapes coming from the sides - bat wings, placed there in a manner similar to the winged helmets of Norse heroes in Romantic paintings.

Victoria was searching through a bookshelf across the room. "It was found atop Mount Wundagore when my people first arrived generations ago, in a temple to the dark arts. They took many artifacts from there in the hopes they would help them in this new country, only to return them upon realizing the evil forces they drew here. Most things taken from there were returned when they realized the dire consequences of toying with such things, but the price of the Mask must have seemed acceptable to them. Still, none have worn it for generations...until you."

"Why?" Abraham asked.

"Because we feared hurting one of our own." She levelled a steely gaze at him. "Don't get me wrong, doctor, I'm not one to let innocents die. But we are savvy enough to be wary of strangers in our town when so many wish us harm. We only gave you the mask to see what would happen without risking our friends."

Abraham grimaced. "Fair enough, I suppose." Though rather dire, he thought to himself.

Victoria pulled out a journal, flipping to a specific page and reading aloud. "Those who first brought the Mask of Death to the village claim that the one who wears it is known as a 'Dread Knight'.⁶This person is supposedly gifted with the power to heal from mortal wounds and the strength to slay their foes, but those who dare wear it beyond the shadow of Mount Wundagore shall find their blood boils until they die of agony."

"So I must wear this until I heal?" Van Helsing asked.

Victoria shook her head. "The mask can heal many things, but it does not undo the bite. One for a connection, two for control, and three for transformation - that is how the vampires grow their numbers. The Mask can block Velanna from reaching inside your mind, but the only way to stop her permanently is to kill her."

"Faced with the choice of torturing himself to hunt Velanna or stay in Zefiro village forever, Van Helsing chose the former. He and Victoria would venture as far as they could to hunt down Velanna, but the curse of his blood boiling when he strayed too far from the mountain held true, and they made little headway. Occasionally Velanna sent her weaker minions to attack the village, but Van Helsing used his newfound powers to defend it. I imagine he was as strong as Michael in that time. Anyways, this game of cat and mouse continued for nearly a year. Though the doctor grew anxious to return home, he also found himself becoming ingratiated to Victoria and her community for saving him, and he felt obligated to protect them in kind. The turning point was when a message came from Amsterdam."

Latveria-Romania Border, 30 October 1862

"There's someone at the border," Victoria told Van Helsing as she entered the cottage. "Djordji says he's asking after you. By name."⁷

"What? The only people who know where I went were Elisabeth's family," Van Helsing replied, then a grim realization hit him when he considered why he'd be receiving such a message. "Oh no." He raced outside, with Victoria behind him. The two of them reached the edge of the Latverian border, where a middle-aged man held a rifle at a younger fellow looking like he had travelled a long way.

"At ease, Djordji," Victoria told the man. He did not lower the rifle.

Van Helsing approached him slowly. "Hello traveller! I hear you're looking for me?"

"You are Abraham Van Helsing?" The messenger asked in surprise. "Nice mask, doctor."

Van Helsing waved the comment off. "What is the message?"

"I regret to inform you that your wife has passed away," the messenger replied. "They say it was from sorrow."

Van Helsing hung his head. Of course. Elisabeth was not in a good place when he left her. It made sense that her heart and mind could only take so much before shutting down of their own accord. And yet, he felt very little in the way of grief - perhaps because he had felt for a long time that Elisabeth had already passed away. But now she was truly gone.

"Do you think she'd still be around if you hadn't left?" The messenger asked.

Van Helsing snapped back to look at the man. "What did you say?"

"You abandoned your wife to chase fairy tales," The messenger continued, with all the casual tone of someone asking about the weather. "Can you call yourself a good husband? A good father? If you were truly loyal you never would have tossed her aside for this witch whore."

Victoria held her hands up and summoned her powers. "You speak out of turn."

The messenger's eyes widened, first in surprise at the blatant magic before him, then in terror as they realized their words. "Oh God, what - I didn't - why did I say that?"

"Because you're already gone." Djordji stated before firing at the man. It was a direct hit - the bullet tore through one cheek and out the other - but the messenger didn't flinch. In fact, he smiled, and the grin only tore the wounds wider and gave him a cheshire grin, through which the others could see his extended fangs.

"Yes, I forget sometimes. But I'm getting better. Speaking of which -" he gestured to Van Helsing - "you have certainly proven yourself stronger than a mere rabbit. My mistress would love for you to join her."

"I'd sooner die," Van Helsing growled back. He unsheathed the blade that Victoria had gifted him early in their partnership to emphasize the threat against this vampire.

"You say that now, but when she gets in your mind...such poetry will convince you that her power is greater than that metal scrap on your face. Take it off, and let her come to you." His eyes drifted to Victoria. "Or maybe...you need additional motivation."

He lunged, causing Djordji's next shot to miss, but Victoria summoned a whirling blade of magic that bisected the creature and sent his top half sprawling into Van Helsing's feet. He placed his foot on the creature's chest and pointed the blade at his neck. "Can she hear me?" The vampire nodded, panting in fear. "Velanna. You will be next."

"Th-th-thank y-you," the messenger sputtered, the last of his humanity coming through in his final moments before Van Helsing decapitated him. The body burst to smoldering ash, and the three shared a look.

"She's getting bolder," Djordji stated.

"Then we'll have to as well," Van Helsing replied.

"That night the village prepared all it's defences. Victoria and the others there who could use magic gatherd all the spells they had to prevent an assault. But the real danger wasn't from the outside, but within. The only way they could determine Velanna's exact location in the castle and take her out before Van Helsing died of the curse was if he took the mask off then."

Emily smiles knowingly. "He realized the door goes both ways."

Edith nods. "Exactly. While Velanna sicked her minions on Zefiro, Van Helsing routed in her mind and built a strategy. The moment he was certain of the plan, he re-donned the mask and joined the others in defending the village. The next morning, he and Victoria set out on horseback directly for the Castle." Edith chuckled. "I wish I could give a more dramatic ending to it, but it was quite like Dracula's demise in the novel - they found her in her coffin and destroyed her. Van Helsing could remove the mask, and Victoria found the bears in a weakened state and put them out of their misery as well. The threat to Zefiro village was gone, and Van Helsing could return home to pay his respects. Pretty much everything after that you'll know from the book."

"So, okay, there's one thing I don't get," Pat presses. "If everything in the book really happened, how did Bram Stoker factor in?"

Edith rolls her eyes. "Stoker was a hack who found Van Helsing's notes after his death and snatched them before the rest of the Van Helsing kids could. When he published the book, it wasn't like the family or those involved could accuse him of taking their story since that would involve confessing the truth of vampires - something which only an exclusive club of people are aware of. So we've had to just pretend that the similar names were a funny coincidence."

"Huh," Pat says as he leans back in his seat. "Still, vampires...magic...it sounds like the doctor accepted everything pretty easily."

"I mean, this is just my version of the story," Edith replies. "Who knows how long it took him to wrap his head around it."

The party chats for half an hour more before the wind picks up and they return inside. There's enough in the pantry and icebox for a night's dinner, and the stories turn back to the fun and exciting as things went on. Pat speaks about his boxing tales, Emily about farm antics she and her siblings got up to, and the Oxord crew reminisce about their various dalliances back in school. Eventually it comes time to turn in, and most everyone retires after the dishes are clean.

"I'll see you in the bedroom shortly," Robbie says coyly into Maddie's ear.

She grins mischeviously. "Alright, I'm just grabbing my journal from the study."

He kisses her neck goodbye and walks down the hall while she returns for her journal. Her path takes her right past the door, and she is mildly surprised when she hears knocking.

She grabs the gun she has holstered at her side - they are still at war, after all - and makes her way to the entrance as another knocking comes. "Who's there?"

"Courier from General Halloway!" comes a raspy voice. There is a shuffling, then an envelope pops in underneath the door. "Storm's getting bad - we won't be able to get you out for a few days!"

"There's no way?" Maddie asks. No response. She cracks the door open to see the courier, but is immediately met with winds strong enough to tear the door open and sharp grains of sand trying to claw their way in. She slams it shut again, taking a breath before picking up the envelope and opening it up.

There is a short missive inside. "Attn Second Officer Joyce-Frank: Due to the severe storm conditions approaching your location, it is inadvisable to extract your group from the safehouse at this time. We will act quickly when we can, but for your safety and ours it is suggested that you stay there for the approximate three days this storm is due to last. - General Halloway."

Maddie frowns. What are they going to do in this house for three days?

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 9 April 1943

It's late in the morning. Robby and Maddie are still cuddling with each other as they make their way to the kitchen, careful not to go too far lest it's occupied. And it is, by Anthea and Michael, who make hushed small talk as they wait for the coffee to boil. Anthea raises an eyebrow at the couple, but Michael regards them with all the derision one would cast towards a potato. "I see you two enjoyed your night."

"We enjoy every night," Robby sighs as he wraps his arms around his wife.

"Common?" Anthea asks.

"Very," Michael replies.

"How about yourself Michael?" Maddie asks as she extracts herself from her husband. "I imagine you sleep like a log after your treatment."

"Actually, I've always been a pretty light sleeper," Michael admits. "And now it's like I barely need any."

"That sounds convenient," Robby says as he roots through cupboards for a mug.

"You'd think so," Michael replies, "but it's just a lot of staring at the ceiling most nights."

"Still, I'd think you wouldn't need much of that if you play your cards right." Robby nods behind Michael, and he turns to see Roger emerge from the hall, eyes bleary and hair tousled. It's a look Michael has been intimately aware of in the past, and seeing it now is...well. Nostalgic.

"Morning all," Roger yawns. He reflexively moves to put his arm around Michael, then pulls away, and the two awkwardly stand next to each other in a perfectly normal way. "Good morning Michael."

"Morning Roger," Michael replies.

"Morning Roger," Robby adds with a wink.

Roger frowns, but he isn't exactly surprised. "Oh come off you. And you too, Maddie,"

"I didn't say a thing!" Maddie replies in mock scandal.

"You were going to."

"Ah, I see you've developed the power of prophecy as well, then?"

"Madeline," Michael sighs, and she throws her hands up.

"Fine! Fine, I won't say a thing. What I will do is rouse the rest of our troupe. We got word from Halloway late last night, and I want to ensure we're all here before I say anything. Robby, could you get the lads? I'll take care of the girls."

Robby gives his wife a small salute before sauntering down one hall, and Maddie goes the other way.

A burbling noise behind them signals their drinks are ready, and Anthea pours out measured cups for herself, Roger, and Michael. Michael nods in thanks as he takes his, and just as quickly it leaves his hands as Pat Mason snatches it away and takes a massive gulp.

"Good morning Mr. Mason," Anthea says as she casts Michael an apologetic look. She checks the pot, then sighs. "I'll start another one."

"Sleep well?" Roger asks.

"Not a wink," Pat replies as he takes a breath. "I thought I was dealing well with the...well, you know."

"Massive upheaval of your worldview?" Michael suggests.

"That, aye. Every time I closed my eyes I had nightmares about vampires or demons or monsters made of stone." He gives Roger an apologetic look. "Present company excluded of course."

"None taken," Roger says as he holds his hand up and watches it crystallize with fascination. "It's rather glamorous, wouldn't you say?"

Pat looks in awe, then turns to Anthea. "I'm sure you're plenty used to all this, Miss Anthea. No bad dreams for you." A pause. "Wait, do you...I mean, I know you're a siren, but -"

"If you're asking if I sleep, Mr. Mason, the answer is yes," Anthea replies. "Put a dark cloth over my eyes and I'll immediately assume it's night and retire."

Pat chuckles. "You're a funny one. Wait. That was a joke, aye?"

"You'll never know."

Edith and Emily enter the kitchen next, coming down from the stairs of an upper level room. "Oh, Maddie just went to fetch you two. Did you not see her?"

"If she went to my room then no," Emily replies. "I was...keeping Edith company."

"Oh that's nice," Pat replies, seating himself atop the breakfast nook. Roger just sips his cup knowingly, and Edith tries her best not to giggle like a schoolgirl.

Emily grimaces at the obviousness of her fib, and longed to change the subject. "Is that coffee?"

"Just put it on," Anthea replies. "It'll need a few minutes."

"Not likely!" Mark declares as he enters, Robby hot on his heels. "'scuse me, Mike."

Michael does as asked, not used to the American shortening his name so freely. Mark presses hand to the side of the metal coffee pot and his fingers turn to flame as bits of bone poke through. In a moment the pot is bubbling as it was before. Mark looks off to the side at nothing in particular, then chuckles. "Aw, put a sock in it hot head."

"Talking to your friend?" Edith asks as Mark turns the heat off and begins pouring for the others.

"Yep. He's trying to give me a lashing for using him as 'a glorified tea kettle', but he should learn to relax. I reckon we'll be off to fight more HYDRA krauts sooner rather than later."

"I couldn't find Emily in her room," Maddie says as she reenters, before seeing her and Edith already present. "How did you...ah. Say no more."

"How come she only gets a 'say no more'?" Roger whines.

"Well she's new. I wouldn't want to scare her off just yet," Maddie replies slyly.

Michael rolls his eyes. "Maddie, you said you had an announcement to make."

"Right. Last night I received a missive from General Halloway stating that due to the sandstorm outside it would be best for us to stay here until it dies down. He hopes it won't last the three days they predict, but we should prepare for it."

"Three days?!" Robby says in shock. "We're in the middle of a war and they want their best soldiers to hide in a villa for three days straight?"

"I know it's not exactly ideal, dear, that's why I didn't want to say anything until I saw how bad the storm was this morning. And, well, it's still quite grim."

There is a shuddering of shutters as she said this, and the party becomes acutely aware of the dull hum whirling around them. They realize that it had been so omnipresent through he night that they had gotten used to it, but it was the sound of sand being forcefully and consistently blasted in the direction of their abode.

"Well damn," Edith says with...well, she wasn't sure of her own tone. There was a lot that could happen in three days, which their particular skills could easily help with. On the other hand, they've essentially lucked into a three day leave, and after the past few months she had she finds it hard not to accept it. "What should we do until then?"

"I have an idea," Robby suggests.

"No," comes an immediate chorus from Emily, Edith, Michael, and Roger.

"Fine then."

"We could talk," Pat says softly.

"I can't imagine we have enough conversation that could last three full days," Emily replies.

"I'm pretty sure this company has plenty stories."

"What do you mean by that?" Maddie asks.

"Well, it's just..." He begins pointing amongst the group. "Mysterious healing power. Descendant of vampire hunters. Ancient Greek siren. Super Soldiers in both marble and diamond. Spirit of vengeance. And the two of you seem normal, but I imagine you know more than you're letting on. And as for me..." He hopped down from his perch. "In company like this, experiencing the things we have, I find myself reconsidering the lines between fact and fiction."

"The things you're talking about are usually kept hidden for a reason," Maddie says with a sudden serious the others have rarely seen. "And you're asking us to disclose them to pass the time."

"I think we all deserve to know how deep the rabbit hole goes." Pat looks around at the others. "Tell me you haven't been going over every odd thing that's happened to you - every occurrence you dismissed as a dream - and been asking yourself if they've been real all along. If the legends and stories you were raised on were based in firmer fact than you'd believed."

"I've always known they were true," Mark replies. "I've got plenty of stories from back home."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt for us to know what's out there," Michael adds.

"Well would you look at that?" Roger says with a grin. "Three days of storms, in a villa, with stories of the fantastic. We've set ourselves up as a second Diodati."¹

"What have you truly been thinking about, Mr. Mason?" Anthea asks. Her eyes feel like they are staring directly into Pat's soul.

"When I was younger..." Pat starts. "When I was younger, there was a wolf on the edge of town."

Ullapool, Scotland, 12 March 1923 ²

"Why are we moving all the way out here?" the wee lad asked is mum as the car trundled along the road. Most of their journey had been smooth, but as they got into the depths of the highlands the trail became rife with cracks and pits that Dafni Mason had to carefully navigate around.

"I told you time and again, Pat, your da had to move after getting in that brawl with Shoulders - I mean Donnie." She held tight to her cap as they descended a hill. "Donnie got him fired, but don't worry, he's already got a new job. He's gonna be paving the rest of this road into an official highway! And you'll have plenty of friends your age when you get into school."

"Yeah, don't be such a wuss Patrick," his older sister Helen griped from the front seat balancing their baby sister Katherine on her knee. "You barely had anyone to leave behind in Glasgow."

Their older brother Alexander snorted and momentarily closed the book he'd been reading since they got on the road. "Oh yeah, you left a dozen suitors with their hearts broken back home, didn't ye?"

"Shut it."

"Aye, you're the only one ripped from your best mates, aren't ye?"

"Shut yer pus, Alex!"

"Shut yours!"

"That's enough, both of you!" their mum snapped. "I know we all left stuff back in Glasgow. Christ, it took me plenty long to get along well with the other neighbourhood ladies. But we're gonna look at this as a fresh start, alright? Besides Alex, you'll be back with your mates plenty soon when you go to University like your brother did. And Helen, I'm sure there will be plenty of hearts for you to break in Ullapool."

"And nothing for Patrick, the little eejit."

Mrs. Mason yanked on her daughter's ear. "That's enough of that. You'll never get a husband if you don't act like a lady."

"Fine."

In all honesty, Pat Mason hadn't been complaining when he'd asked the question. He was genuinely curious about what was happening and what their new home would be like. It was true, he didn't have very many friends back in Glasgow since he tended to keep to himself. He wasn't like Helen the social butterfly or Duncan and Alexander the bookworms. He wasn't much of a labourer like his da either, but he did spend plenty of time with him when he'd take the kids on excursions into the wilderness on the edge of town. Patrick liked venturing outside of the city, seeing nature unkempt and unobscured. The move to the Highlands was great for him, then, because there was plenty of nature all around. As they made their way towards their new home, Pat could see rolling fields and the occasional fox or bird. There were plenty of gulls wheeling in the sky as they approached the coast, and as the town came into view he could also spy a decent amount of sheep in the fields.

They pulled up to their house, one of a few small cottages within sight of both the coast and the woods. Nearby sat a building that must be one of the local churches, and Pat could see several other families unloading luggage from automobiles. Some of the homes were still under construction - apparently this small part of the town was meant to house the men coming in to work on the road. As his mother stopped the car in front of the one that would be theirs, a man who had been talking with other women approached them.

"Oh, you must be Mrs. Mason. Welcome!" said the man as the family climbed out. Pat noted the collar on his shirt. "I'm Craig Sinclair," he introduced himself as he shook Pat's mum's hand. "I'm new as well - I was just made the new Minister for the church over there."³

"How young for a Minister," Mrs. Mason commented.

"Ah, well, one you are as devoted to god as I am you tend to climb the ranks quicker than one would expect."

Pat's mum nodded. "Mm-hm. Pleasure to meet you," she replied. "These are my kids. Well, most of them - Duncan's off at school."

"A learned man, how noble. Well let's just hope you're not like some of the other women here." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Some of these 'wives' have a bit too much in common with those American flappers, if you know what I mean." He chuckled. "But I'm getting ahead of myself - I'm sure you and your family are as devout as can be. That's why I came out here, of course - I find the cities are crawling with sinners, and much prefer the piety of smaller communities."

"Right from the start I didn't trust Reverend Craig," Pat says. "He seemed a little too eager to help the women in town with tasks, and sometimes I'd catch him leering at my sister when she wasn't paying attention. He was also a fan of sermons with plenty of...fire and brimstone."

"I'm familiar," Mark replies, and the others nod - they'd all come across the darker side of faith at least once.

Pat continues. "Anyway, the first week staying there was pretty uneventful - we unpacked, da showed up a day later, got to know our neighbours. It was a good town, with good people. But the following Saturday was the first wolf sighting."

17 March, 1923

"Are you sure it wasn't a fox?" Alexander asked.

"I'm telling you, it was a wolf!" Helen snapped. "It was way too big to be a fox. "

"There haven't been wolves in Scotland for over two hundred years," Alexander said in an attempt to calm his sister down.⁴ He'd been reading outside while his sister got to know the town better, but she'd come scurrying back to the house with her wild claims. Pat had been outside as well, helping his mum in planting a few flowers outside their home, and was listening to the conversation.

"They could've been hiding?" he suggested from the patch of dirt he was working on. His siblings looked at him with scowls, but he pressed on. "The Highlands are a big place, and there are still some forests out there." He nodded towards the south of town. "I bet it's hiding in there."

"Unlikely," his brother replied. "They would've been rooted out ages ago, and even if a few hung around there's no way a breeding population could survive."

Pat shrugged. "I don't know. They say there are Moa birds hiding out in New Zealand still."

"And they say there's a gorilla loose in the American wilderness," his mum said with a sigh. "Pat, they're just stories. I'm sure we're plenty safe here. Don't worry."

Pat frowned, but stayed silent. He wanted to see a wolf. He'd only ever seen drawings and blurry photos of them. It would be incredible to see the real thing. As he was getting into bed that night, he asked his father. "Da, you lived here before you met mum. Did you ever see any wolves around?"

His da was tired from the long day's work, but still smiled as he tucked his son in to bed. "There haven't been wolves in Scotland for centuries, laddie. But I but that's what your brother said." Pat nodded. "Ah, well, I'll tell you a secret - sometimes, when the moon is bright and there aren't many people around...they say that sometimes the ghosts of old wolves wander out just to spook anyone who's sneaking out at night." He playfully jabbed at Pat's side with his fingers, making Pat flinch but then giggle. "So as long as you stay behaved I'm sure you won't have to worry, alright? Now sleep well Patrick. Love ye."

Pat waited until his da had gone to bed and all other noises in the house had ceased before he grabbed the torch that he'd hidden underneath his bed and snuck out. He'd heard what his family had to say and had decided that he wanted to find the wolf himself. He was careful not to trip over the rocky ground, and not to shine the light towards any houses - he didn't want to accidentally wake anyone up. Slowly but surely he made his way towards the edge of the woods.

In Glasgow there was plenty of noise, even at this hour. But this far in such a small town the sounds of human civilization were deathly silent - and that made the forest that much noisier. He could hear all manner of creatures within, and even the creaking of trees in the wind sounded greater here than anywhere else. Pat swallowed, trying to tell himself that he was fine and he was brave. He took one step forward, and immediately stopped when he heard growling. He stopped and whirled the flashlight towards the noise, and saw - nothing. There were just trees and bushes, no wolf or even a big fox. Pat frowned and moved closer, as if that would lend clarity to the plants only a few feet away. He was about to push a branch aside when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and yelped in surprise.

"Hush lad!" said the man who'd grabbed him. He was a grizzled old chap, with a bushy red-brown beard and unkempt hair. He held a hand up to his lips and made a "shh" noise. Pat realized he was breathing heavily and made an effort to slow down his heart. Once he had calmed down the man nudged him back towards the town, and neither spoke again until they were away from the woods. "What are you doin' out here lad?"

"I - I was looking for a wolf. My sister saw one and everyone else said that they've been dead here for centuries -"

The man chuckled. "You wanted to prove her right, aye?" Pat nodded. "That's a nice lad. But you best stay inside on nights like these. Those stories about wolves?" He leaned in close. "They're true."

Pat didn't realize he was running back home until he was halfway there, and only stopped when he was about to collide with the door. He caught his breath again, and carefully opened the door to make sure nobody heard him. But as he turned to close it again, he looked back to the trees. He could swear he still saw the grizzled man watching him - and something loping up to his side.

"His name was Ronson Slade," Pat says as the group makes their way to the study for more comfortable seating.⁵ "He lived near the edge of town and most people avoided him. No children, and a wife that was rather poorly and was rarely seen outside of the house. I never told my parents about meeting him, but us kids heard about him eventually anyway. That was Reverend Craig's doing - he made sure the town knew that any strangers like him weren't to be trusted." Pat sighs. "It got even worse the next week."

25 March 1923

"My sheep!" the farmer screamed as he ran through town in a fury. "Something's slaughtered my sheep!"

There was no calming him down, and soon everyone who was on their way to church had been drawn back in the direction of his farm to witness the gruesome scene. Plenty of his sheep were fine, but they huddled terrified in one corner of the field while the corpses of three or four were strewn across the rest - and the fact that, to this day, Pat cannot tell how many there were is a testament to the depravity.

"Is it an animal attack?"

"Why would a creature kill for sport?"

"No human could do this!"

"No fox could either!"

Pat had to turn away eventually, but he did see that there seemed to be less...flesh than if they had simply been killed. Whatever had taken the sheep, it was eating them. But he also didn't know whether he should say something, or who he should say it to.

At some point the murmuring crowd parted and Reverend Craig emerged. He took one look at the scene and gasped, then turned to the crowd. "You see?" he cried out. "This is what sin has wrought upon this wretched earth!" He climbed atop an overturned crate to gain more height on the people. "I fled to this town to escape the growing debauchery of the city, as did plenty of our new neighbours! But it seems that those sins have followed us!"

Pat's da held him close, not wanting him to wander off as the crowd began to join Craig's fervour.

"We have prayed for salvation, but clearly we are to be punished first! God has not seen fit to give us mercy, and instead sends the hounds of hell after us. You!" He pointed sharply at Helen, who startled. "You claim you saw a wolf upon the heath just yesterday, did you not?"

Helen looked around in a panic. "I - w-well, maybe, but it - it could've been a big fox -"

"Bah! Foxes to chickens as wolves to sheep, and I will not stand for our flocks to be slaughtered in such disgraceful manner!" He looked out to the crowd, who had grown as angry as he did. "Men! Gather your weapons. The road can wait - we must slay this beast before it slays us!"

The crowd cheered, and Pat's da looked grim.

"All day they scoured the town and the surrounding woods for the wolf, but they didn't find anything. It only took a few hours for the search party to dwindle into only a dozen men. Alexander called it for what it was - a bunch of panicking men who wanted to kill something that wasn't there."

"But you said there was a wolf," Edith comments.

"Aye. But they didn't find her - she found me."

That night, Pat was looking out his window. Despite the mob's failure, they were still out there - Pat had seen them pull out the electric torches at sundown and now their waving lights in the darkness made them easy to spot. Their calls for the wolf's head echoed through the town and made it hard to sleep. Well, hard for Pat to sleep - the rest of his family were once again asleep without him.

A clattering from the shed drew his attention. The words of Ronson Slade rang in his ears - "Those stories about wolves? They're true." But Pat couldn't help but be curious. Odds are it wasn't really a wolf, and just some scared animal, but either way he didn't want it messing up their stuff - or getting scared by the mob. He took his torch (he never returned it after the night he snuck out) and made his way outside to the shed. The door was ajar, and he could hear something rustling around inside. Slowly, carefully, Pat nudged it open with the torch and peered inside.

The wolf stared back.

Pat shuddered and fell over backwards as he tried to move away, tripping over his own feet. He scrambled up to a seated position, but the wolf didn't move. It just kept staring at him, not even growling. It's eyes - they didn't seem cold or evil like the people hunting it had said. They almost looked human.

"H-Hello?" Pat asked carefully, even though he knew the wolf wouldn't understand anything. It regarded him with as much caution as he did it, and after what felt like hours it slowly took a step forward. This was a mistake, clearly, as it quickly stumbled forward. It's front leg reared up, and Pat saw as it whimpered that it had been injured. "Oh no, you're hurt." Disregarding all safety, Pat entered the shed and walked right past the beast towards the shelf. There was some cloth there, which he tore a few strips off of and approached the wolf carefully. "You need to stay still."

The wolf growled briefly as he approached, which made him pause, but eventually it lay down on it's side. He could see now that the creature was exhausted - if the mob outside really had been on it's trail then it must've been on the run all day. Poor thing. He gingerly lifted the paw up. "Did they get you?" he asked. "Sorry about that. This is a nice town, but Reverend Craig...he seems pretty quick to judge." He tied the strips around the wound on the paw, a clear shot through. "At least I don't have to get the bullet out." The wolf whimpered as he tightened the dressing. "Sorry. But you should be okay. Maybe stick to rabbits from now on."

"Thank you."

Pat jumped back, eyes wide as he thought he heard the wolf speak to him. It looked up at him warmly, and carefully set the paw down. It still winced, but it clearly felt better not having an open wound hitting the ground. It bowed it's head, then loped off into the night.

"I've never told anyone about that," Pat admits. "And I've always thought I imagined it."

"Did you ever see the wolf again?" Anthea asks.

"I didn't think I did, but now I'm pretty sure I saw her one last time."

17 April 1923

No wolf had been found by anyone, and Reverend Craig still claimed it was the work of the town's righteous and pious congregation that kept the beast at bay. Despite this, rumours of the beast became more frequent and patrols grew with them. A few more sheep were taken, and one family cat. Pat could only watch from the sidelines, wishing the wolf had listened to his advice, but of course it was a wolf and didn't know any better. Right?

He still attended church on Sundays with the rest of his family, but he tended to tune out the minister whenever he could, but unfortunately some people in town where very taken with him. And Ronson Slade had been spotted in town the other day. He did nothing special, only purchasing a few groceries and some medicine for his wife, and he barely spoke to anyone. Still, it casued quite a stir, and Craig didn't like it one bit. The next day he preached about sheep straying from the flock and laying with wolves, and that those who do not serve the community must surely be enemies of it, which is why the good Christian souls must work together to protect themselves in the name of God. Most people knew exactly who had inspired such ravings, and some of them decided to take action into their own hands.

On this day, Pat was walking home from school when he heard a commotion in the distance. He looked out and saw some of the older boys making their way towards Ronson's home, calling for him to "come on out!" Pat didn't know what their plan was, but he decided to creep behind them just in case.

When they got to the houe they started throwing rocks at the door. "Come out you freak!" "I bet you're the one who keeps bringing the wolf back!" "Yeah, or your freak wife!" Pat hid behind a small bush as they continued to hurl insults towards, balling his little hands into fists. Eventually the door swung open and Ronson caught one of the rocks before it could hit him.

"What're you doin' you little brats!" he snarled. "Can't you just leave us be!"

"Get out of here heathen!" one of the boys shouted back. "We don't want your kind bringing your sin into this town!" He picked up another rock, much bigger than the others, and prepared to lob it when someone else smacked him in the back of the head.

"Leave them alone!" Pat shouted in the boys face.

"Or what?!" the older boy said with a smirk - a smirk immediately smashed off his face as Pat sent a fury-driven right hook right into the other boy's jaw. He went down, and before his cohorts could react Pat had launched himself at another one and began pelting him with blows left and right. He kept hitting until he felt a bigger pair of hands pull him off, and all three boys stumbled away to look at Pat and Ronson in horror.

"Get out of here, or I'll let him bet you more!" Ronson screamed, and the boys fled.

Pat was panting something fierce, and when he set Pat back down the little boy turned back to face him. "Why'd you let them get away with it! They'll just tell Reverend Craig and get you in more trouble."

"Aye, but you beating them like that'll keep them from cryin' wolf for long." He chuckled. "Thanks lad. You've got a lot of fight in you, but don't go wastin' it on us. We're just trying to get by, we're not worth the trouble."

"Ronson?" came a shaky voice from the doorway. Pat and Ronson both looked to see a woman standing in dirty white robes and wild red hair, looking at them in distress. "It's - it's -"

Ronson got up and went to his wife, gently holding her hands. "It's alright Abigail. You're home, you're alright, the sun's still shining."

"It's - it's the - it's -" she stuttered, trying to get her words out, but it was like her mind couldn't latch on to anything firmly enough to speak it. Ronson kept caressing her face and talking softly, only briefly turning back to Pat. "Go home, Patrick."

Pat hesitated, waiting to make sure the two were back in their home safely before he moved an inch. Only then did he walk back home. He saw one of the boys from earlier on the way, and one shake of his fist sent that boy back in the direction he came from. When his mum and da saw him he said that he'd tripped on his way home, but he was fine, and they shouldn't worry.

"The thing is..." Pat clasps one of his hands in the other. "When I saw Ronson's wife, she had a bandage around her hand. The same one the wolf did, and made of brown cloth rather than any proper dressing."

"You think she was the wolf?" Roger asks.

"I know it's a stretch, but...well, her voice sounded a lot like the wolf's did." Pat chuckles. "Or maybe my memory of that time is all jumbled up and I'm connecting things that have nothing to do with each other. Still, there were plenty of wolf sightings around town for several years, but the last one happened a few weeks Abigail eventually passed away."

"What about Ronson?" Mark asks.

"He went deeper in the woods. When they started clear cutting the forest to make supplies for the war effort, they found him in a cottage he'd built himself alongside a young girl. Helen says her name's Mary, and she goes to the same school that my nephews do."

"Well, I suppose that's a bit of a happy ending," Michael says. "Werewolves, hmm?"

"Well, not necessarily. The sightings didn't always line up with the full moon," Pat clarified.

"There are plenty of other cultures with lycanthropic tales," Robby declares as he stands up to stretch. "And I'm sure the truth gets mixed up somewhere between legend and fact. Excellent tale though." There are murmurs of agreement. "Alright, what do we think - should I go next or should we break for lunch first?"

"Let's take a break," Maddie says. "And besides, we should take stock of how much food we have - I'm sure at some point we'll have to venture into the storm to get some supplies. Here's hoping some stores managed to stay open...and the we'll have to draw straws on who wants to go out there and get them, unless anyone can volunteer."

Robby smiles cockily. "I'm sure I can handle it, love. Gower - you think you can drive in this storm?"

"Let's find out," Emily responds in kind. "But lunch first, then your story so you're not exhausted."

22 November 1960

"What are you doing here?!" Reverend Craig snaps at the young woman standing in front of his door.

"Please," Mary begs, "you child is coming and -"

"That thing is not my child," the Reverend snaps. "I had a lapse in faith when I laid with you, and you'd best keep that information private if you know what's best for you."

Mary's tears are lost in the rain coming down. "It hurts - please, at least let me make peace with God...I don't think I'll be long for the world once the child arrives."

"You would be lucky if God found mercy on you. You're the spawn of a beast and a heathen, and if I'd known that I would have chased you out of this town long ago." He's about to slam the door in her face when Mary suddenly collapses in agony on the steps of the church. As much as he does not wish to be associated with her, he knows it would look even worse if a pregnant woman died at his doorstep. "Fine, get up. Get up!" He wrenches her from the ground and half leads, half drags her towards the new doctor's office. "MacTaggert is still moving in, but I'm sure the woman can deliver someone else's child."

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 9 April 1943

Lunch is sandwiches and oranges that are probably on their last day before turning. There's enough food in the pantry to last them another day, but they'll need to top it off sooner rather than later, which means Robby and Emily will be venturing into the storm after all. Still, there's time enough for Robby to tell his story - and judging by the smirk on his face as they reconvene in the study, it's something he's eager to share.

"You have to understand," he begins, "this is one of those things that we're not ever supposed to share with people not involved in the operation." At this he cracks a grin. "But I suppose we're our own special operation now, aren't we? Setting Fidonisi ablaze and all that." He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and fumbles around for a lighter before Mark leans over and snaps a small flame in his fingers. Robby obliges and takes a drag before beginning.

"Some of you may know that I was formerly part of the Long Range Desert Group.¹ Two years or so ago we were stationed in the Western Desert - really more of a northern desert if you bother looking at a map - and our work was to keep the Italians out of the area. Specifically we did reconnaissance of Kufra and Uweinat, taking out any Italian convoys we spotted. Eventually they got booted out of the region, but just when we thought the area was in the clear, the Afrika Korps showed up - and with a contingent from HYDRA in tow as well. I was stationed at Taiserbo with the rest of R Patrol. It was Captain Donald Steele, our medic Thomas Lovejoy, Jake Easonsmith from artillery, and Roger Dicken and myself as infantry."²³

Tazerbu, Libya, 14 April 1941

"Here comes Fritz now," Robby commented, the cloud of dust giving way to a pair of vehicles in the sights of his binoculars. "So much for them focusing on Kufra. Should we give him a welcome shot?"

"That's a negative, Robert," replied Captain Steele. "The last thing we need is letting them know we're here with a risky shot. Wait until they're in better range, then we can say hello."

"Aye aye, sir." Robby did as he was told and gave Easonsmith no signal to fire. Instead he waited, carefully holding his breath as a car and truck drew near. The swasitka-over-palm insignia of the Afrika Korps was visible on one of the trucks. The other had a standard swastika, as well as what looked like a skull with tentacles. "Ugh. Those HYDRA squints are with them too."

"The mad scientists?" Lovejoy asked.

"The very same, Tommy my boy, the very same," Easonsmith replied has he lined up a shot with his turret - still waiting for the signal to fire.

"I heard they tried to make a super-adhesive and suffocated half their base," commented Dicken.

"I heard they made a suit of armour that could be fired like a bullet, and after the first test round the guy inside was liquefied," Lovejoy added, chuckling at the grisly image.

"Focus, gentlemen," Robby stated to get their attention back. "They're almost here."

""Right-o, Frank." Easonsmith refocused his weapon. "Ready when you are."

Robby held his hand up and then, after a moment, swiped it down. "Now!"

*crack*

The spray of bullets tore past them and into the small convoy, popping tires and smashing through the window of the lead truck. The driver must've been hit, as it started to awkwardly turn as the body hit the wheel. The one behind it crashed into it, and while the two skidded down the road, R patrol leapt into action. Robert, Easonsmith, and Dicken ran forward to unload on them while Steele and Lovejoy kept their foes at bay with sniper rounds. The Germans fired back, but there was enough scattered bush and boulders to provide cover as Robert's group closed the distance. Dicken and Robert ducked behind a sizeable one to reload. "They're not putting up much of a fight!" Dicken called out. He poked his head up for another shot and let out a strangled gasp as Robert saw a spurt of blood and bone erupt from the back of the man's head. "Piss!" Robert snapped through gritted teeth, trying not to focus too hard on the sight of his friend's fresh corpse next to him, blood still gushing from the hole in the middle of his face. Instead he focused on the villains at hand, firing at anything he saw moving until there was a decent pile of HYDRA bodies next to the twisted cars.

After five minutes of silence from the other party, R Patrol determined it was safe enough to examine closer. "Oh god, they got Roger," Lovejoy choked out when he saw the body.

"We'll have time to mourn when we know we're safe, Tommy," Steele urged as they continued towards the vehicles. The Afrika Korps one had gone up in flames near the end of the firefight - a round must've hit the gas tank during the firefight. The HYDRA truck was mostly in one peace, though. "Careful, there could be survivors in the back."

Lovejoy nodded and prepared to open the door while the other three readied their weapons. He looked at them and silently counted down before wrenching the back door open. A body lunged towards them and they all fired a shot at it before Lovejoy called out. "Wait!" he knelt down to examine the person who'd appeared and soon all four of them realized that he hadn't lunged, but fallen out as soon as the door was open - and had been dead a while before then.

"Bloody hell..." Robby said as he looked at the body. This man didn't die from the crash or bullets or even smoke inhalation - not even a cyanide pill. No, this man's body looked grotesquely swollen. His hands and face were covered in welts and bruises, and the bulges pressing against his uniform from within pointed to even more damage.

Lovejoy rested a hand against the body. "It's still warm - he must've died during the fight, but sure as hell not from us." He looked closer, then began carefully scratching against the man's face.

"Eugh, what are you doing now?" Easonsmith whined.

"Hang on love, I think - aha!" Lovejoy plucked something from the face and held it up to the light. "It's a stinger."

"From a bee?" Steele asked. As Lovejoy continued his examination, Robert peered into the truck and now saw the floor was positively littered with the scrunched up bodies of dead bees.

"Bees?" Roger asks doubtfully.

"Yes, bees."

"Bees?" Edith repeats for emphasis. "Your HYDRA man was killed by bees."

"That's where the evidence pointed. But trust me, there's plenty more to this story." Robert takes another puff before continuing. "After we took some time to ensure Dicken would get a proper burial, we sent word of what we'd found to command. We didn't think much of it after that - figured they were trying to smuggle some African bees back home for some reason and it went pear-shaped for them. But a few months later a certain young lady exposed a certain smuggling ring."

Emily wants to feel proud when Robby nods in her direction, but that whole experience still weighed heavily on her. She smiled outwardly, but inside she was trying not to think too hard about the police bearing down on them and the frantic dash to get out of the city before she lost everything. She feels Edith give her hand a squeeze, and she can tell it's understand of every emotion she's going through at the time.

Robby continues, either not clocking Emily's discomfort or not wanting to drag it out into the open. "Turns out we weren't entirely off. That operation trying to get vibranium and the herbs out of Wakanda for HYDRA was apparently bringing bees as well. But I shouldn't get ahead of myself - I didn't hear all the gory details until I was on leave in London that year."

The Eagle and Child, Oxford, England, 4 November 1941⁴

"Still can't believe he's gone," Robby murmured into his drink.

Maddie gazed listlessly out the window. "I know. And with Edith in the wind and Roger out to sea, it really feels like it's just the two of us."

"We'll never be able to call us the Oxford Five again," Robby sighed. "That's six friends I've lost in as many months."

"Some might count you lucky," Maddie replied. She was trying to soften the blow, but then she saw how her husband's brow screwed up.

"I know. I do, I do. It's just...well. You hear about people who've lost so much it all blends together, and I can't help but wish for that instead of getting a few weeks of victory before another bullet reminds me that we're still one wrong move away from the grave."

Maddie gripped his wrist. "Well, at least this time around we're on leave together."

Robby nods his head. "Thank God for that. I'm sure I'd go stir crazy without you - all I'd do is read bawdy novels in the flat." He raised his glass to take another drink, but his attention was drawn by a pair of voices escalating in volume, rapt in a passionate debate - something about elves and space and God and Shakespeare. "You know sometimes I considered becoming a writer, but then I see Clive and Johnny go at it and wonder if it's worth the investment."

"They seem to be doing well. You know they both got published, right?'

"Really?" Robby asked with surprise. "Johnny with his children's book?"

"And Clive with his spacemen. I read that one - partly to get my mind adjusted to the things the SOE has me dealing with. Still, I quite enjoyed it." She took a sip of her own drink. "Of course, the idea of Earth being cut off from the rest of the cosmos certainly resonates in days like this."⁵ She sighed. "Some of the things I have to look into just to stay ahead of the Reich - and now HYDRA - grim things. Dissolving flesh, killer bees, random hypertrophy -"

"What was that?" Robby asked, suddenly intensely interested.

"Hypertrophy, muscle growth. Another one of their super-strength experiments. Man was suffocated by his own pectorals."

"No, the killer bees." Robby looked to make sure no one was paying close attention. The other patrons were either focused on their own conversations or trying to determine the contents of John and Clive's. Satisfied, he continued. "Six months ago in Libya we took down a small HYDRA truck. It was carrying a bunch of bees, but during the firefight they got out and killed one of the men in the back."

"Allergic reaction?"

"Maybe, but he was covered in stingers Maddie. Like they all stuck him before he had the chance to die. Tommy couldn't say anything for sure, but he said he wouldn't be surprised if the man had been stung enough times to die before he even had the chance for an allergic reaction."

Maddie frowned, then grabbed her bag and stood up. "Come with me. You'll want to see this."

Half an hour later they'd reached the office she was working out of, and Maddy was searching for a file. "Here it is!" She pulled it out and handed it to him. "This was Bova Ayrshire, one of our contacts in Sokovia - we found her like this." Robby flipped it open - most of it had been redacted, but there was a picture of a body in it - a body just as swollen as the HYDRA man he'd seen in Libya. "Look familiar?"

"Intimately."

Maddie nodded. "Halloway and I might have a job for you."

"Early on in the SOE we found that Germany liked deploying all sorts of weird bollocks in places where they thought nobody was paying attention - hence the werewolf who went after Michael and Emily, and probably how our Kenneth got his fangs after a tryst near Romania." Maddy snubs her cigarette and takes another. "Of course we didn't know how peculiar things were getting at the time, but my unit had a growing understanding that not everything fell exactly in line with the sciences we'd grown to understand."

"You have a background in law, is that correct Frank?" Halloway asked after meeting with the two of them in their flat.

"That's correct sir," Robby replied diligently. "Was planning on joining a practice until everything broke out."

"Good, we can use that. I have Madeline drawing up some documents now. I want you to get to London and find the unredacted reports they've got in the MI-6 offices about Miss Ayrshire and your dead HYDRA soldier."

"MI-6?" Robby asked. "I thought this was an SOE operation."

"It is, so naturally MI-6 is breathing down our necks and trying to control everything we do." Halloway rolled his eyes. "If you though the posturing and bickering between the Balkans' own governments was bad, you should hear some of the things I have when dealing with our own. Churchill may have wanted Europe to be set ablaze, but some people are dead set on following behind us with a fire hose."

Madeline came in from the study with a fresh sheaf of papers. "Here we go. No time to set up a false identity due to the time constraints, so you'll be there under your own name. Not that you'd be able to remember a cover anyway."

"You wound me," Robby snarked as he took the papers with a grin.

"Better your wife than whatever the Germans are cooking up," Halloway comments dryly.

"Anyways, you'll be arriving from the legal department in order to ensure nothing compromising about Miss Ayrshire's death can be leaked, as her family are inquiring about the nature of her passing. Based on how their filing works you should be able to access the HYDRA man's file as well. See if there are any connections between the two of them, and help us follow that lead." She handed him another slip of paper. "This note should get you in without any hassle - it's a joint approval letter from all relevant chiefs of whatever divisions will stop people from asking questions."

"If you are caught, the Special Operations Executive will disavow any knowledge of your actions," Halloway said firmly.

"Naturally," Robby said as he looked over the documents Maddie had made. "I think we'll be alright. I know my way around the office as much as I do the desert. Shouldn't be any issues, and if there are I'll just use my natural charm."

Halloway raised an eyebrow at the comment, but chose not to follow up on it - he preferred plausible deniability when it came to the topic of his agents' proclivities.

54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 5 November 1941⁶

Robby adjusted his tie as he entered the nondescript office. By all appearances it looked like a regular business, with plain walls and a bored-looking secretary at the front desk. He walked up to her and gave her his best smile (they were all his best smile). "Good morning, miss. My name's Robert Frank, and I was hoping I could get an appointment with your filing department."

The secretary looked up at him without a single emotion. "I don't believe we have anyone by that name on our appointments list today."

"That sounds correct - it was a last minute thing, but I assure you I have permission." He slid the letter over to her, and the woman deftly picked it up and unfolded it, quickly reading it over. She cocked an eyebrow. "One moment please." She dialed a number on her desk phone and turned away from him, speaking in a hushed tone. After a moment she hung up and looked back to him. "Very well. I suppose we are expecting you, Mr. Frank." She stood up and opened the door on her left. "This way sir. Stay close."

Behind the door was controlled chaos. Phones were ringing from every direction, and many men ran back and forth between offices and open conference rooms, racing to beat whatever various clocks were in play at the time. The secretary paid them no mind and led him to the end of the corridor, where another man was there to greet them.

"Ah, Mr. Frank! I heard you were over in Africa!" the man said as he shook Robby's hand enthusiastically. "Alfred O'Meagan, MI-6. My friends call me Alfie."

"Robert Frank, MI-6 as well. Recently - just transferred over to their legal department from the LRDG."

"Bully, just bully," Alfred said, casually dismissing the secretary. "I hear you're trying to help the SOE clean up their mess?"

"Looks like it."

Alfred began unlocking the door behind him. "Not surprised. I hear it's quite a fiasco on their end. Too many women, if you ask me."

"Hmm," Robby said in barely-concealed contempt. It wasn't exactly an uncommon perspective from men in the intelligence service, but that didn't mean it couldn't rub him the wrong way.

"Anyways, all the filing is in here - technically I'm supposed to supervise you, but since you're obviously on the same side I don't see why you'd need a nanny. Plenty going on here besides." He swung the door open and flicked a switch to illuminate a room filled with filing cabinets. "Now I'm sure you don't need a nanny, but protocol states that I supervise you while you check the files."

"Of course," Robby said as he followed the man in. "I shouldn't be more than two shakes anyway."

Alfred led him through the room, eventually stopping in front of one cabinet in particular. "Here we are - SOE Casualties. Basically any death related to them - or anything 'weird'." He snorted. "We're trying to win a war and Churchill has an entire section chasing boogeymen." He flung the door open for Robby.

Robby nodded as he began rifling through them. "It certainly sounds like hogwash, but it's good for us to stay on our toes - how many things would've been called boogeymen before science explained them these days?" He locked eyes with the other man. "The last thing we need is a Nazi plot being dismissed as a hoax until it's too late."

Alfred paled a little bit. "You really think so?"

Robby found the file on Miss Ayrshire, but didn't react. Instead he started laying on the charm. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing, though. Just tying up loose ends. Pretty soon we'll all be back home with our wives, aye?"

Alfred chuckled. "Not for me I'm afraid. Not yet at least."

Robby grinned and, out of the corner of his eye, spotted a file titled "HYDRA John Doe". He needed to keep Alfred talking. "Well, don't count yourself out yet. Dashing hero like you will surely have all the ladies fawning over you." He nodded towards the door. "That secretary will definitely know how much of a war hero you are."

Alfred turned to look whistfully out the door, and in that moment Robby snatched the file and stuffed it into his coat. In the same motion he whipped out the Ayrshire file and took a look at it. "She certainly seems...taken by me," Alfred mused.

Taken aback, more like it. "My thoughts exactly, mate. You should ask her to lunch some time." He was scanning over the file, taking in everything he could. Satisfied, he folded it back up. "I think we're good here."

"Already?"

"Quite! The family knows all the info they need to and more, and none of it can be traced back to us." Robby slid the door shut. "It's all tickety-boo."

"Good to hear. You're alright to see yourself out?"

"I'm sure I can find my way back."

The file on the HYDRA agent firmly in his coat and Alfred none the wiser, Robby made a beeline to the exit, only stopping at the front desk to speak with the secretary. "May I give you a piece of advice miss?"

The woman looked at him with judgmental eyes. "Oh sir, I'd absolutely love to hear some."

"Don't ever feel like you have to say 'yes' to a man, no matter how superior to you he acts." He leaned in close. "And if he really pushes it, give him a good sock on the jaw to hammer the point home."

The secretary actually cracked a smile. "Well Mr. Frank, I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Robby nodded and left them all none the wiser.

Anthea examines her nails with a bored expression. "Mr. Frank, you've lead me to believe that this story at some point contained supernatural bees of some manner and I am quite disappointed. So far all I've gleaned is that you think quite highly of your espionage exploits."

A chuckle ripples through the others, and even Maddy has to giggle. Robby frowns. "Oh come off, I'm almost at the good part! I'll speed through it as best I can - basically, I memorized everything that was in Miss Ayrshire's file and was able to double-check it against what I'd found in the HYDRA soldier's and what we'd recovered from Emily's mission. That's when I spotted the note about the bees - an assignment given to the soldiers on behalf of F.v.M. I had no idea what that was until I recalled that Ayshire was the secretary to a scientist at Oxford - Doctor Arnold Bocklin. The man had a highly exclusive Entomology course, and students from across Europe vied to be part of it. I had a hunch, a small one, but it was the only lead I had. I got on the train as soon as I could and raced back to Oxford."

"And you never told me until after," Maddie snarks.

"That's true! Sorry love," Robby admits sheepishly. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Are you really surprised?" Edith has to ask, looking at her old friend with familiar humour.

Maddie sighs. "Not exactly, just disappointed."

"Regardless, I raced to the Oxford library to find old class legers. Sure enough, one of Dr. Bocklin's students from just before the war began had those initials - Fritz von Meyer. Certain that this was the man, I tracked down the Doctor's address and paid him a visit.

Oxford, England, 5 November 1941

It was a stupid lead. Barely circumstantial. But Robby was champing at the bit to solve it. He needed to - well, what exactly was it that he needed?

He needed to see his friends again. He needed to hear Dicken giving dramatic readings of the battered Biggles novel he'd brought with him. He needed to hug Michael and Edith and assure them they'd be okay. He needed to sing another sea shanty with the old vet that rotated into R Patrol and bled out the day after, or wink at the cute nurse he'd seen at the base before an unexpected shelling sent her to kingdom come. He needed all that or - or he needed to put each of them out of his mind. Shove it all down and bite his lip, focus on the task at hand until he forgot about the dam over his heart. Because if he thought too hard about any one of them that dam would break and he would too, crumble to dust like too many other good men. If this war didn't kill him it'd drive him mad, and if it didn't do that it would be because he was a good soldier who only had feelings when it was convenient.

He was shaken from his spiralling thoughts by a strange sound - buzzing. He'd arrived outside the building that held Brocklin's living quarters and private laboratory, a brick and mortar building that only showed signs of life by the flowers growing out of a box on the windowsill. Even though the wind was picking up and the occasional snowflake fluttered past his eyes, the flowers seemed lively, but more importantly was the tiny bee that buzzed from one blossom to another. In fact, the whole house radiated with just a little bit more heat than the surrounding area. Robby smiled - maybe he wasn't so far off after all - then steeled himself as the door opened a crack.

"Who's there?" came a weathered voice from within.

"My name is Robert Frank? I was a student at Oxford a few years back and I'm trying to track down one of my old friends- Fritz von Meyer?"

An old man's face appeared in the doorway. "Fritz? Oh, the German lad. Don't know why you'd want to find him - if he hasn't fallen in with the Nazis he's likely hiding from them."

"Still, I was wondering if you'd know anything?" Robby pressed.

"Why would I know anything?" The doctor asked. "I haven't - well, it's quite cold out. Why don't you come in for some tea?"

The door opened wider and Robby entered. He had just enough time to take in the increased temperature and large glass cylinder in the centre of the study before he heard a gun cock and the door lock behind him. "Don't move a muscle, herr Frank," said a german-accented voice behind him. "Or is it Agent? Not zat it matters which organization you're part of - you won't be reporting to anybody soon."

"Mr. von Meyer, I presume?"

"It's Professor now, but da." Robby felt the cold steel nudge him in the back of the head. "Please, take a seat. You as well, herr doktor."

Robby and Doctor Brocklin each sat in chairs pulled out from the table. "Sorry about all this," Doctor Brocklin said with a surprising amount of congeniality. "I was trying to shoo you off, but I guess Fritz had other plans."

"What exactly are those plans?" Robby asked. "I'm guessing it has something to do with bees?"

Fritz smiled. "Astute observation - one a toddler could make." He gazed lovingly at the cylinder, and as Robby peered over he could see now that there was a swarm of bees contained within. "You let one of my swarms get out, but HYDRA has plenty of heads. It was not difficult to bring zem here, and ze good doktor had plenty of equipment here for me to set up my experiments." Fritz pulled a seat out from the table and sat across from the two of them, gun staying trained on them the entire time. "Do you know that African bees are far more aggressive zan zeir European counterparts? I've studied zem. A European bee will only sting as a last resort, but an African one? It will sting ze moment it senses danger. You've seen firsthand ze damage an entire swarm can do when zey are disturbed. And when I realized zis, I hypothesized zat ze Wakandan variety would be even stronger, as are most zings zat seem to find zeir way out of ze region. Imagine ze possibilities when we crossbreed them - ze power of ze African brood matched to ze submissiveness of ze European.⁷ An entire hive dedicated to fulfilling ze goals of a great man."

"You've created fascist bees," Robby stated matter-of-factly. "My god."

"I've created master bees for ze master race!" Fritz snapped back. "Ze perfect biological weapon to wipe out lesser races before zey even realize what is happening."

"Is that why you killed Miss Ayrshire?" Doctor Brocklin nervously.

"She made ze wrong choice!" Fritz shouted as he slammed his hand on the table. "She was a Jew by marriage, not birth, and I told her I could save her from zat cruel religion. Instead she insisted on returning to her country of degenerates. Me and my swarm paid her a visit and...well, I'm sure herr Frank can tell you what happened next."

Robby narrowed his gaze at von Meyer. "So that's it then? You'll have your swarm kill me and Doctor Brocklin, then take your bees to Germany so they can be mass produced for the Reich?"

"Essentially."

"And what's to stop them from killing you too? You're just an ordinary man," Robby scoffed.

"Obviously I'll just be shooting you here. I wouldn't want to waste all zese potent specimens before we get back to Germany."

Robby nodded. "I guess you've thought of everything...except for that fact that I obviously didn't come here without backup."

Fritz smirked. "Please, herr Frank. If you had backup zey would have come in ze moment you were pulled inside."

"Unless of course they were lulling you into a false sense of security so they could come in through the window right about...now."

Fritz's smile faltered as he whirled towards the window, which was exactly the distraction Robby needed to flip the table towards him. The block of wood slammed into Fritz' hand and hit his trigger reflex, and the *BANG* of the bullet was impossibly loud at such close range, and the only reason it didn't hit Robby was the table's own thickness killing it's momentum. But Fritz wasn't going down without a fight, rolling to the side to fire another round. Robby dove out of the way, and the bullet nearly hit the cylinder. The two soldiers stood face to face and Robby grabbed for the gun, resulting in the two of them struggling back and forth over it while trying not to get shot themselves. But Fritz was outmatched by Robby physically, and soon the Brit was able to wrest the gun from the man's grasp. He clubbed Fritz in the face with it, then kicked him in the torso hard enough to make him stumble into the glass cylinder - and shatter it.

Fritz was shaken, but still standing. He touched his face and felt the many cuts across it and his arms begin to leak blood. "You zink you can stop zis? It is only the - argh!" He clutched his arm in pain, and both he and Robby saw a bee at his wound. Not stinging - biting. Then another joined in, and another, and others burrowing into the open gashes across the man's body. "No! Nooo!" Fritz screamed in agony. "Stop - stop! Help me! I am your master!"

"Sorry Fritz, but you're just another threat to them," Robby said as he watched in terror as the rest of the hive swarmed over the Nazi. Fritz's screamed were drowned out by the rampant buzzing, and the only thing that convinced Robby to tear his gaze away was the realization that if these bees could kill without stinging, he and the Doctor were likely next on the menu. "Doc, we better get out of here!"

"I have a better idea!" Brocklin replied. He was standing next to a boiler and twisted the nob down, stopping the heat from permeating the house. "I keep this heating system going so I may study my insects all year round, but I suppose our lives are a tad more important." The two watched as the bees covering Fritz' body inside and out began to slow, then slump off of him. The reamins of the body were even worse than the two who died by stinging - a pulpy mess of flesh and skin torn apart and half-picked clean. "Poor things. Sure they were bloodthirsty, but it wasn't their fault - they were just following instinct."

"Still, better him than us," Robby replied.

"After that the SOE showed up and helped us clear everything out," Robby concludes. "Rather gruesome, but I guess we've come to expect such a thing from HYDRA now, aye?"

There's a moment of silence before Mark pipes up. "That was it though? Just a man eaten by bees?"

"Just a - well how often do you see a man eaten by bees?" Robby replies in bewilderment.

Mark shrugs. "I'm just saying, I've seen worse things come out of a wasp nest back home. Those are the ones you should look out for."

Robby scoffs at this. "Well, I think you should all be thanking me for stopping a deadly bee weapon from being unleashed on us all."

"Well it certainly sounds like the nazi scientest was a nasty piece of work," Emily says as she stands up. "Still, we should see if the storm's let up enough for us to go outside Robby. The last thing we need is to be starving while you try and think of another bee story."

The group chuckles again as they take a break from storytelling to engage in their own hobbies. Robby looks at Maddy dejectedly. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?" he asks.

Maddie pats him on the shoulder. "No dear, I'm afraid not."

Leros Island, Aegean Sea, 15 November 1943

Jake Easonsmith is hunkered down behind the wall of an abandoned house. He was just supposed to be doing a simple reconnaissance of the village, but the Germans had gotten there first and now he's all alone, pinned down by an enemy sniper. It's alright though - just like all those times they got the drop on them back in Libya, all he has to do is wait it out and make a run for it. The sniper will tire out at some point, or have to reload, and that will be Jake's chance.

Several minutes of silence go by. They feel like an eternity. Jake takes a chance to peer out the window he's under - he's in luck. The sniper's head is just visible enough. It's a tricky shot, but Jake can make it. He takes careful aim and pulls the trigger, and the moment he sees blood spurt from the enemy's head he bolts back towards his base. He's hoping he can make it back before more Nazis arrive on the scene when he feels a burning pain in his hand. It's not a bullet wound, it's a - a bee sting. "What?" he mutters in confusion as he scratches at it, then whirls his head to the side when he hears nearby buzzing. It's one - no, three - no, he suddenly realizes a whole swarm of bees bearing towards him. He has no idea where they came from or why they're coming at him, but he does his best to swipe them off and slap them at the same time they continusouly sting at him. He's trying to keep running home and not panic, but he can't help but to flash back to the HYDRA soldier he and the other boys saw all those years ago.

There was another sniper, and Jake's buffeted figure is right out in the open. It's the easiest shot the Nazi ever makes, and Jake collapses dead in the middle of the village. The bees disperse, not that the sniper ever notices.

Another Nazi does, though. Lurking in the shadows, purple cloak pulled around his dessicated body, he grins with his remaining lips as the insects return to him.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 9 April 1943

The storm was a pain.

Emily curses under her breath as she powers down the street - she'd swear louder but she doesn't want a torrent of sand to fly down her throat for doing so. She's driven in harsh weather in the country before, but this was fucking preposterous. The amount of dust scraping against their car sounds like a hundred screams, and visibility is essentially silhouettes. But judging by the glimpses of people and other vehicles making their way through the streets, this is a lull compared to the rest of the day.

After an eternity they reach the nearest souk, which is already packed tightly with other people trying to stock up for the next few days. "We're only taking what we need," Emily comments as they quick start gathering supplies and falling in line. A women trying to wrangle a bawling newborn is right in front of them, a small boy by her side holding a large crate filled with dried meat, cheese, and vegetables. When they reach the front counter the woman begins frantically searching herself for money, and Emily taps her on the shoulder. "Here," she says as she hands over a handful of pounds. "We already have enough."

"Shokran," the woman says heartily as she takes the money and pays before quickly leading her kids back into the storm.

Emily and Robby place their items on the counter and the man there, face obscured by cloth and turban, tallies them up. "You are very kind," he says in English that is both thickly accented and very raspy - not surprising considering how dry things are. "We do not often get such charity from the British."

"It's no trouble," Robby says with a smile. He hands over the last of their funds and before they know it they're back in the car, desperately driving back towards the villa, with not even a tailwind to help this time.

Mark and Pat are busy making a stew with what supplies they have. "It'll be tight, but we should be able to last until the storm subsides," Maddy says after an overview of their stock.

"I don't need to eat," Michael says as he stands beside her, prompting her to give him a look of concern. "I mean. I can probably go a little longer without than most."

"I should hope so," Maddy says as she closes up the pantry. "The last thing I want is to explain to Churchill why his supersoldier died of anemia."

"Plenty of cigarettes if worse comes to worse," Edith says, lighting one up herself.

The stew is delicious. Both men attribute it to their mother's recipes, and the rest of the meal is punctuated by who's recipe the final product resembled more. Afterwards they gather back in the study, and Anthea elects herself to take centre stage because "I feel many of you are champing at the bit to what divine secrets I can reveal."

"Not to put too fine a point on it but...well, yes," Edith answers.

Anthea smirks. "I'll do my best not to get bogged down on the details, but I'll need to set the stage. The cosmology of the ancient world and Earth's history has many facets to it." She closes her eyes and despite her youth, Emily can't help but see a resemblance between her expression and her grandmother's as the old woman would speak of ancient times and faerie stories. "When the Earth was young, magic was in large supply. The average human cannot do much with it without training, but as people and cultures came together their collective imaginations tempered that magic into faith. And there are many beings outside of Earth which can gain power from that faith."

"Wait, stop," Robby says as he holds his hand up. "Sorry, Miss Anthea, I know you speak from experience, but it does sound like you are implying...extraterrestrials and moon men served as a basis for ancient pantheons."

"It's not quite that simple," Anthea replies. "Yes, beings from other worlds sought out Earth and, by interacting with it, did inspire legends of gods. The Norse Gods are one such example, as are the Greeks in part. But there are others. Spiritual entities from other dimensions also sought out this faith, and in doing so the beliefs of the people they found shaped them into more consistent forms - these were many of the Egyptian and African deities. And in every Pantheon there are examples of beings who do not fall into those categories quite so easily - outsiders of the planet, most likely, but one who walked the Earth and performed acts not out of the desire to be worshipped or remembered, but simply to protect fledgling human societies from beings that would take advantage of them.

"My mother, Terpsichore, was from beyond the stars. My father Achelous was a spirit who's form was powered by those in Minoa who held reverence for the seas.¹ Their pairing is what made me and my sisters what we are today. My story begins when I was still a young child, just after I stopped being a boy."

Fidonisi, Aegean Sea, 1538 BCE²

"Mother, I have deigned to take the form of a woman from now on," the young Siren declared as she stood in front of the hilltop temple where her mother resided.

Terpsichore regarded her child with loving indifference. The girl had been growing her hair out for the past few months and had begun to clad herself in jewellery fitting of a girl her age, so Terpsichore wasn't too surprised. "I've told you many times, young one, you may take whatever form you choose." She sweetly petted the child's dark black hair. "Shall I call you by a different name?"

"Anthea!" the little girl declared with glee.

"Then Anthea you shall be," her mom replied. "What inspired such clarity?"

"Well, when I was visiting Crete with my sisters I saw a beautiful woman there. Apparently she's another goddess named Astarte, and when I saw her I decided I wanted to be just like her."³

"Well, I can't think of a better reason to find yourself than that. Have you told your father yet?" Anthea shook her head. "Well you should probably let him know he has a fourth daughter now."

"Okay!" Anthea replied before running off. As she bounded downwards her momentum increased, and with a great leap near the foot of the hill she transformed with a burst of feathers into a shearwater and took wing across the island.

It was a beautiful summer day, with the sun shining brightly and the few billowing clouds in the sky barely blocking out any of the light. Anthea flew over children playing near rivers, farmers leading their bulls through their fields, worshippers helping each other travel to the mountain peak temples, and a herd of earth-coloured minotaurs relaxing beneath the shade of trees. She flew past it all directly to the mouth of the river meeting the sea, where her father kept watch over the boats which sailed out from the port there.

"Father!" Anthea called as she alighted on the building next to him. If she were to land on his shoulder then all the mortals among them would think she was floating on nothing, as they could not perceive her father. He was a spirit who, like the Egyptians across the way, could only be seen by those he had chosen. Anyone who could would see the towering shape of a handsome young man, but filled with the turquoise light of the sun being refracted through the ocean waters. Occasionally his form would shift and he appeared to have the horns legs, or tail of a bull. His hair roiled like sea foam, and he leaned against his spear as he kept watch over the people - but of course turned when he heard the voice of one of his offspring.⁴

"Hello there," he said as he turned to Anthea, who'd resumed humanoid form while seated on the roof. "My, what a look you are sporting."

"My name is now Anthea father, and I am a girl."

Her dad let out a mighty laugh and swept her into her his arms like a crashing wave, holding her close. "Aha! I was wondering when you would declare as such." He deposited her back on the roof and took a good look at her. "Ah, you're the spitting image of your mother. I could not be prouder."

They both relaxed as they watched over the departing sailors. "Where are they headed?"

"Crete," Achelous replied. "They are sending a retinue to Athens for tribute, and will need additional workers to help maintain the palace while they are gone."⁵

Anthea frowned. "Why can't the mortals just get along?"

Her father chuckled again, as if the thought of peace among mortals was a joke. "They are fickle people. Whenever one of them gains power they use it to elevate themselves and their own above all else. But it's why we have such a beautiful home." Achelous spread his arms wide, gesturing to the entirety of the island. "The Minoan Empire controls all of the Aegean Sea, and as such is the most powerful civilization in this corner of the world."

"Still, it's sad, don't you think?" Anthea asked innocently. "I bet if I was there when they landed in Athens and sang the right song they'd be nicer to each other."

"Oh yes, I'm sure your singing would change their hearts irrevocably," Achelous replied in a humouring tone. "Wouldn't you rather make beautiful art like your mother and sisters?"

Anthea frowned, unsure whether she really did or not. She loved things that were beautiful, but she went back and forth between wanting to create them and wanting to protect them. She hated when her parents asked her what manner of purview she desired - she was only eight and would be around for thousands of years, what did it matter that she knew now what earthly delights she should champion? It wasn't her fault her sisters all became enamoured with song from the moment they could speak. The girl was still lost in thought when a pillar of light descended from the sky in the distance. "What's that?!" she asked excitedly.

"I...am not sure," Achelous said as he looked out towards the light. It swirled with fiery, rainbow-coloured energy, and while it didn't seem dangerous there was an audible impact sound even from where they stood across the sea. "Stay here, I'll investigate." Without further word her father dissolved into the ocean water and surged forth towards the island.

"Like any good child, I stayed put," Anthea smirks, "for about five minutes. But I had to know what was going on, so when my little heart couldn't take it any more I took wing once again and pursued just far enough to keep my father from noticing me.

"Halfway there I began to hear the screams, and I immediately felt something had gone horribly wrong. It would take the terror of everyone on the island to illicit agonies that loud. Then I saw smoke begin to pour from the city there, and I suddenly no longer cared whether my father knew I had followed. I swooped down to where he swam and told him to stop, that it might be dangerous, but he told me that he was a god and it was his duty to protect those who needed him. I decided that if I couldn't stop him, I could at least find out what was happening and warn him. But when I pushed forward to investigate, all that I found was...death.

"The shores were covered in terrified innocents scrambling to reach the boats and flee the isle. They couldn't run fast enough - I saw soldiers clad in unknown armour chased them down, slaying man and beast alike. There was an emerald-furred minotaur who put up a good fight, but she was soon dismembered without a second thought." Here Anthea has to pause to take a deep breath and steady herself. "If I had been in this form at the time I would have cried in horror at all the senseless violence, but as a bird all I could do was chirp and press on. The city and temples were still burning, and I could hear snarls from a beast large enough to shake my bones. I needed to know what the cause of this was.

"Even more dead and wounded clogged the streets as I flew above them. But just when I thought it was some form of unknowable madness, I found the perpetrator when I reached the city's centre. A woman clad in black and green, with spikes erupting from her armour. In one hand she wielded a black sword with twin blades, and in the other a powerful warhammer. Every time a Minoan soldier ran at her she would deflect their blows easily, then either impale them or smash their body open with the ease one would use to pick a flower. She looked less like the warriors I'd come to know and more like a mad artist of violence - delighting in her work without care for the madness it caused. Honestly, I don't think I've seen anyone delight in death to that degree until the Nazis showed up on our doorstep.

"I had to beat a hasty retreat when I heard growling approaching, and I flew out of the way just as a massive hound appeared and started snapping at me. The warrior woman told it to heel and stop snapping at birds, and she called it Fenris."

"Fenris?" Edith chirps in surprise. "The giant wolf from...Norse mythology. Not Greek."

Anthea nods. "Quite, which is why I mentioned them earlier. Of course none of us knew of these beings yet, but the wolf was indeed Fenris, and I would soon learn that the woman slaughtering everything was Hela."

Thera, Aegean Sea

Anthea looked at the massive hound and the woman in fear, and she hesitated for a moment too long. In that time Hela quickly recognized the bird was more than a bird, and with a flick of her wrist her sword turned to a bladed whip, which was then hurled towards Anthea. It's chains wrapped around her before she could wheel away, and the force of the weapon tightening around her made her lose focus and return to a girl, slamming into the ground and forcing a cry of pain out from her.

"What do we have here?" the woman said in a voice dripping with menace. "A Midgardian with the power to change their form?" She dragged Anthea closer to inspect her like a freshly caught fish. "Hmm, no you're something more...ha! I suppose I'm not the first Goddess here after all."

"UNHAND HER!" came a roar like crashing waves as the spear of Achelous flew threw the air towards the woman. It would have impaled her if not for Fenris catching it easily. Achelous stormed through the streets, his mere presence putting out the flames around them.

"Ooh, a spear? Groundbreaking." The woman nodded at the hound, which bit down and snapped the spear in two. "And who are you - god of wetness?"

"I am Achelous, god of the seas, and you will unhand my daughter at once or face my wrath."

The woman frowned, but the way you would frown at a child holding a temper tantrum. "Oh please, I've killed ocean gods before. I've killed all manner of gods, in fact, and the only thing they had in common was that they got in my way." She held up the hammer threateningly. "I am Hela, goddess of death, and you will kneel and serve me or be reduced to the god of puddles."

Achelous simply roared again, running at her. Hela bid her weapon to unravel from Anthea and reform into the twin-bladed sword, and the moment it was a piercing weapon again she casually ran it through Achelous' form. A normal blade would be akin to a pinprick for a god, but this was no normal blade, and red clouds of blood began to billow up from where he had been impaled. Hela withdrew the blade as Achelous collapsed to his knees, then, just for her own satisfaction, she struck him over the head with her hammer and sent him sprawling across the plaza.

"Nooo!" Anthea shrieked in horror.

"Oh get over it," Hela snapped at the child. "You'll be joining him soon." She held her hammer aloft, and a storm of sickly green light began to swirl around it. "If I'm to carve my Midgard throne out of here, I'll want to start fresh - I'm sure a little eruption will do the trick." With all her godly strength, she slammed the hammer and all its power into the ground, and the moment it impacted the entire city was ripped apart by the shockwave. Anthea, who had been crawling to her father's motionless form, clung to him else she be thrown away with all the rubble; even the enormous Fenris was digging its claws into the ground. But no later had the blast subsided that a new rumbling began beneath them. "So long little bird," Hela sang as she mounted Fenris and began to bolt away from the coming destruction.

"Father...please..." Anthea gasped, but the wounds inflicted by Hela's weapon had weakened her as well. Even at her best she had no hope to move him, and now they would both perish by whatever Hela had summoned.

All seemed dark, and Anthea thought she would black out, but then fluttering of wings filled her ears. "Sister!"

"Who saved you?" Emily asks in surprise.

"My sisters," Anthea replies. "My mother realized I was missing when the chaos began, so she called out to them out and sent them to help us. It was too late to stop anything, but at least they could carry the two of us back to shore. They bore us both across the sea as fast as she could, but I'm sure you are familiar with the story by now. The volcano beneath Thera erupted, tearing the island asunder and launching a massive tidal wave through the entire Mediterranean sea. If we had been mortal we would have been killed, but we landed on Crete just in time."

Knossos, Crete

"Girls!" Terpsichore bawled as she saw her daughters and lover laying on the beach. Anthea sputtered out seawater before reaching up to hug her mother, and her older sisters flocked around them to make sure she was truly alright. Their father was another story - whatever damage that woman's weapon did has weakened him severely, and despite her joy at seeing him alive Terpsichore had doubts that he would ever be strong enough to command the seas again. Not that it matters now she thought as she looked out at the sea. Once it was calm and aided the whims and needs of the Minoans. On any day you could look out and see hundreds of ships sailing back and forth among he many islands of the civilization. But the tidal wave had torn them all apart, and even her divine eyes could see the island towns and villages reduced to rubble. Thera was practically gone - the clouds of smoke and ash still billowed from the impact crater, and chunks of the landmass were even now sinking to the bottom of the sea. They could rebuild, certainly, but would anything ever truly be the same?⁶

The gathering was interrupted by the clashing of metal and screaming. "More of you?!" Hela's voice rang out. She appeared coming over a hill, smashing her hammer into a shield of violet light, wielded by a beautiful female figure. "Do I need to kill every god on this miserable planet before I rule it?"

"Hela, your reputation preceeds you," the other goddess snapped back. Anthea gasped in delight when she realized it was Astarte. "I heard your father banished you."

"He tried, but I was faster." Hela unraveled her blades and wrapped them around the hammer, making a fiendish kind of mace. "How fast are you?" she asked before hurling the weapon again.

This time it was deflected not by Astarte, but a blast of rainbow energy descending from the sky. When it cleared a man stood there - golden armour, horned helmet, snowy beard, a spear greater than Achelous', and a look of rage on his face. "Daughter."

"Father," Hela growled. "You think you can finish the job this time?"

"I intend to," Odin rumbled, and charged.

The spear clashed with the blade, and Hela tried to swipe with her Hammer, but Odin caught the weapon. "You may wield Mjolnir now, but you forget that I held it first - it will not harm me." He wrenched the weapon from her grasp and tossed it harmlessly aside, continuing to press her backwards with his spear.

"The Einherjar -"

"Were incinerated by that volcano," Odin snapped as he took advantage of an opening and moved to punch Hela in the side of her head. Her headdress twisted towards him and slashed at his hand, nearly slicing off a finger.

"Fenris!" she called. The hound charged, but Astarte was a part of this battle as well. Surrounding herself with power from her cult, she shone a brilliant violet and met the beast head-on, burning as bright as a star.

Hela screamed in rage and kicked Odin in the shin, forcing him to stumble back. With his hand injured she swiped directly at were he clutched his spear again and again, and eventually was able to slash it out of his grasp. Unarmed, Odin stumbled just enough for Hela to roundhouse kick him and throw him to the dirt. "You're strong, father, I'll give you that," she panted as she stood over him. "But can you survive my necrosword?" She moved to impale him, but at the last moment Odin threw his hands up and gripped both blades of the sword.

"Yes," he sputtered. "And you forget...I am not just your father...I AM THE ALL-FATHER!" With a crack heard across the island he wrest the sword in two and sent both blades flying away from his daughter. In shock at his recovery, Hela didn't react fast enough as he rolled to the side and reclaimed his spear, then threw it hard enough to not only impale her but send her flying into the nearest boulder, where she was stuck for all nearby to see.

Black ichor dripped from her mouth. She looked to her pet only to see it bound in bands of light by Astarte. "Fff...fuck...fine." She levelled an icy glare at Odin. "You are the all-father...but I am still goddess of death. You bound my power to your blood and Asgard's bones, and I cannot die until both you and it fall."

Astarte approached Odin's side. "Did you really? And you never thought she would betray you?"

Odin frowned. "She is more weapon than daughter, and she was built for conquest. Now is not the time to berate my late choice for peace." Indeed, they both could see Hela slowly walking forwards. The spear tore through her midsection, but she was still alive. "I tried to banish her before, but she slaughtered my palace and nearly killed my friend before coming here. If you care about these people you will help me seal her now."

Astarte frowned, but nodded. "A goddess such as that can only be banished by her own blood." She clasped Odin's hand, drawing as much as she could out of his wounds. "But I will command the ritual if you provide the power." She manoeuvred her hands in intricate patterns. Circles of energy appeared around her and Hela.

Hela was still trying to pry herself off of the spear. Most of her armour had fallen away and now she resembled a drenched wraith of a woman, stringy black hair clinging to her face as her emerald green eyes blazed with unfiltered hate. "You can't be serious. You'll need me. Just you wait, you'll grow bored of peace."

"Not even war is worth your presence," her father replied.

"Do you have a destination in mind?" Astarte asked as the blood she took glowed brightly and the circles tightened around Hela.

"The very Hel she was forged from," Odin answered.

"What will the people of Asgard say?!" Hela snapped. "They will demand their queen's return."

"They will say nothing of you," Odin snarled. "You will be struck from all our records. No one shall know of this shadow over our history."

A sparking fuse of energy began encircle Hela in a final ring. "You coward!" she shrieked. "I will return, and I will slaughter all your precious Asgardians. Just you wait and -" Her final words were cut off as the circle completed and with a mighty *whump* she was shunted away from this plane.

"It is done," Astarte declared.

Odin strode forward to take his spear, but when he gripped it he paused for a moment, and none could tell whether it was due to exhaustion, regret, or a combination of the two.

"I never encountered another Asgardian again," Anthea states. "As far as I know there's no record of their presence at that time other than the eruption itself. And my family never returned to Fidonisi while we were still together. We took a ship to the mainland and mother did a ritual to bind my father to a single river instead of the entire sea - enough to keep him alive. But that day was the beginning of the end for the Minoans."

There's a stunned silence before Pat lets out a breath. "Christ," he says. "Gods and monsters. Really makes what we're up against pale in comparison, aye?"

"Not really," Mark replies quietly. The others look at him. "Well, sounds to me like that lady was trying to lead a conquest just like the Germans are. She wasn't letting anything stop her, and neither are they. Maybe there's no volcanic cataclysm or divine intervention, but the outcome if we lose is the same. And either way, this world is gonna bare the scars of this war forever."

There's a murmured agreement amongst the group as they sit and think on that. Eventually people start to retire, the mirthful attitude from earlier all but deflated. Eventually, Anthea moves to sit next to Maddy. "I know I probably could have told a nicer story, something a bit more fanciful and hopeful. But truthfully...there's never been anyone I've been able to speak with about what happened." And it wasn't even the entire story - Anthea isn't keen on sharing tales of the Mycenaean conquest that followed soon after Hela's, or how the violence drove her and her sisters to cease their kindness to mortal men, or the gaps in her memory.

Maddy pats her hand. "Love, never apologize for that. I know all about holding things in - trust me, I'm British, it's our national sport." That gets a chuckle from the other woman. "I think we all know deep down that we're going to come out of this fight with demons. Best not let them fester. And..." Maddy adjusts a lock of Anthea's hair. "Forgive me if I'm too forward, but I've found one of the easiest ways to ease this sort of thing is with somebody else. My husband has a prior engagement this evening, so I was wondering if you would be interested in spending the night with me?"

Anthea raises an eyebrow, then smirks. "Truthfully, I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner."

Mark goes to his room to find Robby sitting on the edge of his bed. "Evenin'."

"Good evening, Mark," Robby replies. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing here."

"I imagine you're trying to seduce me, sir," Mark replies as he sits down next to the man. "But you seem a bit dour."

Robby huffs a single chuckle. "Right. I must say that last tale put me in a bit of a mood." He looks right at the man - only a few years younger, but bearing as much extra time in his eyes as any of them. "I know you and Anthea have mentioned it before, but well...you and her seem to be the ones in this group who've brushed against the supernatural the most. How do you...handle it?"

Mark nods. "That's the weird thing, because honestly, it's something I've known my whole life. When you're in the middle of the woods, or trying to sleep and that darkness takes you, that's when you start to realize that there are far greater forces at work than you can fathom. Infinite seas of trees housing beings that don't even recognize you as alive. Caves that go on for longer than possible, opening up into worlds of dreams. People living on the edge of civilization drawing on power that common folk don't realize is even there - for me it's an average day. Sure you try not to talk about it because not everyone is as perceptive as you, but you always know it's there, just out the corner of your eye."

Robby nods along with all of that, but when Mark is finished the only word he can utter is "Grim."

Mark shrugs. "Sorry." He throws an arm over the other man's shoulders. "But I guess if you think about it, the world's always been like this. The gods and monsters lurking in shadows and out in the stars aren't new - they're just hidden. The only thing that's changed is how much you know." He regards Robby and sees the man still has his head in the clouds. "But I know it's a lot to take in. Would you like me to take your mind off things instead?"

This brings Robby back to Earth, and he gives Mark a wicked grin. "I do believe you're turning the tables on me."

Mark smirks and pushes Robby down on the bed.

Crete, Aegean Sea, 1538 BCE - The Following Day

The girls were asleep, and Achelous was stable, but she would need to act quickly in order to keep him alive. A smaller body of water, a river of lake, should be enough to keep him in this world. But for now, the people of this island would need aid. She had already reached out to her sisters, and now they had all gathered together at the temple. "Must we?" asked Thalia, looking a little nervous.

"It's the only way," Urania replied curtly. "If the Asgardians are scoping out Earth then it is only a matter of time until others arrive.

"The deities of this region are few and far between," Polyhymnia admitted.

"And tragedy will be in great supply if they are slain," Melpomene added sadly.

"Then we are in agreement?" Terpsichore asked. Her eight sisters nodded. Terpsichore held up the votive device - it resembled a clay cone, with a crystal torch flame atop it, but the people of this world could never reckon the technology contained within. She bid it to activate and it levitated in the centre of the temple. She stepped back and joined hands with her sisters, and in their circle he device began to spin - slowly at first, then faster and faster until it unfolded into a swirling rainbow maelstrom and then shot into the sky. After a moment a larger rainbow light slammed down in front of them - just like the ones the Asgardians had ridden. But rather than a goddess of death or all-father, the light instead carried a mousy girl with great glowing wings. One who looked closely would see that the wings themselves seemed to be producing the light she rode upon, but the moment she landed they dimmed slightly and wrapped themselves around the girls body and transformed into a multicoloured coat.

"Woo! What a rush!" the girl said perkily. "Oh, hey ladies! Why the long faces?"

Terpsichore elected to speak for the group. "Iris, we have summoned you to carry a message to our father Zeus."

Iris grinned and pulled out a clay tablet. "Wonderful! He's gonna be so excited to hear from y'all. What's the message?"⁷

"The Asgardians have arrived on Earth," Terpsichore stated. "Though they were chased out by Odin the All-Father and Ishtar of Mesopotamia, it is only a matter of time until they return. The people of this region need divine protection, and so we humbly ask that he and the rest of the Pantheon choose this planet as the place of their rule."

Iris finished recording everything and looked back to the muses. "That sounds delightful! He's going to be sooo excited, and this looks like a great place for us to set up shop." She tucked the tablet away, then produced her wings again. "See you soon ladies!" With that her wings burst into light and she soared back into the skies.

Terpshicore sighs. "Let's hope father can treat this land with the same respect we do."

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 10 April 1943

That morning, the residents of the villa woke to an orange, hazy dawn. The sun, if anyone caught a glimpse, was little more than a red disk on the horizon. 

No one says it, but it feels appropriate after last night's apocalyptic tale. The mood at breakfast is still a bit dower, but lacking the edge everyone went to bed with. Breakfast was a muted affair, though Emily, Mark, and Pat were proving to be sublime chefs. They’d been eating out at clubs, messes, and restaurants for the past while. Or the rations they had while out in the desert on training excursions. It gets Maddie thinking about a duty roster to make sure most chores don’t fall on that trio. At least the rest are good about tidiness, and Roger does keep himself and his quarters fastidiously clean. 

Robby grabs Maddie from behind, wrapping those strong arms around her waist, “How was your night, dear?” He plants a kiss on her cheek below her ear then rests his chin on her head.

“Wonderful,” she replies a little dreamily. And it was; Anthea makes for an excellent lover and companion. “And young Mark?”

“Surprised me a bit. More confident and experienced than I expected from ‘a simple mountain boy,’” he replied, having fallen into Mark’s accent. 

“Well, if I’ve learned anything in these few months, we should not underestimate the smallest and youngest of us.”

“Right you are as always, Maddie.” 

They go silent for a bit and she stares out one of the French windows. It would be so nice to go swimming or maybe organize a tennis match. Just something a little more physical to do. 

She sighs, “It would be lovely to go out. I mean the Pyramids are just across the river and I’m sure everyone will be sick of bridge soon. Even the cinema would be nice.”

“Well, I did discover that Mark plays chess,” Robby muses.

“That’s good news for Roger.” He’d been the reigning chess master of their clique at Oxford. “Don’t know about the rest of us.”

Robby moves so he can look down at her, “Has the General been keeping you cooped up?”

“I mean, I have many things to do. I’m not just answering phones and making his tea. I have Wrens for that. Just, you know, does feel a bit stifling.”

There’s always the sense that she could be, and should be, doing more. That maybe Maddie should try to get more field experience. She wasn’t scared of weapons or physical danger. She has some experience, though short like many veterans of France. But someone needed to do the unsexy work keeping everyone alive and the intelligence flowing.

“Well in my humble opinion …” Robby turns her so they face each other. “... I think you’re doing a hell of a job getting us together, keeping us together, and keeping us breathing.” 

He kisses Maddie’s head and they lean into each other. Just enjoying each other. Robby’s far too sweet and good to her sometimes.

It’s at luncheon that her memory finally strikes her. The table was on the topic of tennis of all things.

“... I mean I’ve been to Wimbledon twice,” Edie was saying. “Never got the French Open, though.”

“I thought you went with me in ‘35,” Maddie replies.

“No, I was going to but I got sick with the flu, remember” Edie corrects.

“Oh, yes! Silly me.” Then aside to the rest. “Aside from tennis, I needed someone to keep me sane during that Paris trip. My cousin, Imogen, had just gotten engaged.”

“To the duke I beat out for Maddie, I might add,” Robby boasts.

Maddie smiles, “I mean Hugh was a marquess at the time, and a fine lad. But my Robby is worth a kingdom.” That sends her husband beaming.

“I thought he was a colourless bore,” Roger snarks.

“Imogen’s happy, and she got her coronet¹. Anyway, it’s a rather odd story because it somewhat fits into what we’re doing now. And it all begins with a book I bought.

Hôtel Ritz, Paris, France, 19 May 1935

Imogen was thankfully not one of those brides who turned into a dictator that would give Premier Stalin nightmares. She was quite the ditherer, really. No, Maddie’s aunt, Lady Rosamund Bennett, Countess of Ashbourne, took the role of tyrant.

“Imogen, dear, stop biting your nails.”

“Yes, mother.” 

“Someday you will be a duchess and you should start acting like it.”

“Of course, mother.”

“So don’t let these French designers cow you into anything you do not want. They’re grasping snobs, the lot of them.”

More like anything Aunt Rosamund wouldn’t approve of. While the Duke of Allerdale may not believe in long engagements, Maddie didn’t think badgering poor Imogen over her trousseau would help.² And that entire morning, and all Saturday for that matter, her aunt had been nothing short of the finest example of British chauvinism in Paris. 

And Americans are called boorish. 

“And get that look off your face, Madeline,” Aunt Rosamund turned on Maddie.

Maddie, who’d been very quiet the entire time and kept her nose in her magazine, was now in a fighting mood.

“What look?”

“The one you make when you’re about to say something smart.”

“Well someone has to say something intelligent, Auntie.”

“I don’t like the attitude, young lady,” Aunt Rosamund said with a threat in her voice.

“There wouldn’t be an ‘attitude’ if you weren’t breathing down Imogen’s neck.”

Her aunt opened her mouth to rebuke Maddie, but thankfully the maid, Louise, walked in announcing a phone call for Rosamund. She went out to take it and Maddie tossed the magazine aside once she’d gone.

“You’re looking peaked, Imogen, let’s go for a walk,” she said. Her cousin looked like she was about to faint. They both need a little air.

“Is that a good idea Maddie?”

“We won’t be gone long. Just a stroll around the Tuileries and along the river. We’ll be back in time for supper.” She took Imogen by the arm and let Louise know where they were going.

From the Place Vendôme they went down to the Tuileries. The cousins walked about, admiring fashionable Parisiens, the late spring flowers, and grand statues. After an hour, their stroll took them to the Seine and they wandered down the Quai du Louvre, passing the namesake museum and the Pont des Arts.³ Along the quai were Maddie’s favourite Parisian treasure, the Bouquinistes - stalls under green awnings filled with used and antiquarian books, prints, postcards, stamps, engravings, and souvenirs.

Maddie and Imogen perused the booksellers’ wares, buying a few postcards and one or two smart look novels. And near the end as they got to the Pont Neuf, an antique volume bound in dark red leather caught Maddie's eye. Inside was a surprisingly well preserved diary.

“It was the diary of a man named Jean Desmarais. A Girondist in Paris around 1793 and ‘94.”

“What’s a ‘Girondist’?” Pat asks.

“One of the factions during the French Revolution,” Michael answers. “One of the leading factions for a time. But the revolution outpaced them, much like later revolutions."

“Indeed,” Maddie says. “Jean Demarais was a full-throated republican, a slavery abolitionist, and I would say a proto-feminist, among other things. But when ideological purity comes into the mix, who is a revolutionary and who is a counter-revolutionary becomes difficult to tell.”

Roger asks, “So your Demarais was there for the Reign of Terror?”

“Yes. He got caught up in the first round of trials of the Girondist in October 1793. His narrative was thrilling and strange and for a while, I needed to know everything about him.”

10 Octobre 1793

I am betrayed. My name has been given to the Committee of Public Safety and I have fled.⁴ The few friends I have left have secreted me into the catacombs. I dare not say the entrance for fear of this chronicle falling into my enemies’ hands. Nor my plans for escape. I can only hope my luck can carry me to safety.

“He hid underground for weeks, living off whatever food and drink he could find in basements and cellars connected to the catacombs. He was losing his mind in the dark. Or at least he thought he was, for he came to believe that there was something in the catacombs with him.

21 Octobre 1793

The voices continue to echo through the catacombs. I can barely think between the men who hunt for me the spirits pursuing me down here. Whatever force or fiend is trapped down here is searching for me, beckoning me...and I dread what may happen should I answer.

"Eventually, agents of Maximilian Robespierre found Desmarais and gave chase.⁵ He hoped to lose them in that labyrinth under Paris. Desperate, he took shelter in what turned out to be a long forgotten crypt. And that’s where he found what was in the crypt with him.”

Demarais pushed the sarcophagus lid open enough for him to possibly climb in. There was a good chance his pursuers heard the scraping of stone on stone, but it’s his only…

Take me.

A voice. Deep and old. Where did it come from?

Reach in and take me.

He lifted his little candle to look in. Even with his eyes so adjusted to the dark, Demarais needed the light to see what lay inside. He found the desiccated remains of what may have been a Templar knight. Clutched in his skeletal hands was a sword. A broadsword of old, but not like any he had seen before. The colour was strange - Damascus steel? - and there was a skull right at the ricasso.⁶

Once more he heared the voice.

Take me up and defeat your enemies.

Demarais could hear his pursuers. There was a flash of light from a lantern. " There he is!'"someone shouted. He was soon followed by the crack of a pistol and the bullet's ricochet off the stone walls.

Without any hesitation, Demarais reached into the sarcophagus and took up the sword before more pistols fired into the crypt. He ducked, barely registering the cut to his hand before racing out from behind the sarcophagus in a berserker’s rage.

“There are several weeks in which there are no entries in the diary. That is until 4 December 1793, or 14 Frimaire in the revolutionary calendar.⁷ It was a very short entry and had nothing to do with the Committee centralizing power. All he wrote was 'I will not rest until all my enemies are dead. I will not die, until all their blood is spilt.'"

Mark grimaces, “Sounds a little like the other guy. Especially when he gets itching for action.”

The connection leaves Maddie with an oddly queasy feeling, “Well, Demarais wrote that the sword talked to him. When I first read the diary I thought he had simply gone mad from being in the catacombs for so long. In exchange for his life, Jean Demarais claimed to have made a pact with that sword, La Fleur du Mal. For his life, and for his family, he would provide blood for the sword to drink. Only later did I learn he was writing that with a clear head and a troubled heart. ”

“Even during a time like the Terror, a man like that wouldn’t go unnoticed,” Emily points out.

“Indeed,” Maddie says, resting her chin on laced fingers. “On a different excursion to Paris, I did some digging in the archives and the Bibliothèque nationale, looking mostly at the pamphlets of the period. There was quite a bit of talk of a fellow in a red cloak called notre ami la Guillotine, or simply La Guillotine, with a tendency for decapitation. Liked to take heads off à la Anne Boleyn."⁸

27 Avril 1794

As long as I draw breath. As long as my children and their children draw breath. As long as the sun rises and falls, I and those of my blood shall never rest. Shall never know peace. Shall only know blood.

I am the arbiter who ends all. I am that which waits at the threshold of eternity. I am judge and I am jury. For I am the executioner now. I am punishment without mercy . I am the machine that kills… I AM THE GUILLOTINE!”

"Sword possessed by a demon. Sounds rather cut and dry," Edith remarks. "I mean, all things considered," she adds when she catches Pat giving her a surprised glance.

"Not quite," Maddie continues. "Remember, his deal was for him and his descendants. Evidently he gave his entire bloodline over to the sword."

"Well if a man like that was spotted two hundred years ago, surely we'd know about one today," Pat says.

"We do," Maddie confirms. "Well, not a man."

Paris, Occupied France, 11 September 1942

The city was like a dream, not because it was splendid, but because it felt so unreal. Nazi posters and propaganda for the legitimacy of their rule peppered the streets as Maddie walked down them, but nobody around seemed especially fond of them. A heavy dusk hung over the city that threatened to leech all colour out of the area. There was often an eerie silence over everything, broken up only occasionally by the sounds of a scuffle - whether it was resistance taking out a small group of German Soldiers or the other way around, you couldn't know unless you were there to see it, and Maddie had no time for sightseeing.

Things were ramping up in France. Moulin had garnered help from the British forces in united the various resistance cells across the country, and at this moment there were plans to launch another air raid at one of the munitions factories making parts for the Germans.⁹ The forces in the city were working to slip refugees and wayward soldiers out of the country, and those same routes were used to get a few agents in as well. Maddie had volunteered for the mission herself, but the higher-ups weren't sold on it until Halloway vouched for her because, in his words, "she has the look of any average woman in the country - not a single German will make her, I guarantee it." She'd frowned at the statement when she heard it, but now she had to admit then as she walked past a group of soldiers taking a break at a cafe they didn't even bat an eyelid at her. Smiling inside, she ordered her own cup and took a seat on the edge of the patio, pulling out a novel to feign reading.

Over the past months, rumours had been spreading across the country and making their way back to the SOE. Tales of a vigilante unassociated with any of the rebel cells. A figure who pursued Nazi agents with dread dedication. What stood out was the method of killing - decapitation, likely with a massive sword. The description had struck a chord with Maddie, and after confiding her suspicions in Halloway he agreed to help her get over there. The possibility of having an asset such as that was too good an opportunity to pass up, but they needed to wait until MI-6 had their own plans in order to piggyback over. So when they asked for volunteers to go behind enemy lines to exchange important documents too risky to discus over radio, Madeline's name was first on the register.

She'd kept her ears and eyes open the past week, and based on the trail of carnage she'd put together from various sources there were three areas that seemed likely places for the figure to begin their patrols each night. She'd checked two already and saw neither hide nor hair of the figure. As she flipped the pages her eyes swept back and forth across the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary. The soldiers would make things difficult, but there was also the chance their mere presence would lure out her Nazi-slaying target.

It happened so sudden that not even the soldiers knew what was happening. One moment they were laughing at a bawdy joke, and the next a sword had embedded itself in the wooden patio beside them. They stopped and looked around - well, two of them did. The third's eyes widened ever-so-slightly before his head sloughed off his neck with a soft tearing sound.

"Widerstand!" one of them snapped as he stood up and pulled his gun out just in time for a figure dressed in a battered French Army uniform and a tattered crimson hood to land in front of him. They kicked the gun out of his hands before punching him in the face. His compatriot pulled his own weapon, but the figure vaulted over the table and grabbed his head before wrenching it downwards and across the blade, killing him. The last soldier backed away with his hands up. "Ich gebe auf! Ich gebe auf!"

The figure easily pulled their blade from the ground. "Il n'y a pas de reddition," they hissed before turning to face the man. "Seulement la mort." She swung the sword in a wide arc, but its blade was long enough to reach him even with the table between them, and his head and body collapsed to the ground with two distinct thumps. Nodding, the figure bolted down an alley. Maddie, who had moved to lurk around the corner as soon as the carnage began, dashed after them.¹⁰

A door slamming closed in the alley pointed Maddie in the right direction. When she opened it she found a stairwell, and the thumps of footsteps above her weren't too far away. She took the steps two at a time to catch up, adrenaline coursing as she scaled the whole building to the roof, but when she opened the door she was met with the point of a sword pointed directly at her face.

"Pour qui travailles-tu?!" the figure - a woman! - snarled. Her hood had fallen backwards and a pale woman with a shock of auburn hair stared from behind the weapon.

"Les alliés!" Maddie quickly stated. "Renseignement Britannique!"

"Hmph." The woman pulled her blade away. "British. What a help you have been." She could hear the sarcasm drip from the words as the woman switched to English.

"Well, we're trying our best. Everyone is." She cautiously took a step forward and closed the door behind her.

"Some more than others," the woman said.

"I won't disagree." Maddy kept a close eye on the sword - the woman may not be threatening her at the moment, but she could see her hand twitching anxiously. "But I'd like to think the division I work for is one of the better ones. My superiors and myself were hoping we might be able to work together, as we clearly have a common enemy."

The woman turned away from Maddy. "Non," she said softly. She walked to the edge of the building and looked out over her city. "I work alone."

"Not even with the other resistance cells?" Maddie asked. "From what I hear you're turning into a bit of a folk hero amongst them."

"They can believe what they want. If they met me they'd fear me almost as much as they would the Nazis."

"Is it because of La Fleur du Mal?"

The woman's face showed shock, then fury, and she hoisted the sword up as she ran back towards Maddy, howling like a fury. Maddy ducked and rolled away from the madwoman, drawing her pistol in the event she had to do something drastic, but the woman managed to stop as she slammed the sword deep into the stone of the building. She panted heavily, looking to Maddy with eyes filled not with rage but fatigue.

"I would love nothing more than to kill every Nazi in this city," she panted. "But the more lives I take at a time, the more it - the more I - want to take more." She unclasped her hand from the sword and took a few steps back, regarding it like a dangerous animal. "It has no unique hate for fascists. It's thirst is equal to all. And I fear what will happen when there are none left to decapitate in the city and it is still in my hands." She stepped forward and took the sword again, like they were connected by a fiendish magnetism. "I only hope I can take as many of their heads as I can before they take mine."

Maddie returned to her feet, gun still in hand, but now regarding the woman with pity. Everyone was fighting against the Reich, but at least they had the solace to do it among friends. This woman - this modern Guillotine - was all alone. "At least let me give you this," she said, reaching into her purse. The woman lifted the blade, but Maddie slowed her motions so as to not startle her. She brandished the book she'd purchased all those years ago. "The journal of Jean Desmarais." She tossed it to the woman, who caught it effortlessly and looked at it in wonder. "You deserve to know how this started."

"Merci," she said softly, lost in thought. Then she looked back to Maddie sharply. "My name is Odette Sauvage. I trust you will not give it to anyone who'd misuse it."

"I'm Madeline Joyce-Frank, and I trust you to do the same."

The glimpse of a smile appeared on the woman's face. "When this is all over, if I am still alive, I want you to find me."

Maddie smiled back. "There are many friends I'll be finding for a cuppa after all this. I'm sure you'll make it out fine."

"And our deal still stands," Maddie concludes. "At least I assume it does - I haven't been in contact with her since, but the rumours of La Guillotine still pop up every few weeks."

"I wonder what she'd make of our little group," Roger mused. "I'm sure she'd find a kindred spirit in you, aye Todd?"

Mark smirked. "Terrible wordplay, sir. But I reckon we'd have an interesting conversation nonetheless."

The conversation took a turn away from sinister weapons towards the idea of a holiday in Paris after all this. Dreams of "after all this" were common these days, but it helped to take everyone's minds off of the storm, the war, and the shadows behind the curtain. Eventually they broke from lunch and went their separate ways - some for chess, some for Bridge, and some for simple conversation. Anthea and Mark in particular went to speak quietly near the window seat.

"Have you heard of any such things?" she asked. "Cursed weapons and the like."

"Are you asking me or the other guy?" Mark asked.

"Both."

Mark nodded. "It's not a common thing in my neck of the woods. That power folks encounter down there is more direct. Sometime's you'll hear about a witch with a magic staff, a special ring, or an enchanted mirror, but my gut tells me it's more about the person than what they're wieldin'. As for him..." Mark closed his eyes and listened. "He says there's plenty. Ebony Blades and Staffs of One. Traps for demons, shards of deep things thrust to the surface to find a wielder." He opens his eyes and shudders as he sits down. "How 'bout yourself?"

Anthea stares into the distance. "I never encountered them, but I always heard about the divine weapons forged by and for gods. I'm sure whatever power Hela used was one of them. Such a thing in the possession of mortals rarely ends well. And should they fall into the wrong hands -"

"Well, that's what we're here for, aren't we?" Mark says. "Making sure they don't fall into those hands."

Anthea nods and takes a seat beside him. "Why do I get the feeling our job won't end with the war?"

"This world swallows you up," Mark says in agreement.

Later on, Maddie excused herself took a leave from everyone just for a moment, returning to her room with a cup of coffee and a queer feeling. She checked her things and located her pistol, thinking back to the one time she'd spoken with Odette.

"There are many friends I'll be finding for a cuppa after all this. I'm sure you'll make it out fine."

Odette shook her head. "Non, madame. Should I still be alive when France is free, I want you to find me and put a bullet between my eyes."

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 10 April 1943

There’s a painting of a forest in the room Mark’s staying in.

He hadn’t picked it for that reason, but when he realizes it’s there he’s not shocked. It makes sense - Kentucky follows him wherever he goes. Surely it’s not the woods he’d grown up in that are painted here, but they have the same feeling. Likely something from the English countryside brought to the safe house to help whoever is staying there feel at home in the blustering sands, and capturing the glimmer of faeries waiting in the trees if not their images. Or maybe it’s German - a black forest, chock full of old witches and angry ghosts getting angrier by the day. Such a distinction likely doesn’t matter to the men in charge of the war. For Mark and his friends and all the others on the ground it’s a fight against evil, but for the uppermost echelons it’s likely just business. In the end it’s always business.

He’s lost in thought, staring deep into those rolling hills and painted trees, and he swirls a glass of whiskey in his hand but doesn’t drink. A shape hovers in the sky. A hawk. A crow. A vulture. There’s a scarecrow propped up just in front of the trees, it’s gaze looking just over Mark’s shoulder. It’s his turn to tell a story, they’ve decided, but the longer he thinks about his home the more his concern grows. It’s not that he lacks stories - far from it. He’s been around the county. He’s seen his fair share of h’aints and low things, and heard the stories about Granny and Green Eyes and the Stag.

The thing about stories is that if you tell them loud enough, the stories can hear you talking. And if they catch you talking in a way they don’t like, there’s always a chance they’ll come a’knockin’. People loved to say “speak of the Devil and the Devil shall appear”. Well, there are too many things back home that Mark’s not keen on calling out to.

“Something on your mind?” Pat asks from behind, and the sudden intrusion into Mark’s ruminations made him jump. A drop of drink leaps from the lip of the glass to his shirt. “Sorry,” Pat continues sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“‘sfine,” Mark mumbles, busying himself with drying the stain even though it’s practically invisible. He doesn’t normally startle easily, but when Pat’s around he can’t help but feel on edge.

You horny little shit! the other guy mocks from the recesses of his mind. Rode Frank all night and still can’t keep it in your pants.

Knock it off, jackass, Mark snaps back. He reckons he’s one of few people who can tell off something like Kushiel and live to tell the tale, and that’s something he’ll happily exploit for as long as he can. But...well, the old bastard has a point. Mark knows holding a torch for Pat is a lost cause, that’s why he was so willing to accept Robby’s offer the previous night. But try as he might this crush isn’t going away. He hasn’t felt this way since...

“Heh,” Mark chuckles, and Pat raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I was just thinking about what I should tell for my story.”

“I imagine you have plenty of options,” Pat replies.

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Mark nods. “Took me a minute to figure out which ones to pick. But I think I finally figured it out.”

“This all happened before stuff really picked up,” Mark says as they group gather in the sitting room. “Before Kushiel, before the mine, before the war. It was a hot summer, but one day we got hit by a massive thunderstorm. Now while it was going on it was a nightmare - houses getting blown over by winds, lightning hitting churches and burning them to the foundations, rain threatening to collapse the mining tunnels - but don’t think for a second that that was enough to convince Barrow and Locke to close them down. Still, once things eased up, you ain’t never seen a greener place than those woods.

Harlan, Kentucky, 7 June 1937

Despite the late hour the sun still hung just above the horizon, casting streaks of gold and violet across the sky. The chirps and chitters of night creatures were just beginning, and a hot breeze shook the tries as it flowed past young Mark Anthony Todd. He’d spent the day helping his uncle patch up his house and was on his way back to his own shed, hammer in hand, when his friend Homer Sharp careened into his side.

“Mark! What the hell are you doin’?” he asked as he wrapped his arm around the other boy. His green eyes and russet hair glowed in the sunset. His words and breath were tinged with alcohol.

“What am I doin’? What’re you doin’, slamming into me like that?” Mark laughed and shoved his friend away. “You’re lucky I didn’t brain you.”

“Pfft, like you could hurt a fly,” Homer mocked. “Listen, I was talking with Minnie earlier. She said that she was out past where the Mckenzie church used to be and saw a massive sinkhole out there, full of rainwater!”

“Okay?” Homer and Millie were always finding things. A broken down truck that would definitely run (they’d ended up needing to raid the junkyard for parts, and nearly got a face full of buckshot from Mrs. McGuire for it). Or an abandoned storage shed in the middle of nowhere that would be perfect for hiding moonshine (though Noah and Millie tended to use it for fooling around more than anything else). Mark frowned. “Oh no, you’re not thinking of taking a dive, are you?”

“Why not?” Homer asked innocently. “Come on, we always hear stories about those expensive hotels and universities out west with their big fancy pools. Why shouldn’t we get a chance to partake. Besides, the creek’s been dry for ages and this place’ll probably be the same in a few days considering how hot it is.” He patted Mark on the shoulder. “You should come. I invited Noah and Nancy too.”

Mark sighed. Deep in his stomach he knew it was a bad idea, but it had been incredibly hot before the storm - and after. He knew no matter what he did he’d be drenched in sweat when he crawled into bed that night, and despite the downpour from the past few days their town’s supply of drinking water was in short supply. The idea of cooling off - of having a little fun, even - it was too tempting.

“You said it’s up past the Mckenzie church?”

“You go there, turn East, and just before the tree line,” Homer confirmed. “Can’t miss it. But you should probably leave after sundown or the Sheriff’ll have a fuckin’ conniption.”

Mark chuckled. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll bring a plus one too.”

Homer let out a guffaw. “Oh, you? Sure, Mark Anthony Todd, the most celibate boy this side of the Mississippi!”

“I am not!” Mark moved to shove Homer again, but the other boy ducked down and began dashing away.

“You’re gonna be a priest one day buddy!” he called over his shoulder.

Mark just scoffed and waved him off. He didn’t care about Homer’s comments - he knew what he was about, and honestly he was pretty confident Homer did too and was just trying to get his goat. Didn’t change the fact that while Homer and Noah were able to play the field, Mark was usually benched. Trying to find a guy willing to mess around with him was a good way to get socked in the jaw, and while Mark could hold his own he wasn’t keen on having to explain himself to his parents if it happened too often.

He thought on this as he returned the hammer to his shed, then looked around. The town was growing ever-so-slowly, but it was growing nonetheless. The latest addition to the town map was a larger-than normal home just on the edge of town. Homer’s little brother called it a mansion, and while Mark wouldn’t go that far he also didn’t blame the kid - especially when comparing it to everyone else’s humble homes. For one thing there was a whole second story rather than just an attic. The paint was fresh, there were flower boxes hanging on the windows, and they even had a porch swing.

But a shack like that is what you get when you work for the railroad - or at least their books, and not the railroad itself. Mark’s dad had said they were probably old money from up North, with a man that bought a degree from his school and a job from his daddy, and wouldn’t expect anything less from his kid. The fact that they were the “Elder” family was rather damning as well.

It wasn’t the house that Mark was looking at, though, but the kid in front of it. Harvey.¹ He was struggling to read the book in his lap in the fading sunlight, glasses pressed close to his face and often adjusted so they didn’t slide off his short nose. He was a tiny little thing, likely never having experienced a day of hard labour - and probably wouldn’t either. The only thing in common he had with Mark was their age and, against all odds considering his upbringing, his temperament. He had been nothing but cordial to Mark when the two happened to cross paths, and despite Mark’s friends not trusting the kid he seemed sympathetic to the struggles the town went through. Hell, when Noah’s uncle had died after a cave-in, Harvey was the only member of his family who’d shown up with the rest of the community, and he didn't even know the guy.

Before he could stop them, Mark’s feet carried him over to the big house. When he was only a few yards away he stepped on and broke a stick, making Harvey snap his head up to see him. The boy’s stringy black hair fell over his glasses, and he swept it to the side. When he saw it was just Mark he smiled, showing a pair of snaggleteeth at the top. "Good evening, Mark."

“Evenin’,” Mark replied, stepping closer and putting his hands in his pockets. “How’s the book?”

Harvey held it up - Journey to the Center of the Earth. “It’s good. I’ve read it before, but I always liked it.”

Mark chuckled. “I doubt you’d find anyone else in this town who’d share your opinion. They’d either say we already hit the centre of the Earth, or that it’s not worth going that far because we’d probably hit Hell itself.”

Harvey nodded. “Yeah, I reckon so. Still, it’s fun to imagine a hidden, savage land down there.”

Mark shrugged. “I guess. Plenty of hidden things above ground too, though. Speaking of which...” He trailed off, scratching his arm. “Me and some of my friends are uh...well, one of my friends found a sink hole full of water from the storm big enough to swim in out in the woods. We’re headed down there later tonight after the sun goes down. Was wonderin’ if you’d like to join us.”

Harvey perked up for a moment, then sunk back into his seat. “I thought they didn’t like me that much.”

“I’m...sure they’ll be fine once they get to know you.” He took another step so he was close enough to tap the book with a finger. “Besides, if you’re always off in these worlds you’ll never get to know anyone in this world.”

Harvey closed the book. Mark could tell he wanted to come, but was too in his own head to say so, so he made the decision for him. “Tell you what - I’ll come back here in about an hour and a half. Meet me by the back window if you’re interested.” Then he took off back toward his own house.

"My parents had been working all day too, so after dinner they hit the hay pretty swiftly. But I waited around until dusk and crept out the door - it wouldn’t be the first or last time Homer had goaded me into galavanting around at night, so I was an expert by then.” He catches Robby giving a Cheschire grin out of the corner of his eye. “What?” he chirps at the older man.

"Oh, nothing, nothing,” Robby smirks. “I was young once.” Maddie gives him a playful smack. “Sorry. Continue.”

Mark rolls his eyes. Is he really that transparent? But he presses on. “Anyways, I did go over to Harvey’s house and found him waiting anxiously by the back window like I’d told him to. He made a fuss as I helped him clamber out of it, but I like I said I was an expert. I promised him his parents would never even know he’d been gone, then led the way to Homer’s sinkhole. That night the moon and stars were so bright that we barely needed a flashlight, but I brought one just in case - Harvey didn’t seem like the kind of kid who was used to traipsing through the wilderness.”

“You okay?” Mark asked as he caught Harvey. The other boy had tripped over a gopher hole and would’ve fallen flat on his face if not for Mark grabbing him by the shoulder and steadying him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harvey replied. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Mark said with a smile. He pointed forward in the wide clearing they were in. “There’s the church. And there’s the tree line.”

“Why’s the church abandoned?” Harvey asked.

“No one knows for sure,” Mark replied. “Some people say disrepair, but that thing’s been standing at least fifty years. Others say it’s haunted, or that a witch put a curse on the place.”

Harvey nodded, and Mark pretended not to notice the boy move to walk a little closer at his side. They reached the church and turned East, and were nearly out of it’s shadow when something lunged out from the shadows.

Harvey shrieked, and Mark readied his flashlight like a bludgeon, but didn’t swing when he heard a familiar laugh. “I got y’all!” Noah cackled.

Mark didn’t lower the light, still considering smacking some sense into his friend. “Asshole!” he snapped. “How long were you waiting in there?”

“Only five minutes,” Noah snickered. He still practically disappeared into the shadows of the church thanks to his coal black hair. He looked past Mark. “Ugh. You brought the Elder kid?”

“Be nice, Noah.” Mark jabbed a finger in his friend’s chest. “He hasn’t got any other friends in town, I’m trying to be nice.”

Noah groaned. “Whatever, ya bleeding heart. As long as he can keep up.” Then he took off on a jog towards the woods. Mark shook his head but couldn’t help but smile as he grabbed Harvey’s arm. “Come on, let’s go!” He practically dragged the smaller boy alongside him and they followed Noah across the field, and as they got closer they could hear laughing from Mark’s other friends. Sure enough, just before the trees started sprouting was a downward slope in the ground leading right into a massive hole, nearly ten meters across. Homer, Minnie, and Nancy were swimming around in it. Minnie’s normally curly red hair was pasted to the back of her head from the water. Nancy’s long blonde hair drifted all around her, and Mark watched as she ducked beneath the water, emerged, then smacked her hair into Homer’s face to send him sputtering. The whole crew laughed.

“There you are!” Nancy called. “Noah, get in here!”

Noah didn’t have to be told twice, peeling his shirt off and shucking his jeans, underwear, and shoes off in one go. Harvey balked at the sudden nudity, and looked to the girls who he now realized were naked as well. Minnie caught him staring as her breasts poked just above the water line. “What’s wrong with your friend Mark? Has he never seen a tit before?”

“Y-yeah I have,” Harvey sputtered without much conviction.

Mark grimaced and turned to him. “Hey if this is uncomfortable it’s okay,” he said quietly. You don’t have to stick around.”

“No, it’s f-fine,” Harvey insisted. Mark was worried the kid would be scared off, but he could see the desperation in his eyes as he placed his glasses in his shirt pocket before unbuttoning it. He was somehow both scrawny and pudgy underneath his clothes. Mark thought of a hundred different ways that he and his friends would mock him, and silently hoped that his friends wouldn’t take that bait. He turned away when Harvey pulled his pants down, wanting to leave him with a little bit of dignity, and started stripping himself. Once they were ready he gave Harvey an encouraging nod and the two took a short run before jumping into the centre of the hole.

The rush of cold water was better than anything he’d felt in the past month. He felt it hit his skin and wash away all the sweat, the grit, and the dread that had built up. He opened his eyes and saw Harvey right in front of him, limbs splayed out in every direction, his own eyes wide with wonder and his cheeks puffed out with held breath. They looked to each other for a few very long seconds before their lungs urged them to surface, and after they did and took big breaths again Mark spied Harvey absolutely beaming. “That was awesome!” he cried out as he started treading water.

Mark has leaned back into the sofa, thinking back to that night. It had been fun when it started out, and it was hard not to get lost in hopeful nostalgia these days. “We spent the next half hour swimming back and forth, sharing rumours from around town, and taking sips from the bottle of whisky Minnie had lifted from the Sheriff’s station. Poor Harvey had never had a drink either, so it was fun when he tried a little too much and ended up having a coughing fit.” Then his face falls. Just like everything, good times only last so long.

“Anyway, at some point someone started challenging the others to swim to the bottom of the sinkhole. Nobody had managed it, and it was deep enough that we couldn’t even see it, but we were dumb kids who would never back down from a dare.” He lets out a breath. “I don’t know if Noah reached the bottom or not. If he didn’t...I can’t help but wonder if things would’ve been even worse.”

“Watch me,” Noah said with a smirk as he swam to the centre of the hole.”

“It’s not like we can see shit anyway,” Nancy snarked as she watched him. “I bet you five bucks you won’t reach the bottom.”

“Ooh, don’t say shit like that,” Mark grimaced. “Then he’ll just lie and say he did it anyway.”
Noah raised his eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Todd?”

“Yeah, I’m challenging you to not be a dumbass,” Mark said dryly. He was reclining on the edge of the hole, Harvey right beside him, and he heard the boy giggle under his breath.

Noah pointed a finger at Mark. “I’ll never say no to doing something stupid. When I touch the bottom, you’ll know.” And before anyone could convince him not to, he took a big breath and went under.

After a minute, Minnie spoke up. “Does anyone know how long he can actually hold his breath?”

“I mean, if he drowned his body would’ve popped up anyway,” Homer said casually.

“Eugh!” Nancy made a face and smacked his shoulder. “That’s disgusting.”

There was a burst of waves as Noah suddenly burst out from the water, his expression no longer as confident as when he’d first dove under. “There’s - there’s something down there!” he gasped.

Minnie scoffed. “Oh please, it’s a sinkhole. What could possibly be in here?”

“Otter maybe?” Nancy asked.

“It wasn’t an otter,” Noah shuddered. “It was way bigger.” Then his eyes went wide for a flash before he suddenly went underneath again.

“Noah?!” Nancy cried out in shock.

“It’s a prank,” Homer said, but the quiver in his face gave away his doubt.

Mark didn’t wait to see one way or the other, instead ducking underneath himself. He opened his eyes just in time to see Noah being dragged further down, and something wrapped around his leg as the other boy struggled. Mark pushed off the edge of the hole and swam as fast as he could towards his friend, grabbing his outstretched arm and then kicking at whatever entity was pulling him down.

The tug of war lasted too long. Mark could feel his vision grow hazy as his lungs burned, but he wasn’t going to let go. Then all too easily the resistance was gone, but it was too late - Mark didn’t have the energy to get back to the surface. He reached his other hand up in silent prayer.

And Harvey took it, pulling the other two towards the surface. Mark nearly swallowed the water when he breached, and his lungs seared in agony, but he was out and so was Noah. But any relief turned to horror when he glimpsed the pool of crimson surrounding the three of them. Homer joined Harvey in dragging them to the edge of the hole where the girls were waiting, already pulling their clothes back on. Noah wasn’t breathing, and in a panic Homer began hammering away at the boys back.

“Oh God, his leg!” Nancy cried out in terror. Mark looked down and felt nauseous at the sight - Noah’s leg, or what was left of it, had been torn open and apart. Whatever had grabbed him was strong enough to tear through flesh and break bone, and now a pulpy stringy mess hung from just under his knee.

“Come on! Come on man!” Homer screamed as he tried to slam the water out from Noah’s lungs. Finally and with a great wretching the boy vomited the liquid out from his chest before collapsing hard back to the ground.

“Run...” he croaked.

Then a creature burst from the water. Mark only saw a glimpse of it - metallic skin that looked like an oil slick and an inhuman maw - before it dug its claws into Noah’s other leg and dragged him away. There was a great thrashing in the water and more blood filled the hole, then suddenly it went still.

“Run,” Mark repeated, and the surviving three boys quickly pulled their pants back on before grabbing their shirts and bolting away along with the girls. Mark’s heart twinged as he realized Mark’s clothes had been left on the bank, a grim marker of his grave, but there was no time to do anything about it. They had to run.

They didn’t know if the monster was chasing them. They didn’t know what it was. They didn’t know if there were more of them. All they could do is flee. They cut through the taller grass of the field, angling straight towards Harlan instead of bothering with stopping by the Church. Nancy had the longest legs and pulled ahead of them. Mark kept looking back to Harvey, but the kid must’ve had a gallon of adrenaline pumping through his body to keep up with the others. Minnie wasn’t so lucky. Her foot must’ve been caught on another gopher hole because she let out a cry of terror as she went down, and the others were going so fast that they were already far ahead of her before they registered it.

“Minnie!” Homer cried out and turned back to her, but it was just in time to see another creature burst from the ground and latch on to her. Minnie’s death rattle mixed with it’s inhuman shrieking

“, and Homer would’ve been next if I hadn’t been quick enough to grab his arm and drag him away. I think the only reason it wasn’t chasing us down was because it was feeding - that’s what the crunching noise we heard must’ve been, I think. Either way it wasn’t pursuing, at least in that moment. We could see the town lights flickering in the distance, but then Nancy skidded to a stop. I didn’t have to ask why - I saw it too. Another creature standing in the field between them and the town, crouched down like some kind of unnatural ape. We could hear it hiss from the distance and the four of us turned tail again.”

It takes Emily lacing her fingers into his own for Mark to realize how quick his pace had gotten. He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Guess I'm getting a little carried away, huh?” Taking a breath, he tries to continue the recounting without getting too caught up in the details. "Anyways, we ran back to the church when we realized we were being flanked. Homer slammed the door behind him and I tried to comfort Nancy as she started freaking out. She'd been uh...close. With Noah. We'd all been, except Harvey, who was huddled in a corner and muttering something under his breath. I looked around for weapons and found a few crowbars and shovels laying in the corner, so I passed them around and we prepared for the creatures to attack.

"It took a minute. I don't know if they couldn't find us or they were still busy...feeding. But eventually we heard them outside - scraping their claws on the walls, their faces appearing briefly in the windows. Harvey said there were three of them; I don't know where the third one came from but it wasn't like I was about to question that sort of thing in that situation. At one point one of them managed to get it's arm through a boarded up window, and we just started hacking at it in a panic. Homer actually managed to chop it off with his shovel, and when it came off it started - melting? I think?" Mark shakes his head. "For a minute we got excited - if we could do that then we might be able to kill them. Instead it only encouraged the monsters because soon we heard even more of them around us. Nancy was in hysterics and Homer was screaming at them to come after him, like he could intimidate them with his bravado. Harvey and I were back to back, readying ourselves for whatever came through next.

"Then we heard gunshots. Blasts from a shotgun, and the creatures shrieking in pain. The scraping on the walls stopped and we heard them run away, and the gunshots kept coming until it went silent. After it seemed like it was over we carefully went outside and saw a woman. She looked like an old-timey cowboy with her hat and her shotgun, and when she turned to look at us it was with nothing but kindness.² She came to us, asked if we were alright, gave her condolences for our friends. Then she told us to head back to town, and that she'd bring Millie and Noah's bodies back in the morning."

"So. What was the official report when two kids turned up dead?" Michael asks.

Mark shrugs. "Animal attack. That's the norm when stuff like this happens. We told the sheriff we'd been looking for the pool and some wolves showed up, and that was that. Case closed. It's not like we'd be able to get justice against the creatures anyway. You know...I still don't know what they are. I ain't never heard of Low Things like that, and the fact that they could be chased off with a shotgun makes me think they were alive in some way. Harvey called them 'Morlocks', like the subterranean monsters from the Wells novel. Sometimes I wonder if he blabbed, because every so often you'll hear about some monster or another popping up in the Kentucky area, but I never saw them again.³ So yeah. Case closed."

A silence falls over the room at the conclusion of the tale, and Mark feels the need to lighten things up. "For what it's worth, Nancy recovered. She went to Louisville to become a nurse. And Homer had a good life for what was left. His little brother's alright now too. Harvey got a scholarship even bigger than I did and went to New York - last I heard he was working on some secret project for the war effort. And me, well -" He gestures to himself. "Y'all already know that tale."

It's an hour or so later when Pat finds Mark in his room again, still looking at that painting, smoking pensively. "Afternoon," he says as he takes a seat next to him on the bed. "You doing alright?"

"I don't know," Mark replies. "Sometimes I feel like I got a cloud hanging over my head. Sorry for bringing the mood down."

Pat shrugs. "I don't think anyone's going to hold that against you. All of our tales have been grim to a certain extent." Mark makes a noncommittal noise, and Pat looks him up and down. He doesn't look any worse than usual, and he doesn't know if that's a good or a bad sign. "Say, when you were talking about Harvey, Robby made a crack and I - I don't want to assume, but were you and he..?" The question trails off, but the intent is clear.

Mark, though, has had a rough day between the talk of sinister artifacts and old gods and the story of two of his friends dying. He feels heat flare up in his heart and he doesn't know if it's from the other guy or his own frustration at Pat's seeming obliviousness. "Yup. We fucked," he snaps. "And I fucked Robby last night too. Thanks for noticing." He puts his cigarette out in his palm and storms off, leaving Pat to sit there in surprise.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 10 April 1943

There's something sour in the air, Roger can feel it. It's not just the storm making all the air progressively stale - the mood has been shifting downward ever since the previous night. Sharing ghost stories is all fun and games until one realizes that they're true, and instead of pushing the war further away they're reminding everyone that the world has been a scary place long before, and it will be after.

Dinner comes and goes without fanfare. Maddie insists that Emily and Pat relax instead of washing the dishes, so she and Michael are in the kitchen instead. Roger has managed to coax Mark out of his room for a game of chess, but the banter between them falls flat and is replaced with simple statements of moves. "Rook to E4," Mark murmurs.

"Bishop to E4, bishop takes rook."

"Knight to E4, knight takes bishop."

Roger reaches out to move his pieces, then regards the state of the board again. "Well Mr. Todd, I do believe you've got me in checkmate."

Mark looks closer. "Huh. I guess so. Good game."

The young man begins to place his pieces back in starting position, but Roger has other ideas. "Right then. I think it's high time for a story with a happy ending." Roger stands and claps his hands together. "Alright everyone, I believe it was my turn to spin a yarn. Gather round, all!" He gives Mark a warm smirk after this, and Mark isn't quite sure what to make of it.

Once the rest of the crew are assembled, Roger takes position at the head of the room. "So. The year was 1929 - the summer before I met Michael." Michael nods in acknowledgement. "Before that, my family managed to swing a favour from a distant relative and head down to Leven's Hall for a few weeks. It was in a bit of a limbo at the time - almost every time somebody inherited the place they died."¹

"It was...cursed?" Pat asks, clearly unsure whether this was the direction the tale was headed.

Roger frowns. "You know, I'm not actually sure. I don't think so - I think it was just rotten luck. Anyways, it had been passed down to a man who had no interest in actually inhabiting it, so he started letting it out to whoever wanted to visit. I think it was father's...cousin who booked it for the time we were there, and he'd graciously invited me and my parents to stay there.

Levens Hall, Cumbria, 19 July 1929

"My Goodness!" the thirteen-year old Roger declared as the car pulled into the driveway The estate was more grand than anything he'd ever seen back in Hebden, at least three stories tall - maybe four! - and sprawling out in every direction with massive wings. What really caught his eye was the gardens. Glorious topiaries emerged from both sides of the way, carved to resemble animals and chess pieces and abstract geometric shapes.² "And we have the whole run of the place?"

"Not quite," his father muttered. "Cousin Reginald is also here with his twins - they're a little older than you. And another family here - the Worthingtons, I think?" He sighed. "Rather cramped, it sounds."

"Oh relax darling," Roger's mother pressed. "I'm sure it will be lovely. I mean, just look at the view!" She turned back to Roger. "And just think dear, with Levens being let I'm sure you'll find a young woman to woo."

"Girlfriend for Roger!" his little sister Lydia sang with a giggle.

"Oh hush up," Roger snipped, not even bothering to feign interest. He'd much rather wander the gardens and take in the sights, or look at whatever works of art had been collected for the manor over the past centuries. As he gazed out he could see other guests in the gardens - a pair of rambunctious looking kids that were likely the twins, and a stately woman in grey with vibrant red hair.

When the car stopped a group of servants was there to take their luggage, with a chubby and warm-looking woman there to guide them. Lydia fell silent when she saw the other people, gripping her mother's hand and hiding behind her. "Hello!" the woman said in a not-quite British accent. "I am Emese Pokorni, the head housekeeper for the Hall. So happy to welcome you here." As she led them inside she told them all about the grounds, where each of the studies, tea rooms, and libraries were, who they could talk to if they wished to know more about the art around them, and when dinner was served. "The kitchen is open all night, so if you find yourself requiring a small snack or drink they will be happy to help." As Roger looked around at the expansive place he'd be staying in for the next two weeks, he felt something brush against his hand. He looked over and saw a little girl, a little bit older than Lydia, staring at him from behind the bars of a stair rail. She was holding a folded up piece of paper and nudging his hand with it.

"Illa!" Emese suddenly snapped. The girl let out a small gasp before running up the stairs. "Apologies," Emese said with a forced smile. "My daughter, Ilona, she lives here with me but has been acting out recently. I assure you, she will not be a bother to you or your friends. Excuse me." Then she followed up the stairs after her daughter while shouting in Hungarian.

No one noticed that Roger had accepted the paper from the little girl. While his parents discussed the beauty of the estate and the attitudes of the help, and Lydia fidgeted while clutching mother's hand in a death grip, Roger unfolded it. Inside was a crude drawing of a man - at least he thought it was a man. He wore a dark brown coat with a red doublet underneath, but his face - it must've been a mask, because it was just a circle of black with three garish white lines struck through it. Next to the figure, in the crude handwriting of a child, were the words "Mister Knife".³

"Sounds like a crude sequel to Jack the Ripper," Edie muses.

"That's what I thought too," Roger replies. "I wondered if somehow this little girl had gotten a hold of some old Penny Dreadfuls and was letting her imagination get the better of her. I saw her a few other times throughout the following days, always keeping her eyes on me, but it was a while before I was able to actually speak with her directly. One of the days we were going through the gardens."

He'd seen her out the corner of his eye, but he didn't say a word. His parents were debating the artistic merits of one topiary piece in particular, and Lydia had deigned to stay inside and read some books. Roger seemed to be the only person who'd spotted the girl hiding behind the bush, so when he excused himself to look around further in his parents halfheartedly told him not to get lost and didn't question anything further. When Roger was out of their sight he doubled back around the corner and marked the girl wandering around by herself. "Good afternoon," he called softly, and when she saw him she froze like a deer in torch lights. He couldn't tell from her expression whether she wanted to run up to him or flee at the sight, so he was slow and friendly in his approach. "I've seen you around the house a few times - your name's Illa, right?"

The girl hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I'm Illa. Illa Pokorni."

Roger smiled, and got close enough to reach a hand out. "Nice to meet you. I'm -"

"Roger," Illa said suddenly. "Roger...Aubrey." Roger's eyes widened in surprise, but he figured she must've over heard his name elsewhere. And she still took his hand and shook it excitedly.

"Do you like being in the gardens?" he asked her.

"Yeah. They let me come out here because mum's the head housekeeper, as long as I don't break anything." She smiled finally. "It's nice out hear. Quiet."

Roger nodded. "Yeah, it sure is. Have you met my sister?" He nodded back towards the house. "She's a little shy, but I'm sure she'd be fun to play with once she got to know you. And she's not much younger than you."

Illa shook her head. "No, I...she's too young to help me."

Roger's face fell. He'd had a feeling the girl was in some sort of trouble, but didn't want to scare her off by approaching the topic head-on. "Are you alright? I can get an adult if you'd like -"

"No!" she said suddenly. "I mean...I've already asked the grown-ups to help, but they don't believe me. But do you?"

"Well, that depends on what you're asking." Roger pulled out the paper that he'd been holding on to the entire time and unfolded it again. "Does it have anything to do with Mister Knife?"

Illa fell silent, but nodded.

"Who is he?"

"A bad man. He's mean to children."

Roger nodded. "Alright. And how did you hear about him?"

Illa looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. "I see things sometimes. Things that people are thinking, or things that haven't happened yet." She poked the picture. "I started seeing him a few weeks ago."

Roger sighed. "Okay. And you think he's going to - what? Hurt you?"

"I think so," Illa said. "I tried telling mum, but she thought I had an overactive imagination. And none of the guests like when servant children try to talk to them."

"Not surprising there," Roger muttered. "Right then. How can I help?"

Illa opened her mouth but nothing came out. "I...I don't know. I didn't think anyone would believe me." She giggled a little.

Roger patted her shoulder. "Well, until we figure that out maybe you should stay close. I bet if you play with my sister I can keep an eye on you. That way if Mister Knife tries to come for you, he'll have to go through me." He offered his hand, and Illa took it. The two walked hand-in-hand out of their little section of the gardens and turned the corner, finding not Roger's parents but the stately, grey-clad woman.

"Ah!" Roger yelped as the two of them stopped. "Sorry miss, you startled us. Um, did you see where my parents went? Tall people, hair like mine, my mum was dressed in yellow?"

The woman said nothing, just pointed in another direction of the intersection. "Right. Thanks!" Roger said before he and Illa hurried off.

Around this time Maddie and Robby reenter the room with a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits they'd tracked down in the back of the pantry. "Extrasensory perception, hmm?" Maddie comments. "We've seen quite a few claims of that in my office. Everyone thinks they can psychically tell when another air raid is coming."

"I saw some files on that too," Michael adds. "I think they were looking into that sort of thing for Operation Meridian before they went the serum route."

"In truth, I still thought the girl was having an overactive imagination - but I also figured that if her parents weren't going to help her then maybe the least I could do was make her feel safer. So her, me, and Lydia stayed close whenever we could. Most of our stay was fairly uneventful, though I spotted the woman in grey far more often than before I'd thrown my lot in with Illa. I didn't realize how, er, supernatural the situation was until near the end of our stay."

"I'll take my dinner in the other room, if that's alright?" Roger offered.

His father frowned. "Roger, you're plenty old enough to dine with the rest of the adults, and you have the decorum for it anyways. Why waste time with the children?"

"Oh, I just...I figured I could keep an eye on Lydia and Illa. Give the maid a bit of a break."

His father groaned. "I don't know where you get these ideas from Roger, but you don't need to be so sympathetic to the servants. They know what they got into when they took their jobs, and besides -"

His mother interrupted at that point. "Oh do give it a rest dear. Can't you see the boy just wants to spend time with his sister? Ignore your father dear, you go ahead." Roger nodded and said a quick thanks before scurrying off with his plate - though not before hearing his mother continue ribbing his father. "You should be happy they get along - me and my horrid brother tormented each other all our youths and now we never speak to each other - he summers in Bath, but would he invite me? Perish the thought!"

Roger chuckled as he put his food down at the table where Lydia and Illa had already started. "What does your dad do?" Lydia asked the other girl.

"Oh, I don't know," Illa said softly. "I never met him. My mum says he was a nice man, but he had to leave for work and never came back."

Roger grimaced, wondering if the story Illa heard from her mother was a way to keep her from finding out that the man abandoned the family - or worse, fell prey to the Great War. "Well, he must've been a good man since you're such a nice young lady."

Illa giggled. "Thanks Roger."

Then pain shot through Roger's head. He grimaced and tried to clutch it, but he could barely move his hands. His eyes flickered around but everything was blurry, and the sound around him was muted like he was underwater. He heard Illa shouting in panic, but he couldn't do anything to help. And he could hear...someone approaching from behind him. He only heard what the other presence said when he was right next to him.

"...shrieking, kid. This'll all be over soon. These people won't even remember you were..."

After several painful minutes everything subsided, and Roger looked around frantically. "Where's Illa?" he asked.

Lydia looked at him queerly. "Who?" she asked. His sister looked none the worse for wear, like she didn't even realize what had just happened.

"Illa! The housekeeper's daughter," Roger said, standing up and panicking now.

"The housekeeper doesn't have a daughter, silly," Lydia said.

"Then whose plate is that?" Roger asked, pointing at the abandoned food.

"Uh..." Lydia trailed off, clearly not knowing how to respond. And Roger didn't wait, instead bolting out of the small study and into the main dining room.

"Did anyone see Illa?" he asked loudly - loudly enough that the other folk gathered there tutted at his uncouth demeanour.

"Roger, please calm down. It's rude to interrupt dinner like this," his father said curtly. Roger could see in there eyes that they hadn't noticed anything strange either, so he didn't even bother questioning them further. He ran from there as well, towards the front door, but on his way he passed a fireplace and impulsively grabbed a poker from it in case he needed to fight someone...like Mister Knife.

When he got outside he saw the man from Illa's drawings as clear as day, right down to the mask with three white lines. he didn't have time to question how he could see anything through it because the man was also carrying Illa, hoisted over his shoulder with her mouth gagged. To her credit the girl was struggling as hard as she could to get out, but to no avail.

Roger huffed in fear and anger and took off running towards the man, hoping a strike to the head would loosen his grip and Illa could get free. But when he was within a few feet he suddenly stopped, though not of his own volition. His desperate grunts to try and free himself from whatever visible force was keeping him from moving caught the attention of Mister Knife, who turned to him. "Huh. Guess this kid can resist your powers Min'dsa."⁴

The grey-clad woman stepped out from behind a bush. "Apparently." She spoke in a voice that sounded like it came from everywhere at once. "Perhaps this is another of his children, like the girl?"⁵

Mister Knife held out some contraption resembling a radio and pointed it at Roger. "Nah. Must be something home-grown. Nothing we need be concerned about."

"Let...her...go!" Roger managed to growl.

Mister Knife rolled his eyes. "It's like a told this one, kid. Just relax, and soon enough you won't even remember this girl was here."

Roger roared, and in a sudden show of willpower he swung out with the fire poker. Mister Knife let out a yelp and let go of Illa, who tumbled to the ground. The other woman (Mind'sa?) seemed startled, because Roger felt the force around him suddenly lift. "Run!" he shouted, and Illa complied by dashing into the topiary.

"Get her!" Mister Knife snapped, and his compatriot ran in after her. But Roger wasn't going to let Illa handle this alone, so he smacked Mister Knife again and took off after them.

During the day the topiary was beautiful, but at night it was positively disturbing. Every odd shaped seemed to twist into another person until you got a good look at them, and the light of the moon only made the shadows present dance around more. Every so often Roger felt a shot of pain go through his head - clearly that grey woman using...whatever ability she had to try and shut him down like she had the others in the house. He didn't know how he was able to get past her, and he didn't care - he only wanted to make sure Illa was safe. He heard footsteps around the corner and whirled in the hopes he'd found her, but instead he collided directly with the woman.

The two stumbled backwards, and Roger saw the woman's vibrant hair become dishevelled - too much for a normal person. The woman snarled in frustration and tore it away, causing Roger cried out in horror - she didn't have a normal head under that wig. It looked like a giant brain, pulsing and twitching with massive veins crawling back and forth across it.

"You little brat!" she called out, the sound reverberating against the hedges. "I don't care if you put up a little resistance - that just means I need to hit you harder." She held her hand up, and Roger cried out in agony. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as he felt his entire brain begin to heat up.

"No!" Somebody ran in front of Roger - Illa. He wanted to tell her to run, not to worry about him, but he could barely speak. But Illa was staring the woman down. "I don't want you to come after me ever again!" the little girl yelled, and then she held up her own hand.

To Roger's shock, the pain eased a little - but then he panicked when he saw Illa begin trembling. Whatever this grey woman could do, Illa could also do - and she was taking all the hits meant for Roger. He crawled around to try and stop her and saw blood trickling from her nose and eyes. If he didn't do something soon, she wouldn't last long. He looked to the woman, and saw that something was happening to her as well - she seized, and a green fluid came from her face as well.

He only had one chance. Grabbing the poker from where it had fallen, he limped towards the woman. "Leave...us...alone..." he muttered before pulling the poker back and thrusting it directly into her exposed brain. The woman let out a strangling noise before falling to the ground, pools of horrid green liquid pouring out of the wound. Roger immediately felt sick and couldn't help losing his dinner at the sight before passing out himself.

"When I came to it was like it had never happened," Roger says. "Illa told me that when she dragged me back into the house every else was acting like they were in a trance. When my parents asked why we were so dirty Illa said a bat had flown in the window and I fell outside and hit my head trying to get it out." He chuckles. "I don't think they bought it, but that night was so weird that everyone essentially disregarded it."

"What happened to that woman?" Pat asks, though from the queasy look on his face Roger can tell he's a little disturbed by how she met her demise.

"According to Illa she melted," Roger answers, then gives Pat an apologetic look as the man turns away and starts taking deep breaths. "And whatever Illa did to stop her took away her own sixth sense. She said she 'broke it'. I told her that it was probably for the best, since I had a feeling Mister Knife was after her because of them. We left a few days later, nobody the worse for wear and everyone on good terms."

Emily smiles as she takes a sip of her tea. "Well, it was nice to hear one of these have a somewhat happier ending." Everyone murmurs in agreement - well, almost everyone. Mark still looks like he's a thousand miles away. Roger sighs internally - maybe a happy little tale isn't what he needs right now, but he's not exactly sure what will help the man feel better. And with Mark retiring soon after it's not like he gets much of a chance to check in on him.

Soon it's just him and Michael sitting together in the study. "You know, there's something odd about that story," Michael says with a small smirk.

"Oh?" Roger asks coyly. "And what's that?"

"Well - you being a heroic saviour of a girl from two kidnappers in your youth? That happening so soon before we met?" Michael chuckles. "I just can't believe you never told me that story. Even a version a little more down to Earth. I can't help but wonder if my infatuation with you would've come along faster if you'd convinced me you were a knight in shining armour."

"'Infatuation', hmm?" Roger repeats, and Michael soon regrets his choice of words - but just a little. Roger moves to sit next to him. "To be honest, I actually didn't remember much of that story myself until a few months ago. Before then it all seemed like a blur, but then I had my...development...and it seemed as clear as day."

Michael looked the man up and down. "Perhaps whatever powers you gained...the ones that made you an 'inhuman'...maybe they leaked through a little in your youth. Maybe that's why you didn't remember the story until after that."

"Perhaps," Roger answered, leaning closer to Michael and inconspicuously stretching his arm to rest on the back of the sofa behind the other man. "So, do you see me like that now?"

"Like how?"

"As a knight in shining armour."

Michael sighs. "Well. You certainly are shinier than before."

"Michael."

 "Yes, Roger?"

"Why all this distance?" Michael starts to reply, but Roger cuts him off. "I know we had our differences, but I'd wager we were on the road to making up until all this broke out. And when you stop and think about everything, isn't it rather silly to let some arguments get between us?"

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?"

Roger looks into Michael's eyes, and Michael looks back. Really looks. "Bollocks," he mutters before grabbing Roger's shirt and pulling him in close to kiss him after far too long.

Knowhere, Third Cranial Hub, Rotation 29 - 19th Apex

"Please, sir, I can -" is all Mister Knife can sputter out before the older-looking man grabs him by the throat and lifts him into the air.

"You can what? You can explain?" Ego snaps, putting pressure on his mercenary's throat. "You can explain how you let our strongest asset get killed by a child? How you let my daughter burn out every trace of my heritage before I even had a chance to meet her?"

"I - I can - I can go back!" Mister Knife tries to speak while his windpipe is crushed.

"Why bother? She's a pathetic, powerless human now. She can't do a thing for me." Ego sighs before looking at Mister Knife one last time. "And neither can you." He snaps the man's neck like one would snap a twig.

As he strode back to his ship, he let his many thoughts wander. We were so close, we were doing so well - apparently this girl had powers not often found in her species! Amazing! But then Knife had to go and fuck it all up, and I'm back to square one. Maybe I should try the Ravagers again - surely not all of them are bound by that pathetic honour code. And I'll have to circle back to Earth at some point - clearly human DNA can support my abilities to a certain degree. But not yet - I've got too many irons in the fire to worry about that planet right now.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 11 April 1943

Michael awakens to an empty spot next to him on the bed. It takes his brain a moment to remember why he expected something different, and when he does he sits up and looks around. It doesn't take him long to spot Roger - he sits next to the window as he stares out it pensively, silhouetted by the dim light struggling to get through the storm. But the fact that there's light at all visible is a sign that the storm's easing up - it looks like they'll be leaving on schedule after all.

Roger turns when he hears Michael getting out of bed and shuffling his drawers on. "Good morning darling."

"Are we really there again already?" Michael asks as he sits next to him.

Roger chuckles softly. "I don't see why not."

"Look Roger, last night was great, but I don't want to get invested in something like this when we're not likely to get another moment's peace until the entire Axis is dismantled."

Roger rolls his eyes. "What an abysmally cynical point of view." Michael cocks an eyebrow, and Roger continues. "Did it ever cross your mind that the entire reason I wanted to get back with you is because of everything that's going on? Christ, the only thing that could make this war any more unbearable than it already is would be if we spent the next year or so dancing around the subject of us."

Michael's a little speechless, but just for a moment. "I feel like you're dramatically underestimating how bad a war can get."

"Well, you know me."

"Yes," Michael admits, "I suppose I do." He doesn't realize he's reached out to take Roger's hand until he feels his fingers intertwine with his own, but the feeling is nostalgic and he doesn't argue. "So what are you proposing - acting the way we did back at school and not worrying about the 'what are we' talking until Hitler and Mussolini have matching graves?"

Roger purses his lips and shrugs. "Sounds about right. The way things are going we should probably toss Schmidt in there too. Honestly, I'd tear the entire Third Reich apart if it meant getting to spend another night with you."

Michael grins sheepishly, and suddenly it's more than just the held hand giving him nostalgia. He reaches up to cup Roger's face and kisses him, slowly, softly, warmly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he murmurs.

There's an acrid smell when the two descend for breakfast. "What in God's name?" Roger mutters as he sees Pat desperately trying to put out a small fire emanating from a pan of what resembles burnt tar.

"Morning boys!" Pat declares with bemusement that seemed in denial of his current state. "Breakfast took a bit of a turn, sorry to say."

"He tried making a 'tattie scone'," Anthea clarifies from her seat in the distance. She's currently waving a magazine in Pat's general direction to keep the smoke from reaching her.

"Mum always said I wasn't meant for the kitchen, but let it never be said I didn't try." He jumps back as another bout of flame bursts from the stove, but it vanishes just as quickly with a snapping sound. Pat breathes in relief, then turns and sees Mark up and about. "Morning Mark! Was that you?"

"Yeah," Mark replies. He sounds less sullen then before, and Michael doesn't know if the boy is doing better or is just as bewildered as the others by Pat's antics. "Do you need a hand?"

Cooking seems to help pull Mark out of his dim persuasion. Pat had wrecked the last of the potatoes, but Mark finds cornmeal and makes 'grits' with cheese and garlic, which Edith compares to polenta dishes she's had before. It's quite good, and everyone is sure to compliment Mark on his work after the meal.

"So, who do we have left?" Robbie says heartily as he cleans the dishes. He pauses to count on his fingers. "Vampires, wolves, bees, gods, creatures, swordsmen, and a masked marauder. I think that just leaves Michael and Emily."

"Carter can go next," Emily says quickly. "I'm still trying to figure out how to tell mine - I want to make sure you're entertained."

Michael balks. "I...hate to admit it, but I'm not sure I have anything to share." He's met with a chorus of doubtful gazes. "I'm serious! My life was rather mundane until I had to fake my own death, and I've shared most everything that's happened since."

"Surely there's something," Edie says with an encouraging pat on Michael's shoulder. "What about the first time you were in Egypt?"

Michael thinks back. "What, for my study term? Edie, that was just a dream."

"Mine felt like a dream for the longest time," Emily counters.

"Aye, as did mine," Pat adds.

"And I'm pretty sure the dead man who wandered out of nowhere in the desert was real," Edie continues.

"Dead man in the desert?" Roger repeats in surprise. "I've never heard about this - now you have to tell us."

Michael sighs. "Well...I suppose in hindsight it seemed rather...suspect. Though I should clarify that he wasn't dead when he showed up; he succumbed to his wounds a few hours after we encountered him." He takes a swig of coffee, then leans back on the couch to think back. Coming here for school six years ago...it feels like another life. It might as well be, all things considered. "I was at the Egyptian University in Giza - it's the Fu'ād al-Awwal University these days¹. Came down to study history and mythology. Back then, I wanted to be an archaeologist.

Giza, Egypt, 18 October 1937

"Up late again, Michael?"

Michael looked up from the textbook he'd been pouring over to see Professor Mogart peering at him from behind his half-moon glasses². "Oh, yessir. I must've lost track of time." He looked around the library and realized that he was also the only person left in the building at this hour, and his research quest had actually left quite the trail across the reading tables.

Professor Mogart just smiled. "I understand. I'd be lying if I said I'd never lost myself in a fascinating text." He approached and peeked at the cover of the tome in Michael's hands. "'Goddess Cults'. Interesting - I was under the assumption that your other teacher had given you a paper to write on ancient Egyptian crop rotations."

Michael sheepishly smiled. "I - well, yes, I suppose he did, but I only took that class to get a better insight into historical context. You know my heart's always been set on ancient myths and history."

He stood up and started trying to retrace his steps while Professor Mogart observed. "I couldn't have guessed; you only signed up for every course on the two subjects."

"Hah!" Michael chirped from the distance as he examined a book. "Ah, here we go. See I started out with this one, which is a bunch of recovered records on crops that date back several hundred years. There's mention of a disease going around but not much detail - probably because it was too obvious and extraneous to record something like that at the time. Still, I wanted to see if there was anything I could connect it to of the times, so I went looking for other records from the time that had been recovered." He looked around and held up another text. "This one had some info on death, so then I got caught up in the details on burial rites. I already knew a lot of the basics, mummification and Anubis and whatnot, but the stuff on Ammit was interesting because this one doesn't mention her much. So I went hunting for other books that did."

Professor Mogart adjusted his glasses to take a closer look at the pages Michael had pointed out. "'The goddess had the hindquarters of a hippopotamus, the forelegs of a lion, and the head of an alligator'."

"They should really get rid of that book; it would obviously be a crocodile's head. I wouldn't trust anything in that book that the others don't back up."

"Quite. Let's see...'should someone be found unworthy Anubis would give their heart to Ammit, who devoured it and killed them a second time'. How macabre."

Michael was still going. "The thing is though, she's not always referred to as a goddess. Which I suppose isn't entirely shocking - we all know plenty of deities have been accused of being demons over the years by Christian scholars, and the fact that she sometimes resides by a 'lake of fire' wouldn't do her any favours I imagine. Still, there are translations that seem unbiased calling her a demon as well, and also some referring to her as neither - something closer to a, er, a 'force of nature'. " A few more books got added to the stack as Michael continued his impromptu thesis. "That got me thinking, what if those mentions of her being a goddess were something like what happened to Seth, right?" Some more books stacked. "And so if she was referred to a goddess at some point, wouldn't she have had some kind of worship? Like, surely there's a reference to a cult or mysteries regarding her at the very least somewhere."³

Professor Mogart nodded. "You thought you might make a breakthrough and discover lost evidence of Ammit worship." The older man sighed and shook his head. "Michael, if we'd found such information, surely it would have been well documented, don't you think?"

Michael smiled sheepishly. "I mean, maybe, but things can slip through the cracks easily. Sometimes it takes someone connecting two seemingly unrelated things to make a discovery like that. Like, I've been checking the timelines, and it looks like the original Egyptian sources referring to Ammit as a goddess are far more plentiful to an era around 323 BC. That's when Alexander the Great died."

"And why would Alexander the Great's death have anything to do with an abrupt grammatical change in Egypt?" Mogart asked studiously.

Michael's mouth worked but no sounds came out. "I...well, surely -"

Mogart took the book Michael was gesturing with out of the boys' hands. "I think you are seeing patterns were there are none. For all we know there are plenty of references to Ammit in many contexts that we simply have not been lucky enough to uncover." He patted his student's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Michael. You'll need your rest for the rest of your classes."

Michael opened his mouth to protest, but a yawn escaped instead. "I...suppose you're right." He gathered the books he'd checked out, the Professor assuring him that he'd speak with the librarian in the morning to let him know what had been borrowed, and the two made their way to the doors. "I guess it's a little silly of me to think I'd just stumble into some grand revelation," Michael said as he opened the door, only barely noticing the bloody body in time to jump to the side as it slumped to the ground.

"The man looked abysmal," Michael says with a grimace. "He was covered in sand and viscera, and had these massive gashes in his torso - it was like an animal had been trying to tear him open while he wandered the desert." He tries to take a sip of tea, but the memory has his stomach turning and he opts to wait until he passes this part of the tale. "Me and Professor Mogart tried to get him to the nearest hospital, but by the time we found someone he'd already expired. So of course the police got involved and started sniffing around. Turned out the man was a known smuggler - Arnold Perril, if his papers were to be believed⁴. And he'd come in with a bag that turned out to be stuffed with artifacts looted from a tomb somewhere. Since Mogart had been working with the British Museum he convinced the authorities to give him custody of them until they could be shipped there."

"Hold on," Mark said suddenly. "This guy had a bag full of loot from grave robbing and your teach just - he was just allowed to take them?"

"Did the two of you have no respect for the dead?" Anthea asked with a subtle glare.

"Hell with that, haven't you ever seen The Mummy?" Mark continued. "That kind of arrogance is what gets Karloff chasing after you."⁵

"Listen, it was years ago, and it's not like I could do much about it," Michael fires back defensively. "Nowadays, sure, I'd say that the only difference between the grave robbing Perril was doing and Professor Mogart's archaeology was sanctions from the English government, but back then it seemed perfectly square." He clears his throat. "May I continue?"

"Please do, I want to hear how you managed to get out of this one," Anthea snarks.

Giza, Egypt, 20 October 1937

Michael woke from a restless slumber drenched in sweat. He'd had a nightmare about...something, he couldn't recall exactly what. There were flashes that had managed to stay in his mind - images of crocodiles with blood-soaked teeth, moon-shaped blades, and a desiccated bird, but even those were too ephemeral for him to think on too hard. He grabbed his watch from the table and held it to the window - the moon was bright and full, and illuminated his room easily. According to the watch it was just after 3 o'clock at night. He'd have to try and get to sleep soon so he could actually be well rested for class the next day - or at the very least avoid sleeping in and missing it. He lay back down and closed his eyes, trying to think calming thoughts.

Michael.

And just like that he was sitting up again, looking around for the source of the voice. He was completely alone in his room...wasn't he? He jumped at a shadow that looked like jaws before realizing it was just a lamp caught at a weird angle in the moonlight. But he still felt unsettled.

Michael Carter.

There it was again, and this time Michael jumped to his feet. He wasn't certain why, but he felt the sudden need to follow the voice to wherever it was going. He shivered from the cooling sweat on his bare torso, but whatever was forcing him to move compelled him to his door without any regard for shirt or shoes.

Yes...come to me...you are such a strong-willed man.

The voice sounded vaguely feminine, but in the back of Michael's mind he doubted that it was fully...human? Something about it was as cold as the night, and as slick as mud on a riverbank.

You have a great sense of justice. You wish to punish those who would do harm, would you not? I can help you. I can offer you the power to end evil before it begins.

Despite the concerning situation he was in, Michael couldn't help but smile at that. Yes, he did pride himself in doing the right thing. He had an affinity for protecting others when given the opportunity. His pace quickened, and soon he realized he was walking towards Professor Mogart's quarters. Something in the swimming thoughts of his mind connected the voice to one of the artifacts that Mogart had claimed.

I can give you the strength to smother killers in their cribs and slay monsters while they are busy suckling.

This was enough to make Michael's steps falter, and he stumbled ever so slightly. The voice's words had concerning connotations and Michael wanted to interrogate it, ask if it was being metaphorical, but his mouth couldn't move.

Stop this, Michael Carter. You want no part of this.

A new voice, something male and bellowing. It came from a different source, perhaps above him? It reverberated down to Michael's bones, but still he could not move. Silently he padded to Mogart's door.

Be calm Michael. I will show you those who are worthy of the world we will make.

She is no more worthy of being judge and executioner than those she claims to target!

Michael's body continued it's automatic journey as it turned the handle to Professor Mogart's door and opened it slowly enough to keep much noise from arising. He cast is eyes across the room, and spotted the suitcase where some of the relics had been stored, propped open and standing atop a dresser. Inside it was a cane he'd seen the professor take from Arnold's belongings after he was pronounced dead - long, dark wood with a head carved to look like two crocodiles looking in opposite directions. As soon as it was in his gaze he felt his feet turn towards it.

My staff will let you judge those who would do harm in the future and snuff out their crimes, starting with your Professor.

Michael wanted to protest, to say that Professor Mogart was innocent, but the voice pressed on.

Take the cane and it will show you what he will be responsible for. He shall lay the seeds to raise thieves and murderers.

Their fate is not yet decided!

Take the cane and it will lead you to me.

She will make you a murderer!

You are already destined to kill.

Snap it in half! Burn the splinters!

The two voices kept going back and forth in his head, blending together like a roaring wind. His hand was reaching towards the cane as it lay in the open suitcase, easily reachable, but as the forces trying to talk with him silently warred he felt the invisible grip on his body loosen. He resisted his hand's attempts to take the cane and, with a sudden snap, he whirled his arm into the suitcase instead. The entire suitcase slid off the dresser and tumbled to the ground, with all sorts of priceless objects scattering across the floor.

The loud noise was enough to startle Professor Mogart from his sleep. "Hmwhat? What's going - Michael?!" The man grabbed his glasses from the dresser and put them on in time to see Michael clutch his head and slam it directly into the wall. "Blimey, Michael, what's gotten in to you?!" he sputtered as he scurried from his bed and attended his young student as he lay on the ground moaning in pain.

"When I came to I didn't have much memory of what had happened." Michael pauses, thinking on the event a second time. "Well, rather, I assumed I didn't have a memory of what happened. Everything I just described I'd always written off as a dream." He absently picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. "I suppose it's likely there were some manner of...supernatural forces connected to the artifacts Professor Mogart had come across." He looks up at Anthea, and it takes the woman a moment to realize that most everyone is as well.

"Ah, you're assuming that because of my history I have as much insight into the Egyptian pantheon as I do my own?"

"To be fair, miss, you are the most learned person among us by far," Pat states.

Anthea shrugs. "Fair enough. Well, first off, I didn't have much interaction with the Egyptian gods unless they came to the island - and few ever had reason to. Everything else I had to hear from others passing through. But I did once meet Khonshu, god of the moon." She looks off in the distance, remembering the encounter. "Crotchety old buzzard, wasn't fond of anyone much, but I'd never call him selfish."⁶

Maddie uncrossed her legs, lit a cigarette, and raised an eyebrow at the comment, but said nothing as Anthea continued.

"My understanding is that you were correct, Michael, and Ammit did have some worshippers in the past. But something occurred that caused a schism between her and the rest of the pantheon and most of the evidence of her former divinity was destroyed. Khonshu seemed quite happy to discuss it if pressed." Anthea sips her tea. "If I had to reckon, that crocodile-headed staff was some manner of beacon to the goddess, and something else in your professor's ill-gotten loot was similarly bringing your attention to Khonshu."

Michael tries to keep his composure with the knowledge that only a few years ago he had caught the attention of gods. Anthea's stories were one thing, as was the temple she'd taken him too beneath the island, but this was something else entirely. "Really now?" Michael says with forced calm. "I wonder what they wanted from me?"

"The Egyptian gods tended to bestow mortals with a fraction of their power to act as their avatars; soldiers and servants to carry out their will on Earth," Anthea answers. "They may have been courting you."

Mark wolf whistles at that, and the implications of it paired with the return of his original levity dissolves whatever clouds remained with the group as several of them break into fits of laughter. Michael joins in, but inside he can't help but be a little troubled by Anthea's words. If he had taken that cane...what then? Would he have been stuck in the service of Ammit? A super soldier in any life, just working for different authorities? It was damning, the idea that one way or another he was already headed down that path, and it wasn't a thought he was eager to dwell on for long. So naturally it was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.

Outside Luxor, Egypt, 20 October 1937⁷

Michael Carter was weak, but at least he wasn't so weak as to fall for Ammit's temptation.

He could have been a decent Fist, in Khonshu's opinion. Ammit may have a way with words and be able to easily convince others that her way is best, but Michael seemed to doubt her from the moment she started speaking. True defenders of the night would know that no sin is true until it's committed - the crime that has not been committed is no crime at all.

But alas, now he was out of Khonshu's reach. Worse, whatever relic Ammit was using to project her voice outside of her tomb would likely be sold off to the highest bidder in Europe, and that was far beyond his reach at this time. The night sky could carry his vision, but his voice was rarely loud enough to be heard outside of his temple these days. He needed someone to come to him, and more importantly, they needed to be desperate enough to agree to service with him.

Well. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long for someone like that to appear.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 11 April 1943

"Do you hear that?" Anthea asks while she and Pat are in the middle of a game of checkers.

Pat cocks his ear. "I don't hear much of anything."

"Exactly. No sound hammering against the walls." She dares to crack open the shutters of the window she's next to. There's still wind for sure, and a haze between them and the sun, but the stormy present she and her group have been stranded in for the past three days seems to finally be coming to an end.

Pat beams. "Bloody finally." He quickly takes the last of Anthea's pieces in a quick move with his king. "We should go tell the others to get ready, I imagine Halloway will be sending someone before long."

Anthea looks between him and the board in surprise. "Where did that come from?"

Pat grimaces. "Sorry!" Then he scurries off to spread the word.

They'd been living a rather Spartan existence during the war all things considered, but that didn't mean that some of them felt a bit of a twinge at packing away their few belongings. "It's like going home after a vacation, don't you think?" Maddie suggests.

"More like shipping out again," Robby counters.

Maddie touches his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll be fine. We're stronger than most soldiers."

"Quite, but we also fight things that are stronger than most fascists."

"Darling, my skepticism of the world might be blown apart after these last few days, but I doubt there's such a thing as a strong fascist."

In another room, Roger examines a shirt. "Was this mine or yours?"

Michael looks at it. "That one's mine." Roger hands it over, but Michael stops him. "You can keep it. In case we get separated again."

Roger doesn't bother to hide his blush.

Mark packs alone. He's never truly alone. But he still packs alone.

"I'm sure whoever stocked this place wouldn't mind if you took the book with you," Edith says as she stuffs her clean drawers into a rucksack.

Emily grins, but doesn't look away from the page of the book in her hands. "Oh I'm sure. I've already snagged a few. But this is important - it's research for my story." Her finger is tracing along the paper, speed reading as she flies through the final pages.

Edith raises an eyebrow and looks over at what her pal is reading. "'Faust: Ein Tragodie'.¹ I'm surprised they put German literature in here." Then a pause and a concerned look at Emily. "Oh sweetie, don't tell me your story involves you making deals with demons."

"No deals, and no demons," Emily confirms. "But it's relevant all the same." She slams the book closed as she finishes the final page. "And now I'm ready to share." She places the book on the nightstand and stands up. "Once everyone's ready we can have one last tale."

"Right then," Emily says as she stands at the front of the study. Everyone else's bags are packed and sit at their side, and they're simply waiting for someone to arrive and cart them off to their next mission. But until them there's time for her to tell them all about her encounter with the fantastic. "Like plenty of you, I imagined this was a dream for a while...but truth be told, I wasn't exactly surprised when I encountered enough oddities in this new world to confirm its reality." Her mouth quirks into a grin. "Growing up in farming country back in Wales, you hear plenty of tales about the faeries. Little men, silkies, spriggans, and all manner of fair folk. Mason, I'm sure you can relate."

"Aye, me and my siblings heard all about the seelie and unseelie courts growing up from Da'. Of course they were just stories. Father Sinclair didn't like when the kids shared stories like that, said they weren't very goodly, but that didn't stop us from daring each other to jump in a faerie ring when me and some friends found one in the woods once."²

Emily nods. "And anything you heard was probably a fraction of the stories me and my siblings got. There are plenty of rules for dealing with the fair folk, and a few that can get you away from them. And it's a good thing I remembered them all when I encountered one of them."

Outside Trelewis, Merthyr Tydfil County Borough, Wales, 21 March, 1931

"Do you think Anwen will be giving birth this week?" Mrs. Gower asked her husband as the family walked back from church.

"I certainly hope so. The old beast's been ready to pop for far too long. I'm worried she might hurt herself."

"I can help!" young Emily piped up from where she followed.

Her dad chuckled. "I'm sure you can, dear. We'll need everyone's help to make sure the calf comes out okay. But just remember to do exactly as I say if it comes to this."

Emily nodded up and down dramatically - enough that her gaze hit the ground a few times and she spotted something shiny.

Her parents were still lost in conversation about the farm, and her siblings had either run ahead or were firmly focused on holding her parents' hands. Emily was old enough that she could be trusted to follow on her own, but in this moment her focus fell on the object that she reached down to grasp.

It was a necklace - and a fancy one at that. The chain was golden - whether painted to look like it or the actual substance she couldn't say. It came down to a pendant like a stag's head cast in gold as well - emeralds for the eyes, and rubies tipping the antlers making them look like they were dipped in crystallized blood. It was beautiful and bewitching and for a brief moment Emily debated holding on to it. But then she saw the clasp of the chain had broken and she quickly figured that whoever owned it had dropped it. Emily wasn't about to steal something that was likely worth a lot to the person who owned it.

She looked around for anyone who might belong to the necklace. Surely someone in possession of such an exquisite piece of jewellery would look just as extravagant. She looked up past her parents on the trail back to the farm and didn't see anyone she didn't recognize, or for that matter someone with enough glamour to catch her eye. Then she looked behind her and saw a figure in the distance. She remembered passing the woman briefly on her family's way back from church and hadn't thought anything of her, but now she was taking a closer look. The woman had locks of shimmering white hair and was dressed in a reddish-brown cloak that already looked rather expensive, but then she turned the corner around the church building and Emily let out a small gasp as the fabric caught the sunlight and shone as brightly as the gems on the necklace.

Not worrying about saying anything to her family, Emily trotted back towards the church in the hopes of returning the necklace to the woman. A lady that well-off would probably give her a small reward for her kindness. Not that her family was poorly, but Emily wasn't about to turn down something that could help them out for a few months. She reached the church and took a right turn to catch up to the lady, but she was gone. She kept going around the side of the church, hoping to spot her walking away in some other direction, but by the time she got all the way around the woman was nowhere to be seen - no, wait! There she was, going around the church again. Emily figured the woman must be looking for the necklace around the church grounds. She'd be so elated when she found it in the hands of a little girl!

Once again Emily circled the church, and once again the woman stayed just out of sight. Emily sighed, but now she was committed to getting this item back to it's owner. She turned right again, once again circling the building in the hopes of catching up to the lady. It didn't occur to her to call out to the woman, or to go the other way around the building. She was ten and she was too caught up in the excitement of what could happen when she gained the woman's favour. It wasn't until she was just about to round towards the front of the church a third time that she realized she'd been running widdershins round it the whole time - and then it was too late.³

"Is someone there? I hear footsteps."

Emily wanted to turn and run, but there was no way for her to get back to her family without completing the circle. She had no choice but to finish her circle around the building and meet the voice calling to her. "Good morning, missus," Emily said awkwardly.

"So sweet a child to greet me here./ Good morn' to thee as well, my sweet."⁴

Emily gazed up at the woman, careful not to meet her eyes. Still, she could exactly what manner of woman this was without too close a look. The hair she'd seen was as white as a corpse snow, her skin dark grey like death stone, and her cloak the colour of blood autumn leaves. Upon her brow rested a golden crown with two large bull's horns coming out of it. She stood at least seven feet tall, towering over Emily, and when she moved towards her she didn't seem to actually take a step - she was simply closer.

"'twould seem that I have lost something / which once rested against my chest./ Dare I ask thee if thou hast found / the pendant stag which stands in gold?"

Emily's mouth was dry, and she had to swallow to even try and speak. "I...yes, missus, I found it. I was trying to give it to you. Sorry I took a while to get it back." She held the necklace out to the woman, and was met with a long hand and spidery fingers that curled around the dangling jewellery.

"Think not of time. 'Tis no object / when thine object art promised still."

Whenever the woman spoke, Emily felt like there was some kind of rhythm running through her and the world around her. She feared that if she listened too closely for too long she wouldn't be able to hear anything else. "Well, best be off then," she said, moving to take her leave, but the woman was suddenly between her and the road between her parents.

"But wait my child, thou art too kind./ A boon upon thee I must grant / for safe return of property."

Emily smiled weakly. "No really miss, it's no trouble at all. I just wanted to make sure a pretty thing like that was back with it's owner."

The woman frowned. "Would be an ill-advised attempt / to throw mine kindness in my face./ Any temptation can be yours / for I am the Faustian Queen." She bent down at a perfectly square angle, her hair curling and waving in front of Emily despite the total lack of wind. "Thou hoped for riches, did thee not?/ I assureth thee I can be-/-get upon thy house a shining / squall to spill good fortune on thy / family as long as stars shine."

Were Emily a younger or greedier girl she would have hesitated. But she was old enough to know when she had made one mistake, and had no plans to make another. She knew that the service let out just before eleven, and that if she wasn't able to get away now she only had to wait for the clock. "I appreciate the offer, your majesty, but I really must be going." As if on cue, the church bells began to ring out.⁵

The Faustian Queen scowled and stood back up to her full height. "Tarry not on your decision./ Time is meaningless, and I / Am but a single wish apart." As she spoke her cloak whipped around her, whipping up a wind which blew dust in Emily's eyes. She reached up to cover them, and in that moment the Faustian Queen had vanished. She caught site of her family, barely any further away from her than when she'd gone back to the church, and bolted after them.

"'Faustian Queen'?" Maddie asks. "Not Faerie Queen?"

"I imagine she was one and the same," Emily replies as she puts the book she'd been reading on the table. "The original tale, if it was based on truth, could easily have interpreted her as a demon."

"How do you figure she's a faerie then?" Roger muses.

"Everything about her in all three times I met her pointed to that," Emily replies.

"Three?" Edith asks with slight concern.

Emily grins. "Of course - it's always in threes."

Trelewis, Merthyr Tydfil County Borough, Wales, 25 January, 1933

The kettle was busted.

A good amount of things inside the Gower home could be replaced in time. A torn dress could be sewn back together. Broken floorboards would be pulled and new ones put in their place. Even the nails could be re-hammered if they weren't too bent. But every now and then something that couldn't be cut down, carved, or stitched went kaput, and when that happened Emily was sent to the village. While her dad was happy to have her on the farm whenever he could, she was always the first he asked to go fetch things for him - especially in winter, as it seemed the cold rarely bothered her. For that matter, neither did the trek to and from there. It was a common sight to see her clad in a thick coat, home-knit cap, and with a satchel over her shoulder to resupply the Gower household. When her mum heard she was heading out she pressed some extra coin into her hand and told her to grab some more plates as well - her brothers had managed to shatter a few too many in an ill-advised cleaning stunt.

The walk there was uneventful. Every now and then Emily turned to look out into the distance - it felt like someone was watching her. Or something. But it wasn't like there were wolves in the woods any more, and she was too big to look tasty for a fox by now. If it was anything it was likely just another farmer catching sight of her in the distance and trying to make her out as much as she did them. Once she got to the down she headed right for the general store and asked for the items her parents asked of her, handing over the money - just enough! - and stuffing everything in her satchel to make her way home.

She was just on the edge of the village when the snowball flew directly into the back of her head.

"Agh!" she yelped, and spun around to see a trio of snickering boys with nasty intent in their eyes. They were a few years older than her and, juding by the cleanliness of their coats, didn't have to worry about farming most of their days. It would also explain why they seemed to have nothing better to do than throw snowballs at innocent little girls. "What's your problem you lot?" Emily called.

"Your head looks so big in that cap!" the tallest boy said. "It makes for an easy target."

Emily frowned and set her pack down. "Oh, so you're saying you're not good enough to hit a hard one?"

The boy pouted. "Shut up girl! Or I'll throw another snowball at you!"

"Try me!" Emily snapped before leaning down to scoop up her own ball of snow. She packed it hard and winged it at one of the boys who'd tried doing the same, but was too slow. The white orb smashed into the side of his head and he let out a pathetic whimper before stumbling backwards into a bush. Emily laughed in victory, but then caught another ball herself in the face. It exploded and showered her mouth with stale white powder, making her sputter and giving an opening for yet another snowball.

The boys kept laughing. "Look! Farm girl can't even throw properly! Get her!"

The boys dashed over to started throwing looser snow directly at her, but Emily wasn't in the mood. She let out a roar that only eleven year olds could and ran right at the midsection of the tall boy, grabbing him and tackling him to the ground. He gasped, clearly winded, but Emily kept holding him down. "Maybe you should stick to messing with people your own size. Like babies."

Her barb was interrupted when she felt her cap get pulled from her head, and when she looked up she saw another boy running away into the snowdrifts with it. "Hey!" Emily shouted and stumbled into pursuit.

She was faster than him, of course, and when the boy realized she was gaining on him he panicked and tossed the cap far away from him, where it disappeared from view. Emily let out a wordless cry of anger and shoved the boy face first into a snowbank before chasing after that hat, and didn't bother looking behind her to see whether they followed or not. Her aunt had made her that hat, and she wasn't about to let all her hard work go to waste. Every now and then she'd catch sight of it, but it was stuck in the wind's grasp and kept dancing further away from her - closer to the woods. With a groan of effort Emily pushed herself even faster, and just as it reached the treeline she was able to grab it from the ground and start shaking all the snow loose from it. So caught up in the hubbub she was that she almost didn't notice the sent of ink and parchment growing stronger. Almost.

She looked right at the trees with wide eyes. "Faustian Queen?" she asked. She'd barely thought about her first encounter, but in this moment many of the dots aligned and she felt certain that she knew who was coming.

She was soon proven right as the Queen slunk out from behind the nearest tree. "So astute a cap thou wearest./ Hast thou given thought to my boon?/ Hadst thee taken what I offered,/ Thou wouldst not need give chase today." She came closer to Emily and the girl saw she had changed ever so slightly. Something was wrong with the colour in her skin and clothing - it was flatter, artificial, like painting running over something in the air. Her eyes were pools of white, and Emily considered that a literal descriptor - as the Queen approached she could've sworn they rippled like water.

"The offer you gave was lovely, but I did not feel it was something I needed." Emily said, choosing her words carefully. "I would not dare ask you to give me something I could not make use of."

The Faustian Queen's face flowed into a smile. "Thou art wise to deign to forego / Such possessions so material./ Mayhaps a boon must be offer'd / In form more abstract than a coin?" The Faustian Queen moved towards a small pond that had iced over, and Emily briefly considered glancing to see if she was leaving a stain of colour where she once stood, but she didn't want to let the faerie out of her sight. Instead she kept her eyes trained on the woman as she continued to speak. "Dwynwen once called for me within these woods / to beg of me to freeze her lover's heart / and that I sunder wayward love in hers."⁶ The Queen held a hand out above the sheet of ice. A drop of liquid fell from her fingers and when it hit the ice, the entire sheet pulled itself free from the ground and floated into the air so that it faced the two of them. As it did, the frost cleared and Emily saw perfect reflections of herself and the queen.

"The love which I hath taken can / Be borne unto another eye / And like an arrow, aimeth back / T'ward thee, should thou merely asketh."

Emily touched her face, wondering at the reflection doing the same. "Wait...you're saying you'd make me pretty?"

The Queen smiled warmly - not in the way kindness is warm, but in the way a stovetop is warm. "Imagine ne'er again a boy / Should see you as his poorly pet / Or target to a siege practice."

Emily scoffed. "If boys like that fell for me I'd beat them just the same."

"Then you may have your choice, my dear,/ And pluck from ev'ry worldly bush / A one to love you forever." She put a finger to her lips, thinking. "Or maybe all shall love thee, no?" She waved the wand in front of the mirror, and Emily's reflection changed. It grew older, into her twenties, and her face shifted into something nearly unrecognizable. Emily wasn't sure whether it was makeup or the changes of adolescence, but the woman looking back at her now was profoundly different-looking - and astonishingly beautiful. "They say beauty in doth always lie / Within the curt beholder's eye./ But I may shape thee as a dame / who traps all eyes within her cage / should you agree to what is owed."

For a harsh moment Emily was tempted. Sometimes it seemed like the beautiful people of the world got to do nothing but cavort with one another and engage in eternal frivolity. She took her coat off and the reflection did the same, but it wore a glamorous dress underneath that seemed to emphasize all of it's curves. Emily shivered, but not from the cold, and shook herself back to reality. There was no shame in the work she and her family did, and just moments ago she'd been mentally decrying the boys who were likely just as well-off as the image the Faustian Queen was showing her.

She turned to the woman, careful not to meet her eyes. "This is also a lovely offer, milady, and you are quite kind for suggesting it to me. However, I must return to my family with the goods they sent me for, so I will be off."

The Queen stopped in such a way that even the slurrying colours of her form froze in place. "Do not test me, Lady Gower./ My boons are great, and so art I."

"I completely understand," Emily replied as she flipped her jacket inside out. "If you ever wish to discuss this further, you know where to find me." She pulled her coat back on, and the moment her arms where all the way through the sleeves her heard a great crashing behind her. She turned and saw the ice had plummeted back to the ground and shattered into hundreds of tiny little shards. When she turned back the Queen was gone as well. But Emily did get one answer - when she gazed down at where the Queen had walked she saw not colours spilling out, but a freshly grown ring of mushrooms.⁷

"Right then. Not going to worry about that too hard," Emily said before high-tailing it back to where she'd left her pack. Against all odds it was still there, and everything was in the same condition she'd purchased it in. She breathed a sigh of relief and headed back home. Her parents had become mildly worried but she assured them she'd simply gotten turned around in the wind and had to navigate back to the main road. Obviously she never told them about her encounter, as she never had the previous one either.

"That Faustian Queen sounds a lot like the critters I've heard about back home," Mark comments. "But I feel like they wouldn't get along very well."

Emily nods. "Something tells me they're pretty similar to each other. What would you reckon, Anthea?"

Anthea thinks for a moment. "Gods and demons came to Earth to gain power from the faith and fear of humanity, and were shaped as thus. But the creatures you two speak of...they still arrive from other planes, but they predate even myself. Little is known other than that they shaped the beliefs around them, not the other way around." Her face grew dark just for a moment. "I don't think they require anything from humanity. I think they simply toy with you for the pleasure of it."

Mark and Emily share a look of knowing concern, but there's no sense digging too deep into the esoteric and eldritch ramifications of what they've been learning today. Rather, Emily leans back into her seat. "Anyways, the third and final time was also the strangest."

Outside Trelewis, Merthyr Tydfil County Borough, Wales, 7 December 1935

It was a clatter from the train tracks that awoke Emily.

She blearily looked around the cabin. Her aunt sat across from her, snoring softly as her head rested against the glass. She was on her way back home from Germany for Christmas and Aunt Gladys had met her for the final leg home. The winter night had come in a flash, and as Emily peeked out the window she saw stars glimmering across the countryside. She couldn't sense anything amiss and was about to rest her eyes again when there was a knocking on the cabin door.

Aunt Gladys didn't stir, so Emily stood and looked to the door. She was about to open it when she spotted the silhouette behind the blind. It wasn't shaped like the conductor, or really any human being. It was bestial in profile, with unnatural holes in it that allowed light to sneak through. And then a voice began to sing.

"Wel dyma ni'n dwad
Gyfeillion diniwad
Wel dyma ni'n dwad
Gyfeillion diniwad
I ofyn am gennod
I ofyn am gennod
I ofyn am gennod
I ofyn am gennod i ganu"⁸

Emily froze in confusion. It was singing in Welsh. "Here we come, oh friends, to ask permission to sing." It was a common folk song sung around these times, as was tradition, but the figure that was meant to sing it was...was it really on the train with her? "Mari Lwyd?" she asked cautiously. "Is that you at my door?"

"Os na chawn ni gennad
Rhowch wybod ar ganiad
Os na chawn ni gennad
Rhowch wybod ar ganiad
Pa fodd mae'r 'madawiad
Pa fodd mae'r 'madawiad
Pa fodd mae'r 'madawiad
Pa fodd mae'r 'madawiad, nos heno."⁹

Now the figure was asking if it had permission to enter the cabin, and if she had a reason why. "I...I'm sorry, but my aunt and I are quite tired and we still have a decent amount of distance to travel before we get home. I'm sure another cabin will be more hospitable."

The figure bashed on the door, making Emily jump. Then it started singing again. "Os na chawn ni gennad, Rhowch wybod ar ganiad..."

"I don't have any money!" Emily shouted. Somehow the noise wasn't waking Aunt Gladys. "I...I have no money or food, or..." There was a traditional verse to sing back at the Mari Lwyd, but she was panicking and couldn't remember the whole thing or the Welsh words. "I have no...I don't have anything! Please just go away! I don't know what you want from me!"

The door crashed open, clattering off it's hinges, and a horse's skull bedecked in ribbons and baubles was on the other side. It clacked it's jaw open and closed several times as it's neck stretched into the room, and as it did so Emily saw a series of poles holding up it's long neck.¹⁰ Each one was being held by a tiny little fellow, all of them dressed in holiday baubles as well, though few of them seemed real - they were like creatures drawn from paper and cut out, moving in a way that she could barely comprehend. Some looked like rodents with the faces of humans, others like tiny human bodies but wings and heads from insects. The way the Mari Lwyd craned around the room made it seem like they'd been steering it at the start of...whatever this was, but at some point the figure had decided to move of it's own volition and they were just dragged along for the ride. They chittered unintelligibly as their poles waved around the cabin, some of them getting flung into the luggage above Emily and her Aunt.

And then. The Queen appeared. She was different again - now looking like she'd been cast from wax, and hair nothing but flowing flames that encircled her face. For a brief moment it seemed like she had no eyes, but then Emily realized they were simply closed tight. "Fair Christmas be upon ye, Emily, / To you and yours throughout the coming year / Should you accept the boon I offer thrice."

Emily gave a slight bow of her head. "Milady. What brings you to this train?"

The Queen leaned against the doorframe, her body dripping down it and her hair beginning to char the wood. "'Tis the season for giving, after all./ A boon is promised to thee, even now / Despite they misgivings towards my gifts."

Emily exhaled shakily, glancing back and forth between the Queen and her Aunt. The fairies were crawling over her and giggling, but she seemed unharmed. For now. "Your gifts have been kind, milady, and I apologize for drawing out this sequence of events. I...am the kind of girl who wants to make good use of the opportunity you have provided me."

"Thou art smart, and thy family is wise./ Well-off, if not in money, than in heart./ And beauteous even without my aid."

The queen reached a hand out to cup Emily's face, but Emily backed away into the corner where he bag was sitting. The head of Mari Lwyd whirled towards her and it snapped it's jaws playfully. Emily flinched away from it as well. "Do you normally accompany this guy?" She asked as she gestured with her thumb.

The Faustian Queen chuckled. "I am the Mother of thine Mari Lwyd, / Perhaps the grandmother of a Grey Mare. / Kin of Krampus, Perchta's patrician, / Turon's taskmaster, and among the stars / My Crimson Abbess and my Bonewhite Jacques / Have travelled far from where I made them once."¹¹

Emily nodded, understanding less about her situation than she did initially. "Right then. Well. What have you got to offer me this time?"

The Queen sighed. "These days are harsh for love, wouldst thou agree? / A marriage marred in such constrictive rules, / Bound shut by ink and gods who doth care not / For whether thine heart lays in sinful eyes." At this she opened her eyes, and Emily saw her eyes were just as fiery as her hair. "Thine heart I have appraised, and found it good,/ But someday thou shall feel the wanting pains / And clutch your fear as tightly as your love / For what hell shall await thee should the deeds / Done under darkness come unto the light?"

In time Emily would realize what the Queen was telling her, but in the moment she didn't understand what the Queen was talking about. All she knew is that it felt in part like a warning, and in part like a threat. "You'll have to be a little more specific, your majesty."

The Queen surged forward, looming over the girl and making the already cramped cabin even more claustrophobic. The fairies giggled as they braided Aunt Gladys' hair, and Mari Lwyd let out a rattling chuckle as it dangled it's head above Emily. "You heart shall ne'er know how it is to break / And cast all yearning into those afar./ And Whosoever thou desires to have / Ye shall have always, unless you declare / You tire of them. And then another comes / And you shall have them still, and onward thus./ The love shall ne'er be threatened, e'er be true,/ And all thou couldst desire of it is thine."

As the Queen spoke, Emily had been slowly reaching into her bag. "That's the offer then. Love? True love, never ending, always on my terms?"

"'Tis something all doth crave, I guarantee."

Emily found what she was looking for. "It's certainly a nice thought. But I don't think I should do any bargaining on an empty stomach." She pulled out from her bag the remains of a sandwich that her host mother had made her before she left. It was wrapped in paper, cold and damp, but still edible. She held it out to Mari Lwyd. "Would you like some?"

If Mari Lwyd had eyes they would've lit up. It bit down quickly and tore a massive chunk off, scarfing it down it's throat and letting plenty of crumbs and morsels fall to the ground. The wee men scampered to grab chunks for themselves, shoving them into their mouths before grabbing the dangling rods of the horse and pulling it out of the cabin - off to bother someone else, no doubt. The Faustian Queen glowered at Emily, who innocently offered up the last little piece of the sandwich. "For your travels," Emily offered.¹²

The Queen reached her arm out and snatched the sandwich, but did not eat it. "Thou art too wise for thine own good, my dear./ All humans are found wanting, even thee." As she spoke, black smoke billowed from her mouth. "When temptation most dire findeth thee,/ I too shall manifest a final time / And rest assured, my boon you shall receive." The smoke filled the room and Emily couldn't help but cough, doubling over as it burned her throat. She worried she'd pissed the Queen off and she was trying to hurt her intentionally, but then another fit made her

"Wake up!" Aunt Gladys urged as she patted Emily's back. Emily gasped, her eyes fluttering open and looking around the cabin in desperation. "Poor girl, you started choking in your dreams. I think you were having a nightmare."

Emily took a few cautious breaths. The air was clear, the cabin was fine, and Aunt Glady's looked unharmed. "Yeah. Yes, I suppose so."

Aunt Gladys chuckled. "Do you remember what it was? Sometimes I have such strange dreams that I wake up like that myself."

Emily was still looking around the cabin. Her eyes caught the edge of the doorframe - the cabin door was intact, but she could see some charring on it that she was sure wasn't there before. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"But that was the last time I saw her," Emily finishes her story along with her cigarette. "I've certainly peeked around a few corners wondering when she'd show up again, but no dice."

"So you've never been tempted by anything?" Robbie asks.

Emily sighs. "Oh, I've been tempted plenty. But never to the point where I was willing to make a deal with her."

"Well, I think the lesson of that story is not to make deals with creatures beyond your ken," Pat quips. He feels a surge of heart come from Mark's direction, and looks at the man apologetically. "Present company excluded, Mr. Kushiel sir."

"Things would certainly have turned out different for us if you'd made that deal with the Queen, or if I made that deal with Ammit," Michael nods.

"I'm sure it's something the Germans would jump on, though," Maddie remarks. "Can you imagine if Kenneth had come across the fair folk?"

Roger and Edith can't help but burst out laughing at that, and the latter actually has to grab the former's arm to keep from falling out of her seat. "I'm sorry, " Edith remarks, "it's just too fun a visual. Can you imagine? 'Oh dear Faerie Queen, please make me the coolest little fascist in Europe?"

"And he's such a fool he'd probably say it exactly like that!" Roger replies, still giggling. "She'd turn him into a baby penguin and whisk him away to the Antarctica!"

Everyone else chuckles at that image, and it's with that lightened mood that everyone makes the final preparations to leave. The past three days may have been filled with strange occurrences and stranger stories, but Emily feels like they made the best of their time. As she double checks her bags, Edith sidles up behind her. "Do you ever worry she'll come back?"

Emily pauses in her packing. "I...yes." She turns around. "Honestly, every time something starts going wrong I start to see her out the corner of my eye." She takes Edith's hand. "When you disappeared from my life I almost thought about tracking her down, asking her for love again. But I know that she'd find a way to make it backfire on us...change the person you are so I'd no longer want you, change the person I am so I'd be fickle and want something else." She glances aside, and when Edith sees this she herself wonders if Emily is looking for the Queen again. "It's strange though. Now that I know what it truly feels like to have someone in my head, it's easier for me to tell the difference between that and my mind playing tricks on me."

Edith sits down on the bed and pulls Emily to sit beside her. "I guess Crichton was good for something."

Emily scoffs. "Yes, well. Broken clocks and all that."

Edith smiles and caresses Emily's face. "Still, if she does start showing up again...don't even think about taking her up on any offers. Between everyone else in this group, you don't need to worry about anything."

Emily nods, but she doesn't agree. Because the fact of the matter is that this group has actually made her more open to temptation. They became fast friends not only because of the war pushing them all together, but their shared knowledge of the worlds beyond the one they once knew. The bonds holding them together where going to be excruciating if and when their fellowship broke, and even without the aid of another force Emily knew there was always a chance she'd go on the warpath to avenge someone should they be taken out by the Nazis, by HYDRA, by...anything.

She was strong enough now to stop anyone who wanted to take those she loved from her.

Trelewis, Merthyr Tydfil County Borough, Wales, 30 April 1939

She paced back and forth in the room she shared with her siblings. She'd never felt so powerless. She was smart, she could be strong, she was a delight to everyone she knew, and she was a good person. And yet...

And yet now her father was dying. His heart was struggling to beat, and the doctors didn't have any solutions. He was on his deathbed, curled up in pain as her mother wept and her siblings circled around him. The Gower family was no stranger to death, but now it's face was up close and personal, it's sickly presence so near that Emily felt weak simply by being in the same house as her father. He was the strongest man she knew, and now he was about to leave her, and the worst thing was that she couldn't bare to look at him like this.

No, the worst thing was that she couldn't do anything about it.

No, the worst thing was that she wasn't there to support the rest of the family, hiding instead.

No, the worst thing was that they weren't here to support her.

No, the worst thing was that she could do something about it.

She stopped pacing, staring at the corner of her room, a cold sweat beginning to grip her. This was it. Temptation. The shadow that always slithered in the corner of her eye when something went wrong suddenly felt closer, but it didn't eclipse her vision just yet. It was waiting. Waiting for Emily to admit her weakness.

Was this the game the Queen had been playing? Waiting for death. Maybe even bringing it. Emily silently cursed the creature, and cursed her younger self for falling into dealing with her. The rafters above her creaked and warped, waiting for her to say the words. Emily knew if she accused the figure things would somehow get worse. She wondered if she should have taken the first deal, the second, the third. She felt something graze against her arm, maybe fabric or hair or a gentle claw, but she couldn't speak just yet. She racked her brain, trying to get rid of the want, get rid of the greediness. But is it really greedy to deny death? Who cares if it's the natural order of things - surely everyone who'd ever walked the Earth had wanted to spit in it's face and deny it it's quarry. In the grand scheme of things, it was simple - heal the heart, prevent the heartbreak. An eerie calm befell Emily. She knew she would regret doing this. She knew she would regret not doing it.

She turned to meet the gaze of the Faustian Queen. The fair lady's eyes were narrow slits peeking out from between obsidian scales, but they held sympathy despite their inhuman nature. The smile she gave Emily was barely more than a gash across the face only barely human, but somehow it didn't seem nearly as sinister as before. "Hail to thee, sweet childe, sweet Emily," she hissed.

"Hail to thee, your highness, Faustian Queen," Emily replied.

The Queen circled Emily. "Thine soul hast summoned me from across realms./ I offer you a fourth time such a boon / As would bestow you peace of heart and mind."

"And I must give you thanks for letting me / Receive your boon after all of these years," Emily responded in kind. "Do you know of my father?"

"Aye, he falls / Further into sickness and death each hour." The Queen coiled back to face Emily. "Wouldst thou bid me heal him?"

"I would," Emily replied. "In such a way that he is still the man / he was before the illness took to him / and such a way that he shall not again / be struck by sickness in his nat'ral life / and only meets his end from his old age."

The Queen nodded, and smiled warmly. "Thou still doth pick thine words so wis'ely,/ and to thine credit, I shall thus ensure / thine father's health is restored instantly / and his grave shall remain a distant sight." Then she cocked her head. "Now, payment for thine boon is such a thing / that doth exceed a bauble returnéd." Emily felt her coiling closer around her, but couldn't do anything. "A life equates a life in ev'ry book / and from thee someone else I must lay claim./ Your firstborn child shall be a lovely gift / And they I shall adorn among my court."

Emily's heart stopped in shock. "What? No that's - that's not fair!"

"A deal's a deal, the father healed, my dear./ And thou art not the clever girl you were./ Thou couldst have let a nat'ral thing occur / But you invoked me, and thee I did serve." She wound herself tighter. "But lest thee try to find a way to flee / And break my deal, I'll take your voice as well / A tynged to bring thee a peace of mind; / Fade future contracts from thine memory."¹³

Emily's door swung open, and she turned with a start. Her mother stood there, tears staining her face, but smiling. "Emily, it's your father, he's - he's better!"

"What?" Emily asked in shock.

"It's a miracle!" her mother cried as she rushed over and swept her daughter into her arms. "We thought we were going to lose him, and then suddenly - he was fine!"

Emily took another moment before she began crying herself, but laughing as well. "Oh God! Oh my God!" She clutched her mother as they spun around in circles. "He's going to be okay!" After they had calmed down a little, the two women rushed back to Emily's father. He was fine, if looking a little pale, but the doctors said he was going to make a complete recovery. Emily's relief was so intense she felt like she was going to faint, but she just kept reminding herself that sometimes miracles could happen. She didn't need the Faustian Queen or her boons - her dad was going to be just fine.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, 11 April 1943

The doorbell rings and Maddie and Michael go to answer. Edith finds herself on pins and needles, waiting for whomever is to come through the door.

Her future is changing fast. She must not be afraid.

Michael’s voice booms through the villa as he calls the room to attention. Stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up.

The man walks in, whom Edith presumes is General Halloway. He’s very much an officer’s officer. Tall, well built, dark hair and neat mustache, and ice-blue eyes.

“At ease everyone,” the general says to the room. “Had a good rest, did we? Despite the weather, of course.” 

There’s a chorus of ascents and nods.

“Though I will have to crack the whip a bit, as I expect you all will be back in the field soon.”

“Yes, sir. We were looking to go to the desert for some training,” Michael says.

“Of course, and we shall arrange that soon. But first I do remember we have a new member of this little group.” 

The General looks over at Edith, “Corporal Harker I presume.” 

“Yes, sir,” she briefly comes to attention and introduces herself.

“Good to finally meet you in the flesh.”

“And you too, sir.”

There’s a growing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. The General will want an interview and she’ll be asked about her past. About her family, of Rüstem, and of Lucy.

“I hear you have quite the tale for us.”

She bites down on a comment about the morbidity of her past, and elects a more polite answer. “It’s a tale indeed, sir. Though I doubt it will be very entertaining. And it’s a little ridiculous.”

“Harker, you would be surprised from the things I’ve seen and the tall tales I’ve heard. I doubt your story is anywhere as ridiculous as you seem convinced it is.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But right now, I have a few announcements,” General Halloway says, now talking to the room. “While I do understand your desire to return to the world quickly -” they weren’t trying to hide their bags “- it has been decided that this villa should become something of a permanent headquarters for the foreseeable future.”

The group nods and agrees in appreciation. A solid place to land and rest is in short supply these days.

“The next thing is, yes, you all will be back in the field soon. The next coming weeks will be training. You will all be out in the desert for a bit, though I imagine there’s some island hopping in your future. We will have to arrange something for that.”

Indeed, there’s a cheerfulness that’s returned. They’re a restless group. The need for action. It’s in their bones, the lot of them.

Edith feels Emily slip her hand into hers, threading their fingers. Hidden behind their skirts.

“Tomorrow being Monday is when things get back to normal, but otherwise the rest of the afternoon is yours, of course. Carter, Joyce-Frank, Harker, you’re with me for the time being. Have to get this interview done, of course.”

“Of course, sir.” Edith’s voice sounds small in her own ears.

Emily gives her hand a squeeze, and as soon as Halloway’s back is turned, she whispers, “It’ll be alright. I’ll wait for you.”

She’s still fighting against the knot in her stomach, but Emily’s words give her strength. She must face her demons some day.

Emily sits on pins and needles as the world seems to whirl around her. She doesn’t hear any of the conversation between Captain Frank and Aubrey while they plan a night out. The others chat about… Emily doesn’t know. They decided to wait around for the others.

She stares down the hall, twisting the ring absentmindedly. Edith’s with Carter and Joyce-Frank, they’re old pals, she’ll be alright. It’s her mind making it feel an eternity.

Edith is going to be alright. Maybe it is as long a story as she’s been saying it is. She checks her watch, it’s barely moved.

Captain Frank puts a hand on shoulder, “You don’t need worry, dear. Edie’s a good egg, she’ll be fine.”

She nods. I hope you’re right. Maybe…

The door opens. Edith walks back into the room, a little grey-faced, a little shaken, but otherwise alright.

“So, the verdict?” Aubrey asks.

“I’m to stay,” she answers, but has only eyes for Emily. “Mostly doing analysis and researching. Archiving, too, should we find more artifacts. Maybe join you lot in the field, if you need it.”

Emily gets up and closes the distance between her and Edith. She ignores the claps and whistles as they embrace. 

“Sorry we didn’t reply to your message when the storm started. We had some trouble with the telephone,” Maddie apologizes to General Halloway.

He lifts a brow, “I didn’t send a runner that night. You called me, saying you believed the storm was bad enough that the team had elected to ‘sit tight.’”

Maddie's face twitches, but she keeps a good poker face. “Sir, I honestly didn’t call you that night. Major Carter can vouch for me on that. But I do apologize, regardless.”

Halloway turns to Michael, who replies, “She’s telling the truth, sir. And I should have sent word to you on Friday morning.”

“No need to apologize, either of you. Perfectly reasonable.” He pauses, then turns to bother Michael and Maddie. “You know I did find the call rather queer, Joyce-Frank.”

“How so, sir?” Michael asks.

“Well, her voice sounded odd, like she was speaking inside a cave. And it only lasted less than a minute. I doubt I got a word in before she rang off.”

Maddie is taken aback, “I would never do such a thing, sir.”

“Of course not. That’s why it was so queer.” There’s another pause, then he asks, “By chance did you get a look at the runner I supposedly sent?”

“No, sir,” she replies, shaking her head and sharing a glance with Michael.

“I didn’t see anything, either,” Michael adds.

“Very strange indeed,” the General muses. “In any case, it’s back to business tomorrow. There will be a briefing on current HYDRA activities. I will see you in the morning, 9:00 sharp.”

There’s salutes, and the General departs. And once the door closes, Maddie and Michael share a look.

The room feels a little colder.

“Do you think…?” Michael starts.

“I really don’t want to,” Maddie cuts him off. “Not after what we’ve learned.”

“Agreed.”

Western Desert, Egypt, 27 April 1943

The jeeps roll through the desert, trailing dust behind them, approaching the wrecks of German or Italian vehicles.

“Alright Edie. On your right, I want you to open up on those armoured cars on my single. Two bursts, got that?” Frank shouts over the engine.

“Yes!”

They drive closer, Emily speeds up slightly. Edith’s proving to be a decent shot, so it’s time to give her a slight challenge.

“Fire!”

The guns open up. Bullets fly and hit metal and sand. They circle around the wreckage, giving them a fuller sight of long abandoned carnage. It’s all melted into the background.

It’s the end of the exercise and they head back east to camp. They’re going back to Cairo in the morning.

On the horizon, they see another cloud of dust rise into the sky. It doesn’t take long before they realize another jeep is the cause and is coming close to them. But soon, the little team is met by Carter and Joyce-Frank. They come with news of missions, Yugoslavia this time.

“We’re going north this time,” Carter says, spreading a map on the bonnet of a jeep. “HYDRA appears to have quite a presence along the coast. And it’ll be our opportunity to try out a new strategy.”

Carter lays out his plans and for a time the world is simple.

They were young. They didn’t know what life had planned for them.